With a Vengeance

by Annette Dashofy

  Kevin’s eyes fluttered open again. “Yes, sir.”

  “What do you remember?” Sirens whooped nearby. Please let Zoe be in the responding ambulance.

  Kevin blinked. “I was…umm…parked in front of Bud Kramer’s Garage. Right?”

  “Right. Then what?”

  The officer squinted in concentration. “I…don’t know. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  Damn it. Pete held his hand in front of Kevin’s face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  He listed to one side as he pondered the question. Pete and Nate hoisted him upright again. “I…umm…dunno.”

  The sirens grew close and then cut off.

  Pete didn’t need a medical degree to recognize a concussion. “That’s okay, Kevin. Help’s coming.”

  A voice from inside the garage floated out to them. “Hello?”

  “Back here,” Pete shouted.

  A moment later, two paramedics—Mike and Tracy, although Pete couldn’t recall their last names—trudged toward them lugging a gurney and a jump kit. He filled them in on what he knew of Kevin’s condition as they started their assessment of him. Then Pete ordered Nate to stay with them.

  “Roger that, Chief.”

  Pete climbed to his feet, wincing at the pain in his knees. “By the way. Where’s Zoe?”

  “She and Earl are out on a call,” Mike said.

  Not the answer he’d wanted to hear. “What kind of call?”

  Mike shined a penlight in Kevin’s eyes. Without looking up, he replied, “Suspected cardiac.”

  Pete blew out a breath. A medical emergency. Not a staged accident. And she’d know better than go into a situation where there was any doubt.

  Which meant he had to catch Bud Kramer before the killer arranged his next ambush.

  Twenty-Seven

  “This is my truck,” Zoe said.

  Earl supported the man’s neck with one hand and pressed him back from his slumped-over-the-steering-wheel position with the other.

  Zoe gasped.

  Bud Kramer.

  She barely had time to register the sickly blue tinge of his skin and the blood soaking the front of his shirt before a blast that sounded like a cannon shattered the glass in the driver’s door window above her.

  Earl’s knees buckled. He dropped—straight down—with a soft cry.

  Zoe hit the ground too, reacting on instinct well before her brain kicked into gear.

  Earl’s been shot.

  Ignoring the safety-glass pellets that showered both her and her partner, she scrambled on her knees to hunch over him. “Earl?”

  His eyes were wide, and his chest heaved. A deep red wet splotch spread from a gaping hole on his right shoulder just below his collarbone. “Son of a bitch,” he groaned.

  Zoe knew the fist-sized hole in his upper chest was the exit wound, and the bullet had entered from the back. She reached for the jump kit and her phone, both of which had hit the ground with her. The boom of a high-powered rifle and the almost simultaneous metallic plink of the bullet tearing through the open driver’s door inches above her head sent her diving into the gravel next to Earl. Her phone sailed from her grasp, skittering down the road in pieces—the back, the battery, and the front scattered over several feet.

  Zoe pushed up to her knees again. She fumbled with the jump kit’s zippers, her fingers trembling. “Where’s your cell phone?”

  Earl’s face contorted in pain. “In the ambulance.” He drew his chin into his neck in an effort to see his injury. “I left it on the center console.”

  She managed to unzip the pocket holding the sterile dressings, pulled out a handful of sterile 4x4s, and clumsily ripped open the packages.

  Boom. Plink.

  Zoe clung to the bandaging as she huddled over Earl, shielding him from bits of beige fabric, plastic, and steel. She glanced back at the door—her door—which now bore two holes in addition to the shattered window.

  “We need to move,” Earl said through clenched teeth.

  She had a feeling if this guy wanted them dead, they’d be dead. Instead, he was keeping them pinned down. The shots were coming from the woods they’d driven through moments earlier.

  The ambulance stood between them and the gunman. To make a run for it would put her clearly in his sights. But she needed to call for help.

  Zoe pressed the handful of gauze to Earl’s shoulder, eliciting a stream of profanity from him.

  “Sorry.” She took his left hand and placed it over the wound. “Hold this.”

  He swore again, but obeyed.

  She took a breath. Think. Up until now, she’d been reacting. Being the proverbial sitting duck wasn’t gonna cut it. “Can you move?”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost what was left of her mind. “Where?”

  “Behind the truck.” And closer to the scattered pieces of her cell phone. “If we move fast and stay low, we should be able to make it.”

  Earl twisted around, trying to calculate the distance. “My legs are fine, but the staying-low part? My arm doesn’t work, which makes crawling a little tough.”

  Zoe grabbed the jump kit and slid it around them, stuffing it under that rear axle. Safe. Out of the way. And reachable from her intended new location. “I’ll drag you if you can help push with your feet.”

  He made a face.

  “Yeah,” she said. “It’s gonna hurt like hell. But another bullet will probably hurt a lot worse.”

  “You’ve got a point there.” He released his hold on the bandages, which were soaked anyway. “Let’s do this…before I go into shock and can’t help.”

  “I didn’t want to mention that, but since you brought it up…” Zoe winked at him.

  Keeping close to the pickup, she scooted around, positioning herself at Earl’s head. She slid both hands under his shoulders. Hoisted him into a half-sit…ignoring the moist, warm rush from the entrance wound she’d known she would find. She interlaced her fingers across his sternum. Holding him tight, she felt him shiver. He really was going into shock, even sooner than she’d expected.

  “Bend your knees, put your feet flat on the ground, and—”

  “Push.” He acted on the order at the same moment he voiced it.

  The force nearly sent Zoe sprawling, but she dug in with her heels and dragged her partner toward the rear of her Chevy.

  The moment Earl was completely sheltered—or so she hoped—by the pickup, she collapsed onto her backside, still holding him against her.

  He moaned. “Son of a bitch, girl. You’re rough on a guy.”

  “And you, my friend, need to drop a few pounds.”

  “Shut up and start an IV before I pass out.”

  She eased out from under him, lowering his torso gently to the ground. A slimy red trail indicated the path they’d just traveled. Her shirt clung to her skin, warm and damp. Forcing her eyes—and her mind—away from the blood and on to the task at hand, she reached under the truck’s bed, grasped the jump kit, and hauled it close to her.

  The phone. She needed to gather and reassemble her phone. Call for help. But Earl was right. First priority was getting pressure dressings on those wounds to stop or slow the blood loss. Second was getting some fluids running into him.

  She tore open more sterile dressings, packing the gauze squares over the already saturated ones and adding more to the entry wound on Earl’s back. Working quickly, she bound both bandages with Kling wrap and immobilized his entire arm in a triangular bandage.

  “You still with me?” she asked.

  He grunted, but met her gaze, an odd mixture of fear and trust in his eyes.

  As Zoe opened another of the canvas bag’s pockets and dug out the IV start kit, a cool breeze rustled the late summer grasses next to the road.

  “It’s gonna rain,” Earl
said.

  Zoe looked up at the gun-metal gray clouds overhead. “They look like snow clouds.”

  He huffed. “I’m cold, but not that cold.”

  “I have a horse blanket behind the seat in the truck.”

  “I’ll be fine.” He didn’t sound fine.

  Willing her hands to be steady, she trusted muscle memory and years of experience to assemble the IV tubing and plug it into the bag of dextrose solution. She wished she had more than one bag with her, but the rest of their supply was stashed in the ambulance.

  She straightened his free arm, wrapped the tourniquet below his elbow, and felt for a vein. It only took a couple of seconds to find a good one. She wiggled her hands into a pair of latex gloves and swabbed the vein with an alcohol prep. “You know,” she said, “I’m glad you’re not the one working on me.”

  A faint smile tugged at Earl’s lips. “Are you insinuating that I suck at starting IVs?”

  “I’m insinuating nothing. I’m saying it flat out.”

  “Hey, when you’re right, you’re right.” He closed his eyes.

  Zoe applied traction on the skin and slipped the needle in. Blood flashed back at the catheter hub. “Got it.”

  “Didn’t feel a thing,” Earl said.

  In one smooth, practiced move, she advanced the catheter and removed the needle, dropping it into the jump kit’s sharps container. A moment later and the IV was flowing. “How you doing?”

  “I lied before. I really am that cold. Can I have that blanket now?”

  “Right.”

  Fat raindrops started pelting them. “Crap.” She rocked back on her heels and rose into a squat. Waiting for another bullet to whiz past her ear—or worse—she grabbed the tailgate with one hand and the release with the other, and gave a jerk. With a thunk, the heavy gate dropped, sending her sprawling into the gravel again.

  “Are you okay?” Earl asked.

  She peeled off the gloves, now embedded with dirt and stones, and inspected her hands. A few minor scrapes. Nothing a good handwashing wouldn’t fix.

  The rain quickly turned into a steady deluge, but the lowered tailgate sheltered Earl for the moment. Zoe’s phone on the other hand…

  She scrambled away from the truck, again anticipating a bullet in the back, scooped up the three pieces, and scurried back under the protection of the tailgate. It took a moment to clip the battery into the phone and snap on the back. Pushing the power button, she held her breath until the screen flashed to life.

  “Here.” She pressed the phone into Earl’s left hand. “Hold this while it boots up. I’m gonna get that blanket for you.”

  “He hasn’t shot at us in a while. Maybe he took off.”

  “Maybe.” But Zoe wasn’t putting money on it. She hadn’t heard the getaway ATV. At the thought of the quad, she tipped her head to peer around the tailgate at the tarped load in the bed. She couldn’t reach it without exposing herself to the shooter—if he was still there—but the size and shape? She’d bet good money her truck’s cargo was the ATV from Bud’s Garage.

  “I wonder who he is,” Earl said.

  She’d been too busy to think about the shooter’s identity. Obviously it wasn’t Bud Kramer. Were Hector and Lucy still in custody? “Be right back,” she told her partner.

  Zoe edged around the driver’s side of the pickup. Rain splattered her head, shoulders, and back as she bent low and crept toward the open door, complete with shattered window and two bullet holes.

  He’d probably moved. The door might not provide even the small amount of protection it had before. He’s probably watching me through his scope right now.

  Swallowing her trepidation, she made it to the cab. Bud Kramer’s dead body had tumbled forward over the steering wheel again, just as they’d found him. Poor old Bud. And she’d thought he was the killer. Had her suspicions contributed to his death?

  She slipped a hand behind the bench seat and released the back. But even with the body slumped forward, his bulk kept her from tilting the seat far enough to reach for the blanket. The deafening rain pounded on the truck’s roof. It soaked her back and her rear end, and the accompanying breeze chilled her. Temperatures were plummeting. She needed that blanket for Earl before he became hypothermic in addition to being shocky.

  “Sorry, Bud,” she said and muscled him over onto his side. Then she grabbed his top hip and rolled him away from the seat back. Just a little more. With one hand bracing the body forward, and the other one heaving on the seat, it tipped enough to allow her to reach the balled-up horse blanket.

  As her fingers closed around the heavy duck fabric, a hand reached over her shoulder. Rammed the seat back, pinning her arm, sending hot needles shooting into her shoulder. But the muzzle of a gun barrel jammed against her chin made her forget the pain.

  The breeze carried a chill and the smell of rain as Pete strode ahead of Baronick toward the detective’s unmarked sedan. Their next stop—Bud Kramer’s residence. Seth, the county officers, and probably a Pennsylvania State Police unit or two would already be there, but Pete wanted to at least be present when Kramer was put under arrest. Why the hell would a respected businessman and longtime area resident do such a thing?

  Baronick jogged to catch up to Pete. “I suppose you’re going to insist on bringing Kramer back to your station for interrogation too.”

  Pete considered it. “Honestly, no. You can have him. I don’t want that bastard back in my township. Ever.”

  “No problem.” The detective reached for the driver’s door, but Pete’s radio stopped him.

  “Vance Base, Unit Thirty, this is Unit Thirty-Two.”

  “This is Unit Thirty. Go, Thirty-Two.”

  “We’re at the residence in question. No sign of the suspect, the missing ATV, or the missing pickup,” Seth said.

  “Damn it.” Pete ran a hand across his dry lips. “Leave the county guys there to watch the place. You get out on patrol. Check anywhere you think he might frequent. Vance Base, you there?”

  “I’m here, Chief,” Nancy replied.

  “I’m here too,” came Sylvia’s voice over the air.

  Good. He needed all hands on deck right now. “I’m heading in. Get the State Police helo in the air. I want every law enforcement agency within a fifty-mile radius looking for that truck and that ATV.”

  “On it,” Nancy said. “Oh, and Chief?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Chuck Delano called. He said he’s been trying to reach you.”

  The man simply would not give up. “I know. I’ll talk to him later. It’s about another job.” Pete could almost hear Sylvia ranting all the way from Dillard.

  “I don’t think so,” Nancy said. “He sounded worried. He said you need to look at your email. His exact words were, ‘It’s a matter of life and death.’”

  After checking in with Nancy and Sylvia at the front desk, Pete left Baronick to coordinate the different departments’ search efforts and headed to his office.

  Chuck Delano might be as persistent as a bad cold, but he’d never been prone to histrionics. In the car, Pete had listened to the voice message Chuck left him, and Nancy was right. The man sounded frantic. “Check your gawddamned email,” the recorded voice demanded. “You’re in danger. Hell, we both are.”

  Pete slid into his chair and booted up his computer. While he waited, he placed a call of his own. To Zoe. Surely she’d be back from that cardiac run by now. Or at least be at the hospital. But the call went directly to voicemail. Why on earth would she have her phone turned off? “Call me. Now,” he said after the beep and hung up.

  He hit the icon for his email and waited for it to load. Sure enough, there was a message from Chuck. Pete clicked on it.

  Read this and then call me.

  Beneath the brief message was a link. Pete moused over it and clicked.

  A new
tab opened with a newspaper article. From Dayton, Ohio. About a motorcycle fatality.

  Pete skimmed the story. The young man who’d died in the crash was one Richard Brown Junior. Rick Brown. Lucy Livingston’s deceased boyfriend. The story, however, made no mention of her or Hector. So what was the connection?

  Almost as soon as Pete asked himself the question, he came to the final paragraph. And then he knew.

  Richard Brown was survived by his father, Richard Senior. Preceding him in death was a brother. Donald Moreno. Donnie Moreno. The boy who had crippled Chuck. The boy Pete had shot and killed.

  Twenty-Eight

  So that was why the name Rick Brown kept nagging at Pete. Yes, it was common, but some part of his memory must have recalled the father’s or the brother’s name from all those years ago.

  Pete reread the entire article, more carefully this time. There was nothing else of importance. Or at least nothing else he could see. He picked up his phone and made the call to Chuck in Hawaii.

  “About time you got around to returning my phone call.”

  “I thought you were hounding me about that job.”

  “Hell no. You want to put up with low pay and cold winters all for the sake of a woman. I got it. Did you read the article?”

  Pete squinted at the screen. “I did. In fact, I still have it in front of me. But there are some holes I need filled.”

  “I figured.”

  “For starters, why did you send this to me now?”

  Chuck’s anxious inhalation carried across the miles. “About three weeks ago I began receiving phone calls. Six…seven…eight a day. Hang ups. I thought it was an especially persistent telemarketer. Caller ID only showed a wireless number. So I blocked it. He must have switched to a different phone because the calls kept coming.”

  Burner phones.

  “Then he started calling every blasted hour,” Chuck said. “Twenty-four-seven. Yesterday, I picked up, expecting to get a robot, but planning to give the guy hell if a real person answered. Instead I got the most evil laugh I’ve ever heard. And he said, ‘I hope you remember, because I do. And I’m gonna keep my promise.’ He didn’t tell me who he was. Didn’t have to. I’ve never forgotten that voice.”