The Mermaid Murders (The Art of Murder 1)

Kennedy was shouting a warning, moving into firing stance.

Christ, don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me…

Jason barreled on, bursting through bushes and tackling McEnroe. His arms locked around a skinny waist—McEnroe wriggled frantically, kicked at him—and they both plunged over the side of an embankment.

There was a sickening dip in Jason’s belly as the earth fell away and gravity took hold.

They landed on the hillside, rolled, kicking up dead leaves, pine needles, and loose soil, McEnroe sputtering obscenities all the way down. It seemed a ways, but fortunately it was not a steep drop.

They tumbled to the bottom, Jason on top. He scrambled up, planting his knee in the small of McEnroe’s back and pressing the muzzle of his Glock against McEnroe’s skull. He was shaking with adrenaline and fury as he fumbled McEnroe’s pistol from his back waistband.

“Move again and I’ll blow your head off.”

McEnroe cried, “You broke my fucking leg, man!”

“Good. I wish it was your neck.” McEnroe’s legs seemed to be moving just fine, however, and Jason dug his knee in harder. “Quit kicking. I’m warning you.”

Kennedy came down the embankment at a quick easy jog, holstering his weapon at the sight of Jason atop McEnroe.

He reached the flatland at the same time Gervase appeared over the crest.

“Tony, you dumbass.” Gervase gave the all-clear into his mic.

“You have no right! I didn’t do anything!” McEnroe howled.

“Then why’d you run?” Kennedy asked. He helped Jason haul McEnroe to his feet. McEnroe’s jeans were torn, and there was a long gash in his leg, but it was not life-threatening or even apparently incapacitating. He made another clumsy kick toward Jason.

Gervase pulled his handcuffs out as he reached the bottom of the hill. He snapped them around McEnroe’s skinny wrists. “Now you’re under arrest,” he said.

The satisfaction in his voice made Jason wonder if this was what Gervase had hoped would happen. He hadn’t had more than the most circumstantial of evidence against McEnroe, unlikely enough for a warrant to search, let alone arrest. McEnroe trying to make a run for it definitely strengthened the case against him.

Except…what case? All they had so far was a missing girl, and maybe McEnroe was right. Maybe Rebecca had taken off for reasons of her own.

Why was everyone so eager to believe something worse had happened to the girl?

Gervase hauled his prisoner back up the embankment, McEnroe protesting the injustice and his innocence every step of the way.

Jason started to follow but was halted by Kennedy’s voice.

“You want to tell me what happened back there?” Kennedy’s eyes were like blue steel.

“I told you what happened,” Jason said curtly. “He pulled a gun on me.”

“You hadn’t already pulled your own weapon?”

He wasn’t going to lie about it. Even if he’d wanted to lie, not having pulled his own weapon in that situation would not put him in a much better light. “Yes. I had.”

“You’re saying McEnroe got the drop on you?”

Had he? Jason was no longer sure who’d had those precious few seconds of advance warning. Had he frozen, or had McEnroe raised his weapon first? He couldn’t remember. There was only one appropriate answer.

He nodded curtly.

Kennedy continued to watch Jason, granite-faced and unbelieving. To Jason’s relief, he did not pursue it.

They followed Gervase up the hill in silence.

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