Dunk was serious. Reid, too. I think Reid was itching for the chance to put a bullet in me.
My fingers wrapped around the gun’s grip. I took the .38 in my hand and picked it up. “How did you find her?”
“I have people everywhere. Nobody can hide from me. She was tough, but I’ve found tougher.”
The gun felt cold to my touch, lighter than I remembered. “Cammie Brotherton, Jeffery Dalton, Jaquelyn Breece, or Keith Pickford.”
“Who?”
I looked up at him. “I do this, and you help me find them, too. Cammie Brotherton, Jeffery Dalton, Jaquelyn Breece, and Keith Pickford. They went to Penn State with my parents.”
Dunk smiled again. “I think I can—”
Spinning in my chair, I pointed the .38 at Reid’s chest and pulled the trigger.
There were two audible clicks.
The first came from the .38 in my hand as the hammer came down on an empty cylinder. The second click came from the gun in Reid’s hand as the 9mm failed to fire in return.
I jumped up from the table and slammed the .38 into his hand, smashing his fingers. This time, the 9mm did go off. The bullet went wide and clicked off metal somewhere deep in the shadows.
Dunk was up too, his bad leg shaking under the sudden weight. “Holy shit! Did you see that! Did you see that?”
I stepped back from all of them and pointed the .38 at Reid’s face. “Drop it!”
“Holy shit. I can’t believe that!” Dunk said. “Do it, Reid. Drop the gun.”
“I’ve got him dead center.”
“It won’t work.”
“Bullshit.”
I pulled the trigger—the .38 hit another empty cylinder.
Reid fired again, too. A hollowclick.
“The .38 is empty, Jack,” Dunk said. “I palmed the bullet, see?” He held up a brass casing. “Holy shit. I didn’t think you’d really do it, but just in case you did, I couldn’t let you shoot yourself!”
Reid and I both stared at his gun.
Dunk’s eyes landed on the 9mm, too. “That one, though. I didn’t touch. Holy shit. Put it away, Reid. Holy shit, is my ticker racing right now!”
Reid reluctantly lowered the gun, thumbed the safety back on, and placed the 9mm back in his holster. His face flushed with anger.
Dunk steadied himself with his cane and came around the table. He took a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. “She’s here. I don’t know for how long, though.”
I took the note and studied the address. “Are you sure?”
He nodded. “I’ll see what I can do on those other names. You’ve earned it. My boys will take you back to your car.” He started toward the two Escalades parked outside. “Holy shit,” I heard him say again. “My boy, Jack Thatch. Can’t believe you actually pulled the trigger.” He laughed. “He who cannot die pulled the trigger, my hero.”
3
Dewey Hobson had eluded him.
David Pickford was willing to admit that.
To grow as a human being, it was important to understand your limitations, your mistakes, and even your failures. And he had failed to find Dewey Hobson in the four years since deciding to do so. In his defense, the Charter files on Hobson were thin, not like the others. There were false leads, too. When Elfrieda Leech graciously told him Dewey Hobson was hiding in Tennessee about halfway between the Great Smoky Mountains and the Cumberland Plateau outside of Mascot, she fully believed he was there. She wasn’t wrong about that. Dewey Hobson had been there, for nearly six years. He called House Mountain his home. But when David and his team arrived four years ago, in April of 1994, he had moved on, leaving nothing behind but an empty two-room cabin, some old dishes, and a few burnt out logs in the hearth.
