muddy water from her lungs. She spat, trying to clear the metallic taste from her mouth.
A few feet away, Luke stood grim-faced over Dowell’s body. The man lay on his side. His hands were cuffed, and he wasn’t moving.
“Is he alive?” Harper rasped the question through frozen lips.
“Barely.” Daltrey shone her flashlight into the darkness around them, her face alert. “Was he alone?”
“I th-think so.” Harper was shivering so hard the words came out in pieces. She’d never been this cold before. She felt strange—distant from her own body.
Luke waded over to them and crouched down next to Harper. His eyes searched her face. “You okay?”
She shook her head. She had never been less okay.
“We should search the area,” Daltrey told him. “His son could be out there.”
He didn’t take his eyes off Harper. “She’s in shock. We need to get her somewhere warm,” he said. “Backup’s on the way. Let them search. Anyway, if he’s out there for long, the gators’ll get him.”
He tried to pull Harper to her feet, but as soon as he let go, she sagged back toward the ground. Her legs had given up. There was no strength left in her.
Swearing softly, he slipped an arm beneath her shoulders and swept her into his arms, lifting her like a child.
“Hang in there,” he told her, and began striding across the marsh toward the road.
Faintly, above the sound of the rain, Harper heard sirens wailing. Far away, flickering blue lights lit up the sky.
She rested her cheek against his chest, where it fit like a puzzle piece put in the right place at last, and closed her eyes.
It was over.
35
The next morning, Harper sat propped up in her bed on the fourth floor of Savannah Memorial Hospital, holding the extra-large coffee DJ had smuggled in. She leaned over to look at the newspaper he was holding. The main headline read SUSPECTED MURDERER KILLED IN MARSH SHOOT-OUT.
Beneath it was a picture of Harper’s Camaro, deep in the mud, the headlight still shining a warning. It was juxtaposed with an old photo of Martin Dowell, square-faced and scowling. Next to that was a shot of Harper that Miles had taken last autumn, her auburn hair backlit by the sun.
The first paragraphs read:
Convicted murderer Martin Dowell died of a gunshot wound after attacking Daily News reporter Harper McClain on Highway 80 in the marshes near Oyster Creek during the height of the storm.
Dowell, who had been recently released after serving 17 years for murder, had been under the supervision of state police, until he removed his monitored ankle bracelet and disappeared two days ago, with the help of his son, Aaron Dowell.
McClain said he forced her car off the road and held her at gunpoint. He told her he’d come “to finish what he started” before firing at her repeatedly as she fled on foot.
McClain, who was also armed, shot back, striking Dowell in the chest.
He later died in the ambulance, en route to the hospital.
Police say they are investigating whether Dowell might have ordered the murder of Alicia McClain, mother of Harper McClain, in Savannah 16 years ago from his prison cell.
McClain has not been charged with any offense, although police said the case will be investigated.
Aaron Dowell is still missing.
She’d read enough. Shifting the paper, she glanced at the article taking up the right-hand side of the page under the headline THREE ARRESTED IN MUSICIAN’S MURDER.
Both stories were bylined “DJ Gonzales, Miles Jackson and Emma Baxter.”
“So Hunter’s going to be okay?” she asked, scanning the article.
“Yeah. They think he’ll make it.” DJ was sitting on the green vinyl chair next to her bed. “It was such an insane night. Baxter had to tear up the front page at midnight. Everyone helped. Miles was interviewing the cops while I was interviewing you.” He squinted at her. “Has Miles ever written a news story before?”
Harper shook her head, wincing as her fractured ribs shifted.
“Everyone was throwing each other lines, reading over each other’s shoulders.” He beamed at her. “It was like a movie.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” She said it with real regret.
“So … how bad is it?” He gestured at her arm, encased in plaster.
“Oh, it’ll heal.” She thumped her knuckles against the cast. “Broken in two places, but they pieced it back together. Two fractured ribs.”
She kept her tone light but DJ’s smile faded. He reached across the blankets and rested his hand on hers. “Hell of a night,” he said.