He walked over to the fence and shielded his eyes as he scanned the shooting range itself. It was an impressive setup: a vast cleared space among the trees stretching far away into the distance with targets set up at marked ranges of 100, 500 and 1000 yards. In the distance, a massive ridge of earth had been bulldozed up to create a safe backstop, preventing stray shots from landing somewhere in the next state. A cordoned area had been set aside for spectators to watch the shooting, while the shooters’ firing point was well equipped with mats and rifle rests. Clustered around the main range, smaller events were going on. There was even a kids’ range, where NRA instructors were showing children the basics of shooting and safety with small-calibre junior weapons.

From the competition schedule nailed to a post near the adjudicator’s hut, Ben saw that the smallbore competitions had already been shot that morning. Names of the winners were posted up on a blackboard nearby. The main event of the day, though, and what most of the crowd had come to watch, was the open-class fullbore rifle shoot. Already, a lot of the big-bore rifle shooters were assembling on the firing point, opening up kit boxes, preparing their equipment.

But the shooting competition held no interest for Ben. He was here to catch hold of Clayton Cleaver, take him somewhere private and press some truth out of him.

He’d pretty much planned his strategy. He liked simple plans, and this one was very simple indeed. If Cleaver didn’t confess right away, he was going to beat it out of him about what had happened to Zoë and where she was. If she was dead or alive, either way, Cleaver’s fate was sealed. There was Charlie to pay for. Once he no longer needed him, he was going to take Cleaver to a quiet spot somewhere and blow his brains out. Leave him where he lay. Then home, and try to pick up where he’d left off.

He wondered where Cleaver was. He could see the house in the distance, a large colonial-style mansion with columns and porches, white and glimmering through the trees. His fists clenched with rage and for an instant he felt the urge to walk straight over there and find him.

Then he spotted him. Of course. He should have expected that the man wouldn’t be far from the crowd and the cameras. Cleaver was in the middle of the throng clustered around the Augusta Vale Trust marquee, surrounded by press photographers, shaking as many hands as he could, the big broad smile never leaving his face. Miss Vale was there too, looking elegant and gracious as she attended to all the people around her and delegated tasks to her assistants. As Ben approached, she caught sight of him and waved. He smiled and waved back.

As he came closer, he saw Cleaver’s eyes shoot him a glance. Suddenly the Reverend seemed to have a pressing engagement elsewhere. He melted away into the crowd.

‘Catch you later,’ Ben muttered under his breath.

Miss Vale took his arm as he joined her. ‘Isn’t this just wonderful? Look at all the people.’ She beamed up at him. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’ She turned to two of her assistants nearby, a thickset woman with ginger hair standing talking to a petite and very attractive Japanese girl in her early twenties.

‘Harriet, where’s young Carl?’ Miss Vale asked anxiously. ‘It’s quarter to twelve. It starts in fifteen minutes.’

‘I think he just arrived,’ the ginger-haired woman said.

‘He’s cutting it a little fine. I shall have to scold him.’

The Japanese girl caught Ben’s eye and smiled at him.

‘Let’s go meet him,’ Miss Vale said.

They started walking towards the parking field. Harriet and the old lady were deep in conversation. Ben followed behind, and the Japanese girl walked with him.

‘I’m Maggie,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

‘Ben,’ he said. ‘You work for the Vale Trust?’

She nodded. ‘Miss Vale has been telling us all about you,’ she said.

‘Really? So who’s this Carl we’re going to meet?’

‘One of Miss Vale’s protégés,’ Maggie replied. ‘The Trust puts a lot of young kids from underprivileged backgrounds through college. The aim is to support and empower them. Carl Rivers is only nineteen, but he’s already a champion rifle marksman. The Trust has been paying for his training, and we’re hoping that one day he’ll represent the USA in the Olympics.’

‘Impressive,’ Ben said.

‘Miss Vale has organised a special sponsorship event for this year’s match,’ Maggie said. ‘She’s put a hundred thousand dollars of her own money in the pot, and she’s persuaded a whole lot of wealthy folks to back him too. He’s up against pro shooters from five states, but we’re hopeful. If he wins the fullbore rifle class, we’ll have raised about half a million for the hospital. It’s really important.’

‘Miss Vale told me about the children’s wing,’ he said.

Maggie nodded sadly. ‘So sad.’

They reached the parking field. Away from the rest of the cars was a section cordoned off closer to the ranges, for competitors only.

‘That’s him over there,’ Maggie said, pointing.

Ben looked. A young black kid was standing next to a badly beaten-up old Pontiac. He had a friend with him, a gangly, gawky-looking white teenager with jeans ripped at the knees and thick glasses that magnified his eyes so much that they almost filled the lenses. The friend was unloading a long black rifle case from the back of the car.

‘I don’t suppose Carl Rivers is the one with the glasses,’ Ben said.

Maggie laughed. ‘No, that’s Andy; I don’t think he’d be much of a shot.’

Carl was in the middle of an animated discussion with his gawky-looking friend, and hadn’t seen them approaching. He was leaning with his right hand against the side of the car as Andy laid the rifle case down on the grass. Whatever they were joking about, Carl suddenly threw his head back and burst out laughing. Andy was laughing too, his big eyes creased up with mirth behind the glasses. Then he reached up quickly and slammed the car boot lid shut. Right on Carl’s fingers.

Carl’s laughter suddenly became a scream. He thrust his injured hand between his legs, hopping around in a circle.

Miss Vale went rushing over to him. ‘Dear child, let me take a look.’

‘Shit, what happened?’ Maggie said in alarm.

Carl was obviously in a lot of pain. Ben examined the damage. The first three fingers of his right hand were mashed and bleeding.

‘Can you flex them?’ Ben asked.

Carl tried, and whimpered.

‘Could be broken,’ Ben said.

‘There’s a first-aid tent not far away,’ Miss Vale said, shooting a look at Andy, who was standing to one side biting his lip in distress. ‘They can take a look at it, but I think you need to get this seen to by a doctor.’

‘She’s right,’ Ben said.

‘Yeah, but I’m supposed to be shooting here today,’ Carl protested.

Just as he said it, there was an announcement over the loudspeakers that the fullbore rifle event would be starting shortly, and would the competitors please make their way to the firing line.

They walked him quickly to the first-aid tent, where a nurse examined the fingers as best she could, bandaged him up and told him he needed to get to a hospital soon for an X-ray.

‘I can’t. I’ve got to shoot,’ he argued.

‘Not with those fingers, you can’t,’ the nurse said, tight-lipped. ‘Unless you can learn to shoot left-handed, son, you can forget it.’

Carl left the first-aid tent almost in tears with pain and frustration, and they headed back towards the car. Andy trailed in their wake, all penitent and full of useless suggestions. Miss Vale was calm, though the disappointment was clear in her eyes. ‘The important thing is that you get to the hospital and get that seen to.’

‘But the money,’ Carl said. ‘The money for the charity.’

‘Nothing you can do, child,’ she said resignedly. ‘We’ll see if we can reorganise it next year.’