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But Blackwater was alone, no entourage of reporters following.
A first. Well, that wasn’t really the truth, but she wasn’t in the best of moods after losing her breakfast and dealing with the bitter cold as, potentially, another nutcase of a killer was making his presence known in this part of the Bitterroots.
Blackwater’s expression was grim as he strode through the powder to her vehicle.
“We’re just about done here. Wrapping things up,” Pescoli told him.
“Good. I need to talk to the both of you. In person.” A muscle worked in his jaw.
“Something up?” Pescoli asked as Alvarez’s eyes narrowed a fraction.
He hesitated, glanced at the woods for a second, then forced his gaze back to the two detectives standing before him. “Bad news,” he said.
Pescoli felt her back muscles tighten. “What?”
Beside her, Alvarez drew a sharp breath as if she guessed what was coming.
“It’s the sheriff,” he said solemnly, the corners of his mouth twisting downward. “He didn’t make it.”
“What?” Pescoli exploded. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, God.” Alvarez leaned hard against the front panel of Pescoli’s Jeep, her knees buckling. Her face had washed of all color and she was shaking her head. Even as she did, she made the sign of the cross over her chest.
“No!” Pescoli stared down Blackwater and fer vently shook her head. “Not Dan Grayson. There must be some mistake.”
“I wish there was.” Blackwater seemed sincere, holding back his own emotions. “Grayson’s heart stopped. A Code Blue was issued, and as I understand it, the team was there in seconds, trying to get him going again. Spent nearly forty minutes trying to get a pulse—defibrillation, epinephrine, whatever it is they do to bring someone back, but it was over. They couldn’t revive him.” He glanced from Pescoli who’d gone numb with disbelief to Alvarez who turned her head away, probably to hide her tears.
“What the hell happened?” Pescoli demanded, gesturing angrily. “He was getting better. Stable, that’s what the hospital and his damn doctor said. They even moved him out of ICU because he’d improved, right?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “He was shot in the head, not the heart, for Christ’s sake! His heart was fine. Strong.” She swung back to look at Alvarez for confirmation, but her partner didn’t respond. To Blackwater, she snapped again, “What the hell happened?”
“The hospital is checking. Could be that the injuries he sustained were too much for him and his heart just stopped,” Blackwater said without his usual bluster. To his credit, he seemed genuinely disconsolate. “I don’t know. No one does. Yet. He’d been through a lot.”
“Through a lot and out the other side!” Pescoli insisted, though the truth, like the steadily falling snow, was cold and bleak as it settled over her. “Oh . . . oh Jesus,” she finally said in a rush as she started to believe what Blackwater was saying.
“I came out to tell you myself, so you wouldn’t hear it on the police band or the news or from someone else.”
Alvarez let out a soft moan.
“They told us he would be all right,” Pescoli said. “And those bastards lied.” Turning to Alvarez, she said, “Let’s go.”
“Where?” her partner asked and even as she did, she seemed to stiffen her spine, to gain control, her mask of always cool detachment slipping back into place.
“To the hospital to get some damn answers. To find out what went on, why they lost him.” As she said the words, the full truth hit her like a ton of bricks. Grayson was gone. Forever. She’d been there when he’d been shot and in her mind’s eye, it was Christmas morning once more and she watched in horror as the bullets from a hidden assassin’s rifle had struck the tall man with kind eyes and a thick moustache.
Grayson’s body had spun with the first bullet, his ever-present Stetson flying off his head, the split kindling he’d been carrying flying end over end to land on the snow-covered earth. With the second shot, his head had snapped back and he’d fallen to the snowy ground and lay inert. Pescoli, who had been driving to his house to ask about cutting back her hours, never got the chance.
She’d been the first responder, viewed his blood, prayed like she’d never prayed before and then had sworn vengeance on his assailant, that coward who had hidden in the snowdrifts with a high-powered rifle aimed straight at Dan Grayson.
“Son of a bitch!” she said angrily and kicked one of the Jeep’s tires in fury.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Blackwater said. “You’ve got a new case to investigate with the Jane Doe found right here, so I suggest you start.” He frowned. “Hell, I know this is a blow for the two of you and the whole department. That’s why I came out, but that doesn’t mean we still don’t have jobs to do.” Snow was collecting on the brim of his hat and shoulders of his jacket. Though there was a trace of compassion in his eyes, he remained rigid, ever in charge. “The Missoula police are on the scene and the hospital is double-checking every procedure, all of his vital signs records, every report and notation. Of course, there will be an autopsy.”
“Fuck the autopsy!” Pescoli said, her anger exploding. “I’m going to the hospital, whether you like it or not!”
“Detective,” he warned.
But Pescoli was already around the Jeep and behind the wheel.
