“Did Victór say who actually committed the murders?” Joe asked.
AnnaBelle took over. “He was cagey about that, but he pretty much put all the blame on László. He said his brother was crazy and violent, and that Viktór himself did everything he could not to hurt anyone. That all may be true, but I think Viktór was more involved than he claims to be. Unfortunately, we may never find out for sure, since László is dead.”
“So are Bert Kizer and Lola Lowry,” Joe said.
Marybeth and AnnaBelle Griffith nodded in agreement.
“We’ll be able to convict Viktór on so many charges he’ll never see Hungary again,” AnnaBelle said. “He’ll be spending the rest of his adult life in beautiful Rawlins, Wyoming, which is probably okay with him. I got the impression that returning to Hungary and facing the wrath of Hanna was the last thing he wanted to do. Plus, with this evidence, the Kovács family will be thoroughly disgraced. He wants no part of that.”
“Good,” Joe said. “What about the sheriff and Bass? How are they?”
AnnaBelle stifled a smile. “They’re both okay. Bass has a bruise on his chest, but his body armor saved him from the bullet. The sheriff received a slight concussion when he was pushed into those books and he’s threatening to resign. I think we should just let him.”
“Agreed,” Joe and Marybeth said in unison. Joe thought: Another sheriff. How many would he have to train in his career?
“Another thing,” Marybeth said. “I think we found a good home for the album. The Hoover Institution at Stanford has an archive for these kinds of things. They reached out this morning and we’re going to make arrangements to get it to them. I can’t say I’ll miss it at all.”
At that moment, he felt his phone burr in the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. He dug it out, read the message, and hopped down from the table.
Marybeth watched him with practiced alarm. “Who was that?” she asked.
“Nate,” Joe said.
Her mood changed abruptly. “Nate?”
“He says he needs my help. He’s never asked for it before. I owe him, as you know.” Then: “My pickup is shot. Marybeth, can you drive me to the airport?”
“Joe,” she asked, her eyes widening in alarm, “where are you going?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Portland, the Rose City
Nate opened his eyes and assessed where he was because he’d just had a fitful dream that he was in an ocean-bound vessel being rocked by the waves. The ship was empty of crewmen, for some reason. On shore, barely within sight, were Liv and Kestrel. They were standing on the beach, waiting for him to arrive.
He wandered the boat, trying to find someone who could show him where the engine room was located. All of the rooms and ship’s quarters were empty, as if everyone aboard had simply left in an emergency.
The ship was drifting slowly away from land and he couldn’t figure out how to fire up the engines and take it to shore. Liv and Kestrel were silent and stoic, a trait he admired.
Nate determined that no, he wasn’t in a boat, but a van. His van. But rather than driving, he was lying on his back on blankets. In his right hand was his phone. And there was something wrong with the upper right side of his body. He couldn’t feel it.
And although Liv and Kestrel might be waiting for him, they weren’t standing on a beach.
He plucked the phone out of his right hand with his left and raised it in the dark to bump it on. The call log revealed that his last call had been to Joe.
Then it all came back to him as his head cleared.
* * *
—
Nate had turned down the alley entrance in Seattle and everything had happened at once and too quickly for him to respond or adjust.
A police officer lay on the ground next to the right-side brick wall. The front of a black transit van was parked straight in front of him, clogging up easy passage.
Axel Soledad and a ghoulish, lean man were in the act of loading long guns into the back of the vehicle when the headlights hit them and everything went pear-shaped. Axel swung an AR-15 or similar semiautomatic rifle up and Nate saw the orange starbursts flash from the muzzle and the windshield imploded.
The shock of the rifle rounds hitting him were like blows from a baseball bat. His right shoulder, his right clavicle, his right ear.
Nate didn’t have the chance to draw his weapon and fire back and he couldn’t locate his entire right arm.
He recalled Geronimo clearing smashed glass from the windshield frame with the barrels of his shotgun, then thrusting it out the opening. He pointed it toward the two men just as Axel stepped behind his open driver’s-side door for cover. The other man wasn’t as fast. The blast was tremendous and he went down like a wet rag.