Deadline (Sandra Brown)

personnel had arrived. Some were uniformed. Others wore civilian clothes. One was in a suit and lace-up shoes, others wore blue jeans and T-shirts with the various agency names stenciled on them. The options depended on rank, Dawson supposed. They came and went as their duties required.
    He was happy to remain as detached as possible.
    He had, however, been questioned at length by Tucker and Wills, who’d arrived shortly after the first responders, thrashing their way through the forest to reach the spot. They’d soon been joined by sheriff’s deputies from the South Carolina county and by several FBI agents from Knutz’s office. Apparently he was coordinating things from Savannah.
    Each agency wanted to question him independently, so he was called on several times to describe Jeremy’s condition when he arrived. The video off his cell phone, as he’d guessed, was poor, but Jeremy’s confessions could be clearly heard, the most shocking of which was that of staging Congressman Davis Nolan’s suicide.
    The day had turned hot and sticky, the overcast sky creating a greenhouse effect that by noon had shirts sticking to backs. It was long past midday now. Dawson was bone tired and emotionally drained, but he had answered their multitude of questions patiently, realizing that the sooner he did so, the sooner he would be allowed to leave.
    It seemed that that time had finally come. After his brief conference with the uniformed officer, Tucker walked back toward him, accompanied by Wills who was mopping sweat off his hangdog face with a folded handkerchief.
    Tucker said, “False alarm. They were holding a white-haired man who roughly fit Carl Wingert’s description at a Dairy Queen. The old guy had stopped to get a Blizzard. Wasn’t Carl.”
    “He won’t be that easy to take,” Dawson said.
    “The son of a bitch,” Wills said under his breath. “I’m no fan of Jeremy Wesson, but…Jesus. What kind of man could run away and leave his kid like that, knowing he was dying?”
    Only one answer came to Dawson’s mind: Carl Wingert.
    A suspension of activity drew their attention to the cabin. The three watched solemnly as the stretcher bearing Jeremy’s body was maneuvered through the narrow doorway, carried by members of a rescue team. They placed it on the ground in the clearing to wait for the helicopter that would lift it out.
    “Where will he be taken?” Dawson asked.
    “Back to us, eventually,” Tucker said. “He died in their county, but he was our fugitive. They’re cooperating with us.” Turning back to Dawson, he said, “They’re more than a little curious about you.”
    “Why?”
    “They want to know if you should be arrested.”
    “For what crime?”
    “Stupidity, mainly. Care to share what the hell you were thinking to come out here on your own, track them down, approach without caution?”
    “I was after an interview.”
    “Well, you got one. More than you bargained for.”
    “A lot more,” he said quietly.
    “Much as it pains me to say it, we’re glad you found him. The video will exonerate Willard Strong. It’ll also close the book on the DeMarco girl’s slaying.”
    “And reverse the ruling on Congressman Nolan’s suicide,” Dawson said.
    “How do you think Ms. Nolan will react to that?” Wills asked.
    “With mixed emotions.”
    They must have read from his expression that he wasn’t going to discuss it further with them. Tucker said, “You’ll be around?”
    “Until Carl is captured.”
    Tucker didn’t like the sound of that. “Look, don’t pull any more fool stunts, okay? You’re not a cop.”
    “So you’ve said.”
    “I don’t want to have to cart you away in a body bag.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind.”
    “Say, listen.” Tucker backed down, glanced toward the cabin, flicked a bead of sweat off the tip of his nose. Coming back to Dawson, he said, “I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong. I was wrong. Bygones?” He extended his right hand. Dawson shook it.
    Tucker nodded, but as he was about to walk away in step with Wills, Dawson said, “You’re not done here.” His solemn tone grabbed their attention. They looked at him expectantly. “The porch was an add-on,” he said. “Jeremy built it to protect the grave.”
    “Grave?” Wills said. “Whose?”
    “His mother’s.”

 
    Diary of Flora Stimel—2010
     
     
I’m not sure of the date, whether it’s still January or if Feb. is here. It’s cold, I know that much. The cabin stays