With no car, it was that much harder to trace someone. A middle-aged, middle-sized white guy with a bland, nondescript face—it would be practically impossible to find him with no kids and no car. He could start a new email address and a new PayPal account, find new clients, and be gone.
“You’re going to kill again,” Jericho said. He was talking to himself as much as to Wooderson. “If I don’t stop you, someone else is going to die. Maybe more than one person, if they aren’t quick enough to catch you at the next stop.”
Wooderson’s smile was placid, almost beatific. “You can’t stop me, Deputy. You have absolutely no evidence. No possible excuse for arresting me.”
Jericho didn’t need an excuse; he could just do it. He could arrest the bastard, hold him for as long as possible, and hope that gave the FBI and the rest of the team time to find the evidence they needed. But there wouldn’t be much opportunity. Even if Jericho lied and said Wooderson had attacked him, he’d be free on bail in no time, or released without charges.
Wooderson stepped forward. “So, out of my way, Deputy. I’ve got an appointment in—well, I’m not quite sure where, yet. But I’m eager to find out.”
His smile faded a little when Jericho didn’t move, and a little more when he saw Jericho’s hand resting on his gun. He shook his head. “No. You don’t have the guts.”
“Guts? You think it takesgutsto do what you do?” There was an unfamiliar trembling in Jericho’s voice, but he kept talking anyway. “You think it takes guts to shoot an unarmed person? That’s a sign of courage to you?”
“I’ve nevershotanyone, Deputy. Now, step away from my car.”
Jericho drew his gun. His mind was in turmoil, hopping around too quickly for him to be able to think anything through. Was there another way? Was this right? Was there any way he could do it and not get caught? Was he willing to throw his whole life away for this? His job, sure. But his freedom? He’d be in jail for a long time, or else he’d become a fugitive, scuttling around forever, never able to stay anywhere or build anything. He’d lose Wade. Whatever was going on with Wade, he’d lose it.
But what would happen if hedidn’tstop Wooderson? He thought of Fernandez, flying across the country on her own time, her own dime, obsessed with the man she’d let get away. He thought of Nikki and the kids, getting beat up because Jericho hadn’t stopped Eli. He’d have blood on his hands if he did this, but he’d have someone else’s blood, some innocent woman’s blood on his hands, if he didn’t.
He raised the gun, and Wooderson’s eyes widened. “You—” he started, and then his head jerked back, the black hole in his forehead seeming to grow as his body tumbled to the ground.
Thebangcame a moment later, and Jericho stared down at the gun he was still pointing toward where Wooderson had been standing.
Wooderson was dead, the pool of blood by his head spreading gradually, a dark gloss on the driveway.
But Jericho hadn’t pulled the trigger. And the sound—the delay—someone else had fired, someone at a distance.
Jericho whirled to look at the darkened street. There was a car already driving away from down the block, red taillights the only thing visible. The car had been closer when the shot was fired, close enough that there would have been a clear line of sight. The shooter was in the car, and was leaving the scene.
Jericho stayed where he was for a moment, then bent over and checked Wooderson’s neck for a pulse. There was none, just as he’d known there wouldn’t be.
He straightened in time to see the taillights disappear as the car turned a corner. Then he walked slowly back to his cruiser. Wooderson was dead, and Jericho hadn’t killed him. And he wasn’t going to chase after the person who had.
