Filed to story: Return of the Reaper Story
“Good one, Cy,” Dauber said with a lazy smile.
“Did Isay that?” Godshall asked in mock innocence, eyebrows raised.
* * *
The joke was on them.Three days later, Dauber picked up the phone to take a call from Washington.
“Special Agent Lindsay Dauber, Georgia Bureau of Investigation, Investigative Division, how may I help you?”
“Hey, Lindsay. This is Laura Strand with the US marshals, Missing Child Unit.” The voice was friendly enough on the surface, but Dauber could sense this lady was all business. And an ugly business it was, dealing with runaways, abductees, and other damaged kids.
“How can we help you, Marshal?”
“You recently reported the homicide of a known sex offender. An Alexander Krogstad of Peachtree City, Georgia.” Only people outside Georgia called Peachtree “Peachtree City.” Dauber had learned that in her sixth year since moving south from Long Island.
“That’s still an open case.”
“I think we may be able to help each other out on that one, Agent Dauber. We believe it links to several other homicide cases in the southeast. There are a number of similarities.”
“You’re certainly welcome to look over what we have, Marshal. Though I gotta tell you, it’s not a lot. Send me your request and authorization, and we’ll send you what we have.”
“Actually, I’m already en route to Decatur. Another agent and I will be there this afternoon. I was hoping we could meet and share notes. It would be a big help.”
“My partner and I are on the clock until five. We’ll give you all the help we can.”
“I’ve already contacted your deputy director. He’s authorized overtime for both you and Agent Godshall.
“Oh. Oh, well, then. We look forward to your arrival.”
“Thank you, Agent Dauber. See you in a few.” The line went dead.
“Shit fuck,” Dauber said. She replaced the phone in its dock.
“You have a problem, Linds?” Godshall looked up from the monitor on his desk.
“No.
Wehave a problem, Cy. Feds.”
“Shit fuck,” Godshall said.
==
“Damnedest thing. Damnedest thing,”Uncle Fern said mostly to himself as he fussed over the stovetop.
“Daddy says they were shooting at us, whoever it was.” Merry sat at the table in the kitchen of the Kane farmhouse. The grilled cheese, ‘mater, and onion sandwich, one of her uncle’s specialties, sat untouched before her by a bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup.
“Someone tried to kill you?” Hope asked, eyes wide. She was sitting in the chair opposite her.
“Daddy says they might have been trying to scare us.”
“Scare you? Like those hills belong to them or like that? Like they have a goddamned right?” Fern scooped a finished sandwich from the skillet with a spatula and dropped it on a fresh plate.
“Maybe it was an accident,” Hope said, eyes still locked on her big sister, ignoring the plate of steaming gooey goodness her adoptive uncle placed before her.
“That’s not what Daddy says. Whoever took the shot had the same line of sight on that buck as we did. It was ushe was shooting at.”
“I hunted the woods since me and your grandad were boys. Up there I don’t know how many times a year,” Fern groused. “Ain’t heard of an accident in season in I don’t know how many years.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” Merry insisted.
“Your daddy say what kind of round was fired at you?”
“He said something military.”
“It was a .223,” Isaac said from the doorway as he entered the house. He’d finished cleaning the Hawkens muzzleloaders out in his work shed and had them cradled in his arms.
“You tell from the sound of it?” Fern said.
“And the keyhole impact in the wood of the tree we were using for cover.”
Fern nodded in confirmation. He was as familiar as Isaac with the sound of that particular round, having humped a Mike-Mike of his own in Hue City and the Ia Drang Valley during his two tours in Vietnam. The flat bark of the military round was as unmistakable as the wicked signature wound it made, which looked more like a knife puncture than a bullet strike.
“Damnedest thing,” Fern grumbled. “More AR-15s in this county than sense.”
“What do you do?” Hope asked around a mouthful of bread and cheese. She’d finally succumbed to the lure of the toasted sandwich. “Do you tell the police?”
“Now, you know we’re not the types to bother with the law,” Fern said from the counter, where he was assembling a sandwich for himself.
“Then what will you do?” Hope turned to Isaac, who’d returned to the kitchen after hanging the rifles over the fireplace mantle.
“I don’t see as there’s anything we can do, Hope.” Isaac poured himself a mug of coffee and sat down before his own plate.
Merry knew by the set of her father’s jaw that he had said that only for Hope’s benefit.
* * *
Isaac returnedto his work shed after lunch, leaving the girls and his uncle to watch a movie in the living room. He had his own movies to watch, though he found them to be an unpleasant chore.