Chapter 10

Jazz crouched beside the back tire of her SUV, Flash standing next to her as bullets whizzed past.

She put her hand on the K-9's head, indebted to him once again for saving her life.

His strung-together short barks meant one thing. They were about to be attacked. Usually bombs or enemy fire.

She'd learned when they were in service together to hit the deck and ask questions later. Good thing.

She glanced up at the bullet holes in the side door. Those first shots would've hit their target. Her.

No time to figure out why she was being shot at. Just another question that could wait until later.

Right now, she and Flash had to get these guys. Maybe keep them in play until police arrived. If people in the apartments heard the shots and called for help.

The shooters—two of them, she deduced—were using suppressors. But no silencer was actually silent. Hopefully, the noise would be enough to make someone wonder.

Flash had gone quiet without Jazz telling him to. His training kicking in, since any noise could help the shooters find their target.

More shots pierced the night air.

Jazz turned and moved toward the front of her SUV, staying squatted.

Flash inched forward behind her as they rounded the vehicle and darted in front of the neighboring sedan.

They silently crept along the far side of the car until they reached the rear tire. Thanks to the very few lampposts in this farther section of the parking lot, they must not have been seen.

The shooters still fired at where she'd been. Her poor SUV was going to look like Swiss cheese.

She watched for muzzle flashes—very slight, thanks to the suppressors. But enough.

Jazz aimed her Sig Saur pistol and returned fire.

A brief pause. Like they were surprised. Then they fired back, angling their trajectory to her new position.

She shot again. If only they'd shift slightly so she could see what she was aiming at and get a clear hit. But darkness covered where they hid by a big SUV.

More bullets answered her fire.

Sirens wailed. Probably several miles off yet.

The shots stopped. Doors swung open, slammed.

Headlights flared white, almost blinding as the SUV started up and peeled away, tires screeching.

"Guess we scared 'em off, bud." Jazz scratched Flash's ears and stood, pulling out her phone as she headed for where the shooters' SUV had been parked.

She'd have to call Nev this time. Nev would kill her if she found out someone was targeting Jazz and she hadn't shared that info.

Nev picked up quickly, before Jazz and Flash had even made it to the shooters' parking spot. "Hey, girl. Just thinking about you. And your hunky author."

"Hilarious."

"What's wrong?"

Jazz smirked. Even though she felt as relaxed as ever, Nev could read something in her tone. Must come from knowing each other since they were seven years old. "Nothing, really. I'm fine. Flash is fine. But…" Jazz slowed as she reached the empty parking stall.

"I knew it." Nev's voice tensed. "What happened?"

"Couple jokers decided to take shots at us."

A sharp intake of breath came across the line. "You mean somebody randomly started shooting at you? Where?"

Jazz squatted to see what Flash was smelling. "The apartment. The parking lot. I just came back from my run, and they started firing when I got out of my SUV."

Spent shell casings lay on the blacktop.

Jazz switched her phone to speaker and turned on the flashlight function to shine on the casings.

"They didn't hit you?"

"No. Flash warned me, so I ducked in time."

"Thank the Lord for Flash."

Nev's wording made Jazz pause in her study of the nine millimeter casings. Nev hadn't even been a Christian for a year yet, and she already sounded as churchy as the rest of the PK-9 team's Bible thumpers. Must be part of fitting in with her new crowd.

Used to be Nev had been happy with Jazz as her bestie, as the only peer that really mattered. And they'd always fit in with each other, without having to become anything different than who they were. Without having to believe in fairytales people only used to look good and—

"I'm headed to you now." Nev's pronouncement, backed up with the sound of an engine starting, interrupted Jazz's thoughts.

"You don't need—"

"Don't be crazy. Of course, I need to be there."

"Okay. Police are pulling in now." Jazz rose to her feet as two squad cars turned into the lot, cutting their sirens while the colored lights continued to flash. "I found some nine-millimeter casings. Sounded like handguns with suppressors."

"Definitely planned. I don't like this." Nev's tight tone said she was taking this more seriously than Jazz was. "I wish Phoenix was here. She'd know what to do."

But would the boss do anything for Jazz? She was still the new kid at PK-9. And she had the undeniable impression Phoenix didn't like her. Maybe didn't trust her either.

"You're definitely coming to stay with me tonight. And until we figure out who's after you and put a stop to it."

"I don't—"

"No choice, girl."

Jazz shut her mouth since two police officers approached her at that moment anyway. She lifted her hand in a still wave, friendly and showing she wasn't a threat.

And for a second, it sank in. This threat had been too close. If not for Flash, she'd have more than one bullet in her now. Probably be dead.

A scarier thought flared in her mind and stuck there—would anyone have cared?

Hawthorne's fingers flew across the keyboard, inspiration flowing like a waterfall as Jazz Lamont chased down a killer.

She stopped the bad guy's flight with a throw of her knife, her accuracy dead-on.

The space ringtone of Hawthorne's phone—the closest he'd been able to find to anything mysterious—sounded just as the villain fell to the ground.

With a groan, Hawthorne angled the steno chair away from his laptop on the desk and checked the phone's screen.

Rebekah.

So much for early morning being the best time to avoid interruptions. He glanced at the computer's clock. 6:00 a.m. At least he'd managed to write for an hour. An amazing hour. Writing hadn't been that fun in a long time.

The persistent tone reminded him he needed to answer the call.

He slid the icon upward on the screen. "Hi, Rebekah. You're up early."

"Don't get me started." Her tone conveyed both self-pity and fatigue. "Early class." Hopefully, she wasn't driving there, given the way she sounded.

"On Saturday?"

"Yeah. My program offers classes at weird times for people like me who work fulltime."

"I see." He searched for something helpful to say. Poor kid was doing all this adult stuff on her own. Though he and Nathaniel had done the same thing after military service. At least he hoped his younger brother had followed through with joining the Navy and getting an education. "It's great you're putting yourself through school. You won't regret it."

She moaned. "I already regret it."

What should he say to that? What would a girl her age respond to?

A light laugh came over the line before he had to think of something. "Not really. I know it'll be good. I want to make it like you."

"Oh. Great." Sounded like she was driven. That drive to experience all of life and make the most of his freedom had served Hawthorne well.

"What did you find out about Sam?"

Ah. So that was the reason she'd called. And so early. She definitely had the impatience gene, probably inherited from their dad. Their mom had learned never to tell him about anything or ask him to do something until she was ready for him to act on it. Immediately.

On the other hand, Rebekah had been waiting to find out the truth for two years. The thought softened Hawthorne's tone, hopefully not with too much pity, as he replied. "I walked through the scenario and looked at the scene of…" he paused to temper his wording, "the place where they found Sam." He braced himself for any sound of crying or distress.

"And did you find anything new?" Urgency, not tears, tightened Rebekah's tone.

"I don't think so. Not yet. But it was good to see it all myself in person rather than photos. I think the distance from the boat to the location where he hit his head on the rock is very plausible for a fall from standing. It matches his five-eleven height."

"But they only think he hit his head on the rock there. I'm telling you, that's not what happened."

"Because he was afraid of water."

"Yes!" The word came so sharply across the line that Hawthorne moved the phone a few inches from his ear. "Not just afraid. Terrified. I mean, he wouldn't even take a bath because he was so freaked out about drowning."

Rebekah did make a convincing case. But there was the alcohol. Maybe she didn't understand how people could change under the influence. He certainly hadn't until he'd left the sheltered confines of the cult. "He was under the influence. That can make people act very differently than they would otherwise."

"I'm in college." Annoyance tinged her voice as she pointed out the obvious. "I know what people are like when they're drunk. But I'm telling you his fear of water was so primal, there's no way he would suddenly want to go on a Logboat Adventure ride all by himself. Maybe if other kids were there, daring him or something…"

She had a point. Such out of character behavior would probably have needed some social encouragement or pressure to happen. But according to the police investigation's conclusions, he'd been completely alone in the boat when he fell.

"I think Randall did it."

That was new. Rebekah hadn't accused anyone when she'd asked Hawthorne to look into the incident. "Randall?"

"Yeah." She didn't say more, as if that were enough for Hawthorne to go on.

"You want to tell me who Randall is?"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. I'm at school now."

"Do you have to go?"

Rustling, like she was picking up papers or a backpack, came across the line. Then the slam of a door. "No, I'll talk as I walk." Wind noise and voices, probably other students, painted a picture of where she was, walking on the university campus.

"Okay. You haven't mentioned Randall before."

"Didn't I?" She puffed like she was carrying something heavy. Too bad he wasn't there to carry her books for her. Though she probably valued her independence as much as he did. She wouldn't want his help and interference any more than he'd want hers. After what they'd been through, it would only feel like stifling control. "I guess I didn't want to make it sound like I was trying to get back at someone. You know, let you come up with your own answers. Like the detectives on TV and in your books."

She'd read his books? He hadn't thought she seemed like the type to enjoy crime thriller novels. But if his sibling had published books, he'd probably be curious to read them, too.

"What do you mean, ‘trying to get back at someone'?"

"Oh, well, he didn't do anything to me, so it wouldn't be like that."

"You're losing me—" He stopped himself before calling her Becca, the nickname they'd used when she was little. The name he'd always known her by. But she'd introduced herself as Rebekah when she'd contacted him about Sam. So he'd better stick with that, respecting her choices.

"Sorry. I'm a little out of it. Pulled an all-nighter for this test I have in like five minutes."

And yet she was calling him? She was either a remarkable multi-tasker or a risk-taker who was about to flunk her exam. "Do you want to call me back?"

"No. I mean, I will. But I want to tell you about Randall."

"Okay."

"I should've told you before. See, he was my boyfriend. Well, not really." The words spilled rapidly as her breathing sped up, too. "We went on a date like once—without telling our parents 'cause you know that's not allowed—and I could see how weird and controlling he was right away, so I called it quits. Then he got super weird. Like really obsessive, you know?"

She continued before he could give a response, which she apparently didn't expect or need. "So when Sam and I started going out, Randall freaked and got super jealous and kind of scary."

"How do you mean that?" Hawthorne had to nearly cut her off to squeeze in the question.

"He followed Sam around and got in his face one time. Told him to stay away from me or else."

"Or else what?"

"I don't think he technically said, but it was obvious he meant he'd beat Sam up or something. Randall could get really angry sometimes."

"Do you think he'd ever become violent?"

"I think he killed Sam." Her voice lowered slightly, whether because of the gravity of her accusation or because she'd stepped inside a building, Hawthorne wasn't sure. "I think he followed him to the fair that night, and they probably got in a fight or Randall just ambushed Sam out of nowhere. And then Randall moved him to the Logboat Adventure to make it look like an accident."

"That's an interesting theory." And a plausible one in some ways. At least there was a possible motive for murder.

"You mean you don't believe me?" Disappointment colored her voice.

"Not at all. I believe everything you told me that you know about Randall and Sam is true. But we can't know the truth of the parts you're speculating on without evidence. This is really helpful, though. I hadn't heard of any possible motives for this to be intentional before."

"So you mean you'll look into it?"

"Of course. I promised I'd look into this for you, Rebekah, and I'm going to do that. You just keep giving me any information you remember, and I'll keep following leads, okay?"

"Okay." She sounded slightly appeased. "Well, wish me luck. Gotta take my test."

Given he didn't believe in luck anymore, he searched for a better alternative. "You'll knock 'em dead."

She laughed. "Thanks. See 'ya." The line went quiet as she ended the call.

Knock 'em deadmay not have been the best choice of words under the circumstances, but, thankfully, Rebekah hadn't seemed to notice.

Had someone clobbered Sam so hard it had killed him? A rock smash could be matched with or inflicted after a blow to the head from something else. Or a fall against a different hard object, perhaps during an altercation.

Murderous possibilities, always easy to access in the storage vault of his mystery writer's mind, cycled through his thought. Were any of them true in this case?

Only one way to find out—keep investigating. He needed to talk to more of the people who had been there the night Sam was killed and the morning when his body was discovered. Hopefully, Hawthorne would be able to find evidence the police had missed.

They'd concluded it was an accident fairly quickly. They hadn't had as much reason as Hawthorne had now to look harder at the evidence. To consider foul play.

Rebekah's convictions and the first possible motive Hawthorne had learned of ignited a suspicion in the back of his mind. A suspicion she could be right.

And if the boy had been killed, Hawthorne wouldn't rest until he found his murderer.