Mountain Witness. Lena Diaz

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      Chief Thornton’s gruff voice had Chris finally standing and turning around. His boss stood just inside the front door, still wearing the khaki shorts and polo shirt that he’d worn to the cookout a few hours earlier.

      “Powwow, front lawn. Now.” The chief headed outside.

      Chris followed the chief down the porch steps to where three members of the SWAT team who’d also been at the cookout stood waiting. Max, Randy and Colby were dressed in full body armor just like Donna, back inside the house. It occurred to him that they must have raced like a mama sow protecting her piglets to have gotten here so fast. None of them lived close by, except for Dillon, and he was noticeably absent.

      “Is Ashley okay?” he asked no one in particular, assuming the worst. He couldn’t imagine his best friend not responding to a call for aid from Chris or any of their fellow officers unless something had happened to Ashley.

      “She’s at Blount Memorial in Maryville.” Max held up his hands to stop the anticipated flood of questions. “When your 911 call came in, Dillon and Ashley were halfway to the hospital because she’d started having contractions. I assured him we could handle—”

      “It’s too soon,” Chris interrupted, worry making his voice thick. “She’s only seven months along.”

      “I know that,” Max said. “Like I was saying, I told Dillon not to worry about you, that we had your back. And, before you ask, I spoke to him a few minutes ago. They were able to stop her labor, but they’ll keep her there for observation overnight, maybe even a few days. But she and the baby are both fine.”

      Chris nodded, blowing out a relieved breath.

      “You okay?” Max put his hand on Chris’s shoulder. “You look greener than Dillon did when you mentioned fried gizzards.”

      “I killed a man. No. I’m not okay.”

      Max winced and dropped his hand, immediately making Chris regret his curt reply.

      “Tell us what happened,” the chief said, impatience etched on his features. “Take it from the top and don’t leave anything out.”

      Chris began reciting the events that had led to the shooting, being as detailed as he could. Since everyone on the SWAT team performed dual roles as detectives in the fifteen-officer police force, they all listened intently, taking notes on their phones or the little pads of paper most of them kept handy.

      Dillon was normally lead detective, with Chris as backup. But obviously Chris couldn’t investigate a case where he was a primary participant. He wasn’t sure who would run with this one.

      After Chris finished his statement, the chief motioned to Max.

      Max pulled a brown paper evidence bag from his rear pocket and awkwardly cleared his throat as he held it open. “Sorry, man. Standard operating procedure. Gotta take your sidearm as evidence.”

      Chris knew the drill and had been vaguely surprised that no one had taken his gun the moment they’d arrived. But even after putting his pistol in the bag, the weight of his now-empty holster seemed heavier than before, a reminder of what he’d done, the life he’d taken.

      Max closed the bag and stepped back beside Randy. Since Max looked miserable about taking the gun, Chris gave him a reassuring nod to let him know that he understood.

      “You said they were arguing when you approached the house,” the chief said. “Did you hear what they were arguing about?”

      He replayed the moment when he was crouching by the window, trying to remember what he’d heard.

      “Seems like they both said something about ‘keys,’ or maybe it was ‘please.’ I definitely heard the man mention a gun. But he was holding a knife, so that doesn’t seem right.” He shrugged. “I was too far away to hear them clearly. I was more focused on what he was doing with the butcher knife and how to get it away from him.”

      The low wail of a siren filled the air as an ambulance turned down the road and headed toward them.

      “About time,” the chief said. “I was thinking we’d have to wake up Doc Brookes if it took any longer.”

      Chris couldn’t help smiling. Even though it was only a few hours past sundown, it was probably Doc Brookes’s bedtime. The town’s only doctor was getting up there in years. And he made sure everyone knew not to bother him after hours unless there was arterial bleeding involved or a bone sticking out. Unfortunately, with the only hospital nearly forty-five minutes from Destiny, ornery Brookes was who they were stuck with most of the time.

      “I’d better move my truck,” Max said.

      “Ah, shoot,” Colby said. His truck’s front bumper was partly blocking the end of the driveway. “Me, too.”

      They hurried to their vehicles to make room before the ambulance reached the house.

      “Chief, got a second?” Chris asked.

      Thornton looked pointedly at Randy, who took the unsubtle hint and awkwardly pounded Chris on the back before heading toward the house.

      As soon as Randy was out of earshot, the chief held up his hand to stop Chris from saying anything.

      “I know we still have to process the scene, and get the coroner out here, perform due diligence and all that. But honestly, son, it looks like a clean shoot to me. I can tell it’s eating you up inside, but you need to let that go. You saved a life tonight. That’s what you should focus on.”

      They moved farther into the grass while the ambulance pulled into the driveway. The EMTs hopped out of the vehicle and grabbed their gear.

      “I appreciate that, Chief,” Chris said. “I feel like hell for taking a life. But I know I did what I had to do. That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

      Colby and Max jogged up the driveway, having parked their trucks farther down the road. They started toward Chris and the chief, but a stern look from Thornton had them heading toward the house, instead, and following the EMTs inside.

      Still, Chris hesitated. Putting his concerns into words was proving harder than he’d expected.

      “Well, go on, son. Spit out whatever’s bothering you. The skeeters are eatin’ me alive out here.”

      As if to demonstrate what he’d said, the chief smacked his arm, leaving a red smear where a mosquito had been making a buffet out of him. He wiped his arm on his shorts, grimacing at the stain he’d left behind, before giving Chris an impatient look. “Well?”

      “It’s Mrs. Webb,” Chris said. “The thing is, after the shooting, she asked me whether the guy I’d shot was dead. No, what she asked was whether I was sure, as if she thought I was playing a cruel joke on her, as if she wanted him to be dead. The guy is, was, her husband. And it seemed like she was...relieved...that I’d killed him.”

      “Well, he did hold a knife on her. Makes sense she’d be happy to be alive and that she didn’t have to worry about him attacking her again.”

      Chris scrubbed his face and then looked down the dark road, lit only by the occasional firefly. Crickets and bullfrogs competed СКАЧАТЬ