FORTY-THREE

“Scottie, dammit!” I screamed.

He was down, flopping like a fish. “I didn’t . . . Help me up!” He’d gotten tangled in a vine and dropped the pistol.

I turned to Weston. She had her gun up, wheeling from side to side as she backed toward the trees.

I said, “Jamie, why—?”

There was a hard thud, and Weston flew off her feet, landing in a crumpled heap. The trees rustled, and a figure stepped over her. Tall, cut-thin. Peter Sorensen.

Scottie had gotten clear of the vine and stopped thrashing. “Why is he here?” He thought this was some trick I’d pulled off.

Sorensen bent to make sure Weston was out. He kept his eyes on me.

“O’Shea had you follow him here?” I said. “Some kind of backup plan if he got in trouble?”

Sorensen moved on to check O’Shea. I could see the dim glint of a pistol in his hand, a big automatic.

“I don’t understand,” Scottie said. His voice had bounced up an octave.

“Look at the gun,” I said.

“Gun? I—” Then Scottie saw it.

“Left hand,” I said. “He could type with that hand, and he poured scotch with it.”

“Why?” Scottie whispered.

Sorensen wagged the gun at us. “Move together.”

I motioned for Scottie to stay where he was. Our best chance—if there was any chance—was to keep apart, buy some time.

“Sorensen is the other half of the transaction, the one who sold the plans to Braeder. His own invention—his family’s company. They probably never suspected him, or if they did they couldn’t turn on him. My mother must have figured that out. What did she do, call you or drop by for a visit? The cops knew about it. They interviewed you back then.”

Sorensen twitched the gun impatiently. “Move together. Now!”

I motioned again to Scottie. He nodded slightly and rolled up to his hands and knees but didn’t stand.

Sorensen watched all this. He was calculating, putting a plan together.

“Tell me one thing,” I said. “How did you get the gun from my mother? She must have had it out that night.”

Sorensen smiled quickly, like a man who’d just made up his mind about something. “I only had to ask.” He stepped forward and aimed at my head, point blank. “Find your gun and bring it to me,” he said to Scottie. “Do it now, or I’ll shoot him.”

“You pulled that on my parents?” I said.

“It didn’t fool your father, but your mother bought it, and that’s all that mattered.”

Scottie stood up. The pistol was in his hand. Sorensen shifted to my side, holding the tip of the barrel against my throat.

“Scottie, you can’t,” I said. “He’ll use your gun on me, then Weston.”

“Quiet,” Sorensen snapped.

I kept right on: “He’ll make it look like you did it, just like he did with my mother.”

Scottie stared at me, eyes wide, that cornered-rabbit look.

“Run,” I said quietly.

Scottie took a step back. I wished he didn’t have that white shirt on, making him such an easy target. If I jerked when Sorensen pulled the trigger on me, I might still have enough strength to turn, hold him up for a second or two.

“Go,” I said.

Scottie darted for the tree line.

“No!” Sorensen spun toward Scottie, and I shoved him as hard as I could.

Scottie ducked and turned, a move so quick he must have had it planned. He raised his gun and fired, still smooth. Then he was so surprised by the kick it gave he nearly dropped it.

Sorensen reeled a half step and fired his own gun straight into the ground. A moment later he sank to his knees.

His eyes rolled up, and I thought he was going to pass out, but he pulled back into focus. A large blotch of blood had already appeared below his right shoulder. He looked at it, surprised, and then sighed as the reality of it hit him. At the same time, Weston stirred slightly. Sorensen gave her a slitted glance.

“Put the gun down,” I said. “We’ll get you some help.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. He shook his head. “You two—Howie figured there was no chance you could dig it all up.”

“Markaris told you about us?” I said.

“He got the whole gang back together. Russo and O’Shea. Me. McGuin. Just a warning. Keep our heads down.”

“None of them knew you were the killer,” I said, “until Markaris started to figure it out.”

He glanced at Scottie, who had his gun leveled on him. “Every piece separate. Everybody carries his own guilt.” I didn’t like his expression—tired but calculating again, some new plan forming. I wanted to get to Jamie, to make sure she was OK, but I wasn’t going to take my eyes off Sorensen as long as he had the gun.

Scottie moved forward. “Put it down.” Sorensen glared at him, a direct challenge.

I waved Scottie back. “My mother told you she was going to blow the whistle on you. You couldn’t let that happen. I can understand that.”

Sorensen’s eyes slid over to me. There was blood at the corner of his mouth. “Blow the whistle? You don’t understand a thing.”

“Tell me then.”

He shook his head and glanced at the gun in his hand. The expression on his face was dazed and empty. I could see his plan now, quick and final.

“You were with her when she shot herself. She did that to save us, didn’t she? She made a deal with you.”

“Yeah. Pretty much.” He lifted the gun, letting his hand rest on his chest and the barrel against his jaw. He took a shuddering breath. “I promised her the kids would be safe. I’ve had to live with that.”

“At the end, what did she say—when she went down the steps into the yard?”

He gave a slow laugh, enough to make the blood bubble on his lips. “Did I kill Brookey? I never heard of a Brookey.”

“It was our cat. He was hit by a car. Maybe she thought it was a warning.”

His tongue flicked out. More blood. But there was still strength there, enough to live if he wanted to. That’s what I wanted—to have him answer all the questions and then rot away in some jail cell forever.

“What else did she say? There was more.”

He just stared blankly at me.

“What about Bowles?” Scottie said. “Did he know what you did?”

His head moved. A nod, maybe. “Bowles was—”

His eyes fluttered. The gun slipped away from his throat. Two steps and I could grab it.

Before I could move—before I could think—there was a sharp crack on my right. Sorensen’s head bloomed like a flower, blood and skull and brain. I felt the spray hit me. Scottie jerked back.

I turned slowly, half paralyzed. Weston was on her knees. She had her gun trained on Sorensen, on what was left of him.

Scottie started screaming. “You didn’t have to! He was going to tell us!”

There was a coldness in Weston’s eyes that faded slowly. She put her gun away and looked at me. Was that guilt I saw? Just a touch of it?

“No choice,” she said. “He was—”

I didn’t hear the rest. The tingling had started in my hands the moment the bullet tore through Sorensen’s head. The numbness reached my shoulders. I looked up at the sky as I started to sway. The last thing I remember is Scottie grabbing me. We both fell under my weight.