Trapper tapped on the fifth and final. In the dead center of the page, there was only one name. Not typed. A signature.

Major Franklin Trapper.

There could be no mistake. The signature was too distinctive to have been forged. It was his father’s.

Trapper fell back against the wall, his shoulder blades banging hard against it, but he didn’t feel it. He raised his knees, bent his head over them, and heaved a series of dry sobs so wrenching they made his breastbone ache.

This was what he had lived in fear of finding at the end of his quest for truth. He wasn’t shocked or disillusioned. He had suspected it. Expected it. What he hadn’t anticipated was that it would hurt this bad to know for certain.

It was clear now why Wilcox had put the list into Trapper’s hands. It hadn’t been because he feared prosecution or assassination by one of his own, or because Trapper had intimidated him into surrendering it. It wasn’t even to bring his daughter’s murderers to justice, although if he were alive, Wilcox surely would have assigned Trapper to eliminate them.

The list was Trapper’s heart’s desire.

Wilcox had given Trapper what he most wanted, proof of his years of corruption and bloodletting, but Trapper couldn’t use it to incriminate Wilcox without incriminating his own father.

He must drop the investigation, stop asking questions and making a pest of himself, tell the federal agents, “Just kidding,” and bury any lingering suspicion of the Pegasus bombing. His conviction about a conspiracy would never be vindicated or validated. He would remain a burnout who couldn’t hack it, and people would continue to roll their eyes whenever his name cropped up.

He could delete photo number five, but The Major’s signature would still be on the original pledge. Even though the authorities didn’t know of its existence, Trapper did. He would live each day knowing that he was breaking the law by obstructing justice. Wilcox had known how onerous that would be to him. How had he kept from laughing out loud?

It didn’t even matter that Wilcox was dead. In order for The Major to remain a hero in the eyes of the world, Trapper would have to abandon his crusade.

Forever and ever. Amen.

He sat there on the floor, gripping the phone so tightly his fingers turned white, staring at his father’s signature through a glossing of tears.

Then he wiped them from his eyes and stood up.

“Fuck you, Wilcox.”

Chapter 35

The law secretary was only slightly less startled than before when Trapper strode in again and went straight into Carson’s office. The client was still there, slumped and sullen, looking pessimistic about his future.

Trapper said, “I need to borrow—”

Carson pitched him a set of car keys. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Carson came to his feet. “You sure? ’Cause you look—”

“Which car do these keys go to?”

“Yours. Remember it? It’s parked out back looking as good as new.”

“Thanks. I owe you.”

“Trapper?”

But he was already out the door.

In his car, he checked the console cubby and the glove box for his phone charger. Missing. Carson’s shop guy must’ve helped himself to it. Trapper patted down his coat pockets until he found a phone that still had battery life and used it to call one of the ATF colleagues to whom he’d spoken earlier. “Meet me at the curb outside your office in three minutes.”

It took him four, but when he arrived the agent was there. No doubt he’d heard the news about Wilcox, because he practically had steam coming out his ears.

Trapper lowered his driver’s window and thrust a sealed plastic bag at him. “I know I let you down. I’m sorry I can’t hand over Wilcox, but here’s the cell phone I told you about. The photos of the list are on it, and it’s a hell of a list. The flash drive has my stuff on it, the Johnson video, the phone-recorded conversation with Wilcox. The password to open it is ‘RED,’ all caps. Give it to the FBI.”

Trapper sped away before the flustered agent got a word in edgewise.

Next, Trapper called Kerra. Her phone rang twice before going to voice mail. He didn’t leave a message, but he called three more times in as many minutes with no success. At a stoplight, he asked Siri to dial the TV station’s number. He went through the unending recorded list of options and finally reached a human being in the newsroom.

Trapper asked for Gracie and was put through. He identified himself. “I need to speak to Kerra.”

“She’s on location, about to do a live report.”

“It’s an emergency.”

“Your emergencies have almost cost Kerra her job. I’d bet good money you’re the reason she looks like her pet just died and her eyes are red and puffy.”

“I need to talk to her. Get that message to her.”

“She’s busy. You’ll have to ask forgiveness for whatever you did some other time.”

“This isn’t about that. About us. It’s—”

“They’re going live in sixty. I have to go.”

“Tell her—”

“I will. Goodbye.”

“Listen to me, goddammit!” He took a breath. “Granted, I’m a shit.”

“John Trapper is a shit. I’m writing that down.”

“Write this down. It’s the number she needs to call.” Twice he repeated the number of the phone he was using. “Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Tell her that the cell phone wasn’t behind the painting.”

“Are you drunk?”

“It’ll make sense to Kerra. Tell her it was a bluff. Like the wall outlet.”

“Okay.”

“Tell her I got the list.”

“You got the list.”

“Can you remember all that?”

“They’re down to thirty. I have to go.”

The producer clicked off.

“We’ll bring you updates as they occur. This is Kerra Bailey reporting.”

The cameraman signaled her when they were off the air. The microphone felt like a fifty-pound weight in her hand as she lowered it to her side.

The scene was familiar: she and colleagues jockeying for position at the site of a major news story; a row of vans with satellite dishes on top; cameramen practicing their panning shots; sound techs testing mike levels; reporters adjusting ear-pieces and checking their appearance in whatever reflective surface was available within seconds of being told to stand by.

This is what she thrived on. Today she felt removed from it. She was going through the motions, but her heart wasn’t in it. She had threatened Thomas Wilcox that she would show up with a cameraman at his gate, but she hadn’t expected to be reporting a murder-suicide. His pitiless disregard for the lives he’d taken was repugnant. But wouldn’t she be as despicable if she weren’t saddened by the desperate action that had ended his life?

Any of her colleagues would give an eyetooth to know that shortly before Wilcox’s wife fatally shot him, Kerra had been face-to-face with him inside the barricaded mansion. It would be a scoop to top all scoops, but she wouldn’t be the one to tell it. She wouldn’t exploit the man’s tragic death, no matter how evil he’d been, nor that of the pathetic Mrs. Wilcox.

She also wouldn’t break her promise to Trapper that she wouldn’t tell the whole story before getting his okay.

“Kerra, Gracie needs to talk to you.”

Given her thoughts, Kerra wondered if Gracie had somehow learned of Trapper’s and her visit with Wilcox last night. God, she hoped not. Gracie would fire her on the spot.

She thanked the production assistant who’d delivered the message and made her way back to the van. She climbed into the passenger seat, took her phone from her handbag, and hit speed dial.

Gracie answered on the first ring. “Your eyes still look red on camera.”

“Allergies.”

“Right. Well, the allergen called.”

Kerra’s heart bumped, but she didn’t say anything.

“He was in a breathless rush, of course. Emphatic that he needs to talk to you, but not about ‘us.’ Said to tell you the cell phone wasn’t behind the painting. It was a bluff like the wall outlet. He has the list.”