“On it. I’ll find out where they took Mr. Haselow the junior, tout suite.”
“Knew I could count on you.” Val ended the call and slipped the phone back in her pocket.
Once Jones led Heidi out of earshot, Lund turned a serious look on Val. “What do you make of that?”
“I don’t know. But that’s not the only weird thing here. The dump truck driver, he’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“At first I thought he might be drunk, didn’t want us to find him until he had a chance to sober up. But now?” Shivering, Val pulled her coat collar tighter around her throat. “Any other morning, Grace would be on that bus.”
“You’re thinking of Hess.”
Of course she was thinking of Hess. Hess was all she could think about. “Does that seem paranoid?”
“Nothing seems paranoid where he’s concerned. But Hess isn’t dumb. After he broke out of jail last week, he had to know you wouldn’t send her to school today. At least not on the bus.”
“So maybe Grace was never his target,” Val said.
“And Brad was?”
“Hess doesn’t just do things. He always has a reason.”
“To hurt Grace? Imagine how she’d feel if something happened to Brad.”
“That could be it. Only Hess never really seemed to hold anything against Grace. He’s always been pretty focused on me.”
“You and other people he saw as responsible for putting him in prison. Could Brad’s father be the target? He’s been the village president all along.”
“It’s possible. Or…” This time she didn’t need snow careening down the back of her neck to send chills to her toes. “He knew we would respond to the call… and that I would leave Grace behind.”
“And he knew exactly who could get Grace to open the door,” Lund finished, already running for the car.
Chapter
Four
Grace
The doorbell’s chime nearly knocked Grace off the couch. She sprang to her feet, heart racing, and sent her phone bouncing off the couch cushion and skittering under the curio cabinet. She hesitated, stuck between retrieving her phone and answering the door. Aunt Val hadn’t called yet. That had to mean something happened, something whoever was at the door might know about.
“Hold on there. Answering the door is my job.” Officer Edgar pushed out of his chair and crossed to the kitchen.
Grace followed. This bodyguard thing seemed so silly, totally unreal, and yet she’d been through too much not to see the wisdom in playing along.
She stepped to the side of the long, vertical window flanking the door and tried to peer through the sheer curtain. Outside on the porch stood Brad, leaning on the doorjamb as he always did. Only this time the side of his forehead sported a purple bruise, and dried blood crusted his cheek.
“Brad! Oh, my God!”
Officer Edgar peered through the peephole then grabbed the knob and opened the door. “Brad Haselow? Wha—”
A loud bang burst from outside.
The report rang in Grace’s ears. She smelled gunpowder. She watched red blossom across Officer Edgar’s neck and chest.
None of it made sense.
The officer stumbled forward, and Brad reached out, trying to hold him up.
Brad shot—
No. Not Brad.
Officer Edgar grasped the doorframe, his breath gurgling. Reaching out, he grabbed hold of Brad’s coat and pulled him into the house, then slumped to the floor.
No.
Grace forced back the shock. She had to think. She had to do something.
Hess was here.
He was coming.
Grace slammed the door. Fingers shaking, she gripped the deadbolt and slid it home. “Brad, get Officer Edgar!”
“I think he’s dead, Grace. I think—”
“He’s not. Help me!” Grace grabbed the officer’s arm and tugged. He gasped for breath, blood sputtering from his mouth.
Oh, God! Oh, God!
A thud shook the door. A shadowed face peered through the sheers.
Grace backpedaled. The gun. Officer Edgar’s gun.
She grabbed the butt of the pistol in his holster, yanked it.
It didn’t budge.
No, no, no…
Aunt Val had a holster like that. There was a trick to it. A trick Grace couldn’t remember for the life of her. “Run!”
Brad grabbed the officer in a bear hug and stumbled into the living room, Grace on his heels, her legs shaking so hard it was a miracle she didn’t fall. They could run out the sliding glass door, but then what? Officer Edgar was heavy, even for Brad. It wouldn’t take Hess long to catch up. They would leave footprints in the snow. The next neighbor was miles away.
Another gunshot popped outside. The door’s sidelight shattered, sheer curtains shredded.
Grace had another idea. “Upstairs!”
Grace helped Brad with Officer Edwards. They took the stairs as fast as they could, the sound of breaking glass chasing them.
“This way.” Grace raced down the short hall. For a moment, she couldn’t get a grip on Aunt Val’s office doorknob, her palms were so sweaty. Finally, it turned. Grace pushed through. Brad followed.
Grace closed the door behind them. It had only a curtesy lock, nothing that would hold against anyone who really wanted to get inside, but she secured it anyway. Maybe it would buy them time. All they needed was a little time.
“Call 911,” she said to Brad.
He set the officer on the floor, took a step toward the phone, then leaned heavily on the edge of Aunt Val’s desk, as if about to fall over.
Grace had assumed Brad had been merely stunned downstairs. Even she had been frozen in shock for a few seconds.
“Are you okay? Is it your head?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. She gave me something. The nurse…”
“Nurse?”
A noise came from downstairs. The door opening and slamming shut? Grace wasn’t sure. The house wasn’t very big. It would only take Hess a minute to realize where they’d gone.
“Brad, listen to me. Can you handle calling 911?”
Still bracing himself on the desk, Brad nodded and reached for the desk phone.
Grace focused on Aunt Val’s gun safe. Although she had been shooting since she was twelve, Grace had never killed anything besides paper targets. Not any animal. Certainly not a person. But she knew how to load a gun, how to aim, how to pull the trigger. She could shoot Dixon Hess.
She was almost certain of it.
“There’s no dial tone,” Brad said, a weird lethargy in his tone.
“Do you have your cell?”
“I, uh, I dropped it. You know… in the bus.”
And Grace’s was under Grandma’s curio cabinet.
She knelt down beside Officer Edgar. He’d stopped sputtering, but now he seemed to be barely breathing at all. She searched his pockets for a phone. Nothing.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Grace said, more for her sake than Brad’s. “There’s a first aid kit in the closet. Take care of Officer Edgar. I got this.”
Grace turned back to the gun safe and stared at the electronic keypad. She hadn’t known the combination until two days ago, when Aunt Val had made her memorize it after Hess had broken out of jail. And now—
Grace’s mind was a complete blank.
She pulled in a deep breath and let it out. Numbers. Numbers. Numbers. She knew this. She had to know this. She—
A crash came from downstairs, more glass breaking. It wouldn’t take Hess long to figure out that they’d run upstairs, and then…
Oh, God, she had to remember.
Pressure bore down on Grace’s chest, making it tough to breathe. She couldn’t let Brad down, couldn’t let Officer Edgar down, couldn’t let her own panic kill them all. She closed her eyes.
Please.
Remember.
028469
There it was, like a picture behind her lids. She pu
nched in the number. Holding her breath, she tried the lock.
The wheel turned. The door popped open.
The safe held two long guns inside and two pistols in nylon pouches on the door.
“I don’t… I don’t know what to do.” Brad stared down at the open first aid kit, then looked up at Grace.
“Okay… Okay…” Grace checked to see that the shotgun was loaded the way Aunt Val taught her, then handed it to Brad. “Do you know how to shoot?”
“Baskets.” He held the weapon away from his body, as if he was afraid it would turn into a snake and bite him.
Not good.
“I’ll teach you. You can do this. Shotguns are easy. You don’t really have to aim it or anything. Just point it and pull the trigger.”
Brad swung it around, the barrel focused right on Grace.
“Not at me!”
He laid the shotgun on Aunt Val’s desk and jerked his hands away. “Sorry. Give me a second.”
He grabbed Aunt Val’s trash can and retched into it.
The smell of vomit made Grace’s stomach buck. She breathed through her mouth. “This isn’t going to work.”
“No, I can do it…”
Grace picked up the shotgun. “You don’t have to. Take care of the officer.”
“How? He looks real bad. I don’t think he’s going to make it, Grace.”
“The gauze. Put pressure on the wound. I’ll take care of Hess.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.” Grace didn’t feel sure, not in the least. She felt scared out of her mind. She felt like she might need that trash can, too.
Shotgun in hand, Grace approached the locked office door. She hadn’t heard Hess come up the stairs. Still, she might have missed it. Her heart was beating so hard, and her breathing was so loud…
“Holy shit, Grace. Can’t we just climb out the window and run or something?”
She wished it were that easy. That they had someplace close to run, besides the horse barn. Here there was only one way for Hess to reach them. The barn had a big door on either side. They would be sitting ducks. And although David’s truck was in the driveway, she didn’t have the keys. “Don’t worry. I won’t let him get past me.”
She turned back to the office door, hoping Brad didn’t notice how badly she was shaking. The scar on her cheek left by Hess’s knife seemed to throb with every rapid-fire beat of her pulse. She released the lock. Holding her breath, she turned the knob. She opened the door only an inch, just enough to peer outside, ready to slam it shut as soon as she saw anyone.
A creak came from the staircase leading to the second floor.
Still on the staircase, at least she thought so, almost to the top. Grace opened the door a little more and slipped the gun’s barrel through.
Another creak.
She seated the shotgun’s butt against her shoulder and placed her finger on the trigger.
A shadow fluttered along the wall, a shifting of the light from downstairs.
He was coming. He was here.
A figure emerged on the other side of the railing, the shadow of a handgun barrel extending along the wall.
Grace squeezed the trigger.
Chapter
Five
Carla
Carla half scrambled, half fell down the steps. She dropped her Lady Smith, letting the damn thing bounce down the stairs, and cradled her left arm and hand.
Damn that stupid girl.
The blast hadn’t hit her squarely, mostly just splintering the stair rail and pocking the wall, but some of the shot had connected. It hurt like hell, and blood was already soaking the sleeve of her coat, hot and sticky.
“You really are worthless,” Dixon said from the living room.
The coldness of his voice hurt more than the bird shot. “I didn’t know she—”
“No kidding.” He plucked one of those Hummel figurines from a curio cabinet and threw it at the fireplace.
Carla flinched when it shattered.
“I’ll be such a help to you, Dixon,” he said in a mocking tone. “You’re good at selling yourself. Not so good at delivering.”
“I am helping.”
“You just got yourself shot. By a little girl.”
A throb settled into her shoulder and pulsed down her arm. Tears welled in her eyes.
“First you lose my son, now you’re going to screw this up.” He threw another collectible. Porcelain exploded against brick.
“I’ll get her. I will. I helped you before, Dixon, I can—”
“You can pick up the damn revolver. Make sure they don’t walk out the front door in the next two minutes. Can you at least manage that?”
Clamping her left arm tight to her ribs, Carla recovered the gun with her right. Wood splinters from the stair railing peppered her hand like porcupine quills, but at least she could move it.
God, did it hurt.
Still in the living room, Dixon crouched down and picked up something from under the cabinet and slipped it into his coat pocket. Then he grabbed a basket filled with newspaper and kindling from the hearth and threw it on the living room couch. He followed with chair cushions, pillows, and seemingly whatever was handy. Then, grabbing a box of matches from the hearth, he struck one and tossed it on the pile.
“Go out to the ambulance. Get behind the wheel. Be ready to leave.” He crossed the room, the burning newspaper crackling behind him. He pulled out the HK45 that used to belong to Carla’s husband. “I’m done messing around.”
Chapter
Six
To be accused is to lose everything. That’s the way our system works. It has little to do with justice.
Police turn to the usual suspects, whether those suspects are guilty or not. They want an arrest, any arrest. They only protect and serve themselves.
District attorneys and judges don’t care about the truth. They want the conviction and the boost to their careers.
Witnesses design their memories around what they’ve seen on television.
Corruption abounds. Self-interest is paramount. The very fact of my innocence challenges their authority, their judgement, their infallibility. They want nothing more than to destroy me.
But the media and public are worse.
I don’t care what any of you think of me. You are ignorant, lazy, and incurious. You are nothing but stupid sheep. It’s always easier to ignore the truth. To curl up in your safe, self-deluded, insulated little worlds. To go about your mediocre lives. To pretend your courts are fair and that you will never be falsely accused of a crime. Things like that happen to other people. Don’t they? People who deserve it.
I have no use for any of you.
And if you get in my way, I will treat you to real justice.
And I will laugh as I watch you choke on it.
—Convicted murderer Dixon Hess, from his A MANIFESTO FOR JUSTICE, as received by the Wisconsin State Journal.
Chapter
Seven
Val
“Hold on,” Lund said.
Gripping her phone as best she could with her right hand, Val braced her left on the dash.
Lund blew through the stop sign and skidded around the corner. The back of the car fishtailed, the front-wheel drive catching, surging forward. As soon as the car straightened, he again punched the gas.
“Please leave your message at the tone…”
Val ended the call. “Voice mail again.”
“Try Edgar?”
“No answer from him, either. I’ll try again.” She tapped Edgar’s number on the screen, brought the phone back to her ear, and listened to the rings.
How in the world could she be gullible enough to fall into Hess’s plan? Then again, what was the alternative? Ignoring a busload of injured and scared school kids stranded on a snowy country road only miles from Val’s farm? The real question was why hadn’t she taken Grace with her? If she’d listened to Lund, Grace would be with them now. Safe.
“Please leave yo
ur…”
Val disconnected. She was about to try Grace again when the phone rang. Lake Loyal Police Department flashed on the screen. The dispatcher returning her call.
Val snapped the phone to her ear. “Oneida?”
“The county emergency response team is on its way. So is EMS. And I sent out a call for any cop who can get there. How close are you?”
Lund skidded around a downhill curve, the passenger-side tires hitting the shoulder.
“Still about a mile and a half out. I can’t reach Grace or Chris Edgar.”
Lund straightened the car without hitting the brake. Coming out of the slide, he bore down on the accelerator.
“Okay, I’ll get back to you.” Val ended the call. She took a long breath, held it, then let it out.
“What did Oneida say? She’s sending officers?”
“She’s sending everything we’ve got.”
Grace
Grace had been prepared for the kick of the gun against her shoulder, the bite of burned powder in the air, the way the bird shot splintered the stair railing, tattered the wallpaper, and scarred the plaster wall.
She hadn’t been prepared for the explosion of sound in such a small space.
The force of it rocked through her head, leaving her dizzy and deaf for a moment. She lowered the gun and leaned her shoulder against the wall.
She’d hit him, at least in one arm. She was pretty sure of it.
Regaining her balance, Grace inched out around the doorframe and leaned into the hallway, straining to catch a glimpse of blood on the scarred stairway wall, some kind of proof to back up the feeling. She didn’t dare move into the hall. If he popped up shooting through the rail, she’d be caught with no cover. A sitting duck. A dead duck.
Grace couldn’t hear her heartbeat, but she could feel it like a sharp, frantic kick to the inside of her ribs. Smoke still hung in the air, filling Grace’s nostrils, clogging the back of her throat. She wanted to laugh, to cry. The whole idea of this was ridiculous. She wasn’t Aunt Val. She was a kid. That she was in this position, holding off a killer, was ludicrous.
Dead Too Soon: A Thriller (Val Ryker series Book 3) Page 3
