Page 32 of Knox

Honestly, Knox expected Tate. So the sight of two men in suits had him frowning. They glanced at the woman, and one flashed a badge.

Local PD investigators.

“Knox Marshall?” said one of the men, a real cowboy type, lean and wearing a white Stetson, the Lone Ranger with dark hair and a tough cut of his jaw.

“Yeah,” Knox said, starting to sit up.

“Hey, hey, I’m not done yet,” Garcia said and put a hand on his chest. “Almost. Just settle down.”

Knox lay back down.

“Detective Torres,” said Lone Ranger. “We’re just here to see if you can identify a man we think might be connected to tonight’s events.”

“The bomber?”

The man behind Torres held up his hand, a blond with wide shoulders and wearing a tie. “Not necessarily, but we were wondering if you might have seen him backstage, perhaps right before the incident?”

“You mean theexplosion? Was anyone seriously hurt?”

“No,” Torres said. “Just some animals.”

Animals.

But Knox didn’t have time to consider further because Torres pulled out his phone. Held up a picture on the screen. “You recognize this man?”

Knox took the phone. Stared at the photo, clearly from some security camera, of a balding man standing near two other men at a bar in the arena.

“No,” he said.

“Look closely. He was one of the rodeo clowns. Didn’t show up for the final show.”

“So, maybe he was sick, or injured—”

“He was seen by one of our security guards entering the lower level a few minutes before the blast went off.”

“Maybe he was checking on the stock.” Knox took another look.

Stopped.Wait.He widened the picture, scrolled over. One man, with gauged ears, stood with his back to the camera, but a port-wine stain extended out of his collar, wound around his neck. Knox scrolled to the other one. He stood beside his friend, slightly turned, looking over at the suspect.

If he looked closely, the shadow of a tattoo, maybe. Flames.

“I don’t know him, but this one is familiar,” he said, handing the phone back. “I saw him last night in the beer tent.”

“We are questioning them. But they’re just a couple cowboys. One of them is the son of the local mayor.”

“What are they doing talking to the bomber?”

“Not the bomber,” said Blondie.

Garcia finished wrapping his arm. “Take it easy with this,” she said as she helped Knox sit up.

The world turned a little wobbly, and he gripped the side of the gurney. Took a breath.

He met Blondie’s gaze. “Maybe. But maybe they know something about him.”

Torres took his phone, examined the picture. “It doesn’t look like they’re with him.”

“Whatever. Listen, can I go?” Knox made to slide off the gurney.