Crossfire (21 page)

‘‘This just in,’’ Valentine Snow announced on the television as the retort from the shot was still reverberating inside the shack.

From the way she tilted her dark head, the shooter suspected she was listening to a voice in her earphone. ‘‘Authorities are seeking a brown 2008 Nissan Altima in connection with the recent shootings. The license plate may be unreadable due to mud. If you spot such a car, call police right away. Do not attempt to approach, as the occupants are considered armed and dangerous. Stay tuned for more details, and you can always receive up-to-the-minute updates from our Web site.’’

Shit. How the hell had that happened? He’d purposely chosen the Pebble Beach color to blend in.

The plan had been to make Jensen’s death look like nothing more than an alkie suicide. He hadn’t intended to get rid of the car. At least not yet. But no way was he going to risk driving it around town now that the police had everybody in the damn Lowcountry out looking for it.

Painting it wasn’t an option, since not only did he not want to risk driving the Altima back into the city to buy the damn paint but it had begun to rain again.

He checked Jensen’s clothes, retrieved a pocket-knife, a rumpled card offering a free meal at the Redemption Mission, and ten bucks, partly in change, partly in the kind of folded-up dollar bills people give to panhandlers.

He stripped the clothes from the corpse, dragged it out of the shack, lifted it into the trunk, then doused both the body and the car with gasoline from the five-gallon jerrican the owner of the shack had left behind for the generator.

He shut the trunk, locked it with the remote, and used the knife to cut Jensen’s pants and shirt into long strips, which he tied together, then soaked in kerosene from a second can intended for the stove. Lucky for him, the fool owner of the shack had left behind enough fuel to blow the place up several times over.

He opened the gas cap of the Altima, stuck one end of the cloth strip, which was now about twelve feet long, down into the tank.

Then, after stretching the rest the length of the dock, he climbed into the johnboat, took out a plastic cigarette lighter, and lit the cloth, which flared nicely, yet more slowly than the hotter-burning gasoline would, giving him sufficient time to get away.

The shooter was about a hundred yards from the shack when the car went up in flames. Satisfied, he disappeared like a shadow into the darkened marsh.

The JOC, which had been buzzing like a beehive, suddenly went still. All heads turned toward the two women standing in the doorway.

Sabrina Swann, dressed in snug white jeans and a bright blue T-shirt beneath her shiny yellow slicker, was carrying a large cardboard box. Her companion, Titania Davis, was clad in a scarlet-as-sin dress that fit like a second skin beneath her red hooded slicker and skyscraper-high sandals, which, impractical as they were for the rain that had begun to fall, made her legs look a mile long. The wicker basket, its handle looped over her arm, added to the impression of a very sexy Little Red Riding Hood.

‘‘We figured you could use some food that didn’t come from a vending machine or a fast-food restaurant,’’ Sabrina said in greeting to Cait. ‘‘I come bearing rosemary egg salad croissants, smoked-chicken salad on twelve-grain bread, ham and pear salad with blue cheese on a sourdough baguette, and Vietnamese rolls with mint soy dipping sauce.’’

‘‘And I brought the sweet stuff,’’ Titania said, lifting her basket. ‘‘Chocolate chip, oatmeal, and vanilla drop cookies, along with Swann Tea’s scrumptious signature chocolate mint brownies.’’

As everyone surged forward for the free food, Sabrina took Cait aside.

‘‘So, how’s it going?’’ she asked, her brow furrowed with concern beneath her smooth blond bangs.

They’d met during the Swann Island Slasher case and had become friends afterward.

‘‘There’s not much to tell,’’ Cait said. ‘‘We’re working some leads, but the guy’s pretty much a ghost.’’

‘‘Well, hopefully Zach and John will be able to be of some help.’’

‘‘Zach and John Tremayne? What do they have to do with my sniper case?’’

‘‘Oops.’’ Sabrina grimaced. ‘‘I guess Quinn didn’t tell you?’’

‘‘I guess not.’’ Cait crossed her arms. ‘‘So, why don’t you fill me in?’’

‘‘He had some ideas he thought they could help with. Both of them being former SEALs and all.’’ She looked honestly chagrined that she’d unwittingly let Quinn’s damn cat out of the bag.

‘‘I don’t suppose you’d know what those ideas might be?’’

Sabrina shrugged her slicker-clad shoulders. ‘‘Sorry. I didn’t talk with Zach in person. I was on the phone with the people who are designing the furniture for the new teahouse when he called, so he just left a message that he and his dad were coming over from the island to help Quinn out.’’

‘‘How nice of him to let me know,’’ Cait said through gritted teeth.

‘‘I’m sure he’s just trying to help.’’

‘‘Look around. If we had any more help, we’d have to start moving desks out into the parking lot. One thing I don’t need is a civilian playing Lone Ranger and screwing up my investigation.’’

‘‘Quinn may be a civilian, but his military training does give him a skill set that the average guy on the street doesn’t have.’’

‘‘I wouldn’t want the average guy on the street instigating himself into the damn case, either.’’ Realizing that she’d drawn attention to them, Cait lowered her voice. ‘‘Look, he was admittedly helpful on sharing the sniper mind-set. And he’s agreed to come to a vets’ PTSD meeting that Mike Gannon’s holding tonight, which I appreciate, because I doubt any of those guys would talk to me on their own. But he doesn’t have any right to start bringing in other people.’’

‘‘Other SEALs. Who have done a lot of black ops missions,’’ Sabrina said.

‘‘If he misses that world so much, I don’t see anything stopping him from going back to it. Otherwise, he ought to just stick to making a gazillion bucks writing his books.’’

It was Sabrina’s turn to blow out a breath. ‘‘Look, I’m getting the feeling that there’s something else going on here, but that’s between you and Quinn. I don’t want to be telling tales out of school, and no way am I going to betray a confidence, but I do think you need to be aware that Quinn might have more complex reasons for leaving the service. Other than making money.’’

Her tone was calm. Collected. But having spent so many years as a cop, Cait had learned to listen not so much to what people were saying as to what they weren’t. And there was something there, something to do with Quinn, and, she suspected, perhaps Zach, that the other woman wasn’t prepared to share.

‘‘Well.’’ She tipped her head in a nod. ‘‘Thanks for the heads-up. I guess I’ll give him a chance to explain before I shoot him.’’

Sabrina’s smile was dazzling enough to brighten the dreary day. ‘‘I appreciate that. Since I’d really like him to stay alive long enough to usher at my wedding.’’ Her eyes narrowed speculatively. ‘‘You know, Titania and I were just saying on the drive over here, that we could use another bridesmaid, to even things out. I don’t suppose—’’

‘‘No.’’ Cait’s response was quick, sharp, and final. ‘‘I’ve done the pink taffeta thing.’’

‘‘Well, we weren’t going with taffeta. And pink’s definitely out, though the right shade could look fabulous on you. We’ve been thinking black and white. Which would also work with your coloring. So, if you change your mind—’’

‘‘Thanks. But I think I’d better pass.’’

Her last stint as a bridesmaid had ended up being one of the worst nights of her life. Even worse, though she wouldn’t have thought it beforehand, than the day her divorce had become final. No way was she going to relive it. Especially with the man who’d played a starring role in the debacle.

‘‘Of course.’’ Intelligent blue eyes swept over Cait’s set face. ‘‘It was just a thought. I didn’t mean to upset you.’’

‘‘You didn’t.’’ Cait dragged a hand through the red hair that definitely hadn’t gone with the bubblegum pink dress she could vaguely, just barely, remember peeling out of before jumping Quinn McKade’s studly bones. ‘‘It’s just that I’ve been having a really lousy couple of days.’’

‘‘And of course you have far more important things to worry about than Titania’s and my wedding,’’ Sabrina said soothingly. ‘‘So, we’ll get out of here and let you get back to work.’’

‘‘Thanks. And thanks for the food. It smells delicious.’’ She also wished she’d snagged a sandwich before having this conversation, since the members of the task force were swarming over the food like ants at a picnic.

‘‘Titania’s a super cook. I count myself lucky every day that she agreed to come work at Swannsea Tearoom.’’

As she returned to the computerized DMV base, Cait considered that Sabrina Swann had a lot more to be grateful for than that. If it hadn’t been for Zach and John Tremayne, and yes, undeniably Quinn, neither woman would be alive to be planning a wedding.

Cait had certainly used the hottie Navy SEAL once before.

Of course, that had definitely not proven to be her best idea.

Still, she considered, her fingers tapping unnecessarily hard on the keyboard, given that some maniac was out there running around Somersett shooting innocent people, perhaps she should go ahead and take what Quinn McKade was offering.

So long as this time they both kept their clothes on.

One of the advantages of living in the South was you couldn’t throw a stick without hitting a military base. Which meant if you were hitchhiking in Marine BDUs, you were pretty sure to get picked up in no time at all.

After ditching the boat on the bank, the shooter had been walking along the marsh road for about five minutes when a white van with CAPTAIN JACK’S LUCKY STRIKE CHARTERS painted on the side pulled over onto the crushed-shell shoulder lining the asphalt.

There was a slight grinding noise as the passenger window rolled down.

‘‘Where you headed, son?’’ asked the driver, a guy in his forties wearing aviator shades and a blue and white ball cap with a fish leaping at a line on it. His skin was deeply tanned and lined with wrinkles.

‘‘Somersett.’’

‘‘Well, this here’s your lucky day. I’m on my way to visit my sister in Fort Lauderdale, so I’ll be goin’ right through Somersett. Toss your gear in the back and hop in.’’

The shooter didn’t hesitate.

‘‘Name’s Jack.’’ The driver introduced himself. ‘‘Jack Slater, but most people just call me Captain.’’

‘‘Pete Webb.’’ The shooter had come up with the new name while steering the johnboat through the marsh.

‘‘So.’’ Eyes shielded against the early-evening glare gave him a quick, decisive once-over, sizing him up. ‘‘You’re in the Second MAW.’’

‘‘Yes, sir. From up in Cherry Point.’’

The one thing about the Marines is that every goddamn thing you ever did was sewn onto your uniform, which was why he’d chosen a MAW band patch from the Internet supply site. No way did he want to get into any discussions about logistics some witness might remember later, so he’d decided to put himself in the Marine Air Wing band.

‘‘What do you play?’’

‘‘The trombone.’’ He flashed a grin. ‘‘Chose it because it puts me at the front of the parade. Sir.’’

‘‘You don’t have to call me sir, son. I’m not active military anymore, and the ‘captain’ I go by these days sure as hell isn’t the saluting kind.’’

‘‘So, you served?’’ the shooter asked. One of the problems with hitching was the people who’d pick up a stranger were usually lonely and prone to conversation.

‘‘I was a Checkerboard, out of Fightertown.’’ Which, decoded into civilian-speak, meant he’d been a member of the 312th VMFA—Marine Fighter Attack Squadron— out of nearby Beaufort.

‘‘Guess you saw some action.’’

‘‘A few missions back in the day flying Hornets,’’ he said around a fat cigar that was stinking up the inside of the truck. Not that the shooter minded; he figured it’d mask any odor of gas or kerosene lingering in his clothes or hair.

Although the Marine’s tone was casual enough, pride for the corps and his unit rang clear in his voice. For the next forty minutes the shooter was subjected to an account of a dozen or so years of Checkerboard history: Desert Shield, Desert Storm, Provide Promise, Sharp Guard, Desert Fox, Deny Flight, Southern Watch, Deliberate Force, Deliberate Guard, Deliberate Forge—who the hell thought up those names, anyway?

But, again, the shooter damn well wasn’t going to bitch. The longer the Marine talked, the fewer questions he might have to answer.

It crossed his mind that they’d both find out exactly how lucky Captain Jack really was, because if the talkative jarhead asked something the shooter couldn’t answer, well, he just might not have any choice but to kill him, right here and now.

Which wouldn’t be the end of the world. Since it’d give him a van to use for his next mission.

‘‘Guess I’m boring the friggin’ socks off you,’’ Captain Jack said.

‘‘No, sir. I mean, no, it’s really interesting,’’ the shooter lied. ‘‘Though it does make me wish I’d seen more action.’’

‘‘If you had, you might choose a different wish,’’ the Marine said with a shrug.

His compact frame looked custom-designed to fit in a fighter jet’s cramped cockpit, but his broad shoulders and square jaw shouted out a flyboy’s overload of testosterone, making the shooter hope he wouldn’t have to go one-on-one with the guy.

‘‘Besides, being in the band’s good for morale. Not to mention being a cool recruiting tool. I took my kids to Disneyland for the Fourth of July last year when you guys performed there. Hearing all those people lined up on Main Street screaming—in a good way— made me real proud to be a Marine.’’

‘‘Yeah, it was cool.’’ The shooter had never been to Disneyland. Didn’t plan to ever go there. But from the way the guy paused, he figured he was supposed to say something.

‘‘And, I gotta admit, I kinda teared up when y’all played the Marine Hymn.’’

‘‘They always do.’’

‘‘Yeah. I guess so.’’ The blue cap nodded. ‘‘So, like I said, you MAW band guys have your own mission. Which is, in its way, just as important as dropping ordnance over Yugoslavia or some damn desert.’’

‘‘Yeah, but I’ll bet doing bombing runs is more of a rush.’’ Though not as much of one as lining someone up in your scope and blowing them away, the shooter bet.

‘‘Nothing like it,’’ the Marine admitted, a bit reluctantly. ‘‘But hell, there’s a lot to be said for hauling in a fifty-pound barracuda. You do any sea fishing?’’

‘‘Never got into it.’’

‘‘You should. Golf’s not a bad game,’’ he said, nodding toward the backseat, where the golf bag holding the shooter’s rifles lay, ‘‘but there’s nothin’ better to clear a guy’s head than getting out on the water.’’

He reached into the pocket of the T-shirt and pulled out a white card with a blue logo matching the one on the truck and the cap. ‘‘We offer the full service, from a few hours to overnight, family trips, or party boats, or serious fishing. We’ve got all forty different kinds of fish in these waters covered: trigger, sea bass, snapper, wahoo, king mackerel, barracuda, tuna, grouper, sharks. You want it, we’ll find it for you. Then all you have to do is—oorah—haul the suckers in.’’

‘‘I’ll keep that in mind,’’ the shooter said.

‘‘You do that,’’ the Marine said as he slowed for the traffic stopped up on the approach of the bridge leading into town. Red and blue bar lights atop cruisers flashed bright in the golden summer dusk. ‘‘Looks like the cops have set up a roadblock. Guess they’re lookin’ to catch that sniper.’’

‘‘Looks like it,’’ the shooter said as he reached beneath his shirt for the Sig he’d replaced the Glock with.

He had no intention of being captured. But if the cops did try to take him down, he damn sure wasn’t going alone.