“You didn’t answer me about the deputy.”
“Never mind the deputy.”
“How long has he been here?”
“Why?”
“Whatever his reason for coming, he must’ve notified his dispatcher where he was headed. They’ll be looking for him when he doesn’t report in.”
“Not right away. Not on a night like this.”
“Before too long, though. And when they do they’ll find his cruiser.”
“I know that.”
“Then you also know you can’t stay here. The sooner you leave, the safer you’ll be. Why not just go now?”
“And leave both of you here alive.”
“Why not? We haven’t done anything to you. By the time we’re found, you’ll be long gone.”
“You know what I look like.”
“Like any one of ten thousand young blond men—”
“No,” he said, “I’m different. Easy to recognize, no camouflage. A soldier never jeopardizes himself or his mission if he can help it, and that’s what I’d be doing.”
“What mission are you on?”
“To keep the enemy from destroying what God made.”
“What enemy?”
“Spoilers of nature,” he said. “The ones who turn beautiful places into wastelands. They don’t deserve to live.”
“I’m not somebody like that. Neither is my husband. Or the deputy.”
He looked at the Glock, looked back at her. “I almost wish you were.”
“Why? Because that would make it easier for you?”
Smart, clever, but she wasn’t fooling him any. All her talking was calculated to distract him, her eyes flicking here and there when she thought he wasn’t looking straight at her, searching for something she could use against him, a way to get free. Wasting her time. The cabin was just two rooms, three if you counted the tiny kitchen, and there wasn’t much in it; the old caretaker had lived a pretty lean life. Only a few sticks of furniture, bare walls, bare floor. There was a hunting rifle in the bedroom closet, but he’d unloaded it when he moved in. Fire tongs on a rack next to the woodstove, but she was too far away to get her hands on them quick enough and she was smart enough to know it.
He really did feel sorry for her. Liked her, too, because he could tell she had a soldier’s kind of courage. The way she’d fought him up there on the lane, not making a sound the whole time, as hard to hang on to as a bagful of cats. And when he’d caught her down here … no screaming or crying or begging, no fuss of any kind. Just accepted the situation and was dealing with it the best way she knew how, the way a trained soldier would. Calm and cool under pressure.
He’d always admired that kind of courage in women. It was one of the reasons he’d fallen in love with Georgia … main reason, maybe. Georgia wasn’t pretty, didn’t have a great body, but she’d been a hell of a soldier and she had the guts of a lion. He’d rather have her as a battle buddy than 95 percent of the men in his Third Infantry unit. They’d done some hot and heavy loving over there in her CHU, really making the bed in that trailer rock, before she lost an arm in a firefight in Fallujah and they’d shipped her back home to Fort Bliss.
A dozen times he’d e-mailed her at the VA hospital but she never answered even once, just cut him out of her life without any kind of explanation. PTSD, probably, like he and so many other combat soldiers had suffered and would go on suffering. He’d tried to find her after they gave him his medical discharge and sent him back stateside, but her relatives in Oklahoma City wouldn’t tell him where she was and he hadn’t been able to track her through anybody else he talked to. She hadn’t died, he’d’ve been able to find out that much if she had, so that was something to be thankful for. He hoped she’d rehabbed by now and was getting on with her life, wherever she was. She deserved some peace if anybody did.
He wondered if he’d’ve married Georgia if things had turned out differently in their part of the damn war. Probably not. He wasn’t husband material. Too unsettled, too much of a loner. Needed to go places by himself, see things he’d never seen before, like California and the Pacific Ocean, get as far from the heat and filth and death-stink of Iraq as he could. That was why he’d come here. Clean sea air, unspoiled beauty. Calm, peaceful. Running on tracks along the edge of the world.
The woman was saying something else now, something he didn’t catch. He said, “What?”
“How long are you going to make me suffer?”
“I’m not trying to make you suffer.”
“But that’s what you’re doing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t keep saying you’re sorry. I don’t want to die, I don’t want my husband or the deputy to die, but if you’re going to shoot me, why don’t you just go ahead and get it over with?”
His head had started to ache. A dull throbbing centered behind his eyes. He squeezed them shut and knuckle-rubbed them, then dug the heels of his hands hard into his temples.
“Well?” she said.
Opened his eyes again, quick, but she hadn’t moved. “I don’t like this any more than you do.”
“But that’s not going to stop you, is it.”
“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I don’t know!”
And he didn’t, he still didn’t. It was like being back in Iraq, having to make another in a string of hard and fast decisions in order to survive. He’d handled it all right on the first tour, no problem, but on the second, after Georgia lost her arm and Charley got wasted and he had to scrag those two Iraqi civilians, it got harder and harder. To the point where he didn’t know what was right and what wasn’t, didn’t know what to do, didn’t want the responsibility, just wanted it to be over and done with one way or another.
He’d felt bad then and he felt bad again now. Harder and harder. Too much responsibility. Made him feel the way he had when they stuck him in that clinic over in Iraq—as if he’d lost part of himself, the way Georgia had lost her arm. And that it didn’t really matter what he did tonight or from now on, shot the woman and the deputy or didn’t shoot them, shot any more of the spoilers or not, because there was no way he could ever get it back.
T W E N T Y - S E V E N
HE WAS NOBODY SHELBY had ever seen before. Somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, lean and muscular, with a round baby face and thin blond hair wet and tangled from the rain. He didn’t look dangerous; he looked like the boy next door all grown up. There wasn’t enough light in the cabin for her to get a clear look at his eyes, but his expression—flat, almost placid—was not that of a homicidal lunatic. He didn’t talk or act like one, either. Soft-voiced, except for flashes of anger that lasted for only a few seconds. Hadn’t touched her or even come close to her, just ordered her to sit on the sofa and then sat down himself at the table across from it. Seemed almost apologetic each time he said he didn’t know yet what he was going to do about her and the trussed-up deputy.
The Coastline Killer. She’d realized that must be who he was as soon as he caught her and now he’d confirmed it. Hiding out right here the whole time she and Jay were at the cottage. The Coastline Killer on one side and another violent weirdo, Brian Lomax, on the other. Sandwich meat between two slices of crazy.
Shelby kept trying not to look at the silver-framed automatic on the table in front of him, but her eyes were drawn to it mothlike. He’d killed a bunch of people already with that gun, for some warped reason that had to do with preserving the coastal environment, and pretty soon now, when he worked himself up to it, he would add two more to the list.