rush of anxiety.
“Chief Burkholder.” He extends his hand. “It sounds like you have your hands full.”
I accept the handshake. His palm is warm, dry and slightly rough. His grip is substantial, but not too tight. “It’s been a tough case,” I hear myself say.
He’s got a black carry-on slung over his shoulder, and I realize he’s just arrived in town. At this point, I should thank him for being here and offer to drive him to the station. Once there I would introduce him to the team and brief him on the case. Afterward, in keeping with cop etiquette, I’d probably take him out for dinner, some politically incorrect jokes and war stories, and a few too many drinks. I know it’s petty, unprofessional and self- defeating, but I’m not going to do any of those things.
“I’m here to assist any way I can,” he offers.
“I’m sure the council appreciates that.”
A ghost of a smile whispers across his face.
“I’ve got to get back to work.” Extricating my hand from his, I turn and start toward the door. My heart pounds like a piston as I yank it open. I can’t quiet the little voice telling me I handled that all wrong. I should have been more diplomatic. More professional. I should have kept my cool.
Someone calls out to me, but I don’t stop. I’m too angry to be reasonable. Most of that anger is directed at myself. I shouldn’t have let this happen. The truth of the matter is I should have already requested assistance from another agency.
In the hall, I stride to the elevator and slam my fist down on the button. I don’t wait for the car to arrive. I’m heading toward the stairs when I hear my name. I turn to see Auggie striding toward me. “Kate! Wait!”
I don’t want to talk to him, but I can’t run away from this. I stop and watch him approach.
“I’m sorry about what happened in there.” His expression reminds me of a little dog that has just pissed on the floor and knows he’s about to be punished.
“Were you part of it?” My statement requires no explanation.
“Look, I know you didn’t want to call in BCI just yet, but—”
“A heads-up would have been nice, Auggie.”
He flushes darkly. “Kate, it was out of my hands.”
My temper is lit, but this isn’t the time or place for a political coup. The damage has been done. Besides, I have a much more dangerous beast to slay.
Glancing toward the chambers, he lowers his voice. “Watch Norm,” he says. “He’s after you.”
My cell phone trills, but I ignore it. “Maybe that’s because I caught him driving drunk and arrested him.”
“He’s going to get the sheriff’s office involved, too, Kate.”
The words turn my blood to ice water. I look at Auggie, who’s staring at me with an odd mix of concern and alarm on his face.
“Call Glock.” I turn away from Auggie, wishing I’d run from the building when I had the chance. “Tell him to meet me there. Tell those kids to get in their vehicle and lock the doors. Tell them not to touch anything. Tell them not to leave the scene, unless they’re in danger. Get ahold of Doc Coblentz and tell him to stand by. I’m on my way.”
My hand shakes as I shove the cell into its nest. I look at Auggie. I feel sick inside, like I’ve done something terrible.
“What happened?” The pale cast to his complexion tells me he already knows.
“We’ve got another body.” Yanking open the stairwell door, I rush down the steps.
CHAPTER 14
Death is a terrible thing, but murder is worse. No matter how many times I see it, the ugliness and senselessness of it frighten me on some primal level. My speedometer hits eighty miles per hour on the highway, but I slow to a reasonable speed once I reach Thigpen Road because it’s slick with snow. The Huffman place is down a short lane and surrounded by skeletal trees, like bony fingers holding the place together.
I turn the Explorer in to the driveway and follow the tire tracks to the rear of the house. Ronnie Stedt and a teenaged girl I don’t recognize huddle inside a pickup truck.
Jamming the Explorer into Park, I swing open the door. The kids disembark and rush toward me.
“What happened?” I ask.
Stedt’s face is the color of paste. His eyes are glassy. He stops a couple of feet away and I smell vomit. “There’s a dead person inside.”
I look at the female. Her cheeks are bright red and streaked with mascara. She looks a lot tougher than Ronnie Stedt. “What’s your name?” I ask.
“J-Jess Hardiman.”
“Is there anyone else in the house?” I slide my .38 from its holster.
“Just the . . . body.”
“Where?”
“B-bedroom.”
“Stay here. If you see something or get scared, get in the truck and hit the horn, okay?”
Both heads bob.
I jog to the back door and shove it open. The house smells of death and marijuana. An old Led Zeppelin song blares from a radio on the counter. My nerves crawl like worms beneath my skin. Fear runs thick in my veins as I enter the living room. I don’t think there’s anyone in the house. But I’m afraid of what waits ahead.
I move into the hall. It’s narrow and dark. The smell is stronger here. Blood and feces laced with the underlying stench of putrefaction. I sidestep a puddle of vomit. To my left, the bedroom door stands open. I don’t want to look, but I can’t stop. I see a horribly bloated corpse. Brown skin stretched impossibly tight. Hair matted and hanging down. Breasts drooping like wrinkled fruit. Ankles bound and chained to a beam in the ceiling. Black feet. A wet, black tongue protruding between swollen lips.
A sound escapes me as I stumble backward into the hall. My breaths come shallow and fast. My stomach roils, and my mouth fills with bile. Footsteps sound behind me. I swing around, my gun rising.
Glock halts, his hands come up. “Jesus Christ, it’s me.”
“Goddamnit.” I lower my weapon. “I almost plugged you.”
His gaze flicks down the hall. “Scene clear?”
I shake my head because I can’t find my voice. I’m dangerously close to throwing up.
He moves past me and peers into the bedroom. “Holy hell.”
While Glock clears the rest of the house, I struggle to pull myself together. By the time he meets me in the hall, I have my cop’s coat of armor back in place.
“It’s clear,” he says.
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, as if he thinks I’m going to lose it. “Damn it, Glock, I should have asked Detrick to assist,” I manage. “I should have formed a task force.”
“Even if you had, it wouldn’t have prevented this. She’s been there a while. Fuckin’ hindsight.”
I walk into the living room. Behind me I hear him speaking into his radio. Through the kitchen window, I see Ronnie Stedt and his girlfriend standing where I left them.
Glock comes up beside me. “Pickles and Skid are on the way.”
I nod toward the teenagers. “We need to talk to them. I’ll take the Stedt boy.”
“Chick looks tough.”
“You’re tougher.”
“I’m a Marine,” he says, as if that explains everything.
I go through the back door and approach Ronnie Stedt. The air smells incredibly clean and I gulp it like water. He looks at me, then quickly glances away. “Come here,” I say.
Glock ushers the girl toward his cruiser. Ronnie watches them walk away and gets a scared-little-boy look on
