Natalie felt an avian fluttering in her heart as she got in her car and fastened her seat belt. She tore out of the driveway and headed south—Brandon had mentioned either Munson’s Lane or Haymarket Field, two popular hangouts for troubled teenagers. She dug her shield out of the glove box, clipped it to a chain, and slung it around her neck. During a high-speed chase, you didn’t want to be mistaken for a criminal by the state highway patrol.
With trembling hands, she called Luke. “Daisy Buckner’s dead,” she told him. “Possible homicide. We found her lying in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor. Front and back doors were unlocked. No secondary scene. No defensive wounds.”
“Daisy?” Luke exclaimed. “Jesus, is Brandon okay?”
“He took off before I could stop him. He thinks Riley Skinner might’ve had something to do with it, because he’s been threatening Daisy at school. Brandon mentioned Haymarket Field and Munson’s Lane … I’m heading for Munson’s Lane now.”
“Okay. Meet you there in ten minutes.” Luke hung up.
Sweat beaded on Natalie’s neck as she took a left onto Daniel Boone Lane, a lonely stretch of hills that eventually connected to Route 151, a busy thoroughfare. Winding around the lake, she ribboned past roadside diners and motels selling on-demand porn. Every time the road turned sharply, her discount tires hugged the asphalt. Soon the establishments gave way to the woods. On either side of the road, gray trunks tapered into swirling darkness. Deep in the underbrush, Natalie caught sight of a pair of animal eyes that didn’t blink.
Now Dispatch radioed through the stuttering static. “There’s been an altercation on Granite Falls Road behind the old Shell station.”
She scooped up the mike. “Who called it in?”
“Unknown female. Looks like Detective Buckner and the suspect took off on foot into Haymarket Field…”
“Okay. I’m on my way.” Natalie hit the brakes, made a U-turn, and headed west. She grabbed the portable beacon, slapped it on the hood, and switched on the siren. The police occasionally patrolled the vacant field behind the old Shell station, on the prowl for drug deals.
Natalie phoned Luke again. “A witness just spotted Brandon and Riley Skinner in Haymarket Field.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you there,” Luke said and hung up.
Natalie approached the next intersection going eighty and blasted her horn as she charged through the red light, siren blaring. Her face felt stunned, frozen. Her nerve endings hummed. It was easy to understand why cops overreacted. The adrenaline rush was a huge factor. It could seriously mess with your head. There was an unshakeable sense of disconnect, like a trolley uncoupled from its driver.
Joey had warned her about moments like this, when the pressure mounted and the obstacles popped up and the seconds flew past, and it was totally up to you not to make any strategic errors. We’re only human, remember that. Do your best. Breathe deep and slow. Remain calm and steady, even though it seems like you should be speeding up. Whether it was hiking up Dix Mountain, learning to shoot a bow and arrow, or standing up for what she believed in, her father had taught her how to maintain a cool head.
Natalie slowed down at the next intersection and took a right onto a gravel road that dead-ended into Haymarket Field, an overgrown stretch of scrub and rubble where early settlers had built their log cabins. Now it was a playground for derelicts getting high in the crumbling foundation of the old Shell station and passing out in the weeds.
The vacant field was partially fenced off, and beyond the chicken-wire fence were the ever-present woods. Soon Natalie was rolling over dirt and coming to a bumpy stop at the edge of the field, where half a dozen cars were parked crookedly in the weeds.
She burst out of the car like a trapped animal and spotted Daisy’s green minivan parked in a ditch not far from Riley Skinner’s 1967 renovated candy-apple red Camaro, Trash Talk and Drake stickers plastered over the back bumper.
“Brandon?” she shouted, announcing her arrival. She could hear a commotion in the distance. Something was going down about thirty yards ahead, but she couldn’t see anything, due to the ground fog and heavy overcast.
Behind her, tires crunched over gravel and she turned just as Luke pulled up in his midnight-blue Ford Ranger, which was outfitted with the latest equipment—police radio, video surveillance system, portable data terminal mounted on a swing arm. He got out and moved swiftly toward her. “What’s up, Natalie?”
“They’re in the field. Dead ahead.” She pointed in the direction of the commotion, which had stopped.
“I’ll go behind the fence in case he runs,” Luke said, taking off in a westerly direction, while Natalie headed straight into the field.
She pounded over the uneven terrain, each consecutive footstep sending another shock wave up her spine. The ragweed-strangled site was a strip mall waiting to happen. The chicken-wire fence was plastered with real-estate signage. As she left the streetlights behind, the night came alive with deceptive shadows. A few kids were shouting and running toward her. Scattering. Not a good sign.
She could feel her heartbeat parking itself at the base of her throat as she spotted a lone figure standing in the fiddlehead ferns about ten yards ahead.
“Brandon?” she said. “What’s going on?”
Detective Buckner loomed over a prone body, his fists clenched. His chin thrust out. Natalie tried rearranging her thoughts in order, but it was like corralling kittens. She narrowed the gap between them, ferns sloshing against her calves. “Brandon?”
He turned with a puzzled look. “I swear to God I didn’t touch him.”
“What happened?”
“He just collapsed.”
She approached with caution. Riley Skinner was lying on his back. He was twitching spasmodically, hands pawing at the air, and she realized he was having a seizure. “Does he have epilepsy? Is there a medical bracelet?”
Brandon knelt down and checked the boy’s wrists for a medical bracelet. “No, nothing.”
“When did he collapse?”
“Just a few minutes ago.”
“Did you call 911?”
He nodded. “They’re on their way.”
She knelt down beside them and could feel the boy’s pulse stuttering in the veins of his neck. There wasn’t much you could do for a seizure besides comfort measures, until the ambulance arrived—remove the eyeglasses, loosen the collar, check the airway. “Help me roll him onto his side,” she said. “It’ll help with the breathing. We have to keep his head elevated.”
Brandon helped her roll Riley over, then he cradled the boy’s head in his hands.
“Was there an altercation? Any shots fired? Is he injured?”
“No,” Brandon said, breathing hard.
“What happened?” she asked.
“He and some friends were smoking weed,” he explained. “Riley dropped the joint and fled, so I gave chase, and when I caught up with him, he resisted arrest.”
“Resisted? Did you grab him? Tackle him?”
“No, nothing like that. He was spouting gibberish, throwing punches.”
“He punched you?” she asked.
“Nothing landed. I didn’t lay a hand on him, Natalie.”
“Did you fire your weapon at any point? A warning shot?”
“Hell, no,” Brandon said angrily. “Quit asking me that.”
Luke approached them, his face tense and expressionless. “What’s going on?”
“He was smoking marijuana, Lieutenant,” Brandon explained again in a shaky voice. “He fled the scene. I gave pursuit and told him to surrender, and that’s when he collapsed on the ground.”
Luke turned to Natalie and asked, “You got this?”
“Yeah. Got it.” She took over for Brandon, cradling the boy’s head in her lap and checking for a pulse. Riley’s eyes were rolled toward the back of his head and his torso was jerking every couple of seconds. She checked her watch, timing the length of the seizures, knowing that the paramedics would find it helpful.
“Brandon, step over here,” Luke commanded. “Come stand next to me.”
Brandon did as he was told. “I wanna talk to my union rep,” he muttered.
“Duly noted.”
Just then, an ambulance came wailing up the dirt road toward the abandoned Shell station, clouds of dust puffing up as it braked. Two paramedics hopped out and fetched their equipment. Soon, they were rolling a gurney across the field through the tangled weeds.
“How’s he doing, Natalie?” Luke asked.
“The seizures are winding down.” She performed a quick inspection of the boy’s scalp, searching for any signs of blunt trauma. She checked his arms and hands for defensive wounds, lacerations, or abrasions, but she couldn’t find any. They were going to have to corroborate Brandon’s story, since he was drunk and off-duty tonight, distraught about the death of his wife. He shouldn’t have been out here arresting anyone. The media would be all over the story if the police weren’t careful. Accusations of excessive use of force were a nightmare scenario for the department.
All she could find preliminarily was a single bruise on Riley’s right cheek that could’ve happened during the fall. Perhaps the teenager had epilepsy or some other medical condition.
All of a sudden, the boy became unresponsive. “Riley?” She checked his eyes and took his pulse again.
“What’s happening?” Brandon asked nervously.
Suddenly, Riley’s muscles clenched, and he became rigid as a board. Next came a series of grotesque jerking movements—arms flailing, face twitching.
“He’s having another seizure,” Natalie said, holding his head in her lap until the paramedics arrived. She smoothed the hair off his brow, and Riley regained a moment of clarity and gave her such a fiercely hateful look, it chilled her to the bone.
The boy in the woods. The raccoon. The stick.
She pushed the bad memories aside and finally the paramedics took over.