The assistant fire chief and two new volunteers took over for Karl and his group. An hour into the shift, Marc arrived, lacking his usual good cheer. His closed expression warned anyone who wanted to ask questions they’d better lay off. Frankie couldn’t blame him.
Soon after he arrived, the team was called out for a kitchen fire—a farmer in late from the field and his supper left cooking on the stove.
Frankie thought the “accident” might’ve been deliberate. Could be the Mrs. was just sick of the boring summer routine. At any rate, there was no damage to speak of except for a smoked wall and ceiling, and nobody inhaled any toxic fumes. The crew pulled back into the station within a half-hour.
Nobody called while they were gone, Ashley reported. From crew’s raised eyebrows, no one was sure what she would’ve done if there had been an emergency.
At ten o’clock, the fire crew went home, on call in case of trouble, and the big garage doors came down. Which made the station’s interior even more stifling. Marc’s continued moroseness, and the way the self-absorbed Ashley ignored everyone else got on Frankie’s nerves. She stepped outside.
“Hot tonight,” Marc roused himself to say as she went out. “Why don’t you leave the front door open?” He seemed to have forgotten the station being shot up only a few days ago, and the standing order to lock up after dark.
“Looks like another storm is brewing.” With a view to keeping him happy, she propped the door with a cow-plop sized rock left there for the purpose. Staying away from the lighted windows, she moved into the shadows at the side of the building.
A rising wind stirred her short hair. She pointed her nose into it, clearing the fumes of diesel-laden air from her head. The stench was always present in a building where motor vehicles idled.
The wind smelled of dust, of wheat, and of the lone old giant pine tree standing sentinel over the hardware store across the street. And it smelled of rain. Looking north, Frankie saw a semi’s headlights break over the hill as it followed the highway into town. A streak of lightning lit the sky behind it. She felt no premonition of danger like she’d sometimes had in Afghanistan.
Her peace shattered as the alarm went off. Ashley, either ignoring or forgetting procedure, yelled for the EMTS. Frankie ran to join Marc.
“Radio us the location,” Marc yelled to Ashley over his shoulder. He strode toward the ambulance. Hitting the button to run up the overhead garage door, he climbed into the driver’s seat.
His decision suited Frankie fine. Somewhat to her surprise, Ashley calmed right down and was already on the radio, repeating information as they pulled out.
“Car reportedly hit a tree head-on three and a half miles north of Hawkesford. The caller says a woman is slumped over the steering wheel and isn’t moving. He says he thinks she’s badly hurt.”
Light’s flashing, Marc hit the gas, skidding out onto the road. Soon they were speeding along the dark road. He didn’t slow down until they reached the three and a quarter mile mark. Wind blew a tumbleweed across the road in front of them, then another. Animal eyes gleamed iridescent as their headlights touched them. A deer. Two, their shadowed forms leaping high.
“There.” Frankie pointed off to the right.
“I see it.” Marc swerved to the side of the highway and stopped. A few feet off the road, an old Chevy Cavalier nosed up against a tree. Under the swirling flash of their overheads,
Frankie spied a form draped over the steering wheel. Just as reported. No one else was present. Whoever called the accident in hadn’t waited for them to arrive. Odd.
While Marc set flares on either end of the bus, Frankie sped around to the back and retrieved the medical bag. Scrambling up a slight slope, they crashed through weeds and some low bushes to approach the car from the rear.
Frankie’s headache flared. She stopped suddenly. “Wait.” She reached out, catching Marc’s arm and drawing him back.
“What?”
“Something’s wrong. Look. The car isn’t touching that tree. This isn’t a wreck.” She glanced around. “And where’s the person who called it in? He should be here.”
“Are you crazy?” Marc pulled against her. “Listen. You can hear the wind whistling through the broken windows.”
“But there’s no glass on the ground. This scene has been staged.” Frankie’s heart raced. She knew a set-up when she saw one. “Let’s get out of here.”
“But the patient—”
Frankie spun, searching the night for an enemy she sensed beyond the lights, watching them argue. “There is no patient, Marc. Just an old coat thrown over the steering wheel. C’mon.”
Squinted toward the wreck, Marc didn’t budge. “Shit.” He turned around and stared at her. “You’re right. Not very damn funny if you ask m—”
A sharp crack sounded from behind the car.
Frankie jerked, spotting a muzzle flash from some bushes. But it was Marc who fell to the ground. His sentence collapsed with him.
Illuminated by the ambulance’s perimeter lights, Frankie became the target for the next shot. It came while the report of the first still echoed off the rolling hills.
Her military training took over. Frankie no longer stood in the same place. In fact, she no longer stood at all. Flinging herself to the ground almost in tandem with Marc’s fall, she let go of the equipment box, rolling into a patch of overgrown weeds at the road’s verge.
“Marc,” she whispered. “Marc?”
He lay without moving. Maybe dead. Maybe just unconscious. But bleeding. A dark stain spread, soaking the area beneath him.
Frankie fumbled the Airweight out of its holster. She tried to still her breathing, both blessing the wind stirring the weeds around her—and therefore covering her careful movements—and cursing it for hiding any sounds the shooter may have made.
There! The crunch as a dry stick broke over by the car. A small ping of metal on metal, perhaps the gunman using the car for a shooting platform.
She risked a look, raising her head bare inches and spreading weed stalks apart. Yes. She saw him. The hulking form a man, almost hidden in the shadows, and he was pointing a pistol at Marc. Going for a kill shot in case the first hadn’t done the trick.
Shit.
He was too far away for the Airweight to be effective. And she couldn’t waste a single one of the pistol’s five rounds.
Frankie’s fingers closed on a clod of dirt. Now. While the guy was busy getting a bead on Marc.
She gave the clod a toss. Threw it well, the dirt flying apart as it hit the car, startling enough to spoil the man’s aim. The shot went off, landing halfway between Marc and her. Or where she had been when she threw it.
Taking advantage of the shooter’s momentary distraction, she rolled again, farther into the ditch. The small embankment gave her some protection. Not enough. And he heard the rustling of the weeds. A bullet passed an inch overhead, digging into the side of the ambulance with a metallic smack.
The passenger door of the bus gaped open. From where she lay, Frankie heard words coming over the radio. Ashley’s voice, repeating a message twice as Frankie listened.
“Number six, the report of an accident on Highway 27 is a false alarm. Repeat, a false alarm. Return to station immediately. Acknowledge, number six. Please acknowledge.”
She’d just love to do as Ashley begged and acknowledge the message—if only she could. Or better yet, get to the radio and call for assistance. It was odd, though. Something must’ve warned the guys at the station the situation was a set-up. Why couldn’t they have reached the conclusion five minutes earlier? That’s what she wanted to know.
As if the message were on an automatic loop, Ashley repeated the litany again. But that wasn’t all Frankie heard.
She choked on a breath. Her brain felt as though it had frozen in a leap of fear.
Marc had just moaned. Softly, almost inaudibly, but a moan nonetheless. And created a small stirring as he tried to move.
Oh, God, Marc. Lie stil
l. Don’t give the gunman a reason to shoot you again.
She tried to will him into heeding her unspoken message. She knew he was probably in shock and bleeding badly. How long before he bled out?
Meanwhile, the shooter had her pinned down in a freaking ditch, and he held all the cards. What she wouldn’t give for one of Grandpa’s 1911 Colt .45s with a full magazine right now, instead of this puny five-shot .38.
Stalemate. Something had to give.
“Frankie McGill.”
The harsh whisper blew eerily toward her, backed up by the noise of tree limbs brushing against the cold metal of the old car. The car and the tree were a distraction, one her brain had to separate from the job at hand.
Involuntarily, Frankie tried to burrow farther into the earth.
Ignore all things extraneous. Concentrate on the voice. On the man.
“She found out it was you.”
He’d moved closer—and she hadn’t heard him.
“Jeez,” he said in his hoarse stage voice, “was she ever pissed when Zantos came around asking questions!”
Her? Her who? What she does he mean? What is he talking about?
And now he forgot to whisper.
“She’s pissed at me, too,” he admitted ruefully, “for not finding the disc. Not even after I took care of Howie St. James. I told her it was destroyed in the explosion, but I guess I lied. I kind of thought so when I saw the DVD you found.”
The hairs on the back of Frankie’s neck raised. Unbelievably, she knew that voice. But why? Why would he—
Frankie risked a peek over the top of the embankment. His shadow had changed from ethereal to solid form, an entity creeping toward her with a pistol in his hand.
“You might as well come out, Frankie. What do you say? A war hero like you, with medals and all? Don’t want people to find your body hiding in a ditch, do you?” His chuckle struck her as oily, maybe a bit hysterical. “Makes a damn big difference, doesn’t it? No machine gun here to blast me away. Oops. No weapon at all. Guess you won’t be earning any more medals.”
Hah! Did he have a surprise coming, or what?
But she was surprised, too. Why hadn’t she guessed it was him? He was a big guy. Big feet wore hiking boots most of the time. Maggie put him on the list of guys panting after Denise, too. Not the main list. Even worse, on the also-ran list. What a fool she was.
Darryl Holland chuckled again. “Of course, by the time we’re through here, you won’t have a chest to pin a medal on. I’ll make sure.”
Bastard.
“She oughta be pleased then,” he added.
She who? Frankie barely kept the words in her mouth. He was almost close enough for the Airweight to be effective. And then it was a matter of beating him to the draw like they were two gunslingers dueling in front of the saloon.
Marc stirred, moaning like an extension of the wind blowing around him. Darryl glanced at him and shrugged. Frankie eyed the glisten of fresh blood.
When she looked up again, Darryl stood right in front of her. One more step and the weeds would no longer provide any cover. It was now or never.
An icy flood embalmed her. Now or never.
She raised the Airweight, poked the short barrel through a break in the weeds.
But as quietly as she moved, Darryl heard her. He looked down, spied her crouched form, and smiled. His Colt lifted. Orange flame spat from its muzzle. Two sharp reports split the night and
echoed over the hills.
The single shot from Frankie’s Airweight sounded like a cap gun in comparison.
Chapter 25
Darryl screamed like a girl as Frankie’s shot struck home. A piercing cry that stabbed through the dark, causing small animals to seek cover. Dark forms Frankie assumed were deer bounced away over the hill.
After what seemed an age, he clamped down on the yelling.
Too late. His noise roused Marc, who stirred and opened his eyes. “Frankie,” he croaked. “Need help.”
Frankie couldn’t afford to look at Marc. Didn’t dare. Because just as soon as Darryl figured out all she’d done was shoot the pistol out of his hand, and that although it hurt and he was bleeding, he wasn’t actually crippled, she figured he’d try to jump her.
“One of those medals you mentioned?” she said to him, more of a reminder she was the one in control than anything else. “One of them is for sharpshooting. I don’t miss what I aim at—ever. I could just as well have put that bullet between your eyes. Which is where I’ll put the next one if you provoke me. Step back, lie down on the ground, and link your hands behind your head.”
He cradled his wounded hand in the other and glared into the weeds where she lay. “You won’t shoot me, Frankie.”
“I just did. And believe me, I won’t have any problem doing it again. Now get on the ground.” Her voice rose to a shout. To tell the truth, Frankie was trying hard to damp down the urge to pull the trigger one more time, cap him good, just to make sure he had no fight left. The only safe enemy is a dead one. It was a creed she’d learned the hard way along a dry road leading to a mountain village in Afghanistan.
Darryl shuffled backward in incremental millimeters, body tense, face black with anger, barely leaving room enough for her to scramble from the ditch without putting herself in his reach.
Gaze locked on him, she shuffled closer to Marc whose face was screwed into a grimace of pain.
Darryl watched her every bit as carefully as she watched him. His head lifted, cocked toward Hawkesford in a listening attitude. Yeah. She heard it too. A siren—maybe two sirens—blaring away, becoming louder every second. Gabe, riding to the rescue. She’d bet on it.
She’d also bet on Darryl making one last try for her.
“Why’d you kill Denise?” She hoped to distract him, to delay the inevitable. “Why Howie? Why come after me?”
Hurry, Gabe. Please hurry.
He ignored her order to lie down. Not much of a surprise. What did she need to do, shoot him again? Maybe in the leg this time?
Frankie gestured sharply. Slowly, glaring like a madman, he put his hands behind his head and sank to his knees. Not quite good enough, but better than nothing. She sure as hell couldn’t physically take him down.
Good shooting from her little pop gun was all she had. Surreptitiously, she kicked the Colt he’d dropped into the ditch.
Breath, angry as a bull snorting, came from his nose in deep, harsh puffs.
“Well?” she urged.
“Money, of course,” he said. “Damn good payoff. And after that bitch swatted me down like a fly, it was a real pleasure.”
Frankie assumed he was talking about Denise. Maggie had said…something. Frankie didn’t quite remember what.
“Who paid you?”
“Why should I tell you? What’s in it for me? Unless you let me go afterward.” His fingers twitched, dripping a splatter of blood.
Trying to shake off the numbness, she figured, getting ready to make his move.
“Not hardly, Bozo.” She didn’t see any point in kidding him along.
“Then I guess you don’t want to know.” His body tensed as he prepared to jump her. She knew the signs.
“Why Howie, then? I can’t imagine he ever hurt you any.” She skipped another foot closer to Marc, out of Darryl’s reach.
What was taking Gabe so long? Why couldn’t she see the lights of his SUV barreling over the hill yet? Sweat trickled into her hairline. The old scar of her head injury itched like it hadn’t done in months.
Darryl shrugged, rocking on his knees as though to gain momentum. “What can I say? He was stupid. He got in her way, and she’s got a hell of a temper. Then you moved into the duplex and complicated matters. She didn’t like that.” He grinned. “Me, either. Her and me, we work well together.”
“Got in whose way, Darryl? He got in whose way?”
At last, at last, Frankie spied the whirl of lights atop Gabe’s SUV, cresting the hill. The siren’s noise racketed up a not
ch as the car broke over. A minute—sixty seconds max—and Gabe would be here. Then she could relax.
Trouble was, Darryl had been watching for the police, too. Waiting for them. In the millisecond of her distraction, he lunged forward, slashing with the forearm of his injured hand like a martial arts expert, knocking the Airweight downward. A haymaker from his uninjured fist slammed into her shoulder.
Helplessly, she stumbled and almost fell even as he regained his feet.
Frankie’s pistol hung uselessly in numbed fingers. Her stumble averted his punch from delivering a solid hit, but her reflexes were slowed, too. Then, as she lurched aside, she slipped in Marc’s blood. Darryl’s second blow glanced off the side of her head, and she dropped like a rock. Blood gushed. A size twelve foot hammered her hip like the thud of a pile driver.
Darryl grabbed for her Airweight, but she managed to turn, protecting the pistol with her body. He kicked her in the stomach instead.
She lay there, forcing away the agony until she could breathe again in the precious seconds he fumbled in the weeds trying to find his pistol. He came up with it in his uninjured hand, waving it in triumph and grinning down at her.
“Time to finish the job,” he said. As if he were some kind of outlaw in a movie, he towered over her, drawing a careful bead on her head. The pistol barrel wavered as he concentrated. Excitement lit up his face.
Frankie had warned him. A couple times, in fact. Not her fault if some people never learned.
Darryl fired as Frankie rolled. The shot went wide, giving her just enough time to bring up the Airweight. And she, as promised, didn’t miss. Or not entirely. The bullet slammed into his shoulder.
Dammit. She’d been aiming at his heart.
He didn’t drop the pistol or fall, but his eyes widened like he couldn’t believe what had just happened.
The rise and fall of Gabe’s siren became louder, then very loud.
Backing away, Darryl gave Frankie a last hate-filled glare. Finally, he turned and took off in a shambling run. He disappeared behind the decoy car, his tread heavy as he charged through a narrow strip of wheat stubble between him and the trees.
Hometown Homicide Page 24
