Chapter Thirteen

For the second time in as many nights, Zach stood in the parking lot in front of his townhouse with a sheriff's deputy. Shelby was talking to the wrecker driver who had come to tow her rental car to his shop, where he had promised he would replace her destroyed tires in the morning.

"Do you think the same person who shot out her tires broke into my townhouse last night?" Zach asked.

Deputy Owen turned from his contemplation of the car to meet Zach's gaze. "I don't know," he said. "Do you?"

"Maybe whoever did this thought that was my car." He looked past her to his truck, parked just a few spaces down.

"Maybe," Owen said. "Or maybe they knew the car belonged to an FBI agent and were making some kind of statement."

Zach nodded. In the almost two weeks Shelby had been in Eagle Mountain, plenty of people would have passed on the news that an FBI agent was staying at the Ranch Motel. They probably even knew she was investigating the murder of a woman at the Forest Service campground. A few of them might even have connected Zach to the woman. Everyone on Search and Rescue knew that last fact, and one or more of them might have talked.

"What was Agent Dryden doing here tonight?" Owen asked.

Besides kissing me senseless? Zach struggled to turn his thoughts toward a safer answer. "She had some more questions about what happened here last night," he said.

Shelby stood back as the wrecker hooked on to her car then slowly winched it onto the flatbed. She waved as the wrecker drove away, then rejoined Zach and Deputy Owen. "He thinks he has the right tires in stock and can get them on first thing in the morning," she said.

"That's good." Though he felt stupid as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Nothing about this situation was good.

She turned to the deputies. "Can I see those bullets you recovered?"

Owen took a small bag from the left breast pocket of his uniform shirt and passed it to her. She studied the two misshapen slugs in the bag. "Twenty-two long rifle," she said.

"Common as dirt," Owen said. "We'll check for prints, but I doubt we'll find anything." He returned the bag to his pocket. "Have you made any enemies lately, Agent Dryden?"

She shook her head. "I don't think this was about me."

All eyes focused on Zach. He held up both hands. "I don't know what's going on," he said. "I haven't done anything to anyone."

"We can give you a ride to the motel," Deputy Owen said.

"I'll take her," Zach said before Shelby could answer.

"I'll go with Zach," she said. "But thank you."

They waited until Deputy Owen had left before they went back inside the townhouse. The closeness of moments before had vanished, replaced by tension like a thick fog between them. Shelby collected her purse and slung it over her shoulder. "I apologize for my unprofessional behavior," she said, looking not at Zach, but at the space where only moments before they had clung to each other.

"I don't know. I thought you kissed pretty good for an amateur."

She glared at him. So much for trying to lighten the moment. "I don't think you did anything wrong," he said. He moved in closer to embrace her, but she sidestepped the move.

"I doubt my supervisors would agree."

"What say do they have over your personal life?"

"You're part of a case I'm working on."

"I'm not a witness or a victim," he said. "And I'm not a criminal." He didn't know why he was arguing with her. He wasn't in the habit of trying to persuade women who didn't want to be with him. Except that her reluctance didn't seem to be about him at all, but about some ideal she was holding herself to, or thought her bosses were holding her to. And that kiss had been pretty spectacular. He was reluctant to let go of the chance to repeat it, and take it further.

"We should go," she said, and turned her back on him and walked to the door.

He debated not going after her. She wasn't going to get very far without him. Then again, he wouldn't put it past her to walk all the way back to town. It wasn't an impossible distance, but the walk probably wouldn't endear her to him. So he pulled out his keys and followed her out.

He drove toward town but was reluctant to end the night this way. And he didn't necessarily want to be alone with his thoughts, either. He told himself having his apartment broken into and Shelby's tires shot out were only nuisances that should be ignored. No one had been hurt. But he couldn't make himself believe it. Sure, no one had been hurt yet . Tonight, some unknown assailant had shot out Shelby's tires. How much of a stretch was it for them to shoot a person instead of a car?

He smoothed his hands down the steering wheel. "I'm too wired to sleep," he said. "Do you want to get some coffee?"

She shifted in her seat. "Where?"

"The only place is the gas station." He glanced at her. Streetlights bathed half her face in a golden glow. "I don't promise it's good coffee."

"All right."

He drove to the station at the intersection leading into town and left the engine running while he ran inside and bought two cups of coffee from the machine at the back of the store. He grabbed a handful of sugar and creamer packets, paid, returned to the car and handed her everything. "Hold this until I find a place we can sit and talk."

He ended up parking on the street a block from the motel. It was after ten, and all the businesses in this part of town were closed, the sidewalks empty. The only streetlight was at the end of the block, so he and Shelby sat in deep shadow. He sipped his coffee and was reminded of the night he had sat on that Houston street, waiting for Camille to emerge from Britannia Pub.

"What are you thinking?" Shelby asked.

He could have lied and said he was thinking about her and the kiss they had shared. Or he might have tried to make a joke about how small towns really did roll up the sidewalks after dark. Instead, he opted for the truth. "I'm thinking about that night at the Britannia. The night Judge Hennessey was shot."

"Tell me about it," she said.

So many times over the years he had relived that evening, running through the events minute by minute, by turns berating himself for keeping silent and telling himself he had no choice. The words to describe what had happened ought to come easily, but he found himself faltering.

"Like you said, Camille's car was in the shop," he said. "She planned to ride the bus home, but I was free and decided to surprise her by picking her up. I parked across the street and waited for her."

"Could you see the pub from where you were parked?" Shelby asked.

"I could see the side of the building and the door that opened onto the alley that Camille would come out of. I couldn't see the front door or into the restaurant."

"Okay. Go on. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Camille came out and said good-night to her coworkers. They left and she locked up, then started walking toward the bus stop. I pulled alongside her and said hello, and she got in the truck, and I drove away. But we hadn't gone very far before she remembered she had left her wallet behind. I circled back, parked in the same spot and she went back into the restaurant. I noticed she was taking a while, but thought maybe the wallet wasn't where she thought she had left it and she was looking around. Then I heard a loud popping—like firecrackers or a car backfiring. I thought that was what it was—someone shooting off firecrackers on the next street over. Then Camille came running out, dove into the truck and told me to get out of there. I drove away, and she told me what had happened—that Judge Hennessey had been killed, and the Chalk brothers did it. She had me drive her to the police station. She said she would go in and tell them what she had seen and I should go home and not tell anyone I had been there."

He set the half-full cup of bitter coffee in the cup holder and swiveled toward her. "I didn't want to leave her," he said. "I tried to convince her that we should go to the police together, but the suggestion made her frantic. She insisted there was no reason for me to risk coming to the Chalk brothers' attention. She had all the information the police would need. I needed to go home and be with our parents."

"So that's what you did."

He slid down in the seat. "That's what I did. The next day, police arrested the Chalk brothers, Camille went into protective custody and FBI agents showed up at my apartment and my parents' house."

"And you never said anything about being there that night?"

He blew out a breath. "Maybe I should have, but no one ever asked. Camille had it all under control. All the focus was on her, and I guess everyone believed her when she said she was at the restaurant by herself."

"But you were there," Shelby said. Clearly, she wasn't going to cut him any slack.

"Yes. I told you I was in my truck, parked across the street. I wasn't inside the restaurant."

"You heard the gunshot."

"Yes. Though I didn't know it was a gunshot."

She leaned toward him. "How many gunshots?"

"Two. Pop-pop." The sound had jolted him, but it hadn't frightened him. "It wasn't that loud, really."

"Did you see anyone near the restaurant before or after those shots?"

He hesitated. Shelby pounced on that hesitation. "What is it?" she demanded. "What did you see?"

"Right after the shots, a man ran into the intersection ahead of where I was parked."

The sharp intake of her breath told him she hadn't expected that. He braced himself for her to berate him for lying to her until now, but all she said was, "How long after?"

"A minute? Maybe a little less."

"Which direction did he run from?"

"From the direction of the restaurant. But I don't know that he came from the restaurant itself. He could have been walking down the street, heard the shots and they frightened him, so he ran."

"What did he look like?" she asked.

He closed his eyes, bringing the image in his memory into focus. "He was young—early twenties, maybe? He had kind of a large nose and a prominent chin. He was wearing dark pants and a white shirt."

"Would you recognize him if you saw him again?"

He had asked himself that question many times. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Did he see you?"

"No. He stopped in the middle of the intersection and looked my way, but I ducked down."

"Why did you do that?"

"I don't know." He shook his head. "I just reacted. I didn't think. When I raised my head again, he was gone."

"And you didn't think what you saw was important enough to mention?" Her voice was sharp, her words cutting.

"It was just a man in the street. I didn't think he had anything to do with the murder. Camille said the Chalk brothers killed the judge."

"That man could have been another potential witness. He could have even been the witness who guaranteed a conviction. The Chalk brothers might have gone free because you didn't say anything."

If she was trying to make him feel worse about his choice, she was wasting her breath. He had told himself all these things over the years. "I get it," he said. "I was a coward. I let my sister take the fall when I might have drawn some of the Chalk brothers' attention away from her. Don't think I'm proud of what happened, because I'm not." He turned the key in the ignition. "I'll take you to the motel."

She put a hand on his arm. "This isn't over," she said. "You have to give a formal statement. We'll get a forensic artist to work with you and come up with a picture of the man you saw. We might still be able to find him."

"He was just some poor kid on the street that night. He probably didn't have anything to do with the judge's murder. And he didn't kill Camille. That's the only death I care about."

"I want to find this man and talk to him."

"What difference is that going to make?" he asked. "The Chalk brothers were acquitted."

"You never know. It might make a difference."

"And then what happens? The Chalk brothers find out who I am, and I have to go into witness protection, like Camille? Are you going to tell my parents I died, too? Because I'm not going to put them through that."

"No one has to know about this," she said. "Even if we find the man you saw, no one has to know unless there's a new trial."

"A trial for what?"

"I don't know. But you have to give your statement."

He checked his mirrors, then pulled into the street and drove down the block to the motel. "I'm not going to talk about this anymore tonight," he said.

He could feel her staring and sensed her wanting to say more, but he kept his gaze forward and his mouth shut until he heard the door of the truck open and the slide of fabric against the upholstery as she got out. "We're not done," she said, just before she slammed the door.

"Yeah, we are," he said softly. She could grill him about what he had seen that night, and he could give all the details to an FBI artist to reconstruct the image of the fleeing man. But none of that would bring back Camille or find the man who had killed her.

None of that would put Shelby back in his arms or have her kissing him again. Kissing him as if she never wanted to stop.