He didn’t move.
McEnroe turned and sprinted for the trees.
Jason bent and scooped up his Glock. He could take McEnroe out right now. An easy shot. A clean shot. Bam. Right between the shoulders.
You can’t think about what it feels like to get shot.
He raised his weapon. Opened his mouth to shout a warning. The words didn’t come.
McEnroe vanished into the trees.
What the fuck did you just do?
He had to go after McEnroe. It was his job. His duty. He could not continue to stand there like a statue. But he could not seem to…unstick his limbs. He felt paralyzed. His right shoulder was throbbing painfully as though he’d reinjured it. The reality was he was unhurt, and Rebecca’s murderer was getting away.
Metal rings scraped on a metal rod. The curtains next to him suddenly fluttered open, and Kennedy leaned out the window. “Where is he? Where did he go?”
Jason’s lips parted as he stared at Kennedy’s tense, hard features.
He could lie. He could say he didn’t know. That McEnroe had escaped before Jason made it to the back of the house.
The fact he even considered this lie for however brief a moment shocked him. Like it wasn’t already bad enough?
He said through stiff lips, “He ran for the woods. He pulled a gun on me.”
Kennedy shouted, “Then what the hell are you standing there for?”
That broke the spell. Jason launched himself after McEnroe as Kennedy—with a lightness surprising in a man his size—jumped down from the window ledge.
As Jason’s feet pounded the soft, uneven ground, he scanned the treeline for motion or color. He saw nothing.
It was a relief to run. Dodging bullets was preferable to facing Kennedy. Or his own thoughts.
What the fuck? What the fuck?
How could you have done that?
He could hear Kennedy shouting to Gervase, but he didn’t hear the words. He didn’t need to. No time to think about any of it now. Somehow he had to make this right. All his focus needed to be on locating and apprehending McEnroe.
In thirty seconds Jason was across the firebreak. He plunged into the shadowy cool of the woods.
It was like passing through the door into a different world. The tall army of trees seemed to absorb all sound. The temperature dropped an instant few degrees, and visibility grew uncertain. He slowed, listening. From a few yards ahead he could hear crashing sounds as McEnroe piled through bushes and brush in his headlong flight. He was making no effort to be quiet, no effort to conceal his passage. He was desperate.
So was Jason. He charged after him.
High overhead a startled flock of birds took flight.
Twigs snapped to his right. Jason brought his weapon up. Several yards down Kennedy was moving on a parallel line with him.
Wouldn’t that be brilliant? Shoot Senior Special Agent Sam Kennedy by mistake?
You should not be here. You are a danger to yourself and everyone on your team.
The unbidden thought frightened him, made him angry. It wasn’t true. He had made a mistake, but he would fix it.
He paused.
Behind him came the crackle of a radio, instantly muffled. That would be Gervase coming up from the rear. And ahead of him…more sounds of cracking wood. Quieter now, more surreptitious. McEnroe had stopped panicking and was using his brain.
Where are you?
Jason listened, tuning out Gervase’s muted voice speaking softly into his shoulder mic, Kennedy’s careful progress through prehistoric-sized ferns…
There. The brush and splinter of something large moving swiftly through dense overgrowth.
Jason charged after, abandoning stealth and relying on sheer speed.
His oncoming rush must have startled McEnroe who suddenly popped up about a yard ahead, red and yellow shirt a sudden flash of color in the blue-green gloom. McEnroe’s pale face turned briefly toward him, eyes wide in alarm.
Kennedy was shouting a warning, moving into firing stance.
Christ, don’t shoot me. Please don’t shoot me…
Jason barreled on, bursting through bushes and tackling McEnroe. His arms locked around a skinny waist—McEnroe wriggled frantically, kicked at him—and they both plunged over the side of an embankment.
There was a sickening dip in Jason’s belly as the earth fell away and gravity took hold.
They landed on the hillside, rolled, kicking up dead leaves, pine needles, and loose soil, McEnroe sputtering obscenities all the way down. It seemed a ways, but fortunately it was not a steep drop.
They tumbled to the bottom, Jason on top. He scrambled up, planting his knee in the small of McEnroe’s back and pressing the muzzle of his Glock against McEnroe’s skull. He was shaking with adrenaline and fury as he fumbled McEnroe’s pistol from his back waistband.
“Move again and I’ll blow your head off.”
McEnroe cried, “You broke my fucking leg, man!”
“Good. I wish it was your neck.” McEnroe’s legs seemed to be moving just fine, however, and Jason dug his knee in harder. “Quit kicking. I’m warning you.”
Kennedy came down the embankment at a quick easy jog, holstering his weapon at the sight of Jason atop McEnroe.
He reached the flatland at the same time Gervase appeared over the crest.
“Tony, you dumbass.” Gervase gave the all-clear into his mic.
“You have no right! I didn’t do anything!” McEnroe howled.
“Then why’d you run?” Kennedy asked. He helped Jason haul McEnroe to his feet. McEnroe’s jeans were torn, and there was a long gash in his leg, but it was not life-threatening or even apparently incapacitating. He made another clumsy kick toward Jason.
Gervase pulled his handcuffs out as he reached the bottom of the hill. He snapped them around McEnroe’s skinny wrists. “Now you’re under arrest,” he said.
The satisfaction in his voice made Jason wonder if this was what Gervase had hoped would happen. He hadn’t had more than the most circumstantial of evidence against McEnroe, unlikely enough for a warrant to search, let alone arrest. McEnroe trying to make a run for it definitely strengthened the case against him.
Except…what case? All they had so far was a missing girl, and maybe McEnroe was right. Maybe Rebecca had taken off for reasons of her own.
Why was everyone so eager to believe something worse had happened to the girl?
Gervase hauled his prisoner back up the embankment, McEnroe protesting the injustice and his innocence every step of the way.
Jason started to follow but was halted by Kennedy’s voice.
“You want to tell me what happened back there?” Kennedy’s eyes were like blue steel.
“I told you what happened,” Jason said curtly. “He pulled a gun on me.”
“You hadn’t already pulled your own weapon?”
He wasn’t going to lie about it. Even if he’d wanted to lie, not having pulled his own weapon in that situation would not put him in a much better light. “Yes. I had.”
“You’re saying McEnroe got the drop on you?”
Had he? Jason was no longer sure who’d had those precious few seconds of advance warning. Had he frozen, or had McEnroe raised his weapon first? He couldn’t remember. There was only one appropriate answer.
He nodded curtly.
Kennedy continued to watch Jason, granite-faced and unbelieving. To Jason’s relief, he did not pursue it.
They followed Gervase up the hill in silence.
* * * * *
“I don’t know,” McEnroe said.
He had been saying the same thing for nearly thirty minutes.
They had already covered the basics. McEnroe was twenty-two, had been born in Dudley, Massachusetts, and had graduated from Shepherd Hill high school. Following high school he had applied to and been rejected by the air force. A stint in junior college had followed, but he had dropped out after his first year. He had held a succession of low-paying jobs and was currently employed part-time in the local feed store. His income was bolstered by some kind of disability pay. He was unmarried and had no children. Two years ago he had been diagnosed with Lupus which was how he had come by a hardship cultivation registration to grow his own medical marijuana.