Pray for Silence (39 page)

The panic attack came out of nowhere. One moment he was putting the pedal to the metal, concentrating on his driving, on making time, on reaching Kate. The next moment, it was as if a giant hand reached into his chest and squeezed all the oxygen from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. His brain couldn’t form a single coherent thought. The only thing he could discern was the grip of a fear so primal he honestly believed it might kill him.

Gasping for breath, Tomasetti backed off the accelerator. He gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles ache. The Tahoe slowed. He tried to look for a rest area or exit, but there was nothing on this particular stretch of road, so he pulled into the bar ditch. The truck bumped over something, but Tomasetti was too far gone to discern what it was. He could hear himself gasping now. The sounds tearing from his throat reminded him of a wild animal in the throes of death. The hand squeezed his chest, twisted his lungs into knots. He couldn’t draw a breath. His face went numb. Darkness encroached on his peripheral vision. He was going to pass out. Pain streaked up the center of his chest.

“Fuck,” he choked out. “Fuck!”

Shoving open the door, Tomasetti stumbled from the truck. Vaguely, he was aware insects flying in the headlights. The flicker of lightning on the horizon. Terror like he’d never felt before turning him inside out.

A few feet from the truck, he went to his knees. He couldn’t believe the sounds coming from his mouth. Whimpers. Choking gasps. He fell forward, his hands plunging into wet grass. Mud squeezed between his fingers. Soaked into his slacks at his knees. Panic was like some small, clawed animal trapped inside him, tearing at his guts, trying to claw its way out for air.

Tomasetti didn’t try to get up. It took every bit of effort he possessed to draw a breath. But his chest was too tight. Someone drawing a rope ever tighter, cutting off his oxygen.

His nose, lips and fingers tingled. He could hear his breaths rushing in and out, like a hacksaw cutting through wood. A hard knot of nausea rose in his gut. He opened his mouth, tried to suck in air. A string of drool hung from his lips. His stomach clenched. He tasted bile at the back of his throat. Gagging, he spit, threw up on the grass. Inhaled puke and gagged again. He didn’t care.

Intellectually, Tomasetti knew what was happening. He knew this was a panic attack. He knew he wasn’t going to die. That he should breathe deeply, count backward from one hundred, and tell himself it would only last for three minutes if he calmed himself down. None of that knowledge helped.

The next thing he knew his cheek was pressed against the cold, wet ground. He had mud in his hair. Dirt in his mouth. The rank aftertaste of vomit. He was lying on his stomach in the bar ditch in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the fucking night. He’d blacked out. . . .

Cursing, Tomasetti slowly got to his feet. His nerves jittered beneath his skin. The muscles in his legs twitched. Fatigue was a black hole he was about to fall into. The fact that he’d survived gave him the strength to bend and pick up his keys.

He’d pulled over in a forested area south of Killbuck. The chorus of frogs and crickets was inordinately loud on the deserted stretch of road. At some point, it had begun to rain. Not a storm, but he could smell it coming. He could hear thunder, see the lightning above the treetops ahead.

Ten feet away, the Tahoe sat at a cockeyed angle in the bar ditch. It looked
wrecked out, but it wasn’t. Tomasetti hoped the damn thing wasn’t stuck. He looked down at his clothes, wondering how he was going to explain the mud. He’d helped a motorist who had been stuck. He’d hit a deer and fallen when he’d gotten out to check the vehicle. On second thought, fuck it. He didn’t have to explain. All he wanted was to get to Painters Mill. To Kate.

Opening the door, he slid behind the wheel and backed onto the pavement. The township road would take him to Clark, which was about twelve miles away. Painters Mill was another five. With a little luck, he’d be at the Zook farm in fifteen minutes.

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.
Don’t pass out . . .

“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.

Click. Click. Click.

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. “Ten-thirty-three.” My voice is little more than a whisper.

T.J.’s voice crackles, but I don’t reply. Unconsciousness beckons, a big dark hole tugging me down.
Don’t pass out,
a little voice inside my head warns. One more thing to do . . .

I hit the speed dial for Tomasetti. I hear his voice, but I’m not sure if it’s in my head or if he’s really there. “I got him.” The weakness of my own voice surprises me. “I got the motherfucker.”

“Kate, where are you?”

“Zook . . . farm.”

“How bad are you hurt?”

“I’m not sure.” My voice cracks. “Hurry. I need you . . .”

I need you . . .

Her words rang inside his head like the echo of a lover’s scream. Tomasetti could tell by the sound of her voice she was injured. That she didn’t know the extent of her injuries told him it was bad. The thought sent a bare-fisted punch of terror right through the center of him.

His hands shook so violently, he nearly dropped his cell as he dialed the Painters Mill PD. The night-shift operator picked up on the first ring. He quickly identified himself. “I need an ambulance out at the Zook farm. We’ve got an officer down out there.”

Keys clicked. “En route.” The line hissed for a second. “T.J. called a moment ago. He can’t get Skid or Kate on their radios.”

“Goddamnit.” Tomasetti cranked the speedometer up to sixty as he sped through town. He blew the stoplight at Main and headed toward the Zook farm. “Get the sheriff’s office out there, too.”

“Roger that.”

Snapping his phone closed, Tomasetti floored the accelerator, burying the speedometer along a straight stretch of highway, then dropped it down at the turn that would take him to Hogpath Road. The Tahoe skidded on the wet pavement as he hauled the wheel right. His headlights flashed over yellow
corn to the left and the tall trees of a greenbelt beyond. Somehow he maintained control, pointed the Tahoe north, pushed the accelerator to the floor.

You’re too late.

He tried to quiet the little voice inside his head. He remembered all too well that awful night in Cleveland. He’d arrived to find his house engulfed in flames, found his wife and little girls dead inside. It wasn’t until after the autopsy days later that he’d learned they’d been tortured and burned alive.