“Wouldn’t it make more sense to look in the daylight?” asks Diana.
“We did,” says Alex. “But even so, we missed the trail I came down just now. I’m looking for anything that stands out. A piece of clothing, a shoe, a credit card …”
“Sorry. We haven’t noticed anything. But we haven’t really been looking.” Leigh shrugs.
“We’re just here to relax,” says Nell. “Do some stargazing.”
“And a little drinking,” Diana adds.
“Yeah,” says Nell. “That too.”
Suddenly, Alex hears the crack of gunfire. Not too near, but close enough to make him flinch. “What the hell was that?”
“Oh, yeah,” says Nell, rolling her eyes. “That happens every night.”
“We’ve gotten used to it,” says Diana.
“Where’s it coming from?” asks Alex.
Diana points across the clearing toward a low hill, a dark rippleagainst the sky. “About a half a mile away,” she says. “There’s an old farmhouse off the utility road. Big yard. Barbed wire all around it.”
“We passed it on our way in,” says Leigh. “Probably some survivalist or doomsdayer. I guess he likes to do target practice at night.”
“Did you see anybody?” asks Alex.
“No, nobody was around when we passed it during the day.”
Another volley of shots rings out, echoing against the hills and trees.
“That’s a military rifle,” says Alex. “Full auto.” He tries to triangulate the source. “Which way is the farmhouse?”
“Just follow the curve of the stream and go over the hill,” says Leigh, pointing into the distance.
“You can’t miss the place,” says Diana.
“That’s for sure,” says Nell. “Whoever he is, I bet he’s the whitest white man for miles around.”
“Why do you say that?” Alex asks.
Nell shrugs. “You’ll see.”
CHAPTER 80
Sampson
OVER THE YEARS, I’VE discussed criminal cases in my downtown office, at FBI headquarters, in police stations, on airplanes, and at murder scenes.
I like my backyard better.
Especially when I’m in good company.
I’m sitting next to Anna Rizzo at my redwood picnic table, while my daughter, Willow, and Rizzo’s kids, Juan and Tina, run around. They’re playing a game they call Disintegrator Man. It’s like hide-and-seek but with a flashlight. If the beam hits you—poof!—you’re disintegrated, which means you have to fall on the ground and pretend to vaporize. Squealing is encouraged.
The grill is cooling down, and the paper plates have all been stuffed in the trash. Everybody’s full and happy. Rizzo and I are enjoying a couple of cold beers from my cooler. It’s a little late forthe kids to be up, but Rizzo doesn’t mind making an exception, and neither do I.
Rizzo sips her beer and thumbs through the pile of manila folders on the picnic table. At her request, it’s a working dinner. She’s wearing a gray U.S. Army T-shirt and khaki shorts. On one arm is the tattoo I saw earlier, the one from her time in the service. On her other arm is another kind of marker—a shiny patch of scar tissue.
Rizzo sees me checking it out. She takes another sip of her beer and taps her scar with the neck of the bottle. “Purple Heart number one,” she says. “Got too close to a booby-trapped door.”
