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 twe
nty-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.
“I’m here for you,” he says in a low voice. “You finished here?”
“I think so.”
He motions toward the door. “I’ll follow you home.”
* * *
It takes us an hour to drive from Coshocton to Wooster. It’s dark by the time we reach the farm. I called Glock on the way, and he informed me that while he was able to obtain the warrant, they’ve not been able to locate Nick Kester. They spoke to his wife, who claimed they’d had an argument and Nick went to the Mosquito Lake for some pike fishing. Since the Mosquito Lake State Park is out of our jurisdiction, I asked Glock to contact the state park officer on duty try to locate Kester at the park.
Considering the seriousness of the situation, I should be at the station. If it wasn’t for Tomasetti, I would be, despite my aching body and throbbing head. But I know he’s upset, and this is one of those times when my personal life must take precedence over my job. I don’t know what to expect from him. The one thing I do know is that I want to fix it. If only I knew how.
I hear Tomasetti’s car door slam as I let myself into the house through the back door. Flipping on the overhead light, I’m welcomed by my tidy farmhouse kitchen, the smells of vanilla and lemon-scented furniture polish, and a table that’s somehow developed a thin layer of dust. I remove my .38 and set it on the tabletop. My equipment belt comes next. The .22 mini Magnum and the ankle holster. I drape all of it over the back of a chair. I try to shake off the apprehension creeping over me as I cross to the sink to wash my hands.
When Tomasetti comes in, I grab the towel off the hook and dry my hands. “Are you hungry?” I ask. “I didn’t get lunch and I’m—”
“We need to talk about what happened,” he cuts in.
Taking my time, I nod. “All right.”
“Kate, this is the second time someone’s tried to kill you. You don’t know who it is or why they did it. You don’t know how determined they are or if they’re going to try again.”
“I understand all of that,” I tell him. “There are multiple police agencies working on it, including BCI. They were able to lift tire tread marks. Glock and Skid are going to pull in Nick Kester for—”
“You don’t know that it was Kester.”
“I don’t know that it wasn’t. He’s a person of interest.”
“The point, Kate, is that you’re pregnant.”
“Don’t you dare throw that in my face,” I say, surprised by the unintended attitude in my voice.
It isn’t well received. I see anger overtake him—the way his mouth goes tight, his eyes go flat and cold—and I realize my mistake too late.
“You were out there alone,” he snaps. “In some barn out in the middle of fuck-all. Where the hell was Glock?”
“He was doing his job.” I pull the towel off my shoulder and sling it onto the counter. “I know you asked him to keep an eye on me. Tomasetti, I’m his boss. I’m as capable as he is. It was inappropriate for you to do that.”
Tomasetti doesn’t even flinch at the accusation. “I don’t care. Putting yourself in that situation was incredibly irresponsible.” He gestures in the general direction of my abdomen. “It’s not just you anymore, Kate. It’s not even just about us.”
I’ve seen Tomasetti angry many times over the years. Usually that anger is calculated. Conjured from that place where he keeps his emotions locked down tight until he needs it to make a point or he uses it as a tool to accomplish some goal. There’s nothing calculated about this; it’s raw and nasty, and I’ve never seen him skitter this close to losing control.
“I have a job to do,” I snap. “People rely on me. I can’t run away and hide until this is over. For God’s sake, Tomasetti, I’m a cop.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be.”
Incredulity rises inside me, a flash flood churning and bursting its banks. “You have no right to ask me that. You can’t do that.”
“Don’t preach to me about my rights or what I should feel. I didn’t ask for this to happen. But it has, and now we have to deal with it.”
“Tomasetti, Painters Mill is a small town. Crime is usually negligible here. It’s a safe place to be a cop. What happened today is an anomaly.”
“Tell the shooter that, Kate! Tell the guy who had you in his sights and pulled the goddamn trigger! All it takes is one bullet and one lucky shot!”
“It’s part of the job! You know that. You have to accept that, or this isn’t going to work.”
“That’s the problem! It’s not working, Kate!”
“You’re being unreasonable,” I say, but my voice has gone
breathless.
“Am I? Tell me you don’t think about something happening every time you make a stop. When you’re out on some back road in the middle of the fucking night and you have no idea who or what you’re walking up on. Does he have a warrant? Does he have a weapon in the waistband of his pants? A shotgun on the floor? A knife on the passenger seat? Is he willing to use it to stay out of jail? Tell me you don’t keep your hand over your .38. Can you tell me that? Honestly?”
“Of course I think about it. Every cop does if he’s smart. It’s called caution and training, and those are the things that keep us alive.”
He stalks toward me. “Yeah, Painters Mill is a small town. It’s safe. It’s a regular fucking lovefest. But let me tell you something: It’s the rural cops in towns like Painters Mill that don’t have backup when they need it. Even if you can get to your radio, how fast can someone get there to help you if you get into a jam?”
“I’m aware—”
“You could have been killed today, goddammit!”
I don’t even realize I’ve taken a step back. I’m not afraid of him. I trust him with my life. But he’s formidable when he’s angry. “I wasn’t.”
“Is that all you have to say about it? ‘I wasn’t’?”
“You’re out of line,” I tell him.
“You’re goddamn right I’m out of line,” he says. “I’m worried about you.” He taps his finger against his temple, snarling. “How can you not get that?”
Neither of us speaks for the span of several heartbeats. I absorb everything that’s been said, and I struggle to settle my emotions and put my thoughts in order. “Okay, Tomasetti, everything you’ve said is true. I know sometimes things go bad. But it’s a worst-case scenario. Chances are—”
“I don’t want to take those kinds of chances!”
“This isn’t just about me and my being pregnant. It’s about you and your past and what happened to you. What happened to your family. You’re letting that get in the way, and it’s not fair.”
His laugh is cold. “Don’t bring them into this.”
“You’re overreacting—”