Chapter 39 Dom
DOM
I hated guns. Back in L.A., I’d had close calls, cases that turned tight, and clients who drew lines in blood. But even then, I never had to use it. I never fired in the field. Only at the range, where the paper targets made no sound and spilled no blood.
But tonight wasn’t the range, and I wouldn’t rest until I had Autumn back.
The farmhouse at Timber Loop was still lit, and dogs barked at my approach.
I cut the engine and got out, the Glock snug against my spine. No jacket. No plan for pleasantries. Just fury in my veins and a name in my mouth.
The place looked like it had been holding on by rust and prayer, with peeling siding, a sagging porch, and a tractor that hadn’t moved in months. His porch light sputtered, and for a second, I considered shooting it out just to take the edge off.
I didn’t knock.
Instead, I slammed my fist into the door. Once, twice. The third time, it finally gave.
He opened the door, his flannel shirt half-buttoned, a rifle in hand.
He was not ready, though.
I was on him with my gun out, the muzzle kissing his skin before his finger even brushed the trigger.
“Drop it,” I said.
His grip faltered, and the rifle clattered to the floor.
Good. I wasn’t here for warnings.
He wasn’t the old man with a beagle. This man was younger. So the stiff-necked man had never seen us at Timber Loop. I was sure he figured out we were in Buffaloberry Hill when he noticed Lulu barking at him that day when I lost the race in the river with Otter.
“You the one who reported an armed robbery at the trail?” I asked, stepping forward.
His mouth opened, quavered, then clamped shut.
I grabbed the door and shoved it open the rest of the way.
“Did you?” I growled.
He backed up like he could vanish into the shadows of his hallway. “I…I might have, yeah. It was just…this guy. He said he needed help catching a criminal. A woman.”
I stormed inside and slammed him against the nearest wall. “You look me in the eye,” I growled, “and you tell me why you painted a bullseye on her back.”
“I didn’t mean—”
My fist landed beside his head, cracking the drywall.
He flinched hard. “Okay! Okay! I was paid!”
That made me pause.
“Paid?” I repeated.
He nodded frantically. “The man said he was the father of the missing girl. He said a woman was involved and that the cops weren’t moving fast enough. He told me to say she held me at gunpoint, and he gave me instructions for what to say if the sheriff asked what she looked like.”
I almost choked him, but I couldn’t afford to send him to hell just yet.
He added, “The man said it would put pressure on the police. I have a daughter too. I just thought I was helping someone like me. The money felt like a thank you. That’s all.”
So the stiff-necked bastard knew how to convince a man. Or maybe this one never needed much convincing.
Pulling out my phone, I showed him an article that included a photo of Deborah Sinclair’s parents. “Was this him?”
He squinted. “No, it wasn’t him.”
“This is the missing girl’s father.” I shoved the phone to his face.
“Oh no…I don’t know who he was, honest to God.”
“How did he pay you?”
“He gave me cash. I needed it. My farm’s going under. I was just trying to—”
I shoved the Have you seen this person? poster against his chest, the one that was supposed to be Autumn.
“You see this? This nearly got her killed. She’s gone now, vanished. Because of you.”
“I didn’t know. I swear!”
“Bullshit,” I spat. “You saw a chance to get paid, and you took it. You didn’t think. You didn’t care.”
He sagged against the wall, breathing like he was about to die. “I’m sorry.”
“So let me ask you again. Who paid you?”
“I don’t know. He never gave a name. He was tall and skinny, and he sounded desperate.”
I pulled out Susan’s sketch. “Was this him?”
His eyes widened. “Yes, that’s him.”
“What if I told you this was a Hollywood actor?”
“What? No. No way. It was him.”
I grabbed his arm, yanked him off his feet, and hauled him out to my truck.
“Wh-where are we going?” he stammered.
I opened the passenger door and shoved him in. “To the sheriff’s office,” I said. “Time for you to meet White Lightning. Let’s see how fast he can close a case when it’s your face on the line.”
Sympathy wasn’t on the table.
I didn’t care if the guy’s barn was caving in or his daughter needed braces.
I was here to find my woman.
Not to rescue a man with no spine.
I dragged him in, literally, by the arm, into the sheriff’s office.
It was after nine. If the place had been empty, I’d have pitched a tent outside. But no, White Lightning Whitaker was there. He was not behind the desk, though. He was slouched in a chair, looking like he’d wrapped up his end-of-day report but couldn’t quite bring himself to go home yet.
He sat up fast when he saw me.
“Whitaker,” I said, all ice. “Time to fix what you broke.”
The farmer looked like he wanted to evaporate. His eye contact with Whitaker clearly said they knew each other.
“Mr. Powell, you’re not turning my office into a three-ring circus.”
“This poster of yours,” I said, slamming the botched sketch of Autumn onto his desk. Then I yanked a chair around and made the farmer sit. “This man gave you the description, correct? Your so-called victim in the robbery at Blodgett Pass?”
Whittaker raised his eyes to me. “Say one more word, and I’ll book you for witness intimidation.”
“He was paid to lie!” I growled.
Whittaker turned to the farmer. “Is that true, Mr. Guinness?”
He wrung his hands. “Yes.”
Whittaker’s jaw tensed. “I’ll look into it.”
“You didn’t check, did you?” I snapped. “Because checking takes time. And time slows you down. Can’t have that. Not when you’re out here trying to earn your nickname, huh?”
I leaned in, my voice cold.
“You like closing cases at lightning speed? Well, guess what? You’ve been running toward the wrong storm.”
Whitaker opened his mouth.
“Don’t.” I cut him off. “Withdraw every goddamn poster you created. Every bulletin, every alert. It was a terrible sketch of her anyway.”
He didn’t argue.
He just nodded.
It wasn’t enough. Not nearly.
But it was something.
I wouldn’t hand the stiff-necked bastard to Whitaker. I’d go through Boone to get closer. And I’d play it my way. He’d learn just how far I’d tear through the system to save my woman.