Chapter Seven
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Grace yelled as Dawson stopped to check on her. “Go! Get him!”
Dawson ran past her, past the front of the cabin and into the woods. Grace climbed painfully to her feet, flicking off the worst of the gravel that had dug into her legs through the tears they’d made in her pants. But she didn’t have time to feel sorry for herself. Ignoring the stinging in her skinned knees, she yanked her pistol out of her holster and jogged up the porch steps to check on Aidan.
“Are you okay? No arrows hit you, did they?” she asked.
He slowly turned and lowered his hands, a look of confusion on his face. “You’re not arresting me?”
She frowned. “Arrest you? Why would I do that?”
“I figured you both thought I was the…” He shook his head, seemingly stunned. “You saw the shooter?”
“Dawson did. He’s on his trail right now. And I need to back him up. Lock yourself in your cabin and—”
“Hell, no. I’m not hiding while some fool runs around on my property playing cowboys and Indians, not caring whether he hurts someone, or worse.” He took off across the porch.
“Wait. That’s an order!”
“I’m not one of your agents to boss around.” He took the stairs two at a time, then sprinted toward the woods where Dawson had gone.
Grace said a few unsavory words and took off after both of them. As she ran, she called the station and updated Fletcher about what was happening. Fletcher promised she’d rally the troops. Grace ended the call and slowed, realizing she’d already lost the trail. She searched the ground, trying her best to track where the suspect, Dawson, and Aidan had gone.
She loved mountain views and outdoors as much as most living in the beautiful state of Tennessee. But that didn’t mean she was Danielle Boone. She’d never gone hunting or camping, and her version of roughing it was a three-star motel. Trying to figure out which way someone had gone, by looking for shoe prints or bent grass or whatever, was proving to be beyond her skills.
She finally gave up and tried calling Dawson, but he didn’t answer his phone. Another call to Officer Fletcher got Aidan’s cell phone number from his police folder. Grace punched it in, but like the police chief, he didn’t pick up.
Worried they might be in trouble, she kept going, desperately hoping she was headed the right way. A few minutes later, the sound of male voices had her stopping again. There, up ahead through a break in the trees, she saw Dawson and Aidan. Side by side, shoulder to shoulder, they were jogging in her direction. They weren’t smiling or laughing. But they weren’t arguing or exchanging blows either. They almost seemed…friendly. She was so surprised that she forgot for a second why the three of them had gone into the woods to begin with.
She never saw the second arrow coming.
* * *
“I’m fine . Stop fussing over me,” Grace assured Aidan and the chief for the dozenth time as she sat beside them on one of Aidan’s couches. Kneeling in front of her was Officer Collier. Apparently, he served as one of the town’s part-time EMTs in addition to his police duties. “The arrow barely touched me, just a scratch. Doesn’t even need stitches.”
Collier shook his head. “Actually, I’m having trouble getting the bleeding to stop. I may have to stitch it closed.”
Her face flushed. “Seriously? Isn’t there a doctor around here who can do it?”
“Nope. But if you’re squeamish, I can put a pressure bandage on it for now and take you to the hospital.”
“The hospital? Where is that?”
“The other side of Chattanooga. About an hour and a half away.”
“Good grief. What do you people do around here for something really serious?”
“Helicopter,” Dawson told her. “The town purchased a used medevac chopper last year after a little girl nearly died because it took so long to get her to the hospital. An anonymous donation put us over the top on our fundraiser and we had enough money left over to stock it with medical supplies and train several key people in town as EMTs, including Collier.”
Remembering how worried Aidan had been this morning about children being in harm’s way, and knowing he had money to spare, she glanced at him beside her, wondering if he could be that anonymous donor. But he didn’t react, gave no indication either way.
Dawson leaned around Aidan to get a better look at Grace’s injured arm.
Aidan shoved him back. “Give your guy room to work. He needs to get that bleeding under control.”
Dawson narrowed his eyes, but didn’t retaliate over the shove. That was amazing since if Aidan had shoved him this morning he’d have likely been thrown in jail. They must have come to some kind of agreement in the woods earlier to set aside their mutual differences and suspicions. Maybe it was because they’d agreed to work together toward the common goal of finding whoever was terrorizing this town.
“Chief Dawson,” Grace asked, “in all the chaos that’s happened, I never got a chance to ask why you came up here in the first place.”
“Yet another anonymous tip. A man called to say that a woman was here visiting O’Brien and that she might be in trouble. And before you say it, yes, I know how thin that is. Considering that’s the first anonymous tip I’ve ever gotten—”
“Mine, too,” Grace said. “Although the tip was to the FBI, not me specifically. I listened to the recording, of course.”
“Was the FBI tipster male?”
“He was,” she said. “But his voice was tinny, like he was using a device to alter the sound of his real voice. We put a trace on the call, but it led to a burner phone, a throwaway. We’ve still got people on it, but so far no luck in identifying who made the call.”
“I’ll see what kind of trace we can do, too, after we’re done here.”
Aidan glanced back and forth between them. “Hold it. You’re saying an anonymous caller sent the FBI here looking for this Crossbow Killer, and another caller sent the police here to my place. Then, both times someone shot an arrow from over my shoulder, making it appear that I was the one who’d shot it. Does that smell like a setup to you?”
“Yes,” they both said.
“And it was a good one,” the chief added. “Because if one of the townspeople hadn’t taken a picture of their family at the festival and it captured you in the background, with that arrow zinging past you, I’d likely still have you locked up. Likewise, when I drove up here, if I hadn’t seen a shadow behind you shooting that first arrow at Malone, I’d have locked you up then, too. The game this guy’s playing isn’t turning out the way he hoped. Instead of convincing us of your guilt, he’s done the opposite. You’re the real victim here.” He glanced at Grace. “One of them, anyway.”
“It’s just a scratch,” she repeated.
He rolled his eyes again.
“O’Brien,” Grace said, purposely using his last name in front of the others. “Do you have any idea who would hate you enough to try to frame you as a serial killer?”
His jaw tightened. “I would think my in-laws despise me. How could they not? We never got a chance to speak after I was arrested. They were grieving, too upset and shocked to seek me out. I sent an apology, again, through my lawyer. But how do you apologize for something like that? Regardless, I can’t see them coming after me, or even having someone else do it on their behalf. They’re truly good, decent people. They just… No, it’s not them.”
“There has to be someone else, then. Help us make a list.” This time it was Chief Dawson who spoke. “If not your former in-laws, then who? Who else could it be?”
Aidan thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No one. I mean, there are plenty of people who’d love to see me dead based on the hate mail I received in prison. But they were strangers, people who get fired up over news reports. I can’t imagine any of them actually coming after me all these years later.”
“Do you still have those letters?” Grace asked.
He hesitated, his gaze capturing hers. He was silent for several moments.
“Do you?”
He looked away. “I threw them out. They certainly weren’t comforting or sentimental, something to take with me to reread after I was released. No. I don’t have the letters.”
Grace didn’t believe him. That hesitation told her he was holding something back. Was there someone who’d written him that he’d just realized might be the one trying to frame him? If so, why not tell them?
Dawson leaned forward to get Aidan’s attention. “What about people here in Mystic Lake? Other than the obvious—people being wary of you because of your past—has anyone gone out of their way to antagonize you? Have you made any enemies?”
This time, he didn’t hesitate. “No. I can count on one hand the friends I’ve made here, with a couple of fingers left over. But I keep to myself for the most part and haven’t made any enemies. I’m sure that, like other strangers who heard about my case, many of the townspeople wish I’d go live somewhere else. They likely have strong feelings against me. But again, to go this far, to frame me and risk the lives of innocent people over what they think I…” He cleared his throat. “For what I did, I can’t think of anyone who would do that.”
Grace stared at him, the words he’d stumbled over running through her mind. For what they think I… For what I did. Was he going to say for what they thought he did? Had he slipped up and almost admitted that he didn’t kill his wife? She noted that Dawson and Collier were both studying Aidan, too, as if weighing the words he’d just said and realizing there might be more to his past, a truth no one else knew. Except Aidan.
Aidan cleared his throat and stood. “Anyone need a drink?” He headed into the kitchen side of the large, open room.
Hoping to break the tension that had fallen over everyone, Grace called out, “Yes, please. The coldest beer you have. None of that light stuff, either.”
“No way,” Collier said. “We’re all on duty, including you. And you’re my patient. I won’t be able to give you any pain medicine if you drink.”
“Meanie.”
He laughed.
Still debating whether or not to allow a part-time, relatively new EMT to stick a needle in her arm to stitch her up, she asked Collier, “Who flies the helicopter?”
He pressed some fresh gauze against her arm, mumbling an apology when she winced. “Bobby Thompson. He’s—”
“The owner of the marina. I remember you told me earlier.”
“He’s also retired military, flew a chopper for most of his career. He oversees the maintenance and flies when needed. Stella Holman, from the bed-and-breakfast, was a career nurse before vacationing here, then meeting Frank, getting married and staying for good. She’s the one who rides with Bobby to take care of the patients until they reach the hospital.”
A loud knock on the open door of the cabin had all of them looking over to see Officer Fletcher standing there. “Justin’s arrived with his scent dog.”
“About time,” Dawson said. He stood and Aidan met him at the door.
Dawson arched a brow. “Don’t even think about it. You might not be a suspect anymore, but you’re still a civilian.”
“Who saved you from tumbling over a cliff’s edge earlier. Remember that?”
Dawson’s face reddened. Now Grace understood why the chief was treating Aidan more like a friend than a foe. She could well imagine how much he loathed owing his life to an ex-con. Judging by the hard set of his jaw, he didn’t like it one bit.
Aidan continued. “It’s my land. I know the best ways to get through the brush, where the slopes have loose rocks and dangerous footing, where the cliffs—”
“Okay, okay. You made your point,” Dawson grumbled. “You can go, but only as a guide. If we find this guy, don’t make any attempts to intervene or take him down. That’s for the police to do. Understood?”
Aidan crossed his arms.
Dawson swore but didn’t waste more time arguing. “Let’s go, while we still have daylight left.” He strode onto the front porch where Fletcher, Ortiz, and the man with the scent dog were waiting.
Aidan grabbed the door to pull it closed behind him, then hesitated. “Collier, don’t let Special Agent Malone out of your sight. I expect she’ll want to head after us again after you patch her up. But if the shooter is still in the area, he might try to finish what he started. Under no circumstances allow her through this door.”
“Yes, sir,” Collier called out.
Aidan pulled the door shut.
Grace blinked in shock. “Did you just take orders from an ex-con?”
Collier snorted. “Emphasis on ex. He served his time. And I’m not convinced he was ever guilty to begin with.”
“He confessed.”
“With all due respect, Malone, I’m not one of those officers who thinks everyone in prison is guilty. Innocent people do get convicted sometimes, probably more than most people realize. They make false confessions. It’s a proven fact. New evidence, like DNA, has exonerated plenty of them.”
“You think his confession was false?”
“Let me put it this way. The chief has accused him of just about every petty crime that happens around here since the day O’Brien came to Mystic Lake. He hasn’t exactly made it easy on the guy. Then we get proof he’s being framed. And even though O’Brien has every reason to want payback against Dawson, when the chief’s foot slips and he could have fallen to his death, O’Brien risked his own life to grab him and haul him back to safety.”
“Dawson told you that? I mean, I heard Aidan say something about it but I didn’t know any details.”
“When I got here, he told me what happened, yeah.”
“I get what you’re saying,” she said. “But what makes you so certain he wasn’t a different person years ago, that he didn’t kill his wife? Did he tell you he didn’t?”
“Ever heard of a Freudian slip? That’s what he did earlier, if you ask me. He basically admitted he didn’t kill his wife. You heard that too, right?”
“Yes. I did.”
“So did Dawson. We’ve all wondered about O’Brien, played devil’s advocate about how he could kill his wife. If you read his case file you’ll see interviews the prosecutor did with people who knew him. And pretty much every one of them said he and his wife were wild about each other and that if he did take her life it was out of mercy. You know about the fire, right? That she was paralyzed and in terrible pain.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t excuse killing her. That’s not how our society and our laws work.”
He gave her a hard look, then shrugged. “Whatever happened, he’s not the bad guy people think he is. Not even close. He may be gruff, rude sometimes. Okay, rude a lot of times. But that’s how he protects himself. If you don’t let people in, they can’t hurt you, you know? Anyway, my point is that he’s never, not once, done anything to hurt anyone around here. Just the opposite. He doesn’t advertise it or try to take credit, but he helps people all the time.”
She was stunned to hear a police officer speaking about Aidan this way, particularly an officer who’d helped another lock him to a conference room table this morning. “How does he help people?”
He swore when he pulled the latest gauze off her arm and it came away bloody. He grabbed a fresh one and pressed hard.
She forced herself to hold still and not give any indication about how much he was hurting her. He was a gold mine of information and she didn’t want him to stop talking.
“Collier, how does Aidan help people?”
“Oh, you know. Lots of ways. You’ve heard about the town’s, the lake’s, reputation, right? Unexplained things happen around here. Mysterious deaths, disappearances, strange accidents. I mean, we really do have a lot of wacky stuff that goes on. Did you know Mystic Lake has more drownings per year than any other lake in the country?”
“You’re kidding. Why? What makes it so dangerous?”
“If you ask the townsfolk, most will tell you it’s the spirits of the people who drowned in the lake when the superstorm came through decades ago and flooded this place.”
“For real, Collier. What makes the lake so dangerous?”
“Because of the flood.”
“Collier—”
“No, no, I’m not talking about ghosts. I’m serious. I’m talking about what’s underneath the water. An entire town is at the bottom of the lake. Houses, cars, church spires, trees, lots and lots of dead trees. We do cleanups every year. Hundreds of volunteers pull out debris so boats and swimmers won’t get hung up in all that stuff on the bottom. But some of it is too deep to reach. And the lake is huge. Not the part downtown, but the part outside of town by the marina. It’s impossible to clean it all. We post warning signs in areas where drownings or boating accidents have occurred, and focus on those areas during our cleanups. Tourists are warned. Locals are reminded all the time about the dangers. But the lake is beautiful, and relatively safe if you stay within the markers. So people come here in droves in the summer to enjoy it. But things still happen.”
“Okay. But what does any of this have to do with Aidan?”
“Since when did you start referring to him by his first name?”
Her stomach tightened as she rushed to cover her mistake. “Since I started trying to build rapport in search of the truth. You were saying?”
He gave her a suspicious look, as if he didn’t believe her. But he continued. “He’s one of the main sponsors on cleanup days, pays to have salvage boats come in and take out debris in the more dangerous areas. And, last summer, on one of those rare days when he showed up around the crowds, he ended up saving some swimmers. They got hung up in some sunken tree branches. He dived in before anyone even realized the swimmers were in trouble, got them free. One of them wasn’t breathing when O’Brien pulled her out. He performed CPR until she was breathing again. But it was touch and go for quite a while.”
“The little girl who almost died, before the chopper was here?”
He nodded. “And that’s not all. There are other things. Like, if someone can’t pay their rent, suddenly an envelope of money appears in their mailbox. And the anonymous donor of the chopper money like you said. Nothing like that ever happened around here until he showed up. I can’t be sure what exactly occurred in his past with his wife. But I am sure of one thing. The man he is today is a good man. And I trust him more than I’d trust half the people here in town who make themselves out to be way better than they actually are.”
The silence stretched out between them.
His face reddened as if everything he’d said was already coming back to haunt him. “It must be because you’re an FBI agent that my mouth got the better of me. You tell the chief I said any of that and I’ll deny it. He wouldn’t take kindly to one of his officers, as you said earlier, talking that way about an ex-con.”
She shifted slightly forward on the couch. “I won’t tell if you don’t tell him about me.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I have the same doubts about Aidan as you.” She winced and motioned toward his hand on her arm. “Unless you’re trying to completely cut off all circulation, you think you could ease up there?”
“What? Oh, sorry.” His face reddened again as he reduced the pressure. “That bleeding isn’t going to stop on its own.”
“Stitches?”
“Stitches. I’ll get that pressure bandage in place and drive you to the hospital.”
“Heck, no. I’m not riding in a car for over an hour for two stitches.”
“More like three. Maybe even four.”
She blinked. “Four?” She craned her neck to try to see the underside of her arm.
He pushed her back against the couch. “Stop worrying. I’ll give you a shot of painkiller first. You won’t feel a thing.”
“Except the shot,” she grumbled.
He laughed and, a little too eagerly for her peace of mind, reached for a hypodermic needle in his medical bag.