Deadline (Sandra Brown)

do.” Dawson closed his hand into a tight fist. “Carl would want to take credit for killing Headly.”
    After a taut silence, Wills said, “We don’t know who pulled the trigger, but—”
    “Jeremy was a sniper, for chrissake.”
    Wills nodded. “From that vantage point, with a fancy scope, a skilled shooter…” He didn’t take that thought any further. “The fingerprints—”
    “Weren’t an oversight,” Dawson said. “They don’t care who knows it was them.”
    “Look,” Tucker said, “you’re making assumptions that—”
    Wills nudged Tucker hard enough to shut him up. He, the good cop, realized that every contrary word out of his partner’s mouth was riling Dawson. Like jerking a sleeping tiger’s tail.
    After a moment, he continued. “The downed officer had been on patrol over in that industrial park where some vandalism had recently been reported.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “Must’ve intercepted them as they were fleeing. His radio was missing. Which explains how they eluded us. They could follow our communications and keep track of our movements.”
    Tucker said, “Plus, we don’t know what they’re driving. The car Bernie—Carl—left in that parking lot is still there.”
    Dawson shot him a baleful look. “You’ve finally come around to accepting that Bernie is Carl Wingert?”
    Tucker had the grace to look abashed.
    Amelia slid her hand beneath Dawson’s arm and rested it on his thigh, which served to keep him from lunging at the deputy who’d questioned Headly’s superior knowledge. His muttered epithets toward Tucker were heard by her alone.
    He’d tried to persuade her to return to the beach house and take advantage of the protection she’d be afforded there, but she had refused to budge from his side, and secretly he was glad. Over the course of the last few tumultuous hours, her invisible steeliness had manifested itself in quiet but emphatic ways.
    She’d spent ten minutes talking on her cell phone to the deputy who’d been watching Hunter and Grant all day. She later told Dawson that they’d been thoroughly entertained until, after a pizza dinner, they’d been tucked safely into bed and were now fast asleep.
    She’d also been assured that they were unaware of the personnel, which had been doubled in number, to guard them. Satisfied that her children were being well attended, she’d declared that she would stay with Dawson, at least until they knew the extent of Headly’s injury and the status of his condition.
    Several times she had tried to thank him for saving her life, but was unable to complete the sentence without becoming too emotional to speak. He’d told her that thanks were unnecessary, that he understood the depth of what she was feeling. She seemed to understand how he felt as well.
    When fear of the worst had caused him to lapse into brooding silences, she hadn’t filled them with mindless promises that all would be well, when the possibility of catastrophe loomed. When he felt like talking, she had listened as though absorbing each word into her skin. She was a soft but stalwart presence he was grateful to have.
    Because of the tension between Tucker and Dawson, Wills continued as spokesperson. “All gloves have come off. A manhunt is under way for Carl Wingert and Jeremy Wesson. Every law enforcement agency in five states is on high alert.
    “Knutz would be here himself, except he’s gone into overdrive, coordinating the effort. Coast Guard’s put up choppers to patrol the beaches. First thing tomorrow morning, police boats will start searching the inland waterways. Canine units will be called up if they’re needed. US Marshals Service. State police. You name it, he’s got them working it.
    “But the problem is,” he continued, tugging at his long earlobe, “we’re talking about a huge area and we don’t have a starting point. Apparently Wesson was using a bogus license when he got that traffic ticket, because none was issued in South Carolina to his SSN. We don’t know of any kinfolk they have in the area except Ms. Nolan here. Jeremy’s Marine buddies are being canvassed, but—”
    “They’re the last people he would contact,” Amelia said.
    “That’s what we think, too. But we gotta check. As Tucker noted, we don’t have a make and model of the vehicle they were driving.”
    “Tire tracks?” Dawson asked.
    “We tried, but there’s nothing but hard pavement around that vacant building. Surrounding