Fast.

There were no other cars. Not one to see them. He was alone.

Even before it became clear the guy was trying to run him off the road, Michael felt an atavistic shiver run up through his body like a power line. He sensed, even then, what was about to happen. And then the truck’s grille loomed close and Michael was desperately looking for a place to get off the narrow road and away from the truck.

He hugged the edge of the road. Knew there were two or three curves, and each one of them stopped at the edge of space—hundreds of feet down. But he couldn’t think right now how far down he could go if he went over. He was too busy trying to save himself.

Think!

He could feel the heat of the engine behind him. He could hear the diesel rumble. He glanced back and each time thought he saw the menacing grille coming forward.

He would be squashed like a bug.

Michael took off diagonally for the other side. The truck was on him. His tires skittered over rocks and dirt and grass as the truck’s rumble filled his ears. In his panic, he could not see—everything was shaking and moving and the truck was pinned to his ass. He feinted right, he feinted left, aware that there might be a car coming up the mountain, around the next curve.

The truck stayed on him.

He pedaled hard, faster—and got up a head of speed. Arrowed down the middle of the road. The truck seemed to falter, than came back, clinging to his back wheel like it was trying to get a draft.

Another curve. Had to stay away from the edge, had to stay in the road…

They came around the next bend.

Terror wiring through him. Adrenaline spiking. Heart bursting with fear.

The truck relentless.

He was being driven to the right, his tires jittering on the dirt verge. Down below the valley stretched like a sleeping golden lion—beautiful. It might be the last thing he’d ever see. Thinking, couldn’t help the thoughts that crossed through his mind, thinking about his broken body hitting boulder after boulder, smashed flat like a bug on a windshield.

The truck’s rough grumble.

Go faster. He had to pick it up. Out of the saddle, speeding up, even though the veering road scared him as it never had before.

He was terrified.

Around the next curve. The Pinarello held the line but the wheels almost slipped out from under him. He was going so fast. Too fast.

The next curve loomed. This was one of the cliffs. He could go right off. Oh shit—

His bike shimmied. The tires bit into the rocks, the dirt. He almost went over. The truck was on him like a dog on a little animal, ready to savage him. He saw it hit him, saw his broken body flying—

But the tires held. The bike stayed up. Suddenly encouraged, knowing that there would be fewer places to go off—he knew this road so well—he pushed forward.

“I’m gonna beat you, motherfucker!”

Around the next curve.

And right in front of him: the tour bus.

Too late to stop.

Michael was airborne. Cartwheeling. He’d managed to turn at the last moment. His bike rammed into a rock at the edge. He hit and he thought he slid. Grass, dirt, rocks, scrapes.

Came to rest facedown in the dirt. Alive. Whole.

The last thing he’d seen was the back of the tour bus. He’d swerved, headed right for the cliff. And hit the guardrail. He thought he hit the guardrail.

Shaking, he stood up and looked up at the road.

The truck had accelerated past the tour bus and was gone. All there was around him was the wind and emptiness. Blood on his knee, blood on his shin. Road rash from his hip down his thigh, his shorts on that side in tatters.

He staggered up to the guardrail and stepped over gingerly. He could see the next curve in the road below. He saw the bus disappear around the curve as if nothing happened.

Could it be the driver didn’t even see him?

The white truck was gone.

He tasted blood in his mouth where he’d bit his tongue. Tasted dirt and bits of grass. He dropped to all fours and threw up. Could smell himself. He smelled like fear.

The Pinarello’s superior frame geometry had saved his life. He checked the bike, spun the wheels, turned the cranks, and ran it through the gears.

A couple of dings.

He could ride it down.

And he did ride it down. Shaken. Scared. Looking back to see if the truck was coming. Scared of cars. Scared of other cyclists.

Scared.

He rode like a little old man. His neck was torqued. His wrist hurt him. He’d banged it against the guardrail.

Yeah, but you could have broken your neck.

This close to going over.

He rode slowly, a light hold on the brakes, pumping them.

Just get down.

He couldn’t think very well but what he did think was this: Sheppard.

Sheppard, out for revenge.

At one point he reached the bus. He thought about asking the driver to stop. He wanted to ask about the guy in the white truck. What he looked like.

But he guessed that the bus driver might not have even seen it.

Besides, he would settle it himself. He would take care of Sheppard himself. He didn’t want to draw attention to this.

Michael’s cleats clacked over the hardpan ground as he walked his bike to the 4Runner. He put it back on the rack. He got into the SUV and sat there. Now he could absorb it.

Someone tried to kill me.

He was shaking. Couldn’t stop.

He stared bleakly out the windshield—

And saw a sheet of paper stuck under the wipers. Facing him. Written in pencil in block letters.

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

CHAPTER 43

Tess didn’t have long to wait before Hanley’s USB flash drive came back from evidence.

It was pretty straightforward. There was only one document on the thumb drive, entitled “Diary.” The opening page looked like a form that had been scanned in. An older form she recognized, even though there were differences: the front page of a homicide detective’s murder book.

The victim in the report was a man named Felix Sosa. He’d died five years ago, the victim of a sniper. Sosa lived in the Phoenix metropolitan area where George Hanley once worked homicide.

Only Hanley had long been retired by the time Sosa was killed.

Tess looked at the graphic photos. Read the stats, and what had been done. A detective named Manuel Alvarado was the primary on the case. Tess wondered if Alvarado was a friend of Hanley’s, and just exactly how Hanley had managed to get a copy of the murder book.

Tess scrolled down the file until she found Hanley’s notes.

Danny picked up on the second ring. Today he and Theresa and their baby girl were going home, but Tess wasn’t sure if they were still at the hospital. He sounded like he was on cloud nine.

“How are things?”

“¡Que bonita! Beautiful, to you Anglos.”

“Are you home?”

“Just got in.” She heard him muffle the phone and call out to someone. “My brother just got here. What’s up?”

Tess told him about the Felix Sosa case—a man shot by a sniper at a campground in Payson, Arizona. “What do you think of that?”

“So he made up his own murder book, is that what you’re saying?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

“Of a homicide in Payson. The guy was shot by a sniper?”

“Yes.”

A pause. “Then he probably was shot by a sniper before.”

“You know a guy up there, don’t you? Jimmy somebody?”

“Jimmy Tune.”

“Jimmy Tune? Really?”

“Yeah. We met at an interrogation course in Phoenix. I still talk to him—I’ll give him a call and give him a heads-up to talk to you. I’ve got his e-mail somewhere. Wish I could do more, but um, I’m a little busy right now.”