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“If she’s in trouble, and you’re holding out—”
“I’m not!”
Rawlins came up off the barstool. “You expect us to believe that you haven’t seen or heard from your daughter in years?”
Wes glowered. “I’m a crook, not a liar.”
Wilson interrupted their exchange before it became more contentious. “Calm down, Wes.”
“My ass, I’ll calm down.” He popped up from his chair. “You wake me up, tell me Brynn’s in danger from hit men at the beck and call of a senator, who I’d bet good money is crookeder than me. She’s in the company of a…a…bush pilot, who’s a lightning rod for trouble. Why aren’t y’all out combing the city for her instead of grilling me?”
Wilson stood. “Do you have a phone, Wes?”
“Doesn’t everybody?”
He and Wilson exchanged phone numbers. “I’m sorry we upset you, Wes. I hope there’s a logical and harmless outcome to all this. Rawlins and I may be overstepping, completely wrong about the Hunts, Dr. Lambert, all that.”
“But you have a hunch that something’s not square.”
“A strong hunch,” Wilson said. “And somebody’s got to answer for the assault on Brady White. Now I don’t know if Brynn is guilty of wrongdoing or not. But there are a lot of questions pivoting around her. So far she’s failed to provide us with straight answers.”
“You’re making Brynn sound like a criminal on the run.”
Wilson said, “Well, just before we got here, we got a call from the office. Myra. Remember her?”
“Sure, sure. What?”
“A call came into the Howardville hospital from a man asking about Brady White’s condition. People answering the hospital lines had been asked to get as much info as they could from anyone calling about him. Lady got flustered.” He told Wes the gist of the conversation. “He must’ve smelled a rat. Hung up.”
“Or he could’ve been a friend who heard what he wanted to know.”
“Possibly. Except that we got the number, passed it on to local departments, and the phone the call came from was found in a trash can at the airport. Which is a trick that somebody on the run would pull to throw us off their trail.”
“Brynn would never think to do that,” Wes said. “Me? Yeah. But not her.”
“Mallett would.” In his bad-cop voice, Rawlins said, “If she contacts you, we need to know immediately. If you harbor her or Mallett, your parole officer will be the first person I call.”
Wes scowled at him. “Don’t threaten me, Clemson. I’m not afraid of jail. Find my girl, make sure she’s safe. That’s all I care about.” He opened the front door. “Now get out of here and get to it.”
Wilson paused on the threshold. “You have my number, Wes.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Once Wilson was through the door, Wes latched the screen and slammed the door. Locks snapped.
The two deputies walked back to their SUV. Wilson said, “I don’t think he had a clue about any of it.”
“He seemed genuinely upset,” Rawlins said, then chuckled. “And actually took offense when I questioned his truthfulness.”
“That’s Wes,” Wilson said. “He’s a crook, not a liar.”
11:23 p.m.
Wes turned off lights as he made his way back to his bedroom.
As soon as he cleared the doorway, an arm came out from behind the door, hooked his throat in the bend of the elbow, hauled him up against a hard chest, and applied choking pressure to this windpipe.
“Not one word,” he was told in a growl.
With his air cut off, he couldn’t have uttered a peep. He wouldn’t have even if he could. He was crooked, not courageous.
