Willy took a thoughtful breath that came out as a wheeze. “You think he killed that waitress, and the intern.”
“Damn right I do.”
“And you think he’s the same one who’s been causing this trouble for Lil.”
“He connects, and she fits his type.”
“And if Tyler crossed paths with him…”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be seen, doesn’t want some guy going back and talking about this man he met on the trail. Or Tyler stumbled over his campsite, found him poaching. Or maybe he just likes to kill. There’s more.”
“Jesus.” Willy pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s have it, then.”
“Melinda Barrett. Age twenty.”
Willy’s forehead creased. “That’s the girl you and Lil found.”
“Strong, pretty, athletic. Alone on the trail. I’m betting she was his first. He’d’ve been about the same age. There’ve been others.” Coop dropped a folder on Willy’s desk. “I copied my file for you.”
Willy stared, not at the file, but at Cooper. “Jumping Jesus, Coop, you’re talking serial killer. You’re talking about a dozen years of killing.”
“Which stopped, as far as I’ve been able to determine, during the year and a half Howe was in prison. The problem with tying the first killing to the others I tracked, the like crimes, was the wide time lag between. But when you add in missing persons, bodies that weren’t found, by chance or by his design? It plays then.”
Willy looked down at the file, started to speak, then broke into a hacking cough. He waved his hand until he’d caught his breath. “Goddamn spring,” he complained. “I’ll look at what you’ve got. I’ll read through it, and I’m going to want to talk to you about it after-one way or the other.”
He took a last swallow of his now lukewarm soup. “Want a job?”
“I’ve got one, thanks.”
Willy smiled. “Cop’s in the blood.”
“I just want my horses, that’s the fact. But in this case, I’ve got a vested interest. He doesn’t get a chance to touch Lil. He doesn’t get that chance.” Coop got to his feet. “That’s where I’ll be, most likely, when you’re ready to talk this through.”
He went home to toss fresh clothes in a duffel. He glanced around the converted bunkhouse and figured he’d spent less time sleeping there than he had on Lil’s couch. Or in her bed.
That’s the way it had to be, he decided, and trudged through the relentless rain to toss the duffel in his truck before going back to the farmhouse.
He sat his grandparents down at the kitchen table and told them everything.
When he’d finished, Lucy rose, went to the cupboard, and got out a bottle of whiskey. She poured three short glasses.
Sitting, she tossed hers back without a blink or hiss.
“Have you told Jenna and Joe?”
“I’m going by there on the way to Lil’s. I can’t prove-”
“You don’t have to prove,” Sam said before he could finish. “It’s what you believe. That’s enough. We’ll pray you’re wrong about this man they’re looking for. We’ll pray you’re wrong about that, and he just got lost, got himself a good soaking and a good scare.”
“While you’re praying I want you to stay inside. The stock’s fed and bedded down. I’ll be back around first light. You stay in, doors and windows locked, and the shotgun close. I need you to promise.” He pressed, and pressed hard when he recognized the stubborn set of his grandfather’s jaw. “If you don’t give me your word on that, I can’t leave. I can’t look after Lil.”
“Putting the squeeze on me,” Sam muttered.
“Yes, sir. I am.”
“You got my word on it, if that’s what it takes.”
“All right. If you hear anything, feel anything off, you call me, and you call the police. You don’t think twice, you just call, and don’t worry about false alarms. I need your word on that, too, your promise, or I’m getting a couple of men to guard the place.”
“You think he’ll come here?” Lucy demanded.
“No, I don’t. I think he’s on a mission. I don’t think he’s going to come here because here isn’t part of the plan. But I’m not leaving without your word. Maybe he’ll want some supplies, or a dry place to sleep. He’s a psychopath. I’m not going to try to predict what he might do. I’m not taking any chances with either of you.”
“You go on to Lil’s,” Sam told him. “You’ve got our word on all of it.” He looked at his wife, and she nodded. “Joe and Jenna are probably on their way over there, or will be soon enough. You can talk to them over there. Meanwhile I’ll call them myself, in case they’re home. I’ll tell them what you told us.”
Nodding, Coop picked up the whiskey and drank. And stared into the glass. “Everything that means anything to me is here. In this house, with Joe and Jenna, at Lil’s. That’s everything there is.”
Lucy reached over, laid her hand over his. “Tell her.”
He looked up, looked at her and thought about the morning conversation. He smiled a little, and gave her the same answer. “Working on it.”
BY THE TIME he got to Lil’s, feeding time was in full swing. He’d watched the process before, but never in a violent rain. Staff hustled around in black slickers, hauling and carting enormous hampers of food-whole chickens, slabs of beef, tubs of game, all processed in the commissary. Hundreds of pounds of it, he estimated, all cleaned, prepared, transported every evening.
Tons of fortified feed, grain, bales of hay, hauled, poured and spread night after night, whatever the weather.
He considered offering a hand, but he wouldn’t know what the hell he was doing. Besides, he’d had enough of the wet for now, and would have more than his share of it later.
He carried the tub of beef stew his grandmother had pressed on him into the cabin. He’d be more useful, he decided, putting a meal on the table.
He opened a bottle of red, let it sit to breathe while he heated the stew and buttermilk biscuits.
It was oddly relaxing, to work in the cozy kitchen with the rain beating on the roof and windows, with the sound of the wild rising with the dark. He took two candles from her living room, set them on the table, lit them.
By the time she came in, drenched and surly of eye, he’d set the table and heated the stew and biscuits through and was pouring a glass of wine.
“I can cook my own damn dinner.”
“Go ahead. More stew for me.”
“They’re going to start installing the new security tomorrow, weather permitting. Then we can stop this insanity.”
“That’s good. Want some wine?”
“It’s my wine.”
“Actually, I brought it with me.”
“I have my own.”
“Suit yourself.” He watched her as he took the first sip. “This is pretty nice.”
She dropped down on the bench, gave the candles the evil eye. “Is this supposed to be romantic?”
“No. It’s supposed to be a backup if the power goes out.”
“We have a generator.”
“Takes a minute to kick on. Blow them out if they bother you.”
She huffed, but not at the flames. “I hate that you can do this. Be all casual and reasonable when I’m feeling bitchy.”
He poured a second glass of wine, took it over, and set it on the table. “Drink the damn wine, bitch. Is that better?”
She sighed, nearly smiled. “Maybe a little.”
“It’s some job, feeding that zoo in this rain.”
“They have to eat. And, yes, it is.” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “I’m tired. I’m edgy. And I’m hungry, so that stew-which I’m assuming is Lucy’s doing-is welcome. I haven’t written out a list, but I have it in my head, and we need to discuss things. I changed things. My choice, my move, my doing. I’m sorry if it was a mistake, if it affects our friendship. I don’t want that.”
“You changed things the first time around, too. Your choice, your move, your doing.”