Thanks once again for all the wonderful comments and PMs. To respond to the concern a number of readers have had, yes, I absolutely plan on seeing this story through to the end. When I didn't finish it at Christmas time, I fell behind because of work and other projects, but I'm still with it. I don't work all year, but when I do work, I'm consumed by it. I'll have a break soon and I should be able to make a lot of progress then.

I appreciate you sticking with me. : )

Chapter 48

The office blinds are drawn against the foggy night.

Bud is sitting at his desk, back a couple of feet so his shoulder is to the wall as opposed to the window, and Ruby is next to the coffee maker, a mug cradled in her hands, though the carafe is empty and nothing is brewing. And Ferg is planted there in the center of it all, neither coming nor going, just standing.

Though they're all sculpture-still, there's a peculiar undercurrent of energy, sort of a buzzing and flickering just beneath the surface. Separately and slowly, they regain their attention and shift it to us.

No one seems surprised to see me.

I drop my bag in the entryway then push through the half door, walk right over to Ferg, and wrap my arms around him. He's tense at first, his breathing irregular, but before long he gives in, accepts it, and hugs me back.

"They weren't always this stupid," he says over my shoulder, so quiet I'm certain no one else hears.

"I know they weren't," I say. "How's your grandma taking it?"

He shakes his head, only once. "She doesn't know yet."

I pull back so I can see his face. It's red with emotion, and hard. The innocence that has always characterized him is probably gone now for good.

"When all this is over, Ferg, I'll go with you. If you want me to."

He looks down at the floor and nods.

Bud's bootsteps scuff across the floor, but it doesn't register until he stops next to us, the third point of the triangle. As if all of this weren't unusual enough, he reaches out with his long, wiry arms and pulls us both towards him so we're in this three-way huddle-hug right there in the middle of the office. I'm thinking maybe he's misunderstood something, maybe this is one of those rare but still present cultural differences rearing its head.

My inclination is to fire off a what-the-fuck, to ease the awkwardness, to save face, but I can't. I'm so tired of holding up the walls.

He smells of end-of-the-day sweat and diluted after-shave, and faintly of cigarette smoke, which surprises me.

When he steps back, slapping both me and Ferg on the shoulder, Ruby and Walt are standing together in Walt's doorway, watching. Before Walt turns, I see a little twitch at the corner of his mouth. Ruby just comes right out and smiles, but it's a melancholy one.

While Ferg and Bud and I set up the new two-ways, Walt sits at his desk making phone calls. I can't make out much of what he's saying, and after a while I give up trying.

We're working with the vests, figuring out how to attach the shoulder mics to the velcro straps when Bud says, "I don't get it. Van der Horn would have barely got any time."

"What do you mean?" I say, pulling the wire from the mic down under the vest to the radio on my belt.

"Most of that evidence was inadmissible because of the dog and horse show."

I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from clarifying the whole horse-pony distinction.

"How'd you find that out?" I ask.

"The prosecutor called this morning," Ferg says. "Van der Horn was home free. Out on bail until the January hearing. Said the most he would have gotten was time served and community service."

"Probably wouldn't have done another hour in that place."

"Think he knew that?" I ask, imagining it couldn't have been easy for a hundred and twenty-five pound, slightly effeminate guy in a big city jail.

"Prosecutor said he knew," Ferg says.

"Maybe that sick operation was all he had," I say.

I think maybe his brother was all he had, but I can't bring myself to say it. I can't bring myself to connect the dots, to openly admit that it's my action, justified or not, that drove him here. You can't cause a person to murder; I know that. If a guy was going there, he was going there with or without you. But still.

"Why not just drive out into the woods somewhere and put a bullet in your head?" Bud says. "Why take innocent people down first?"

"Evening the score," I say. "He commits all those heinous crimes, kills family members of a Sheriff's Department employee then returns to the County, there's only one way it's going to go."

"We have to go after him," Ferg says.

"Right. Technically I guess we should get the feds back, but he knows how long that could take. He comes back here, he knows what we have to do."

"He wants to kill you," Bud says.

"I think he wouldn't mind killing any of us. But it isn't about that. My guess is he doesn't plan on being around for long. He'd like us to help him with that."

"Suicide by cop," Ferg says. "Just like his brother."

It's the first time Ferg has confirmed for me that he thinks it was totally out of our control.

The phone rings and the conversation is silenced. Stunned, we wait while Ruby answers then calls Walt.

There are some indecipherable rumblings coming from his office, and I'm on the verge of giving up again when his voice starts rising.

He says, "Let it burn, Roger," and I get the impression from the way he's saying it that he's already said it more than once.

Ferg whispers, "Roger McCray."

"Volunteer Fire Chief," I tell Bud.

"So call them back," Walt says then he's listening again.

We exchange perplexed frowns.

"Nothing close enough to worry about anyway," he says.

With a loud ripping sound, I peel open my side strap, and both their heads snap towards me. I hold up my hands, surrendering. "Geez," I say, rolling my eyes, but I say it very quietly.

"Roger," Walt growls, "this is not a request. You'll send them to their graves. Call them back."

He's standing now, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, fingers of both hands pressing down on the desk in front of him.

"Yes," he says. He cocks his hip, lets out a breath, holds the receiver with his right hand. "Good. Ten minutes. We'll be waiting."

He slams the phone down and comes storming around the desk towards us.

"It's Van der Horn," he barks, and we all flinch. "One of the barns out at his place is on fire. McCray's men are already on their way, but he says he can stop them."

We're all looking up at him, waiting.

"Soon as Roger has his team accounted for, we're moving out."

Ferg and Bud get going immediately, but I'm out of practice. Walt stares across the office, off somewhere in his mind.

I hand him his vest, but he doesn't take it, just looks in my eyes, trying to figure something out, warding off some feeling.

"We have to set up the radio," I say.

I open both straps on the left side so I can slide the vest over his shoulder, and he lets me. Reaching up to fasten it, my hand grazes his stubbled cheek.

"It'll be all right," I whisper.

He crosses his arm over, covers my hand with his for only a second, but he doesn't say anything, and after that, neither do I.