cheek. “Look, miss, this isn’t going to go away. It’s already in this morning’s news and there’ll be a lot of hype for the next week, and now you’re asking me to look at a U.S. Senator’s wife.” He shook his head, reminding Erin of a badgered grandfather. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to disappear while the sheriff up in Ohio does his thing. Just get out of sight for a bit.”
Erin was a step ahead of him. She stood, remembering Sheriff Nikolaus Mann and his quaint little town. “Thanks,” she said, gathering her purse. “I think you’re right. It
is
a good idea to get away for a while.”
She knew exactly where she’d go.
CHAPTER
5
Friday, November 9
Lake Barrow, Ohio
6:00 p.m.
N ICK STRAIGHTENED HIS GUN ARM , homed in on the target, and fired. Staggered backward and almost fell. That’s what happened when you mixed alcohol, tobacco, and firearms. Mostly alcohol.
He lowered the Hechler & Koch, swayed, and peered into the woods at the target. Evening now, getting too dark for this shit. But he could still make out a few man-shaped pieces of paper hanging on trees, black circles closing around the centers. The closest one was Malcolm Hersher, stuck to a tree forty feet away.
Nick took another hit of tequila, aimed, and emptied the cartridge into the center of Hersher’s chest. Wobbled backward and wondered why he didn’t feel any better. Malcolm Hersher deserved every bullet. The retired math teacher behind the counter of an L.A. convenience store, dead from Hersher’s sawed-off shotgun, hadn’t.
He lit up a cigarette, shoved in a new cartridge, and carried his bottle and gun around the corner of the cabin’s deep porch. Took aim at another target hanging on another tree. Darren Hall. Hall was a gangbanger, had stabbed a guy in the name of “initiation” and raped a twenty-four-year-old mother in front of her son. When he was done, he pressed his thumbs into her hyoid bone until it gave, tossed her body into a dumpster, and left her three-year-old hiding in a cardboard box. Nick chased Hall for two weeks before he collared him on the rape, but a judge sprang him on the claim that the sex was consensual and someone else had killed her afterward. Before they could pull indictments for murder, Hall went underground.
He was one of the ones who got away.
Correction: He was one of the ones Nick had given up on. Moved to Ohio and took up possum patrol, instead.
Boom.
Nick nailed Hall in the shoulder. He cursed and squeezed off another shot, a better one, then proceeded around the perimeter of the house, taking out targets until only one remained. Nick glared at it. Bertrand Yost. It didn’t matter that Yost wasn’t on the streets anymore. It didn’t matter that Nick had hunted him down like a dog and fucked him up so bad he spent weeks in a hospital and months in rehab. It didn’t matter that Yost eventually wound up in court, and was found guilty.
What mattered was that a battalion of shrinks yanked a jury around until they bought diminished capacity. What mattered was that Bertrand Yost wound up in a cushy mental facility while Nick’s wife wound up in the morgue. Seven years ago, on November ninth.
Allison’s dead, Nick. Yost got her. And Hannah took a bullet…
He clenched his jaw and took aim but a breeze caughtthe ghostlike page of Yost and lifted the edges. No good. Nick staggered out to the tree and jammed the tip of his pocketknife through the bottom, pinning it down.
Hold still, motherfucker. It’s our anniversary
.
He ambled back to the front porch of the cabin and traded the Magnum for a Remington 7mm. A thread of cognition in the back of his mind warned that a rifle at this range would turn the tree to rubble, but the tequila had him now, along with a rage so bitter he could taste it. He propped the barrel of the rifle on the porch rail, folded down to line up the shot and imagined every detail of Yost’s features—broad nose, steel-gray eyes, bushy brows.
Boom.
The
Erin was a step ahead of him. She stood, remembering Sheriff Nikolaus Mann and his quaint little town. “Thanks,” she said, gathering her purse. “I think you’re right. It
is
a good idea to get away for a while.”
She knew exactly where she’d go.
CHAPTER
5
Friday, November 9
Lake Barrow, Ohio
6:00 p.m.
N ICK STRAIGHTENED HIS GUN ARM , homed in on the target, and fired. Staggered backward and almost fell. That’s what happened when you mixed alcohol, tobacco, and firearms. Mostly alcohol.
He lowered the Hechler & Koch, swayed, and peered into the woods at the target. Evening now, getting too dark for this shit. But he could still make out a few man-shaped pieces of paper hanging on trees, black circles closing around the centers. The closest one was Malcolm Hersher, stuck to a tree forty feet away.
Nick took another hit of tequila, aimed, and emptied the cartridge into the center of Hersher’s chest. Wobbled backward and wondered why he didn’t feel any better. Malcolm Hersher deserved every bullet. The retired math teacher behind the counter of an L.A. convenience store, dead from Hersher’s sawed-off shotgun, hadn’t.
He lit up a cigarette, shoved in a new cartridge, and carried his bottle and gun around the corner of the cabin’s deep porch. Took aim at another target hanging on another tree. Darren Hall. Hall was a gangbanger, had stabbed a guy in the name of “initiation” and raped a twenty-four-year-old mother in front of her son. When he was done, he pressed his thumbs into her hyoid bone until it gave, tossed her body into a dumpster, and left her three-year-old hiding in a cardboard box. Nick chased Hall for two weeks before he collared him on the rape, but a judge sprang him on the claim that the sex was consensual and someone else had killed her afterward. Before they could pull indictments for murder, Hall went underground.
He was one of the ones who got away.
Correction: He was one of the ones Nick had given up on. Moved to Ohio and took up possum patrol, instead.
Boom.
Nick nailed Hall in the shoulder. He cursed and squeezed off another shot, a better one, then proceeded around the perimeter of the house, taking out targets until only one remained. Nick glared at it. Bertrand Yost. It didn’t matter that Yost wasn’t on the streets anymore. It didn’t matter that Nick had hunted him down like a dog and fucked him up so bad he spent weeks in a hospital and months in rehab. It didn’t matter that Yost eventually wound up in court, and was found guilty.
What mattered was that a battalion of shrinks yanked a jury around until they bought diminished capacity. What mattered was that Bertrand Yost wound up in a cushy mental facility while Nick’s wife wound up in the morgue. Seven years ago, on November ninth.
Allison’s dead, Nick. Yost got her. And Hannah took a bullet…
He clenched his jaw and took aim but a breeze caughtthe ghostlike page of Yost and lifted the edges. No good. Nick staggered out to the tree and jammed the tip of his pocketknife through the bottom, pinning it down.
Hold still, motherfucker. It’s our anniversary
.
He ambled back to the front porch of the cabin and traded the Magnum for a Remington 7mm. A thread of cognition in the back of his mind warned that a rifle at this range would turn the tree to rubble, but the tequila had him now, along with a rage so bitter he could taste it. He propped the barrel of the rifle on the porch rail, folded down to line up the shot and imagined every detail of Yost’s features—broad nose, steel-gray eyes, bushy brows.
Boom.
The
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