TUESDAY
Ty punched on her flashers and pushed her Silverado to its limit when they reached the interstate. Who cared about a little shimmy at one hundred miles per hour? Traffic wasn’t heavy at this time of day on a Tuesday, but still, cars melted out of her way. She said, “I can still hear the screams, smell the smoke. Sala, Dillon said as far as he knew, there were no serious injuries, a lot of smoke inhalation, some minor burns.” She said, “We were very lucky.”
“What was amazing is there wasn’t all that much panic. I imagine every federal agency wants in, at least until Mr. Maitland informs everyone it was Victor Nesser, our own homegrown terrorist. The crazy shite. The girl who saw him said he was driving a banged-up green Kia, the same one from his shootout with Savich and Sherlock yesterday. You can bet everyone’s looking for him.”
Ty’s attention was on the road, but she gave him a quick look. “You didn’t have to come with me, Sala. I know you’d prefer to go after Victor.”
“You’re doing near one hundred ten,” he said. “Keep your eyes on the road. I’m where I belong. Now, the Google map shows Haggersville is in a valley about thirty miles from Willicott, as the crow flies. I see small lakes, windy roads, heavily forested lands enclosing the town.”
“Sala, I’ve lived here for three years. Haggersville is in my backyard. I know all the shortcuts, you just hang on. And thank you. I appreciate you being with me.”
“Okay. Now, did you know Haggersville has four thousand year-round residents, population explodes to over fifteen thousand in the summer, like Willicott?”
“Sounds about right. That shortcut exit is coming up. It shaves off maybe ten miles.”
Sala’s cell rang. HPD showed up on his screen. A man’s deep voice asked, “Is this FBI agent Sala Porto?”
“Yes.”
“This is Daniel Masters, chief of police, Haggersville. I found Gunny unconscious behind a dumpster in the alley at Maple and Fourth, exactly where the hotline agent told me he’d last spoken to her. She was unconscious. An ambulance rushed her to our community hospital.” Emotion rode thick in his voice. “Someone struck her on the head. If the agent hadn’t called me immediately, she might have died.” He swallowed. “She’s still alive, that’s all I know. In case you’re wondering, Gunny’s my goddaughter.”
“Chief Masters, what’s her full name?”
“Leigh Ann Saks, but she’s been Gunny most of her life. The agent who called me said you were on your way. He also said Gunny had called your hotline about that Star of David belt buckle. Like everyone else, I saw the press conference. But I’ve never seen that belt buckle before, so I don’t understand how Gunny could have known anything about it. I called Ms. Saks—Lulie, her mother—immediately. We’ll meet you at the hospital. Oh yes, I found Gunny’s cell phone smashed beside her.” He paused, then, “I can’t help thinking whoever overheard her talking to the hotline agent about that belt buckle had to be scared enough about it to try to kill her. But why? What could Gunny possibly know about anything dangerous to do with that frigging belt buckle? I don’t know.”
“We need to find that out, Chief. We’ll meet you and Ms. Saks at the hospital, but first we’d like to go by the crime scene.” He listened a moment, then punched off.
“She’s alive and at the hospital. Chief Masters has no idea how Gunny could know anything that would cause someone to try to kill her.”
She slowed the Silverado. “Exit coming up.”
Ty pulled into Haggersville nineteen minutes later and drove slowly through downtown on Clover Street. Tourists strolled along the sidewalks, licking ice cream cones, going in and out of shops, arms loaded with shopping bags.
Sala consulted his GPS and told her to turn off Clover onto Maple and head east toward Fourth. It was a part of town for the locals, not flocks of tourists deciding where to have a late lunch. They passed a small strip mall with a pharmacy, clothing boutique, and post office. At Fourth and Maple there was a home supply store and a cleaners. Between the two was a deep pass-through alley connecting to the next street.
At the alley entrance, they saw Chief Masters had put up a cross strip of yellow crime scene tape. He’d marked the asphalt with white chalk where he’d found Gunny behind the single dumpster. Ty blocked the alley entrance with her Silverado, and she and Sala walked the area. Since it was open, the alley didn’t smell of garbage and was kept fairly clean. Ty said, “He probably walked up behind her fr
om the next street, heard her speaking to Dirk on the hotline, and hit her on the head without anybody seeing him, left her for dead.”
“And smashed her cell phone.”
They walked out the back of the alley, looked around. Nothing much to see, maybe a half dozen cars parked up and down Fifth Street. There was a 24/7 convenience store directly opposite the alley.
“Bingo,” Sala said. While he trotted across Fifth to speak to the store owner, hoping they had a security camera showing the alley, Ty called the Haggersville Community Hospital and identified herself. Gunny was in surgery, as yet no word on her condition. The nurse paused, then added, “Chief Masters and Ms. Saks are in the surgical waiting room. This is an awful thing, Chief Christie, an awful thing. Gunny isn’t all there mentally, if you know what I mean, but she’s such a sweet girl and so pretty. She’s young and strong, that’s what I told Lulie.”
Ty thanked the nurse, punched off her cell, closed her eyes, and prayed. Please, Gunny, hang tough.
Sala jogged back, shaking his head. “Sorry, the camera hasn’t worked for six months, and they haven’t bothered to get a new one. No one there saw anything.”
35
* * *
HAGGERSVILLE, MARYLAND
TUESDAY
Luke Putney, twenty-three-year veteran postal carrier for the Haggersville Post Office, liked his nickname: Mr. Gossip. He saw himself as the center of the information wheel. He saw it as his duty to ensure the good people on his postal route were kept fully informed. He prided himself on never being discreet. His last big bomb should have been a doozy. He’d outed Gill Pratt, owner of Penny Barrel Bar, a loud dog, and a silver BMW. He’d discovered, quite by accident, or nearly, that Pratt had a penchant for hard-core porn magazines. It hadn’t been Luke’s fault the plain brown envelope was ripped, or nearly. Luke had to hand it to Pratt, he’d spun things to his advantage, what with giving out a free beer and a porn magazine to each man who came into his bar until the furor died down.