It had been exciting, getting the call from the deputy chief, everybody pulled back on duty, digging the tac vests out of the trunk of his squad car. He was sorry Reverend Fergusson had been upset and that her place was trashed, of course he was, but-tac vests! The chief had commandeered both his cruiser and the second vest, and, with Kevin riding shotgun and MacAuley and Noble right behind, headed out to the Christie farm in Cossayuharie.
In daylight, they could see the place from Seven Mile Road, but to reach it they had to go across a narrow side road and then up a rutted dirt lane. A gate barred the way, a metal pole-crosspole fastened to a sturdy-looking fence that ran off into the darkness in either direction.
'What's that for?' the chief asked.
'They raise sheep,' Kevin reminded him.
'And they roam all the way down here? Huh. Open that thing for me, Kevin.'
He sprang out of the car. And that's when things started to go to hell. He had taken one step toward the gate when two pole-mounted motion-sensor lights blazed on, flooding the lane and its surroundings, spotlighting him like a Friday-night quarterback.
Then he heard the dogs; a full-throated baying, as if a pack of hellhounds had been set loose up by the house.
And they were headed for him.
'Kevin,' the chief shouted, but he didn't wait to be ordered back into the car. He pounded toward the latch, popped it free, and pushed the top rail as hard as he could. It fetched up against something, jarring his arms, making him stumble back.
The chief was yelling something over the din of the approaching dogs. '… rolls to the right!' Kevin made out. 'It rolls!'
He pulled the heavy gate open just far enough to wedge himself between the fence and the crossbar, and pushed. The gate rolled. He ran with it, pushing, the dogs getting closer and closer, visible now at the edge of the light, black and tan and white pointed teeth, and the chief gunned the cruiser and jerked it forward and the passenger door bounced closed and then it was open again, the chief stretched across the seats, screaming, 'Get in! Get in!'
Kevin made a flying leap past the seething whipcord bodies and snarling jaws and landed inside the car. He and the chief scrambled for the handle, yanking it shut as one, two, three German shepherds thudded against the metal and glass, howling and barking and snapping their teeth. He let out the breath he'd been holding.
'Jesus, Kevin.' The chief sounded like he had been the one running out there. 'Don't do that to me again. I thought you were puppy chow.' He unhooked the mic and tuned the radio for car-to-car. 'Lyle?'
'Here.'
'No chance of sneaking up on 'em. May as well go in with lights.' Behind them, MacAuley's cruiser blinked into whirling red and white.
'Awful lot of security for humble sheep farmers.' MacAuley's voice over the radio was laconic.
The chief triggered the mic. 'The Christies are sheep farmers the way trucking agents in New Jersey are legitimate businessmen. When we reach the dooryard, go as far around the side of the barn as you can. I don't want anybody slipping away through the back forty.'
'Will do. Over.'
The chief threw the car into gear and rolled forward. The German shepherds paced them, too smart to charge a moving vehicle, too focused to let them pull away.
As they reached the dooryard, another two motion sensor lights came on, one over the front porch, the other up on the barn. The two buildings were set kitty-corner to each other, with the dirt lane looping past each and rejoining itself. The house, from what Kevin could see, looked as if every generation of Christies had made one addition or another, until the most recent: a trailer on blocks at the far side of the yard, electrical wires running between it and the main house. The trailer was dark, but a handful of windows in the house were lit.
The chief cracked his door open. Instantly, the dogs surged forward, growling and baring their teeth. He slammed it shut again, swearing. He grabbed the mic and switched the speakers to outside broadcast. 'This is the Millers Kill Police.' The chief's words, amplified, echoed back from the house and barn. 'We need to ask you a few questions. Call back your dogs and restrain them.' The echo caused a feedback, and the chief's speech ended with an electronic squeal. He dropped the mic.
'Hate that thing,' he said.
They waited. Nothing happened. No lights came on or off, which Kevin supposed was good, but no one stepped onto the porch to whistle in the German shepherds. 'What do you think's happening in there?' he asked.
The chief held up one finger. 'They're just now figuring out what they heard wasn't part of the ten o'clock news.' He held up a second finger. 'Or they're running around the house like rats, collecting bags of pot and meth and Oxys and flushing them down the toilet as fast as they can pull the chain.' He held up a third finger. 'Or they're arming themselves, because you can't get rid of a body in five minutes. That's the one that worries me.' He unsnapped his holster and drew his Glock.40. 'Hope for the best, plan for the worst,' he said. He opened the magazine and checked it.
Kevin unholstered his Colt.44 and did the same.
The chief flicked the speaker system on again. 'Donald and Neil Christie. If you're not out here in three minutes restraining these dogs, my men and I will have to shoot them.' This time, he turned the mic off before it could catch the bounceback.
'We're not really going to shoot the dogs, are we?' Kevin knew he sounded unprofessional, but shit. Dogs? He didn't know if he could do it.
'I sure as hell don't want to,' the chief said. 'On the other hand, if Amado Esfuentes is in there, I'm not going to sit on my ass out here while they do what they want with him.'
'But… the dogs? It's not their fault they're behaving like this. Somebody trained them to do it.'
The chief shifted in his seat a little to where he could see Kevin straight on. 'Sometimes you're going to be in a situation where there aren't any good choices, Kevin. You just have to pick the better of two bad ones, and learn to live with the outcome.' The chief got a funny look on his face. Kevin thought he might say more, but then a light flashed from the house and they straightened to see the two beefy brothers step out onto the porch. Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dumber, Eric had called them. They looked pissed off, but they appeared to be unarmed. Then a shorter, more slender man joined them.
'Interesting.' The chief rubbed his thumb over his lip. 'I wonder why Bruce Christie's making a late visit to the old homestead.' After the Christies called up the German shepherds and shut them in the house, the chief and Kevin got out. The chief secured his weapon again, but left the holster un-snapped. Ready to go. Kevin did the same. He heard the heavy thunks of the other cruiser's doors closing from somewhere beside the barn. MacAuley and Noble, making sure no one was stealing away out back.
'You got a lotta nerve-' Donald Christie began.
Bruce thumped him in his chest. 'How can we help you, Chief?'
'You can start by telling me where you all were tonight.'
'Right here. At home.'
'You living here now, Bruce?'
Bruce Christie grinned. 'Just until your boys catch the sumbitch who trashed my trailer.' He gestured toward them. 'You guys look like one a them SWAT teams, all armored up like that. What's goin' on?'
'Someone broke into Reverend Fergusson's house in town.' Donald Christie's hand flew to his nose. Kevin pressed his lips together to keep from showing his amusement. 'They tore it up pretty bad. The church's janitor, who was living there, is missing.' The chief looked at Neil Christie. 'You remember him, right, Neil? I mean, before Reverend Fergusson knocked you unconscious.'
