Rain intensified the night’s darkness, all the blacker for contrast with lightning’s intermittent glare. Midnight paving swallowed light so completely he might never have turned on his headlights. The car felt as though it hydroplaned more often than made solid contact with the highway, but the urgency pounding in Garreth kept his foot hard on the accelerator, pushing the Porsche to the edge of control. He had lost so much time already, almost an hour in Omaha while the local Philos chapter confirmed his identify as a Life Member so he could restock his cooler, then nearly three more outside Council Bluffs, joining two other off-duty officers in assisting Iowa State Patrol troopers and emergency personnel at a twelve-vehicle accident. Ten had piled into each other and/or the eleventh, a semi-trailer jackknifed and overturned across both eastbound lanes, with the twelfth and cause of it all, a Mini Cooper that cut too close in front of the Peterbilt on a downhill grade, wedged between the Peterbilt’s front wheels. By some miracle, in all the nightmare tangle of metal, surreal in the freeze-frame brilliance of lightning and glare of emergency floods, the only fatality was the Mini’s driver. With the scents of blood and gasoline still filling his head, clinging to his jeans and the cheap plastic raincoat he had picked up coming through Omaha, Garreth shoved images of the pile-up aside to concentrate on what lay ahead.
The teletype gave a few more details of the incident...the name of the town–Edgemoor–that a deputy sheriff had been the officer injured, and the gender of the fatality...female, not the albino, unfortunately. But was she dead? If not, he had make sure of it. The thought made him queasy, remembering his own death. He had no heartbeat, no respiration, no bleeding, no pain response, a flat EEG...and yet...he heard sound, vaguely saw movement. And...he thought. She would feel no pain as he broke her neck, ripping the spinal cord and destroying her nervous system, but she would be aware to the end what he was doing to her. Peering into the rain for the Edgemoor exit, Garreth hoped the girl had died a true death already.
The exit came almost without warning. Garreth stood on his brakes and steered toward the shoulder to use the rumble strip for slowing down. He still entered the exit ramp almost sideways...then, agilely as a cutting horse, the car pivoted on its haunches, straightened, and rolled to a decorous roll stop at the bottom.
Across the highway a Conoco sign glowed blurrily though the rain, and below it, Gas ‛N More. Garreth eyed the station. That had to be the scene of the incident...but what mattered most right now was reaching the body as soon as possible. A sign to his right said: Edgemoor 1 mile. He turned.
The highway skirted Edgemoor’s western edge and intersected its Main Street. Garreth followed Main through the two-block downtown area to the police department.
At the counter inside he shook off water and held up his ID. “I’m here to identify the suspect killed at the gas stop. Can you tell me where to find the body?”
The young woman on the other side regarded him wide-eyed through the glass. “You’ll need to ask Sheriff Sechrest and I heard her on the radio telling her office she’s at the hospital waiting for Deputy Andersen to wake up from surgery. The hospital is one block back toward the highway and left for three blocks.”
Cold and an image of Maggie’s Desert Eagle shot through Garreth. “How was the deputy wounded? How serious is it?”
“The sheriff can tell you more than I can, but it’s my understanding he isn’t critical.”
Relief washed through Garreth.
When he reached it, the hospital looked small, fewer than fifty beds. He parked outside the emergency entrance beside a dark brown Crown Vic with Travis County Sheriff on the side. The nurse at the desk inside directed him to the patient wing, and the nurse there sent him across the corridor to a waiting area.
A pregnant young woman in her early twenties huddled in one of the chairs, hands clasped white-knuckled in her lap, face equally white. The deputy’s wife? If his injuries were not critical, why did she seem so terrified?
Garreth laid his raincoat across another chair and sat down next to her. “Mrs. Andersen?”
She looked around, and he saw not just fear but anger in her eyes. “Why are they doing this to him!”
He blinked at her ferocity. “Doing what?”
“Crucifying him! Troy didn’t mean to kill the girl. He said so over and over while he was coming out of the anesthetic. ‘I didn’t mean to kill her! Christ, she’s just a kid!’ He was crying he was so upset about it.”
Garreth could well imagine. Finding yourself responsible for a death hit hard under any circumstances...but especially when it involved a juvenile. He pictured Andersen lying in bed thinking of his own nearing fatherhood and putting himself in the place of the father who had just lost a child. “How long has your husband been on the job?”
She stiffened. “Eighteen months...but he’s a good officer! Look at the way he pulled those kids out of that farmhouse fire in May. But they won’t remember his commendation for that, will they! They think he panicked when that girl attacked him!”
“Did someone say--”
Her eyes flashed. “No...but why else would Stan Householder be in there along with the sheriff? And they made me leave while they talk to Troy.”
Now he understood. “Stan Householder is with Internal Affairs?”
She stared at him a moment, then her face slammed shut. “ I don’t know you. You’re not with Travis County.”
He shook his head. “Bellamy County. Look, its standard procedure for IA to investigate officer-related shooting and fatalities. Just to know exactly what happened.”
Theoretically...though it never felt like “just” when you were the subject of the inquisition. He had not forgotten one grim moment of his grilling following Harry Takananda being shot.
Andersen’s wife needed to think about something else. “When’s your baby due?”
Magic words. She smiled down at the bulge of her stomach and ran a hand across it. “The last part of December. The doctor has an actual date but I don’t believe it. I mean, it isn’t like one of Dad’s Red Devon cows, where you know the exact breeding--” She broke off and pushed to her feet, eyes focusing past Garreth. “Is it over? May I go back in to him?”
Garreth turned in his chair. At the entrance to the waiting area a small, stocky woman with salt-and-pepper hair, tan shirt, brown trousers, and a sheriff’s star smiled at the deputy’s wife. “Sure.” As the young woman hurried out past her and a taller, similarly-uniformed man behind her, she raised her brows at Garreth. “I’m Sheriff Sandy Sechrest. You’re the officer Lincoln teletyped about?”
Garreth stood and handed her his ID. “Garreth Mikaelian, temporarily assigned to the Bellamy SO. How’s Deputy Andersen?”
“It could have been worse. He has a broken nose and cuts and scratches on his face and arms.”
“Cuts?” Involuntarily, Garreth glanced down at his own arm. “Knife wounds?”
“Broken glass.” She returned the ID. “Sorry all we have is one dead suspect for you instead of three live prisoners.”
“Better that than another dead officer. What happened? And when may I see the body?”
“We can head that way now.” She pulled on her slicker. “It’s at the coroner’s over in New Prospect, the county seat.” Sechrest paused. “I don’t know that it’s really necessary for you to identify the body. Prints Lincoln sent us, which I understand came from the scene of the assault on your officer and from duct tape on Lincoln’s assault victim, match those of our body. So we have one of your cop killers.”
Not go to the body! Cold ran through him. Would it seem suspicious if he insisted? If she had not truly died, how much longer did he have to reach her? He checked his watch. Six hours since he heard about her death. For him it had been around eight hours when that first new breath and heartbeat broke the terrible silence of his body. Could he count on the same time period for her? “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see it anyway, since I’m here.”
Sechrest nodded. “No problem. On the way you can hear the interview with Deputy Andersen. Do you have a cassette player in your car?” When he nodded she turned to the man behind her. “Stan, I’ll take the tape.”
He frowned. “Sheriff--”
She arched a brow. “I know, I know. Of course you need it. I’ll return it when we’re done at the hospital.” As soon as he ejected the tape from a portable cassette recorder he carried and handed it to her, she started briskly up the corridor. “Coming, Mikaelian?”
Garreth snatched up his raincoat and hurried after her.
Outside, she never paused between the ER door and the Porsche, but once in the passenger seat, said, “I think my favorite police vehicle has to be the tank in the movie Dragnet with Have a nice day on the end of its ram. Go back to the highway you took down from the Interstate, but turn left. That puts you on 83. Follow it to New Prospect. It’ll seem like forever and the road twists a bit but keep going.” She turned on his radio and slid the tape into the console’s cassette slot.
The distress Andersen’s wife reported to Garreth came through clearly as the tape began, an anguish in the deputy’s voice that wrenched at Garreth. Then as Sechrest and Householder drew the story out of him, he gradually caught the trick of insulating himself from the event’s emotional impact by answering in dispassionate professional terminology. But even couched in official language, the encounter played out vividly in Garreth’s mind.
* * *
Troy Andersen always made the Gas ‘N More a frequent stop on his rounds. Sheriff Sechrest liked maintaining a visible presence there since its location off the Interstate made it a tempting target for felons wanting a quick score on their way cross-country. Today, however, weather concerned him more than armed robbery. The darkening sky told him better than Dispatch’s announcement of a thunderstorm watch that he had rain coming any time, and he worried how that might affect traffic as exhibitors funneled toward New Prospect for the county fair.
Parking at the end of the building, he noted a white Aerostar at the pumps. All week he had been following the continually updated ATL’s from that officer killing in Kansas, but the latest information from Lincoln sharpened his interest even more. This Aerostar had the ATL’s described color and body style, but the windows made it a conversion van, not a delivery van, and it carried Iowa tags.
All the same, he ran the tags. They came back for a white Aerostar registered to Alan and Jessica Nelsson in Neola, no warrants, no report of their tags being stolen. Andersen shrugged. It had been worth checking.
The dispatcher continued, “We have a new update on the ATL for the three suspects in a white Aerostar.”
As she gave him the new information, he shook his head. How could they think anyone would be fooled by painted windows? Then he froze, staring at the Aerostar. The rearmost side window did appear...odd. Moments later he identified why. The darkening sky had switched on the station’s lights and that window did not reflect them the same way the others did.
Andersen thumbed on the mike of his unit’s radio. “I’ll be on high band taking a closer look at this Aerostar.”
Approaching the vehicle shifted the reflections on the other side windows, but not that rearmost one. And as he reached the van the window’s three dimensional appearance suddenly proved to be an optical illusion. Running his hand across it found a flat surface. An edge he caught with a fingernail lifted when he pried at it.
Heart racing, Andersen reached for mike on his shoulder, but stopped before activating it. Presumably the van’s occupants were in the Gas ‘N More, but if one remained in the van, he did not want them warned they had been identified.
A quick glance at the building spotted no one near the windows. So hopefully he had not been seen. He eased away from the van and strolled into the building.
“Hi, Cass,” he called to the clerk. Glancing around he did not see the male described in the ATL, but one of the security mirrors showed two juvenile females in the potato chip aisle who matched the female suspects’ descriptions: both petite, the little blonde one looking anywhere from nine to twelve, the dark-haired one, fifteen or sixteen. And while they never looked up from studying the chips, when he sauntered past toward the restrooms, he noticed they watched him from the corner of their eyes. The older one carried a large brown leather shoulder bag similar to the one described in the ATL, with a zipper top and a leather flap on the side.
His heart raced even faster. Under that flap would he find a pocket sculpted into a holster for a Desert Eagle?
The men’s restroom was unoccupied. So the male remained in the van? Good thing he had not called this in out there. Standing in the restroom, Andersen thumbed his radio mike. “Travis Twelve requesting backup! I have the wanted white Aerostar van at the Gas ‘N More. They have the fake windows on it and it’s carrying the Iowa tags I just ran! The juvenile females are here inside. There’s no sign of the male suspect. He may be in the van.”
No other Travis County deputy might be close enough to assist, but his call would be picked up by all the area agencies and he could count on Edgemoor PD officers and maybe a Shelby County deputy to respond. He just had to hold the suspects until backup arrived.
He took a deep breath, strolled back out of the restroom to the chip section, and put on a friendly smile. “Hi, girls.”
Though almost colorless blue, the small girl’s eyes made him think of a deer’s...huge and filled with panic. She took a step backward, clearly ready to bolt.
The older girl caught her hand, stopping her. “It’s all right, sis.” She smiled at Andersen. “She’s kind of shy. Do you want in here to pick out some chips?” She hid her feelings better than the small girl, but her voice still betrayed tension.
He shook his head. “Thanks, no. What’s your name?”
The small girl went even paler. The older girl’s grip tightened. “August. August...Morgan. This is Beth.”
“And I guess that’s your Aerostar out front?”
The smile fixed slightly. “Well, we’re traveling in it, but it belongs to our uncle.” She paused. He watched her mind race before she continued with a tone of satisfaction, “Alan Nelsson...in Neola.”
Proud of being able to recite the tag owner’s name and address? They must have stolen not only the tags but broken into the Nelsson van and taken the registration as well.
“Sis, what kind of chips do you want?” When the small girl shrugged, “August” sighed. “Well, choose something.” Releasing the small girl’s hand, she moved down to the drink cooler.
The small girl stood rooted...staring blindly at the chip packages. Andersen remained near her where he could watch both girls.
“August” opened a cooler door and fingered the soft drink bottles inside. “Is something the matter with the van?”
“No.” Where the hell was that backup? He could not keep them talking forever and still pretend this was casual chitchat. “You’re traveling with your uncle, then?”
“Uncle Alan loaned the van to my brother.” Tension thickened under the off-hand tone.
“And he’s in the van?”
“Oh yeah.” She picked out two bottles of Pepsi and after a moment of hesitation, an Arizona Tea. “Plotting route and mileage. The Great Navigator.” She rolled her eyes. “Like there’s any mystery to finding Des Moines. Oh, Bethie.” Sighing, she came back to the smaller girl and thrust the two Pepsies at her, then a bag of chips. “Take these to Donny while I pay for them.”
Andersen cursed silently. Still no backup! It appeared action was all up to him. He needed to catch the male in the van by surprise, though. Thought of the weapon stolen from the Kansas officer sent cold down his spine. Fortunately the girl gave him a perfect approach. “You have your hands full there, Miss Morgan. Let me open doors for you.”
The small girl’s nerve broke. Dropping sodas and chips, she bolted for the entrance.
One thought shot through Andersen’s mind: Don’t let her warn the suspect! He caught her arm.
The girl screamed in a piercing note of fear.
“Let go of her!”
He glanced around into blazing dark eyes, and only a split second later registered the Arizona Tea bottle held club-like by its neck...swinging toward his face. A split second too late.
His nose flattened under the blow and he reeled backward, blinded by the explosion of excruciating pain. He struggled to breathe while wet warmth poured down over his lips, filling his mouth with the metallic tang of blood.
“Run, Amber!”
Beyond the pain Andersen heard feet scrambling on the tiled floor...felt movement past him. He grabbed at it...found his arms wrapped around a body larger than the little girl’s. The bottle hit him again, this time across the temple. He groped for the arm, found it, followed it up to the hand. “Give me the bottle. Give me the bottle!” He forced her hand backward, and grabbed for the bottle as her grip loosened. But she clawed for it and at him with the other hand and the bottle slipped away from both of them...fell, shattering as it hit the floor. Then he lost his footing, slipping on the spilled tea, or his blood, and the two of them went down together.
Pain pierced his arms, but it seemed inconsequential compared to the agony enveloping his face...or the effort of hanging on to the girl. She writhed, clawed, kicked...struggling in wordless, panting desperation.
“Stop fighting! Quit resisting!”
But hanging on became harder by the moment as she turned slippery. From his blood? He wished desperately he could see more than this red haze, and even it was dimming as his eyes swelled shut. He gave up trying to talk and concentrated on keeping a grip on the girl, hanging on however he could until backup arrived, praying it came soon.
Then abruptly, she stopped struggling...sagged motionless. At first he thought she was playing possum, waiting for his grip to loosen. But she remained limp...and he gradually became aware that he had an arm around her throat.
Cold flooded him, fear overriding his pain. Hurriedly releasing her, he groped for the carotid area of her neck. The cold in him deepened. He felt no pulse. The hand on her chest detected no breathing.
No. No! Frantically he rolled her onto her back and felt for her mouth, took a breath through his own mouth, blew into hers, pressed the heels of his hands down on her breastbone, breathed for her some more, pumped her chest. What was the ratio of chest compressions per breaths? He could not remember.
“Breathe, kid...breathe! Come on, come on! Please breathe! And give me a heartbeat!”
He kept going, pleading with her. She could not die. He refused to let her. Whatever she was involved in...Christ, she was just a kid!
An eternity later he became aware of sound around him...footsteps, voices, exclamations of horror. Hands pulled him away from her to a stretcher. “Troy...Troy! Come on...we’ll take over now.”
He yielded reluctantly. “Just don’t let her die. Okay? Don’t let her die.”
* * *
“But of course she already had,” Sechrest said as the tape ended. She shook her head. “God what a mess, both of them covered with blood--his mostly--blood and glass all over the floor.”
“And the van long gone, of course.”
Sechrest grimaced. “Of course. We’re not even sure in which direction. As soon as she saw the suspect hit Troy with the bottle, Cass Stephens called 911 but didn’t think to run outside to see which way the van went.” She sighed. “Poor kid. He’s taking this hard, though I guess I’d be more worried if he didn’t care. I hope this doesn’t finish him in law enforcement. He’s a good deputy. There’s New Prospect. Beyond the second stop sign turn right, then left on 7th, then right again on Chestnut to the hospital.”
They parked outside the St. Francis ER. And as soon as they stepped through the automatic doors, the sense of presence tugged at Garreth, so overpowering he even forgot the ordinary blood scents around him. This was blood calling to blood. Urgency drummed in him. He had to reach the body as fast as possible, had to ensure she did not reawaken. Circling the ER desk, he headed up the corridor, following the pull.
“Mikaelian!”
He turned.
Sechrest had stopped at the intersection with another corridor. “Where are you going? The body is in the autopsy room, this way and downstairs.”
Fear bloomed in him. Suddenly he could hardly breathe. “What’s in this direction?”
“Surgery and ICU.”
“Sheriff!” A nurse hurried up the corridor toward them. “Your office said you were on your way so we didn’t have them radio you. You won’t believe what’s happened.”
Fear turned to ice in Garreth. His voice went hoarse. “The girl isn’t dead after all.”
The nurse stared at him. “How did you guess?”
Sechrest frowned. “That’s impossible. I know dead when I see it and that girl was. The paramedics called it, too.”
The nurse shrugged. “Well, they mis-called it. A few minutes ago we went to put another body in the cooler until the mortuary picks it up in the morning and we found the girl on the floor, rolling around in the body bag screaming. She’s now in ICU...under sedation because she was so hysterical.”
A whole catalog of emotions played across the sheriff’s face, starting with disbelief and settling finally into amazed relief. “I’ll be damned. Let’s have a look at her, then...after I call the Edgemoor hospital. Troy Andersen’s going to sleep a whole lot better tonight.”
Which Garreth did not begrudge him. He was happy for the deputy. But sick with dismay for himself. It was one thing to break the neck of a corpse. This...an entirely different situation. Now what did he do?