55
The wind whistled through the treetops, and Cash heard, somewhere off in the woods, a branch cracking and falling. The storm that had been predicted in the mountains that day was arriving, but she hadn’t expected the wind would be so strong. As she approached the cabin, Willy Grooms’s sculptures, darkening in the rain, loomed around her. She could see Solitary Lake beyond the cabin, a roiling mess, surface churned into whitecaps, waves slapping the shore. The crime scene had finally been released, and the place was no longer being watched over by deputies.
She was alone.
She tried to put herself inside the mind of Grooms. Where would he hide something? The rain lashed down and the ground was muddy and slippery in spots. Cash worked methodically, dividing the search area into sections and taking each one in turn—overturning every rock, peering inside hollow logs, and searching each sculpture for something—anythingthat might be the artifact she was now certain Devotio had killed Grooms for. Next, she went down to the shore, turning over stones, and checking out two shabby canoes and a rowboat, pulled up amid some reeds at the edge of the lake and turned upside down. Nothing there. She poked around an old chair and a broken rod next to the spot that Grooms apparently used for fishing. Again nothing. By the time she’d finished, she was soaked and cranky.
She turned her attention to the cabin. It had been thoroughly searched, multiple times even, but there was always a chance something had beenmissed. Thankful to get out of the rain, she went inside and rechecked every board for looseness, tapping the walls, and moved every item. If only she had an idea,anyidea, of what she was looking for—the size, shape, or material. Maybe some errant book pulled from a shelf would open a secret tunnel, or a trapdoor under a rug would lead to a basement full of wonders. The clichés made her laugh at herself as she continued to search.
But once again, she found nothing.
Discouraged and frustrated, she went out on the porch and plopped herself down in a rickety old rocking chair that looked out over the lake. The churning surface had temporarily settled; there was a lull in the storm, and the rain had turned into a light drizzle. The water was the color of slate, the mountains beyond wrapped in gloomy clouds.
For the thousandth time, she pondered where Grooms might have hidden it. What if he’d buried it deep in the forest somewhere? If so, Cash imagined it might never be found. The woods werevast. But no, Grooms seemed like the type of person to keep his treasures close. It was too important to have been hidden far away, where it could be stolen without him knowing. She felt sure it had to be somewhere nearby, somewhere accessible—somewhere in view.
She watched the lake lap at the edge of the shore, and her eyes wandered again to the canoes and the chair with a dilapidated fishing pole. It must have been an enormous pain to lug those boats up the trail… and why would he need all three of them, especially if he fished from the shore? One would suffice, she thought, for boating, fishing, or… hunting for gold?
She decided to give them a closer look.
Getting out of the chair, Cash walked down to the lakeside. The canoe paddles were inside each boat, stored upside down. She tilted one over to see if anything was in it, but it was empty. She turned her attention to the second canoe. There were paddles in this one, but it had no seats. It was pretty dinged and scratched up, and in the bottom, there was a lot of grit, sand, and pebbles, like it had been carrying rocks or something. Ore, perhaps? The rowboat was in bad shape, the oars battered, the blades cracked.
As she left the beach to return to the cabin, she caught a glimpse ofa person in camo suddenly appearing where the trail came out of the trees—and then another. She froze for a split second too long, her heart suddenly pounding in her throat. They saw her and scattered, drawing weapons. She sprinted back down the beach and dropped down into the reeds, landing on her chest. Almost simultaneously, an explosion of mud rocketed into the sky where she had just been standing, to the muted snap of gunfire.
Holy crap, they were shooting at her. But the gun was oddly quiet—maybe from a silencer.
Panting, her heart hammering, Cash crawled through the tall reeds, trying not to cause them to move and give away her location, hoping to God they were hiding her from view. She heard a second shot and a gout of water went up in the reeds to her right. Quelling her panic, she instinctively felt for the Baby Glock at her hip for reassurance. But to return fire would only give away her position, and the sidearm had a short range. She had glimpsed at least two people and there were probably more, perhaps all armed. Almost certainly the same people who had killed Grooms, Castillo, and Reno. They must have followed her.
Cash was alone. Nobody knew she was here—except Colcord. She checked her phone, just to be sure. No service.
She heaved a breath and bear-crawled deeper into the reeds. Another bullet zinged ten feet in front of her, kicking up mud. Cash ducked her head lower, wiggling deeper into the shallow water, trying not to knock the reeds about, which fortunately were already being thrashed about by the wind. The gunfire seemed to be coming from the trees near the cabin, about a hundred feet away. They were shooting somewhat randomly into the reeds, which meant they probably couldn’t see her. Cash looked down at her bright yellow raincoat. Son of a bitch, it was like a Day-Glo target. She wrestled it off and shoved it into the reeds.
Rolling on her back, she peered through the stalks, trying to get eyes on the shooters. She could see at least three dark shapes using the trees as cover. One of the individuals—a short one—leaned out from behind the tree and fired, the bullet smacking the water behind her. They ducked behind the tree again before she could make anything out.
Fishing out her binoculars, she leaned back and tried to get eyes on them. One leaned out and took careful aim with a handgun, and shethought she recognized the distinct outline of a Brügger & Thomet Veterinary Pistol. A gun meant to dispatch dying animals. It was one of the quietest 9mm pistols on the market—but it had an effective range of only about five meters.
Now she could see a huge man in what looked like a cape or robes opening a case and taking out sections of a long-range precision rifle and tripod. Working swiftly, he began assembling it. He was exposed, out in the open, but certainly out of range of her Glock. The wind and rain were hindering him, but she needed to get far away from that bastard before he assembled that rifle.
Cash looked around. The two canoes were behind her, out in the open. The rope that was attached to the stern of the first one was trailing in the mud and tangled near her feet among the reeds. The reeds were tall and covered the lakeside, spreading at least thirty feet out into the water. If she pulled the canoe toward her, and quickly launched it into the lake, she might just be able to put in some distance before they set up the rifle.
Another bullet zinged about eight feet behind her feet. She grasped the slippery rope in two hands, gritted her teeth, and heaved. It was difficult from the lying-down position she was in, but she managed it, biceps bulging. The canoe slid toward her—aided by slick mud and Cash’s rushing adrenaline. It eased into the shallow water, and the bow nudged against her feet. Silently, she thanked her trainer, Max, again. If she made it out of here, he would be elated that his sessions had saved her life… what a terrific Yelp review that would make.
A round punched through the gunwale of the boat, sending splinters in all directions.
She maneuvered the bow with her foot so it was pointing toward the lake. If she ducked and ran with her hands on the gunwales, pushing it forward, she might be able to gather enough momentum to glide it out into the water and from there get out of range of the VP 9. It would be risky, but it was her only chance. She rolled onto her back next to the canoe, watching as two silhouettes ducked from behind pines directly next to the right side of the cabin. She waited. Two consecutive shots rang out—one round smacking the water next to her head, the other toher left. They were closer this time and zeroing in. Thank God the VP 9 was so inaccurate.
It was time to act. Keeping low, she ran through the shallow water, with her right hand guiding the canoe. The boat slid over the water with ease, and she launched her body over the side and landed heavily in the bottom. It rocked violently and almost tipped over before settling down, but continued to glide away, greatly assisted by the wind. She heard a trio of quick shots. Another bullet hit the water even farther from the canoe.
She sat up on the seat and began paddling furiously. She was certainly in range of that sniper rifle, which probably could cover most of the lake, but the farther she could get, the better. She aimed toward the far shore. Thank God, the rising wind was at her back, pushing her along through the chop and adding greatly to her speed.
Reaching the center of the lake, she spied something bobbing in the chop. A stick. A fairly large stick—but it was moving strangely in the water. Disappearing under a wave before reappearing, as if something was dragging it down. The canoe was heading straight for it, and Cash gave the stern a little rudder to avoid it—and then saw it was attached to something with a heavy fishing line wrapped around its center. Another shot rang out. It was louder and sharper—and she realized with a moment of terror that they must have set up the rifle.
A realization broke through the fear: WasthisWilly’s hiding place? Where there was a line attached to a stick, like a buoy. Where nobody would find it.
She reached down and seized the stick as it slid past the canoe, causing the boat to stop and turn sharply—and thank God it did, as the next shot struck the water where she would have been. It wasn’t a stick at all, she discovered, but a cleverly carved and painted piece of plastic. Heaving it up and in, she ducked down and began pulling like mad, hauling in the line. Another shot tore through the top of the gunwale, showering her with splinters.
Suddenly, the shooting stopped. That was immediately followed by a fusillade of muffled shots that sounded farther away, coming from a different weapon. Cash peered over the top of the gunwale and saw that the silhouettes of the shooters had moved away from the shoreline and theywere running to take cover farther back in the trees. She could see unmistakable muzzle flashes from someone returning fire at the shooters, a man in a cowboy hat crouching behind a large stone by the lakeside.
Colcord, firing on her attackers.
Cash resumed pulling on the rope, and whatever she had been in the process of hauling up thumped up against the bottom of the boat and then came up from the water. She heaved it over the side. It landed on the floor of the canoe, a small yellow rubber dry bag. She didn’t have time to look to see what it was. She seized the paddle and sat up, digging it into the water and shooting forward, expecting another shot at any instant. But Colcord still seemed to be fully distracting them, allowing her to get away across the lake.
Cash looked back from where she’d come. She needed to reverse course and get back on shore to help Colcord. As she turned the canoe to head back toward a landing spot farther down the shore, she saw from her vantage point in the middle of the lake something on the eastern shore that wasn’t visible from the cabin—a small waterfall. And she could just make out the shadow of a cave behind the falling water. Waves of rain and mist were now sweeping across the lake, partly obscuring her view of the shore, which she hoped would cover her approach.
She kept paddling frantically, weaving the canoe, expecting the shot that never seemed to come. Thank God she had grown up in Maine and knew how to handle a canoe. She saw a commotion on the shore and heard several more shots fired from a handgun—Colcord was suddenly swarmed by several people in camo. He seemed to have hit one, but then she heard him cry out, his Stetson flying off into the water. She stifled a shout as they dragged him back toward the cabin. His Stetson, splattered with blood, floating on the lake, was propelled by the wind through the water.
