UNEASY PREY

by Annette Dashofy

  “Yeah. I think so. But you’re not listening to me. I’m telling you there’s weird shit going on in this place.”

  “What kind of weird shit?”

  Harry’s whisper turned frantic. “I think someone here is covering up a murder.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Pete’s headache intensified. “Who’s been murdered, Pop?”

  “I don’t know.” Harry’s frantic whisper sounded desperate. “I saw them taking a body out of here a while ago. Everyone’s being very hush hush about it. I know a coverup when I see one.”

  Pete wanted to point out that it was a nursing home. People died there. And of course the staff wouldn’t want to upset the other residents by making a big deal out of it. But mentioning any of this to Harry might distress him more than the idea of homicide. “Tell you what. I’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon and look into it.”

  Harry’s voice rose from the secretive whisper to a near shout. “Tomorrow? They’ll have destroyed all the evidence by tomorrow.”

  Pete smiled in spite of himself. His father had never been in law enforcement, but loved a good cop show on TV, and he’d always been vocal in his pride of Pete’s chosen profession. Now Pete feared his old man might become the Columbo of Golden Oaks. “You’re not exactly in my jurisdiction, Pop. I’ll call a friend in the department there and have him investigate.”

  Pete could almost hear Harry mulling this over. “All right,” he finally said. “But you’re still coming in tomorrow, right?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  After Pete hung up, he keyed in his sister’s number. Her voicemail answered.

  “It’s me,” he said after the beep. “Pop just had his nurse call. He’s…confused.” Pete thought about telling her he still wasn’t sure putting their father in an assisted-living facility was such a great idea. But a mental image of a haggard Nadine leapt into his mind, and he reconsidered. “You should go see him. Or call him.” Unsure of what else to say, he ended the call, dropped the phone on his desk, and massaged his aching forehead.

  His cell immediately rang again. Now what? He flipped it face up to see what had become a familiar number. Lauren Sanders. Dammit. He knew he needed to speak with her. But not now. He tapped “ignore.”

  Nancy appeared in his doorway. “Chief?”

  “Yes?”

  “A call just came through county dispatch of a vehicle reported stolen this afternoon from Abbott Electric and Heating.”

  The pucker of her mouth told Pete there was more. “And?”

  “The vehicle is a white Ford panel van.”

  Zoe stepped out into the blowing snow and pulled her hat down as far as she could and still see. It may have been cold in the barn, but at least the structure provided shelter from the wind. Maybe she should have accepted Lauren’s offer of a ride.

  As if Zoe’s thoughts had conjured her up, Lauren’s car appeared at the top of the hill, reverse lights on as it backed toward the barn. Fast. Zoe stepped off the farm lane into the shin-deep snow. For a moment she thought the reporter had lost her mind and was trying to run her down. But the brake lights came on as the car stopped short.

  The driver’s window powered open and Lauren poked her head out. “Didn’t the police confiscate the van from the Engle farm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do the Krolls have any kind of repair or service men scheduled for today?”

  Zoe didn’t like the direction these questions were going. “No. Why?”

  “Because there’s a white van parked next to the house.”

  She charged around to the passenger side, reached for the handle, and hesitated. She didn’t know, like, or trust this woman. What if this was some kind of trick?

  But they’d just spent nearly a half hour in the barn and were supposed to sit alone in the house to talk. If Lauren intended to do her harm, there were better opportunities.

  Zoe climbed in the chilly car and pointed ahead. “Stop before you top the hill.”

  Lauren shifted into drive and eased forward. “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want them to know we’re coming.” Zoe dug through her coat pockets for her phone. “Crap.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I was gonna call Pete, but I left my phone in the house.”

  Lauren plucked hers from the center console. “Here. His number is stored in my contacts.”

  Zoe glared at her askance. “I know it, thanks.” After the second ring, she got his voicemail. “Crap,” she repeated, but realized he must have seen Lauren’s number on his caller ID and refused to answer. For a brief moment, she smiled.

  Lauren braked when the roof of the house came into view. “How’s this?”

  “Perfect.” Zoe handed over the phone. “He didn’t pick up. Call 911.” She climbed out.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m gonna slip down the hillside keeping out of sight. I can get closer to the house that way. Maybe get a license number on the van.”

  Lauren cut the ignition and climbed out too. “Oh no, you don’t. I’m going with you.”

  “You’d be more help staying here and calling the police.”

  “I can walk and call at the same time.”

  Zoe glared at the reporter. “You just want to get your story.”

  “Hell yeah.” Lauren grinned. “But if I save your ass in the process, what do you care?”

  “My ass doesn’t need saving,” Zoe muttered. However, Lauren did not seem the type to be swayed once her mind was made up. “Stay behind me.”

  Zoe crept forward on the lane until she had a good view of the house, still roughly fifty yards away. As Lauren had said, an unmarked white panel van, very much like the one from her barn, sat parked next to the deck. The same spot Alexander had parked to deliver his father from the hospital. The same spot Patsy had parked so Kimberly wouldn’t have to mess up her boots in the snow.

  And the perfect spot to load stolen goods.

  Zoe glanced at Lauren, who stood at her shoulder, taking in the same scene. “I told you to call 911.”

  “Oh. Right.” She pulled off one glove and poked at her phone.

  Zoe stepped off the plowed farm lane and plunged down the hill through the deep drifting snow. Clumps of the cold, wet stuff dropped into her boots. She ignored the chill and plowed downward, slipping and sliding. The rolling lay of the land and a thick stand of pines shielded her from the view of the house. Adrenaline and exertion warmed her. By the time she pulled up, sweat trickled down her back.

  Something—someone—slammed into her from behind. She staggered, catching her balance before face-planting, and spun, ready to throw a punch.

  But it was Lauren, who’d followed and stumbled into her. “Sorry.”

  Zoe growled, wishing the woman would have stayed at the car in spite of the breaking story. “Did you call 911?”

  “I have it keyed in, but you took off and I didn’t want to lose you.”

  Zoe looked up the hill to the car, still in plain sight. “You wouldn’t have lost me.” Yet. But from here to the house? Probably.

  “Now what?”

  Zoe jabbed a finger toward the phone in Lauren’s hand. “Make the call.”

  Lauren hit a button and pressed the cell to her ear.

  Leaving the reporter to give their location to the EOC operator, Zoe shouldered her way into the thicket of pines edging the side yard. Whiskery wet needles clawed at her as she wrestled her way through. One branch swept her knit skull cap from her head as another dumped its load of snow down her neck. Shivering, she retrieved her hat and swore. The effort of plowing down the hill may have warmed her, but the ice and snow in her shirt chilled her to the core.

  Still entwined in the pines’ pungent embrace, she paused, catching her breath. Ahead of her was the rear corner of the house. Befo
re the fire, she would have been looking at her half of the old farmhouse. Now she was greeted with the sight of a never-used door without a step or a porch. She had a clear view of the rear of the van, but was still too far away to make out the license number.

  Once she stepped free of the pines, there would be no cover between her and the house. Venetian blinds in the windows were open, but the room at this end—if Zoe’s memory served, Mrs. Kroll’s laundry room—was dark. The burglars had no reason to be in there.

  She inhaled. And waded across the open yard. Snow hindered her. Slowed her. Threatened to grab her boot and hold on.

  She reached the corner of the house, her heart pounding. She turned, pressed her back against the siding. Listened. Watched for movement.

  Wondered what the hell she was doing there.

  The wind had died down to a cold breeze. The only sound was the whisper of the breeze through the pines. No thumps or scrapes from inside. There was no movement in the trees through which she’d just passed. Lauren had finally cooperated and stayed behind.

  No movement around the van or the back deck either.

  Zoe had a plan of sorts to get this far, and she’d made it. But—as Lauren had asked her minutes ago—now what? How long before Pete arrived? How long would it take for the burglars to clean out the Krolls’ stuff? She squinted toward the van and still couldn’t quite make out the license number.

  She needed to get closer.

  Keeping her back against the house, she slid toward the deck at the far end of it. Reaching the next window—Mrs. Kroll’s sewing room—Zoe risked a quick peek through the blinds.

  Was there movement? Or did she imagine a shadow passing the interior doorway? She ducked under the window, straightening again on the other side. At last she was close enough to read the van’s license now. She dug in her pockets. No phone. No notepad. Not even a slip of paper. And definitely no pen. She’d have to memorize the number.

  She read it. Repeated it silently. Several times. Behind her, snow crunched. Lauren, no doubt, had caught up. Good. The reporter could call it in. Zoe started to turn. In her peripheral vision, she caught a flash of movement. A blast of pain.

  And all went black.

  Abbott Electric and Heating was actually owned by one George Winston. His grandfather had named the family business Abbott so it would show up at the beginning of the phone book listings. In this computer age of information, Pete wondered if it mattered anymore.

  Winston owned a small fleet of white vans. Those still parked behind the business had the company name and logo blazoned across their sides.

  “I just bought three new Ford commercial vans,” Winston told Pete. “Well, used. But new to me. Was supposed to have the logos painted on ’em next week.” He held up a pair of magnetic signs. “Until then, I’ve been runnin’ ’em with these. Found ’em on the ground next to where the stolen van had been parked.”

  Pete pointed his pen at a security camera fixed to a pole on the edge of the lot. “I’ll need to check the footage from that.”

  “Be my guest, but I doubt you’ll see much. It’s set up to catch anyone breaking in the rear door to the building.” Winston growled low in his throat. “I’ve been too damned cheap to add another camera to watch my vehicles.”

  Pete suspected that would change in the near future. “Do you have the stolen van’s license and VIN?”

  “Sure. Come inside and I’ll get ’em for you.”

  From the looks of the office, added security wasn’t the only thing Winston hadn’t invested in. The floor, desk, and file cabinets could easily have been the same ones his grandfather had used when he started Abbott Electric and Heating in the 1940s. A computer was a more recent, but far from new, addition.

  Winston pulled a file from the second drawer of the cabinet and thumbed through the papers inside. “Here we go.” He slipped a sheet out and handed the title to Pete. “I can make a copy of that for you if it would help.”

  Pete jotted down the license number. “It would. Thanks.”

  The business owner retrieved the paper. “Copier’s out front. I’ll get the security tape for you while I’m at it. It’ll just be a minute.”

  Pete’s mobile radio squawked as Winston left the room. “Any available unit in the area of Vance Township,” the county dispatcher said. “Report of an armed robbery in progress. Be advised, injuries reported. EMS is en route.” The address she rattled off was all too familiar.

  Pete keyed his mic. “County, this is Vance Township Unit Thirty responding. ETA, five minutes.”

  “Ten-four, Unit Thirty.”

  “County, do you have an ID on the injured party?”

  “Negative, Unit Thirty.”

  George Winston must have overheard the exchange. He reappeared in the doorway. “I can drop that stuff off at your office as soon as I close up for the day.”

  Pete called his thanks over his shoulder as he punched through the back door. Crossing the parking lot to his SUV, he dug out his phone and speed-dialed Zoe. “Come on. Pick up.” By the time he started the Explorer, the call had gone to voicemail. “Dammit.” He noticed the missed call from the reporter’s number. She hadn’t left a message. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but the timing of the call set his gut on edge.

  Zoe, where the hell are you?

  EIGHTEEN

  Pete pressed the Explorer as fast as he dared on Route 15. Wind-driven snow encroached on the plowed pavement, clinging to patches of black ice, and threatened to spin the SUV out of control.

  Something about the missed call continued to nag him. He pulled the number up again and attempted to return it, but only got an impersonal voicemail recording. He hung up in disgust as he sped down the last straight stretch. The Krolls’ new modular home perched on the uphill side of the road. He braked as he passed it and swung into a left turn he’d become well acquainted with when Zoe lived at the farm.

  The lane was more snow-packed than plowed, glazed with ice from vehicles driving over it. Pete jammed the gas pedal toward the floorboards. The Explorer’s heavy winter treads dug in at places, spun and whined at others as the SUV slipped and shuddered. The lane climbed the hillside, dog-legging around to bring him up behind the house. The first thing he spotted was Zoe’s pickup parked in its usual spot. If she was there, why wasn’t she answering her phone?

  He took in the rest of the scene. Fresh tire tracks through the snow leading off the lane, into the yard. Someone in a dark coat was kneeling at the rear of the house. That someone saw him and waved frantically.

  Pete veered into the snow, churning a new path. He maneuvered around the line of pines bordering the farmyard. Closer now, he realized there wasn’t one person down in the white stuff, but two. The second one wasn’t moving.

  He jammed on the brake. The SUV ground to a stop, and he leapt from his vehicle.

  “Chief Adams,” Lauren Sanders cried out, her voice strained and damp.

  She said something more, but he didn’t catch it. A familiar mop of short blonde hair…a flash of crimson…sent his heart plummeting. All he could hear was the echo of stillness inside his head and his chest.

  Zoe.

  As quickly as the world imploded on him, reality and duty slammed him back. Sights and sounds detonated around him. Distant sirens. Brutal cold. Zoe motionless and bleeding in Lauren Sanders’ arms.

  He tore off his gloves, dropped to his knees beside them, and elbowed Sanders out the way, too roughly perhaps. “What the hell happened?” He gathered a limp Zoe and tugged off her hat, searching for the source of the blood.

  The reporter started babbling, talking too fast to make sense. Pete caught the words “white van” and “clubbed” among the gibberish.

  He found a deep gash on the left side of Zoe’s head, buried in her hair. Digging a handkerchief from his pocket, he fixed Sanders with a hard
glare. “Slow down. Tell me what happened. You’re a reporter. Get ahold of yourself and report.”

  She swallowed hard. Gave a quick nod. And inhaled. As the sirens grew closer, she told him about finding the white van. About Zoe trying to sneak down the hill to get the license number. About how Sanders had stayed concealed by the pines in order to place a call to 911. “I was talking to the operator when I saw a man dressed all in black slip out the door back there.” Sanders gestured toward the corner of the house. “He had something in his hand. A club or something. Zoe didn’t see him. He sneaked up behind her and when she turned around, he swung.”

  Pete pressed the handkerchief against the gash and held pressure. “You saw him sneaking up on her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you yell?”

  The reporter’s wide eyes glistened. Her lips parted. The lower one trembled. “I don’t know. I should have.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  She closed her mouth and lowered her face. “No. I didn’t.”

  He bit back his anger, a large part of which was aimed inward. He’d feared this. Foreseen this. Why hadn’t he put his foot down and stopped Zoe from getting involved? “At what point did you place that call to me?”

  She stuttered a moment. “I-I didn’t. Zoe left her phone in the house, so I loaned her mine.”

  Why hadn’t he answered the damned phone? He fought to gain control of his panic and his guilt. “Then what happened?”

  “I must have screamed. He heard me, I think, because he looked my way.” She tipped her head toward the pines.

  Footprints—Zoe’s, Pete presumed—led from the area Sanders indicated.

  “I thought he was coming after me next, so I ran up the hill to where my car’s parked. I didn’t stop or look back until I got there. That’s when I realized he wasn’t chasing me at all. In fact, the van took off.”

  She pointed in the direction of the tire marks Pete had noticed coming in. As he looked up, an ambulance turned off Route 15, heading up the lane and around toward them.