Free Delusion by Peter Abrahams Page B

his hand out toward Nell and Lee Ann, almost like an MC encouraging celebrities to take a bow. “But from where they all were standing, angle of entry, flat-out guesswork, we’re—”
    Someone whistled in the woods.
    “That’ll be L’il Truman,” the sheriff said. “You know L’il Truman?”
    “No,” said Clay.
    “Best tracker in the county. They say it’s on account of he’s one quarter Cherokee, but I don’t buy that kind of thing.” The sheriff’s eyes were on Clay, maybe trying to see where he stood on the question of genetic predispositions, but Nell saw no sign on Clay’s face, actually didn’t know the answer herself.
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    Two minutes later, Clay and the sheriff were examining a brass cartridge.
    “Thirty-ought-six it is,” Clay said.
    “Lucky guess,” said the sheriff. “Pace that distance off, Truman?”
    L’il Truman, dressed in T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, said, “Yes, boss. Two hundred and fifty-six yards.”
    Everyone gazed back into the woods. “Two hundred and fifty yards, possible silencer, southwest breeze, one shot,” said Clay.
    “Not a beginner,” said the sheriff. “I’d estimate there’s no more’n three or four thousand hunters in the county could have done it.”
    Lee Ann stepped forward. “Surely this wasn’t some hunting accident.”
    The sheriff turned to her.
    “You’re aware that Ms. Bonner’s a reporter, Sol?” Clay said.
    “We touched on that—got no problem with the media,” the sheriff said. “Not calling it a hunting accident, ma’am, just pointing out the level of shooting ability around these parts—kind of like at the Olympics.”
    “I get that,” Lee Ann said. “But won’t the motive help narrow things down?”
    “We got a motive?” said the sheriff.
    “Napoleon Ferris was supposed to testify in the Alvin DuPree hearing,” Lee Ann said.
    “Don’t know much about that,” said the sheriff. “But I do know something about this cabin.” He took an envelope from an inside pocket. “Which is why I picked myself up a warrant on the way up.”
    A uniformed cop moved in with a battery-powered lock picker but they didn’t need it; the door was unlocked, swung open when the sheriff gave a little push. “After you,” he said.
    They went inside—Clay, the sheriff, Nell, Lee Ann. A small cabin, no real space for hiding things, and no one had tried: bags of marijuana were stacked everywhere. Also out in the open were two shotguns, a handgun, and a long-bladed knife.
    “What we’ve had in the county,” the sheriff said, “past year or so, is what amounts to a war between these two drug gangs, one 60
    PETER ABRAHAMS
    Mexican, one black. This here’s black territory. Not saying your man was involved in the dealing. Might have just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, got caught in the switches.”
    “Ferris had two drug priors,” Clay said. “One for possession, one for dealing, marijuana both times.”
    “Interesting,” said the sheriff.
    “But not as good a story,” said Clay.
    Lee Ann said nothing. A uniformed woman came in and started taking pictures.
    Nell and Clay drove home in the back of the cruiser. The driver pressed the button that made the screen slide up, sealing off the front seat.
    “Sure you’re all right?” he said.
    “Yes. Are you angry at me?”
    “Why would I be?”
    “I don’t know,” Nell said. “Going off with Lee Ann like that. I had no idea we’d end up where we did—she got a tip.”
    “Who from?”
    “She didn’t say.”
    “It doesn’t matter,” Clay said. “As long as you’re unharmed.”
    Nell thought of the gentle way Clay had closed Nappy’s eye. She leaned against him; she loved that gentleness, the gentleness of a strong man who kept his power in reserve. “All she wanted was to hear about how Johnny died. I haven’t talked about that in a long time.”
    “And?”
    “It’s still awful, but far away now.”
    Clay kissed the top of her head. He did