The tension in his shoulders eased, and he began his search.
About fifty yards down, just inside the fence line, he found what he was looking for—a small area of trampled grass. The son of a bitch had followed her out to Branson's, then patiently waited, hidden in the tall reeds, for her to drive back by. At the right moment, he'd simply aimed and taken his shot. And come damn close to killing her.
Dropping to one knee, Michael studied the ground. The shooter had been careful—no spent shell casings, no cigarette butts or candy wrappers. No evidence. A professional, then.
Michael stood and looked at the surrounding grass. He could just make out, from a bent reed here and there, a trail through the meadow toward the back of the preserve. No doubt the shooter had parked on the far side of the preserve, so that he could escape undetected. Michael wanted to follow his trail, to see if he could find any evidence that could be used at a later date, but he'd already left Kaz alone for too long. He'd come back later, and he'd find something, even if it was only a partial footprint.
No one was that good.
#
By the time she spotted Chapman walking up the road, Kaz had already spent a good ten minutes chastising herself for not insisting that she accompany him.
The look on his face, when he saw her still standing next to the SUV, petting Zeke, was one of extreme irritation. "Don't you ever listen? I told you to stay in the car."
"Why? Whoever it was, they're long gone." Her point was reasonable but didn't seem to have much impact. "Look, it was probably some idiot hunter. The preserve has problems with poachers—"
She huffed as he moved her aside and leaned inside her car. After a few seconds, he took out a pocketknife and used its blade to pry something out of the ceiling.
He examined it closely, then pulled out a plastic baggy and dropped it in. "I'd guess fifty-caliber." He held the bullet up for her to see. "Know any hunters who go around shooting elk with a sniper rifle? I don't."
Her knees turned to rubber, and she braced a hand against the side of the SUV. Drawing a breath, she opted for humor. "Well, at least he was a lousy shot, so that leaves out all the people I know."
Chapman's expression turned thoughtful. "Not necessarily. Maybe he wasn't trying to hit you, even though he came damn close. Maybe this time was a warning."
She hugged herself. "But I don't have anything to do with this. And if he thinks this will permanently scare me off—"
Chapman snorted. "Anyone who knows you wouldn't be likely to make that mistake." He ran a hand through his hair, disheveling it. "This incident is an example of exactly why I told you to leave the investigating to the authorities. Civilians always get hurt when they get in the way."
She ignored the comment, changing the subject. "So what are you doing out here? Following me? Don't you have something more important to do, like gathering evidence off the Anna Marie so that I can get her dry-docked?"
"No thanks to you, I was able to deduce that Chuck Branson is one of your brother's best friends and is, in fact, the second man you were talking to in the tavern. So, as part of the ongoing investigation, I thought I'd see if he knows where your brother is." Chapman's tone turned sardonic. "I gather I'm not entirely off base, seeing as how you're within a mile of his place."
She shrugged. "Chuck won't tell you anything. Not if he wouldn't tell me."
"Would Gary pull a stunt like this?" Chapman asked abruptly.
"Of course not!"
"It makes sense. He has the training, and he knew he wouldn't hit you, so he fires a warning shot, hoping to get you to go away."
She shook her head. "You're so far off base—"
"He has a history of run-ins with the police, and a record for assault. Just how well do you really know your brother?"
She barely managed to contain a wince. Chapman had hit on her greatest fear—that she didn't really know her brother as well as she thought. That Gary might have turned into someone capable of doing exactly what Chapman was suggesting. She folded her arms. "The man Gary punched out that night wouldn't even press charges—Sykes was the one who prosecuted. And Gary and Sykes have history. But why bother explaining? You've already got Gary tried and found guilty."
Chapman made a dismissive motion with his hand. "What about Chuck?"
She thought about it for a moment. "I don't know," she admitted. "Chuck's…well, weird. I think he's got some CIA stuff in his background."
"He's sure as hell got something spooky going on—his records are sealed."
"Gary, Ken, and Chuck were all in the Army together. There's no way Gary or Chuck had anything to do with Ken's death—they were all too tight."
"They could've had a falling out. You haven't been around much lately, so how would you know?" When she didn't answer, he continued. "You came out here hoping to talk to your brother, didn't you?"
She tensed. "Chuck and I just talked about what happened last night." That much, at least, was the truth.
"Does he know where your brother is?"
She shrugged. "If he does, he isn't saying."
"If Gary asked, Chuck would help him. And that could've been what they were arguing about in the tavern last night, am I right? That Gary wanted Chuck's help," Chapman pressed. "And that's why you drove out here, isn't it? To see if Gary was hiding out here."
"Yes, all right?" she snapped, feeling goaded. "But Chuck refused to tell me anything, other than he'd had a date with Sandra after he left the tavern. So I guess you can cross him off your list of possible suspects."
"Who's Sandra?"
She realized he'd have no way of keeping the locals straight at this point. "The waitress at the Redemption."
"I'll check into it." Chapman rocked back on his heels, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, a stance that emphasized his lean hips and wide shoulders. His gaze was far too perceptive for her peace of mind.
"If you believe someone is shooting at me, that means I can't be on your list of suspects anymore, right?"
"Maybe not, but you're sure as hell on my list of uncooperative witnesses."
She shrugged; she could live with that. "Sooner or later, you'll have to consider that whoever killed Ken might not be Gary—that Ken could've met someone else on the Anna Marie for some reason we haven't yet uncovered."
"I'm keeping an open mind."
She doubted it, but the conversation was getting her nowhere. Yanking open the door on her SUV, she got inside. With the kind of winds they got on the coast, taping plastic over the broken window would last about five minutes—she'd have to drop the car off at the dealer's to have the window replaced. Which meant dealing with another insurance claim.
She sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. The adrenaline was beginning to wear off, leaving her punch-drunk with fatigue.
As if on cue, it began to sprinkle. More weather was moving in; the sky to the southwest looked dark and threatening.
Pushing the door shut behind her, Chapman leaned both arms on the edge of the window. The man appeared to get a kick out of invading her personal space, a habit that should've annoyed her. "I'll follow you to the police station so that you can report this," he said.
Which would put her in the position of being questioned by the cops, and delay her even further. "It's a waste of time to bother the police with this."
"They should fill out an incident report and have it on file, in case anything else happens to you, so that they can establish a pattern."
She didn't like the sound of that, but she shook her head. "I prefer to keep this to myself."