Page 47 of Sins of the Fathers
Dawson glanced over his shoulder and saw that the firefighters were soaking the pallets to contain the blaze. He sighed in relief that the fire had done minimal damage and hadn’t spread.
“Got a tip that someone was going to try to burn down the hardware store,” Dawson told the pissed-off sheriff. He reminded himself that it was close to four in the morning, and everyone had been dragged out of bed. “Came over to keep that from happening and found this scumbag lighting the pallets.”
“So you shot him?” the sheriff thundered.
“He was fleeing the scene of a crime, and he charged me. I was afraid for my life,” Grady replied, deadpan.
“Bet if you check his priors, he’s either Human Defense Front or Supernatural Protection Society,” Dawson challenged. “He seemed to know his way around starting a gasoline fire.”
Rollins pinched the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a headache. He turned his flashlight beam on the downed man. “You got something to say for yourself?”
“Bunch of fuckin’ hunters,” the arsonist shot back. “Better ‘freak’ than weak.”
Dawson recognized the slogan as one of the SPS phrases. “Except that silver bullet put a crimp in your style now, didn’t it?”
“Need a medic!” Rollins bellowed to the firefighters at the other end of the street, and a soot-streaked man soon jogged up carrying an emergency kit. He knelt to examine the injured arsonist’s knee while the sheriff kept his weapon trained on the prisoner.
“Try to keep him from bleeding out until we get him to a hospital and into a cell,” Rollins growled.
“Better make sure he’s got a guard on his door all night and he’s cuffed to the bed with silver,” Gibson said. “We’ll take custody in the morning.”
“Oh, we’ll make sure he doesn’t go anywhere,” Rollins promised. “But about the custody—not until I’ve processed him for what he’s done. You can have his carcass when I’m through.”
The sheriff turned to Dawson and Grady. “Don’t think this is over. I’m going to want statements from both of you. Especially about that ‘tip’ you got. So don’t leave town.”
An ambulance pulled up, lights flashing. Rollins and his deputy stood watch as the crew got the injured arsonist onto a gurney and into the back of the vehicle, then the deputy followed in the SUV.
Dawson and Grady picked up their guns and tucked them into their waistbands. “Thanks for showing up,” Dawson said as Tucker strode up to join them.
“We were still awake,” Tucker replied. Something in his voice suggested that it was work, not sex, that had kept them up.
“New leads?” Grady asked.
Gibson glanced around them. “Nothing solid yet. Research pays off…but it’s a bitch until then.”
Wind howled down the alley, stirring up ashes and sending embers into the air as the firefighters hosed down the hot spots and adjacent buildings.
Dawson called Denny. “We got here in time—but it was close. No telling if this guy acted alone.” He glanced at Grady. “We’re going to go check our house. Better keep the lights on and make sure Angel is on guard duty.”
“Will do,” Denny said. “Colt and Knox—and Angel—can hold the fort here—I’ll go check the main auto shop location.”
“Don’t take these assholes on by yourself,” Dawson cautioned.
“I’m not stupid,” Denny replied in a dry tone. “Kinda thought I’d just run anyone over with my truck if I see something. Go check the house, and come back here when you’re ready. Be careful.”
“You too.” Dawson ended the call.
“Why don’t we tail you while you make sure everything’s okay,” Gibson suggested, and Dawson accepted the backup with gratitude.
To his relief, they found no evidence of tampering around their house. Colt and Denny called to confirm that their patrols had not turned up new dangers. For the first time since his vision, Dawson relaxed.
“Let’s get breakfast,” Tucker suggested. “There’s a Waffle House not far from here. Unless the storm is going to be one for the record books, it’ll be open.”
Gibson chuckled. “The Waffle House Index?”
“It’s never wrong,” Grady replied.
The all-night diner chain was famous for remaining open through all kinds of weather. On the very rare occasions when a catastrophe forced locations to close, it was regarded as an omen. Even the National Weather Service respected the Waffle House Index.
