UNEASY PREY

by Annette Dashofy

  Except Pete had serious suspicions about Trout’s lack of cognition. “I’m not sure. Do you mind if I come in? I’d like to talk to you, and there’s no sense letting all your heat escape through an open door.”

  Trout shot a look toward something on the floor, but brought his bewildered gaze back to Pete. “Don’t mind at all.” He stepped back.

  As Pete entered, he checked out what Trout had glanced at. Boots, dripping on some sheets of newspaper next to the door.

  Trout didn’t invite him any further into the house, but closed the door and pulled his robe tighter.

  Pete contained a smile. He’d seen women do the same thing in an attempt to cover themselves up in his presence. Somehow, he didn’t think Trout was being demure.

  “What can I do for you, Chief?”

  “I had a report about a possible intruder down at Ms. Andrews’ house. Don’t suppose you’ve seen anyone lurking around?”

  Trout made a production of appearing thoughtful. “No. I’ve been inside all night. Watching TV.”

  The television screen was dark. Pete could have walked over to it and felt for heat, but there was no need. “Really? I thought you kept a pretty close eye on the comings and goings down there.”

  “I did. I do. But if there was someone down there this evening, I missed it.”

  Pete folded his arms and fixed the old man with a stern stare. “Because you’ve been in all evening. Watching TV.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I thought it might have been you down there again.”

  “No.” Trout dragged the word out as if that made it true.

  “That’s funny. You see, there’re footprints down there leading up here. The same tracks are out on your sidewalk.” Pete held up his phone. “I took pictures of them.” He tipped his head toward the boots sitting in a puddle on the newspaper. “I bet if I looked at the tread on those, it’d match.”

  “Oh, no.” He dragged it out again. His forehead wore deep concerned creases.

  “Your pant legs are wet.”

  Trout looked down and muttered something Pete couldn’t make out.

  Pete reached over and gave the collar of the old man’s robe a gentle tug, revealing a quilted flannel shirt beneath. “It’s kind of warm in here for clothes like that. For taking an evening stroll, though…”

  Trout stepped back, snatching the fabric from Pete and wrapping it around him. “Leave me alone.”

  Pete tsk-tsked. “You know Oriole’s granddaughter doesn’t want you snooping around down there.”

  Trout traded bewilderment for childish belligerence. “I wasn’t doing anything.”

  Pete dug the key from his pocket and held it up. “You gave me the wrong one. This doesn’t fit the lock down there.”

  “Did I?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Trout burrowed deeper into his robe, his shoulders hunched. “I must have been mixed up. I don’t remember stuff as well as I used to.”

  “Uh-huh.” But the old geezer’s look of befuddlement was back, and Pete couldn’t help seeing Harry in those confused eyes. “Just give me the real key to Oriole’s house.”

  Trout dug into his trouser pocket and came up with his key ring. Much like the last time, he struggled to remove one of them and dropped it into Pete’s waiting palm.

  “Now, Trout, I’m going back down there, and if this key doesn’t work, you and I are going to have some trouble.”

  The old man pouted. “It’ll work.”

  Pete started to turn toward the door, but another question came to mind. “You know that last time I caught you down there, I did a walk-through afterwards.”

  Trout didn’t comment.

  “The forensic unit had been there and made a real mess of things. Rummaged through Oriole’s things. Left the drawers askew. But I found some of them had been straightened up. Janie claims she didn’t do it. You know what I think?”

  Still no comment.

  “I think you did it.”

  Trout looked down at his stocking feet and mumbled something.

  “Want to tell me what you were looking for?”

  “I wasn’t looking for anything,” he replied quickly. Too quickly. “I was just straightening up the mess. Oriole wouldn’t have liked the way you people left her things, all jumbled like that.”

  “Uh-huh.” Pete wasn’t at all sure he bought anything Trout said. “Why do you keep going down there?”

  He contemplated the question for a minute, still hanging his head. “I dunno. I miss Oriole. I miss my girl. I just like to sit down there and…remember. You know?”

  Any desire to further chastise the old man melted away. Pete rested a hand on Trout’s shoulder. He wanted to say something soothing, but words seemed inadequate. “Yeah,” he said and headed for the door.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “I’m out.” Zoe set her cards face down in front of her. Another lousy hand and her brain was too fuzzy to even consider bluffing.

  Earl scowled at her. “You’re really off your game tonight.”

  “Duh.” She pointed at her head. “Concussion.”

  Yancy snorted. “How long are you gonna milk that excuse?”

  But Zoe caught the look of concern in the old fire chief’s eyes.

  “As long as I can.” She attempted a grin, but suspected it didn’t really come across.

  “Hey, I’ve had concussions before,” Seth said. “I played football in high school.” He turned toward Sylvia. “But what’s your excuse? I’ve beat your hand four times tonight. That never happens.”

  “My house got robbed this week. Isn’t that excuse sufficient?”

  The exchange stirred Zoe from her mental fog enough to take a closer look at the older woman. Sylvia still hadn’t eaten. Her brow was furrowed. And was she sweating? Seth’s old house was drafty enough that everyone knew to wear sweatshirts or sweaters. In spite of layers of clothes, Zoe still felt the chill. “Are you all right?”

  Sylvia made a face. “I think that lunchmeat in Pete’s refrigerator must have been bad.”

  “Maybe.” Except Zoe’d had a sandwich from the same stuff and it hadn’t bothered her. She pushed her chair back and stood, reaching a hand toward Sylvia. “Come with me.”

  “I’m playing poker.”

  Zoe tipped her head to look at Sylvia’s cards. A potential straight, but they both knew the odds of filling it. Zoe took them from her and tossed them onto the table.

  “Hey.”

  “You should thank me.” Zoe grasped Sylvia’s arm and gave a gentle tug. “Let’s go into the living room.”

  “Why?”

  “Stop arguing and just do it.”

  Grumbling, the older woman complied. Zoe noticed her wince as she stood.

  “I’m out too,” Earl said. He threw in his hand and climbed to his feet. Catching Zoe’s arm, he whispered in her ear, “I have my gear in my car. I’ll get it.”

  Zoe loved her partner. “Thanks.”

  A couple of minutes later, Sylvia sat on the couch complaining as Zoe held her wrist, checking her pulse. Earl had returned with a small duffle from which he produced a blood-pressure cuff and stethoscope. Zoe kept her gaze on him as he pumped up the cuff and slowly released the air.

  Sylvia’s pulse was much too fast. Beads of perspiration glistened on her forehead. Zoe mentally pummeled herself for not putting it together sooner. If she hadn’t been so darned fuzzy-brained…

  Earl draped his stethoscope around his neck and fixed Zoe with a stern stare. “I’m calling the ambulance.”

  “What?” Sylvia hugged her arm that still had the BP cuff on it. “No. I’m fine. I just need some antacids.”

  Zoe nodded at Earl, who stood and dug his phone from his pocket. She took Sylvia’s hand. “You need to go the hospital.”

 
Pete approached the front door of Oriole’s house, the second key Trout had given him clenched in his gloved hand. If the key worked, he’d do a quick walk-through and make sure nothing had been tampered with. Maybe get an idea of what the old man had been doing in there. Then he’d call the granddaughter and update her. Then back to Zoe and the poker game.

  If it didn’t fit, he and Trout were going to have a serious chat, possibly down at the station.

  This key, unlike the first one, slid effortlessly into the lock. He turned it and the latch clicked. Good. At least there was a limit to the old man’s shenanigans. Pete closed his fingers around the knob and swung the door open.

  From his coat pocket, his phone vibrated. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him before answering.

  “Chief, it’s Nate.” Nothing ever ruffled the weekend officer, but his voice sounded as tense as Pete had ever heard. “I’m tailing a white panel van on Route 15 traveling south near the old junkyard.”

  “Can you see the license number?”

  “Yeah. It’s not a match, but…”

  “But what?”

  “I was thinking. If I’d stolen a van from a business where that sort of thing was kept on record, the first thing I’d do is swap the plates with another vehicle. So I ran them. They came back for a ’98 Dodge Ram.”

  Pete’s heart rate kicked up a gear.

  “I’m going to pull him over.”

  “No.” Pete thought of what had happened to Zoe when she’d gone up against these guys. “Not without backup.” He yanked the door open and stepped back out into the cold. “I’m only three miles away. Radio county for backup. Don’t take any chances.” He locked the door and pocketed the key. “Do you think they know you’re back there?”

  “He’s keeping below the speed limit. I’d have to say yes.”

  “I’m on my way. Keep me posted.”

  Pete hung up and jogged to his car. He turned it around, but hadn’t reached the bottom of the hill before his cell rang again.

  “He’s making a run for it.” Nate’s voice sounded even more tense, and the scream of sirens blasted through the phone.

  Pete flipped on his own siren and emergency lights. “Keep with him as long as you can do so safely.” He mashed the gas pedal and careened, fishtailing, onto Route 15.

  “Roger that.”

  He was about to hit the red button ending the call when Nate’s shout burst from the speaker.

  “Nate? What’s going on?”

  Was that tires screeching? Or was Pete imagining it? What he did not imagine was Nate yelling, “Son of a—”

  And then the call went dead.

  Sylvia made a face as she chewed a couple of aspirin at Zoe’s insistence.

  Zoe and Earl had convinced her to lie down on the couch. The poker game ended the moment Seth and Yancy overheard the word “ambulance.”

  Sylvia had quit blaming the pressure in her chest on heartburn or bad lunchmeat. Fear replaced denial in her eyes.

  Zoe held Sylvia’s hand in both of hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You’re gonna be fine.” Zoe only hoped the older woman didn’t realize she was keeping track of her pulse in addition to offering comfort.

  “You have the county’s best team of paramedics here,” Earl said with a wink. “Of course you’re going to be fine.”

  If Sylvia tried to smile, it looked more like a wince. “You need to call Pete.”

  “I will,” Zoe said. “Once the ambulance gets here.”

  “I think I hear it now.” Seth grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. “I’ll go direct them in.”

  Sylvia gripped Zoe’s hand. “If anything happens to me—”

  Zoe cut her off. “Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

  “If,” Sylvia said, her eyes glistening. “If anything happens, you call Rose.”

  A lump lodged in Zoe’s throat at the thought of having to dump even more bad news on her best friend. “You know I will.”

  “Be advised,” Nate’s voice crackled over the police radio, “the suspect vehicle has crashed.”

  Pete was still a minute or so away. Hearing his officer’s voice eased his mind. “Vance Thirty-five, this is Vance Thirty. What’s your status?”

  “Suspect vehicle has crashed,” Nate repeated.

  Pete refrained from barking I know that through the mic. Police radio transmissions were easily accessible to the public, calling for a more professional demeanor.

  “Suspects have not exited the vehicle,” Nate added. “Requesting fire and EMS response.”

  “Roger that, Thirty-five.” Pete flipped to a different frequency to place the request. He still didn’t know if Nate was the one needing medical help. The officer wasn’t likely to broadcast to the listening public that he’d been hurt.

  By the time the EOC confirmed fire and EMS were on their way, Pete spotted the red glow of taillights and the red and blue strobes of Nate’s car cutting through the night sky. A dozen or so vehicles idled, unable to get through. Pete swung into the empty northbound lane and roared past them.

  Nate’s cruiser sat diagonally across the road. His headlights and spotlight set the white van aglow as it teetered precariously off the edge of the road. Pete wasn’t sure what kept it from rolling on down into the pasture below. He parked his SUV next to Nate, who hunkered behind his open car door, weapon drawn. Distant sirens pierced the air. More help was on the way.

  Pete took up his position, shielded by his own car’s open door. “Are you all right?” he called to his officer.

  “Yeah. When I was on the phone with you, he lost control and ran off the road. I dropped the phone when I grabbed the steering wheel with both hands to keep from wrecking too. Sorry.”

  “Forget it.” Pete was just relieved he hadn’t been hurt in the line of duty.

  “I’ve ordered them to step out of the vehicle, but they haven’t made any kind of move. And I haven’t seen any weapons.”

  Which didn’t mean there weren’t any.

  Pete grabbed his mic and switched to the PA system. “This is the police. Step out of the vehicle and keep your hands where we can see them.”

  Nothing happened. He wondered if the occupants might have climbed out on the downhill side, away from their line of vision, and slipped off into the night.

  Three marked county police units roared up from the opposite direction, pulling around the stopped traffic to aim their vehicles and their spotlights on the listing van.

  Pete caught a glimpse of movement from it. The driver’s side door opened a few inches. Pete tensed, raising his sidearm.

  “Don’t shoot,” came a terrified voice. One hand reached out of the van, palm open, fingers spread. “We’re unarmed. Please don’t shoot.”

  The door opened a little farther, but appeared to be hung up on something. A second hand appeared, also empty. A male figure dressed in black struggled to squeeze through the opening.

  Pete, Nate, and the three county officers eased toward the van, keeping their weapons trained on the man. And keeping vigilant for the second man. Hell, for all Pete knew, there might be a third one.

  “Turn around,” Pete ordered. “Slowly.”

  Hands still raised, the man did as told.

  Pete continued to direct him to keep turning until he’d turned all the way around and was again facing the van. There were no weapons in sight, but the punk was wearing a bulky winter coat. Hell, he could have a rifle under there.

  “Get down on your knees,” Pete barked. “Hands on top of your head. And cross your ankles.”

  The man in black complied, dropping to his knees in the snow.

  “Who else is in the van?” Pete asked.

  “Just my brother.” The man sounded like he was sobbing. “He’s in the passenger seat. He’s hurt. Please help him.”

 
Pete pointed at one of the county officers. “Search him and cuff him.” Then he signaled to the others to circle the van from the front. He thumped Nate’s back. “You’re with me.”

  They headed to the rear of the van. Pete kept his sidearm and flashlight trained on the back doors as Nate grasped the latch. Pete gave a nod. And Nate yanked it open.

  The cargo compartment held a trio of televisions, a computer, and some other electronics—large and small—plus a pair of hunting rifles and a couple shotguns, all piled against the downhill side of the vehicle. These guys had been busy tonight. Toward the front, he could make out movement from the passenger seat. Not threatening. Just shifting.

  “The door’s stuck,” one of the county officers shouted to them from outside the passenger side.

  Pete shone his flashlight around the corner in their direction and discovered why the van hadn’t rolled or slid farther down the hillside. The vehicle rested against an old fence post and a small tree, which also jammed the door.

  The county officer shined his light through the window. “He has both hands on the dash. Looks like he cracked his head on the windshield. There’s a lot of blood.”

  Pete thought of Zoe, bleeding in the snow, and couldn’t dredge up any sympathy even if he’d wanted to. “I’m going in through the rear. Keep him covered.”

  He holstered his Glock, climbed into the cargo compartment, and picked his way along the sloping floor, around the stolen property. Nate followed. The second man, also attired head to toe in black, kept his hands planted on the dash. Through the windshield, Pete spotted a fire engine on the road above them. Fire and rescue would be able to cut the guy out. George Winston wasn’t going to be happy with the condition of his van once this was over.

  “Keep your hands where they are,” Pete ordered and patted him down as best he could while reaching around from behind. “Do you have any firearms on you or in the vehicle?”

  “Not on me.” The man’s voice quivered. “There’re some rifles and shotguns back there.”

  The ones Pete had already seen. “Where are you hurt?”