“A trial? That wouldn’t have ever happened; there was no proof. He was safe, as well as the president.”
“Saxon wasn’t safe from his own doubts, from his own demons.” Savich paused a moment, then: “Saxon told me he couldn’t deal with not knowing, with the guilt that he might somehow be responsible for her murder. Now that he knows, Saxon has a chance to work through what happened to him. It will take time, but he will endure. He will heal, Mr. Hainny.”
Savich heard angry breathing, but Hainny said nothing. Well, that didn’t work.
“Mr. Hainny, Saxon gave his consent because he wanted the truth, if we could uncover it. Did he tell you he gave us an excellent description of the man who murdered Mia Prevost? He is distinctive-looking. We are looking for his features now in our criminal database. If we are not able to find him there, we have other avenues to pursue. I have no doubt we will find him. And then we will know why he did this to Saxon.”
“You’re dreaming, Agent Savich, trying to convince me and yourself that what you did will bring my son some benefit. After all, we’re not talking about your son, are we? What is Saxon to you? Merely a means to an end.
“You exceeded your boundaries, Agent Savich, and with the wrong man. I will inform the director about your callous, irresponsible behavior, and we will see how you deal with the consequences.” Hainny hung up on him.
Savich stared at his cell phone. He wished Sherlock was with him, but she was up to her earlobes in finding out all she could about B. B. Maddox. Then he heard her voice in his mind. Dillon, why is Eric Hainny so upset?
48
LAKE GINGER, MARYLAND
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
The afternoon was a humid scorcher, only a slight breeze off the lake to stir the maple leaves. Agent Ollie Hamish lowered the binoculars and handed them to Ruth. “I don’t see any movement of any kind, no vehicles near the house. It looks like no one’s home.”
Ruth looked through the binoculars at an old A-frame cabin near the water, its wood weathered to a muddy brown. There was one main floor and an upstairs loft that peaked sharply. Ivy billowed out of hanging baskets and crept up the sides of the cabin nearly to the windows. An ancient rocker stood on the narrow front porch, adding a bit of charm. The thick tree cover was cleared in a twelve-foot perimeter around the cabin and down to the water, and a twenty-foot rock path led from the front steps to the dock. The place was private, the closest neighbor a hundred yards away. Ruth wondered how much land the Bowlers had to own to keep it that way. She whispered, “It looks like an old painting, everything frozen in time.” Even the small winding lake was still, the water motionless, a flat gray, everything quiet in the heavy air. “Or like that cabin in the woods where Hansel and Gretel nearly came to a bad end.”
“Don’t make me think about ovens,” Ollie said. “It’s too hot.”
Ruth felt the sweat pooling beneath her shirt. She said more to herself than to Ollie as she scanned the lakeside with the binoculars, “He could have heard us, I suppose. He could be hiding behind the trees. Or under the bed. Or loading his gun to blow
our heads off.”
“Or in the water hunkered under that boat dock, if he wants to be dramatic. Ruth, there’s no boat, so maybe he’s out on the water catching his dinner.”
“We don’t even know if he has a boat.” She lowered the binoculars. “There’s no reason for him to be afraid of us, Ollie. We’re here to save him.”
Ollie’s eyebrow went up. “Help save his skin, maybe. But he knows we’re going to throw his butt in jail.”
“Which is exactly where he belongs. Don’t forget what Dillon said, he’s already killed once, so we can’t think of him as a harmless civilian. I know in my gut he’s here. Let’s go get him.”
She and Ollie stopped at the edge of the forest and studied the cabin up close for any sign of Bowler, or anyone else. They saw no sign of life.
“Let’s give him a chance to end this,” Ruth said. At Ollie’s nod, she cupped her mouth and shouted, “Mr. Bowler, it’s Agents Noble and Hamish. We spoke to you Monday in your office. I was in the garage in Alexandria later on Monday afternoon when you managed to kill the man hired to murder you. It was self-defense, so you don’t have to worry about any charges being brought against you.”
Nothing.
She tried again. “Mr. Bowler, whoever hired you to broker the deal with Manta Ray, he won’t stop, he’ll keep coming until you’re dead. Your best chance to survive is to throw your gun out the front door and come out, your hands behind your head. We’ll take you back to Washington and keep you safe. You’re a smart man. You know once you tell us what you know, he’ll have no more reason to kill you.”
Well, except he’d be mightily pissed.
There was still no answer.
They drew their Glocks, racked the slides, and quietly circled around to the back of the A-frame cabin. There were two high windows on the second-floor loft. Mr. Bowler wasn’t staring down at them.
Ruth whispered, “What if Dillon’s wrong? What if Bowler never came here?”
Ollie smiled and pointed down at the freshly crushed grass. “Someone was here, got to be Bowler. He wasn’t taking any chances, probably parked his car some distance beyond the edge of the trees. If he’s not here now, he’ll be coming back.”
They walked around to the front of the cabin, pressed themselves against either side of the door. Ollie reached out his arm, knocked. “Mr. Bowler, FBI!”
They heard nothing, then a sort of mumbling. Ollie kicked the door and it crashed inward. They burst in, Ollie high, Ruth low, and saw Bowler tied to a chair facing them, a sock stuffed in his mouth, making guttural noises. He looked terrified.