Part 76 (1/2)

Two minus one still leaves one.

As fast as I'd ever moved, I reached for my spare-the 9mm Beretta tucked into my s.h.i.+n holster. I grabbed it and fired without really aiming.

The shot hit Ned near his shoulder, in a spot similar to the one where he had hit Sarah. He stumbled back, feet wobbly, reality sinking in. He tried to lift his arm to fire, but I was ready for him. And guess what? I was even angrier than he was.

BLAM!

This shot was truer, ripping through his chest, the force nearly cutting the legs out from under him. But he wouldn't go down.

He was stumbling back, the blood spilling down his body, changing colors in the rain. Deep red, light red, almost pink.

As he raised his pistol again, he opened his mouth to say something. But he'd already done enough talking as far as I was concerned. He'd talked way too much, the sick murdering b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

BLAM!

The shot echoed around the surrounding oak trees as I fell onto my back. Then I was staring up at the swirling clouds. I was trying to catch my breath.

Slowly, I made my way over to where he'd fallen. My last bullet had caught him in the heart.

Ned Sinclair was dead.

Not six feet from his sister Nora's grave. And you know what? They deserved each other.

Chapter 119

IN THE AFTERMATH, so to speak, of Ned Sinclair's death, one of my immediate problems solved itself. Squandering the kudos I'd received in the wake of the identification of the Honeymoon Murderer, I'd broken half the rules in the FBI handbook and angered more than a few superiors, not the least of whom was Dan Driesen. But in doing so I'd also shut down a killer who had scared every guy named John O'Hara in the country, including one who just happened to be the president's brother-in-law.

I wasn't fired. I wasn't even put back on suspension. Frank Walsh still wanted me to see Dr. Adam Kline, but after the good doctor heard of the little field trip I made after mending for a few days back home in Riverside, he decided his work with me was done.

”That showed real courage,” he told me in what would be my last visit to his office. ”You did the right thing. You're good by me.”

I wasn't sure about the courage part, but even before I rang the doorbell at Stephen McMillan's house, I was pretty sure about it being the right thing to do.

This was one problem of mine that wouldn't take care of itself.

I sat in McMillan's living room, listening as he delivered his heartfelt apology for causing Susan's death. I had little doubt that every word was as true and real as the tears streaming down his cheeks.

”I know it's no consolation, but I haven't had a sip of alcohol since the accident,” he told me.

”You're right,” I said. ”It's no consolation to me or my kids. But I'm sure it means a lot to your family.”

McMillan glanced at a photograph of his teenage son and daughter that was sitting on a small table next to his armchair. He nodded.