For a second, Louis thought of confronting Gibralter with what he knew about Angela and Johnny and with what he suspected about Pryce and the others. But if it was true that Jesse was missing then Gibralter was still in the dark. And it was foolish, even dangerous, to alert him to what he knew. It would all come out tomorrow anyway when Steele got back.
Gibralter was waiting for an answer. When he realized Louis was not going to go, he nodded grimly and started down off the porch. He stopped and turned back to face Louis.
“I’ve got blood on my hands,” he said softly.
Louis stared at him.
“Three of my men are dead, two of them because I was too proud to get help,” Gibralter said. “Jesse and I are the only ones left. I have to find him.”
Louis tried to read the emotion in Gibralter’s eyes but all he could see was fatigue and stress. The man looked pulled too tight, as if he knew everything was coming to an end.
Gibralter squinted at him through the falling snow. “I don’t like you, Kincaid. You know that, it’s no secret. But I don’t want to lose any more men, Jesse or you. Now will you come with me or not?”
When Louis didn’t answer, Gibralter shook his head and walked away. As Louis watched him his heart quickened. Jesus, what if he was wrong? What if Lacey had killed all three cops? What
if Jesse was lying out in the snow, easy prey for Lacey’s scope? No matter what Jesse had done, he deserved a trial, not a sniper’s bullet in his back. And no matter what he thought of Gibralter, he couldn’t sit here like a coward while the others were out searching.
“Wait!”
Gibralter turned.
“Give me a minute to get ready.”
“Dress warm,” Gibralter said. “We might end up on foot.”
The wipers kept up their monotonous rhythm as they drove slowly toward the main road. From the radio came Edna’s steady murmur, directing the other men on their search. Gibralter reached down and keyed the mike.
“Central, this is L-1. I’m 10-8 with L-11, joining the search.” He clicked off. “You sure he went in this direction?” Gibralter asked Louis.
“It’s the only road up away from the lake,” Louis said.
“Maybe he went down to the lake.”
“No, I saw his prints.” Louis was training the outside spotlight on the snowy shoulder. “He was too drunk to drive. Maybe he tried to walk home.”
“That’s three miles from here.”
It was quiet except for the groan of the wipers and an occasional spurt of radio voices. Louis moved his elbow so he could feel his gun against his ribs under his parka. He hadn’t bothered with the bulky uniform belt, just stuck the gun and his cuffs in the belt of his jeans.
“Can you see any prints?” Gibralter asked.
“No, but they’re probably covered by now.”
“Shit, maybe he headed in the other direction.”
“There’s nothing out that way.”
They crept on, Gibralter slowing the Bronco to five miles an hour.
“Hold it!”
Gibralter braked. Louis swung the light low on the shoulder.
“What is it?”
“Boot prints.” Louis got out, training his flashlight down in the snow. Gibralter was quickly at his side, shining his own light into the snow. The prints formed a faint but staggering pattern into the darkness of the road ahead. They followed them for several yards, walking in the headlight beams of the Bronco idling behind.
The prints ended abruptly in a flattened area of the snow. “Looks like he fell here,’ Gibralter said.
Louis swung the flashlight out into the field beyond and then across the road, finally picking up the prints again. They walked on, following them for another ten yards then the prints stopped again in another flattened area. But this patch was larger, messier, the snow shoved away in spots down to the bare ground. There were several dark spots, almost covered with a light dusting of new snow. Louis knelt to brush it away. The spots were blood.
Gibralter’s breath, stale with cigarettes, was at his ear. “Christ, what happened?”
“A struggle of some kind,” Louis said.
Gibralter swing his flashlight ahead down the road but there were no more prints. He straightened. “He killed him,” he said.
Louis looked up. Gibralter’s face, caught in the reflection of their flashlights on the snow, was drawn with pain. To his amazement, Louis saw tears in the man’s eyes.
Gibralter met his eyes and looked away. He turned and started back to the Bronco.
Louis looked again at the blood in the snow. A gnawing started in his gut, a gnawing that came from his guilt for letting Jesse walk out of the cabin.
“Jesse!”
Louis swing around. Gibralter was standing in the beams of the Bronco, staring out into the field, hands cupped to his mouth.
“Jesse!” he shouted into the darkness, his voice echoing back to him.
“Chief,” Louis called out.
“Jesse!”
“Chief!” Louis called out sharply.
Gibralter’s head snapped toward Louis.
“He’s not here,” Louis said.
Gibralter turned away and went back to the Bronco.
Louis scanned the field again, trying to find something, anything. But there was nothing. No Lacey, no body. No…body.
