Chasing Fire

do you know they’re from Illinois?” DiCicco asked.
    “Because that’s what the plate on the pickup said—and I did some checking on it after the ready room business.”
    “You never told me that.”
    Gull shrugged at Rowan. “It didn’t amount to anything to tell you. The big guy—and he was the alpha—owns a garage out in Rockford. He’s an asshole, and he’s had a few bumps for assaults—bar fights his specialty—but nothing major.” He shrugged again when DiCicco studied him. “The Internet. You can find out anything if you keep looking.”
    “All right. You two have recently become involved,” DiCicco said. “Is there anyone who might resent that? Any former relationship?”
    “I don’t date the kind of woman who’d take a shot at me.” He gave Rowan the eye. “Until maybe now.”
    “I shoot all my former lovers, so your fate’s already set.”
    “Only if we get to the former part.” He covered her hand with his. “It was either a local with a grudge against one or both of us specially, or the base in general. Or a wacko who wanted to shoot up a federal facility.”
    “A terrorist?”
    “I think a terrorist would’ve used more ammo,” Gull said to DiCicco. “But any way you slice it, he was a crap shot. Unless he’s a really good shot and was just trying to scare and intimidate.”
    Rowan’s gaze sharpened. “I didn’t think of that.”
    “I think a lot. I can’t swear to it, but I think the closest one hit about six or seven feet away from where we hit the ground. That’s not a comfortable distance when bullets are involved, but it’s a distance. Another sounded like it hit metal, the hangar. Way above our heads. Maybe it’ll turn out to be a couple of kids on a dare. Smoke jumpers think they’re so cool, let’s go make them piss their pants.
    “It’s a theory,” he claimed when Rowan rolled her eyes.
    “Lieutenant.” A uniformed cop stepped in.
    “Hi, Barry.”
    “Ro. Glad you’re okay. Sir, we found the weapon, or what we believe to be the weapon.”
    “Where?”
    “About twenty yards into the trees. A Remington 700 model—bolt action. The special edition. It was covered up with leaves.”
    “Stupid,” Rowan mumbled. “Stupid to leave it there.”
    “More stupid if it’s got a brass name plaque on the stock,” L.B. said. “I went hunting with Leo Brakeman last fall, and he carried a special edition 700. He was real proud of it.”
    Rowan’s hand balled into a fist under Gull’s. “So much for theories.”
    When DiCicco and Quinniock went out to examine the weapon, L.B. walked over to the coffeemaker.
    “You know,” Ro said, “she told those lies to her father. All those lies, and they drove him to come out here with a gun and try to kill me.”
    “I’d say you’re half right.” L.B. sat with his coffee, sighed. “The lies drove him to come out here with a gun, but, like I said, I’ve been hunting with Leo. I saw him take down a buck with that rifle, at thirty yards with the buck on the run. If he’d wanted to put a bullet in you, you’d have a bullet in you.”
    “I guess it was my lucky day then.”
    “Something snapped in him. I’m not excusing him, Ro. There’s no excuse for this. But something’s snapped in him. What the hell’s Irene going to do now? Her daughter murdered, and her husband likely locked up, an infant to care for. She hasn’t even buried Dolly yet, and now this.”
    “I’m sorry for them. For all of them.”
    “Yeah, it’s a damn sorry situation. I’m going to go see if the cops will tell me what happens next.” He went out, leaving his untouched coffee behind.

18
     
    T oo wound up to sit, Rowan pushed up, wandered the room, peeked out the window, circled back. Gull propped his feet on the chair she’d vacated and decided to drink L.B.’s abandoned coffee.
    “I want to do something,” Rowan complained. “Just sitting here doesn’t feel right. How can you just sit here?”
    “I’m doing something.”
    “Drinking coffee doesn’t count as something.”
    “I’m sitting here, I’m drinking coffee. And I’m thinking. I’m thinking if it’s Brakeman’s rifle, and if Brakeman was the one shooting it, did he just go stand in the trees and assume you’d eventually wander out into range?”
    “I don’t know if it had to be me. He’s pissed at all of us, just mostly at me.”
    “Okay, possible.” He found the coffee bitter, wished for a little sugar to cut the edge. But just didn’t