by JP Ratto
“The dogs are a good idea,” I said. “But this guy is waiting for us. If we go in like gangbusters, he may open fire on us, the dogs, and ultimately kill the girl in the process. We need a more covert way of finding the killer and Karen.”
Maddie nodded her agreement. “Let’s arrange to get the dogs and use them if the situation warrants it.”
“Okay, Sheriff, I’m on it,” Delaney said and left the office.
“Where are Brimmer and Mullen?” I asked. “Back at the garage?”
“No, I gave them another assignment.”
I waited for more explanation, but it didn’t come.
“So should I assume I’m on my own again, Sheriff?”
“What are you talking about?” she asked and her eyes widened in surprise by my question.
“I thought we agreed to work as team,” I said. “But you’re not letting me in on all that’s going on. I told you, I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes or cover ground that’s already been covered.”
“Lucas, this is my town and my search and rescue. I’ll handle it the way I see fit. I don’t need to ‘let you in’ on anything if I think it will impede the results I want.”
I was dumbfounded.
“I thought we were working together. If that’s not the case anymore…”
“It’s not the case,” she said. “I mean, I do need your help. As soon as I get reports from all my guys, we can discuss what to do next. In the meantime, it’s late. We have to wait for daylight to continue searching the woods.”
I wasn’t sure if she was trying to placate me or if she meant to keep me in the loop. I had my own plan in mind and hoped to hell Maddie’s “handling” wouldn’t impede the results I wanted. The only thing I could do was trust that whatever she did wouldn’t further jeopardize Karen Martin’s life—or mine.
Chapter 42
She didn’t know if she could trust him. Lucas Holt was smart and resourceful; his reputation preceded him, as she had found out. He’s not Sean. Maddie wondered if she would ever be able to work with a partner again.
Staring out her living room window into the dark woods, thoughts of a killer out there holding a young woman captive sent shivers through her. How could this happen? This is Broome. Nothing happens here.
She had few resources and few people she could count on. Of course, she could rely on Steve Brimmer, and Peter Delaney, who at times seemed to be her shadow. But since she’d moved to Broome and become the sheriff, there hadn’t been an opportunity to test their loyalty. Her life had never depended on them. Holt reminded her too much of Sean Kassel, her former undercover partner.
Maddie had been handpicked out of the academy to get cozy with Zach Jones, a lieutenant of Baltimore’s infamous drug trafficker, Harry Burnside. Sean already had spent time within the criminal organization. Maddie worked with him for two years before a bust gone bad exposed him as an undercover agent. He had tried to bargain for his life by giving up hers.
She owed her survival to Zach, who it turned out, she could trust more than her partner. He convinced Burnside that Sean lied to take the focus off himself. She thought about Zach and the livelihood he chose; it had made him a rich man.
Maddie let the shower’s hot water wash away the memory and the tears that trickled down her face. In the end, she had left the organization, left Zach, and worked as a homicide detective until it was no longer safe to stay in Baltimore.
***
After eating a light dinner, Maddie stretched out on her sofa. She entered into a restless, dream-laden sleep, in which she was five, then fifteen, then twenty-five.
She dreamed of meeting Zach. It had been so easy for them to be together. She didn’t have to pretend. It was real.
Maddie’s slumbering body jerked as images raced through her mind. Someone pressed a gun to her head. Liar! Fraud! She heard someone plead for her life. Sean? He was her partner. He was supposed to protect her. But it wasn’t Sean; it was Zach.
His back was to her as he spoke to Harry Burnside. She could see the long muscular shape of his body; his broad shoulders—familiar but different. Now, Sean was speaking to Harry, offering to shoot her to show his loyalty. Son of a bitch. Harry told him to go ahead. Nooo! Zach raised his gun and shot Sean, then turned and shot the man who gripped Maddie’s arm and held the gun to her temple. Her knees buckled. Zach! He rushed to her before she fell to the floor. She looked up at him with grateful eyes. But it wasn’t Zach. It was Lucas Holt.
***
Shaken by the ominous dream, Maddie struggled with whether or not to call Lucas. She glanced at the clock. She had no doubt he would return to the farm to confront the madman who already murdered two people.
Before that morning, the last time she had been in the house north of Farm Road was when her father was dying. She had returned to Broome to say goodbye, though he didn’t deserve the gesture.
Maddie could tell her father was glad she had come, but he couldn’t bring himself to say he was sorry. Instead, he left her all his worldly belongings, a neglected, rundown property she had no interest in owning. So she let it continue to rot. It was a rotten place to live anyway—at least after her grandmother died.
When she had entered the house—her house—with Holt earlier that day, she imagined Grams was alive. She remembered the aroma of roasting chickens and baked pies. Her grandmother had delighted her with colorful stories of “the olden days” and lovingly offered advice. She smiled; she could always count on Grams for guidance.
Maddie moved about the sitting room of her cabin. Restless, she paced. Something niggled at the back of her mind—something about the house north of Farm Road. Grams had warned her to stay away. It wasn’t safe. Maddie shook her head to clear it and sat in an old wooden rocker, the only piece of furniture she removed from the house. Grams chair. As she rocked, Maddie recalled with affection how together she and her grandmother had picked, hulled and preserved wild strawberries that grew in abundance.
A chill replaced the warmth of the moment and a sudden memory of homemade strawberry jam told Sheriff Grange where to find Karen Martin.
***
As he periodically had done over the last several hours, Crocker crept up the stairs of the cellar, raised the door an inch, and scrutinized the back of the house. Taking a deep breath, he edged the door up high enough to allow his head and waist above ground. He padded out into the deep shadow of the house, crouched, and ran to the wall.
If Holt is here, he’ll be hiding in the perimeter, waiting.
Crocker wasn’t too concerned about Holt killing him as long as the PI didn’t know where the girl could be found. Entering the backdoor of the house, he moved to one of the bedrooms. He smelled the mold and mildew in the corners of the ceiling and felt the wood floor buckle beneath him. Peering out through a broken window, hoping to spot Holt, his head jerked left. He saw a bush quiver.
Well, I’ll be damned.
“Lucas, you’ve lost more than a step or two,” Crocker whispered to himself and cracked a smile, which turned to a wide grin. Then a memory flooded his thoughts; Lucas Holt had fooled him before.
An angry focus replaced the grin as he hurried to the kitchen. Crocker stepped back into the shadows behind the house, his boot crushing a chunk of glass from a broken window. He crept to the side of the house facing the shrubs. Crouching at the corner, he drew his Glock and peered around the edge. The trees’ heavy canopy blocked the moonlight, but he could see the outline of someone sitting on their haunches watching the house. To Crocker’s delight, the dark form was moving towards him. He drew a breath and stood still.
One more moment…Crocker took great pains not to make a sound as he approached the bush. With his Glock raised in front of his face, he pointed at the crouched figure.
“Drop the weapon and stand up real slow, hands behind your head.”
Chapter 43
I didn’t have many advantages, so I made the most of the ones I had.
I knew Crocker’s energy
and mental state would be low after spending the day on constant alert for my arrival. He expected me; not knowing when gave me an edge.
Dressed in black with camouflage paint on my face, I lay low in the scrub at four thirty in the morning. I brought my trusted Glock, a Ka-bar knife, and a lightweight monocular. When I packed for Broome, there wasn’t a reason to bring my anti-night vision Ghillie suit. I missed the added camouflage it could have provided.
A light breeze kept me cool in the damp summer heat. The half-moon created deep shadows off the back of the house and barn. I couldn’t see any details in the pitch black behind the house. I listened for any sounds that would indicate I was being hunted.
I had searched the perimeter, slow and careful, for signs Crocker might be near or had set trip wires to inform him of my arrival. There wasn’t any evidence anyone had passed through this section of the woods.
Crawling to an oak, I rose to my full height, knowing low branches obscured the outline of my blackened face. I reached for the monocular. An unhurried scan of the surrounding woods didn’t offer any new information.
I wondered about Crocker’s game plan. If it was killing Karen, it was done; he was gone and sitting on a white sand beach. If he was setting a trap for me, then he kept her alive as bait to lure me here. In that case, the clock was ticking on Karen’s life.
Karen was still alive. She had to be. I realized I needed her to be alive.
From this point forward, Crocker controlled the clock. The longer this situation played out, the less time I would have if I had to search elsewhere. Choosing the next thick oak, twenty feet along the perimeter, I ran. From this new viewpoint, I was in line with a door, slightly ajar, revealing the inside of the barn.
Kneeling at the base of the tree, I listened for any telltale clicks of a weapon, crackling of dry leaves, or cries for help. The only sound was the constant chatter of insects that halted when I moved and began again when I stopped. If Crocker were close, he would have taken the opportunity to kill me.
There appeared to be only two places Karen Martin could be: in the house or the barn. I wanted to check the barn first since it would afford me the opportunity to survey the house from the loft. Trying to make myself as small a target as possible by bending low, I left the cover of the trees. The door on this side of the barn had been nailed shut earlier, now the nails were removed. Was I walking into a trap? I inspected the four edges of the frame for anything out of the ordinary. It looked fine, and I was uncomfortable spending more time out in the open.
I opened the door and entered, Glock first. My mouth dry, I froze inside the doorway. A chill shook my upper body. My eyes fixed on the one yellow bulb in the center of the barn and the terrifying shadow it cast.
A figure tied to a chair, head slumped, hung from a beam ten feet in the air. Dressed in black jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, I couldn’t tell if the person was dead or alive. My stomach clenched at the thought it might be Karen Martin.
Chapter 44
Finally!
After monitoring Holt’s movements, unseen, Crocker positioned himself on the porch of the house where he could see Holt on the right side of the barn.
Crocker was borderline between anger and rage. His supply of energy bars had run out. The water was gone. He had been awake for most of the last twenty hours except for a couple of short naps. Karen Martin was fading, perhaps into a coma, but he didn’t care.
The longer this goes on the greater my risk.
He watched Holt enter through the only way possible.
Crocker picked up the five-gallon can of gasoline and ran to the barn. He anticipated Holt entering from the side closest to the perimeter. The other three sides had been doused with gasoline earlier. Crocker left only two exits for Holt: the door by which he entered and the loft door. Splashing the remaining gasoline on the door, he trailed the liquid away five feet. Crocker dropped a lit match. Whoosh.
A line of fire sped toward the door, igniting it like dry tinder. He smiled as the flames licked up the wall and began their slow crawl around the barn.
Chapter 45
The twelve-inch square timber held the slack body without bowing in the center, so I hoped it would be able to handle another 210 pounds. I mounted the beam, one leg on each side. I felt a little give and knew it would get worse. Sweat broke out on my forehead. I leaned forward and shimmied toward the center.
A smell of burning wood and swirls of gray-black smoke wafted my way. That was the moment I noticed the flames darting under the door. Shit.
The bowing was more pronounced as I hit mid-beam. In order to untie the knot, I needed some play in the rope. I lifted the deadweight with both arms. When I had enough slack, I used my left hand to pick at the knot. Too heavy to hold for long, a few seconds later, I gently let it down.
There were large wooden pegs at foot-wide intervals along the side of the beam, thick enough to hold the weight. Once again, I heaved up the chair and its occupant until I had four feet of slack. I created three loops around a peg and lowered the chair, leaving enough rope to work with.
I could see flames advancing up the right side of the barn. Luckily, the earlier rain left the wood damp, slowing the fire. I used the point of my Ka-bar to loosen the knot. It was a slow process, and I hadn’t much time. Despite the rising temperature and smoke, I worked steadily until, at last, I undid the knot.
With the fire spreading, it was now or never. Tightly gripping the rope, I unfurled the coils from the pegs and lowered the chair to the barn floor.
Lurching back to the hayloft, I descended the ship’s ladder, ran to the chair, and lifted the slack head. Maddie.
I held her face in my hands. “Maddie!” Her eyes were taking too long to focus on me so I shouted again, “Maddie, wake up!” I cut her free and untied the rope from the chair to take with me.
She shook her head, regaining her vision and took in our situation. “Lucas. We have to get up to the loft.” Maddie rose unsteadily and sat back down. She stretched her legs several times to get the blood circulating and stood again. “Let’s go.”
We climbed the ladder, raced to the hayloft door, and I opened it.
A shot splintered the frame.
I slammed the door shut and realized fire was creeping up the front of the barn.
“Maddie, can we get out through the cupola?”
“Yes, but then what? We’ll be on the roof with a psycho waiting to pick us off while we try to get down.”
“Have you a better idea?”
“No. C’mon.”
A sturdy door on the opposite end of the loft hid stairs to the cupola. I went up first. Through one of the four silver grills, I spotted Crocker sitting on the porch of the house, opposite the front of the barn. He held a sniper rifle. Using the handle of my Ka-bar, I punched out a grill to exit down the back of the building. I pushed the top half of my body through and palmed the roof to pull out the rest. Maddie followed, and I took her hands and pulled her onto the roof.
We lay flat against the asphalt shingles making it difficult for Crocker to shoot. I inched over to the back of the barn and peered down. The flames were turning the corner at the base. Good enough. Crawling back to Maddie, I created a half loop from the rope and tossed it over the cupola, knotting it on our side. The length of the rope would get us halfway down. We would have to jump the last ten or so feet.
I looked over the edge once more and saw the fire had spread the entire length of the barn and up three feet where the dampness began.
“Maddie, the fire’s spreading. You go first. When you get near the flames, kick-off the barn and drop down beyond it.”
Without hesitation, Maddie grabbed the rope from my hands and leapt over like a descending mountain climber. I liked this woman.
She jumped to the ground, rolled, and stood, giving me a thumbs-up. The flames charged higher up the wall. Not to be outdone, I went backwards, kicking off the barn and sliding down the rope. As I reached the level of the flames, I pushed off
for the last time and dropped to the ground, landing next to Maddie.
Now all we had to do was keep the barn between Crocker and us, and find a safe place to regroup. I turned and began to rise when I saw a figure looming over us.
“Holt, you are a never-ending pain in my ass.” Crocker sighted down the end of his Glock and grinned.
Chapter 46
John Crocker stood stock-still.
He stared down the length of the Glock pointed between Maddie and me. Having enough daylight to make out his features, I studied his face. He squinted and his jaw clenched. He appeared torn, trying to weigh decisions. I glanced at the burning building. The flames had passed the damp section of the barn, devouring the wood at a fierce pace.
“Get up, Holt.” Crocker’s face relaxed. Whatever idea he came up with pleased him. I needed to make Crocker feel confident and in-charge. I rose to one knee, hands behind my head, and stood up.
Crocker said, “Use your left hand and throw the Glock and the Ka-bar into the woods behind you.”
I did as I was told while trying to take note where the weapons landed. His next order was for me to walk six feet towards the front of the barn and halt. My back to Crocker, I paced two yards and stopped.
“Now you, Sheriff. Same drill. Stand up and get rid of the gun.”
Gravel crunched as Maddie moved a couple of yards behind me. A breeze blew the thickening smoke in my direction, and I coughed to expel the toxic air from my lungs.
“Okay, Holt, move to the front of the barn…and pick up the pace. Follow him, Sheriff, but keep your distance.”
I passed the barn and kept walking, my breathing slow and labored. Why didn’t he just shoot us where we sat? At night, no one would notice the black smoke, but dawn was approaching. Time was not his ally.
