“He’s from Washington State, not the city.”
Dalton pauses. “So what state is Washington city in?”
“None. I’ll explain later. Garcia said his fugitive was dangerous. Someone who attacked a federal officer is dangerous … especially in the eyes of another federal officer. But Garcia made it sound like we were dealing with a homicidal maniac. That’s not a guy who beats up an officer at a protest march. On the other hand, Garcia may have played up the crime to spook us into handing him his guy.”
“So, no strong feeling either way?”
“Unfortunately, no.” I ease off his lap and turn to face him. “Is Paul’s story the one you know?”
“Yeah. It’s true, too. When he wanted to join the militia, I looked it up. If he assaulted a federal agent, I had to be sure it went the way he said it did. I found the story online. No red flags there.”
“Then whether or not Garcia came for Paul is a moot point. The problem is that Paul thought he did. He won’t be the only one, either. Finding out who Garcia did come for doesn’t necessarily solve his murder.”
Which made our job a whole lot harder.
* * *
I tell the town that Garcia is dead. I have to. If Paul’s suicide had succeeded, his death would have been on me. My attempt to trap a killer would have taken an innocent life.
Now I’m back at square one. I can’t even narrow it down by looking at residents accused of US federal crimes. Yes, Dalton knows resident backstories, and he shares them with me on a need-to-know basis only. In this case, I need to know. The problem is twofold. One, the entry stories aren’t necessarily true. Two, Artie tried to kill Garcia thinking he was a cartel goon posing as a federal agent. The killer could very well have mistaken Garcia for a hired killer or a bounty hunter. Hell, at this point, we aren’t even absolutely certain he’s not.
I get some sleep. I have to. I’m running on fumes.
Dalton brings Storm home. We pull the blackout blinds and keep the alarm off and crash into dreamless sleep.
Six hours later, Dalton comes downstairs to find me in my bra and panties, stretched out on the bearskin rug, as I jot notes in my book, Storm by my side. He walks past me without a word and bends in front of the fire, which is down to smoldering ashes.
“Sorry,” I say. “I forgot to stoke it.”
“Kettle won’t boil without fire,” he says, nodding at the kettle I set over the wood. He pulls the handle to bring the kettle in. As he hefts it, he frowns. Then he tilts it. Nothing runs out.
“There was water,” I say. “It must have boiled dry.”
“Do I even want to ask how long you’ve been up?”
He shakes his head as he takes the kettle into the kitchen, and then brings it back, hangs it, and relights the fire.
Dalton sits cross-legged beside me. He doesn’t say a word. Just sits and watches as I write. When I finish jotting a few notes, I glance up. He’s wearing only his boxers, and I tilt my head to admire the view as my fingertips tickle his bare thigh.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he says.
I sigh and roll onto my back. “Sorry. Just…” I make a face. “Busy.”
“Nah.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and taps my temple. “Busy.”
“Same thing.”
“No.” He shifts closer and leans over me. “Garcia is dead. His killer isn’t going anywhere. Nor is that killer likely to be a danger to anyone else. You could sleep more. You just…” He taps my temple again. “Can’t sleep more. Your brain’s spinning like a clothes dryer.”
I smile. “Clothes dryers don’t actually spin very fast.”
“Tornado then. I’ve never seen one of those either, but I know it’s fast.” He pauses. “I’ve used dryers in hotels. Just never paid any attention to how they work.”
I laugh.
“What?” he says.
“The way you say that. As if you have inexcusably missed an opportunity by not observing the normal operating habits of clothes-drying machines. But yes, your point is taken. My brain’s spinning. I did manage to sleep for a few hours. After that, I couldn’t, and it made more sense to spew my thoughts on the page.”