Page 11 of A Mile of Ocean

“It’s too early to rule anyone out. But from the looks of the entry point, it was from some distance away. That’s why the entry point was so small in diameter.”

“How far away?”

“Half a mile. That’s why I think you should be on alert. Whoever did this might come back.”

“It sounds like you’re looking for a marksman with deadly aim. But snipers don’t usually use a .22 for that kind of job.”

“Exactly. Hitmen might use a .22 handgun up close to the side of the head. But snipers, I’d think they’d use something with a scope and heavier ammo. But as I said, I’m keeping an open mind. It’s too early to rule anyone or anything out at this stage. But I do wonder.”

“About what?”

“How many .22 rifles do you have at the ranch?”

“Everybody carries a .22 rifle, Brent. All the ranch hands carry one in case they come across a snake or any other type of predator. Everybody has one. All of us carry a .22.”

“That’s what I thought. I’ll call Colt and Theo to check each one while they’re on-site to see if one’s been fired.”

“You don’t think it was one of our own, do you? That’s ridiculous. There’s not one of those men I wouldn’t trust with my life. Why would they want Granddad dead?”

“It’s a standard elimination process, Trent. Did you do background checks on all of them when they were hired?”

Trent rubbed the back of his neck and began to pace. “Probably not. I know Granddad hired Woody thirty years ago, before I was even born. It’s the same with Cecil, who has been there almost as long as Woody. Blake grew up around here. You’ve known him since he was a kid. He’s been coming to the ranch ever since. It's the same with Toby Mattison, Brock Childers, and Monty Wesson. They’re all local. Not one of those guys has a reason to want Barrett Callum dead, not one.”

“That you know about,” Brent stated. “Look, this is my job. You wouldn’t want me to overlook anyone. And right now, we’re looking at attempted murder. Just know that the person who did this might be closer than you think. You might want to beef up security.”

Trent let that sink in as he returned to the ER, where he spotted Gideon Nighthawk, still dressed in his surgical gear, heading toward his family. His serious,light blue eyes told Trent something was very wrong. The doctor removed his surgeon’s cap to reveal a mop of dark hair turning grayish at the temples.The look on his face said it all.

“I’m so sorry,” Gideon began. “Barrett passed away during surgery. There was no way to stop the internal bleeding. Notonly that, but he also suffered massive damage to his brain tissue. His CT scan showed the brain had ceased to function.”

Trent heard the words but couldn’t fathom the loss. Tate put her arms around Trent while he wrapped his around his grandmother. Dolly tried to wrap all of them in a hug. The four stood like that, pillars of grief, hurting in every fiber of their being. But if his heart felt like it was breaking, how did he expect his grandmother to hold up to the shock of losing her husband after nearly sixty years of marriage? He had no words of comfort for that. He felt numb. All he could do now was hold the people in his life closer.

Eastlyn tugged Dr. Nighthawk to the side and whispered, “I hate to intrude, but I’m here to bag the bullet.”

“A fragment is all that’s left,” Gideon said, his voice low, removing a small plastic bag from his pocket. “Picture the bullet intact, hitting its target, then bouncing around in the brain and working its way through soft tissue, penetrating everything in its path. It basically disintegrated.”

Eastlyn took the baggie and studied the small fragment. “This started out as a .22?”

“From what I could tell, yes, the ammo was definitely a .22 long rifle, sixty grain. You can let me know down the road if forensics agrees with that assessment. I’m not sure why people think a .22 bullet won’t damage much, but they couldn’t be more wrong.”

“Maybe that’s why the shooter used it, maximum damage at, say, a hundred yards away.”

“That’s something you should think about re-creating,” Gideon said. “The shooter was remarkably skilled and accurate. The bullet entered the bottom of the cerebrum and the top of the cerebellum and nicked the brainstem. We’re talking about a lot of damage involving problem-solving, speech, emotions, learning, you name it. He never had a chance at recovery.”

“Hmm. Interesting. It sounds like the shot couldn’t have been placed better for maximum damage,” Eastlyn muttered. “I’ll suggest a re-enactment. Thanks, Gideon.”

“I wish I could’ve given them a better outcome,” he said, bobbing his head toward the grieving family. “I hope you catch the guy who did this.”

“We won’t stop until we do.”

An hour later,like zombies, the four of them walked out of the hospital into the parking lot to Trent’s workhorse of a crew cab truck, feeling dead inside.

The sky was an overcast haze of fog and mist that did nothing to help the anguish. As Trent warmed up the truck and turned on the windshield wipers, slapping rhythmically against the glass, he watched Dolly and Tate get comfortable in the backseat while his grandmother rode in front with him.

His grandmother had stopped crying somewhere between signing the mountain of hospital paperwork and letting reality sink in. But Tate kept sobbing intermittently. Dolly sat stone-faced, clutching a handkerchief.

“I keep thinking this is a bad dream, and I’ll wake up from this nightmare,” Tate cried as she put her head in Dolly’s lap.

Trent glanced in the rearview mirror at his sister and then at his grandmother, who leaned her head up against the cold glass window. Their faces were etched with sorrow. The weight of loss hung heavily in the truck, an almost tangible presence that seemed to suffocate the air around them.

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