by Meg Gardiner
“All right.” The man sounded pressed. “I’ll see if an officer can go by his house.”
“Thank you.”
“And if you talk to him, let me know. Right away.”
“That’s a deal.”
Relieved, she ended the call. She tried again to reach Gage but couldn’t get through. Outside, snow whipped across the Crying Call town square.
46
In the end, the FBI agent’s refusal to hang up was what got to Lieutenant Bill Pacheco. It was ten P.M. when the lashing snow finally eased. At Rincon police headquarters, Pacheco got a breather from directing the emergency storm response, but the dogged insistence of young Caitlin Hendrix played on his mind. He stuck his head around the door to the lobby and signaled the staffer at the front desk.
“Get me Aaron Gage’s number.”
He called the landline: Circuits Busy. The cell: Call Failed.
He walked to the operations room and asked an officer to pull up the GPS locations of all the department’s patrol units. None was within twenty miles of the Gage home.
That was when the call came in from Oklahoma City. It was Ann Gage, a girl he’d known since high school.
“Bill. Bad shit’s going down and I can’t reach Aaron.”
Pacheco was already zipping his jacket and heading for the door. “I know, Ann. I’m on my way to your house.”
• • •
“Again, Daddy.”
Swaddled beneath a comforter, Maggie Gage cuddled against Aaron’s side.
“Time for you to get to sleep, Tigger,” he said.
“One more time. Please.”
It was late, but Aaron couldn’t resist his daughter’s sweet-soft voice. The storm had amped her up. The snow, the power going out—it was all an adventure to Maggie. He and Ann had built a fire in the living room fireplace before the lights and heat cut out, so the small house was warm. And tonight, he planned to keep Maggie snug beside him. He’d tucked her into his and Ann’s bed.
The wind whistled beneath the eaves. He only wished that the phones were up. No comms, and Ann in OKC taking care of her frail grandmother—it concerned him.
“One more time,” he said.
Maggie nestled tighter into the crook of his arm.
“One morning at the puppy farm, Chevy was playing with her brothers and sisters,” he said.
At his feet, hearing her name, Chevy stirred.
Maggie said, “Did they dig under the fence?”
“You bet. They were all mischief. Chevy kept a lookout.”
He felt as much as heard the disturbance. It was an uptick in the volume of the storm. A brush of cold air swirling through the bedroom door.
Beside the bed, Chevy raised her head, tags clinking.
More quietly, Aaron said, “The puppies dug a tunnel all the way to the trees and hid there.”
The front door had opened.
It wasn’t Ann. Wasn’t anybody he knew. Wasn’t the wind. He’d shut that door tight—it wouldn’t slip the latch.
In the living room, a floorboard creaked. A sound guttered in Chevy’s throat. A growl. Aaron touched her back. Her hackles were up.
He lowered his voice to a murmur. “Maggie, I need you to be a good girl and do exactly what I say. No questions. Ask me questions after. But right now, do what I tell you. Got it?”
There was a tiny pause, and her voice sounded as quiet and serious as his. “Got it.”
“We’re going to play a game, like in the story with Chevy and her brothers and sisters. And just like the puppies, you have to be completely quiet. Not a peep.”
She whispered. “Like this?”
“From now on, not a sound. Grab my hand and squeeze to say yes.”
She did.
He stood and scooped her into his arms. On the hardwood floor, he took seven silent steps to the only room in the house without a window, the only room an intruder couldn’t break into from outdoors. The master bathroom.
The wind drove against the walls of the house. He set Maggie in the bathtub.
He whispered, “Stay here until I come back. If anybody knocks, don’t answer. Don’t make a sound. Stay silent and invisible.”
He turned and gave a low, sharp whistle. “Chevy, come.”
The dog’s tags clicked as she stood and padded into the bathroom.
“Sit.”
Chevy settled herself beside the bathtub. Aaron gave the command the Labrador had not been taught as part of her guide dog training, but that she knew well.
“Guard.”
He reached out and touched Maggie’s face. Her soft breath warmed his hand.
“I’ll be back. Stay here with Chevy. No matter what.”
She squeezed his hand to say yes. His heart clutched. This amazing goddamn kid.
He locked the bathroom door behind him. In the bedroom, he listened.
Apart from the low crackling of the fire, he heard no sounds inside the house—not the hum of the fridge, not the rumble of the furnace. The power was still out. Which meant the lights were off.
The intruder was silent. Not ransacking the place for cash or food or drugs. They were coming for him. Him and his little girl.
Ann had taken the pistol with her to Oklahoma City. He’d insisted. The Mossberg twelve-gauge was locked in the gun safe in the bedroom closet. But using it was out. The slightest miscalculation, and a shotgun blast could tear through the sheetrock walls and hit Maggie.
Nobody was getting to Maggie.
Heart rushing, Aaron imagined the house, felt its distances, knew the obstacles, its edges and choke points. It was six steps to the bedroom door. From there, the hall ran fifteen feet to the living room.
The hall was the place to mitigate his tactical disadvantages. The place to do this.
The hardwood floor was slick. He took off his wool socks for secure footing. Silently he unbuckled his leather belt and pulled it off.
Barefoot, he crept to the bedroom door. Grasping the ends of the belt in his hands, he held it vertically in front of him and pulled it taut. Step by silent step, he advanced along the hall, sweeping the belt back and forth in front of him as a defensive plane.
The living room would be dark. The hall darker. The light of the fire would keep the intruder’s eyes from adjusting fully when he stepped into the hall. The narrowness of the corridor eliminated the possibility that the intruder could attack him from behind. And whoever it was, he didn’t have a gun. ’Cause if he did, he would have come in shooting.
Aaron crept to the midpoint of the hall.
The guy had a knife and would come straight at him.
The intruder wouldn’t think he had to dodge. He would lead with the blade. And ninety percent chance the guy was right-handed.
Aaron took a stance and moved the belt to his left, an inch from the wall. He held poised.
Then he heard it. Six feet ahead of him, to his right, a hand brushed the wall. The intruder couldn’t see for shit and was trying to orient himself.
Aaron held motionless. He listened. Hold, hold. He felt the air shift.
He swept the belt to the right and looped it furiously around the spot where he felt the disturbance. Guessing. He snapped the belt tight.
It caught. He whipped it around flesh and steel. Yanked hard and pulled.
He wrapped the guy’s wrist.
Hot pain sliced Aaron’s forearm. The knife was big. Maybe a Ka-Bar, and the blade, trapped under the belt, had sliced his hand.
He heard a hiss. Surprise. Pain.
Move in. He yanked the intruder toward him, hauling him off-balance. He let go of the belt with his right hand. Wound up and smashed a palm toward the guy’s face.
The blow connected with the side of the guy’s head. A guttural sound came from his throat. Aaron swept the intruder’s l
eg. The guy grabbed Aaron’s shirt as he went down. They hit the floor. Aaron scrambled back to his feet, searching for the sound of the knife on the wood.
He listened, and lunged.
• • •
Lieutenant Bill Pacheco bumped along the gravel drive. Snow pebbled against the windshield of his cruiser. Ice-coated trees glinted in the headlights. The barn came into view, farm implements swinging. The house was dark. His headlights flashed against the front windows. The door gaped, a black hole.
He came out of the car with his holster unbuckled, hand on the butt of his gun.
On the porch, Pacheco stepped to the side of the door. “Aaron?”
Inside the house, Aaron Gage’s landline phone rang. The phone company had restored service. But nobody was answering.
The wind sang through the glassy trees. Beneath it, Pacheco heard another sound. Ragged breathing.
He drew his weapon and swung inside the door, sweeping his flashlight in synch with his gun. Snow had blown several feet inside the house. Virgin, no footprints. The phone continued to ring. Pacheco’s hair stood on end.
On the kitchen floor lay Aaron Gage.
He was rasping for breath. The beam of the flashlight illuminated a dark, sticky spread of blood around him. His shirt was punctured with stab marks.
“Aaron.” Pacheco hit a light switch, but the power was out. He swept the kitchen. “Aaron, is the guy still here?”
Gage didn’t answer. His hand clawed the floor, striping the blood like finger paint. “Maggie . . .”
On red alert, Pacheco knelt at Gage’s side.
Gage swiped a hand and grabbed Pacheco’s jacket. “Maggie. My daughter.”
Pacheco put a hand on the side of Gage’s face. The man was ice-cold. “Aaron. Is Maggie here?”
With a shaking hand, Gage pointed at the back of the house. Pacheco swung his flashlight up. And heard the dog bark.
“Hold on.”
Standing on weirdly shaking legs, Pacheco crept down the hall. The barking grew louder. He heard the dog pawing a door. At the end of the hall, he swung into the master bedroom, then to the bathroom door. It was locked. The barking intensified.
“Maggie?” Pacheco said.
He heard only a tiny, smothered sob. Pacheco took the blade of his buck knife and pried open the latch.
When the door swung open, Maggie Gage’s brown eyes were wide and full of tears.
She was crouched in the bathtub, unharmed, hands over her mouth to keep her sobs from echoing. The dog stood in front of her, ears back, teeth bared. It growled and snapped but didn’t attack. Lather and sweat darkened its fur around the guide harness. Pacheco’s heart was pumping.
From the kitchen came a distinct whistle. And Aaron’s faint voice. “Release.”
The dog backed off.
“Stay,” Pacheco said.
The dog obeyed, panting.
“Wait here,” Pacheco said to Maggie. “It’s going to be okay. I’m help.”
He cleared the house, leaned into his shoulder radio, and called for EMS. Returning to the bathroom, he holstered his weapon and pulled Maggie into his arms.
“I gotcha.”
The little girl crabbed against him, shivering. In the living room Pacheco set her on the sofa, pulled off his jacket, and wrapped her in it.
“Daddy,” she whimpered.
“He’s here. I’m going to take care of him.”
Pacheco rushed back to the kitchen, set his Maglite on the counter to provide a swatch of visibility, and knelt at Gage’s side. The phone finally stopped ringing.
Gage was as pale as a sack of flour, his lips bluish. “Maggie. She’s . . .”
“She’s safe. She’s fine.”
Pacheco ripped open the buttons of Gage’s shirt. His breath caught. Six stab wounds, each an inch and a half long, were spread across Gage’s chest, seeping blood. Pacheco grabbed some dish towels from a drawer to put pressure on the wound—but there were so many wounds. He covered one and pressed, and put Aaron’s own hands on two others.
“Hold tight, buddy.” He heard the quaver in his own voice. “What happened?”
In the living room, Maggie’s hiccupping cries softly resonated. “Daddy . . .”
Gage, hearing her, appeared to let something go inside. “Maggie.” He inhaled and seemed to offer up a prayer. He looked as if his every wish had just come true. “Maggie . . . you did great.”
“Who did this?” Pacheco said.
“Don’t . . .” Gage wheezed. “Don’t know.”
“How many?”
Gage tried to swallow. “One.”
Pacheco grabbed a glass from the counter and filled it from the tap. He lifted Gage’s head and let him sip.
“Chevy . . . growled. Knew things were wrong,” Gage said, more easily.
The dog, hearing her name, padded into the kitchen. Offering a low, desperate moan, she crept to his side and lay down. Her brown eyes were mournful under the beam of the flashlight.
“I . . . told Maggie to hide and stay quiet. Commanded Chevy to stay with her.”
Pacheco pressed his hand to the dish towel. It had soaked through with blood. He checked the time. The EMTs would still be miles away.
“Chevy did exactly as you told her to,” Pacheco said. “She damn well did. She guarded Maggie. She never moved from her side.”
Gage nodded. Softly he said, “Good dog.”
Guide dogs are working animals. Not pets. And Chevy had been on the most important duty of her life. But when Gage said, “Good dog,” the Lab inched forward and licked his face.
Pacheco said, “Can you tell me anything about the attacker?”
“I cut the guy and managed to land a blow but . . .” He stopped, overcome by pain. “Neutralized the knife, but he had a second blade.”
“Aaron, you saved Maggie’s life.”
Pacheco’s hand was wet, and the dish towel was sopping. He couldn’t stanch the bleeding.
He leaned again into his shoulder-mounted radio. “Where’s EMS? I need them now.”
Gage’s breathing became ragged.
“Keep talking, Aaron. Talk to Maggie,” Pacheco said. “She kept quiet. She was brave.”
“Best . . . beautiful goddamn kid. Maggie . . .”
Pacheco’s hands were hot in the frigid draft, wet with blood. “Stay with me, Sergeant.”
On the kitchen counter, the phone rang again.
• • •
In the Crying Call police station, under cold fluorescent lighting and air full of the smell of scalded coffee, Caitlin leaned on her elbows, eyes closed, phone pressed to her ear. The number was ringing. Come on, answer. It had been ringing every time she called for the last half hour, but nobody had picked up.
Weary, she lowered the receiver. She was just about to hang up when a man’s voice broke in.
“Who’s this?” he said.
She straightened with a snap. “It’s Caitlin Hendrix.” She recognized the voice. It wasn’t Aaron Gage. It was the Rincon, Oklahoma, police lieutenant, and he sounded all wrong. “Lieutenant Pacheco?”
There was noise in the background. A child’s cry. The air went out of her lungs.
“Lieutenant.”
It was only a single second before he spoke, but it stretched forever.
“I’m here.” He paused. “Not soon enough. Aaron’s gone.”
47
Caitlin stared out the dark windows of the police station. Under the fluorescent lights, her drawn face reflected from the glass. It was midnight. A phone rang somewhere. The station was nearly empty, a male officer at the front desk.
The door opened. In a wash of freezing air, Emmerich walked in.
“I heard,” he said.
Caitlin turned, hands hanging at her sides. “We were too slow.
”
“You did everything you could.”
She pressed her fingers to the corners of her eyes. “It wasn’t good enough.”
Emmerich’s black parka was dusted with snow. His response was blunt. “Sometimes it’s not.”
Buck up, she heard. She nodded.
His voice gentled. “It’s a terrible blow. But what we do now is find Detrick.”
“Yes, sir.” Hesitantly, she added, “Something’s off about the MO of the attack on Gage.”
Rainey, working at a desk in the corner, looked up from her laptop. “Caitlin. C.J.”
Rainey turned the laptop. “Got the Rincon Police Department on video.”
Emmerich touched Caitlin’s shoulder. “Hold that thought.”
He stamped crusty ice from his hiking boots and unzipped his parka. They approached the desk where Rainey sat. On-screen, they saw the solemn, exhausted face of Lieutenant Bill Pacheco.
“Lieutenant,” Emmerich said. “What can you tell us?”
“Not much yet. The storm’s keeping the forensic unit from reaching the crime scene. It’ll be morning at the earliest.”
“With your permission, I’d like a member of our team to accompany them.”
“You’re invited. That’s official.”
Caitlin cleared her throat. “What do you know, Lieutenant?”
Pacheco’s heavy gaze settled on her. “That Aaron Gage was a hero. He saved his little girl’s life.”
Caitlin wanted to nod, to respond, but her throat locked.
Emmerich said, “You think the child was the primary target?”
“Not sure. But Aaron fought like a son of a bitch. Went down swinging.”
“You think he injured the UNSUB?”
Pacheco nodded. “He said he cut the guy. Got the knife away from him. But the killer had a second blade Aaron couldn’t see. Sliced his arm, got him down.”
Rainey and Caitlin exchanged a look.
Pacheco caught it. “Your escaped prisoner. Slashing wrists is his specialty, isn’t it?”
