With a sense of déjà vu, she found the turnoff to Brewster’s cabin. Not as isolated as Maurice Verdago’s hideout, but not on the main road either. She slowed to view a hand-hewn post of individual signs with arrows and the names of the families who owned recreational homes in the area:
Miller
Snyder
Jamison
And, at the very top, perhaps the oldest sign, the name Brewster was chiseled and painted into an ancient piece of wood that had been nailed to the post.
Gotcha, Pescoli thought, her heart racing, adrenaline firing her blood. She parked near the gate of one of the homes, a cabin, that from the lack of prints or tire tread in the snow, looked vacant, then left another message for Alvarez, ending with, “I’m going in.”
It didn’t matter that she was “a loose cannon” or “a rogue cop.” Not anymore. Not when she had Grayson’s assassin in her sights.
Clicking off her phone, she turned it to silent mode, then reached for her Glock.
He couldn’t waste any more time. As sheriff, he would be missed. As a husband, he would be questioned. As it was, there were holes in his days, holes he couldn’t explain, and Bess, somewhere along the line, had suspected he was having an affair. Oh, she’d never guessed the woman involved and had always just hinted around the issue.
“If I didn’t know better, Cort, I’d think you were involved with someone,” she’d said with a tremulous smile. “Good thing I know you’re a strong, Christian man.”
That was the problem, he was a man. With needs.
Another time, she’d muttered, “That mistress of yours really has her nails in you, doesn’t she?” When he hadn’t answered, she’d touched him playfully on the shoulder. “I’m talking about your work, silly. You knew that . . . right?”
Now, he finished his drink and stretched. He couldn’t afford a divorce and didn’t want one. He just wanted sex. Excitement. And, of course, to be sheriff. Well, maybe a little more than that. In a few years he could see himself entering the political arena . . . first a state senator and then . . . who knew?
He smiled at his ambitions but didn’t want to get ahead of himself. Dan Grayson was still alive.
And that was a problem.
She could see Brewster’s cabin through the trees. Lights flickered in the windows, smoke curled from the chimney, his Jeep was parked outside. He hadn’t been here too long as the Jeep was wet and dirty, no snow accumulating on its warm hood and roof.
Dusk was settling over the land, so she had a bit of cover. Still, she was careful as she approached, and when she heard the sound of an engine on the road behind her, she smiled inwardly.
She wasn’t alone. Alvarez had gotten her message.
Good, she thought, skirting the front of the house to the back exit. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her muscles straining. She thought of booby traps and trip wires, but knew Brewster wasn’t that clever or careful. This was his family’s recreation home, not the hideout of some antigovernment fanatic. Brewster wouldn’t take a risk with his daughters.
She picked her way over the clearing where a dilapidated swing set collected snow, its rusted chains creaking in the wind.
She reached for the door handle and turned.
The cold metal knob twisted in her fingers.
It was now or never.
Running his fingers over the smooth wood of his father’s table, he decided he couldn’t put it off any longer. He had to leave. His head was a little fuzzy from the drink, but he felt good, pumped, ready to take on the world.
He walked into the bathroom and, humming to himself, he stood over the toilet and peed like a damned stallion, a heavy, strong stream that was as loud as it was steady.
Yeah, he had a few good years left, he thought, walking out of the john.
Regan Pescoli was standing in the middle of his living room, her Glock pointed directly at his head.
If he hadn’t just relieved himself, he would have emptied his bladder all over the floor.
His rifle was near the back door. His pistol in his holster.
As if reading his mind, she warned, “Don’t even think about it. Put your hands over your head and get on the floor.”