“Not yet,” she said. “I’m at least open to suggestions.”
We decided to head on in to Battenberg, and have a chat with Hank Granger, the rural mail carrier the ambulance crew had met on their way to the crime scene. He probably wasn’t going to be a gold mine of information, but he seemed like a good place to start.
“Hey, you know, Hester,” I said, “in all the time we’ve worked together, this is the first time you’ve actually been in our office when we got one of these calls.”
“And it was truly exciting, Houseman.” She grinned. “I just love driving in dust clouds.”
“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that.”
“I’ll get even, sooner or later,” she said.
At that point, Jacob Heinman came over to us. “Deputy?”
“Yeah, Jacob. You remember something else? “I always hope.
He gave us that shy smile of his, and said, “Nope. But me and Norris just wanted you to know… that ticket at the accident.”
“Yes?”
“Well, we don’t hold it against you. I mean we know you were just doing your job.”
“Well, thanks, Jacob. I appreciate that.”
“We still think,” he added hastily, “that that bus was in the wrong. But it’s okay with us, anyway. You did what you thought was right.”
“I always try,” I said. “Thanks.” I thought his concession was sort of Nation County’s legacy from the 9/11 attack. I was touched.
“What was that about? “asked Hester, when he’d moved back down the road toward Lamar.
I told her about the accident, and his statement.
“I think he’s right,” she said. “How on earth could you give a sweetheart like that a ticket?”
“Don’t go there, Hester. I’ve had a long day.”
“You old grump.”
15: 48
It was time to rethink our options.
Now that the people who were shooting at us were fairly sure that we were in the barn, the main problem with our position was this: Both of our exits were covered from the area of the shed and chicken coop, where the bad guys were positioned, and the whole area from the barn to the road could be covered by somebody up in the old concrete silo. The barn’s main door faced directly at the shed. Anybody trying to leave by that door stood a very good chance of being shot before they even got out of the damned barn. The second door, the old one with the daylight showing at all edges, would allow one or two of us to get out of the barn itself without being seen. Well, assuming that the people who were trying to kill us remained in the shed or the chicken coop. With that door option, it was subsequent movement that would get you killed. If you went right, you’d be visible from the shed in about five feet. If you went left, you could be clearly seen from the chicken coop after about forty feet. So, as long as you didn’t want to go anywhere, you could get out.
And, of course, if they had got somebody to the old concrete silo, which in all likelihood they had, they could cover the second door from the get-go.
We couldn’t get out. Tactical obstacle number one.
Seeing as how we couldn’t leave, other problems just sort of popped up everywhere. Our field of view was absolutely rotten. Even from George’s position in the loft, there were large areas of the farmyard we just couldn’t see. Granted, we did have a good view of the shed. But, we only had a partial view of the chicken coop. And the concrete silo was out of our field of view completely. We weren’t going to be able to tell if there was anybody up in the thing until one of us tried to get out the old door. Tactical obstacle number two.
We couldn’t send somebody out to “draw their fire.” Unlike the movies, you don’t draw straws for that sort of thing. We were just going to have to stay put until one of two things happened. First, and most hopefully, backup would arrive and bail us out. Please, God. Failing that, those who were trying to kill us were going to either storm the barn, or do something downright shitty like set it on fire, and force us to make a break for it. Worst-case scenario, believe me. None of us had any idea just how many bad guys there were, but I was pretty sure there would be enough of them to cover both exits.
I figured we were pretty obviously outnumbered. Tactical obstacle number three.
Then there was the matter of firepower. So far, everybody we’d been able to see shooting at us had what appeared to be an AK-47, or something in that general category. Large caliber, and they had been shooting full auto. The 7.62mm rounds they were firing could easily penetrate our Kevlar tactical vests, even the ones with ceramic plates in the center of the chest. We, on the other hand, had my AR-15, Sally’s shotgun, and four handguns. We were thoroughly outgunned, and except for my rifle, outranged as well. Tactical obstacle number four.
The only good thing was, so far, none of us was hurt in such a way that we couldn’t run. If we had to make a run for it, maybe one or two of us could actually traverse the hundred-yard lane and get to the road. Not that that would do much good unless backup was there, since our cars were parked at the Heinman boys’ farm about a mile up the road. So we had no place to go even if we did get out of the barn. Besides, I’d never been particularly fleet of foot, and at fifty-five years of age, six feet three inches, and 280 pounds, I was fairly certain that I’d not be able to make it up the lane at any great speed. I’d just be a large, slow-moving target. Tactical obstacle number five.
And I was sure I’d missed one or two others. No need to dwell on more than five.
It was pretty obvious that we were all running through those obstacles and concluding along the same lines. Morale was beginning to sink.
Sally spoke up. “Anybody want part of a Three Musketeers bar?”
Then it started to get dark. That meant that it was also only a matter of time before it got colder. I’d checked the forecast before we left, and they were expecting temperatures in the single digits. It was going to be a very long night.
Sally’s walkie-talkie crackled. I couldn’t quite make out what the message was, but she scooted over to me and held out the mike at the end of the pig-tailed cord.
“Forty is at the end of the lane,” she said. “He says he can see the barn, and thinks he can make it up here.”
Forty was Norm Vincent, the Battenberg chief.
“No way,” I said, and took the mike. “Forty, Three.”
“Yeah, go ahead, Three.”
“Don’t come up here. You won’t make it past the old foundation.”
“I can drive right up there. I don’t see anybody.”
“No, but they see you. Stay where you are, or go back a little further around the stop sign. They have AK-47s, I think.”
There was a silence. Then, “Three, Forty?”
“Go.”
“The, ah, ambulance is here now, too. We don’t think it looks too bad.”
“Stay there, Forty. Wait for more backup.”
“Stand by, Three. Just a sec,” said Norm. After a moment, he said, “We understand you have an injured officer?”
“Ten-four. Not life threatening,” I said, glancing at Hester. She gave me a thumbs up. “Stay put until we advise for you to come up.”
He acknowledged, but didn’t sound too convinced.
I handed the mike back to Sally, and walked sort of half bent over to the road side of the barn. Looking out through the cracks, I could not only see most of Norm’s blue patrol car, but I had a clear view of the top half of the Battenberg ambulance.
I gestured to Sally. “Tell ‘em to back up, will you? “I went past her and back to the side of the barn where all the bullet holes were. We had to keep an eye on what our suspects were doing.
The light from the setting sun was streaming through the barn board cracks and was making it difficult to see when I looked to the left of the shed. The sunlight was also illuminating every dust mote in the place, and was beginning to make it equally difficult to see within the barn itself. If there was ever a worst time for us to have them
