Deadline (Sandra Brown)

in.”
    Not a voice he recognized as Bernie’s.
    Heart thundering, hands raised, he stepped across the threshold, using his foot to push the door open wide until it came up against the wall. No one was behind the door. He swept the room in one glance.
    Reeking metal trash can. Cast-off furniture. Dirty dishes piled high in a stained sink that didn’t have a faucet. A wooden pallet in the corner stacked with packs of bottled water. A Frigidaire that was decades old.
    And on a sofa was a bearded man, semireclined. He was holding a pistol, but listlessly. Upon identifying Dawson, he registered his surprise. “You?”
    “Me.”
    All the things Headly had told Dawson about Carl Wingert came flashing back to him in an instant. You can’t be well enough prepared for Carl. Dawson spun around to check behind him, but only the monotonous landscape lay beyond the open door.
    One time, in New Mexico, he jumped from the rafters of an old horse barn. Shot the agent who’d chased him in there point blank in the chest. Dawson looked up at the low ceiling. No rafters. No attic.
    The man on the sofa seemed amused by his jumpiness. “Relax. He’s not here.”
    “Where’d he go?”
    “Didn’t say.”
    Satisfied that they were the only two in the place, Dawson said, “I’m not armed. I’m going to lower my hands.”
    Jeremy Wesson, a man about whom he’d been rabidly curious, a man he’d resented with every fiber of his being, a man he wanted to see severely punished for killing Stef and almost killing Headly, didn’t look that evil or menacing.
    He was regarding Dawson with equal curiosity, taking in the full measure of him. “You look even taller up close.”
    “You look like shit.” Against his beard, Jeremy’s complexion looked clammy and waxen.
    “Rough twenty-four hours.”
    “They haven’t exactly been a picnic for Headly, either.”
    “Is he alive?”
    “He’s going to be okay.”
    “In the split second it took the bullet to get there, he turned.”
    “You missed Amelia, too.”
    “I wasn’t trying that hard.”
    Dawson wouldn’t credit him with total sincerity, but Jeremy did dip his head for several seconds in what could have been remorse. When he came back to Dawson, he noticed that his boots and jeans were wet. “Tough to get here, huh? How’d you find it?”
    “I never reveal a source.”
    Jeremy stifled a laugh, which caused him to cough. To cover it, he turned his face into his shoulder. When the coughing subsided, he asked, “Are the cops behind you?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You came alone?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “I wanted to meet you face-to-face.”
    “What for?”
    Dawson didn’t respond.
    “You fucking my wife?”
    “She’s not your wife. But, no.”
    Whether or not he believed that, Dawson couldn’t tell.
    “Did you come here to kill me?”
    “No.”
    “Because if you did—”
    “I didn’t.”
    “—you’re too late.” He pulled his hand away from a bloody, festering mess on the side of his lower abdomen. “I’m already a dead man.”

Chapter 24
    D awson was kneeling beside the ratty sofa before he even realized he’d moved. He pushed Jeremy’s hand aside and raised the hem of his dirty shirt. Under it was a putrefying wound. The tissue was puckered, pussy, and red around the dark bullet hole, which was clotted with dried blood. “Jesus. This looks bad, but it’s stopped bleeding.”
    Jeremy gave an ironic grin. “I’ve run dry.”
    Dawson feared he was right. Most of the bleeding must have been internal and considerable. Beneath his bushy mustache, his lips were gray. He let go of the pistol. It landed on the floor inches from Dawson’s knee.
    “I lied about shooting you through the door. It’s not loaded.”
    Dawson yanked his cell phone from his belt.
    “Don’t bother.”
    Ignoring Jeremy’s weak protest, he punched in 911. When the operator answered, he said, “Listen carefully.” He told her his general location, then the geographical coordinates of the tract. “I need medical care for a seriously wounded man.”
    “What’s the nature—”
    “He’s been shot in the gut.”
    “Is he—”
    “We’re in a cabin, but there’s no road to it. Send a search-and-rescue chopper. They won’t be able to set down. Tell them to come prepared for that and to look for smoke.”
    “Smoke?”
    “That’ll help them find us. And my phone will be on.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Dawson Scott.”
    “The Dawson Scott everyone’s