Beyond the Rules (13 page)

“I
am
help,” she said, twisting her leg free. “But I’m busy.” And she left him on his back, his hands scrabbling ever more weakly against the ground.

She had a very bad feeling about Wolchoski. She made it to the squad car and tried to yank the back door open; damned if it wasn’t still locked. Finally steadier on her feet, she ran
around to Conners’s door and yanked that, too, until Conners managed to unlock it. Kimmer held her breath, tears already streaming down her face from the gas, and leaned in to fumble at Conners’s seat belt. It finally clicked free and she retreated, smacking the door lock controls on the way.

When she pulled the back door open, Wolchoski fell out. Kimmer ducked to catch him, crouched up against the car door and awkwardly shoving back at him with her shoulder while she tucked her gun away. It was like shoving toothpaste back in the tube. Beside her, Conners staggered out of the front seat and fell to crawl away, choking and half-conscious.

It was just about time to start laughing at the absurdity of it all. Kimmer’s eyes watered; her nose ran fiercely and she swiped a hand across her face, regaining just enough clear vision to see that Wolchoski’s eyes were still open. Still seeing.

“Tell me,” she said, her voice ragged but her words hard. “What the hell is this all about? Who sent you? What does Hank Reed have to do with any of it?”

Pounding footsteps came up beside her—a man’s tread, heavy and work-boot hard. Kimmer got a glimpse of him bending to help the officer and kept her attention on Wolchoski, who might be alive for the moment, but judging by the hole in his chest and the bloody froth at his lips, might well not make it until help arrived. She’d come to question him…she damned well intended to follow through. She fumbled for the short, stout toothpick blade in her back pocket and pulled it out to rest the blade at his ear, hidden from anyone who might come up on them. She pricked him with it; his eyes widened. “Talk to me,” she said. “Or we can make your last moments the worst you’ve ever had.”

“You…can’t—”

“No?” She smiled at him. No doubt a truly fearsome sight, with airbag marks on her face, eyes red and nose running from the tear gas. “You don’t get it. I’m not a cop. I live by my own rules. Now get chatty.”
And do it quickly, before you die on me
.

He looked down at the blood-rimmed hole in his shirt, a wound that made the brace on his leg seem an absurd precaution. There was very little blood; Kimmer knew it meant he was bleeding on the inside. He passed his hand over the wound in what might have been disbelief, losing focus. Kimmer got it back again, raising a spot of blood on the soft skin beneath his ear. “Who sent you? And what about Hank?”

“In over his head,” Wolchoski said, and gave a little laugh—but stopped short, startled, at the blood that came up with it. “He thought he could save himself…he just put things off.”

“Save himself from who?” Kimmer demanded, feeling that first trickle of desperation as Wolchoski’s face suddenly turned an odd shade of gray. “Save himself
how?
”

Wolchoski gave another little laugh. “You should know, Kimmer Reed. But he was only ever marking time. So were you. After
this
—”

The same footsteps came up behind Kimmer. She wanted to turn and glare, but knew that would make no sense whatsoever to this stranger who thought he was helping. And when he put a hand on her shoulder, she wanted very much to whirl and sink the little knife into his arm for taking such liberties—but he wouldn’t understand that, either.
That
was an impulse she thought long buried, carried out of Munroville with her after serving her so well for so long. He said, “Miss? Can I help?”

Yes. Go away so I can prod this dying man with my knife
.
On the other hand, she had plenty already, didn’t she? This mess was about Hank, and it wasn’t over after all. Maybe it was really just beginning. She glanced over her shoulder and discovered a wiry man in his fifties, signs of construction work—probably a contractor—written all over him. A man used to taking charge. Good. Let him. “I can’t hold him up any longer,” she said, palming the little knife. “If you can help me get him out of the car…”

“We probably shouldn’t move him.” The man looked down the road as though an EMT might suddenly appear.

And Kimmer looked down at Wolchoski’s half-closed eyes. “Oh,” she said dryly, “I don’t think it’ll make much difference to him.” Probably she should have put a quaver in her voice—to judge by the man’s startled look, that would have been best. But Chimera didn’t have to answer to this man. She had to take her information to Owen—and she had to get out of here before the cops arrived or she’d be tied up with them for hours. She couldn’t afford that. And it didn’t sound like her damned brother could afford it, either.

The man beside her didn’t make any profound comment about Wolchoski’s death. He simply moved in to take the goonboy’s not inconsiderable weight, easing him out of the car as Kimmer casually returned her knife to its sheath in her pocket and backed away, just as casually turning on her heel to head smartly for her car. By the time the man realized she’d left, he had other people moving in. A second bunch had gathered around the cop, offering water, and a teenage girl had gone around the squad car to discover the gruesomely dead Hammy Hands. The fuss she made covered Kimmer’s tracks long enough for a quick check under her car—no copiously leaking fluids—and by the time she heard the faint siren in the background, she’d slipped behind the wheel and shifted
into gear, heading back toward Watkins Glen. Belated shouting followed her; no doubt someone would get her license plate. She didn’t care. She fully intended to report to Chief Harrison.

But not until after she spoke to Owen.

Owen’s office door was closed. Kimmer knocked hard once in warning and walked in anyway, unrepentant under a laser gaze of deep disapproval tinged with anger. Standing beside the visitor’s chair in an unsettled way that meant he’d just leaped up, Owen’s younger brother Dave regarded them both with a certain wariness. No doubt he’d often felt the sting of Owen’s glare, black sheep of the family that he was. Why Owen would offer Kimmer such a reaction momentarily escaped her.

Then she put a hand to her face. Airbag abrasions. Reddened nose and eyes. Streaks of who-knows-what on her skin.

“I’m busy,” Owen said.

Dave Hunter—much leaner than his older brother, his face more aesthetic and his bright blue eyes every bit as commanding as Owen’s—backed away a step. “Not on my account.”

“We’re not done here,” Owen reminded him.

“I suspect we probably are.” Dave hitched up a shoulder. “I’m fine as I am, Owen. And I’m always happy to help out when you need an extra hand. But my work…it’s important, too.”

Kimmer gave him a sharp look, momentarily diverted, fascinated by the unspokens between these two men and by the depth of the determination in Dave’s expression. He meant it, more than Owen had any idea. She raised an eyebrow at Owen. “You’re wasting your time.”

Owen stiffened in quick resentment. Dave looked at her in open surprise. Then he grinned. “You’re the one.”

“Yes,” Kimmer said. “I must be. And since I’ve never walked in on this office uninvited before, and since I look like—” she indicated herself with some disgust, gave up on finding a word and finished “—this, then there must be a pretty good reason I’m here, don’t you think?”

Owen raised his hands in surrender. “All right, then. For the record,” he pointed at Dave, “this is not the end of the conversation. For the record,” he shot a dark look at Kimmer, “this is not okay. But for now we’ll move forward.”

“Good,” Kimmer said, moving right along into brusqueness.

Dave held up a hand, excusing himself. “I’ve got an appointment in Virginia,” he said. “And since we’ve already established how this conversation will end, I think I’ll just go keep it.” He raised his chin fractionally, another acknowledgment of sorts to Owen. “I’ll stop by next time I’m in the area.”

“You’d better,” Owen responded, and watched with a gaze that turned worried as soon as Dave’s back was turned.

“What’s the deal?” Kimmer said. “He likes what he’s doing.”

“Not up for discussion.” Owen, too, could be brusque.

“So it’s only my personal life we talk about?”

He looked back at her, his gaze even and unrelenting. “That’s right.”

She made a disgusted noise and slid down into the chair, one leg over the arm and her body protesting as hard as it had the last time she’d been here. She’d had about enough of being kicked around for Hank.

Except she thought she was probably only getting started.

Owen raised an eyebrow. Kimmer said bluntly, “Wolchoski is dead. Hammy Hands is dead, too. Officer Conners will be okay.”

“And of those things, for which are you responsible?” Only Owen could maintain that dry tone in the face of such startling news.

Kimmer pretended to give it some thought. “Well, technically…two-thirds of them. Hammy Hands shot Wolchoski. I killed Hammy Hands. And since Hammy Hands was going back for seconds before I stopped him, I’ll take Conners, too.”

Owen gave himself a moment to rub his hands over his face. Then he said, “From the top?”

“Ambush on the way to Montour Falls. Pigeon Man got away—he was in a maroon Malibu, but I don’t know how long he’ll stay in it. I didn’t get the plate—it was Pennsylvania, though. They must have expected to handle this and go.” Which didn’t quite make sense, because Kimmer had been a loose end, too. She spoke over her own reservations. “I took care of Hammy Hands and exchanged a few words with Wolchoski and left before backup got there. I wanted to get to you first.”

“Considering that current modern convenience called the cell phone—”

“Batteries,” Kimmer said vaguely. It was convincing enough. She had somewhat of a reputation.

Owen’s brow raised slightly higher. “You wanted to be here when the chief calls.”

“Could be the sheriff,” Kimmer said helpfully. “It was county turf.”

“You left the scene of a crime.”

“Only so I could come make a full report before making myself available to the police.” But Kimmer quickly grew
more serious. “I can’t afford to get tangled up in this, Owen. I didn’t cause it, and if I hadn’t been there things would’ve been a lot worse.”

“Witnesses?”

“Yes. And Conners knows I was behind him, even if he doesn’t remember the seat belt thing.”

“You’re going to have to make a statement.”

“And I will. But listen.” She took a breath, hunting for thoughtfulness, finding mostly resentment and anger. “I thought this thing was over. I thought I could leave Hank out of it. Just a few hours ago I spoke to his wife, and she told me to get lost. But things have changed. Wolchoski had enough air left to let me know it’s
not
over. Whatever double dumb-ass thing Hank’s done, it’s still following him around. It’s still following
me.”

“It’s not doing a lot for our quiet presence in Schuyler County, either,” Owen said, back to being dry again. “You’ve got to make a statement. I’ll have a lawyer meet you there. She’ll keep it as quick and painless as possible.”

Through a sudden swell of impatience, Kimmer said, “Pigeon Man is still out there. I’m tired of being the hunted. It’s time to do something about him.”

“Without an ID? Without any other plan besides waiting at the state line and hoping he’ll drive by on the way to home?” Owen shook his head. “We underestimated these men. Now two of them are dead and the other is at large. We’ll go after him, all right, but with a plan. That means knowing more. And that means talking to your brother.”

Kimmer gave a soundless snarl. “I’d rather wait at the highway for a week.”

Owen pushed the phone across the desk. “Call Hank.”

“He’ll lie.”

“Probably. But his lies might tell us something.”

This was Owen the Boss. Owen giving her the bottom line.

Kimmer picked up the phone and punched out the numbers vigorously enough that Owen should have winced. He didn’t. He waited, apparently unaffected by Kimmer’s seething resentment. The phone rang several times and then a machine picked up, and Hank’s voice, awkward and stilted, told her to leave a message.

She hung up.

Owen didn’t need to be told what had happened. “Then go make your statement. And then get back here. I’ve made some preliminary contacts with the Pittsburgh police, and by the time you get back I should have access to some mug shots. You can try to reach Hank again then.”

She wanted to protest. She’d given him a photo. Surely the Pittsburgh cops could work from that. Surely anyone in the agency office could work from that. But she was the one who’d seen Pigeon Man in person. No photograph could replace that advantage, only augment it. And Owen had a bottom-line look on his face that she’d never seen before. For all the years she’d pushed and prodded and lobbied to do things her own way, he’d never responded like this. Implacable. Unmoveable. As taciturn as ever…only more so. Things going unsaid.

Because this time the Hunter Agency was on its home turf—and this time Kimmer had spent the past several weeks giving the local law reason to regret instead of appreciate the agency’s usually discreet presence.

In the past, she’d threatened to walk away once or twice. Now Owen was drawing that line.
This is what you’ll do if you want to stay with us.

She heard him. She knew it wasn’t a bluff. And she wasn’t
ready to let it happen—not when this job was suddenly the only stable thing in her life.

And so she spent the afternoon at the modest Watkins Glen police station on North Franklin, describing the ambush, turning over her SIG Sauer for ballistics testing and carefully omitting her conversation with Wolchoski. She squelched her constant impulse to go out and find Pigeon Man, as if she could simply sniff him out. If Chief Harrison had any information about Pigeon Man’s location—or if Hammy Hands had been in possession of a convenient hotel key or a nice PalmPilot full of contact info—he wasn’t letting on. The only bright point of the afternoon came when Officer Conners made his way back into the station house, his eyes still red, his voice hoarse and his handshake full of gratitude.