Bitter Falls (Stillhouse Lake)(6)

The sniper had him marked dead to rights, then deliberately missed him. A warning.

“Are you okay?” I ask him.

He looks at me with that same odd calm. “Apart from wishing I’d taken out more car insurance? Sure. He missed.”

“He didn’t miss. He had a laser sight on your chest.”

“And you know laser sights at that distance are bullshit,” Sam says. “Bullets curve.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, then moves them to cup my face. “Gwen. Breathe. It’s okay, it’s just a window.”

“No,” I say. “It was a threat.”

I turn away, grab my cell phone, and speed-dial the Norton police.





2

GWEN

It’s probably no surprise that the cops don’t turn up anything much.

They find the bullet embedded in the truck’s seat, but it’s mashed all to hell. The forensic tech—who I know is competent—doesn’t seem confident that they’ll be able to do much.

No sign of a shooter. Or rather too many. These woods are well used by hunters.

The young cop who interviews us is a uniformed officer I don’t know. Seems barely older than my daughter. He tries to be professional about it but comes off patronizing. “Ms. Proctor, I know what you think you saw, but—”

I interrupt him, because I am pissed. “Come on. I saw the laser sight!”

“Ma’am, just because someone’s a lousy shot don’t mean nothing sinister at work here. Chances are it was just an accident. Lucky nobody was hurt, is all.”

I bare my teeth. Before I can put more bite with my bark Sam lays a hand on my arm. “Thanks, officer. We’ll be fine. If I can have a report for my insurance company—”

“Sure thing,” the young man says. He warms up to Sam. Of course. “Glad you understand, sir.”

I get the message. Sam’s the adult here. I’m the hysterical female. I want to slug the cop right in the mouth. Don’t, of course. I just grit my teeth. I’m surprised I have teeth left at this point.

I can tell Sam knows that when he says, “Thank you for coming out, Officer,” in as neutral a tone as anyone could have, and the cop takes it as the goodbye it is. He goes to confer with the forensic tech, who’s heard the exchange and sends me a look of silent apology and an eye roll of what can you do?

I turn to Sam. “Really?”

“Really,” he replies. “Gear down, Gwen. Picking a fight with the cops isn’t going to help.”

He’s right, of course, but I want to fight somebody. And there’s nobody to hit except people I love, so I push that instinct right down and take a deep breath. “Okay. Who do you think it was?”

“If I had to guess? One of the Belldenes.”

It’s what I expect him to say. The Belldenes are a tight-knit family of hill folk who are both paramilitary and criminal. Sam’s run afoul of them a couple of times. Always in defense of someone else.

I’ve never met any of them face-to-face, though their reputation is large and well documented in the Norton and Tennessee state police records. They specialize in dealing all kinds of opiates. Word is that they’ve got some doc-in-a-box a few counties over who provides them with prescriptions, but so far nothing’s been proven. A little meth cooking on the side.

I’m used to being harassed. I’ve endured years of being relentlessly stalked and threatened by internet vigilantes. Organized groups like the Lost Angels, who number relatives and friends of my ex-husband’s victims among them. Random weirdos who idolized Melvin and want to either get close to me or kill me. Stalkers who think my kids might be budding serial killers. I have plenty of enemies to choose from, but this is different. It’s someone who lives within easy driving distance. Who can show up to my kids’ schools, my partner’s work, our grocery store.

Or our house.

Normally I act pretty aggressively against threats, but Sam’s impressed on me that the Belldenes treat feuds like sporting events. Anything I do to one of them stirs up a nest of very angry hornets. They’re baiting us.

I can’t afford to bite.

Still, I hate to let it go. “So we do—”

“Nothing,” he finishes, and gives me a look I recognize all too well. “Right?”

“Maybe.”

“Gwen.”

“He could have killed you.”

“If he’d wanted me dead, I’d be dead,” he tells me. “If it gets worse, we’ll level up. But right now he just wants an excuse, so don’t give it to him. Okay?”

I reluctantly nod. Neither of us knows which him it is exactly. There are a confusing number of Belldenes, and likely all of them are decent shots with a rifle. One’s a military-grade sniper but that doesn’t mean he’s the one who was out poking us today.

I think they save him for when they’re serious.

I walk the kids down to the bus, hyperalert for any threats, but they board without incident. Sam gets the all clear from the police as they leave the scene. He breaks out his damaged window and promises me he’ll call a repair service from his jobsite. This time our goodbye kiss is longer, more fraught.

We’ve struggled to get back to a sweet, warm balance of trust. It’s never been easy. Sam’s the brother of one of Melvin’s victims. That shadow will always fall over us. So, too, will the difficult fact that he helped form the Lost Angels, one of the most vocal groups that hounds us.