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“No. I’ve been trying to talk to him. Haven’t got him to open up yet.”
“How often does he come in?”
“Three times a week. Takes a cab every time.”
“Anyone ever with him?”
“Never. He’s a loner’s loner. He doesn’t like people much.”
Liu had said the same. “What does he shoot?”
“Three hundred rounds of solid copper hollow-point forty-fives. Every time.”
“That’s a law enforcement round.”
“Your boy here shot the same.” He nods to Sheridan. I watch Sheridan’s jaw clench and hold. “But there are civilians who use that ammunition. Hollow-point is popular.”
“Seems like a specific choice, though, to shoot the same type of round every time.”
He shrugs. “Like I said, the guy never talks to me.” His eyes narrow. “He’s missing? He already done something, or you trying to stop him ’fore he does?”
I want to tell him Clint has attacked the president of the United States. I want to tell him Clint has killed my friends. I want to tell him Clint trained for his mission right under his nose, calmly expending three hundred rounds of ammunition three times a week as he pictured each bullet slamming into Brennan’s body. I want to grab him by his collar and pull his face to the glass and tell him he let this fucking happen, that he let Clint get good enough to pull this off.
“We’re trying to find him,” is all I say. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”
He shakes his head.
“Thank you for your time. I appreciate your help.”
“The hell are you talking about,” he snaps. “I never talk to the feds.”
I wait until we’re back in the SUV to confront Sheridan. He knows it’s coming, and he sits in the passenger seat like he’s staring into the sun.
My fury blooms in a nuclear fireball, mushrooming through me so hot and hard I’m quaking. Everything narrows down to Sheridan and his lies.
“Tell me right now: have you ever met Clint Cross, or spoken to him, or associated with him in any way?”
“No, Jesus.” Sheridan’s voice is hollow, almost a whisper.“I’ve never seen him. Ever. I used to come here on the weekends, that’s all.”
“Why? Why this shithole?”
“I was practicing.” He’s mumbling, and he shakes his head as he glares out the window. “They don’t ask a lot of questions. They don’t care why you’re here, or how often.”
“Clearly.”
“I was just trying to practice—”
“We shoot at Rowley. Not at private ranges.”
He sags, deflating. Shakes his head. “I—”
“Do you have any idea what happened last night?”
”No! Jesus Christ, no!” Sheridan whips around and stares, shock etched in every exhausted line of his face. He’s so painfully earnest, so fucking heartrending. I want to believe him. I want to trust him.
“Is there anything you are keeping from me?”
His breath stutters, and I watch his pupils dilate. “No. Nothing.”
