After the Storm (26 page)

I’ve only advanced a few yards, when a wave of nausea seesaws below my ribs. It’s been happening on and off all morning. I attributed it to hunger, and so far I’ve been able to ignore it. But no more. I prop the metal detector against the fence. I barely make it to the edge of the concrete pen area before throwing up in the weeds. I’m bent at the hip with my hands on my knees, thinking I’m not quite finished, when I hear Glock behind me.

“Chief?”

Raising my hand, I wave my index finger and throw up again. I stay like that for another minute, embarrassed because I’m spitting and sweating. Finally, I straighten and tug a tissue from my pocket and wipe my mouth. “Sorry,” I mutter.

“You need some water or something?” he asks.

“Nope.” Pulling my chief-of-police face back in place, I turn to face him. “Just the heat, I think.”

It’s not a very good lie, because the temperature hovers somewhere around eighty degrees and there’s a pleasant breeze. I wish I’d told him I’d tied one on last night.

“I’m used to it,” he says easily. “LaShonda’s been throwing up for four months now. Her first trimester was—” He cuts off the word in mid-sentence.

A tense silence ensues, as if all the oxygen has been sucked away. I stare at Glock, willing him to take the words back. My mouth is open, but I can’t seem to close it. All I can do is stand there, stupid and mute, certain my well-guarded secret is written all over my face.

Glock raises his hands. “Hey, it’s none of my business.”

My stomach is still quivering when I cross to him. “You find something?”

He holds up a baggie containing a dozen or so dirt-covered .22 caliber cartridges. “Looks like they’ve been here awhile.” He motions to the place he’d been searching. “People have been shooting out here, but I thought these might be worth a look.”

“You find bones?”

“A lot of them.” He points to the corner of the structure. “Looks like whoever euthanized the animals just piled up the carcasses and left them to rot.”

“Might be why all these cartridges are here.” I think about that a moment. “Nolt’s remains showed no sign that he’d been shot, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. Let’s bag them just in case.”

We’re interrupted by the crack of our dispatcher’s voice on the radio. “Chief, I’ve got a ten-ten over at McNarie’s Bar.”

Glock and I exchange looks. “Fight,” he mutters. “We done here, Chief?”

“I just need to finish up that far north side.” I cock my head, alerted by some inner voice that he’s reluctant to leave me. “Go ahead and take the call. I’m out of here in a few minutes.”

He hesitates.

“Glock, for God’s sake, I’m a cop.”

He looks uncomfortable, then sighs. “Look, Chief, I know you’re as capable as the next guy, and I don’t want to get in the middle of anything … personal, but Tomasetti asked me to keep an eye on you.”

Now it’s my turn to sigh. “Of course he did.”

“In light of the shooting the other night, I thought it was a good idea. You know, buddy system.”

I pat the .38 strapped to my hip. “And just between us, I’ve got a .22 mini Magnum in an ankle holster.”

“Damn, Chief, I’m impressed. Kind of jealous, too.”

I laugh outright. “Take the call before McNarie beats the shit out of someone.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Turning away, he jogs toward his cruiser, speaking into his lapel mike as he goes. “Ten-seven-six.”

*   *   *

I’ll be the first to admit the shooting left me shaken. Still, I’m not sure if I’m irritated or appreciative that Tomasetti asked Glock to look out for me. Being a small-town chief of police isn’t excessively dangerous. The risks of my position are minimal compared to the dangers faced every day by big-city cops, sheriff’s deputies, and state highway patrol officers. Tomasetti has every reason—and every right—to worry. But do I want him speaking to my officers without my knowledge? Does it undermine my authority? How is he going to react when my pregnancy becomes more apparent?

I finish sweeping the north end of the building, finding nothing more than a rusted pair of pliers and an old horseshoe. I’ve just reached the loading dock and started toward the interior, when I hear the front door creak. Vaguely, I wonder if one of my other officers took the call at McNarie’s and Glock has returned to help me finish.

I call out to him. “If you came back to help me finish, you’re too late.”

Looping the carry strap of the metal detector over my right shoulder, lifting the canvas bag with my other hand, I start toward the door. I’m midway there when it strikes me that he should have responded. Stopping, I set the canvas bag on the floor and lean the metal detector against the rail of a pen.

“Glock? You there?”

A minute sound makes the hairs at the back of my neck stand on end. In that instant I know it isn’t Glock. “Painters Mill Police Department!” I call out. “Identify yourself!”

My words are punctuated by a gunshot. Adrenaline shoots like fire through my body. Crouching, I draw my .38, raise it, my finger twitchy on the trigger. A dozen thoughts slam into my brain at once. I’m not sure where the shot came from. I have no cover where I’m standing.

Hitting my lapel mike, I back toward the steps. “Ten-thirty-one E! Shooting in progress!” I shout out the address of my location.

A second shot pings off the concrete two feet from my boot. I can’t see the shooter, but I’m pretty sure the shot originated from the front offices. I fire my weapon three times.

“Ten-thirty-three!” I shout into my mike. “Shots fired! Ten-thirty-three!” To the shooter: “Police! Drop your weapon!”

Another gunshot rings out, followed by the
zing!
of a ricochet. I need to get off the loading dock. I step back. My rear bumps the steel pipe that runs along the edge of the dock. A sickening
crack!
sounds as the steel posts give way. And then I’m falling backward into space.

CHAPTER 19

I land on my back hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. The back of my head strikes the ground. I’m sprawled with my arms stretched above my head. I’m still clutching my .38, but I can’t move. I can’t speak or shout. I can’t draw a breath.

I lie there, trying to suck air into compressed lungs. The ceiling of the building is a blur of steel beams, broken lights, patches of rust, and scraps of dry grass from birds’ nests. An undignified sound grinds from my throat as I roll onto my side, wheezing. I glance at the loading dock, half expecting to see the shooter with a rifle shouldered, but there’s no one there. The broken rail dangles by a single cable, still swaying. The steel post was rusted through and snapped when I leaned against it.

“Damn it.
Damn it.
” I’m aware of my radio cracking and spitting, urgent voices and codes I should know but can’t seem to remember. I need to reply, but I’m still trying to get air into my lungs. My chest hurts. The small of my back. I move my legs and I’m relieved when they work. Propping myself on an elbow, I sit up.

Where the hell is the shooter?

I get to my feet. Crouching, I stumble to the loading-dock wall and peek over the top. There’s no one there. I raise my .38 and call out. “Painters Mill PD! Drop your weapon!”

My voice echoes wispy and high within the building. I listen for footsteps, for a door opening or closing, an engine in the lot out front, but I get nothing. I fumble for my lapel mike. “Ten-thirty-one E! Shots fired! Need assistance!”

“What’s your twenty? What’s your goddamn twenty?” comes a voice I don’t recognize.

“County Road Twenty-four,” I say. “Hewitt Hog Producers.”

“Ten-seven-six,” comes another. Glock, I realize. Calm. Determined. Capable. Glock. “ETA two minutes.”

*   *   *

“Chief!”

I’m standing at the base of the loading dock, .38 in hand, listening to the radio traffic, when I hear Glock’s voice.

“I’m here!”

He’s standing just inside the door, sidearm at the ready, shotgun slung over his shoulder. Kevlar vest thrown on over his uniform shirt. I know from the radio that a Coshocton County deputy has gone around the back. Another is in his cruiser, circling the block.

I take the steps to the dock, trying to conceal the fact that my legs are shaking. “You clear the front?”

“No one there.” He jogs toward me, his eyes assessing. “You hit?”

“No, I’m okay.”

His eyes take in the dangling rail. “You fall?”

“Rail gave way.” I brush bits of dried grass and dirt from my slacks. “I busted my ass.”

“You need an ambulance?”

I shake my head. “Nope. I’m fine.”

Sirens sound in the near distance. I know multiple agencies are responding. Coshocton County. Holmes County. I know they’re already setting up a perimeter on the little-used roads surrounding the facility. Searching the immediate area.

“You get a look at him?” Glock asks. All the while his eyes scan the interior of the building, the door, the open area at the rear.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Vehicle?”

Another shake.

“How many shots?”

“Three.”

Shouts sound at the front of the building. “Sheriff’s department! Sheriff’s department!”

“Clear!” Glock calls out. “Painters Mill PD! Over here.”

I glance over to see two uniformed Coshocton county deputies enter, eyes sweeping, sidearms drawn. One carries a shotgun.

“You think Kester is stupid enough to pull something like this?” Glock asks.

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I hold his gaze. “He was pretty pissed last time I talked to him.”

His jaw clenches. “You sure you don’t need to get yourself checked out?” He motions toward the busted rail. “That’s a five-foot fall.”

I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Like he’s worried and pissed off and once I’m out of the picture he might cut loose with something unbecoming a cop.

“I don’t want you talking to Kester when you’re half-cocked,” I tell him.

“Chief, if that motherfucker’s taking potshots at cops, someone needs to shut him down.”

“Find out where he’s living,” I say. “Get a search warrant and pick him up.”

The sound of voices from the front of the building draws my attention. Deputy Fowler “Folly” Hodges and a second deputy I don’t recognize come through the door.

“I’m probably going to be tied up here for a while,” I tell Glock. “If the judge gives you any shit, tell him to call me. Take Skid with you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Giving me a mock salute, he turns to leave.

“Glock.”

He stops and turns.

“And if it’s not too much trouble, be careful.”

*   *   *

For the next three hours, I put my best cop face forward, going over every aspect of the incident with Coshocton County Sheriff Arnie Redmon, while Deputy Fowler writes down every word. I yuk it up with the twenty-something paramedic who checks my vitals and my pupils and proclaims I have a few more years to live.

The woods behind the facility were searched by half a dozen sheriff’s deputies, but they found nothing. In the dirt a few yards from the mouth of the driveway, a Coshocton County deputy discovered fresh tire tread marks that don’t belong to my or Glock’s vehicle, and the CSU technician from BCI proceeded to mix and pour a special plaster that will enable him to scan the image into a computer. From that, an analyst will try to determine the size and type of tire, which, hopefully, will lead us to the manufacturer, the retailer—and ultimately the person who bought it.

During a search, a Coshocton County deputy found two spent .22 caliber cartridges—the same type of cartridge that was found at the scene on County Road 14. We won’t know definitively until ballistics is complete, but I know it’s from the same shooter.

I’ve called Tomasetti twice, but his voice mail picks up both times. I leave two messages, letting him know there was an incident and that I’m all right. This is the kind of situation about which he needs to hear from me personally, but a message is better than nothing.

As the adrenaline wanes and post-incident jitters set in, my hands and legs begin to shake. Not for the first time today, I’m nauseous. My left wrist feels sprained—something I didn’t notice while the paramedics were here and we were cutting up over something I can’t even remember now.

I remind myself that I’m pregnant. That these sorts of things shouldn’t happen to a pregnant woman, and an overwhelming rush of anger toward the shooter engulfs me. I keep my cool; I know what I’m experiencing is part of the process after a traumatic incident. But it’s not easy, and by the time early evening rolls around all I want to do is go home and crawl into bed.

I wasn’t expecting Tomasetti to show up on scene. Last I’d heard, he was at a meeting in Cleveland with some suits. I figured that was why he hadn’t called me back. Little did I know he’d left the meeting and hauled ass down to Coshocton County.

I’m standing on the loading dock, talking to one of the deputies, when I see him come through the door. I’d know his silhouette anywhere. The way he moves. The way he holds himself apart. He’s too far away for me to see his face, but I know it the instant he spots me. His body language changes. He descends the steps and starts toward me with long, resolute strides. I watch him approach, aware that I’m staring, but I can’t look away.

My mouth goes dry. My palms are slick with sweat. I’m aware of my heart thrumming. My legs quivering. “Tomasetti.”

“Chief.” His face gives away nothing. No emotion. No concern. If I didn’t know him so well, I might think he’d been sent down by BCI to look into some routine incident. But there’s a coolness in his eyes that unnerves me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m okay.” I want to go to him and let him envelop me in his arms, but there are too many people around, none of whom know we’re involved.

He introduces himself to the deputy, and the two men shake hands. Tomasetti turns his attention back to me. “Sounds like you have a serial cop shooter on your hands.”

“Glock and Skid are going to pick up Nick Kester,” I tell him.

“That’s a start.” He looks at the deputy. “Can you excuse us?”

“Sure.” The deputy tips his hat at me and then walks away.

“Are you here about the case?” I ask.