Chapter XLVIII
CHAPTER XLVIII
The three sheriff’s deputies came within sight of the old horse barn, sheltered by a hill to the north. Although it hadn’t received a coat of paint or preservative in many years, it remained structurally sound with an intact roof. A lot of these older barns were being renovated as houses, rental properties for tourists, wineries—and even wedding venues, Wen and his fiancée having visited a few. Unfortunately, it would be some time before anyone decided to exchange their vows in this one if the girls were telling the truth about what they’d discovered.
Beside Wen, Schuler gazed to the west, and the boundary with the Dolfe homestead.
“What is it?” asked Negus.
“Men’s voices, but still a ways off.”
“Might not be anything to do with us. It’s not as if we sent up a flare.”
“The Dolfes won’t need an invitation. They’ve been in Loudoun so long they can probably hear the grass grow.”
“Fuck them if they do come,” said Negus. “We’re law enforcement investigating a probable homicide.”
“I’m with you on most of that,” said Schuler, “but I’ll let you be the one to tell them.”
Wen raised a hand, urging silence. The barn had a pair of sliding doors on its southern side. These were closed, but a side door was partway open. While the girls had only seen what appeared to be a dead man, it didn’t mean that whoever was responsible for making him that way was absent from the vicinity. The deputies padded slowly toward the door, Wen and Schuler from the west, Negus from the east, pausing only to allow Schuler to conduct a quick circuit of the building to check the rear. They kept their distance from the sides of the barn and tried to make the least noise possible. While the timbers looked solid, a shotgun or rifle could blow a hole right through them, along with anyone who happened to be standing on the other side at the time. Once they were in position, Wen identified himself as an armed sheriff’s deputy and instructed anyone inside to make themselves known and lie down on the floor with their arms outstretched. All he received in return was silence.
Wen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. His palms were sweating and his heart was beating very fast. This was how men got themselves shot: by standing in a doorway, silhouetted against the stars. Eric Wen very much did not want to be killed that way. In fact, he didn’t want to be killed at all.
Wen used the barrel of his gun to push the door open wider. He tensed for the sound of firing, but none came.
“Well, shit,” he said.
Wen ignited the flashlight on the underside of the gun barrel and made his move.