After the Storm (33 page)

I set down the cup of coffee. My eyes dart to my cell phone charging on the counter a few feet away. I lunge at it, yank out the cord, and hit 911 with my thumb. Never taking my eyes from the door, I take a step back and look over my shoulder at the stairs. The living room is silent and dark, but that doesn’t mean someone isn’t there, intent on doing me harm.

I’m about to charge up the steps, when someone comes around from the front of the house. Even in the dim light I recognize Kester. He’s wearing blue jeans. Pistol grip sticking out of his waistband. Dirty denim jacket. His hair is soaked and dripping, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I smell the cigarette stench coming off him. For an instant, he looks surprised to see me.

“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”

He jolts at the sound of the tinny voice. His eyes dart to the cell phone in my hand.

“Sheriff’s Department is on the way,” I tell him. “You’d better run.”

His mouth opens. I see jagged yellow teeth from within pale lips. A flash of uncertainty in his eyes. A glint of something ugly just beneath the surface. His right hand twitches, moves toward the pistol.

I hurl the cell phone, striking him beneath his left eye hard enough to open the skin. He reels back, hands coming up. “What the fuck!”

Spinning, I grab the banister, swing around it, and fly up the steps two at a time. Kester bellows a curse. I reach the top of the stairs. My stocking feet slide on the hardwood floor. I scramble left and sprint down the hall, arms outstretched.

“Fucking bitch cop!” Kester pounds up the steps behind me. “I ain’t going to jail ’cause of you!”

A gunshot snaps through the air. A hollow
thunk!
sounds as the bullet tears into the sheetrock to my right. Then I’m through the bedroom door, slam it behind me, slap the lock into place. Two steps, and I yank my .38 from the holster. Revolver trained on the door, I back toward the bench at the foot of the bed and snatch up my police radio. “Ten-thirty-one E!” I shout out my address. “Shots fired! Ten-forty!”

In a fraction of a second, Skid’s voice snaps over the radio. “Ten-seven-six.”

“Stand by,” comes Mona’s voice.

“Kester, I’m armed!” I scream. “You come through that door and I will fucking shoot you!”

“You got an ID?” Skid asks.

“Nick Kester,” I pant. “He’s armed with a handgun.”

“Fuckin’ MUTT!” Over the radio I hear the groan of his cruiser’s engine as he cranks it up. “ETA two minutes. Hang tight.”

“SO’s en route,” says Mona.

Never taking my eyes from the door, keeping the pistol leveled and ready, I back up and kneel beside the bed. I know it won’t stop a bullet; the best I can hope for is that it will buy me a few seconds. If he comes through the door, I’ll open fire until he stops moving.

“Anyone hurt?” Mona asks.

“No.”

“Ten-twenty-three.” Skid, letting me know he’s arrived on scene. “Where’s he at?”

“I don’t know. Second level maybe. Be careful.”

Holding my breath, I listen for movement in the hall. The only sounds come from the rain tapping against the window and the distant wail of sirens. I leave my position behind the bed and go right to avoid approaching the door directly in case Kester fires through it. I sidle along the wall and pause at the dresser.

“Nick Kester!” I shout. “The police are out front! Drop your weapon! Do it now!”

No response.

I wonder if his wife is with him. If she’s somewhere in the house or sitting in a vehicle waiting for him.

I ain’t going to jail ’cause of you!

And I realize he knows I had nothing to do with his daughter’s death.…

Around me, the house is quiet. The silence unsettles me. Where’s Kester? Where’s Skid? My heart is pounding too hard. My hands are shaking. I edge around the dresser, set my left hand on the knob. A quick twist, and I swing open the door.

“Police!” I scream. “Drop the weapon! Get your hands up! Get on the fucking ground!”

A door slams somewhere downstairs. I can’t tell if it’s the front or the back. I don’t know if it’s Kester fleeing—or one of my own making entry.

“Skid!” I shout.

“I’m in the kitchen!” Skid’s voice sounds from downstairs.

“I’m upstairs!” I shout. “Where’s Kester?”

“Downstairs is clear!” shouts Glock, and another layer of relief goes through me.

Gripping my .38, I step into the hall. Skid bounds up the stairs, pistol leading the way. He makes eye contact with me and then enters the first bedroom. I pull open the hall closet, peer inside, find it empty. When I close it, Glock is coming down the hall.

“You okay, Chief?”

I jerk my head.

“Clear!” Skid exits the bedroom, nods at Glock, and then disappears into the bathroom.

I look at Glock and motion toward the remaining bedroom. “Let’s clear it.”

Nodding, his sidearm leading the way, he enters the room. I follow. While he checks the closet, I drop and look under the bed.

“Clear,” he says as he emerges.

He looks at me closely as he holsters his weapon. I see his eyes fall upon the bassinet. He stares at it a moment, then looks away as if realizing he’s intruded upon my private domain.

“Fucker’s gone.” Ducking his head slightly, Glock speaks into his lapel mike. “House is clear. Suspect at large.”

Skid stands at the door. He’s also noticed the bassinet. He’s not quite as good as Glock at concealing his surprise, but he’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

I start toward the door. “You call Wayne County?”

Skid steps aside as I shoulder past. “They’re setting up a perimeter now.”

I look at Glock. “See if someone can get a K-nine Unit out here.”

Nodding, he tilts his head and speaks into his shoulder mike. I start down the hall. My stride falters when I notice the hole in the drywall. Specks of plaster on the hardwood floor.

“Son of a bitch wasn’t messing around, was he?” comes Skid’s voice from behind me.

I stave off a chill, but I don’t do a very good job of ignoring the little voice whispering in my ear:
That could have been you.

“We need to find him,” I hear myself say. “Pull out all the stops.” I make eye contact with Glock. “You notify SHP?”

“Holmes County, too,” he says. “BOLO is still active.”

My arms and legs are beginning to shake in earnest, so I keep moving down the hall. “He could still be on the property.”

“I’ll round up some guys and take a look around,” Glock says.

“Those woods in the back are thick as hell,” Skid puts in.

“Kester’s got to have a vehicle somewhere nearby,” I say.

“If there is, we’ll find it,” Glock tells me.

“Unless he already got to it and left,” Skid puts in.

“You see anything when you pulled up?” I ask.

“No, but there are plenty of places to pull off the road and use trees for cover.” Skid shakes his head. “Fuckin’ meth heads can move pretty fast when you put a cop in the picture.”

Glock and I chuckle, and I feel myself settling down, falling into cop mode, a frame of mind I’m much more comfortable with than traumatized homeowner. Or pregnant female who’s just been shot at by an armed intruder.

I glance over my shoulder at Glock. “We need to get someone out to Paula Kester’s father’s house. Carl Shellenberger. Take a deputy with you. And wear your vest.”

Touching the brim of his hat as he passes me, he jogs down the hall and disappears down the stairs.

Skid and I follow. At the base of the stairs, I glance right to see a deputy kneeling next to the cell phone I tossed at Kester. He rises upon spotting me. “You okay, Chief?”

“Yup.” I start toward my phone but realize it’s probably evidence and may have Kester’s DNA on it. “You contact BCI?” I ask the deputy.

He nods. “CSU is en route.”

I think about Tomasetti, wincing inwardly at the thought of his finding out what happened from someone else.

“Just make sure everyone knows Kester is armed and dangerous.” The image of him flashes in my mind’s eye. “He looks like he’s been up for a few days—”

The deputy nods. “We got people on it, Chief. Everyone and their uncle’s out looking for this guy.”

I nod and start toward the kitchen to call Tomasetti on the landline. He picks up on the first ring. “Kate?”

I can tell from the tone of his voice that he already knows. “I’m okay,” I tell him.

“What the hell happened?”

“Kester broke in. After you left.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Was he armed?”

“With a handgun.”

“Jesus Christ, Kate.”

“Tomasetti, I’m okay.” I hear static in the background and realize he’s already in his vehicle. “Where are you?”

“Fifteen minutes away. Do me a favor and don’t go anywhere.”

“I’ll be here,” I tell him, and the line goes dead.

*   *   *

I’m standing on the back porch, talking with a Wayne County sheriff’s deputy, when I hear the crunch of gravel beneath tires. I look up to see Tomasetti’s Tahoe barrel down the lane, make a slight right, and then skid to a halt behind my borrowed Crown Vic. I have no idea how he made the drive from Richfield so quickly, but I don’t care. All I know at the moment is that I’m glad to see him.

His face is grim when he exits the vehicle. He walks around the rear with long, assured strides, nodding at the deputy as he approaches. His face doesn’t change when his gaze flicks to me. I think I see the flash of emotion in his eyes, but it’s gone so quickly I can’t be sure.

“You okay, Chief?” he asks easily.

I roll my eyes and sigh but don’t manage the cocky attitude I’d intended to project.

He reaches me and stops a scant foot away. His gaze finds mine, and he runs his hands over my shoulders and down my arms as if he doesn’t quite trust what his eyes are telling him.

“You got here fast,” I say.

“One of the agents heard the call and recognized the address, then called me straightaway.” He glances from me to the deputy and back to me. “They get him?”

I shake my head. “We’ve got three agencies looking. Glock and Holmes County went to talk to Paula Kester’s father, but he says he hasn’t seen them for almost twenty-four hours. Wayne County SO set up a perimeter. Skid and a bunch of deputies are searching those woods.”

“Vehicle?”

“No.”

“We think he got out before the perimeter was set up,” the deputy interjects. “Nick Kester is the RO of a white 2008 Toyota Tacoma, so we added that to the BOLO.”

Tomasetti glances toward the door, his eyes taking in the broken pane and beyond, the glass on the floor. “What happened?”

I tell him everything, hating the way it sounds, because a little voice inside my head keeps reminding me that I’m a cop and I should have been able to stop him. “It happened fast, Tomasetti. I just … walked up on him, in the living room. My radio and sidearm were upstairs. I couldn’t do anything, so I chucked the cell at him and ran.”

I can tell by the way he’s looking at the door that he wants to go inside to see everything for himself. But until the CSU arrives and processes the scene, neither of us can risk contaminating any possible evidence.

“You didn’t hear anything?” he asks.

“Nothing.” But we both know I’ve been sleeping like the dead.

“Any idea how long he was in the house?”

“No.”

He looks away, and I know he’s wondering how much time elapsed between his leaving and Kester making entry and about all the things that could have happened in between.

As if realizing we need some privacy, the deputy slides his smartphone from his pocket. “Excuse me,” he says and leaves the porch.

I watch him walk down the steps and stroll over to his cruiser to make his call.

“He fired one shot?” Tomasetti asks.

I nod. “It went into the wall. Upstairs hallway. CSU should be able to dig out the slug.”

“Goddamn it, Kate.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Shooting at a cop? This guy’s fucking nuts.”

“I know.”

“Any idea how he found out where we live?”

I shrug. “You can dig up just about anything online these days.”

“Kester doesn’t seem like the digging type.” He thinks about that a moment. “You think he could have followed you home?”

I should have thought of that, but I didn’t, and a creeping sense of dread slinks up my back. “Tomasetti, I’ve been careful. I mean, I’m a cop. I would have noticed.” But even as I say the words, I silently acknowledge that I’ve been distracted and probably not as cautious as I think.

Neither of us mentions my pregnancy, but the fact is as glaring and palpable as a physical presence.

I tell him about Doc Coblentz’s assertion that Lucy Kester’s injuries were more than likely a result of shaken baby syndrome. “He was going to get a second opinion, but that was his finding.”

Tomasetti grinds his teeth. “That fucking Kester doesn’t want to go down for that.”

“He tried to blame me. His wife blames me.…”

“She probably doesn’t know he abused the child, and he wants to keep it that way. It’s a damn farce.”

I try to smile. To let him know I’m okay. That I can handle this. All I manage is a twisting of my lips and a smile that feels like a lie.

CHAPTER 25

It takes five hours for the CSU to process the scene, which basically consists of the kitchen, living room, hallway, stairs, and bedroom. The largest piece of evidence recovered was the slug he dug out of the wall, which will be sent to the lab in London and analyzed. During a search of the woods at the rear of our property, Skid found a man’s boot print in a muddy area. A Wayne County deputy discovered tire tracks in the dirt near a gravel pullover on the road just north of our property. The CSU successfully captured impressions of both. All the evidence will be analyzed and, if the case goes to trial, used in conjunction with my testimony to put Nick Kester behind bars. Of course, we have to find him first.…

Despite the efforts of every law enforcement agency in the three-county area, Nick and Paula Kester have been eerily elusive. I suspect that after the shooting at the farm, Kester hightailed it to his vehicle and fled the scene before roadblocks could be set up. Some in law enforcement believe they fled the state. Tomasetti isn’t buying into that theory; neither am I. I think they’ve found a safe haven and are hiding out nearby. Sooner or later they’ll turn up. The question is when and whether anyone will get hurt.