crime.”
Jackson swore. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, shit.”
“‘Oh, shit’ is right. You screwed up, buddy.”
Windermere crept out of the side room, started down the hall to the kitchen again.
Something doesn’t jibe here,
she thought. She heard movement behind her. Turned to see the tactical squad in the doorway, masks and machine guns. Made eye contact with the team leader, motioned to the kitchen. The team leader nodded, turned back to his men. Sent a squad of them around the back of the house.
Windermere watched them through those yawning front windows. Then she turned back toward the kitchen. “Doughty,” she called. “Tactical’s here. Stand down and we’ll let them sort it out.”
“Motherfuck,”
Jackson said.
Doughty laughed. “That’s right, buddy. You’re toast.”
“Doughty.”
“One bank, you cocksucker. I never even—”
BOOM.
Windermere ran down the hallway. Burst into the kitchen, gun raised. Found Doughty standing upright by the fridge, breathing hard. Jackson on his back on dirty linoleum, a bloody hole in his chest. Windermere ran to the suspect, kicked his pistol away. Knelt beside him and looked up at Doughty. “I said tactical had it,” she said. “What the hell, Bob?”
Sounds from the hallway. Jackboots on hardwood. The back door shattered open, and the tactical team burst into the kitchen, machine guns at the ready. Took in Doughty and Windermere and Jackson on the floor.
Windermere stared at Doughty. Doughty shrugged. “Had a shot,” he said. “Had to take it.”
Windermere shook her head. Looked at Jackson. He was a lanky guy, hard-edged and lean. He looked up at Windermere, his blue eyes open wide, his breathing ragged. “We’re all right,” Doughty told the tactical team. “Everything’s under control.”
Windermere watched as Jackson’s breathing faltered. Watched those blue eyes go glassy.
Everything’s fine, Bob,
she thought.
Just perfect. Except you just killed your big goddamn suspect.
33
S TEVENS STARED IN through the window at the backseat of the Thunderbird, his sleeve over his face to mask the smell from inside the car. “Two of them,” the tech said beside him. “You see her?”
Stevens nodded. “So who the hell’s in the front seat?”
There were two skeletons in the Thunderbird. The first in the driver’s seat, the one Stevens had seen. The second lay across the backseat. The techs figured the second was Sylvia Danzer. She wore what remained of a synthetic North Face ski jacket, bright yellow. It was the same jacket listed in the missing person’s description. She looked small. The first skeleton looked bigger.
Stevens had been staring into the car for half an hour now, trying to get a feel for the scene as the techs worked around him. There was a yellowed state map on the backseat beside the second body, folded open to Koochiching County. There was an empty plastic package of almonds, and what looked to Stevens like the remains of a fire.
And then there was the knife lodged inside the first skeleton’s jacket.
The techs had noticed it as they’d photographed the scene. A hunting knife, plunged in to the hilt, chest level, slightly skewed to the left. Almost as though the passenger had leaned over and stabbed the driver.
She stabbed him,
Stevens thought.
Then he crashed the car.
No.
Rust aside, the front of the T-Bird was nearly pristine. It was the quarter panels that were scratched and dented. The driver had aimed between the two trees and then marooned the car. He would have had to drive slowly to get as far as he did.
He got stuck,
Stevens thought.
Then she killed him. And then what?
She’d stayed in the car, eating packaged almonds and huddling around a small fire. Eventually, the food ran out, or the battery died and the night got too cold. She didn’t set out for safety. She waited, and she died.
She killed this guy here almost definitely,
Stevens thought.
So what does that mean for her husband?
This guy killed
Jackson swore. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, shit.”
“‘Oh, shit’ is right. You screwed up, buddy.”
Windermere crept out of the side room, started down the hall to the kitchen again.
Something doesn’t jibe here,
she thought. She heard movement behind her. Turned to see the tactical squad in the doorway, masks and machine guns. Made eye contact with the team leader, motioned to the kitchen. The team leader nodded, turned back to his men. Sent a squad of them around the back of the house.
Windermere watched them through those yawning front windows. Then she turned back toward the kitchen. “Doughty,” she called. “Tactical’s here. Stand down and we’ll let them sort it out.”
“Motherfuck,”
Jackson said.
Doughty laughed. “That’s right, buddy. You’re toast.”
“Doughty.”
“One bank, you cocksucker. I never even—”
BOOM.
Windermere ran down the hallway. Burst into the kitchen, gun raised. Found Doughty standing upright by the fridge, breathing hard. Jackson on his back on dirty linoleum, a bloody hole in his chest. Windermere ran to the suspect, kicked his pistol away. Knelt beside him and looked up at Doughty. “I said tactical had it,” she said. “What the hell, Bob?”
Sounds from the hallway. Jackboots on hardwood. The back door shattered open, and the tactical team burst into the kitchen, machine guns at the ready. Took in Doughty and Windermere and Jackson on the floor.
Windermere stared at Doughty. Doughty shrugged. “Had a shot,” he said. “Had to take it.”
Windermere shook her head. Looked at Jackson. He was a lanky guy, hard-edged and lean. He looked up at Windermere, his blue eyes open wide, his breathing ragged. “We’re all right,” Doughty told the tactical team. “Everything’s under control.”
Windermere watched as Jackson’s breathing faltered. Watched those blue eyes go glassy.
Everything’s fine, Bob,
she thought.
Just perfect. Except you just killed your big goddamn suspect.
33
S TEVENS STARED IN through the window at the backseat of the Thunderbird, his sleeve over his face to mask the smell from inside the car. “Two of them,” the tech said beside him. “You see her?”
Stevens nodded. “So who the hell’s in the front seat?”
There were two skeletons in the Thunderbird. The first in the driver’s seat, the one Stevens had seen. The second lay across the backseat. The techs figured the second was Sylvia Danzer. She wore what remained of a synthetic North Face ski jacket, bright yellow. It was the same jacket listed in the missing person’s description. She looked small. The first skeleton looked bigger.
Stevens had been staring into the car for half an hour now, trying to get a feel for the scene as the techs worked around him. There was a yellowed state map on the backseat beside the second body, folded open to Koochiching County. There was an empty plastic package of almonds, and what looked to Stevens like the remains of a fire.
And then there was the knife lodged inside the first skeleton’s jacket.
The techs had noticed it as they’d photographed the scene. A hunting knife, plunged in to the hilt, chest level, slightly skewed to the left. Almost as though the passenger had leaned over and stabbed the driver.
She stabbed him,
Stevens thought.
Then he crashed the car.
No.
Rust aside, the front of the T-Bird was nearly pristine. It was the quarter panels that were scratched and dented. The driver had aimed between the two trees and then marooned the car. He would have had to drive slowly to get as far as he did.
He got stuck,
Stevens thought.
Then she killed him. And then what?
She’d stayed in the car, eating packaged almonds and huddling around a small fire. Eventually, the food ran out, or the battery died and the night got too cold. She didn’t set out for safety. She waited, and she died.
She killed this guy here almost definitely,
Stevens thought.
So what does that mean for her husband?
This guy killed
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