Around him, the room dipped and curved, but John maintained eye contact, hoping he didn’t look as fucked up as he felt. “I’d ask if this is a social call, but judging from the look on your face, it isn’t.”

“It’s not.” The bartender set a beer on the bar and Denny took a long drink.

“You here to fire me or what?”

“Worse.”

John couldn’t help it; he laughed.

Denny reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and laid the RFA on the bar. “Rummel wants you on it.”

“You’re kidding?” John slid the RFA closer and skimmed the particulars.

DESCRIPTION OF CRIME:

Possible serial murder. Local law enforcement overwhelmed.

LOCATION:

Painters Mill, Ohio.

CONTACT:

Janine Fourman, town councilwoman. Norm Johnston. Mayor Auggie Brock.

“Not exactly my area of expertise,” John said.

“Like you have an area of expertise these days.”

“I’m pretty good at fucking up.”

Denny raised his glass. “That doesn’t count.”

John squinted at the form, unable to believe they were assigning him a case. He wasn’t exactly in the running for agent of the year. “Why me?”

“Maybe you drew the short straw.”

They both knew Rummel never did anything without a reason. He was a man with an agenda, and that agenda never served anyone but himself.

Denny shrugged. “Maybe he thinks it’s time you got off your ass and earned your keep.”

“Or maybe that sneaky little fucker wants to watch me unravel.”

“So prove him wrong. You were a cop. You’ve got the mojo.”

Even through the lavender haze of inebriation, John noticed the other man’s misery, and he thought he knew why. Denny might be just another figurehead in an ocean of figureheads. But he was a straight shooter. Something wasn’t right about this, and they both knew it.

“You could retire,” Denny offered.

John folded the RFA and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“I’ll take the case.”

“You sure?”

John nodded. “Just do one thing for me, will you?”

“You got it.”

“Tell Rummel he can kiss my ass.”

Laughing, Denny picked up his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

CHAPTER 11

Midnight descends with the cold stealth of a nocturnal predator. Freezing and discouraged, I pack our tools into the rear of the Explorer. In five hours time, we dug eight holes at various positions, but found no trace of human remains. I’m left not knowing if the man I shot survived to haunt this town again, or if we were simply unable to find the grave.

Jacob and I don’t speak during the drive to his farm. He offers no apology for his inability to find the remains—or his accusation—but I don’t expect one. I want to ask him to help me again tomorrow, but I don’t. Finding Lapp’s body is on my shoulders and mine alone.

The case is almost twenty-four hours old. I’ve raced against the clock all day, but accomplished little. My back and shoulders ache from the physical exertion of digging. The confrontation with my brother has drained the last traces of optimism from my psyche. Still, the need to hunt down this killer consumes me.