When? How? Why?
Wouldn’t someone—Madison, J.T., Georgie, Rob, the damn mailman—have heard or seen something?
They’d run up to Manchester last night. It could have happened then, when no one was home.
The windows faced east across the side yard and the garage, the barn, Joshua Brook. A hunter or target shooter could have been in the woods near the brook and accidentally landed a stray bullet in her dining room, panicked, slipped inside and dug it out.
“Ha,” she said aloud.
This was no accident.
Lucy was shaking, sick to her stomach. If she called the police, she’d be up all night. She’d have to explain to Madison and J.T. Rob’s grandmother had a scanner—she’d call Rob, and he and Patti would come over.
And that was just the beginning. The police would call Washington. The Capitol Police would want to know if the incidents had anything to do with Jack Swift. He would be notified.
She staggered to her feet and picked up her tea.
Now was she desperate enough to ask Sebastian Redwing for help?
She ran into the kitchen, dumped her tea down the sink and locked the back door. She went into her bedroom to pack. “You need a dog,” she muttered to herself. “That’s all.”
A big dog. A big dog that barked.
“A big, ugly dog that barks.”
He’d take care of intruders, and she could train him to go fishing with J.T. Even Madison would like a dog.
That settled it. Never mind Redwing. When she got back from Wyoming, she’d see about getting a dog.
Two
Sebastian slipped off his horse and collapsed in the shade of a cottonwood. He was out on the far reaches of his property where no one could find him. Still, the bastards had. Two of them. In a damn Jeep. It was bouncing toward him. He could take his horse through the river, but the idiots would probably come after him.
He sipped water from his canteen, took off his hat and poured a little water over his head. He could use a shower. The air was hot and dusty. Dry. He hoped the dopes in the Jeep had water with them. He wasn’t planning on sharing any of his canteen. Well, they could drink out of the river.
The Jeep got closer. “Easy,” Sebastian told his horse, who didn’t look too worried or even that hot.
A man jumped out just as the Jeep came to a stop about twenty yards off. “Mr. Redwing?”
Sebastian grimaced. It was never a good sign when someone called him Mr. Redwing. Not that chasing him in a Jeep was a good sign.
He tipped his hat over his eyes and leaned back on his elbows. “What?”
“Mr. Redwing,” the man said. “I’m Jim Charger. Mr. Rabedeneira sent me to find you.”
“So?”
Charger didn’t speak. He was a new hire, probably waiting for Sebastian to get up and act like the man who’d founded and built Redwing Associates, a premier international security and investigative firm. Instead he kept his hat over his eyes, enjoying the relief from the Wyoming summer sun.
Finally, he sighed. Jim Charger wasn’t going anywhere until he delivered his message. Sebastian liked Plato Rabedeneira. They’d been friends since their early twenties. He’d trust Plato with his life, the lives of his friends. But if Plato had been the other man in the Jeep, Sebastian would have tied him to this cottonwood and left him.
“Okay, Mr. Charger.” He tipped his hat back and eyed the man in front of him. Tall, blond, very fit, dressed in expensive western attire that was no doubt dustier now than it had ever been. A Washington import. Probably ex-FBI. Sebastian could feel the blood pounding behind his eyes. “What’s up?”
If Sebastian Redwing wasn’t proving to be what Jim Charger had expected, he kept it to himself. “Mr. Rabedeneira asked me to give you a message. He says to tell you Darren Mowery is back.”
Sebastian made sure he had no visible reaction. Inside, the blood pounded harder behind his eyes. He’d left Mowery for dead a year ago. “Back where?”
“Washington.”
“What’s Plato want me to do about it?”
“I don’t know. He asked me to deliver the message. He said to tell you it was important.”
Darren Mowery hated Sebastian more than most of his enemies did. Once, Sebastian would have trusted Mowery with his life, with the lives of his friends. No more.
“One other thing,” Charger said.
Sebastian smiled faintly. “This is the thing Plato said to tell me if I didn’t jump in your Jeep with you?”
No reaction. “Mowery has made contact with a woman in Senator Swift’s office.”
Jack Swift, now the senior senator from the state of Rhode Island. A gentleman politician, a man of integrity and dedication to public service, father-in-law to Lucy Blacker Swift.
Damn, Sebastian thought.
At the reception following Lucy Blacker and Colin Swift’s wedding, Colin had made Sebastian promise he’d look after Lucy if anything happened to him. “Not,” Colin had said, “that Lucy will want looking after. But you know what I mean.”
Sebastian hadn’t, not really. He didn’t have anyone in his life to look after. His parents were dead. He had no brothers and sisters, no wife, no children. Professionally, though, he was pretty damn good at looking after people. That mostly had to do with keeping them alive and their pockets from getting picked. It didn’t have to do with friendship, a promise made to a man who would be dead thirteen years later at age thirty-six.
Colin must have known. Somehow, he must have guessed he would have a short life, and his wife and whatever children they had would end up having to go on without him.
When Sebastian had made his promise, he’d never imagined he’d have to keep it.
“What do you want me to tell Mr. Rabedeneira?” Charger asked.
Sebastian tilted his hat back over his eyes. A year ago, he’d shot Darren Mowery and thought he’d killed him. It was carelessness on his part he hadn’t known until now whether Mowery was dead or alive. In his business, that kind of lapse was intolerable. There was no excuse. It didn’t matter that Darren had once been his mentor, his friend, or that Sebastian had watched him send himself straight into hell. When you shot someone, you were supposed to find out if you’d killed him. It was a rule.
But this was about Jack Swift. It wasn’t about Lucy. Plato would have to handle Darren Mowery. Given his personal involvement, Sebastian would only muck up the works.
“Tell Plato I’m retired,” Sebastian said.
“Retired?”
“Yes. He knows. Remind him.”
Charger didn’t move.
Sebastian pictured Lucy on the front porch of his grandmother’s house, and he could almost feel the Vermont summer breeze, hear the brook, smell the cool water, the damp moss. Lucy had needed to get out of Washington, and he’d made it happen. He’d kept his promise. He no longer owed Colin.
He decided to stop thinking about Lucy. It had never done him any good.
“You’ve delivered your message, Mr. Charger,” Sebastian said. “Now go deliver mine.”
“Yes, sir.”
The man left. Sebastian suspected he hadn’t lived up to Jim Charger’s expectations.