Page 27 of Backtrack

“I hope this guy gives us something,” Johnson said, hustling to keep up. “I’d sure like to be the ones to catch these bastards before they run far.”

Cutter stopped in his tracks. “Those jokers are long gone,” he said. “Our job is to identify them and then figure out where they went.”

Johnson gave a slow nod. “I suppose you’re right.

Cutter glanced down at the kid’s Tony Lamas, then turned for the hospital door. “You might want to keep in mind, we’ll be wading through a lot of bullshit during this investigation—figurative and literal. It’d be a shame to wreck those fancy boots.”

Lucy had spent so much time in hospitals and clinics these past few months that the smell of the antiseptic soap made Cutter gag as soon as he walked through the door. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to focus.

Robert Foster’s wife came out of his room and held up an open hand to stop them as they approached. Her red hair fell haphazardly from a loose bun. The front of her white T-shirt was stained with what Cutter presumed to be coffee. He knew from the file that her name was Trina, a local girl who’d grown up northwest of Weatherford near the small community of Peaster. It was understandable that she’d be haggard after standing vigil all night over her badly wounded husband, not knowing if he’d even pull through. She’d need to be interviewed at some point, but that could wait—for now.

Cutter tipped his hat, introducing himself and Johnson.

“It sounds like the operation went well,” Johnson said, filling the vacuum of silence Cutter had wanted to leave open.

Trina Foster folded her arms, hugging herself. “The doctors aren’t telling me everything. I can feel it.” Her voice was hoarse from tears and fatigue.

“Is he awake?” Cutter asked.

She ignored the question. “Look,” she said. “I want you to catch the men who did this to him. I truly do, but please, please, please take it easy on Rob. He’s so weak.”

Cutter promised to be quick. Mrs. Foster went down the hallway to look for more coffee.

Robert Foster’s eyes were closed when they entered the room. Not shut like he was asleep, but clenched, like a child who wanted to avoid the monsters in his closet. Death came for everyone, but it had a particular sensitivity toward fear. In Cutter’s experience, the more frightened you were, the faster Death sniffed out your hiding spot.

And Foster was terrified.

His eyes flicked open at the sound of their footsteps. The heart monitor shot from eighty-one to over a hundred in an instant. He tried to sit up in bed, but the tubes and wires connected to his body kept him tethered in place.

Cutter pulled a wooden chair closer so they could talk at eye level. Johnson stood against the wall.

Foster licked his lips. “I guess you want a description of the bastards,” he said, breathless, but getting down to business.

“It would help,” Cutter said.

“I’m not gonna be much good to you,” Foster said. “They were wearing masks.” He fell quiet, glancing back and forth between the two deputies.

Johnson moved away from the wall a hair, like he was about to say something. Cutter caught his eye just in time to shut him down. They sat in silence again for almost a full minute with nothing but the blip of the heart monitor and Foster’s labored breathing.

“One of them was a giant,” Foster finally said. “Big, no-neck son of a bitch. Like a pro wrestler or something.”

Cutter looked up from his notepad but said nothing.

Foster went on. “There was another guy. Smaller, with stringy hair poking out from under his ski mask.” He stopped to catch his breath, then said, “I think they both shot me. Sorry … I just can’t really remember details.”

“You’re doing fine,” Cutter said.

“They had a Buick,” he said. “Brown or tan, I think. I only remember because it had one of those super-long hoods, you know. And a blue Crown Victoria.” A tear ran down his cheek. “We begged Watts not to stop.” He gave a forlorn sigh, more of a shuddering whimper. “I think he was in on it.”

Now Cutter spoke. “And they shot him?”

Foster’s head snapped around, wide-eyed. “Yes,” he said, wincing at the sudden movement. “They shot him in the chest with a shotgun. I didn’t see which one. Like I said, I’m not going to be much help.” He feigned a coughing fit, which turned into a real one. “Sorry … I’m just … tired.”

“Five million dollars,” Cutter said. “Is it common for you to carry loads worth that much?”

“We haul even more than that sometimes,” Foster said. “Especially if we’re carrying gold. Most people don’t know how heavy that stuff is. Harder to run off with than you’d think.”

“Okay, then.” Cutter glanced at Johnson. “You have some questions?”