The Last Straw (The Jigsaw Files #4) - Sharon Sala Page 0,46

West Virginia capital, but not enough to want to live there.

He slipped into a wooden rocker, shifted until he was facing west. Then he laid the handgun on the table beside him, took a sip of his whiskey and settled in to watch the end of this day.

A big blue heron flew across his line of vision, and he could already hear the night birds starting to call. He took another sip, wondering what he was going to make for his dinner, when he heard the sounds of vehicles approaching.

He frowned. He wasn’t in the mood for company, even though it wasn’t unusual for the friends he had to drop in without notice. He took another sip, then set his whiskey on a table and stood up. Out of habit, he slipped his handgun in the back of his waistband and headed for the front yard.

The wraparound porch afforded him the luxury of moving from back to front without going through the house, and he was all the way around the corner and moving toward the front door when he saw the first black SUV.

The windows were tinted, so he couldn’t see the driver, but when a second vehicle appeared, and then a third, his heart skipped a beat.

He’d bet his life these were Feds.

Damn Jeremiah Raver to the hellfire and brimstone he preached.

Even before they got out, he was weighing his options.

Did he run?

Did he want to shoot it out and die on the land of his ancestors?

Or did he want to take his chances in court?

Because he knew in his gut he was going to jail.

And then the agents spilled out and headed toward the house with their weapons in their hands.

“ATF! ATF! Put your hands in the air! Put your hands in the air!”

And just like that, Preston’s decision was made. He reached behind his back, and when they saw the gun in his hands, they opened fire.

Preston died on the front porch from a gunshot wound to the chest, just as his great-great-great-grandfather had died during the War of Northern Aggression.

Tradition mattered here.

It was, after all, the South.

* * *

Early the next morning Special Agent Vance arrived at his office, set down his Starbucks coffee, the one daily indulgence he allowed himself, then eased into his chair and combed his fingers through his hair.

Preston Davis was dead. He’d gotten the message last night on his way home from the office, and immediately sent Hank Raines a text with the info of what had happened.

Billy Vance knew that the ATF team had spent hours collecting evidence at Preston’s home. Enough to bring down a whole ring of thieves he’d been doing business with. But notifying Davis’s family of the death was not his job. That went to the team who’d gone to serve the warrant. Billy had the Raver family to notify and he was dreading it.

He hated death notifications, but they were part of the job, and after going through the address book they’d found at Raver’s house, it hadn’t taken much research to find out that Samuel Raver, who was the first name listed under R, was Jeremiah’s older brother. So he took a quick sip of his coffee, then punched in the numbers and waited as it began to ring.

* * *

Maisie Raver was in the kitchen frying bacon.

The scent was one of Samuel’s favorite things in the world, and he was anticipating the breakfast she was making as he finished his shave. When he heard his phone begin to ring, he turned off the water, wiped his hands and ran back into the bedroom. He grabbed the phone from the nightstand, glanced at caller ID and then sat down on the side of the bed before his knees went out from under him.

“Hello?”

“Hello, this is Special Agent Vance, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. May I speak to Samuel Raver?”

“I’m Samuel.”

“Mr. Raver, I’m sorry to disturb you this early in the morning, but it is my duty to inform you that your brother, Jeremiah, is deceased.”

Samuel’s heart sank, but guilt swirled with the shock, because he also felt a measure of relief that worrying for him was over. He cleared his throat a couple of times before he got himself together enough to speak.

“I’m sad, but I can’t say I didn’t see this coming,” Samuel said.

“When was the last time you spoke to him?” Vance asked.

“He was here for a few hours two days ago, I think. He wanted to stay, but we