deserted. No sign of the deputy. No sign of Perry Mast. I hate not knowing where he is. It would take only a few minutes for him to double back and exit through the slaughter shed. He could be anywhere.
I open the door and step into a light rain. Feeling exposed, keeping low, with the rifle at the ready, I descend the porch steps and jog toward the cruiser. The headlights and wipers are on, but the engine is off. I’m twenty feet away when I notice blood spatter on the passenger window. From ten feet away, I can make out the silhouette of the deputy. He’s slumped over the steering wheel, still wearing his hat.
“Shit,” I mutter, my steps quickening. “
Keeping an eye on the barn, the slaughter shed, listening for any sound from the house behind me, I try the passenger door, but it’s locked. I sidle around the front of the car. The hood is warm, the engine ticking as it cools. I approach the driver’s side. The window is shattered. I look inside, see blood and glass on the deputy’s shoulders. There’s more on the headrest, on the sleeves of his uniform shirt.
I reach through the broken window, unlock the door, and open it. The deputy’s hands are at his sides, knuckles down. Blood covers the steering wheel and the thighs of his uniform slacks. Chunks of glass glitter on the seat. The scene is almost too much to process.
“Deputy,” I whisper. “
No response.
The stench of blood assails me when I reach in and remove his hat. The bullet penetrated his left jaw. His face has been devastated. Most of the flesh of his cheek has peeled away. Some of the teeth have blown out, along with part of his tongue. The cup of his ear is filled with blood and has trickled down, soaking his collar. Even before I press my finger against his carotid artery, I know he’s dead.
“
Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t touch anything at a crime scene or risk contaminating evidence. But with an armed suspect at large in the immediate vicinity, I’m in imminent danger. I need a weapon. Unsnapping the leather strap of the deputy’s holster, I slide a .40-caliber Glock from its nest and back away from the vehicle.
Using the lever, I eject six bullets from the rifle, drop them in my pocket, and toss the rifle on the ground. I look toward the house. No movement. Aside from the steady rap of rain against the car, the muddy slap of it against the ground, the farm stands in absolute silence. But I know I’m being watched. I feel it as surely as I feel the rain streaming down my face. Did Mast double back and exit through the slaughter shed? Or is he watching me from the house, his finger itchy on the trigger?
The sound of tires on gravel draws my attention. Relief skitters through me when I see a Trumbull County cruiser barrel up the lane, lights flashing. I wave, and the vehicle veers toward me, skids to a halt a few feet behind the other cruiser. A male deputy lunges from the car, a shotgun aimed at me. “Drop that fuckin’ gun! Get your hands up!”
“I’m a cop! I called.”
He keeps his eye on the house, the shotgun trained on me. “Show me your ID.”
Slowly, I reach into my pocket, pull out my badge. “I’m with BCI.”
He’s a solid, muscular guy with sandy hair and a handlebar mustache. He takes a good look at my badge and lowers the shotgun. But his attention has already moved on to the other cruiser. “What happened?”
“He’s down.”
“Aw, man.” He dashes to the cruiser and peers through the passenger window. “Fuck!” He stares at the body, his face screwing up. “Walker! Fuck!” He spins toward me, his expression ravaged. “What happened?”
“Perry Mast shot him. He’s armed with a rifle. In a tunnel below-ground. He’s got hostages down there.”
He looks at me as if I’m speaking in a foreign language. “
A gunshot rings out. Simultaneously, we drop to a crouch.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” he snarls.
Another shot snaps through the air. A tinny
Staying low, we circle around, take cover on the opposite side of the car.
“Shots fired!” he shouts into his mike. “Possible ten-ninety-three,” he says, referring to the hostages. “Male suspect armed with a rifle.”
“Ten-four,” comes the dispatcher’s voice. “HP is en route. Stand by.”
Behind him, the radio inside the dead man’s cruiser lights up with a burst of traffic. It’s a welcome sound, because I know every cop within a twenty-mile radius, regardless of agency, is on the way here. It’s one of the things I love about being a cop. That blue brotherhood. When an officer is down, you drop everything and go.
The deputy looks at me, wipes rain from his face with the sleeve of his uniform. “Is the house secure?”
I tell him about my altercation with Irene Mast. “I left her on the kitchen floor.”
“She in on this, or what?”
“She tried to blow my head off.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
I turn my attention back to the house, feel that uneasy prickling sensation again. “I jammed the tunnel hatch in the basement, but I don’t know how long it will hold.”
“He could be anywhere.”
“That about covers it.”
He glances toward the lane. “Where the hell is backup?”
The question doesn’t require an answer.
“I’m Kate, by the way.”
He looks at me, nods. “I’m Marcus.” We don’t set down our weapons to shake.
I raise myself up slightly, glance over the hood of the cruiser toward the barn. “If Mast goes through the tunnel to the house and gets through that hatch, we’re sitting ducks here.”
We’re on our way to the rear of the cruiser when the sound of a vehicle draws our attention. I glance left and see an Ohio Highway Patrol car barrel up, engine revving, lights flashing. Tomasetti’s Tahoe brings up the rear. Both vehicles grind to a halt twenty yards away.
“There’s the cavalry.”
I look at Marcus. “Let’s go.”
Keeping low, weapons at the ready, we sprint to the nearest vehicle, the HP cruiser. The trooper is already out, and he’s left his door open for added cover. He’s wearing a vest, his weapon at his side. He motions us to the rear of the vehicle.
“Where’s the shooter?” he asks as he opens the trunk.
We crouch behind the raised trunk, and I give the trooper a condensed version of everything that has happened. “He’s armed with a rifle and has three hostages.”
“What about the female?”
“I left her in the kitchen, tied.” I shake my head. “If Mast got through the hatch in the basement, he could have untied her.”
“Well, shit.” The trooper pulls out two Kevlar vests and hands one to me, the other to the deputy. “Looks like we might be in for a standoff.”
As I slip into the vest, secure it at my waist, I see Tomasetti striding toward us, his cell phone pasted to his ear. He’s holding his weapon in his right hand, down by his side, but he’s not looking at the house or the barn. His attention is focused on me. His expression is as hard as stone and completely devoid of emotion. But it’s like we’re looking through a vacuum at each other; in the short distance between us, nothing else exists.
“Can’t leave you alone for ten minutes, can I?” he mutters.
I try to smile, but I can’t. “Evidently not.”
He turns his attention to the trooper. “Negotiator is on the way, along with the mobile command center. ETA thirty minutes.”
“I got a SWAT team en route.” The trooper looks at his watch. “We might be in for a wait.”
I tell the men about the hostages, about my having to leave them behind. They listen intently, their expressions grim.
“You’re lucky,” the trooper tells me.
