Page 61 of The House of Cross

The snowstorm intensified north of Sawtooth City and the going became slow and treacherous on the mountainous two-lane highway. They did not reach Salmon and the address of William Malcomb and his wife, Cherise, until nearly three thirty in the afternoon.

It was a ramshackle dump, half prefab home, half plywood-walled addition, with no siding and tin on the roof. When they pulled in, an angry black standard poodle barked at them from the end of a chain.

As they got out of the Jeep, a wizened-looking woman in a stained red snorkel parka stepped out onto the sagging porch. She clutched a lit cigarette in one hand and a red go-cup in the other.

“Damn it, Fifi! Shut up!”

The poodle did so immediately; she sat and stared at them through the falling snow. The woman said, “Who are you? You were not invited.”

“We’re detectives from Washington, DC,” Sampson said. “We wanted to ask you some questions if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” she said. “About what? I ain’t done nothing. I haven’t been nowhere in three damn days.”

They walked toward her with their hands up. “Just a few questions,” Bree said. “Can we come inside?”

“Hell no,” she said. “And that’s far enough.”

Bree could see that the woman was younger than she’d first thought. Scrawny, with sallow skin and missing teeth. Her eyes were glassy and her hands trembled. Bree figured her for a meth addict.

“Are you Cherise?” Sampson said.

“That’s right.”

Bree said, “We were actually hoping to talk with William.”

The woman cackled. “You wanna talk to my Billy? Well, that’s no problem. Follow me.”

Cherise shuffled off the porch, kicked aside the snow, and headed toward a barn, cackling, puffing on the last of her cigarette, and taking sips from the go-cup. She went past the barn door and around the back.

She led them down a short, snowed-over path to a clearing by a creek. She pointed to a fresh grave mound marked by a white wooden cross with a red MAGA hat nailed to it that fluttered in the snowy wind.

Her next cackle was more subdued and sad. She said, “Talk all you want to Billy, ’cause that’s him there. Died last month. Pneumonia got him before the congestive heart failure could.”

CHAPTER 44

Washington, DC

MAHONEY AND I WEREstewing outside the FBI director’s office and had been since our arrival two hours before. During our flight from Athens, there had been a firefight in Houston that left several agents dead, so the director had her hands full.

We were finally led into Marcia Hamilton’s office around three in the afternoon. A former special agent with the Bureau, Hamilton had gone on to become a crusading U.S. attorney in Chicago. Tall, athletic, and in her late forties, Hamilton came from behind her desk to greet us, the crisis of the moment showing in her face.

“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” she said, shaking our hands. “These are the first agents to die on my watch, and we’re still in a standoff.”

“We understand,” Mahoney said.

I said, “How many, ma’am?”

“Seven.” She sighed. “They thought they were raiding a chop shop run by a gang operating across state lines. They got in there and found a massive fentanyl operation guarded by at least twenty well-armed men, and it got ugly fast. But bring me up to speed on what you found.”

Ned had her put on headphones and listen to the assassin’s final words to Professor Carver:Maestro knows what you’ve done. It’s over.

Hamilton was confused. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been in this job only six weeks. Maestro?”

We gave her a brief history of the vigilante group, our efforts to find M, the group’s leader, and our suspicions about Ryan Malcomb and Paladin, his company.

“And you think Malcomb orchestrated the murders of the three people on the advisory board’s list?”

“Not necessarily Malcomb, but Maestro, yes,” I said.

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