I flipped on my headlights and flashers as I turned left onto the road and accelerated. I snatched the radio and keyed the mic. It didn’t matter if Clete heard me now. I had to do everything I could to stop him. “In pursuit of suspect, heading south on the…” damn, what was this road officially called? “Cally’s summer camp road.”
Marybeth, the dispatcher, might have responded or not. I didn’t even think about dropping the mic. It and everything else vanished from my mind as I clutched the wheel and raced toward my cruiser. I didn’t expect Clete to pull over at the sight of my lights, raise his hands in the air, and surrender, but it would have helped keep my heart from catapulting from my ribs and lodging in the back of my throat if he did.
This gravel road was even worse than the last. I barely missed dropping a wheel into a crumbling hole that ate half of the left side. And just as I yanked the wheel to the right to avoid it, another washout opened in front of me. I zagged, then zigged, keeping my foot on the gas, gaining on Clete.
The highway couldn’t be more than a quarter mile away, but I was closing in. Damn. I came up with only one option. The PIT maneuver. Sure, the conditions weren’t right. At the academy, we had an open space of concrete, wide as the Safeway parking lot. Here, we had a gravel road with washouts and ditches on either side. But it was my best shot at stopping Clete before he hit the highway.
I’d match his speed, place the right front panel of my car an inch from Clete’s left back panel. With slight pressure, I’d steer into his car and accelerate. If it worked as it was supposed to, his car would collapse in front of me and spin to my left.
If it worked.
Milo had said, “Trust your training.”
With this goal in mind, I urged Trey’s car faster, even if the gas pedal was already to the floor.
The night lit up with a bloody flashing of warning lights. “NO!” I screamed.
The arms of the BNSF railroad crossing sprang to life, all garish and threatening against the blackness. They began to lower, and the alarm bells jangled. The tracks curved around a tall hill to the west, so visibility was limited at this crossing until the last minute, when a train would shoot around the curve and roar across the road.
The arms flared and flashed. Screeching at us to stop for the train.
I hit my brakes. But Clete had another idea. His brake lights didn’t so much as flicker. I guessed he gave my good ol’ cruiser all she had and decided to take his chances with the train.
“No!” I shouted again, as if I could stop Clete.
I slammed my foot back onto the gas and the engine roared. My hope hinged on the PIT maneuver. I had to stop Clete from trapping me on one side of the train while he escaped. I was sure the patrol car had more umph than my cruiser.
The steering wheel and gas pedal became extensions of my will, and I focused on Clete’s taillights. Closer, closer. I aimed my front bumper for the right edge of his car, hoping a slight tap would cause a skid, spin him around, and stop him from getting to the tracks.
The white-hot dagger of a spotlight burst through my windshield as the train rounded the curve. Too close. We were going to crash. I pulled my foot off the gas. Clete surged ahead of me.
Oh dear God, he was trying to outrun the train. Didn’t he know there was no way he could make it?
The godforsaken engineer laid on the train whistle, but a hundred tons of racing steel couldn’t stop. Couldn’t slow down. He must have put the train into emergency, setting the brakes, because the wheels started a banshee shriek. Like a thousand fingernails on a chalkboard inside my head. I wanted to clap my hands over my ears.
Clete had to know he had no hope of beating the train.
I slammed my brakes, certain that I’d never be able to stop before I ran into the side of the roaring mass of steel. Sound crashed in my ears like ocean waves. My back wheels skidded to the right, and I steered that way, my eyes glued to the disaster playing out in front of me.
Clete didn’t slow and the train could not. With my right foot grinding on the brakes and my back slammed into the seat, I braced myself. My countersteering caused me to spin in the opposite direction.
The dinging of the crossing arms and the shattering squeal of the train’s brakes screamed along with the squad car’s engine. Red lights blinked, and the headlight of the train flared.
Stop. Dear Lord, Clete, stop! I clenched my teeth, my hands, my whole body, willing Clete to stop. Train speeding. Clete racing. No. Oh, no.
He ended in a dead heat with the train.
First the crossing arms flew skyward, and then even the thunder of the train and the blare of the whistle couldn’t mask the explosion when the speeding car hit a wall of steel. Fire, dirt, debris, and my screams. I fought my steering wheel, suddenly realizing I was heading for the same end as Clete.
The howling of the train sucked the ground up and down as the wheels raced over the crossing. The couplers clacked and pulled, chirping and squealing, hot steel sending up a smell of burning composite, a bitter electric odor. I was going to collide with the side and be crushed beneath a million tons, shredded like spaghetti. Every bit of me tensed. My eyes squeezed closed and then sprung open. Closer, closer.
I screamed and ducked as the train ripped the side mirror. My arm flung over my head wouldn’t stop it from being blended into mush by the steel wheels.
I could reach out and touch it. The monster could rip my arm from my socket. I kept sliding, slower and slower, but too close. One more inch to death.
My car rocked and bounced and something shattered the passenger window. Glass flew and I flung myself into a fetal position, hands over my head. My eardrums felt shredded as the train’s wheels dragged against the rails. I would be crushed under those wheels, mangled in the metal, ripped into strips.
The car stopped.
I tried to breathe as the crossing alarm kept dinging, the train roared on, sucking all the air from the car, and the road under my wheels bucked and dipped. Bucked and dipped. Clacking, clacking, each car raging on. Clang, clang, clang, clang.
After three decades the train started to slow, the wheels retreating down the tracks with a tshk-tshk-tshk. The red lights faded. The rocking of the pavement stopped, and even the bells of the crossing arms ceased. I opened my eyes and unclenched my jaw, daring myself to draw in a breath. Silence dropped, not even a ’yote to interrupt it.
With shaking arms, I pushed myself from the seat, pellets of glass tinkling around me. Cold air blew in from the broken window.
I hated that the moment I spotted the figure standing on the other side of the tracks, outlined by the headlights of his pickup, I burst into tears.
But by the time he’d navigated the tracks with his cane and made it to me, I was able to keep from falling into Ted’s arms.
32
I sat behind the wheel of Elvis, letting the midday sun slather February cheer all up and down my face. When I opened the door, the dazzle would be diminished by the temperature hovering at zero, but for now, it felt practically tropical.
I tapped his wheel with an ungloved finger and spoke into my phone. “I already signed the contract. You three can join me or not.”
Milo Ferguson sighed all the way through his county and into mine, and I smiled into the phone. “Kyle Red Owl might be qualified for deputy, but he doesn’t have any experience.”
“Until about a month ago, I was light on that count, too.” The two clouds hovering over Stryker Lake in the china blue sky cast shadows on the ice, and I wondered again where my skates were hiding.
The springs of Milo’s office chair squeaked through our connection. “Just ’cause the BNSF sent you a nice letter thanking you for your help, don’t go gettin’ above your raisin’. I’m still not comfortable with a girl in charge down there.”
I laughed to let him know I didn’t mind his obvious teasing. “I talked to Kyle and am dead certain he’ll make a great deputy. I’m willing to give him a shot because…” I paused and thought about t
he unanswered messages on my phone. “I’m a young, sexy woman and I need to have one weekend a month off to pursue my happiness.”
I wished I could see Milo blush, as he surely did. “Welp. That’s understandable. Glad to hear you’re,” he cleared his throat, “moving on.”
Yeah, he and my entire family. Changing the subject, “The new cruiser will be delivered next week.” Guess I wouldn’t need to worry about getting the pine deodorizer.
“Gonna remember to take the keys with you from now on?”
I let him get the upper hand just to be a good sport. “Talk to Kyle Red Owl. You’ll like him even if he’s Lakota.”
He coughed. “Well now. You know. Hey. That’s not the problem. I don’t hold nothing against the Native Americans.”
I signed off, pulled on my gloves, and climbed from Elvis. His tailgate stuck, but with some wrenching and a bit of cursing, it pulled free, and I reached for the biggest box. I maneuvered to the front walk, unlatched the dilapidated metal gate, and something on the front step caught my attention. Bright red with swirls of primary colors, the garish Asian-themed vase took shape. When I clambered up the three porch steps, I noticed the gash on the lip of the side next to the house. Balancing the box on my hip, I reached for a torn sheet of notebook paper taped to the vase.
With nearly illegible printing in pencil, the note read, “From Newt and Earl.”
This had to be one of their treasures saved from someone’s dump. The thoughtful housewarming gift almost made me tear up.
May hadn’t given me any keys because there wasn’t a lock, so I braced the box on my thigh and pushed open the door, letting myself into my very first home.
You’d think by the time a woman turns thirty-three she’d have acquired some furniture and cookware. I’d gone from living at home, on to college, then to joining Ted at Frog Creek, and back to my parents’ house. Ted and I hadn’t bought much because we’d never got around to it.
I cringed at the thought of Ted. He might be having even more trouble moving on than I was. That night, and probably every night before and since, he’d been tuned into his police scanner. Whether he’d raced to the scene to rescue me or to help out, he didn’t say. Either way, I needed to claim my life and my livelihood.
I’d called Bill Hardy and with only slight regret, turned down the job. Then I’d called May and told her I’d buy the house.
She offered to let me move in before we had the paperwork started. Gotta love living in the Sandhills where a handshake, or even a phone call, is binding.
I set the box on the floor and pushed the door closed, turned around and, “What the…?”
The tiny living room now contained a leather love seat and chair, with a cherrywood coffee table and a plush rocker. A pair of end tables completed the cozy room with just the right amount of comfort and casual. Stupefied, I tromped to the first bedroom. A desk, a filing cabinet, and a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf filled the small space, and I marveled at the luxury of my own office with room for my books.
The bedroom contained a platform bed with a bank of drawers underneath. Someone had added yellow and blue curtains, just right to highlight all the sunshine from the west-facing windows. If I’d have designed it myself, I couldn’t have picked the furniture and accessories to better suit my personality. But, of course, I’d never have spent the time or money to create such a clever setting, where everything tied together and complemented everything else.
Only one person could have pulled this off. I took out my phone.
Baxter answered on the first ring, a hint of laughter in his greeting. “All settled in?”
I stared at the TV. A tasteful size attached to the wall, perfectly arranged for me to snuggle on the loveseat. “You know I can’t accept this, right?”
He didn’t skip a beat. “That’s why I didn’t ask beforehand. My assistant threw some things together, so you can replace it at your leisure. In the meantime, enjoy it until you can get something to suit your taste.”
As easily as I could detect humor in his voice, my baloney meter was just as effective. No assistant could have picked this stuff out to fit me so well. I could fight Baxter on this, but to what end? It made my life more comfortable.
As I intended to do with the vet, Heath Scranton, I’d add another IOU to my list and figure out some way to make good on this kindness. I may not have known him a long time, but I knew he was one person who could out-stubborn me.
For now, I’d say thank you kindly to my friend, the rich guy. The superrich media mogul, tycoon guy. I must have stepped into a universe parallel to Grand County because this friendship was more than unlikely. “You got it all just right.” The softness in my voice surprised me.
A moment of silence sealed our connection, then Baxter said with a brisk tone, “Not having much luck on Carly’s lead.”
I sank into my new rocker, feeling Carly slip further away. “She’ll call me again. I’m not giving up.”
His good cheer returned. “You’re the only person I know who’s more stubborn than me.”
I grinned at that.
“So,” he started down another trail, “you’ve got new digs, and you’ve proved you’re a good sheriff.”
Baxter’s praise felt almost as fine as when Dad patted me on the back. Maybe my gut wasn’t such a bad judge of character, after all.
Baxter’s voice sounded light. “The next thing your brothers and sisters are going to start nagging you about is your personal life.”
There were those two messages from Josh Stevens, four from Trey Ridnoir, and one from Heath Scranton on my voice mail.
And that troubling late-night call from Ted. He said he’d called to make sure I was okay after Clete’s horrible death. But the silence told me he had more to say, and I hung up before he spit it out.
I put a smile into my voice. “I’ll see what I can do to head off that nagging.”
Did he hesitate? Naw, that was my imagination. “Good things are in store for you, Kate Fox. Just keep me in the loop.”
“You’ve got it.”
I hung up and surveyed my bungalow. Here I was with my few boxes, my sleeping bag and blow-up mattress, my entire divorce settlement sunk into a house.
Guess I’d let go of that root and jumped from the crumbling ledge. I sure as heck hoped there was a net.
FORGE BOOKS BY SHANNON BAKER
Stripped Bare
Dark Signal
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SHANNON BAKER lived in the Nebraska Sandhills, where cattle outnumber people by more than fifty to one, for twenty years. Baker was named the Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers 2014 Writer of the Year. Stripped Bare is the first book in the Kate Fox series. She now makes her home in sunny Tucson. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Ch
apter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Forge Books by Shannon Baker
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DARK SIGNAL
Copyright © 2017 by Shannon Baker
All rights reserved.
Cover images: woman by Lori Andrews/Getty Images; landscape by Jon Bilous/Shutterstock.com
A Forge Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates
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New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Forge® is a registered trademark of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC.
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-0-7653-8547-5 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-0-7653-8627-4 (ebook)
eISBN 9780765386274
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First Edition: October 2017
Dark Signal Page 26
