The Stranger You Seek - By Amanda Kyle Williams Page 0,45

of thunder. I’ve counted my way through many southern storms.

Deep ruts gouged the saturated red clay earth. Someone had driven here recently. Perhaps LaBrecque had come and already gone. LaBrecque drove a dark blue Dakota pickup truck, I knew from the file, but there was no way to tell now what size tire had left these marks, the ruts softened by rain and indistinct.

I walked down a hill and around a curve and got my first good look at the cabin, brick red and larger than I’d anticipated, one of those vacation homes the rich call cabins or cottages that really just look like houses to the rest of us. I saw no lights in the windows even though the day had turned dark with thunderclouds. LaBrecque’s blue pickup was parked near the front lawn, streaming with rain. A hill with stone steps cut into it sloped down to the lake. Anyone who fishes in the warm months knows it is best done early morning, late night, or after the rain comes and cools things down. Two rowboats had been pulled up to shore and flipped over near a wooden dock. I imagined LaBrecque inside getting his gear ready, a few cans of cheap beer and a hat with hooks and lures.

As I neared the cabin and started down the pebble sidewalk, I saw it. Shit. The front door was cracked open a few inches. My pulse quickened. I moved in a half crouch toward the side of the house for cover, releasing the trigger safety on my gun as I did so. It was stifling under the gray jacket. Rain dripped off my hood in front of my face and blurred my vision. I waited. Nothing. No movement, just the rush of wind and rain battering the roof and bouncing off me. Could this day get any shittier? I was about to find out.

I moved to the front door and pressed my back against the outside wall, used my foot to gently inch the cabin door open, waited a few seconds, then stuck my head round and peered inside. Cold fireplace on the right, a sofa, a recliner. A picture window looking out onto the lake provided the only light. A food bar on the left, a kitchen, lots of cowboy art on the walls. No Billy LaBrecque.

Normally I would have called out, let someone know bond enforcement was in the house, but my gut was telling me something was off. I eased my way through the kitchen into a large open space, Glock double-clutched cop-style. A staircase was railed off in the center of the room and there were four doors right and left of it, all closed. I decided to cover the obvious opening first, the stairs, which—unlike the planked cabin floor upstairs—were carpeted. They led down into an enormous game room paneled with rustic bleached wood, an impressively stocked bar, a pool table, a TV, and an antique pinball machine. No LaBrecque.

Moving slowly back up the stairs, I paused at the top. The main room was exactly as I’d left it—empty and dim except for the natural gray of the day bleeding through the big window.

I went for the door on the left first, stood to the side, tried the knob, found no resistance, pushed it open quietly, and stepped around fast, Glock steady. I was sweating. The rain jacket was clinging to my skin; my heart was pounding in my temples. My body, in all its genetic wisdom, had the nerve cells rapid-firing. Fight or flight? I wasn’t sure yet.

I checked the closet, the bathroom. Empty. I peeled off the jacket and left it, then twice more I went through this excruciating process, freezing each time the floorboard creaked under me or a door hinge complained.

When I opened the last door, I saw LaBrecque right in front of me, and it felt like I’d been smacked with a two-by-four. His face was turned away, but I instantly recognized his build, the thick neck, his heavily muscled arms. But this wasn’t the threatening bully I’d seen at the church, the man who had brutalized his wife and child and grabbed my wrist with an infuriating sense of entitlement. This William LaBrecque had had everything stripped from him. Naked, he lay on the floor, his legs pulled open, his buttocks and thighs bloodied, spattered with vicious bruises and stab wounds.

Wishbone had been here before me.

I stepped in and spun quickly, heart trip-hammering, Glock ready to open up