“He’s not just a great shot,” Clearson said. “He’s got resources.”

“How much?” Remy asked.

“Brauer’s granddad apparently patented most of the car bumpers originally designed in this country,” Quarles explained. “Sold those rights to the Big Five automakers in the 1960s. Took the money and invested. The family owns three golf courses, about a dozen high-rises in Atlanta, and a franchise of paintball ranges.”

“And Nolan Brauer is the grandson?”

“And sole living heir,” Clearson said. “He also runs a blog called Patriots of Fort Pulaski.”

Fort Pulaski was a Civil War post in what’s now Savannah. Cockspur Island to be exact. The South had lost that battle. Maybe Brauer was still sore about it.

“Do we know where Brauer lives?” I asked.

“He owns five houses,” Clearson said. He walked over to a map of Georgia that was tacked to the conference wall. The hotel and Cracker Barrel were marked in red Sharpie, and a perimeter was drawn. A circle about a hundred miles around. Too big to search. Too big for anything. There were five black X’s, one on each of Brauer’s houses.

“Officers are on their way to all these addresses,” Clearson said. “We can assume he had two hours’ jump on us, and we’ve put every jurisdiction in this range on alert.”

“That’s gotta be twenty jurisdictions,” Abe said, walking into the room.

“Twenty-four,” Clearson answered. “But if your dead guy Carilla was right about the timing of something Thursday morning, then hopefully it’s just a matter of time before someone picks him up.”

Remy and I exchanged a glance. It was five p.m. and there was a possibility that a sniper rifle would be used tomorrow morning. A matter of time?

“How can we help?” Remy asked.

“The FBI has fifty men on this, as of ten minutes ago. Three different federal agencies are scouring every pro-NRA email, gun blog, and right-wing database. We’re in touch with the governor. The GBI.”

“Great,” I said, repeating what Remy had said. “How can we help?”

Clearson looked at Quarles and then at Abe. “We’re guessing he’s long gone from Mason Falls, P.T. So I think we’re good without local help.”

Clearson said “local help” like it was a slur.

“So nothing?” I asked.

“We already talked to your chief,” Clearson said. “I’d say go home and get some shut-eye. Maybe Abe stays here. P.T., you or Remy come in the morning for relief.”

Remy and I glanced at each other. Clearson was usually a good guy, but when he put on his asshole Fed hat, voilà, he sounded a lot like an asshole Fed.

“I’ll take the first shift,” Abe said. “Why don’t you come back around five a.m. I’ll be dead on my feet by then.”

I stared at Abe. I’d been the senior guy on the totem pole for so long that I had to remind myself that it was his job now to make these choices.

“All right,” I said.

We moved outside then, to where I’d double-parked my Silverado.