As the two detectives pulled into the brand new OPP station in Madoc, night was already stealing into the shadows at the edge of the road. Two cruisers were parked out front and a couple of officers were talking by the front door, but there was no sign of the mobile command truck nor the specialty teams the incident commander had mentioned. Let’s hope all the officers are out in the field, Green thought, covering every inch of dirt from here to Peterborough.
Sullivan must have seen the scowl on his face, for he shot him a warning glance. “Just remember we have no jurisdiction here, Green. We’re here as a courtesy, but it’s their show. Their call.”
“Their turf, but our suspect. Our victims. All I want is to be kept in the loop.” Green jerked open the cruiser door, but before he could even get out, one of the officers came down to greet him.
“You here on the abduction case?”
Green introduced himself and Sullivan. “Where the hell is everyone?”
“Over setting up Mobile Command, sir, near the location of the stolen vehicle. That’s where the search is starting from.”
Green’s annoyance flared further, but he held his tongue and snatched the map from Sullivan. “Show me,” he said, spreading the map on the hood. In the dimming light, the officer traced a route deep into the back country north of Highway 7. The map showed little but lakes and bush. It’s going to be a long night, Green thought with a sinking feeling.
“Any sighting of the red Dodge Ram?” he asked.
“No, sir. So far he hasn’t been spotted on the 401 or the 7, but he should be pulling in here any moment. We’ve been instructed to detain him, to keep him out of the way.”
“Whatever you do, hang onto him. Don’t let the guy anywhere near the search, he may be implicated.” Green folded up the map and circled the cruiser to yank open the passenger door. He signalled Sullivan out with a jerk of his head. “This time you drive, and I’ll navigate.”
Using the map light in the cruiser, Green guided them through a series of obscure turns in the deepening twilight until distant pinpoints of red and white light lit up the trees ahead. As the detectives drew closer, the massive mobile command truck became visible on a grassy knoll beside the road, surrounded by half a dozen cruisers, SUVs and pick-up trucks, all sporting official OPP insignia.
Sullivan pulled onto the grass next to a pick-up, and both men climbed out. The wind had died down, but darkness had already chilled the air. Green took a deep breath, smelled the crispness of cedar and the faint decay of fallen leaves. The mobile command post was a fifth wheel trailer positioned at the highest point of the knoll, probably to facilitate communications in this remote, rocky terrain, Green surmised. No one was outside, but the murmur of voices emanated from within.
As Green and Sullivan approached, the side door opened and a slim, impossibly fit-looking man emerged. He had a brush cut, pencil-thin mustache and shoulders so square Green expected him to click his heels and salute. The man instinctively headed towards Sullivan with his hand outstretched.
“Inspector Green? I’m Mark Riordan.”
Green bristled. “I’m Green. Any sign of them?”
The man didn’t miss a beat, pivoting smoothly to give Green’s hand a sharp tug. “Not yet. Come on inside, and I’ll bring you up to speed.”
Inside the trailer, Green’s attention was immediately drawn to a brightly lit table in the centre of the room, on which lay a huge topographical map. More maps and white boards covered most of the walls, and the other tables were cluttered with technical equipment. An officer in a dark windbreaker was hunched over a phone at the front of the trailer, and several others milled about in the cramped space, checking equipment and jotting notes. Radio chatter crackled in the background, providing status reports.
Green headed over to the map on the table. A plastic overlay was marked with indecipherable lines and squiggles. “Where are we?” he asked.
Riordan circled his long, calloused finger to encompass the entire surface. “This map details the immediate area within a twenty mile radius. The maps on the wall are to a smaller scale and show all the roads and navigable paths between here and Peterborough.” He tapped a spot marked in red. “Mobile Command.” He drew his finger along the road to another mark nearby. “The suspect’s truck was located here, about five hundred metres further up this road. Canine unit started at the truck a little over an hour ago, picked up a trail heading north towards this lake area.”
“But he’s had a hell of a head start,” Green said. “Probably twenty-four hours.”
Riordan inclined his head and spun on his heel towards a map on the wall. “Based on your man being on foot and being encumbered by a child who may not be able to travel very fast—”
Green thought of the muscles rippling across Kyle’s chest. “He’s a well-developed teenager who can probably outrun all of us.”
Riordan barely registered a reaction. “By our calculations, on a path or road they could have covered thirty K by now, so we’ve set up patrol units on each of the roads at that perimeter.” He pointed to some faint lines on the map. “Old logging roads and rail lines. We’ve got our ERT people on ATVs checking the outlying parts for signs of activity.” His finger hovered over a tract of land unscarred by either road or trail. “If they’re bushwhacking—and preliminary indications are that’s the case—then the dog’s our best bet.”
“One dog?” Green said incredulously. Beside him, he felt Sullivan fidget uneasily, but all Green could picture was one dog against this vast acreage of bush.
Riordan stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Plus an experienced search team. There are four Emergency Response Team members out on foot with the dog, providing back-up.”
“What about helicopters? Boats on the lakes?”
“That’s the next step if it comes to that. But a careful grid search from the last known position is still the best approach.” One of the officers approached to draw Riordan aside. “That was Spencer, sir. K-9 lost the trail near a stream. The dog’s going in circles.”
A scowl rippled across Riordan’s tight control. “Your fella must’ve done something to throw the dog off. Does he know dogs? “
“He probably hunted with them as a kid,” Sullivan said. Green suspected the wily Tom had learned a lot of other tricks during his misspent youth, and whatever gaps remained had been easily filled during his jail stints. Trust Tom to spoil this man’s perfect search plan.
“Well, the dog’s good,” Riordan said as if reading his mind. “She might figure it out yet.”
“It’s practically dark, though,” Green said.
“Not a problem. The weather’s clear, and our ERT teams have good gear. My information is your suspect is not armed?”
“Not likely,” Sullivan said. More officers wandered in to study the map. Sullivan glanced around the room. “Anything we can do?”
Pointedly Riordan’s gaze took in their city suits and a faint smile twitched across his military features. “You’d be most help finding out everything you can about our suspect—his knowledge of the terrain, any contacts in the area, his survival skills, his habits—and feeding it to Detective Logan over there.” He nodded to the plain clothes officer on the phone. “We’ve already got your Detective Peters out with one of the patrol units.”
A chuckle ran through the knot of officers jotting notes on the white board nearby. Green didn’t even want to speculate what the chuckle meant. His gaze was drawn again to the topographical map on the table. To the endless acres of uninhabited wilderness and the tiny back lane on which the truck had been found. It didn’t make any sense! It was miles from anywhere.
He turned to Sullivan. “Would you get Bob Gibbs on that right away and hook him up with Logan here?” He looked back at Riordan. “While we’re out here, I’d like a look at the truck and the surrounding area. It might give us some ideas.”
Riordan’s mustache twitched in disapproval. “Don’t disturb the scene.”
Green was already striding to the door and the only response he allowed himself was the slamming of the truck door on his way out.
“Disturb the scene,” he muttered to Sullivan as he swung the cruiser back onto the road. “Who the fuck does he think we are, the Keystone Kops?”
“He’s just a control freak,” Sullivan replied. “Funny thing about inspectors.”
Green ignored the bait. He had already turned his attention to the road ahead, where presently a patch of light came into view. As they drew near, they saw a police van positioned in the road so that its headlights shone into the bush, illuminating a black pick-up tucked into a laneway off the road. It was almost completely obscured by overhanging brush, and Green realized they were damn lucky anyone had spotted it at all.
Yellow crime scene tape draped the trees and spanned the road, blocking passage. One scene-of-crime officer in white overalls was prowling around the outskirts of the truck, shooting video and still photos, while his partner crouched over a patch of dirt at the back. Green’s breath caught. Had they found out something about Kyle?
He called and introduced himself. “Find anything useful?”
“Lots of dirt and leaves,” said the one by the back, straightening up. “We’ll be loading it onto a truck to take it back to our indoor facility. We’re just checking the vicinity now. There seems to be a patch of urine by the back here.”
“Any sign of a struggle in the truck? Blood?”
“Not that we can see.” Green felt a wave of relief. It didn’t mean much, for there were half a dozen ways Tom could have disposed of Kyle, but at least he hadn’t killed him in the truck. “What’s the closest village they could have gone to?”
“Nearest town is Marmora, about fifteen K back down on 7. There’s also Brady’s Country Store at the junction of Cordova Road about three K up this way. But our guys checked there, and no one’s seen the subjects.”
Green thanked him and headed back down to the cruiser. Inside, he consulted the map and located the junction of Cordova Road. It was even further into the boonies. He stared thoughtfully through the windshield at the surrounding bush, combing his recollections of the argument with the McMartins at the Boisvert farm that afternoon. Something niggled at the edges of his memory.
Sullivan started the engine. “What next, navigator? A bite to eat, maybe?”
Green ignored him. “Look at this goddamn place! It’s not on the road to anywhere. If Tom was going to Toronto, why the hell would he come up here?”
“Maybe he got lost.”
The memory came loose. “No, he didn’t! I think he knew exactly where he was going.” Green’s mouth went dry as another memory fell into place. “Fuck! So does Sandy!”
Sullivan frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Green swung on him, excitement fighting fear in his thoughts. “Do you remember back at the Boisvert farm, Jeb McMartin started to say ‘Madoc, isn’t that where Norm used to have—”
Sullivan’s frown cleared. “And Sandy cut him off.”
“That’s right! I’m betting the Pettigrew family used to come up here, maybe even owned a place. And I bet Sandy knows where, and that’s why Madoc OPP hasn’t seen a trace of him. Remember Sandy said he knew this area because he sold cottages up here? We’ve got to move our asses if we want to find the Pettigrew place before he gets there.”
They drove back to the command trailer. Riordan took down the details and excitedly looked up township records on his computer. Their brief moment of triumph died when the search turned up no properties listed in the name of Norman Pettigrew, or any other Pettigrew.
“We’ll have to do a title search down at the County Registry office in Belleville,” he said. “And on a Saturday night, everything is closed up tight. It may take a while to find someone to open it up and go through the files.”
“I’d go straight to the Mayor and Chief of Police,” Green said and was pleased to see Riordan’s poker face break into a smile. Maybe the two were more alike than Green had thought. He paused as he headed for the door and matched the other man’s smile. “Brian and I will be on the road doublechecking the homes in the area, but we’ll keep you informed. Tom Pettigrew is still a danger, but right now I think our biggest threat may be Fitzpatrick. So let us know—”
Riordan nodded. “You’ll be the first.”
When Green returned to the car, Sullivan revved the engine and guided it back onto the road. He drove effortlessly through the darkness, one hand on the wheel and the other rubbing his chin. “Do you really think Sandy would hurt Kyle? He’s his brother, after all.”
“Stepbrother, actually, which may make a difference. And as for whether he’d hurt him, well, he bludgeoned his own lover, didn’t he? Besides, after all the bad calls I’ve made, I’m not taking any chances with this one.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“You’re the country boy, Brian. Tell me how we find out where the Pettigrew place was. It may take them a long time to track down the title in the registry office. It might have been thirty years ago.”
“That won’t matter around here,” Sullivan grinned. “At least, not with the local folk. They’ll remember who owned a store fifty years ago, probably still call it by that name.”
“Okay, so we find some local folk.” Green glanced out at the empty bush. “Somewhere.”
“Brady’s Country Store is our best bet. Probably been in the family for generations, and Brady will know everyone’s business for miles around.”
Brady’s store turned out to be a dilapidated two-storey frontier home of faded white clapboard. The sign across the front proclaimed in old-fashioned red lettering that it was Brady’s General Store and Tackle Shop. Assorted signs had been taped in the window beneath. “Hunting and fishing licences available”, “Live worms”, “Propane for Sale”, “Videos for rent”. All the lights were out on the main floor, however, and a large “Closed” sign hung in the window.
Green sat in the car and looked up at the building dejectedly. He was conscious of time ticking away, and of Kyle being held captive by one erratic, volatile man and stalked by an even more desperate one. All because of Green. Kyle was with Tom because Green had not detained the man after he’d first broken into the Boisverts’ house. He was being stalked by Sandy because Green had told the McMartins he might have witnessed something on the day Lawrence died.
To his surprise, Sullivan climbed out of the car and headed around the back towards an even more dilapidated wing at the rear of the store. Inside, Green could see the faint glow of a light upstairs.
Sullivan hammered on the door. “Brady!”
A dog barked, followed by a man’s gruff bellow as a series of windows lit up downstairs. A moment later the porch light came on and the door opened to reveal a wizened old man with no teeth and a stringy white beard that hadn’t seen a razor in ten years.
“What the name of Jesus do you want! He’s closed! Gone down to Belleville.”
Sullivan grinned. “You Brady?”
“Yeah. But it’s my son owns the place.”
“Brian Sullivan, with the Ottawa Police.” He stuck out his hand cheerfully.
“Eh?” The man shouted, ignoring Sullivan’s hand. Sullivan raised the decibel level and repeated himself.
>“Beautiful country,” he added. “You from around here?”
“Never could make enough money off that place to get out,” Brady retorted, eyeing Sullivan’s hand warily before deciding it was safe.
Sullivan pumped his hand heartily. “I know that feeling. Most of my folks are still up in the Valley. Further north, though, Renfrew County.”
“Where?”
“Renfrew,” Sullivan shouted. “Madawaska Valley.”
“Oh, yeah?” The man thawed. “Pretty up there, ain’t got the lakes, but lots of good rivers for trout. Not so many cottages up there either, eh?”
“Oh, it’s getting there. Ottawa’s taking over everything.” Green shifted impatiently, resisting the urge to sound the horn. Sullivan was turning on the Irish valley charm, and that took time, especially at the decibel level the old-timer required. It was not a process to be interrupted, so Green sat quietly while Sullivan shouted about fish and deer and the old logging days before finally steering the conversation to the missing duo.
“The older man’s a Pettigrew from down the Rideau Valley. Someone was saying the Pettigrews used to own property around here. Norm Pettigrew. You ever hear—”
“Not Norm, but his father, yeah. I knew his father going back...oh, must be sixty years? During the war. He started coming up here winters to do some logging, help keep the farm afloat. Yeah, he bought a little place back then, when there weren’t no roads, no hydro most places outside the towns.” Brady relaxed against the doorframe, almost garrulous. “We’d take a horse and sleigh in winter, boat in summer. We had some good times back then, when he used to bring Norm and his kids up for a spell. Haven’t seen them in years, though. Place was sold.”
“When?”
Brady squinted. “Maybe twenty-five years ago? When the old timer died? Like as not, Norm needed the money. Hah, don’t we all?”
Unable to stand it any longer. Green climbed out and sauntered over, hoping his appearance would speed up the process without causing the old man to shut down. Behind Brady, an equally scruffy dog stared Green down with unblinking eyes.
“My partner, Mike Green,” said Sullivan dismissively.
“What’s the name of the lake Norm’s dad had the place on?”
“Black Lake. ’Course we called it Lost Lake back then. If you found it, you knew you took a wrong turn.” Brady’s chuckle revealed a few yellow teeth still clinging to their posts.
“And is there a road up there now?”
“Oh yeah, they got roads all over now, eh? Used to be an old logging road, opened up now. Matter of fact, the place is only a few miles from here through them woods, but the road takes the long route round.”
“So someone could get there on foot?”
“Half day, easy. We used to do it all the time. The drive’s the tricky part.”
Green listened as Brady described the landmarks and turns they should follow, none of which had any road signs or names that Brady was aware of. But Sullivan thanked him profusely, shook his hand and set off confidently towards the car.
“You fellas like a snack from the store?” Brady called after them, as if now reluctant to see them go. “There’s some nice, home-baked brownies just going to waste.”
Sullivan broke into a broad grin, signalled to Green and disappeared inside the man’s home. The front windows lit and Green drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited. He hadn’t eaten since his late lunch with Robbie, but the knot of apprehension in his stomach drove away all thought of food.
A few minutes later, Sullivan reappeared with two grocery bags packed with food, which he loaded in the back.
“In case we find Tom and Kyle. They may be hungry.”
“Can you still remember those directions?”
Sullivan settled behind the wheel and crammed a massive brownie into his mouth, nodding as he sucked chocolate icing off his fingers. Then he eased the car into gear and slowly began to make his way down the dark road. The sky was now a clear, brittle black sprinkled with a thousand stars but not even a sliver of moon to light the way.
Sullivan braked to eye a laneway dubiously. “First left, he said.”
“That’s a cow path, not a road.”
“No, it’d be a road around here.” Sullivan turned in, his headlights sweeping the bush that bordered the road. Two hundred yards further, the lane petered out.
“Okay, it’s not a road.” Sullivan reversed back up the narrow track he could barely see. Branches clawed at the side panels of the sparkling new cruiser, causing Green to wince. He wondered if Barbara Devine would prove as forgiving as Jules had been. Somehow, he doubted it.
“Okay, it must be the next one,” Sullivan said once he’d backed out onto the road.
They missed the next left, which appeared as a fleeting gap in the bush as they passed. On reversing, they saw a small wooden arrow marked Duncan Lane tacked to a post.
“Oh, it has a name,” Green remarked as Sullivan turned in.
“Probably not to Brady.”
They negotiated Duncan Lane to its end and found themselves at the junction of a larger road. Still dirt, but at least with the potential to avoid a head-on collision.
Sullivan turned right. “Now we look for Jack Hensel’s farmhouse.”
“Oh, that’s right. ‘Big red one on the hill, can’t miss it’?” Green recited as he looked out into the yawning blackness. “What hill? Who sees anything but the fucking bush at the edge of the road?”
They crawled down the road, which dipped and turned like an endless roller coaster. Finally up ahead, Green spotted a tiny lane with a dozen names on wooden arrows tacked to a tree. “Stop.” Green peered out. “Do you see a farm house?”
To their left, a darker smudge stood out against the pallid wash of the surrounding field.
“This has to be it. I’m going to kill the lights,” Sullivan said, swinging cautiously into the little lane. They bumped down the road, following the strip of pallor between the blackness on either side. They passed the first drive.
“Did Brady remember who owned the place now?” For some reason Green found himself whispering.
Sullivan shook his head. “Fuck, there’s at least a dozen properties. Watch for a glimmer of light, or the smell of wood smoke.”
They passed the second drive, then the third. The darkness and the silence were absolute. Nothing but vast, yawning emptiness, Green reflected as he strained his city eyes to decipher the alien black. Suddenly, a flash of metal caught his eye.
“Stop!” he whispered. “Back up. More. There! It looks like a vehicle!”
Cautiously, they pulled the cruiser off the track under cover of some trees, eased open the doors and slipped out. The vehicle sat about twenty feet from the entrance to the drive, which was so overgrown it was barely discernible except for the flattened tire tracks. As they approached, Green saw it was an old silver Grand Am.
“False alarm,” Sullivan muttered and turned back to the cruiser.
Something stirred in the back of Green’s memory—a vehicle parked in the laneway to the rear of the real estate office in Ashford Landing. He laid his palm on the car’s hood. Warm.
“This is it!” he whispered hoarsely. “Sandy switched cars! That’s why the OPP never spotted him.”
The two men peered down the grassy driveway and sifted the night air for sounds. “Looks like they came alone,” Sullivan whispered. “There’s no sign of Scott’s Blazer.”
“Sandy wouldn’t want him along. Probably ditched his mother too.”
Sullivan turned to the road. “I’ll notify Riordan.”
“They’ll never find the fucking place, and if they do, they’ll come screaming in here like a bunch of banshees.”
“Give them some credit, Green,” said Sullivan as he headed back towards the cruiser.
Green began to grope his way cautiously down the drive, fighting through grass and burrs that reached his thighs. The night was full of sounds he didn’t recognize. Rustling leaves, distant hoots, rhythmic chirps and howls that seemed to echo forever. Suddenly, an all-too-human scream sounded in the distance, followed by an angry volley of shouts. Men’s voices carried on the wind. Green froze and glanced back at Sullivan, who was visible in the cruiser’s cabin light, settled in as if for a long chat. Another shout, closer. Its raw rage sent a chill down Green’s back.
He raced through the grass, rounded a corner, and confronted a steep, curved rise in the track. The shouts were coming from straight ahead, but he could see nothing. Not the cruiser behind him, not the danger ahead. Did Brian even realize he’d gone? Green cursed his own stupidity for setting off alone without even a goddamn flashlight, which was probably safely stowed in the cruiser. He really had been behind a desk too long. Groping for his holster, he flipped the tab off and pulled out his pistol.
God, he hated the thing. He’d never fired it off the range and probably couldn’t hit anything if he tried, but tonight, with his blood pounding in his ears and his breath so deafening it blocked out all else, he was glad he had it. Its cold, heavy weight felt reassuring in his hand as he crept up the rise.
The shouts had died down, but Green could hear a man talking, his words punctuated with angry curses. The targets seemed to be moving and were now up ahead on his right. As he reached the top of the rise, he caught a brief glimmer of light through the trees. The cottage? The light danced, moved and played on the trees around it.
No, a flashlight! The light was coming his way, and as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out movement. Legs, boots striding, the dull metal glint of a rifle barrel. Fuck, he thought, tightening his grip on the Glock. The men were coming straight up the lane toward him, closing the gap at a rapid pace. The one at the rear had the flashlight and the rifle, whereas the one in front was stumbling in the darkness, his every move betraying his fear.
“Sandy, what the hell are you talking about!” exclaimed a rough voice Green immediately recognized as Tom’s. “I didn’t kill Derek!”
“Just shut the fuck up and walk!” Green ducked off the track as they approached and crouched poised for attack. He could see the two men clearly in the dancing light, but there was no sign of Kyle. Green scanned the darkness behind them anxiously. Nothing.
“Lawrence killed Derek,” Tom said. “I swear on my life—”
“Like that means anything. You hated Derek. You couldn’t stand that he was smart and was going to make something of himself. You couldn’t face that your whole moronic, loser life was your own fault—”
“But I wouldn’t kill him, for Chrissake.” Tom stopped in his tracks and turned to face Sandy. “Get hold of yourself and think about this!”
Sandy played the flashlight off Tom’s face. At fifteen feet away, Green could see every quiver of fear in Tom’s eyes. Slowly the rifle barrel rose, its muzzle point blank against his chest. “Who’s going to know, huh Tom? You’re a dangerous fugitive who kidnapped my brother. I’ll be a hero.”
Tom shook his head. “You’ll know. You’ll have to live with it for the rest of your life, and believe me, that’s a hell of a lot harder than you think.”
“And you should know. Right, you bastard?” The rifle clicked.
Green felt his fear in his bowels and in the slick gun barrel in his shaking hand. He gripped the Glock with both hands and raised it.
“Sandy,” he called gently. “Police officer. Don’t move.”
The flashlight leaped wildly, swung in an arc and settled on Green. Blinded, Green kept his gun and his eyes trained on where he knew Sandy to be. He hoped his voice sounded calmer than he felt.
“Lower the weapon, Sandy.”
“Inspector Green! What the hell are you doing? He killed his own brother, and he was going to kill mine!”
“Lower the rifle. Then we’ll talk.”
Sandy kept the flashlight trained on Green, and his voice took on a contemptuous tone. “You can’t see a thing, I know you can’t. I can shoot Tom, run away and you’ll be so blind you won’t be able to get a single decent shot off.”
He was dead right; Green was absolutely powerless as long as Sandy had that damn flashlight. Green cast about for a way to throw him off balance, all the while wondering where the hell Sullivan was. Nothing for it but to use my wits, he thought. I walked into this mess like an idiot without any back-up, so I’m going to have to get myself out.
“Sandy, where’s Kyle?” he asked.
“Kyle’s fine. He’s down in the cottage with my mother.”
“Don’t you think he’s been through enough? Do you want to add to his trauma by shooting Tom?”
“That’s why I brought Tom up here!” Sandy snapped. “Kyle won’t even know.”
“He’s a good kid,” Tom interjected. To Green’s relief, he sounded calmer. “He knows more than you guys think. Take it from me, you can’t run from these things.”
“I don’t give a damn! You’ve already ruined too many lives.”
With the flashlight still blinding him, and the rifle barrel steadied once more on Tom’s chest, Green scrambled for another tack. “What do you think, Sandy?” he said. “Will it be easier the second time around? Killing a man, I mean.” “What?”
“You’re the one who killed Derek. You knew he was going off without you, and you couldn’t stand that.”
“What?” It was Tom this time, astonished and disbelieving.
“Sandy was Derek’s lover, Tom.”
“That’s ridiculous!” Sandy cried. “I was just a kid.”
“You were seventeen,” Green said. “Plenty old enough to be in love. But Derek decided—”
Tom found his voice. “That’s bullshit! My brother wasn’t a fag!”
“Shut up, you Neanderthal!” Sandy cried. “Just shut the fuck up!” In his outrage, Sandy jerked the flashlight back toward Tom, and in that instant Green dropped to a crouch and aimed his gun. Sandy swung the rifle barrel in a wild panicked arc, searching for him. Green was fractions of a second from squeezing the trigger when a powerful light flooded the scene, and a voice boomed out of the darkness on the other side.
“Police! Freeze!”
Sandy swung his flashlight back and forth, catching first Green and then Sullivan in its beam. Sullivan stood rock solid, with his legs apart, his Glock in one hand and a flashlight held overhead in the other. Sandy’s rifle barrel drooped, and in that instant Tom leaped forward to grab it.
“Tom!” Sullivan roared. “Don’t fucking move!” Tom froze, but Sandy seemed oblivious to him. The rifle now dangled harmlessly at his side as he stared at Green in disbelief.
“Put the weapon on the ground and back away, both of you!” Sullivan said.
As they did so, Green moved in to retrieve the rifle and eject the cartridges from its barrel. All passion seemed to drain out of Sandy, who was barely able to stand.
“How can you think I’d kill Derek?” he said to Green. “I loved him.”
“That’s why,” Green replied. “He was leaving without you, so you sent him a note to meet you in the shed—”
“No!”
“We have the note, remember! With your bloody fingerprint on it.” Well, not exactly, but in a pinch, whatever works.
But Sandy just looked bewildered. “But that was the note from him I was waiting for. With the bus times and all. I never got it!”
“Yeah?” Sullivan snarled, unhooking his cuffs. “Tell that to the judge.”
Green’s mind was racing. Something was askew. If Sandy had killed Derek, why had he come up here in the middle of the night to kill Tom? Why was he accusing Tom of murdering Derek when he had absolutely nothing to gain from it? Unless he believed Tom was the murderer.
In which case, Sandy couldn’t be. Something in his bewilderment about the note and in his desperate claims of love rang true. There had to be someone else. But even as Green thought it, Sandy voiced the exact same question.
“If Tom didn’t do it, and Lawrence didn’t, then who did kill Derek?”
In the distance, up towards the road, a car ignition turned over and caught. Sandy spun around in the direction of the sound.
“Oh, my God!” he gasped.