the bedrooms. Not visible from the road. And there’s plenty of glass to break if needed. Tonight, that won’t be necessary because I’ve left the door unlocked. . . .
I decide to spend the night there, at the table, where I have a decent view of both the rear and front doors. If I’m going to get ambushed, I want to see him coming.
I enter the kitchen. Cool, wet air brushes against my legs. The hairs at my nape prickle. Lightning flashes, illuminating the silhouette of a man, standing just inside the door. Adrenaline blasts through me. I reach for the .38. Hand in my pocket, fingers closing around the wood stock. Gun coming up. Finger on the trigger.
“Police!” My voice comes out as a scream. “Put your hands up now!”
Lightning flickers like a strobe. I catch a split-second glimpse of wet hair plastered to a pale face. Water dripping onto the floor. Recognition kicks my brain. Jack Warner, I realize and shock reverberates in my head.
He doesn’t obey my command.
I see something in his hand. Too dark to discern what it is. His hand rises. I fire twice in quick succession, center of mass. Thunder drowns out the sound of my gunfire. He stiffens, then drops to his knees.
Something clatters to the floor. Gun, I think. Keeping my weapon poised on the intruder, I kick it away. “Get facedown on the floor! Do it right fucking now!”
“You shot me.”
His voice is startlingly boyish. I’m shaking violently, but my gun hand is steady. If he moves I have no compunction about finishing the job. “Don’t move,” I say as I reach for my radio.
“Drop the gun, bitch. Or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
The voice comes from behind me. Shock is a knife slash across my back.
Lightning flashes.
Recognition staggers me. Scott Barbereaux levels the shotgun at my chest. I see deadly intent in his eyes, and I know as surely as the rain pounds down outside that he’s going to kill me.
“Drop the gun, bitch.”
Knowing I have a backup weapon, I offer the .38. butt first.
Barbereaux makes no move to take it. “Drop it and kick it to me.”
Moving slowly, I do as he says, kicking it so that he has to come closer to retrieve it.
He directs his attention to his fallen comrade. “How bad are you hurt?”
“She got me twice,” Warner chokes out. “I’m bleeding. I think it’s bad.”
“You’re going to be okay. Hold tight.”
In that moment, I realize I probably only have seconds to live. Terror sweeps through me. Vaguely, I wonder if I can hit my lapel mike without being noticed. Even if I can do that, I know that unless I can somehow keep Barbereaux and Warner talking, T.J. and Skid won’t be able to get here in time to save me.
I look down at Warner. He’s lying on the floor to my left, bent slightly, holding his abdomen with both hands. A slowly growing puddle of blood encircles his body like a black halo.
I turn my attention to Barbereaux. “I’ve got EMT training. Let me stop the bleeding.”
Barbereaux hikes the shotgun. “Where’s that fucking Amish kid?”
Only then do I realize he still believes Billy Zook can identify him. I try to think of a way I can use that to my advantage. A dozen lies fly at my brain. “I’ll take you to him,” I blurt out.
“You’ll tell me where he is or I’ll cut you down where you stand,” he says between gritted teeth.
No matter what happens, the one thing I will not do is reveal the boy’s whereabouts. “I’m a cop, Scott. If you kill me, they’ll put a needle in your arm.”
Behind me, I hear Warner whimper. “I need to get to the hospital.”
I glance over at him. The puddle of blood has doubled in size. I can smell it now. That awful, metal-and- methane stench. “He’s bleeding out. Let me help him.”
His expression doesn’t change. There’s no sympathy for the dying man, no fear of discovery, just a deadly determination and all of it is focused on me. “You’ve got one more chance. Where’s that fuckin’ kid?”
“He’s at a safe house, surrounded by a dozen cops—”
He moves so quickly, I don’t see the blow coming. One moment I’m scrambling for a lie, trying to think my way out of this. The next I’m reeling sideways. For a crazy instant, I think he’s shot me, then I realize he swung the shotgun, striking my left temple. I stumble, make a wild grab for the counter, careen into it hard enough to cave in the wood front, and go down hard.
The next thing I know, I’m on my back. Barbereaux straddles my chest, shoving the shotgun crossways against my throat. “Where’s the kid!” he screams.
Around me the room spins crazily. Lightning is like a strobe on his face. The shotgun grinds hard against my windpipe and Adam’s apple. I turn my head, try to raise my hands to push it away, but he’s got them trapped with his knees.
“You better start talking!” he shouts.
I open my mouth, but the steel barrel is crushing my voice box. Cursing, he removes the shotgun.
I gulp air. “We set you up,” I croak. “That kid didn’t see anything. We knew you’d show.” I cough. “Cops are outside.”
“Well, aren’t you a smart little bitch?” Cruelty and a barely controlled rage glints in his eyes. We stare at each other while the storm rages on. A few feet away, Jack Warner groans in agony. Then Barbereaux smiles. “If you’re talking about that hayseed fuck in the barn, he’s dead.”
Somehow I muster the presence of mind to keep him talking. “It’s over,” I tell him. “We know about you and Mary Plank. She kept a diary.” I barely hear my own voice above the roar of blood through my veins. “She wrote about you.”
His eyes sharpen and for the first time I see uncertainty. He didn’t know about the journal. I’ve got his full attention now, so I keep going. “We know what you did to her. We know everything.”
“She was dumber than a box of rocks,” he says. “Had the mentality of a ten-year-old.”
“She was just a kid.”
“She liked to fuck.”
“She loved you.”
His smile chills me. “If she’d named me in some book, we wouldn’t be here, you lying bitch.”
He slaps me open-handed in the face, then rises and walks over to Warner, taking the shotgun with him. I use that moment to take a quick physical inventory. My head throbs where he hit me with the stock. I think of the .22 mini-magnum strapped to my thigh, the knife in my boot, and I realize I still have a chance to get out of this alive. I push myself to a sitting position, then get to my feet. The room dips and spins, so I hold on to the counter for support.
A few feet away, Barbereaux bends and pulls Warner to his feet. Warner groans. “I need to go to the hospital.”
“I’ll get you there, buddy. Just hang tight. Let me figure out what to do with the bitch, and then we’ll go.”
The other man is too weak to stand, so Barbereaux yanks out a chair, muscles him into it, then turns to me, thrusts the shotgun at me. “What the hell am I going to do with you?”
He’s going to kill me; I see intent in his eyes. It’s just a matter of time. The realization sends a shudder of terror through me. Holding his gaze, I ease my right hand down, feel the mini-magnum through the fabric of my skirt. I wonder if I can take aim and pull the trigger without having to draw the weapon out from under my skirt.
“You still have a chance to get away if you run now,” I tell him.
“You know this isn’t going to end nicely for you, don’t you?”
“If you kill a cop, they won’t ever stop looking for you. Ever.”
