The Empty Chair

with an unsafetied weapon. I broke rule number one.”
    “I’ll get you the best lawyer in the country.”
    “It doesn’t matter.”
    “It matters, Sachs. It matters. We’ll get something worked out.”
    She shook her head. “There’s nothing to work out, Rhyme. It’s felony murder. Open-and-shut case.” Then she was looking up, past him. Frowning. She stood. “What’s—?”
    Suddenly a woman’s voice called, “Hold it right there! Amelia, you’re under arrest.”
    Rhyme tried to turn but couldn’t rotate his head far enough. He puffed into the controller and backed up in a semicircle. He saw Lucy and two other deputies, crouching as they ran from the woods. Their weapons were in their hands and they kept their eyes on the windows of the cabin. The two men used trees for cover. But Lucy walked boldly toward Rhyme, Thom and Sachs, her pistol leveled at Sachs’s chest.
    How had the search party found the cabin? Had they heard the van? Had Lucy picked up Garrett’s trail again?
    Or had Bell reneged on his deal and told them?
    Lucy walked right up to Sachs and without a moment’s pause hit her hard in the face, her fist connecting with the policewoman’s chin. Sachs gave a faint wheeze at the pain and stepped back. She said nothing.
    “No!” Rhyme cried. Thom stepped forward but Lucy grabbed Sachs by the arm. “Is Mary Beth in there?”
    “Yes.” Blood trickled from her chin.
    “Is she all right?”
    A nod.
    Eyes on the cabin window, Lucy asked, “Does he have your weapon?”
    “Yes.”
    “Jesus.” Lucy called to the other deputies, “Ned, Trey, he’s inside. And he’s armed.” Then she snapped at Rhyme, “I’d suggest you get under cover.” And she pulled Sachs roughly back behind the van on the side opposite the cabin.
    Rhyme followed the women, Thom holding the chair for stability as it crossed the uneven ground.
    Lucy turned to Sachs, grabbed her by the arms. “He did it, didn’t he? Mary Beth told you, right? Garrett killed Billy.”
    Sachs looked down at the ground. Finally she said, “Yes. . . . I’m sorry. I—”
    “Sorry doesn’t mean a damn thing to me or anybody else. Least of all to Jesse Corn. . . . Does Garrett have any other weapons in there?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t see any.”
    Lucy turned back to the cabin, shouted, “Garrett, can you hear me? It’s Lucy Kerr. I want you to put that gun down and walk outside with your hands on your head. You do that now, okay?”
    The only response was the door slamming shut. A faint pounding filled the clearing as Garrett hammered or wedged the door shut. Lucy pulled out her cell phone and started to make a call.
    “Hey, Deputy,” a man’s voice interrupted, “you need some help?”
    Lucy turned. “Oh, no,” she muttered.
    Rhyme too glanced toward the voice. A tall, pony-tailed man, carrying a hunting rifle, was trooping through the grass toward them.
    “Culbeau,” she snapped, “I got a situation here and I can’t deal with you too. Just go on, get out of here.” Her eyes noticed something in the field. There was another man walking slowly toward the cabin. He carried a black army rifle and squinted thoughtfully as he surveyed the field and cabin. “Is that Sean?” Lucy asked.
    Culbeau said, “Yeah, and Harris Tomel’s over there.”
    Tomel was walking up to the tall African-American deputy. They were chatting casually, as if they knew each other.
    Culbeau persisted, “If the boy’s in the cabin you might need some help getting him out. What can we do?”
    “This is police business, Rich. The three of you, clear on outa here. Now. Trey!” she called to the black deputy. “Get ’em out.”
    The third deputy, Ned, walked toward Lucy and Culbeau. “Rich,” he called, “there’s no reward anymore. Forget about it and—”
    The shot from Culbeau’s powerful rifle poked a hole in the front of Ned’s chest and the impact flung him several feet onto his back. Trey stared at Harris Tomel, only ten feet away. Each man looked about as shocked as the other and neither moved for a moment.
    Then there was a whoop like a hyena’s cry from Sean O’Sarian, who lifted his soldier gun and shot Trey three times in the back. Cackling with laughter, he vanished into the field.
    “No!” Lucy screamed and lifted her pistol toward Culbeau, but by the time she fired, the men had gone for cover in the tall grass surrounding the cabin.

. . . chapter thirty-seven
    Rhyme felt the instinctive urge to