That, in and of itself, wasn’t unusual. She could have left early, taking advantage of the break in the weather that now seemed to be changing. Had he seen her car this morning when he’d left?
He thought so.
Then it wasn’t a big deal . . .
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But the door . . . and the den lights on, smoke rising from the chimney. Uh-uh.
He pulled his truck up to the garage and parked, then cut through the carport to the door, which was open, the screen door banging in the wind. Odd.
Through the back he saw footprints, two sets coming toward the carport, one leaving, though all were beginning to fill with snow. He squinted through the curtain of falling snow and spied the helicopter, resting on its pad, rotors, cabin, and tail boom all collecting a thick layer of icy white crystals. So Brady Long was back.
Hubert’s black-sheep son.
Good. He needed to talk to Brady, his boss, and explain that he’d need some time off. Despite Alvarez’s warning, Santana wasn’t about to sit idle while Regan was missing. No way. He’d go nuts, and regardless of Alvarez’s opinion, Santana could help. He’d been a tracker and hunting guide before and after his stint with the army, and he did have an innate ability to tell when things weren’t right. Like now.
Long’s return didn’t explain the open door or double set of footprints. Clementine’s son, Ross, was a big kid, but the footprints were all wrong. Too many leaving, not enough returning. Unless someone came with Long on the chopper, then went back outside.
Your imagination working overtime, he told himself. Nonetheless he’d always relied on his gut instincts, and he had to check things out. Find out that everything was all right. He’d start with the house first and then, if his imagination got the bet-
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ter of him, follow the footsteps before they disappeared with the snowfall. At the door, he heard music. Loud. Guns N’
Roses. Axl Rose’s voice screaming over Slash’s familiar guitar riff. And the scent of cigar smoke filtered down the long hallway off the foyer.
Yeah. Brady Long was back.
He saw the newspapers on the table, some snacks left out for the boss man. Clementine’s work. Always afraid of losing her job, she went above and beyond for Hubert’s only son. So she’d known he was returning, but she hadn’t mentioned it to Santana.
When have you seen her in the last couple of days? Following the scent of one of Brady’s Havanas, Santana walked to the double doors of the den and took one step inside. In a heartbeat he spied Brady in his desk chair, facing the door. His eyes were round and blood was blossoming through his shirt. His mouth moved, but it seemed almost convulsive.
“Jesus!” Santana was through the door like a shot. “Brady! Oh, hell!” He reached the desk chair.
“Brady! Shit! Brady! What the hell happened?”
Heart pounding, pulse racing, he yelled over the echoing music, “Clementine! Ross!” But, of course, there was no one to answer him. “Damn it!” With one hand he tried to staunch the flow of blood. With the other, he picked up the phone on the desk and punched out 911. The phone only rang once when he heard the dispatcher’s voice. “Nine-oneone, what is the nature of—”
“I’ve got a man with a . . . a wound to his chest. Nearly dead. Looks like a gunshot. We need an am-164 Lisa Jackson
bulance here immediately. Out at Hubert Long’s estate.” Panicked, feeling the weak beat of Long’s heart under his hand, Nate rattled off the address. All the while his eyes scanned the room for any sign of the attacker, or a handgun on the floor suggesting that Brady had tried to off himself. All he saw was the cigar slowly burning into the area rug—
dropped to the floor, he supposed, during the attack—and a short glass of amber liquid, ice cubes half melted, still on the desk. “I need an ambulance now!”
“Sir, what is your name??
?
God, how could she be so calm?
“Nate Santana, I work for Brady Long and I walked into the house and found him in the den, bleeding to death, now get someone here ASAP!”
He looked around for anything to help staunch the blood. This was taking too long. “Should I get him to the hospital?”