Julia Spencer-Fleming - I Shall Not Want

"The ballistics test matched up one of the Christies' twenty-twos with the bullet that killed John Doe number one."

"We didn't have a warrant for their twenty-twos."

"Since there were multiple shootings from several firearms in the incident where you… you…"

"Got shot."

"… the state required ballistics tests on all possible weapons. MacAuley figured that ought to include all the available guns in the Christie house."

"Did he, now?" It hurt to smile, but in a good way.

"Well, as he said, how did we know the Punta Diablo guys didn't use one of the Christie guns and then replace it? Of course, there's no way of telling who might've used it, but it gives us something to hang our hats on." That last phrase was pure Lyle.

There was a knock at the door. Kevin turned, and from his prone position in the bed, Russ could see the slice of his face where his smile cut out.

"Oh," the kid said. "Hi."

"Am I interrupting?" Russ could hear Hadley but not see her.

"No, I was just-"

"Because I can-"

Russ hoisted one hand to a ninety-degree angle with the bed. His exercise for the day. "I think I can stand the excitement of both of you."

"I don't know if you can stand this excitement." Hadley replaced Kevin at the bedside rail. "Look at this." She dangled an 11-by-14-inch evidence bag over his bed. It contained a kid's composition book. "I know I should've taken it straight in, but I wanted you to see it before it goes to CADEA."

Kevin got it first. "Is this it?" He leaned over her shoulder. "The dealer list?"

Hadley looked at him, lit up like the Fourth of July. "It is."

"Oh, man. CADEA will be shining their noses on our backsides for this." Kevin grinned at her. They bumped fists together, something Russ would look like an ass doing; then there was a confusion of looking down and stumbling around, and next thing Russ knew the notebook had dropped onto his bed and his two youngest officers were a good five feet apart, so he had to crane his neck to see both of them. Hadley launched into an account of how the thing came into her hands, word-spinning as much as Kevin was prone to do. The part about Amado-Octavio-Amado clicked for him- that was why the boy had been so nervous during questioning-and he brushed past her apologies for handling the notebook without gloves on-"I didn't have them in my pocket, Chief, because I was just there to translate." He threw the brakes on when she said she let Amado-the real Amado-go. After he'd just proven he'd been in possession of the Punta Diablo's distribution list.

"I thought it would be okay, Chief. Reverend Clare promised to bring him to the station after they'd spoken to Isabel Christie."

Clare. Godamighty. He was going to have to get out of this hospital a lot faster than predicted, or she'd be running the damn force.

Kevin's phone rang. "Sorry." He checked the number. Flipped it open. "Kevin here." Harlene , he mouthed. "No, I'm visiting the chief." Hadley shut up. "What?" Kevin said. He glanced at her. "Yeah. I will. Hadley's right here with me, I'll tell her."

He closed the phone. Looked at Hadley. "Reverend Clare called from the Christies'. A group of Latinos in a Hummer just picked up the sister and went up the mountain after the brothers. We gotta hurry. She said"-he looked at Russ for the first time, as if he just remembered he was lying there-"she's going up after them."

Branches twisted and whipped at the windshield. Clare gripped the steering wheel and eased off the acceleration as her Subaru humped over another kidney-jarring tree root. How far did this goat path go? How far did they dare drive? The last thing she wanted to do was burst onto the scene like a clown car driving into a circus ring. "Amado…?"

He leaned forward in the passenger seat as if the extra inches would help him see their destination. "Isobel," he said, in an unarguable voice. "We go help."

From the moment she had conveyed, in Spanglish and sign, who Isabel Christie was with, Amado had been dead set on following her. She couldn't let him go alone, she argued to a mental tribunal consisting of her bishop and Russ. It wouldn't have been-

Consistent was the bishop's word.

Stupid enough , Russ said.

"Stop." Amado raised his hand. She braked, pitching them forward. "I think… close." She inched the car as far off the trail as she dared and killed the engine.

Amado opened his door. "You stay!" Shades of Russ. God, she wished he were here.

"Sorry, no." She stepped out, latching her door with a click. The decaying leaves beneath her sandals had been compacted into two tire tracks leading upward, disappearing from view as the old road twisted behind a clump of beech trees. Amado frowned but waited for her to catch up. He gestured, hand flowing over the ground, finger to his lips. Slowly. Silently . She nodded.

She toiled upward, through shafts of sunlight and patches of shade, listening for a sound other than the song of warblers and the cry of jays. A decayed stone wall, tumbled by frost heaves and oak roots, showed the overgrown track had once been a real road. She spotted small, burly apple trees among the maples and red spruce; an orchard overgrown centuries ago, or the accidental fruit of farm boys playing Apple Core.

Apple Core!

Baltimore!

Who's your friend?

She heard a sound. She and Amado both stopped. It came again, muffled by leaves and misdirected as it bounced from hardwood to hardwood. Voices. Men.

And then a shot.

She hiked her skirt and ran. For a dozen strides, maybe two, Amado outpaced her, but the Guard didn't give pilots a pass on PT, and her conditioning kept her moving, churning up the leaf-spumed road, reaching Amado, drawing past him, leaving him behind.

The voices were louder, even over her sawing breath and pounding heart. No more shots, thank God. The road curved past a chunk of bedrock granite and she made the amateur mistake of rounding it at top speed, only to see the trees peter out, a sunlit meadow, a barn, a white van, a Humvee.

She threw herself behind the nearest maple with enough force to jar the air out of her lungs. Try not to be dumb, Fergusson , Hardball Wright said. You might live longer .

She dropped to the ground and crawled forward. Between the trees and the open field, a massive rhododendron flourished. She took refuge behind its glossy, impenetrable leaves.

There were three of them, dressed in urban gear so foreign to these woods they might as well have been from another planet. One, half visible around the uphill corner of a pole barn, held a gun pointed toward an unseen opening. Another guarded the downhill side, his weapon steady on a wide second-story door. The third stood at the narrow end of the barn. With Isabel Christie. She was seated on one of many bales scattered near the barn's foundations like cornerstones. Evidently the brothers had been pitching hay when the Punta Diablos arrived.

A flicker of movement in the corner of her eye caught Clare's attention. Amado, leaning against a tree, taking in the scene in the meadow. If he moved a few inches in either direction, he'd be spotted. She gestured for him to join her. He shook his head.

"So where is it?" the third man asked. Clare could just hear him above the insects droning over the field grass. Isabel's answer was indistinct. She got up, walked to the barn wall, and pulled a graying clapboard away from the foundation. The man who had been speaking to her craned forward, his gun drifting down toward his foot, the bad habit of someone who carried a weapon but was never trained to use it.

Isabel's shoulders moved, then moved again. She flattened herself against the narrow opening, as if she could stick her face instead of her hands inside.