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Another shot rang out.
Shaw was shouting.
North picked himself up, distantly aware of the scrapes and bangs from the fall, and scrambled up onto the stoop again. He plunged into the house. It was dark, with thin slats of gray light filtering through the blinds. The stink of gunpowder filled the air. His hand shook—he was shaking all over—and he tightened his grip around the CZ.
Luck and reflexes saved his life. Something moved in the silver face of a mirror, and North reared back. He couldn’t see the blade; at first, all he felt was the flicker of something, the faint disturbance of air. Then his brain processed it, pulling up the image of that black sickle carving the darkness. He squeezed off a shot in what he hoped was the right direction. The muzzle flare burned off his night vision, and fear gripped him. He started to fire the next shot, but then he realized he didn’t know if Jem and Shaw were in the house, and he managed to stop. He kept backing up until he slammed into a wall.
For the second time that night, luck and reflexes saved him. A whispering hiss alerted him, and he dropped as the sickle sliced through the air above him. Plaster popped and cracked as the blade tore along the wall. Where was Shaw? Where was Jem? North fired a second shot, and the muzzle flare blinded him again. His ears rang from the gunfire, making it impossible to hear anything.
As his vision began to adjust again, North made out the silhouette of a man in the doorway, framed by the glow of the streetlights. He had a gun pointed at North.
Then someone crashed into the man, and both bodies went tumbling out of the house. North got to his feet and stumbled after them. Shaw emerged from somewhere deeper in the house and sprinted past him, face painted with the weak light from the street, the Springfield coming up in his hand. By the time North reached the door, Shaw was already lining up a shot.
For a moment, the scene was surreal. On Adam Ezell’s lawn, Jem and the man in black brawled like a couple of teenagers—grappling, rolling, flipping. Shaw hesitated; there was no clean shot, no way to fire without almost certainly hitting Jem too. After the thunder of the gunfire, the street’s silence shimmered in North’s ears. He clutched the doorjamb because he felt the floor sliding out from under him, and he wondered if he’d hit his head.
Then the man in black bucked Jem and sent him rolling toward the street. Shaw fired, and the man fired back. North grabbed Shaw and hauled him into the house. He waited for the next shot. For the screams.
But a heartbeat passed. And then another.
And then Jem called, “Motherfucking cowardly piece of shit!” In a weary voice, he added, “He’s gone.”
9
Apparently, North decided, shooting a gun in Wahredua was a bigger deal than in St. Louis, because they spent the rest of the night dealing with the fallout from the scene at Adam Ezell’s house. They had to tell the whole story to the responding officers. Then they had to tell it to a sour-faced detective named Palomo. And then, eventually, they had to tell it to John-Henry again. In his office. With Emery glaring at them over John-Henry’s shoulder.
When they’d finished, John-Henry rubbed his face, fighting a yawn. He was quiet for a moment. And then, in a controlled voice, he said, “I understand that our conversation earlier was rushed. I also understand that you’re used to…to working independently.”
“To doing our jobs,” North said. “The jobs you hired us to do.”
“To create a fucking shitstorm,” Emery said. “Is that what you were hired to do?”
“We were hired to track down Welch,” North shot back, “and we did.”
“Really? Where is he? Was he in that private home on that residential street you shot up like it’s the fucking Wild West?”
“We’re following this case where it leads us, and it led us to that fucking church and to some sort of connection with that missing deputy. What the fuck have you been doing? Picking lint out of your ass?”
Emery opened his mouth, but John-Henry slapped the desk and barked, “Enough.” In the wake of the shout, the buzz of the fluorescents was the only sound. “Ree, I’m handling this. North, knock it the fuck off.”
Maybe it was the late night. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the powerlessness of watching death and chaos ripple through the town you were sworn to protect. Whatever it was, it was riding John-Henry like a devil, and North could see it in his face now: a man pushed to the edge.
With a grunt, North sat back and looked at Shaw. Shaw shrugged helplessly.
“Sorry,” North muttered.
After a moment, John-Henry nodded. Emery leaned against the wall with an oddly satisfied look on his face.
“While you are working for the Wahredua PD,” John-Henry said, the words clean and neutral, “I expect you to obey the law and conduct yourself in a way that will make whatever case we bring to trial airtight. Do you understand?”
The wait was like sandpaper on raw skin. Finally, North bit out, “Yes.”
“And while you are working for the Wahredua PD, I expect regular updates about the progress of your investigation. You are not cowboys, to borrow Ree’s metaphor. You’re not on your own. You’re part of a team, and I’m not just talking about Wahredua PD.” Something in his voice yielded. “Either we’re in this together, or we’re not.”
“We’re in it together,” Shaw said quietly.
North nodded.
Emery snorted.
