Then they began to run out. The roots were spaced further apart and seemed smaller. Claudia struggled to stretch from one to the other, wishing they extended further but grateful, too, that the bank itself pitched less harshly here. She turned her head to the right. Booey hadn’t moved. Good. She glanced downward. The water shimmered, catching a burst of sun breaking through the clouds.
For a second, she paused, talking her heart rate down again. She knew what was below her. It was time to see what lurked above. With a strength powered by an adrenaline rush she knew would leave her weakened later, Claudia pushed herself up and cautiously peered past the grass and over the bank. Nothing. She scanned left and right. Whoever was out there—and she had no doubt someone still was—he wasn’t showing himself.
Eight feet from the bank, a pair of stubby trees poked through a generous carpet of tall weed. They offered cover, if she could get to them, if she could haul herself up without getting shot, if she could rely on legs that burned from her gymnastics on the roots. She ached to pull her gun, but getting over the bank required both hands. The next eight or ten seconds would take more than skill or strength. Claudia sent up a fast prayer and pushed off, at the same time clawing at a snatch of grass and pulling. She threw herself flat on top, then shoved off with a knee and ran in a ragged crouch to the safety of the trees, not daring to look around.
To her ears, she sounded like an elephant thrashing through a jungle, but no shots sounded. A second later, she knew why. The shooter, likewise moving in a crouch but with conviction in his posture, moved steadily from behind his own tree some forty yards to her right and further from the bank than she was. His concentration never strayed from the slope where she and Booey had taken cover. He counted on them to be cowering where he’d watched them go down.
Claudia freed her weapon from her trouser holster. She had one chance at this. One. She readied the gun and crept at an angle silently through the weeds, taking refuge behind trees when she could. Her eyes stayed on him. His eyes stayed on the bank, his shotgun leading him toward the edge like a divining rod.
The sun flickered again, then retreated once more behind clouds. She saw him in the flicker, though—saw him clearly.
Rivens.
Why here? Why now? Why wasn’t he halfway across the country? She shook the thoughts from her mind. Later. She would find out later. For a few more long seconds she watched him, giving him time to get in front of her. He passed an oak tree, which looked incongruously dead on one side but alive on the other, probably from a lightning strike. If she could get there without drawing his attention, she would have cover and an advantageous point from which to confront him. It had to happen fast. It had to happen now.
Claudia sprinted, weeds whipping against her slacks as she ran. Rivens paused once and looked to the side, but he was lazy—too confident—and he didn’t turn enough to see her. She slammed into the tree, then dropped low behind it, peeking past its trunk and breathing hard. She was two dozen paces from him. He was half a dozen from the bank. She shifted beside a low-hanging branch, kneeled, steadied her arms against it and aimed the revolver.
“Rivens! Police! Freeze!”
He dropped low while he pivoted, and fired. The shot went wild.
“Drop it, Rivens! Do it now!”
Her voice the second time gave him a fixed location. His next shot exploded into the ground two feet in front of the tree, sending up an angry cloud of debris. Claudia felt a pebble cut into her cheek. She fired back two rounds, both going high.
“That’s your only warning, Rivens! Now drop it!”
Rivens flattened against the ground, partially obscured by weeds, but she saw him roll to the right. His shotgun came up again.
“Don’t do it!” she screamed, pulling back into the tree just as he fired again. The end of the branch flew off. He brayed and began edging toward her, his head low, firing one shot after another. Claudia sucked in her breath, sank as low as she could and slithered to the other side of the tree. She didn’t care if she killed him now. She anchored her heels, then leaned out as much as she dared and fired back three fast rounds.
He roared and whirled, his shotgun flying to his left. Smoke from their exchange clung to the air. Claudia squinted through it. She’d only winged him and already he was on the run, clutching his shoulder and bulling his way east through scrub brush, taking the route she had used to reach him. She took off after him on shaky legs, begging her lungs to cooperate.
The dogs came out of nowhere, or at least it seemed that way. At first, she didn’t recognize them as dogs at all. She heard nothing and saw just a blur of white, speeding from behind some wild oleander and streaking toward Rivens. By the time she understood what she was watching, they were on him, three of them, aiming to do what she had only thought. He screeched and tried to protect his head. Claudia moved uncertainly forward. She had one round left—not enough for anything.
They stopped abruptly on a single word, not hers: “Hold.”
Claudia whirled. Raynor stood behind her, an amused expression on his face. “I heard the shots from across the tracks. I saw what’s what and thought you could use some help. Figured it’d buy me a ‘get out of jail’ card for now or later.” He looked at Rivens. “The fella down there looks a little winded, don’t you think?”
Rivens wasn’t moving. Claudia couldn’t tell if he was dead or unconscious. Blood seeped from his shoulder, but that was the least of it. She glanced at the red-stained muzzles of the dogs, then looked away quickly. Nausea knotted her belly.
“I told you they listen to me,” Raynor said.
Claudia holstered her revolver and forced herself to kneel beside Rivens. His face had gone gray, and he wheezed shallowly. She thought he would survive, but not if she didn’t get help for him quickly. She stood, swallowed, then turned to the No-Name and hollered out Booey’s name.
“I’m still here,” he called back, his voice hopeful.
“All right. I’m on my way.” She looked at Raynor. “Give me a hand.”
“How about that,” he said. “You’ve got that cute-as-a-button boy with you!”
“Shut up and help me.”
“Well, golly. Here all this time I thought that’s what I just did.” He walked beside her as casually as if they were taking a stroll through a park. The dogs trotted after them, wagging their tails. “Looks a little like rain, don’t you think?” He clucked. “Too bad, really. The day started out so nice.”
“Shut up, Raynor,” she repeated. “I don’t want to hear you talk.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when the first ping of rain hit her. Raynor laughed merrily, then fell back a few steps to croon “attaboys” to his dogs. He was having the time of his life.
Chapter 26
Suggs promised she would have her weapon back the next day and Claudia believed him. Indian Run had no internal affairs department. It had no police shooting review board. What it did have was the police chief and the mayor, and unless the media got riled, taking Aaron Rivens down would show in the books as a justified use of deadly force. Suggs didn’t see it as a tough call. Preliminary ballistics tests, courtesy of the Flagg County Sheriff’s Office, already supported the scenario Claudia described and Booey heard.
She frowned into her glass, rattled the ice cubes, and polished off the rest of her iced tea. That made four glasses in the hour and a half since her return home but she still felt thirsty—that and edgy, dispirited and achy . . . more than an iced tea could handle. Then again, it could be worse. She’d chosen the good-guy team and the right side of the tree. Rivens took the wrong side of both and thirst had to be the least of his problems right about now.
She poured another glass and took it into the living room. She slumped onto the couch and put her feet on the coffee table, sloshing tea onto the gray sweats she’d changed into. Didn’t matter. No one was around to see. Not Robin, not Dennis, not even the kitten.
Of course, Rivens would probably pull through—doc
tors gave him good odds—but even if he did his life would be a shadow of what it had been. It wasn’t because of the bullet from her gun. Minor surgery had already repaired that. The dogs, though . . . Claudia shuddered. Rivens would be in the hospital for a good chunk of time and at whatever point he came down from his morphine high there, he would be shuttled to jail.
She closed her eyes and sank lower into the couch. The idiot tried to kill her. He was looking at a life term, which could be sharply abbreviated if they got him on Becker and Farr’s murders and a jury recommended the death penalty. Lots of ifs, Claudia thought. Too many. She didn’t have a case for murder yet. Rivens didn’t want her to have one. It’s why he came at her, but she imagined a shrewd defense lawyer arguing that he was merely out hunting and mistook her for a rabbit. Tall grass, lots of trees . . .
“I can’t believe I’m the one with the glass that’s half full,” Suggs had said in high spirits after the mess at the No Name was cleared. She was writing her report, the chief perched on the edge of her desk. “Sure, you got knocked around pretty good and Boo, his hands are still locked in the death grip he had on those tree roots. But while you were foolin’ around at the pond”—he winked—“we were takin’ calls for you here and guess what? We are makin’ a case for Rivens, oh yeah. Whatever you said to that fingerprint whiz at Flagg, she hustled those latents on the glass from Farr’s trailer. He might as well of signed his name ’cause his big paw stood out all over it this time.”
So Liz Hurd had delivered. Surprised, Claudia jotted a note to call and personally thank the woman. Rivens’ fingerprints at Farr’s home still didn’t give them everything they needed, but it did bring them closer. He’d been on both sides of the tracks—Farr’s trailer and the Becker estate. They knew that with certainty now. They held proof of that much. What they didn’t have was the Jag or Kensington. They could only guess at how Rivens had made his way to the No-Name; no trace of a vehicle had been found.
Suggs had yammered on for a while, then sobered. “You almost got yourself killed out there,” he said. “Rivens was packing a shotgun as mean as they get. You see it?”
Claudia nodded. The bastard had armed himself with a pump-action shotgun modified by a five-shot magazine. No wonder he came at her so leisurely.
“You saved Boo,” Suggs said gruffly. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.” Then before she could respond he banished her. “Go home. It’s already seven o’clock. You need to get some rest.” He grinned. “Besides which, if the press asks I can truthfully say we took your weapon and you’re off the case while we take a hard look-see into the circumstances of the shooting. I don’t have to mention you’re only off overnight.”
He was still such an innocent when it came to the media. If he hadn’t been, he might not have “mentioned” to the radio reporter that they had a suspect. He might not have teased the reporter by “mentioning” that his lead investigator was in the field now, “probably slappin’ at bugs and getting’ a sunburn” while she followed a “hot lead.” None of it would have meant much to a casual listener. It would’ve meant a great deal to Rivens, who’d had plenty of time to look for her, a good idea of where to look, and obviously, plenty of reason to want to.
Claudia didn’t tell him that, however. Not now. She wanted to be home, where she could suck down something cold and think or not think or whatever the hell she wanted to do without an audience.
She glared at the fruit basket on the kitchen counter. If nothing else, Barbara Becker was efficient, at least when it suited her. The basket arrived at the station within two hours of the first broadcast about the shooting. Claudia didn’t bother to remove the cellophane wrapping. Even now she wasn’t sure why she brought it home. She read the card again:
“Thank you, Detective Hershey,” it said. “I’m grateful you weren’t seriously injured and I’m very, very sorry that I ever doubted you. —Barbara Becker.”
Suggs didn’t get a basket, but he got a call. Becker wanted protection. She wanted someone at the house, guarding the front door. Babs didn’t frighten her; goodness, no. She was probably long gone, comfortably tooling along in the Jag. But Rivens—did the chief not understand how cunning the man was? How powerful? He could escape and if he did, what was to stop him from coming after her? She could implicate him in her husband’s murder. He’d want her dead. So please, would the chief send someone over? Now?
He talked her down from her panic, lying a little, telling her Rivens probably wouldn’t survive anyway, assuring her that even if he came to he couldn’t even hobble to the bathroom on his own. But Suggs brooded. “We gotta be real careful with this thing, Hershey,” he said. “If she comes back at me again on this and we don’t belly up she’ll be callin’ the governor next. I don’t have to tell you what kind of new ulcer that’d give me and maybe everyone else, too.”
Claudia untangled a ribbon from the fruit basket and searched out the kitten. He was asleep on a chair under the dining room table, but woke instantly for the colorful dangly. She got stiffly to her knees and pulled the ribbon across the carpet. She yearned for Robin to get home, although she felt a rush of gratitude that her daughter wouldn’t fly in until the day after tomorrow. She didn’t want to alarm her with the angry bruises and scrapes on her face, her arms, her hands, her legs—everywhere, really. Last year Robin had seen worse; she’d lived through worse. They both had, and no one needed the reminder.
The kitten waggled its rear end, then pounced at the string. Claudia raced it over the carpet, again and again, until the kitten inexplicably paused to lick its shoulder. She laughed. No getting around it now; the foolish thing was getting to her. She thought she might be leaving her mark on him, too. Well, Robin could still name him, but now she was just going to have to share, damn it.
* * *
By morning, her body screamed. Claudia would have preferred to make that discovery slowly, but someone was at the door, pounding on it, and she lurched from the couch before she remembered why it was important to ease into the day. She sidestepped the coffee table and pushed a hand through her hair on the way to the door. It better not be some high school kid selling overpriced candy bars to win a Disney trip.
She squinted through the peephole. Carella. Carella holding a tiny American flag. She unlocked the door.
“Good morning, Lieutenant, and happy Fourth of July!” He gave the flag a wave. “Like it? The bowling alley was handing them out this morning. Boy, you look like you got run over by a truck.”
Claudia didn’t need a mirror to know what he was seeing: Stained baggy sweats, circles under her eyes, cuts on her face, hair sticking out. She stood back a little. No doubt she had morning breath too.
“I’ve felt better,” she said. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Almost eleven.”
“What!”
He laughed. “The chief said to let you sleep in. That was at eight o’clock. He said it again at nine and then at ten. At quarter to eleven he said ‘Where the hell is Hershey already’ and sent me over to roust you.”
“You could’ve called.”
“The chief said no. Said he didn’t want any ‘damned phones’ jarring you awake.”
“Like banging on the door wouldn’t?”
“Hey. I’m not the chief. I don’t think like the chief.”
“No one does. Come on in.” She stepped aside then closed the door.
Carella whistled. “Big night, huh? You didn’t even make it to bed.”
Claudia saw him looking at the couch. An ashtray heaped with dead cigarettes sat on the coffee table beside her iced tea glass. Her oboe lay on the floor. The living room lights were still on.
“Shut up, Emory. You want coffee?”
“Nah. Had a few cups already.”
“Fine. Then go away. I’m up.”
He trailed her to the kitchen, picking up the ashtray and glass behind her. She ran hot water and reached for a jar of instant coffee.
“You’re not going to make tap water bi
lge, are you?”
“It’s fast. It’s efficient. I need to haul myself into the shower and get going, Emory. Farr’s dead. Becker’s dead. For all I know we have the wrong person in jail, or at least not enough of the right people there.”
Carella snatched the jar from her hand and turned off the faucet. “I can’t let you do it. This stuff isn’t coffee. Go shower. I’ll make real.”
“Emory—”
“Go on. This is just as efficient.”
She went. By the time she returned, Carella had put a steaming cup of coffee on the counter along with a plate of fried eggs and toast. The flag was propped against the coffee cup. He’d already washed up the pan.
Claudia stared at the plate. “Anyone ever tell you you’re nuts?”
“My wife. Every day.”
“She’s right.” She thanked him and sat down to eat. “You’re in an awfully good mood.”
“Yep, and I’m trying to get you to the same place. If breakfast doesn’t do it, then maybe my news will.”
“I’m listening.”
“Eat first.”
Claudia set down her fork. “Come on. Delayed gratification isn’t high on my list.”
“All right, all right.” Carella poured himself some coffee. “Two things. First, Farr’s prints were everywhere on the cat food cans. Better yet, Henry Becker’s prints showed up on some of them too. So there’s your link.”
Claudia nodded. She expected that, but the confirmation hitched her spirits a notch.
“You got any cream?” said Carella.
“No. Sorry. What else?”
“Well, I called that grocery store guy over at Feather Ridge.”
“Milo Aggastino?”
“Yeah. He seemed surprised that I wanted to know what Becker bought when he came into the store, but he checked around and called me back.”
“Cat food right?”
The Claudia Hershey Mysteries - Box Set: Three Claudia Hershey Mysteries Page 48
