One

Zoe Chambers glanced at the dashboard clock of Monongahela County EMS’s Medic Two. Six thirty on a Sunday evening and they’d had back-to-back-to-back calls since before noon.

Her partner, Earl Kolter, rode shotgun, slouched in the passenger seat, arms crossed, and his cap tipped forward over his face. “I’m gonna punch the next person who tries to tell me there’s nothing to this full moon thing.”

Zoe maneuvered the ambulance around a series of Pennsylvania potholes blossoming along the edge of Route 15, the main road between Brunswick and their station in the borough of Phillipsburg. “You don’t need to resort to violence. Just drag them along on a full-moon weekend.”

And it had been a classic. On duty since eight a.m. Saturday, all three teams on their crew had rotated through a plethora of “interesting” runs. So far, Zoe and Earl had responded to such diverse emergencies as a man who fell off a ladder while taking down Christmas lights even though it was now mid-April, a three-vehicle traffic collision caused by a woman plucking her eyebrows while driving, and—Zoe’s personal favorite—the elderly woman with chest pains, who they discovered had some body piercings one wouldn’t expect on a person of that age. Earl had gladly turned over the job of removing them to Zoe before patching the patient in to the cardiac monitor.

He squirmed in the passenger seat and sat up, repositioning his ball cap. “I’m starved. I wonder if anyone back at the station had time to cook supper.”

“I doubt it.”

“Maybe we should stop for takeout.”

Zoe let off the gas as they approached the sweeping turn leading into the village of Dillard. “You think we’re actually gonna have time to eat before our next call?”

“We’ve been on what? Six calls already today? There can’t be any more sick or stupid people left in this corner of the county. I have a feeling the rest of the evening is going to be quiet.”

As if mocking him, their radio burst to life. “Medic Two, this is Control. Respond to 125 Silver Maple Drive, Phillipsburg. Report of a man cut by a machete. Be advised, police have been notified and are en route.”

Earl grabbed the aluminum clipboard and the mic. “Control, this is Medic Two. Ten-four,” he replied to the EOC—Emergency Operations Center—dispatcher. He shot a look at Zoe. “Did he say ‘machete’?”

Zoe tamped down a burst of adrenaline and flipped on the lights and siren. “Yes, he did. It’s all your fault. ‘The rest of the evening is gonna be quiet,’” she mimicked. “You jinxed us.”

The address the EOC had given was for Phillipsburg, but Silver Maple Drive was located about five miles outside of the borough in one of the housing plans popping up where farmers sold their property to developers. A hundred acres of upscale homes sandwiched between a row of 1950s vintage houses on one side and a pristine horse operation on the other. One-twenty-five was the first address on the right once they turned off the main route. Its backyard bordered the horse farm, and Vance Township Police Department’s SUV sat in the driveway, emergency lights flashing red and blue.

Earl unclipped his seatbelt. “Isn’t that Pete’s vehicle?”

“Yep.”

“But it’s Sunday.”

Zoe pulled the ambulance in behind the SUV and shifted to park. “They’re still short an officer, so everyone’s working extra shifts.”

Earl bailed out and yanked open the side patient compartment door to grab their jump kit. Not sure what to expect, Zoe followed raised voices to the heart of the action in the backyard.

Flexible vinyl fencing separated the immaculately groomed lawn from the pasture. An orange riding mower towing some sort of sweeper/bagger contraption sat idle next to the fence. Beside the small tractor, a man cradled his arm, wrapped in a white towel with a blotch of red seeping through. He shrieked at another man, who stood next to a mound of fresh, fragrant grass clippings—and a large knife—on the pasture side of the fence. Vance Township’s Chief of Police, Pete Adams, had positioned himself between them like a referee.

The man standing over the clippings pointed a finger at the guy with the towel. “I’ve asked you, pleaded with you, how many times? Don’t dump your damned clippings in my pasture.”

“You nearly cut my arm off, you cretin.”

“I barely scratched you. And I told you to stop. You don’t listen to reason.”

“You think coming after me with a machete is a reasonable response?”

Zoe stopped short of the melee, meeting Pete’s gaze. She knew him well enough to recognize he’d reached the limit of his patience with the pair, but he gave her a quick nod. With Earl on her heels, she approached the man with the bloody arm and introduced herself and her partner. She motioned to a nearby lawn chair. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No, I would not. My legs are fine.”

Okay. “Can you tell us your name?”

“Of course, I can. My arm’s been severed, not my throat.”

She glanced at Earl. Yep. Full moon.

Her partner touched his pen to the run report on the clipboard. “What is your name, sir?”

“Kristopher O’Keefe.” The man watched Zoe finger the wrist of his uninjured arm, checking his pulse. “Professor Kristopher O’Keefe. With a ‘K,’ not a ‘C-H.’”

Professor Kristopher-with-a-K’s pulse was strong and steady. Not what she’d expect from someone suffering severe blood loss. His cheeks were ruddy and his skin was as cool and dry as the air that spring evening. No signs of shock. While Earl finished gathering their patient’s pertinent information, Zoe checked his BP and respiration, both slightly elevated.

She and Earl exchanged a look. He tipped his head toward the ambulance. “Air splint?”

“And extra bandages.”

He handed her the clipboard and jogged away.

“Hey, Doc?” Machete Man called.

Zoe realized he was speaking to her.

“Is he gonna be okay?”

Before Zoe could give a non-committal response, Professor K moaned dramatically. “No, I’m not okay, you buffoon. What kind of maniac are you, anyway? Chief, I hope you’re going to make sure he never sees the light of day again. The man’s a menace.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? Just stop dumping your grass clippings where my horses can get them.”

Zoe looked up at Machete Man, suddenly aware of what was really going on. She turned to her patient. “Don’t you know fresh grass clippings can founder or even kill a horse?”

Machete Man’s eyes lit up, having recognized a kindred spirit. “Thank you.”

Professor K blew a raspberry. “Don’t be ridiculous. They eat grass all the time. I just like to lure them over here so my grandkids can pet them.”

Zoe made a point of looking around for the nonexistent children.

His head bobbled a little in acknowledgement of their absence. “I also enjoy seeing the horses up close. Magnificent animals.”

She sputtered, wanting to point out how fragile those magnificent animals could be. How the fresh clippings would ferment inside them. How they’d eat themselves into permanent lameness or even death. But she suspected Machete Man had already explained the facts of horse digestion with Professor K ad nauseam.

“Let’s see how bad this is.” Zoe unwrapped the towel. Had the patient appeared to still be bleeding, she’d have left the makeshift bandage in place. But most of the blood was already dry. Combined with his strong vital signs, she figured it was safe to start a fresh—and sterile—bandage.

Earl jogged up with an armload of supplies as she lifted the towel away from the wound. Gaping? Yes. And in need of stitches. Probably a tetanus shot. But not as bad as she’d first feared.

Professor K, however, threw his head back and groaned. “Oh, dear lord, I’ll never have proper function of my arm again. And my dominant arm at that.”

Earl rolled his eyes and unsealed a bottle of sterile saline.

She took the bottle and held it over the gash. “This might sting a bit.” Too bad it wasn’t alcohol.

From the patient’s yelp, it very well could have been.

While Zoe tore into a stack of gauze squares and secured them in place with a roll of Kling wrap, she noticed Pete ordering Machete Man to climb over the fence. She glanced up long enough to watch Pete cuff Machete Man’s hands behind his back. As much as she enjoyed watching Pete at work, this time she didn’t agree with him.

Zoe secured the rolled gauze with some tape and caught Earl’s attention. “Can you finish up?”

He unfolded the clear plastic air splint. “Sure.”

She excused herself from the professor and strode toward Pete and his prisoner. “You’re arresting him?”

Pete appeared surprised by the question. “Yes.”

“He was defending his property.”

Pete studied her for a long moment before replying. “With a machete.”

Zoe pointed at the weapon lying next to the mound of grass clippings. “That?”

Pete’s expression continued to darken. She knew he was letting her get away with way more than anyone else who would dare challenge his authority. “Yes. That.”

“That’s a corn knife. It’s a farm tool.”

If Machete Man hadn’t been cuffed, he might have hugged her.

Pete continued to glare. “It’s still a lethal weapon.”

Zoe stepped to the fence and started to reach through the vinyl rails.

“Don’t touch it.” Pete grabbed a handful of her jacket. “It’s evidence. As soon as I secure my prisoner, I’ll bag it.” Still gripping her coat, he pulled her closer and whispered in her ear. “What the hell are you doing? You know better.”

She did. But from across the pasture, a small herd of horses had spotted the activity, or caught wind of the clippings, and ambled their way. Zoe had been a horsewoman longer than she’d been a paramedic. And much longer than she’d been Pete Adam’s girlfriend. “Okay. I won’t touch your evidence.”

He hesitated a moment and then released her. “Good.”

“At least not the knife.” She grabbed the post, placed one foot on the highest band of fencing she could reach, and vaulted the fence into the pasture.

“What are you—?”

She scooped up an armload of the fresh grass and flung it over the fence into Professor K’s yard.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” The professor waved his uninjured arm at Pete. “Aren’t you going to stop her?”

Pete, however, kept quiet. Zoe caught a hint of an amused smile. Apparently, he had no plans to bag and tag the clippings as evidence.

Professor K sputtered, glaring at Pete. “You cops are useless. Every one of you.”

By the time Earl had inflated the air splint around an unhappy Professor K’s arm, Zoe had transferred the entire mound into the yard. Pete and Machete Man kicked it far enough from the fence that the inquisitive horses couldn’t reach the delicious and toxic treat. Zoe climbed back over and brushed off her uniform. She looked at Pete, who’d wiped the smile from his lips, although it still gleamed in his eyes. “Okay?”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Machete Man whispered.

She nodded and headed toward her partner and their patient. “You ready?”

“Yep,” Earl said. He turned to the professor. “Let’s go.”

“Wait.” Professor K continued to hug his arm, now encased in a clear balloon. “That’s it? Aren’t you going to give me an IV? I’ve lost a lot of blood you know. I probably need a transfusion.”

Zoe and Earl exchanged a look.

Full moon.

  

The next morning, Pete stepped out of his township-issued Ford Explorer in the parking lot of Golden Oaks Assisted Living and waited for Zoe to compete with a small red car for one of the spaces. The small car had better options than Zoe in her multi-colored gas-guzzling dinosaur three-quarter-ton pickup truck. Pete had dropped off some paperwork at the county courthouse and learned the machete-wielder had already been arraigned and released on bail. Zoe had a meeting with her boss at the Coroner’s Office at twelve thirty, so she’d agreed to come into town early and accompany Pete to visit his father.

After securing a parking spot, she approached Pete, the morning sun creating a halo of her honey-colored curls. That sexy-as-hell swagger of hers never failed to put him in a sweat. Lately, their work shifts had them saying hi and bye in the doorway—proverbial ships passing in the night—and he missed the hell out of her.

She slipped into his arms for a quick, safe-for-public-eyes kiss. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, yourself.” He resisted her half-hearted attempt to step away. “How was the rest of your shift?”

She sighed and made a face. “Earl and I finally hit our bunks around three. At least I’m off duty all this week. You don’t have that luxury.”

“No, I don’t.” This time, he released her from his embrace. He took her hand and they headed toward the nursing home’s front door.

“How’s Seth?”

His errant full-time night-shift officer. “Still not ready to come back to work.”

Seth Metzger saved Zoe’s life last winter but had taken a life in the process. His first. And in spite of having been cleared in the investigation by the Pennsylvania State Police and having completed the mandatory psych eval, he still wasn’t handling it well. Pete wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep juggling schedules and working double shifts to cover for the young officer.

Zoe leaned against Pete’s arm. “That’s too bad.”

Pete recognized the guilt in her voice. “It’s not your fault.”

Her expression told him she didn’t buy it. “I’ll give him a call later this morning.”

Arriving at the massive entrance doors put an end to the discussion.

Whoever had designed Golden Oaks’ interior had gone to great lengths to make it look homey. Polished wood. Floral draperies. Antiques—or reproductions. But he still thought of the place as a nursing home. At first, he’d hated that his father lived here. Harry, however, seemed remarkably content. Confused much of the time, but at least he was safe.

Pete and Zoe headed toward the staircase to the second floor. She greeted several of the residents by name. He loved how she managed to make friends with these older folks. He especially loved how she never minded that his father, more often than not, had no clue who she was.

At the base of the stairs, a table held a bouquet and a framed portrait of a sweet, wrinkled face. Next to the photo, a card printed with “In Memory of…”

“Aw,” Zoe said. “I always enjoyed talking to her.”

The downside of making friends with folks at Golden Oaks. Pete squeezed Zoe’s hand.

A gruff, masculine voice grew louder as they climbed to the second floor, emanating from what Pete had come to know was the activities room at the top of the stairs. At first, he thought someone was being combative, but a burst of laughter punctuated the shouts. They paused at the doorway and peered in.

Harry Adams spotted them and shuffled in their direction. “Son, I’m so glad to see you.”

Pete patted his father on the back. “Hey, Pop. Do you remember Zoe?”

“Of course, I do.”

Pete doubted it.

Harry drew her into a hug. “Good morning, Sunshine. Have you and my boy got married yet?”

Okay, maybe he did.

She laughed. “Not yet.”

Harry jabbed Pete in the gut with one gnarled finger. “You best get on that, Son. This girl isn’t gonna wait forever, you know.”

Across the room, the gravel-voiced man held court with a half dozen or so women and two of the male caregivers, regaling his audience with what sounded like war stories. Something about the guy struck Pete as familiar. “Who’s that?”

“Not now.” Harry clutched Pete’s arm and leaned closer. “I need to talk to you.”

“Sure, Pop. What about?”

Harry glanced around furtively. “Not here. In private.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I think a woman’s been murdered.”