And maybe, just maybe, an answer.
But for now, I will only say that I have questions. It seemed logical that the sniper works for Wallace. It might also seem logical that the sniper would stop shooting when Brady--his target--fled.
But that does not explain the fact that the first bullet was aimed at Wallace. That Wallace instinctively grabbed for a human shield. Would you do that if you'd hired the man firing the gun? Of course not.
And if you did hire that man, and he saw you being taken captive, would he not turn his rifle on those attacking you? You can't collect payment if your client is dead.
When Diana and I went to free Anders, we left Wallace bound and gagged. And the sniper never returned to check on him, never returned to free him.
The sniper is not Wallace's man.
Yet Wallace is guilty.
I saw that mask slide from Gregory Wallace's face. I could say it was just the mask of civility falling away, like the hostiles in this forest, stripped of what passes for humanity when they are forced to fight for their lives.
That is bullshit.
Strip away my mask of civility, and you get someone who would shoot a man who left her to be beaten to death . . . and then blamed her for it. Someone who would have shot Wallace or Brady--not caring which was innocent--if it saved a friend.
What I saw in Wallace was more than my brand of darkness. It was evil.
When faced with danger, he pulled an innocent bystander into the path of the bullet.
Does that mean Wallace has done what Brady claims?
He could have. For now, I'll only say that. He is entirely capable of it.
As for Brady . . .
A theory. That's what I have. Now I need the man himself.
60
It's easy enough to sneak up on Brady. He hasn't transformed into a master woodsman. The problem has always been simply getting close enough to find him in this endless wilderness. O
nce I am, I can hear him, stopped to catch his breath. Those gasps cover my approach. Then I grab his broken wrist, still bound by my handcuff tie. He lets out a shriek, half pain, half surprise.
When he sees me, he deflates.
"Oh, come on, Detective," he says. "I'm starting to feel like that guy in Les Miz, chased by the cop who just won't give up, even when he knows the poor guy is innocent."
"Javert didn't know anything of the sort," I say. "And neither do I."
"Seriously?" He slumps, shaking his head, like I'm a patrol officer who pulled him over for speeding. Just a pain-in-the-ass cop, wasting the taxpayer's money trying to pin some silly little misdemeanor on him.
"I'm going to ask you again," I say. "How far do you think you'll get with your hands tied behind your back?"
"Does it matter?"
"Sure it does." I walk in front of him, my gun lowered. "A few years ago, I went to a party where they played a game called Would You Rather. It's supposed to be two equally shitty choices. Except the host didn't quite get the point and kept giving choices where there really was no choice at all. Like 'Would you rather take a bullet to the head or die of slow starvation in the forest?' Whatever fate you'd suffer out here is much worse than what your stepfather would do to you."
"Uh, did you miss the part where he's a fucking psychopath? He didn't shoot those people in the head. He tortured them."
"Yes, I'm sure being tied up and beaten wasn't--"
"Tied up and beaten? Is that your idea of torture? He cut them. He burned them. He pulled out their fingernails. Their teeth. He did the kind of things you see in movies, when they're trying to get spies to talk. Only he didn't want these people to talk. He wanted them to scream. To cry. To beg. To break."
"You got a good look then, at that boy you caught him with."