With Jamie watching the trees behind them, he led William and Mrs. Patterson around the southern curve of the forest and only then stepped into the lane, the trees still shielding them from a sniper.
At almost the same time, a highway patrol car came around a curve, the driver slamming on his breaks at the sight of them.
"Set down your weapons," Jamie warned William and Mrs. Patterson as she and Cavanaugh put down their own.
"Let him see your hands are empty," Cavanaugh emphasized.
The state trooper, a captain, had his fingers on his holstered pistol as he got out of the car, but then he gave Cavanaugh a closer look. "Aaron?"
Cavanaugh had used his legal name when he'd bought his property. If an enemy who knew him only as Cavanaugh had hoped to track him down by searching through land records, the effort would have been useless.
"Nice to see you, Garth."
The trooper looked surprised. "My God, with all that soot and dirt on you, I didn't recognize you."
"We had a little trouble."
"So I hear. On the radio, the first officer to get here told me your place looks like a war zone."
Garth had a solid build from weight lifting. He was tall, with strong cheekbones and a dark mustache. He spent so much time outdoors that his face had the grain of weathered wood, his tan emphasized by the green of his uniform and trooper's hat. Like any expert police officer, his eyes were constantly alert, even off duty when he, Cavanaugh, and Jamie sometimes ate dinner together in Jackson.
Those eyes were very alert now. "Jamie, is that blood on your shoulder?"
"Yes, but it isn't mine."
Cavanaugh thought angrily of the blood spatters inside the Taurus after Angelo was shot.
"Lillian…" Garth frowned at Mrs. Patterson. "You're wavering. Come over to the car and sit down."
With an unsteady hand, she pushed gray hair from her face. Dirt streaked her apron. "Thanks, Garth. It's been a long afternoon."
"You'll find four dead men in the western edge of the meadow," Cavanaugh said.
"Dead? How?"
"Shot."
"Who pulled the trigger?"
At this point, Cavanaugh would normally have requested a lawyer to make sure that he didn't say something that became misinterpreted. But he had one of the best attorneys in the country standing next to him.
"I did," Cavanaugh said. "You'll find a fifth body in my car, or what's left of my car. One of the other guys pulled that trigger."
3
Mrs. Patterson's late husband, Ben, had been a Wyoming state trooper who died in a shootout with a gang trying to hijack a truck filled with pharmaceuticals. Known as Lillian to every officer assigned to Teton County, she was interviewed first, then escorted back to the waiting room at the highway-patrol barracks ten miles south of Jackson.
"I phoned your son-in-law to let him know you can leave now," Garth said. "He'll soon be here to drive you to your daughter's place. Your family's eager to see you."
"I'll wait with you in the front hallway," Jamie told her.
William was the next person taken to the interview room. Twenty minutes later, he came back, the satisfied look on his face indicating that, while he might not know anything about guns, he knew how to conduct himself with law officers. Now that he was in lawyer mode again, his torn, filthy suit somehow looked dignified.
Jamie went next. Cavanaugh had taught her to answer police questions directly but never to provide more than what was asked and never to attempt to deceive.
Then it was Cavanaugh's turn. The room had harsh lights, plain walls, two chairs, and a small desk. Focusing on minutiae helped keep his emotions in check.
"Want some coffee?" Garth pointed toward a carafe and some Styrofoam cups on the desk. A tape recorder was there, also.
"I could use the caffeine," Cavanaugh said, pouring a cup. His watch showed that it was half past ten. But now that his adrenaline had dissipated, he felt as if it were four in the morning.
"Ready?" Garth asked.
"When you are." The stench of smoke radiated from Cavanaugh's jeans and shirt. His neck and arm hurt. His back felt bruised where the bullet had struck his armor. But at least his legs and chest felt lighter, relieved of the heavy vest.
Garth pressed buttons on the recorder. "This is Captain Garth Braddock. The interview is with Aaron Stoddard." He gave the place, time, and date. "Tell me what happened."
While waiting, Cavanaugh had taken the opportunity to get his narrative in order. Only after concluding his description, did he allow his emotions to show. "I haven't the faintest fucking idea what's going on."
"We found your sniper."
Cavanaugh leaned forward. "Is he answering questions?"
"It's a hard to get answers from a corpse. Somebody shot him four times in the face."
Cavanaugh took a moment to adjust to that, finally saying, "That explains the four pistol shots we heard."
"Fragmentation-type ammunition. Mutilated his features enough that even people who knew him would have trouble identifying him. His teeth were so damaged that comparing them to dental records will be useless. The question is, who did that to him?"
Cavanaugh thought about it. "The only available candidate is someone on the assault team. But that doesn't make sense. Did he have ID?"
"No."
"Did you send his fingerprints to the FBI?"
"Couldn't. The tips of his fingers were cut off."
Cavanaugh took a longer time to adjust to that.
"The four men you killed," Garth said.
"Was forced to kill."
"Their fingerprints got a really quick response. Those men were fresh out of prison. Within the past six weeks."
"Six weeks?"
"I can't imagine how they came to be together. They served time in four different penitentiaries. Pennsylvania. Alabama. Colorado. Oregon." Garth slid a sheet of paper across the table. "Recognize any of these names?"
Cavanaugh studied them, hoping, but finally had to say, "No." He grasped at a thought. "Four different prisons? They must have known each other before they went to those prisons."
"Not according to their criminal records. There's no indication they ever crossed paths before. But they did have one thing in common. Armed robbery. Gang shootings. Rape. These were really violent guys."
"Before everything started, I think I saw them and the rest of their friends at the Moose Junction gas station." Cavanaugh said. "They didn't handle themselves like street criminals. They weren't wired and jittery and unfocused. These guys had stillness and control. They looked like operators."
"But their records indicate they were street criminals. So how, all of a sudden, did they get to be… 'Operators' you called them? Unusual word. I don't often hear it. That car of yours. When I got a close look at what was left of it, I found bullet-resistant windows, armor plating, tires within tires… Tell me again what you used to do for a living."
"I was in the security business."
"The bodyguards I see around here-"
Cavanaugh hated the word.
"-are usually hired by entertainers and sports stars on vacation. Mostly for show in a quiet community like this. To remind us how important they are. But you never fit the profile of the thugs some of those celebrities use for bodyguards."
"I'm an unassuming guy."
"Obviously, you don't like being called a 'bodyguard'."
No answer.
"Are you holding back anything I need to know?"
Cavanaugh hesitated. "Yes. I was what's called a protector. I worked for an international security firm called Global Protective Services. I used the professional alias of 'Cavanaugh'."
"Professional alias?"
"I saved the lives of people who show up on CNN and the front pages of the Washington Post and Wall Street Journal. These are the kind of people who need the reassurance of knowing they can absolutely trust me with sensitive information, that nobody'll come around later and persuade me to answer questions about them."