“The lieutenant guy and the tree cop. If you’re not interested in finding out who the hell shot at you tonight, I can tell them, gee, you’re out on a date.”

Gull lifted his head. “Be right there.” He looked at Rowan, ran his hands over her shoulders, down her arms. “My place,” he said. “The decision that was so rudely interrupted earlier. My place tonight because it’s closer to the lounge.”

“Not a bad reason.” She picked up the beers, handed him his. “Let’s get this done so we can close the door.”

DiCicco sat with Quinniock and L.B. in the lounge. Generally at that time of the evening, people sprawled on sofas and chairs watching TV, or gathered around one of the tables playing cards. Somebody might’ve buzzed up some microwave pizza or popcorn. And there would always be somebody willing to talk fire.

But now the TV screen remained blank and silent, the sofas empty.

L.B. got up from the table, walked quickly over to wrap an arm around Gull and Rowan in turn. “You’re okay. That matters most. Next is finding the bastard.”

“Did they find anything?” Rowan asked.

“If we could get your statements first.” DiCicco gestured to the table. “It should help us get a clearer picture.”

“The picture’s clear,” Rowan countered. “Somebody shot at us. He missed.”

“And when you file a fire report, does it just say: ‘Fire started. We put it out’?”

“If we could just take it from the beginning.” Quinniock held up his hands for peace. “The witness, Dobie Karstain, says he stepped outside the barracks around nine thirty. A few minutes later, he noticed the two of you walking together between the training field and the hangar area, approximately thirty yards from the trees. Does that sound accurate?”

“That’s about right.” Gull took the lead as it seemed obvious to him DiCicco put Rowan’s back up. “We went for a walk, took a couple of beers, watched the sunset. You’d narrow down where we were if you find the bottles. We dropped them when the shooting started.”

He took them through it, step by step.

“Dobie said it sounded like rifle fire,” he continued, “and it was coming from the trees. He grew up hunting in rural Kentucky, so I’m inclined to believe he’s right. We couldn’t see anyone. The first shot fired right around sunset. The whole thing probably only lasted about ten minutes. It seemed longer.”

“Have either of you had trouble with anyone, been threatened?” When Rowan merely arched her eyebrows, DiCicco inclined her head. “Other than Leo Brakeman.”

“We’re a little too busy around here to get into arguments with the locals or tourists.”

“Actually, there was an incident with you, Mr. Curry, Ms. Tripp and Mr. Karstain in the spring.”

“That would be when Rowan objected to one of those three yahoos’ behavior toward her, and them sopping their pride by ganging up on Dobie when he came out of the bar.”

“And you kicking their asses,” Rowan concluded. “Good times.”

“The same holds true on them as it did when we had the vandalism,” Gull continued. “It’s pretty hard to see them coming back here. And harder still to see any one of them staking us out from the woods and taking shots at us when we went for a walk. We’re in and out all the damn time anyway. Together, separately. It’s stretching it even more to figure those bozos from Illinois came all the way back, then got lucky when Ro and I walked out to give them some target practice.”

“How do you know they’re from Illinois?” DiCicco asked.

“Because that’s what the plate on the pickup said—and I did some checking on it after the ready room business.”

“You never told me that.”

Gull shrugged at Rowan. “It didn’t amount to anything to tell you. The big guy—and he was the alpha—owns a garage out in Rockford. He’s an ass**le, and he’s had a few bumps for assaults—bar fights his specialty—but nothing major.” He shrugged again when DiCicco studied him. “The Internet. You can find out anything if you keep looking.”

“All right. You two have recently become involved,” DiCicco said. “Is there anyone who might resent that? Any former relationship?”

“I don’t date the kind of woman who’d take a shot at me.” He gave Rowan the eye. “Until maybe now.”

“I shoot all my former lovers, so your fate’s already set.”

“Only if we get to the former part.” He covered her hand with his. “It was either a local with a grudge against one or both of us specially, or the base in general. Or a wacko who wanted to shoot up a federal facility.”

“A terrorist?”

“I think a terrorist would’ve used more ammo,” Gull said to DiCicco. “But any way you slice it, he was a crap shot. Unless he’s a really good shot and was just trying to scare and intimidate.”

Rowan’s gaze sharpened. “I didn’t think of that.”

“I think a lot. I can’t swear to it, but I think the closest one hit about six or seven feet away from where we hit the ground. That’s not a comfortable distance when bullets are involved, but it’s a distance. Another sounded like it hit metal, the hangar. Way above our heads. Maybe it’ll turn out to be a couple of kids on a dare. Smoke jumpers think they’re so cool, let’s go make them piss their pants.

“It’s a theory,” he claimed when Rowan rolled her eyes.

“Lieutenant.” A uniformed cop stepped in.

“Hi, Barry.”

“Ro. Glad you’re okay. Sir, we found the weapon, or what we believe to be the weapon.”

“Where?”

“About twenty yards into the trees. A Remington 700 model—bolt action. The special edition. It was covered up with leaves.”

“Stupid,” Rowan mumbled. “Stupid to leave it there.”

“More stupid if it’s got a brass name plaque on the stock,” L.B. said. “I went hunting with Leo Brakeman last fall, and he carried a special edition 700. He was real proud of it.”

Rowan’s hand balled into a fist under Gull’s. “So much for theories.”

When DiCicco and Quinniock went out to examine the weapon, L.B. walked over to the coffeemaker.