the terror your daughter must have gone through. But, Don . . .”
“It was no accident.”
“The car rolled, the fuel tank erupted. A spark from the engine ignited the spilled fuel.”
“That’s what it looks like.” Don opened the file, thrust the photographs under my nose. “That’s what it was made to look like.”
“The report is conclusive.” I gently closed the flap on the file, covering the images. “Before you say anything, I’ve read it. I already had Rink get me a copy of both the police and ME files.”
“And you believe a couple of hick cops and a washed-up medical examiner over me?” Don snorted. “They only saw what they wanted to see.”
“Nevertheless, they didn’t find anything suspicious. No evidence that Brook’s death was anything other than a tragic accident.”
“But now that you’ve seen the photographs?”
“It doesn’t change a thing, Don. Your daughter died by the flames that also burned out the car she was trapped in.”
Don chewed his moustache again. After a few seconds he lifted a hand, pointed at the stairs. “I want you to leave. If you don’t want to hear my take on what happened, then just go. I’ll find someone else who does give a damn .”
His words were like a slap in the face. I squinted at him, anger riding on my tongue. But I let it go. I headed for the stairs. I ignored the tug of scar tissue in my thigh, in a hurry now to get away before I said something that I’d regret. There were enough regrets for me to contend with without hurting a grieving father.
Don’s next words halted my hand on the door handle.
“I got an e-mail, Hunter. It said, ‘Who must you lose next?’ ”
Without turning, I pressed on the handle and tugged the door open and went up the stairs. “He’s dead, Don. How could he send you an e-mail?”
“Whether it was him or not, I was still sent the goddamn thing.” Don walked to the base of the stairs but he didn’t follow me up. “It was a direct threat to my family.”
I slipped into the dark hallway, hearing the rage building in the old man like the rumble that precedes an earthquake.
I made it all the way to the front door, but for a second time in less than a minute my hand was halted by words.
“You’re just going to walk away from this, Joe? Do you hate my father so much?”
Millie was standing in the hallway, her arms wrapped around her body as though she were freezing. Strands of her hair were plastered across her face and clinging to the tears on her cheeks.
Hate is such a strong word. I didn’t hate Don, just what he’d once led me to do.
“He’s hurting and confused, Millie. You both are.”
“Yes,” she said. “We’re all confused. But so are you. When will you open your eyes and see what’s really happening here? He is back.”
I gnawed my bottom lip. It wasn’t possible. The bastard’s body was ravaged by flame, immolation of his corpse as complete as what had happened to Brook. Carswell Hicks had fallen over the precipice into his promised eternity in hell.
But then there were the e-mails. Someone must have sent them.
I opened the door.
“Tell your father I’m sorry for his loss.”
CHAPTER 3
T here was an ache in my right hand that was compounded by the cold, and more than the slight tugging in my leg, this concerned me the most. When adrenaline rushed through my system the wounds to my leg were no hindrance but I required the full range of movement and dexterity of my fingers. My hand had been shattered during the same battle where I’d picked up the other injuries, and I’d had to undergo microsurgery to put it right. As I walked, my fists in my pockets once more, I periodically flexed the hand to promote movement.
I had the feeling that I was going to need it in fully functioning order.
For someone in my line of work, speed of hand is the difference between life and death.
I hear you’re supposed to be some kind of knight errant these days.
Don Griffiths’ words
“It was no accident.”
“The car rolled, the fuel tank erupted. A spark from the engine ignited the spilled fuel.”
“That’s what it looks like.” Don opened the file, thrust the photographs under my nose. “That’s what it was made to look like.”
“The report is conclusive.” I gently closed the flap on the file, covering the images. “Before you say anything, I’ve read it. I already had Rink get me a copy of both the police and ME files.”
“And you believe a couple of hick cops and a washed-up medical examiner over me?” Don snorted. “They only saw what they wanted to see.”
“Nevertheless, they didn’t find anything suspicious. No evidence that Brook’s death was anything other than a tragic accident.”
“But now that you’ve seen the photographs?”
“It doesn’t change a thing, Don. Your daughter died by the flames that also burned out the car she was trapped in.”
Don chewed his moustache again. After a few seconds he lifted a hand, pointed at the stairs. “I want you to leave. If you don’t want to hear my take on what happened, then just go. I’ll find someone else who does give a damn .”
His words were like a slap in the face. I squinted at him, anger riding on my tongue. But I let it go. I headed for the stairs. I ignored the tug of scar tissue in my thigh, in a hurry now to get away before I said something that I’d regret. There were enough regrets for me to contend with without hurting a grieving father.
Don’s next words halted my hand on the door handle.
“I got an e-mail, Hunter. It said, ‘Who must you lose next?’ ”
Without turning, I pressed on the handle and tugged the door open and went up the stairs. “He’s dead, Don. How could he send you an e-mail?”
“Whether it was him or not, I was still sent the goddamn thing.” Don walked to the base of the stairs but he didn’t follow me up. “It was a direct threat to my family.”
I slipped into the dark hallway, hearing the rage building in the old man like the rumble that precedes an earthquake.
I made it all the way to the front door, but for a second time in less than a minute my hand was halted by words.
“You’re just going to walk away from this, Joe? Do you hate my father so much?”
Millie was standing in the hallway, her arms wrapped around her body as though she were freezing. Strands of her hair were plastered across her face and clinging to the tears on her cheeks.
Hate is such a strong word. I didn’t hate Don, just what he’d once led me to do.
“He’s hurting and confused, Millie. You both are.”
“Yes,” she said. “We’re all confused. But so are you. When will you open your eyes and see what’s really happening here? He is back.”
I gnawed my bottom lip. It wasn’t possible. The bastard’s body was ravaged by flame, immolation of his corpse as complete as what had happened to Brook. Carswell Hicks had fallen over the precipice into his promised eternity in hell.
But then there were the e-mails. Someone must have sent them.
I opened the door.
“Tell your father I’m sorry for his loss.”
CHAPTER 3
T here was an ache in my right hand that was compounded by the cold, and more than the slight tugging in my leg, this concerned me the most. When adrenaline rushed through my system the wounds to my leg were no hindrance but I required the full range of movement and dexterity of my fingers. My hand had been shattered during the same battle where I’d picked up the other injuries, and I’d had to undergo microsurgery to put it right. As I walked, my fists in my pockets once more, I periodically flexed the hand to promote movement.
I had the feeling that I was going to need it in fully functioning order.
For someone in my line of work, speed of hand is the difference between life and death.
I hear you’re supposed to be some kind of knight errant these days.
Don Griffiths’ words
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