Jim looked at me, knowing we may have just drawn a direct line between the teenaged Aloise and the broken hoof found on the body buried on Chadwick Farms. He pulled his phone, ready to report in.

  Mosetta’s next words stopped him. “They got some land in that will, too, not far from here. Somebody builded hisself a huntin’ house on it ’bout ten year ago.”

  “Hunting house?” Jim asked.

  “A shack to use during hunting season,” I said.

  “Cardboard and sheet metal?” he asked.

  “Now you’re getting the picture,” Nana said, laughter in her tone for the city cop.

  “Where near here?” Jim asked, his phone still open but undialed.

  “I can draw you a map,” Aunt Moses said. She looked at me, her face creased in a thousand wrinkles. “You know where the old Felix’s Texaco is?”

  I nodded and set the last dirty plate in the dishwasher.

  “There a two-rut track behind it. Or once was. Take two turns offa that, you find it. Back behind nowhere, it is.”

  “I remember that,” Nana agreed. “I tried to buy the land. Wanted it for the farm. The owner didn’t even bother to reply to my lawyer’s query.”

  Dutifully, Jim called in all he had learned in the last few minutes. The conversation was short and sweet. When he hung up the phone, he said, “Feel like exploring? Simmons says I should take a field trip.”

  “Sure,” I said, draining my teacup.

  “Take along a picnic,” Aunt Mosetta said. “Nothing for young lovers like a picnic.”

  At the words, the tea went down wrong and I choked. Jim just laughed.

  We borrowed Johnny Ray’s old clunker truck, Nana whispering in my ear that she put my shotgun under the passenger seat, Aunt Mosetta adding that she put sandwiches there, too. Jim was dressed in street clothes, city street clothes—button-down shirt and slacks, with brown oxfords. Not the best attire for searching backcountry property. But maybe his recent experience walking Chadwick land had made an impression, because he left his tie and suit coat draped over a kitchen chair, though he still wore his holster strapped around his shoulders. He whistled appreciatively when I emerged from the house in T-shirt, jeans and western riding boots. “Remind me I need to keep casual clothes in the unit,” he said, which I thought was a pretty good idea, though awfully belated.

  Taking the roads to Felix’s Texaco, we passed the skid marks and torn earth of the accident that wasn’t an accident. I couldn’t help but look, and saw that there was no sign of blood on the highway. I had worked with the county’s emergency services for years and knew that someone had opened a two-liter bottle of cola and washed down the street. The phosphoric acid and carbonation in colas dissolved blood from asphalt and washed it away. Jim didn’t mention it, so neither did I, but it put a huge damper on a day that was emotional and melancholy at best. I knew from experience that one could expect emotional swings after taking a life.

  Jim passed me a water bottle as he drove and I drank, mentally thanking him for reminding me that life went on. I don’t know if that was what he intended, but the simple act of kindness had that effect on me. When I passed the bottle back, he lifted it to his own lips and drank, and I felt a bit of warmth return at the sight of his mouth on the bottle where mine had been. When it was empty, he tucked it beneath the seat.

  It was a long bench-style seat, with deep dips to mark where people sat, and the springs had given way. The tires were bald, the bumpers missing; the lights were held in place with duct tape and baling wire, and the truck was rusted inside and out. If one of us touched something wrong, we’d need a tetanus shot. Heck, we might need one just for riding in it. Neither one of us mentioned the strong smell of cheap alcohol, old vomit and cigarettes that permeated the cab, but by unspoken agreement, we rode with the windows down and the warm breeze snatching at us, sweeping the odors away. Clearly, Johnny Ray did a lot of living in the old truck.

  The cling bandages I wore were now no more than a couple of layers thick. My hands were healing fast, which was good because the truck had no suspension, and I had to hold on, grinding my hands against the filthy metal door frame.

  Jim handled the beat-up truck like a pro, though, and we made good time, weaving behind the old abandoned service station and along a two-rut trail into scrub brush, onto land where I had never been before. The second turnoff should have been overgrown or well used. Instead it looked as if it had been deserted for years and then driven recently. Once.

  Jim got out and studied the overgrown, washed-out drive, last year’s dry foliage, the relative obscurity of the place. When he got back in, he threw the old truck in reverse and said, “I’m taking you back.”

  “No, you aren’t,” I said, insulted. “No way. You’re going to drive along this rut and see what’s at the end. If you need backup, you’ll call for it. I’ll wait in the truck like a good little girl and the good guys can storm the place.”

  Jim turned to me, amusement and tenderness in his gaze. “I like you a lot, Ashlee Davenport.”

  My brows raised all by themselves in surprise. “I like you a lot, too, Jim Ramsey.”

  “If I fall in love with you, are you going to be this easygoing about everything?”

  “No,” I said, feeling the usual blush-burn. I stuck my nose in the air. “If you cheat on me, I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your natural life.”

  “Yeah? How so?”

  “I’ll sic Nana on you.”

  “Ouch.” He looked at the road, thinking, a small smile pulling at his mouth. “Okay. I can live with that. When we get to wherever we’re going, stay in the car.”

  “Deal.”

  28

  W e followed the rambling trail along a winding, rain-gutted course, Jim banging his head once on the cab roof when the truck hit a particularly deep dip. After ten minutes of jouncing and bouncing, I pointed to the left through the trees. “There,” I said. Jim stopped the truck quickly, skidding over a patch of bare, potholed ground.

  Up a slight incline, about a hundred and fifty yards away, was a shack, but only by the most slim definition. The hut had been built of scraps, things that might be left over from a construction site. There was rusted sheet metal, plywood that had separated and buckled, two old windows with the panes busted out, sheets of rippled fiberglass and tar paper on the roof. Everything had been camo painted to blend in with the environment. Out front, half-hidden by the dry and spring vegetation, was a small red car. If it had belonged to a serious hunter, the vehicle would have been camo painted, too, so the car belonged to someone else.

  Jim flipped open his cell phone. “Son of a bitch,” he said, without apology. “No reception. Nothing. Not even a bar. How do you people live like this?”

  “Welcome to the rural South,” I said. “Feel free to back out and drive toward the traffic-clogged interstate, the pollution, the crime and the overpopulation. You’ll find reception.”

  His eyes on the shack, taking in the terrain, Jim laughed shortly. He slapped the phone into my hand. I winced at the pain but he didn’t notice. Throwing the truck in reverse, he backed into a three-point turn. “Watch the bars. As soon as you see some, let me know.”

  It didn’t take long. The property was not too far from the I-77 corridor and the cell towers that lined the highway. We were still in brush when I handed him the cell. Jim reported in, giving our location and directions, and asked for uniformed backup. He never said a name, but whoever he was talking to left him unhappy about the outcome. He said, “You got to be kidding. Half an hour is too long. He might have heard the truck and decided to book. I’m going in to check it out…. Yeah, yeah, I know. Right.” He closed the phone and dropped it on the seat. He held out his hand and I raised mine to take it.

  “Backup will be here in half an hour. You sit tight. I’ll walk back in and check it out.”

  “And if it’s just a hunter scouting out the fall’s deer hide, or a couple of teenagers indulging in a private moment?”

  “Then I’ll risk being mistaken for a buck or walking in on kinky, redneck sex.”

  I laughed, and Jim laughed with me. He reached out, wrapped his hand about my neck and pulled me to him. His lips were warm and gentle on mine and everything in my life, good and bad, vanished in an instant, leaving only him, only Jim and this single touch. His tongue touched mine and he pulled me closer. Into his lap. I wrapped my arms around him and melted into him. He breathed against my mouth, and the breath turned to soft chuckles, which I returned.

  He pulled slightly away, until his lips were just barely touching mine, and said, “What if I more than like you, Ashlee. Will you run away from me?”

  Despite the heat, prickles rippled along my skin. “Chadwicks don’t run.”

  He kissed me again, briefly this time, and eased me back into my seat. He climbed from the truck and reached into the back, pulling out a Kevlar vest and a navy T-shirt with FBI emblazoned on it. I hadn’t noticed when he’d put them in the truck bed. Jim strapped on the vest and pulled the T-shirt over his head, his appearance now bulkier and solid looking. “Wait here. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes or if you hear gunfire, drive out and get help.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Sure. Be careful.”

  Jim nodded and walked away, through the brush.

  Fifteen minutes is a long time sitting in a stinky truck while a man I might be falling in love with is out stalking down possible bad guys.

  I wasn’t happy, alone with my thoughts. I began to feel exposed, sitting there in the truck, sunlight streaming in the dirty windshield. I no longer had my pearl-handled 9 mm. I was pretty sure I’d never get it back, now that the cops had it. I had also been pretty sure I never wanted to see it again, until now. I was alone, starting to sweat, and getting fidgety.

  Against Jim’s suggestion—I refused to think of it as orders—I slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the truck, the old engine cranky and hitting on too few cylinders. I hadn’t driven a stick shift in years but it came back to me, and the truck lurched forward, clutch grinding as I turned around again and headed back up the ruts. When I came to the spot where Jim had made our first three-point turn, I stopped, pocketed the keys and eased the truck door open. Sliding into the sunlight, cowboy boots on the washed-out earth, I pulled the double-barreled shotgun out and checked to see the safety was on. I followed the ruts into the brush.

  I was halfway to the shack when I heard gunshots and the roar of an engine. It was coming my way fast, a red blur along the track. Right at me. I ducked, dove to the side. Landed in the dry scrub, hard on my injured hands. The shotgun spun away. I rolled, my limbs windmilling around me. My momentum stopped when my hip hit a small tree, jarring my spine. An electric charge of pain shot through me.

  The red car raced past, taking bumps and potholes hard. All I saw was the top of the driver’s head, short sweaty hair and pale forehead.

  An instant later, I heard more shots. He was shooting at the truck. The truck I was no longer in. Engine gunning, the car took off again and was gone. I heard footsteps, running hard, slipping on the brush. Jim, cursing foully under his breath.

  I called his name, sitting up in the dirt. “I’m over here,” I shouted, rubbing my hip, immediately wishing I hadn’t. My hands were bleeding again.

  Jim spotted me and ran, fighting for traction in his slick-bottomed city shoes. Breathless, chanting my name and swearing, he fell over me, his face frantic, his hands searching my torso. Despite the pain in my hands, I grabbed his head and forced him to look in my eyes, and said, “Jim. I’m okay. I’m fine.”

  “I heard more shots,” he said, eyes wide with fear. “I heard more shots.” His eyes changed, focusing hard on me. He took my wrists, pulling my hands away. “I told you to stay put.”

  “Good thing I didn’t,” I said indignantly. “I think he tried to kill Johnny Ray’s truck.” Jim burst into startled laughter. I grinned ruefully back.

  Jim didn’t say anything when he took the shotgun, just looked from me to the gun, speculation and a sort of amused resignation in his eyes. He broke the shotgun open and removed the double-ought buckshot rounds, inspecting the load before reinserting them and bracing the open weapon over his arm.

  I had seen Jack carry the shotgun the same way, open, unable to be fired, but easy to ready with just a slight lift of the arm. I stared at the weapon and the man in my life, feeling all sorts of strange things settle deep inside me. “Nana put it under the seat,” I said.

  “Uh-huh. Of course she did,” he said, no inflection in his voice. “Those are two very dangerous women.”

  Since I agreed, I just shrugged. What could you really say about women like my family matriarchs? They were unique, and they did things their own way. End of story.

  While Jim questioned me, we made our way back along the two-rut drive, the shotgun still open. I had to admit that I hadn’t seen anything except the top of the shooter’s head. And Jim had to admit that he’d seen even less. “I was moving up around the back of the shack when I heard the car start up. By the time I got to the front, it was pulling out. I did manage to get a partial license-plate number, which I’ll run later, but that’s about it.”

  Jim slid an arm around my shoulders, pulling me close beneath his arm. The Kevlar around him was unyielding, a reminder of the shots fired. I put my head against his shoulder.

  “What was the gunfire about?” I asked, remembering the sound of the shots.

  “I shouted for him to stop. He had other plans,” Jim said. “He fired out the vehicle window without looking.”

  We got to the truck to find it had taken a half-dozen rounds in the grille, passenger’s door and through the windshield into the interior. Jim looked it over, grim-faced, and climbed in. He said, “Even money says it’s dead.” He turned the key. Despite his dire prediction, the rusted hulk started up on the second try, no more cranky than usual.

  I took my place in the passenger seat, sticking a finger into a hole in the door beside me. “Good thing I wasn’t sitting here,” I said.

  Jim didn’t reply, but his mouth tightened, and the look in his eyes was deadly. It promised retribution.

  The shotgun back under the seat, we drove slowly toward the hunter’s shack, a farther distance than I had thought, as the poor excuse for a road made several twists and turns in the last half mile. The truck was steaming and I figured at least one round had hit the radiator. Not good.

  Jim stopped the truck just beyond where the rutted drive curved hard to the left, turned off the engine and got out. He opened the hood, letting out a small cloud of steam. “Unless we find a couple gallons of water, we could be stuck here until the backup arrives,” he said. He looked at his watch. “If they show at all.”

  A muffled scream sounded. Jim crouched and drew his weapon all in one move, then shoved me down and jerked me behind the truck in another, his body bent over mine. The sound came again. It could have been a crow or a wildcat, but it was human. And it was coming from the shack. “Stay put,” he said against my hair.

  “No,” I said. I opened the passenger door and felt under the seat for the shotgun.

  “You know how to use that?” he asked, his voice hard and indecision on his face.

  “I’ve fired it a time or two.”

  The scream sounded again, this time softer, breathy and panicked. I looked at Jim. “Sitting in the truck would have gotten me shot last time. I’ll stay right behind you, but I’m going with you.”

  He looked at the truck, taking in the bullet holes, and shook his head. “Stay close. Point that thing way off to the side. Let’s go.”

  Jim raced from the protection of the truck to a large tree, his weapon held low and close to his leg. I followed, tight on his heels, the sound of our feet in the dry, dead scrub giving our position away. From the tree, we moved laterally to the side of the shack and around back. The overgrowth was thicker here, dry kudzu vines draping from nearby trees over the house, nearly encasing it. In summer, the shack was probably not visible for the greenery.

  Jim pushed his way through the rotten vines and knelt at a back window, his head below the ledge. A doorway with the door half off its hinges and open to the elements was only a foot away. The shack had no floor, only bare earth, the door resting on it at an angle.

  The sounds from inside were stronger now, truly terrified, the intonation of a child in danger. I wanted to rush in, but Jim put his hand on my arm. “There could be someone else inside,” he said softly. “Waiting on us to charge in.”

  I whispered in his ear, “If they have ears at all, they know where we are.”

  Jim nodded, vine dust and an old kudzu leaf falling from his hair. “I’m going in. You stay here. Please.”

  “Okay. But if anyone but you comes out, I’m shooting.” I closed the action and set the stock against my shoulder, then flicked off the safety, sliding the switch on the tang between the barrels, above the trigger.

  Jim glanced around again, looked at his weapon and walked in a crouch to the door. In a single fast move, he whirled inside and disappeared. I waited, hearing the faint scuff of his shoes on bare dirt as he moved through the house. It didn’t take long. “Ash.”

  I looked in through the open door to see Jim, his back to me. A breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escaped me in a long hiss. I reset the safety, broke open the weapon, and stepped inside. My mind didn’t understand what I was seeing at first, or didn’t accept it. A trench was freshly dug, about a foot deep and three feet long, a shovel still buried in the ground. Beside the hole was a small body, hooded and bound in rope.

  Jim met my horrified gaze with his cop face, cold and hard. He opened a pocket knife. When he touched the child, she screamed and fought to get away. Jim said, “It’s okay. I’m cop. Be still, okay?”

  “Take off her hood so she can see us,” I said.

  Jim reached for the hood and pulled, but it was caught under the ropes, which were wrapped around her. I moved to her other side and took the hood in both hands, pulling with him. The hood came free.