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what’s up?”
    “It’s Richard.”
    Manning scooted up against the pillow. “What about him?”
    “He was shot. He’s dead.”
    “What!” Manning struggled to a sitting position and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “When? What happened?”
    “I don’t have time to go into details. Just get yourself over to your mother’s house. She wants you there, Manning. Now.”
    “At least give me the headlines. Who shot him?”
    Silence.
    “Thompson.”
    Manning jerked the phone away from his ear and looked at the display. DISCONNECTED.
    “Damn it.” He dropped the phone onto the bed and cradled his head in both hands, doubling over as nausea cramped his stomach.
    “What’s the matter?” Julia caressed the back of his neck with her long nails.
    He glanced at her over his shoulder. “It’s Richard Evan Clarke. He’s been killed.”
    “Oh, my God. What happened?”
    Manning snatched his briefs from the floor beside the bed and thrust his feet into them. “I don’t know, but I’ve got to get over to Mother’s.” He stuffed his cell phone into the pocket of his breeches and pulled them on, zipping up as he looked around for his shirt.
    “Your shirt’s right there,” Julia said, pointing a well-manicured finger toward a bench at the foot of the bed.
    Manning slipped the shirt on and grabbed his tweed jacket and riding boots off the floor next to the bench. “I’ll call you,” he said, fumbling with the shirt buttons as he headed toward the door.
    “Manning, wait.”
    He turned around.
    “Where are you going? You can’t drive anywhere.”
    “Why not?”
    “Your car’s still at the Blackthorne. Remember? You were in no condition to drive last night so I brought you home with me.”
    Manning stared at her, trying to recall some of what had happened the night before.
    Julia’s plump lips parted in a pouty glare. “You do remember, don’t you?”
    “Not exactly,” he murmured.
    “Oh, boy. You were in worse shape than I thought. I guess you’ve learned to hide it well.” Julia slipped out of bed and opened the door to her closet. “Give me a sec. I’ll throw on some clothes and give you a lift to your car.”

CHAPTER
9

    A bigale’s eyes burned. A fine dusting of Afghan sand coated her lashes and hair. She ran her tongue over parched lips and felt grit crunch between her teeth. She was back at camp, eager to get to her laptop computer so she could view the photos she’d shot on the ridge. But first she needed to check on Joe.
    She and Alex wove their way through the medical tent, where they found Joe on a cot hunched over his laptop, pounding away on the keyboard. His leg was bandaged, but other than that he appeared to be okay.
    “Don’t go getting any ideas about embellishing your account of what happened,” Abigale said. “I’ve got pictures that tell the real story.”
    Joe spun to face them but didn’t crack a smile at Abigale’s teasing.
    “You lucky son of a bitch, no doubt you earned yourself a first-class ticket out of here,” Alex said.
    “Yeah, they’re putting me on the next chopper. Abigale too.”
    “
Me?
Why?” Abigale asked.
    Joe’s eyes flickered to Alex, then back to her. “London’s been trying to reach you. There’s been a family emergency.”
    Abigale’s heart lurched in her chest. “My mother.”
    “No,” Joe said. “Your mother’s okay. She’s the one who called the bureau. It’s your uncle in Virginia. He’s been shot.”
    “Uncle Richard?
Shot?
What happened? Was he deer hunting? How badly is he hurt?”
    Joe regarded her somberly as he handed her the satellite phone. “Call Max.”
    Abigale couldn’t stop her hand from shaking as she punched in the number for her editor. She clutched the phone to her ear, waiting what seemed like an eternity for the call to go through. Joe scooted over and patted a spot next to him on the cot. She dropped down on the edge facing away from him as a hollow
ring-ring
trilled in her ear.
    “Max