Broken Bonds (Lizzie Grace 3)

“No,” Ashworth said, “we just need to speak to him as a matter of urgency.”

“Of course.” The thin man unlocked the screen door and then stepped aside. “He’s in 3B—take a left at the end of the hall, and it’s the second on your right.”

“Thank you.”

Ashworth strode down the hall. I hurried after him, the sound of my steps lost under the clomp of his. We found the room easily enough but the door was locked and Chester wasn’t answering. There was no sound coming from within the room and nothing to suggest there was anything out of place or wrong.

But trepidati

on crept through me anyway, though whether that was due in part to the tension gathering in Ashworth I couldn’t say.

He glanced past me and said, “Have you got a key?”

“Yes, of course.” The short man disappeared briefly into another room and then hurried down to hand Ashworth the rather old-fashioned brass key.

Ashworth shoved it into the lock, turned the key, and pushed the door open.

The room was a mess. Chester’s bag had been upended, his bedding torn apart, all the drawers in the dark-stained TV cabinet pulled out and lying in an untidy pile on the floor,

As was Chester.

His hair was wet, and he was naked except for the white towel wrapped around his waist. There was no surprise in his expression, no shock, and if not for the puckered red wound on his chest, right above his heart, it would have been easy to think he’d simply fallen asleep.

But he wasn’t asleep. He’d been shot.

Murdered.

Chapter Eight

“Oh my God,” the short man whispered. “Is he—?”

“I don’t know,” Ashworth said, even though Chester very obviously was. “You’d better call an ambulance, though.”

“Of course, of course.”

As the short man hurried away, I said, “Is it not a rather odd coincidence that first our heretic is shot, and now his hunter has been?”

Ashworth snorted. “I’m thinking coincidence has nothing to do with it. In fact, I bet when the rangers run their tests, they’ll find both bullets were fired out of the same gun.”

“If that’s the case, then maybe we’re dealing with nothing more than someone out to kill witches.”

“I doubt whatever is happening here is that simple.”

A statement I agreed with, if only because none of the killings in the reservation of late could be described as simple. “How could he have been shot without anyone here knowing about it, though? You’d think someone would have heard something.”

“Not if a silencer was used.” He knelt beside Chester and felt his neck.

“But silencers don’t suppress all sound, do they?”

“No, but they reduce it down to what you might hear if you were wearing ear protection. In this case, that was obviously enough.”

“Obviously, but it’s still rather odd, given the place is so damn quiet.”

“The owner might be the only other person here, and he did take a while to get to the door.” He looked up at me. “There’s no pulse.”

“Which is no surprise given where he was shot.” I scanned the room, looking not at the mess but for something far more ethereal. “I’ve no sense of a soul or ghost in the room.”

“No. This is obviously another death that was meant to be.” He pushed to his feet with a grunt of effort. “You’d better call in the rangers.”