Under the glare of the security lamps, Vale made a statement that said the department was using all of its resources in trying to solve the current cases, specifically the attack on the sheriff and the assassination of Judge Kathryn Samuels-Piquard. When asked for details, she wouldn’t respond with specifics. A lot of answers started with “the investigation is ongoing” and petered out with not much more information given. When asked by a blond reporter about a connection between the two cases, the standard answer was once again repeated, though this time it had a caveat: the bullet that had killed the judge would be compared to the slug retrieved from the attack on the sheriff. Then, Vale promised, the police would be able to confirm or deny a link.
All the while, Brewster didn’t say a word.
Neither did Detectives Alvarez or Pescoli. Obviously, they were just there for show.
In the end, Officer Vale asked for the public’s help in locating the offenders and gave out a telephone number, a hotline, for any information the public might have.
Cade, half frozen, left the area just as the conference was breaking up. He hadn’t learned anything more today. Not from the hospital staff and certainly not from the yahoos running around like chickens with their heads cut off as they tried to locate the killer.
Maybe his opinion was unfair, colored by his personal connection. Dan had always taken pride in his officers and staff, but right now, Cade wasn’t feeling the least bit kind toward anyone involved in this mess.
Climbing into his pickup, he thought about another beer, but dismissed it. One twelve-ouncer might lead to two, which could lead to three . . . and as angry and frustrated as he was, he’d best avoid anything that might fuel his anger and erode the governor that kept his temper in rein.
Driving past the Frozen Flamingo Lounge with its pink neon sign and nearly full parking lot without a second look, he headed outside of town where the storefronts and suburban sprawl gave way to snow-covered fields separated from the road by fences and snowdrifts.
He wondered, as he stared into the darkness, who the bastard was who had cut his brother down. What sick, twisted mind had laid in wait, and then, with cold-hearted calculation and near-perfect precision, put two bullets into the sheriff of Pinewood County?
His gut clenched at the thought, and he realized his hands were holding so tight to the steering wheel that the bones in his knuckles showed white. He’d been so angry when he’d left the hospital he hadn’t bothered with gloves; he’d kept his hands in his pockets at the damned press conference. Now he stretched his fingers from what felt like a permanent clench.
The future was murky, not that his had ever been clear. He’d never much worried about tomorrow, was content to live day to day. That was about to change.
Somehow he’d have to deal with Dan’s recovery, no matter how slowly it evolved. If it meant Dan returning to the ranch after a period of rehab at a facility, then so be it. He’d move a nurse in. Whatever it took. If Dan needed more room, Cade would move into the bunkhouse; he preferred it to the big rambling home that had once been filled with his father, three brothers, and two dogs. For a while, his mother had been around as well, but those were times he hardly remembered.
Now, the big old house oftentimes seemed empty, lacking the life and energy that was once so much a part of it.
Again, he felt his stomach clutch. The muscles at the base of his neck tightened.
“Pull it together,” he said aloud as the lane for the ranch came into view. He slowed at the mailbox, rolled down his window, and grabbed the cards, letters, bills, and junk mail that had collected over the past several days, then turned into the long lane leading to the dark house. He’d already talked to Zed and made certain that he and the ranch foreman, J.D., had taken care of the stock here, as well as looking after Dan’s two horses, which they’d decided to move to the ranch as well.
Zed had said he’d taken a call from the sheriff’s office and was told that Dan’s dog had shown up and was now with Detective Pescoli at her place, which was a major relief. The dog and Dan had been inseparable the past few years, and Cade planned to pick him up in the morning, make sure that Sturgis was comfortable at the ranch and ready to greet Dan when he arrived.
If he makes it, Cade. There are no guarantees that he’s gonna pull through.
He shut down that irritating inner voice of doubt.
He
couldn’t listen to it.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Time was moving onward, whether he liked it or not.
And Grayson was still alive.
He stalked through his cabin, feeling as if he could climb out of his skin after all the years of planning, all the time he’d spent making sure that everything had been perfect.
Everything but that bitch of a detective showing up when she had, splintering his concentration, ruining his shot.
A serious piece of bad luck.
He stripped down to nothing, let the cold of the cabin caress his skin and seep into his muscles, reminding him that he was alive, clearing his mind so that he could think.
Dropping to the floor, he started with push-ups, quick and fast, with military precision, his back as straight as the boards his mother had made him lie on at night, boards without the comfort of a mattress or even a sheet, thick slabs of oak pegged together, as strong and as unbending as she had been. At least they’d been smooth, from all the bodies before him, sisters and brothers, aunts and uncles, even his mother herself had been forced to lie shivering on those old planks. As a child, he’d wondered how many of those before him had peed on the wood, or if the girls had bled upon it. There were no stains. Mother had scrubbed it clean, then lovingly oiled what had been originally constructed as a workbench, the ancient vise still attached—a warning.
He’d lain at night staring at it while he shivered, wondering if anyone had been forced to place a finger, or wrist, or foot in the dual jaws with their serrated teeth. The crank always seemed to have been moved between his visits, and he wondered what had been locked in those ugly grips, if flesh had been squeezed between those harsh, steel teeth.
If ever he were forced to sleep on the bench during a full moon, he believed the vise was alive. As the moon rose, casting silvery illumination through the tiny paned window, the shadows of the night shifting eerily, he would swear the vise grew and moved, a hungry monster climbing upward, jaws exposed, snaggletoothed and ready.