“They’re all eager. Trained. Armed. And then what? They get out there and face demons they never knew existed outside of a comic book or video game.” Sheriff Huggins’s eyes went to the window in his office that faced out to the rest of the station. “All of them are about to face a battle I’m not sure they’re prepared for.”

It was true. Charlie had seen and breathed death and destruction at the hands of the enemy. Young Marines came in all oorah! only to watch a bullet take out their buddy right in front of them. Sobered them up real quick. Put purpose in their mission and faith in their soul.

“This murder is personal.”

“That’s right.” Sheriff Huggins leaned forward. “Which is exactly why I want you taking the lead. You have no ties to this town, or the people in it.”

Was that supposed to make Charlie feel better? Unattached and impartial to death? Or was that the expectation because he used to be a Marine? That he should be immune to the effects of death.

“A little separation is healthy for everyone.” Sheriff Huggins said it as though he were answering Charlie’s thoughts. “Brings perspective.”

“Is that what you’re asking for? Perspective?”

“I’m asking you to be the man I know you are. The person who I watched as a little boy see things others missed. Use those skills that made you invaluable in the Corps to help us . . . help me bring peace back to Walton.”

Charlie digested the words, allowing them to bring him back to reality. To his purpose. He was there to do a job and the sheriff was reminding him of that. “Do you believe the killer is local?”

“Agent Padello is running a search through the federal database to see if there are any similarities with the victim or the crime.” Sheriff Huggins shook his head and stared out the large window. “I don’t want to think someone here is capable of doing to Sydney what they did. No child, woman, or man should ever meet their Maker like that.”

On that, Charlie could agree. She wasn’t just a victim. She was Sydney Donovan, proverbial daughter to all who called Walton home—or so it seemed. It was up to him to find out if a killer was lurking among those mourning the young lady left to die in a swampy grave.

SIX

THE RANK HUMIDITY had turned the mud hole into a sauna. Miguel took a long drag on a cigarette. His lungs burned. He was alive. For now. If he made it home, he’d remember to thank God. It was still too early to celebrate.

Bringing the cigarette to his lips took several attempts. His hands hadn’t stopped shaking since the chopper had let ’em down—what was it? A month? Two months ago? The days blurred into one long, hellish nightmare with no end.