38

Rain hammered like a mad drummer against the roof of the squad car. Parkhurst slid out and crouched, then braced himself as a gust of wind flattened him against the door. “More light!” he yelled at Osey. Howling wind tore the words from his mouth. “Lose the fence!”

“Right,” Osey yelled back. He snipped strands of barbwire, then he and Demarco peeled them aside. Osey clambered up the embankment to the road and used his flashlight to wave two more squad cars onto the field. Four cars parked at angles, with headlights on, made sickly tunnels through the dark and sparked against the pounding rain.

Not much help, not nearly enough light to penetrate the wall of rain. They needed a helicopter. Hell, it couldn’t fly in this shit anyway. Parkhurst hoped the cruisers wouldn’t get bogged down. A tornado on the way and four vehicles out of commission, mired in mud. Just what they needed.

When the next jagged streak of lightning forked across the sky, he took note of the cabin on the rise above. Seconds later the sky blacked out and thunder rolled. Flickering light glowed from the cabin interior. Flashlight or lantern. Candle maybe. He had a snarky feeling about this. One of those situations with everybody keyed up, fingers too quick on the trigger. He hoped one of the good guys didn’t put a hole in another one of the good guys.

A shot rang over the field.

Parkhurst keyed his radio. “Osey?”

“Yeah, Ben?”

“Send Yancy and Quince to the left. Tell them, move slowly up toward the cabin. Don’t get tangled in barbwire, and for God’s sake, don’t shoot each other.”

“Right.”

“You and Demarco come up the middle.”

“Got it.”

“Try not to kill him. We need this guy in cuffs. He has questions to answer.”

“Do my best.”

“And keep talking to him. Keep his attention focused on you.” Parkhurst moved up the right of the field, keeping low, and getting buffeted by a wind so strong at times that he staggered and nearly fell. A bright flash of lightning lit up the sniper standing fifteen yards above, legs planted wide, rifle raised. Parkhurst dropped to the muddy ground, scrambled to his feet when the sky darkened.

“You’re too late!” the sniper screamed.

“Drop the gun!” Osey yelled.

Parkhurst could barely hear him over the shrieking wind. He rubbed at the rain on his face.

“She’s dead!” the sniper screamed.

“Put down the gun! Hands on your head!”

The wind howled down from the north with icy fingers, tore at his wet shirt, whipped his dripping pants legs, and fluttered the ballooning back of his jacket.

“Why’d you kill her?” Osey was following directions, keeping the sniper’s attention focused down the slope.

The noise of the storm covered any sound Parkhurst might make creeping up behind. The trick would be to disarm the suspect before he whirled and reflexively pulled the trigger, thereby blowing Parkhurst’s head off. He sincerely did not want that to happen. Through the two front windows in the cabin, he saw light burst up. Flames licked out the broken pane. Oh, Christ, the place was on fire. What other disaster could occur on this beastly night?

An unexpected depression in the ground had him coming down hard on one foot, splashing through two inches of standing water and twisting an ankle. Damn. It would help if he could see where he was going. Keeping a straight course in the dark, with nothing to guide him, was difficult. He hoped he didn’t angle too far to the right and get impaled on the barbwire fence on that side of the field.

He heard Osey yell again, but couldn’t make out the words. At the next burst of lightning, he waited for the resulting thunder and scuttled toward the row of trees circling the rear of the cabin. Air wheezed in and out his lungs. He had no idea what obstacles were in his way back here. Any number of discarded junk items could be littering his path. Hell, he could cut himself on some rusty farm implement and end up with tetanus.

When he heard Osey’s voice again, he listened intently. A response, even though the words were undecipherable, told Parkhurst the sniper was still in front of the cabin. He turned on his flashlight for a moment. Uneven muddy ground up against the cabin, and beyond that tall weeds battered down by the rain. Being careful to avoid the mud, Parkhurst moved in a straight line across the rear of the cabin. When he reached the far side he waited again and listened. Osey yelled, the suspect replied.

Parkhurst used his flashlight to check the terrain along the side of the cabin. Rougher here. Areas of depression like basins filled with water. Hard rain pounded the puddles and splashed back with a bounce. Flames licked through a side window. He murmured in the radio for Osey to make his move.

“Put down the gun!” Osey yelled and shined his flashlight at the suspect.

While the suspect was trying to decide whether to shield his eyes from the light or shoot, Parkhurst rushed at him from behind. Even with the storm covering any noise, the sniper must have sensed something. He whirled and fired. Parkhurst dropped, landing in a hollow full of water. He rolled and splashed and scrambled out. Osey tackled the suspect and grappled with him on the soggy ground. Parkhurst threw himself into the tangle and grabbed at arms and legs. The suspect’s clothes were soaked, and with mud added, he was slippery as an eel. Parkhurst felt him wriggle free. It took Demarco and Parkhurst to hold him down while Osey cuffed him.

Once the cuffs were secured, the suspect was a pussycat, wet and miserable and all fight gone. Parkhurst grasped an arm and helped the man to his feet. Osey shined his flashlight in the man’s face.

“What’s your name?” Parkhurst said.

“Joe Farmer. You’re too late. I shot her.”

“Shot who?”

“Kelby Oliver.”

“Anybody in the cabin?”

Farmer shook his head. Parkhurst handed the suspect over to Demarco with instructions to take him in. Parkhurst was wondering what to do about the fire, when flames shot through the cabin roof, only to be quenched by the rain. More water pouring down on it than the fire department could provide. He keyed his radio and asked dispatch to send out the firefighters. There might be evidence inside that needed preserving.

“Uh, Ben,” Osey said. “We really should get everybody into some kind of shelter. This tornado’s supposed to be a bad one.”

“Yeah. Go talk to Ida.”

*   *   *

Ida waited, miserable, soaked, and shivering cold. Jesus, what she wouldn’t give for a hot bath. Finally Osey, flashlight in hand, came loping up on the porch.

“You got him?” Ida said.

Osey held his flash pointed down. “Did you fire your gun?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to need it.”

“Right.” Her hand went toward the holster on her belt.

“Easy.”

What was the matter with everybody? You’d think she shot someone the way they were looking at her sideways. Oh God, surely, she hadn’t. The first time she’d fired, the sniper had fired back. The second time, she wasn’t aiming to hit, only let them know where she was. With thumb and forefinger, she clasped the grip, slowly removed the gun from the holster. She dropped it in the evidence bag he held. What was going on? Nervousness pulled her mind from cold and wet.

“Tell me what happened here,” he said.

She related events, beginning with Hazel’s sending her out to warn the citizens about the coming tornado and ending with dragging Kelby up to the porch. “Is she seriously injured? Is that why you’re questioning me like a suspect? Did I do some serious damage by moving her?”

“When you started toward the injured woman, the sniper fired at you.”

“Yes,” she said.

“You turned off your flashlight so he wouldn’t be able to pinpoint your location.”

“Yes.”

“Then the hail and rain started.”

“Yes.” She was beginning to lose patience. She wanted to get off this damn porch and into some dry clothes. She wanted to get to the hospital and find out how Kelby was.

“You fired at the sniper. One shot.”

“Yes.”

“The woman, unconscious woman, suddenly leaped out of the rain and fell against you?”

“More or less.”

“Did you shoot at her?”

Ida took a breath to spread calmness over her rising temper. “I was expecting the gunman. She startled me. I nearly shot her, then realized it wasn’t the creep with the rifle. What’s going on?”

Osey looked at her long and hard, then he shook his head. “You shot the chief.”

“What?”