The operator demanded the location and Casey gave it, staying on the line, answering questions until he was told that the authorities were on the way. He checked on Bean and found him breathing, if faintly, sounding as though he had a reed in his throat.
“Don’t you dare fucking die, asshole. You’ve got too much shit to answer for.” Casey didn’t know a ton about first aid, but decided to leave him on his side, thinking it’d keep him from choking to death on all the shit leaking from his lips. There was more blood on the ground—a small pool of it, but not enough to equal a major artery, he imagined.
“Miah, gimme your knife.”
Miah didn’t respond, so Casey got up and forcibly took the thing, unclipping it from Miah’s belt. He ripped Bean’s pant leg open, wincing at the wound. It didn’t look deep, but it was bleeding pretty bad, soaking his jeans.
Casey got his own hoodie off and tied it twice around Bean’s thigh, tight. His pistol was probably evident through his shirt, but the thing was registered and he had a concealed-carry permit. He didn’t relish the cops finding it, but at least he wouldn’t get charged.
As the waiting commenced and his role as the coolheaded party ebbed, Casey felt his own rage rising inside.
Don Church was dead.
The man who’d taught Casey how to ride a horse and shoot a rifle. Who’d given him little tastes now and then of what a father was supposed to be like—calling him a dumb-ass and slapping him upside the head once when he’d been about twelve, penance for riling one of the stock horses. The animal could have kicked him, could’ve broken his skull, but you didn’t consider that shit at that age. Casey had been hit by his own dad a few times before the guy had taken off, but this had been different. More startling, coming from a friend’s father. Way more humbling, knowing he’d been called out for a stupid move, that he’d been traded a smack in place of a potentially fatal hoof to the head. More humiliating, too, because he’d always looked up to Don Church, thinking the guy was about as cool as dads came. As cool as a cowboy from a western. He’d grown up a little that day.
These past few months, Casey had been wanting to feel like someone important, like a man who mattered. He’d thought that his part in saving the bar was the way to achieve that, and it wasn’t off the mark . . . but there was no more significant thing a man could be than a father, was there? Whether you were Don Church or Tom Grossier, the choices you made as a father could change people profoundly, for better or worse. Don had done so much good, for so many people.
Now he’s gone.
He’d never meet Miah’s future kids, or kiss his wife again, or see his land or his animals, or drive down Station Street with his tanned arm draped along the open window, raising his hand at every person he passed. He was ten times more recognizable than the mayor—a hundred times more respected.
Or he used to be. Past tense.
Casey glanced at Chris Bean, lying nearly still save for the faintest rise and fall of his ribs, silent except for that eerie whistling breath. All because of you, Casey thought, and felt his muscles tensing, wanting to kick and hit and strangle, to reach for his gun and finish the fucking job.
Not only because of him, he reminded himself. Bean was the bullet. You could curse the bullet all you wanted, but where would that get you, in the end? It was the hand around the grip and the finger on the trigger that mattered. The brain that gave the order to squeeze.
“You better fucking live,” he muttered, squinting at Bean. “You just better hope you fucking live.”
• • •
Bean did live, but not for long.
Long enough to die in the back of the ambulance from circulatory shock—a combination of stress and the drugs in his system, the news later reported—but not long enough to get questioned by the police or shed any more light on the tragedy now gripping Fortuity.
All told, Miah and Casey had spent about six hours being questioned by the authorities. Casey had confessed that he’d trespassed and shown them the lighter. He might get a fine for disturbing a crime scene, but both their firearms were legit. Miah had shot Bean, and from behind, so self-defense was no excuse. Still, the shot hadn’t killed him—the drugs had—and Miah had ultimately been released. If he did face criminal charges, it’d be hard to make them stick, given the circumstances; Don Church had been a monumental figure in the county, and it was unlikely any jury of Miah’s peers would want to see him punished for his part in turning his father’s accidental death case into an arson investigation and possible homicide.
The autopsy had found two bullets in Don’s back—one in his shoulder, one in his spine, both shot from medium range. They were 9mm, and their casings matched those from the warnings aimed at Jason on Friday night. Unusual marks on the slugs found in Don’s body suggested a silencer.
If the circumstances were merciful, that shot to the spine meant maybe Don had died quickly, never having lived to suffer the fire.
It was Thursday morning, and Miah looked up from his laptop at the sound of the doorbell. He’d been wading through e-mails, business and personal alike, and trying not to drown in the process. This was the third morning he’d woken to realize his father was dead, and though the shock of it was fading, the pain hadn’t ebbed a jot.
He shouted, “I got it,” in case his mother had been poised to interrupt whatever she was doing in the office. He headed for the front door.
Not condolences, he prayed as he closed his hand around the knob. He couldn’t take any more kind words, any more sad faces, any more goddamn casseroles. The funeral was set for Sunday, and he’d need all the stamina he could muster just to survive it.
He opened the door, finding his wish had been granted. But the visitor was still a touch troubling.
It was an official, dressed in the Sheriff’s Department’s khaki pants and jacket, a silver six-cornered star pinned above her left breast and a black leather messenger-type bag strapped across her modest chest. In light of Bean saying Miah had been the intended target of those bullets, he’d been offered a bodyguard, but declined. He felt suffocated as it was, and the authorities posted around the property felt like protection enough.
This officer was tallish, slim, with strikingly good posture. Her skin was dark brown, hair pulled into a ponytail and exploding at the back of her head in a thousand tight little curls. She looked about thirty, and Miah had seen her before—he was sure of it. But he hadn’t known the BCSD to have anyone like her in their ranks. Hell, there was probably only a handful of African Americans in all of Brush County. Kind of tough to miss.
“Mr. Church, good morning. I’m Deputy Ritchey,” she said, and he placed her by her firm, calm voice in an instant. The uniform had thrown him.
“You were here with the fire crew.”
She nodded. “I’m a volunteer, when I’m off duty.” She offered a cool hand, and Miah shook it.
“You probably know my name already,” he said.
She nodded. “Jeremiah.”
“Miah’s fine.”
“So is Nicki,” she said with a little smile.
“Is this to do with the investigation?”
“No, that’s in the detectives’ hands. I’m just a patrol deputy.”
“Oh.” His shoulders sank. He’d kill for any hint that someone was making progress in figuring out who’d hired Chris Bean. Wild, racing theories haunted him at night when he tried to sleep, but none felt right. Something was always missing—a motive big enough to warrant murder. Miah had given the names and contact details of the property vultures to the BCSD, on the off chance they might be linked. Still, it was all so muddy and desperate just now, and waiting was torture. If he didn’t have a reeling business to keep afloat, he’d be out there himself, looking for answers. The inactivity left him feeling helpless, neutered.
“Can I help you with something?” he asked the deputy.