I dream of death. Blackness is all around me. Inside me. Like hot tar that covers and burns and smothers. I fight for air, but I can’t breathe.
Pain rattles me awake. My chest heaves, some primal instinct telling my body to get air into my oxygen- starved lungs. Every breath is an agony, and I choke out animal sounds. Confusion is a cotton ball inside my head, but I’m aware enough to know that my ribs are broken. Maybe my spine. Shit.
I open my eyes to darkness, but I can see the kitchen window. The occasional flash of lightning. I’m lying on the floor on my back with my arms above my head. I glance down at my chest. The sight of blood shocks me because I know it’s mine. Black, wet stains on my dress, on my arms and legs. Drops and smears on the floor around me. I’m bleeding, but I don’t know where it’s coming from.
For several seconds I concentrate on breathing. My mind begins to clear. The memory of the shooting replays in my head like some bad movie. The kind where the idiot cop screws up and gets what he’s got coming. Only this time that idiot cop is me. I’d expected one accomplice tonight, not two. A stupid mistake that would have killed me if I hadn’t been wearing the vest. Of course the night isn’t over.
I’m wheezing like an asthmatic. An involuntary groan grinds from my throat when I roll over and take a quick physical inventory of my injuries. Broken ribs. Maybe a collapsed lung. My shoulders and arms are bleeding. My face and neck sting, and I realize belatedly the wounds on my arms are from shotgun pellets. Not life-threatening, but I’m in a world of hurt. Worse, I’m in danger of Barbereaux returning to finish the job.
Where the hell is he?
Pain surges when I move my arms down to my sides. For several seconds, I can’t draw a breath. A cry escapes me when I push myself to a sitting position. I grapple in my pocket for my lapel mike, but it’s gone. My cell phone is gone. So is the .38. Lifting my dress, I glance at the leather holster at my thigh. Relief snaps through me when I see the .22. Whimpering with pain, I slide the weapon from its nest, pull back the hammer.
That’s when it strikes me that Warner is gone. I glance over where I last saw him. A flicker of lightning reveals a puddle of blood and a single long smear, as if someone stepped in it and slid. That’s when I hear voices coming from the living room twenty feet away.
“I need to get to the hospital. I’m in a bad way.”
“Hang tight, partner. I know a doctor in Wooster. He owes me. He’ll fix you up.”
The shuffle of shoes tells me someone’s coming my way. Grinding my teeth in pain, I quickly lay back down in the same position. But I keep my hand on the .22. It’s a small revolver, but it’s not so small that if they looked closely they wouldn’t see it.
“Fuckin’ bitch cop.”
“She’s dead,” Warner croaks. “Let’s go.”
Something hard rams my shoulder, jarring my chest. An involuntary groan squeezes from my throat. I don’t dare open my eyes. But he kicks me again, and I look up at him.
Barbereaux smiles down at me. “I bet you think you’re real fuckin’ smart, don’t you?” He points my .38 at my face.
I’ve never felt so utterly helpless in my life. “Don’t do this.” I look at Warner. His face is ghastly white. Sweat coats his forehead. Blood covers the front of his shirt. He’s holding his abdomen, listing, clutching the counter to remain standing. “He’s going to kill you,” I tell him.
“Shut up!” Barbereaux looks at Warner. “Don’t listen to her.” His eyes skate back to mine, his lips curling into a snarl. “I don’t believe you about the trap. I’m only going to ask you this one time before I start putting holes in you, so listen good. You got that?”
I nod.
“Where’s that fuckin’ Amish kid?”
For a crazy instant I consider trying to get both of them with the .22. Empty the cylinder. Five shots. Hope for the best. My marksmanship skills are good, but I know my broken ribs will affect my speed. Wait for a better opportunity. Keep him talking.
“I wasn’t lying.” My voice comes out like a croak.
His mouth tightens into an ugly line. “Wrong answer.” With the speed of a striking snake, he shifts the gun left. The explosion rocks my brain. The pain is like a wood chipper chewing up my left arm. I hear a scream that goes on and on, realize belatedly it’s mine.
Whimpering, I look down. Blood gushes from my left forearm, a few inches below my elbow. The fabric of my dress is soaked. Pain and shock punch my brain, Mike Tyson in a murderous rage and taking care of business.
“Where’s the fucking kid?” he screams.
“Safe house!” I choke out the lie with the vehemence of truth. It’s all I can manage. The pain is overwhelming. Unbearable heat envelops my face. Dizziness crashes down on me. Nausea seesaws in my gut.
“Where?” he says, calmer now.
Air rushes between my clenched teeth. Every breath rips me in two. I’m pretty sure the bullet broke my arm. I feel shock descending. But in that moment all I can think is that I still have the .22.
“You think I’m not serious about filling you full of holes, you bitch cop?” he says.
“Don’t do it,” I choke.
“How about if I show you just how fuckin’ serious I am?”
Before I can respond, he shifts the gun. I brace. Reflex nearly causes me to bring up the .22, but I hold it steady in my right hand. If he breaks my right arm, I’m as good as dead.
Instead, he levels the weapon at Warner and fires. The bullet blows a hole the size of a dime in the other man’s forehead. Warner’s head snaps back. A surprised expression crosses his face. And then he drops like a rock.
Another layer of shock whips through me. I stare at the dead man, watch the blood spread into a pool on the floor.
Barbereaux turns to me, his eyes as dead as the man on the floor. “Looks like it’s just me and you now.” He levels the gun at my left thigh. “Broken femur’s going to hurt. I suggest you start talking. Where’s the kid?”
Adrenaline crashes through me. My arms and legs shake uncontrollably. I’m dizzy with pain and shock. But I know it’s now or never. He’s going to kill me and stage the scene so it looks like Warner and I exchanged gunfire, killing each other. Barbereaux’s going to get away scot-free.
“At a farmhouse nearby,” I say.
“Where?”
“Down the road. Five minutes. Left on Dog Leg Road.” I give him a bogus address and then shift my gaze to the dead man. “He’s still alive.”
Barbereaux jerks his head left to look, and I make my move. Pain explodes in my chest as I level the .22 on him. He makes eye contact with me an instant before I fire.
Two shots. His body jolts. I see disbelief on his face. He brings up the gun. I fire the final three bullets. Two in the chest. One in the shoulder. No more ammo. My finger keeps jerking. The empty chamber clicks.
Barbereaux steps back. For an instant, time stands still. He stares at me. His mouth opens. I see blood on his teeth. More blood blooming on his shirt. He glances down at it. His knees buckle and hit the floor hard. Then he falls face down and doesn’t move.
I struggle to my knees. The room tilts beneath me. Cradling my left arm, I crawl on my knees to Barbereaux. He lies perfectly still with his head to one side. He’s alive; his eyes are on me. My .38 lies a few inches from his right hand. I know I’m screwing up the crime scene, but I don’t care.
Picking up the .38, I level it at his forehead. “This is for what you did to Mary Plank, you son of a bitch.” I feel nothing when I pull the trigger.
Only then do I realize I’m sobbing. Loud, wrenching cries that fill the house with the sound of pain. I need my radio to call for help. But I want my cell phone. I need Tomasetti.
Somehow I make it to my feet. I stumble around in the dark. In the light from the window, I glance down to see my left arm hanging uselessly at my side. Blood dripping off my fingertips. A steady roar of pain climbs all the way up to my shoulder. My hand is numb.
I find my cell phone and radio in the living room where Barbereaux must have set them. I hit the radio first.
