“He’s Amy’s father,” I said.
French looked at me. His eye looked okay; there was some discoloration around the edges but no permanent damage. His nose had stopped bleeding.
“What do you mean?”
I handed him the photograph.
“They look alike,” he said.
“It’s an uncanny resemblance. I think Strawn is Arlene’s murderer, and I think he sent Lang to kill Amy. The FBI was at Amy’s; now they’re dead. The guy in the photo on Lang’s desk saved her.”
“In the picture with Lang? That’s Patton. Ross Patton. He lives in a cabin somewhere; I don’t know where. He’s kind of solitary, except he takes us hunting sometimes. So Lang burned down the house?”
“He had hidden cameras all over the place in Amy’s house and Mary’s—all the pretty girls’ houses, I’m sure,” I said.
French blushed. “We have to stop them.”
“We will,” I said.
We both went quiet, thinking. I still wasn’t used to the allied feeling. I’m not much of a team player. I don’t have a problem with other people. I like people a lot. I just work better alone. I don’t want to have to rely on someone else to get it right, and I don’t want someone relying on me when I get it wrong. That’s why I never excelled at team sports.
French and Rock’s radios crackled simultaneously, making us jump from our thoughts.
“What’s the word?” Strawn’s voice hissed.
I looked at French. This was the moment of truth. Was he going to uphold our freshly forged friendship or not?
French pushed a thumb to a button and spoke sideways, “One in custody; we got him.”
“Any problems?” the voice sparked back.
“Not much.”
“Good. Bring him here.”
“Copy.”
French settled back in his seat, and I started moving. I handed him back his gun, slowly, making sure the safety catch was on.
He took it back, holstering it. “I’m on your side. I just want to find Amy; I can’t do it without you.”
“Thanks,” I said, and I meant it.
“What are we going to do?” he asked.
“Well, we’ve got two problems between the two of us. Strawn and Lang. The smart money would say we stick together, but I don’t think we have time.”
He nodded. “The snow is picking up, but they’ve got some state crews working on clearing the roads from the outside.”
“Amy and Patton are as good as dead if Lang or Strawn finds them first,” I said.
“So let’s split up.”
That impressed me. My opinion of Carter French was changing markedly. First impressions are often wrong, for me especially.
“Who’s going to do what?” he asked.
We were in a pickle. French knew the lay of the land better than I did, but Strawn was expecting French and Rock to roll up any minute in the patrol car, so French could more easily get the drop on him. We deliberated this back and forth. French was better trained in the use of firearms.
I’m comfortable with guns, in a layman sort of way. A lot of folks barely know where the bullets go. But I think guns are quintessential tools that every law-abiding citizen should own and train with. I strongly support the right to keep and bear arms, but it doesn’t mean I relish the thought of using them against people, even as rotten as the villains I was up against. I knew Lang was armed, and Strawn would be too. They wouldn’t hesitate to shoot us.
“I think I should take Strawn,” French said. “All I need to do is put him in a holding cell, and then I can come back and help you. We’ll do it together.”
“Okay,” I said. “I need to get back and check on Agnes and Mary; they could be in danger.”
“Bring them to the station; we’ll meet there,” French said.
From the floor Rock grunted and cursed. I was surprised and grateful he hadn’t learned more from the supposed special weapons and tactics training the doctor had mentioned.
French and I looked at him. He rolled and wriggled and managed to sit up, even with his hands cuffed behind his back, using his massive abdominals. He looked at us, grimacing through bloodstained teeth.
“What’s going on?”
French said nothing.
But I had an idea. “Hey, Rock, you got a phone?”
He spat at me, which I took issue with. I slapped him on the ear. He tried to fight, rolling and flopping like a fish. I got him on his front, put one knee at the base of his skull, and found his cell phone in a jacket pocket.
“Thanks, Rock. I need to make a call.”
As I was swiping and typing with my fingers, I turned to French, who looked a little less sure of himself now that his domineering partner had regained consciousness.
“Hey, man, you’d better get going. He’ll be wondering where you are. Call Rock’s phone; I’ll have it.”
French got up and hustled toward the door. Rock yelled after him, threatening and cursing.
“Shut up,” I said, cuffing him on the ear again.
I found Mary’s name in the phone’s contact list, pushing the little green icon to call. It rang and rang and rang and then went to voicemail. Maybe Mary wasn’t too keen to talk to Rock, which was fine by me. I left a message and told Mary it was me and to call as soon as she could.
Rock kept yapping at me, but I ignored him. He had made his bed. I couldn’t waste time trying to persuade him again. But I couldn’t very well leave him defenseless in a known killer’s house. What if Lang came back? He probably wouldn’t spare his coworker. Rock and I weren’t the likeliest candidates for the bosom-buddies-of-the-year award, but I didn’t want to see him dead. I whistled loudly from the door, and French turned back. I motioned for him, and he hurried inside again.
“What is it?” he asked, a little breathless.
“We can’t leave Rock here. Lang might come back. Let’s put him in your car.”
Between the two of us we carried Rock outside. He struggled, making us lose our grips, but after our third time dropping him into the snow, he settled down enough we were able to stuff him into the back seat. Maybe he understood we were trying to protect him. Or maybe he was thinking of how else to curse us.
I clapped French on the shoulder. “Good luck, man. See you soon.” He nodded, a determined glint in his eyes, and left.
I ran across the snow back to Mary’s Jeep, threw it into gear, and sped off as fast as I dared. The snow was picking up. The drifts on the side of the road lifted in swirls to meet the falling flakes. It looked like it was snowing from both above and below. The yellow centerline was invisible. I navigated very carefully back to Agnes’s, especially on the turns, calling Mary again and again.
No answer.
Mary was a smart, conscientious person. Even if she hadn’t heard the voicemail, she would have answered after the fourteenth call, maybe exasperatedly or assuming it had to be an emergency. But there was no answer.
I got worried. I was getting into deeper and deeper water. There is a quote by the second-greatest man who ever lived, Joseph Smith: “Perhaps I am meant to swim in deep waters; better deep than shallow.” But I was more worried than I’d ever been. I was no Joseph. I would have preferred the shallows.
I neared the turn by the church building. Above the trees I saw smoke.