"The bullet clipped my trapezius," Warren said, noticing her gaze. "It's nothing. As if you care."

She turned away, fighting a mad impulse to scramble down the roof to the safety of the oak tree.

Then a whir like the world's biggest fishing reel sounded from below. Laurel looked to her right and saw Grant sailing away from the house like a commando in a POW rescue movie. He was kicking his feet to make the wheel mechanism speed along the zipline. She felt like cheering out loud.

Warren cursed in fury, and something dark moved behind her. Leaning back, she saw his gun come up and steady in his hand, as if to fire at Grant's receding form. She knocked the gun aside and scrabbled onto her knees, facing Warren in the window like an angry mother wildcat. She was spitting mad, her skin as hot and itchy as if electricity were crackling along it. "Point that gun at him again," she snarled, "and I'll claw your eyeb.a.l.l.s out. I swear to G.o.d I will!"

Grant hit the sand clean and started sprinting without even a hitch in his rhythm. Compared to doing a 180 off a half-pipe, it was nothing. He looked over his shoulder as he ran and saw his father silhouetted in the window of his bedroom, staring silently after him while his mother waved from the roof to keep running. The sight scared him more than anything had in a long time.

He ran toward the creek first, because it was downhill, but then he cut left and started making for the Elfmans' house. As he did, Christy broke out of the trees below and raced to catch him, elated to have someone to run with. The corgi circled Grant as he ran, smiling as she always did. All he could think was that he needed to get to a telephone. He wasn't sure whom to call, and he had no idea what to tell Mrs. Elfman. My dad's sick? My mom needs help?

He swerved around some azaleas and kept pumping toward the Elfmans'. He could see Mrs. Elfman herself, standing in her backyard by the pool, wearing a big flowery dress. It looked like she'd already seen him. A second later, her yardman appeared beside her. Grant liked George a lot better than Mrs. Elfman. He was glad George was there. Grant figured he must look pretty scared, because a second later George started running toward him, and even Mrs. Elfman started walking fast in his direction. He was scared, too.

He wasn't sure what was wrong with his father, but he knew his mom was terrified. He'd never seen her face so white or her hands shaking, and he'd sure never seen her wallop his dad in the face. But what scared Grant most of all was what he'd seen in the TV room upstairs. It was hidden in his dad's pocket, but the outline was plain as day. Grant's throat had been tight ever since he realized what that outline meant, and when he heard the shots later, they'd come as no surprise.

"Whoa there, little man!" George called, dropping to his knees so that Grant would be eye to eye with him. "What you running from so fast?"

Grant was breathing so hard that he couldn't talk. By the time he found his voice, Mrs. Elfman was coming up. She took his hand and looked down at him with all the kindness in the world.

"What's wrong, Grant Shields? You have to tell us, if we're going to help you. Did some little boy blow his finger off? I heard firecrackers over there."

Grant shook his head, trying not to cry. "It's my dad," he panted. "My dad's sick!"

"Sick how?" asked George. "Did he grab his arm or his chest? Is he awake?"

Grant pointed at his own temple. "He's sick up here. He doesn't know what he's doing. He's got a gun, and I think he shot somebody. My mom tried to get us out, but only I got away."

"Dear Lord in heaven!" Mrs. Elfman exclaimed. "You poor child. Run call the sheriff, George. Double quick. Tell him to bring every man he's got."

Chapter 14.

Danny McDavitt was sitting on the elevated deck at the Athens Point Airport, drinking a lukewarm Schaefer and listening to Marilyn Stone give him an informal legal a.s.sessment of his custody situation. No alcohol was sold on the premises, but a mechanic friend had come up with a cold six-pack for Danny. He and Marilyn had been talking for over an hour, but he was in no hurry to get home. The only other thing on his mind was what might be happening with Laurel, but he'd checked his cell phone a dozen times, and she'd sent no text messages.

"Bottom line?" said Marilyn. "Starlette can get physical custody of Michael, and she can probably limit you to minimum visitation. Every other weekend. It all depends on the judge. But she will not be able to inst.i.tutionalize Michael if you're willing to take him on. No judge is going to warehouse a special-needs kid when there's a parent ready and willing to take on that responsibility."

Danny nodded. "Every other weekend's not good enough. Michael needs one-on-one attention, all the time."

Marilyn was obviously sympathetic. "What about his teacher? Laurel Shields would make one h.e.l.l of a witness for us, if she'd get up and tell the truth about Starlette."

Danny sipped his beer but said nothing. He was trying not to think about Laurel. After Marilyn landed the Cessna, he had broken down and sent Laurel a third text message, this one an almost panicked plea to alert him as soon as the encounter with Warren was over. But she still had not answered.

"What's the problem there?" Marilyn asked. "You don't think Laurel would do it?"

"She probably would. I'll have to talk to her about it."

"You do that. Every day counts, Danny."

He forced a smile. "I sure appreciate you taking this time."

"Oh, I expect a free lesson in return."

"I'll make it two."

"One's enough. How's Starlette acting now?"

"You don't want to know. b.i.t.c.h city. Running up my credit cards like the Germans are about to roll into Paris."

"SOP for a woman who thinks her husband's about to dump her. You need to get out while you can. Take your chances."

Danny was about to reply when his legitimate cell phone rang. He checked the LCD and saw that the call was from the Sheriff's Department. "Excuse me, I need to take this."

Marilyn turned up her Schaefer and drank it off with an unladylike gurgle.

"Danny McDavitt," he said.

"Major McDavitt, this is Dispatch. I've been told that the sheriff needs the aerial unit to pick him up at Lake St. John. You know where that is?"

"I do." Lake St. John was a popular recreation spot forty miles up the river. "When are we talking about, Carol?"

"Now, sir."

"Now? What's going on?"

"Radio silence on this one, Danny. No specifics on cell phones either. You're the pilot on the board. Jim's in Las Vegas with his wife for his anniversary. How soon can you get to the airport?"

"I'm at the airport now."

"Good. I called Mr. Markle already. They should be getting the aerial unit ready now."

The unit. Danny almost laughed, but something in her voice stopped him. "This is a real emergency?"

"Yes, sir."

"What's the sheriff doing at Lake St. John?"

"Fishing. I'll give you his GPS coordinates once you're airborne."

Danny didn't want to spend his afternoon searching the river for some lost fisherman when Laurel might need him. But there were only two chopper pilots, and if Jim Redmond was out of town, then Danny had no way out of the duty. "Roger that," he said in a tone of surrender. "Call me back in ten minutes with the coordinates."

"What's the emergency?" asked Marilyn.

"Our ill.u.s.trious sheriff wants a chopper ride back from Lake St. John. He's tired of fishing."

"Are you serious?"

"Nah," said Danny, getting to his feet. "It's probably somebody lost on the water. Unless one of the sheriff's campaign contributors sprained an ankle wakeboarding."

Marilyn laughed. "That sounds like the Billy Ray Ellis I remember from high school."

"You're not that old, I know."

She winked. "I was a ninth-grader when Billy Ray was a senior. He was the cat's meow back then. Big football star, all the girls after him. Of course, it was mostly white boys then. Different game."

"You'd better believe it."

"I think it's safe to say Billy was elected sheriff on his high school rep and his status in the Baptist church," Marilyn said in an arch tone.

"Politics. The same everywhere. He's okay, actually. I've known a lot worse in ranking uniforms."

The lawyer nodded thoughtfully. "We should do this more."

"I agree."

"If you'd hire me, we could."

Danny's smile faded. "I'm thinking about it."

By the time Danny reached the hangar, the mechanics had rolled out the Sheriff's Department helicopter and prepped her for flight. She was a Bell 206B, eight years old but still in good shape. White with blue and gold stripes, and a big gold star painted on the fuselage. The machines he'd flown in the air force were five times this size and infinitely more sophisticated, but the Bell handled well in the air, a kite compared to the ma.s.sive predators he once flew. A Pave Low IV could carry twenty-four fully equipped commandos into battle; the Bell 206 had two seats up front and room for one pa.s.senger and a stretcher in back. Not much else.

"How goes it, Danny boy?" called d.i.c.k Burleigh, the silver-haired chief mechanic. "Ready to crank and bank?"

Burleigh had served as crew chief on a Huey with the First Air Cav in Vietnam. After surviving the Ia Drang and A Shau valleys, he'd moved to Baton Rouge and serviced news choppers for thirty years. At sixtysomething, Burleigh decided to retire to Athens Point, where he started filling in at the airport for kicks. Pretty soon, he was running the maintenance department. For Danny he was a G.o.dsend.

"You tell me, d.i.c.k," he said. "How's she running?"

"Hot as a preacher's daughter."

Danny laughed and shook hands with Burleigh, then nodded to a blond kid in coveralls trailing behind him. "Let's forget about those beers, huh, guys?"

Burleigh smiled. "Long as you're okay to fly, Major."

Danny gave the old crew chief a salute. "My inviolable rule is, don't drink and fly. However, one night in the Caribbean, I had to go up and chase down a Bolivian drug boat with half a bottle of tequila in me. Long story, but we knocked down ninety keys of marching powder that night."

"You get to keep any of it?" asked the kid, his eyes twinkling.

Danny chuckled. "Nah. But there were reports of confiscated reefer weighing in a little light after some of those takedowns. MPs never got to the bottom of it, either."

"You take her easy, Major," said Burleigh, his smile gone. "Wind's getting up, and you got thunderheads blowing in from the northwest."

"That's the way I'm headed, too."

"Maybe the sheriff ought to drive back to town. He could make it in the time it takes you to fly both ways."

No, Danny thought, Billy Ray likes the chopper too much for that. "I'm just an old rotorhead, Chief. I live to serve. Have a good one."

The mechanic winked and opened the Bell's door. Danny climbed into the right seat, fastened his harness, cinched it tight, and hit the starter. Then he put on his headset and ran the preflight checklist. He didn't miss having to put on his helmet, night-vision goggles, body armor, or any of the other gear required to fly the Pave Low. Compared to his military flying, this was like barnstorming in the 1920s.

When the main rotor system hit 360 rpm, Danny felt the chopper reach neutral buoyancy. He pulled up on the collective, which put the Bell into a low hover. After tr.i.m.m.i.n.g the ship with his left foot pedal, he lightly touched the cyclic and tilted the rotor disk forward. A few moments later, the bird gained translational lift and launched herself into the sky.

At that moment, Danny's cell phone vibrated. He applied friction to the collective and let go long enough to grab the phone from his pocket, a.s.suming that Laurel had finally texted him back. To his surprise, he found himself holding his legitimate phone instead. The Bell drifted a little as he flipped it open. The new message was from the Sheriff's Department dispatcher. There were only four words in the text box: CODE BLACK/THIRD DEGREE.

Danny's a.s.s puckered as he stared at the coded message.

Code Black meant a hostage situation.

Third Degree meant loss of life.

With visions of Columbine and Virginia Tech in his head, he twisted the throttle, pushed the chopper to 122 knots, and stormed toward the thunderheads rolling down from the northwest.

Kyle Auster was dead.

Laurel saw his body lying on the hall floor when she followed Warren down the stairs with Beth in her arms. She buried her daughter's face between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, then looked over the rail. Kyle lay faceup with his eyes open, as still as a human body could be. His absurd shirt was hiked up to his nipples; Warren must have done that while working on him. How strange, she thought, to shoot a man and then immediately try to save him. Despite Warren's two shots, she saw only one wound, at the midline, above Auster's navel but below his heart. Dark blood covered his pale belly, matting the hair that so many gullible women had lain against in adultery.

"Did you call 911?" she asked from the landing.

Warren had already reached the ground floor. "No point."

"He died before you came upstairs?"

"No, but he was slipping away fast. I think the bullet hit his spine. He couldn't move his legs. It must have clipped his descending aorta as well, because he seemed to be bleeding out internally."

"What a shot you are," she said bitterly.

Warren was looking down at the body. "He shot first. You saw it."

"Such a waste. I can't...I guess I can't really believe it."

"Mommy, I can't breathe," Beth said.

Laurel turned her daughter's head but kept her facing away from the rail. Beth hadn't spoken since the events on the roof; she only sucked her thumb and lay gla.s.sy-eyed against Laurel's chest.

"Cover him up with something," Laurel said.

"You do it. Let me have Beth."

"You're not touching this child."

Warren looked up, his jaw set hard. "Don't think anything has changed. Kyle is dead because of a choice he made. Every choice has consequences. Yours included."

"Who the h.e.l.l do you think you are? G.o.d? Get over yourself! You just shot a man. This insanity is over."

"Come downstairs. Into the kitchen."