John Gilstrap - No mercy

Irene ignored the question. “Can I trust that what we discuss here in the next few minutes will remain in this room?”

“Absolutely not,” Gail said, surprised to hear her own words. “Not until I know what you’re about to say. My first allegiance is no longer to the Bureau.”

Irene arched her eyebrows and smirked. It was a look of admiration, not derision. “Why am I not surprised?” she said. She regrouped her thoughts. “Okay, then, tell me who you think the killer is.”

Gail hesitated, but she wasn’t sure why. “By name?”

Irene cocked her head. “ Could you answer by name?”

The sheriff nodded. “I think so.”

“Then no,” Irene said. She looked a little embarrassed. “You’ll see when we’re done that I’ll need plausible deniability. Tell me instead where your deductive path has led you.”

Deductive path, Gail thought. How very Bureau-speak. Her eyes narrowed as she weighed her options. “I must confess, Madam Dir-” She cut herself off. “I’m not entirely comfortable sharing those details. Not at this stage of the investigation.”

“Because the Bureau has a history of, what, screwing people over?” Irene ventured. “Because we have a history of hogging credit when things go well and of passing the buck when they go sour?”

The director’s bluntness startled Gail. “Well, yes,” she said.

“I don’t blame you. As you might imagine, when you sit in my chair in the Emerald City you learn to trust your instincts on whom you trust and whom you don’t. In this case, I’m asking for the benefit of reasonable doubt.”

Gail liked this woman. She had always respected Irene Rivers, and after the shoot-out that involved the death of her predecessor in the job, the whole world had come to admire the woman’s courage under fire. “Okay,” Gail said at length. “I think that our shooter is a professional of a very high order. I think that he has advanced tactical training, perhaps Special Forces, perhaps HRT or SWAT. He knows how to make a big entry, and he knows how to shoot extremely well. He also did not work alone. He appears to have arrived by helicopter.”

Irene nodded and pinched her lower lip as she listened. “So you this.”

This is what Alice must have felt like as she stepped through the looking glass. “And the perpetrators? I still have my constituents to answer to.”

“Of course. They’ve left the country. You should be furious about that, by the way. You should be over-the-moon pissed that the FBI didn’t clue you in on the operation they were performing, and I’m willing to go on the record telling the world what a pain in the ass you’ve been dragging information out of us. That should play well here, don’t you think?”

“You’ll make me look like Superman.”

Irene shook her head. “Not at all. I’ll use a little fiction to reinforce what we both know is the truth. You’re the best law enforcement professional that this community has ever seen.”

Gail laughed. “Oh, now you sweet-talk me. You’ll help to lock in my career, and all I have to do is sell my soul.”

Irene folded her face into a concerned frown. “A career is a poker game, Gail. You can’t expect to win every hand. Sometimes you have to fold to preserve resources for the future.”

Gail studied Irene. “How do I know you’re not bluffing?”

“You don’t,” Irene said. “But I’m not. I’ve got it all-the cards, the cash, and the table. You really, truly want to sit out this hand.”

“And what about the other murders?” Gail asked. “The Caldwells? I can link Jonathan Grave to those deaths via the Hughes family.”

The news clearly startled Irene, and Gail was sorry that she’d said anything. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “How are they linked?”

Sensing the upper hand and loving it, Gail smiled. “I don’t believe I’ll share that with you,” she said.

Irene shook it off. “I don’t know who this Jonathan person is,” she lied, “but whatever you think you know, I guarantee you’re wrong.”

“Yet you’ll stipulate, I assume, that Stephenson and Julie Hughes are connected to the Caldwell murders.”

Irene hesitated. Gail could almost see the gears whirring in her head as she tried to work for position.

“I’ve already spoken to the investigating officer in Muncie, Irene,” Gail said, sealing the deal. “He wants to nail the Hugheses. His Hugheses are the parents of Thomas Hughes. Jonathan Grave rescued Thomas Hughes and killed the Patrones in the process. That links them all.”

Irene stood. Her features iced over. “Sheriff Bonneville,” she said as she walked toward the front door, “I’m going to offer one last bit of advice, and I’m going to beg you to listen to it carefully.” She turned.

Gail suppressed a shiver.

“Know when it’s time to stop pushing,” she said. “There are some answers to which you simply are not entitled.”

She let herself out.

Detective Weatherby sat on the front corner of the ancient metal desk, one foot on the floor and the other swinging in an exaggerated display of pated his hand.

Jonathan accepted it, and the detective’s grip closed like a talon. “But about that killing thing,” Weatherby said, trying to pull Jonathan in closer but damn near getting pulled off the desk himself. “I meant what I said before. Vengeance is mine, saith the Fairfax County Police Department. You start hurting people, and I guarantee I will become your very worst enemy.”

Doug put a hand on each of their chests and pushed them apart. “Enough!” he commanded. “Jesus, Weatherby, what’s with you?”

“I just want your friend to know that we don’t need his help.”

“I have no intention of helping you,” Jonathan said. “You have my word.”

The detective’s grip relaxed and he scowled again at the double meaning buried in Jonathan’s words.

Doug Kramer said, “I don’t know who you think this man is, Weatherby, but he’s not your enemy. Hell, as far as I know, there’s no one alive who thinks of him as an enemy.”

A double entendre of his own, Jonathan thought. Just how much did Doug Kramer know about his business?

“You need somebody to vouch for his character,” Doug went on, “you just ask me. I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s not someone for you to worry about.”

Jonathan pulled his hand away. “It’s time for me to go,” he said. “Thank you for your kind words, Weatherby.”

The detective stayed behind while Jonathan led the way back to Doug’s cruiser. When they were inside and on their way, the chief asked, “As bad as you feared? Ellen, I mean?”

Jonathan looked at him across the console and sighed. “Worse.”

Doug kept his eyes on the road. “I’m really sorry, Dig.”

Jonathan nodded and joined him in watching the lane stripes on the Beltway zoom past. They remained silent all the way to the I-95 turnoff before Doug started talking again. “You know, Jon, there’s not a soul in the Cove who’s not hurting for you over what happened to Ellen. It’s just not right.” His voice was at once serious and soft. Jonathan wasn’t sure he’d ever heard that tone before.

He felt his throat thicken. “Thank you.”

The cop’s eyes shifted from the road to bore right through his passenger. “I’m not done yet. If there’s anything I can do to help you-I mean, anything, you just let me know, and it’s yours.” He started looking at traffic again. “I’ve never known much officially about the work you do, but most people in town know about the work you used to do. There’s been talk about why you quit early, but the Cove is proud of you, Dig. Proud and pleased to call you their friend. You know what I’m trying to tell you?”