Page 104 of Crosshairs

He eased out of the woods, crossed to the cellar door, and opened it, using the key he’d had made. Once inside, he listened for sounds of someone being in the house, but it was still and quiet.

54

Alittle after seven, Linc had parked his Tahoe down the street so J.R. would think they were still out, and they’d been waiting in the library ever since, reading the leather-bound book. Now he counted the chimes coming from the grandfather clock in the hallway. Eleven.

“Not yet,” Ainsley said quietly to the question he hadn’t asked.

“If your dad was coming, I think he would have come before nine.” He shifted in his chair. Light from the streetlamp filtered through the blinds, breaking the darkness just enough to see the outline of the fireplace and the furniture. His familiarity with the room filled in the rest.

Ainsley stood and peeked through the blinds. “I cannot believe Sarah mentioned the diaries on-air. We weren’t even on-camera when she asked about them.” She returned to her chair. “You want to read more of the diary?”

“Yeah. I want to know what happened after we stopped to watch the newscast.” He didn’t know about Ainsley, but he hadn’t been able to get the words of the diary from his mind.

They’d taken turns holding a penlight to read the chilling account written in Charlotte Elliott’s precise penmanship. The details of the night Elliott was killed were laid out in a rational and dispassionate manner. How he’d discovered his wife was teaching former slaves to read and write. His anger and how he’dthreatened to horsewhip her if she didn’t agree to stop. This, after he’d beaten her almost unconscious.

Linc picked up reading where Ainsley had left off. When he reached the passage where one of the former slaves saddled a horse and rode to get Charlotte’s brother, Robert Chamberlain, a slight noise arrested his attention, and he stopped, cocking his head to listen.

“It’s him!” she whispered.

Linc held his finger to his mouth as muffled footsteps came up the stairs ... but which ones? Definitely not the basement steps.

Linc held his breath, and seconds later a door slid open near the fireplace. A man too thin to be J.R. stepped into the library and crept toward the hallway.

Linc flipped on the light, and the man whirled around, a ski mask covering his face and a gun in his hand.

No! Not a repeat of last night.

“ISB! Drop your gun!” Ainsley aimed her Sig at the intruder.

The man fired, and she dropped to the carpet and returned fire, hitting him in the chest. The gun fell from his hand, and he crumpled to the floor.

Linc kicked it across the room and then rushed to Ainsley’s side and helped her to her feet. “Are you all right?”

“I think so.”

She didn’t look all right. Her hands shook and she had her lips pressed together like she might be sick. Linc knew the aftermath of shooting a suspect, and none of it was good.

“You had no choice but to fire.”

She barely nodded, feeling the hole in her T-shirt. “The vest took the bullet again.”

Linc’s heart dropped to his knees. He hadn’t noticed she’d been shot. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. The intruder ... Is he ...”

Linc needed to see if the man was alive. He squeezed her hand, then crossed the room to where the man lay. What was he doinghere? Had he come after the diary or was he the person trying to kill Ainsley? He knelt beside him. “He’s breathing.”

His words seemed to give her a second wind. She straightened her shoulders and knelt with him beside the fallen man. Her bullet had hit him a little to the right, missing his heart. Otherwise, he would be dead.

Linc pulled out his phone and dialed 911. “Do you know him?” he asked as the call went through. Even with a mask on, the man didn’t look like the sketch of Maddox.

“I don’t think it’s Troy Maddox, but it’s hard to tell with the ski mask on.”

“Check his pulse,” he said as the operator answered, and he gave their address and the condition of the man.

“Pulse is weak.”

Before he disconnected, he relayed the message and assured the operator there was no danger to the paramedics.

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