Annette Dashofy - Zoe Chambers 03 - Bridges Burned

by Annette Dashofy

  With no time for prudence, Zoe grabbed the shovel with both hands and rammed the blade into the slats. Noise be damned. Paying no heed to the pain, she hacked. Again. And again. She squinted against the wood splinters flying in her face at every chop.

  First one slat gave way. Then a second. She thought she heard the footsteps moving around upstairs, but she couldn’t be sure with the twang of metal on wood and the crack of the slats coming apart ringing in her ears.

  Finally the last one broke free. An opening—not a large one—to freedom.

  Zoe let the shovel drop to the floor with a clatter, and for a moment there was silence. No thunk thunk thunk upstairs. Only the thud of her heart inside her chest and the rasp of her breath.

  And a strange odor.

  She sniffed.

  Gasoline?

  Before the totality of what it meant could take root, the sound of lighter, faster footfalls seized her attention.

  “Zoe!” Maddie cried.

  Still clinging to the stone window ledge, Zoe half turned.

  “Zoe!” the girl shrieked again.

  “We’re gonna get out,” Zoe said, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

  “It’s Mrs. Kroll. I don’t think she’s breathing.”

  Thirty-two

  Tierney’s fortress appeared no different than it had the last time Pete had been there. He parked in front of the closed garage door. Baronick pulled his black unmarked sedan behind the Explorer.

  Nothing stirred as Pete and the detective followed the sidewalk around to the front of the house. No movement of curtains to indicate someone peering out. No faint thumps of footsteps. Pete pounded on the front door rather than ringing the bell.

  Somewhere nearby, a mourning dove hoo-OO-hoo-hoo-hooed its plaintive cry. A child’s laughter rang out from a house farther up the hill. But from inside Tierney’s house, silence.

  Pete banged on the door again. “Police. Open up.”

  Baronick stepped into the mulch edging the house. Using both hands as a shield against the glare, he peered into a window. “It’s a living room. Appears empty. No signs of a kid.”

  “What kind of signs are you looking for, Wayne? She was snatched from the park. She wouldn’t have a bunch of toys with her.”

  “True.” Baronick pulled a small case from one of his pockets. “Been a while since I’ve had a chance to use these.” He withdrew a couple of metal picks.

  Pete tried the knob. It opened. “It’s gonna be a while longer, too.” He swung the door open, keeping a hand on his sidearm. “Police. Hello? Anyone home?”

  With Baronick on his heels, Pete stepped inside.

  The house might as well have been a display model. Beige furniture, bland wood end tables with chrome lamps sat on laminate flooring with one ugly brown and white area rug. Not a single framed photo or knickknack.

  Baronick headed for the kitchen, while Pete drifted toward a round coffee table. A fake plant sat next to an open book of wildlife photography. He skimmed a finger across the polished surface, leaving a clean trail in the dust. “Maid hasn’t been in lately.”

  “But it looks like she might have been the last one here. The kitchen is spotless. Doesn’t look like it’s ever been used.” Baronick opened a door. “Basement. I’ll check it out.”

  Pete turned in a slow circle, taking in every detail. No artwork. No family pictures. No rings from beer cans marred the surfaces of the tables. No newspapers or magazines. Nothing to make the place feel like a home.

  Baronick returned a few moments later. “Nothing down there either.”

  “They aren’t here.” Pete’s head throbbed. If not here, where? What had Evans done with Maddie Farabee?

  As they stepped outside and Pete pulled the door closed, his cell phone rang. Sylvia’s name came up on the screen.

  “Have you found Maddie?” she demanded.

  “Not yet.” In the background, Pete heard staticky conversation and the familiar beeps and boops of emergency tones going off. “Where are you?”

  “Standing in your station,” Sylvia said. “Have you talked to Zoe?”

  Pete’s headache cranked up a notch. “Now is not the time to lecture me on my lousy social skills.”

  “I know. I only meant…I went by the ambulance garage early this morning. Really early. I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Lot of that going around.”

  A phone rang in the background of Sylvia’s end of the call. “How well I know. Anyway, Zoe was up. Did you know the Krolls are planning to sell the farm to Dave Evans?”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t think you did. When I was babysitting Maddie on Saturday, he stopped in looking for Mrs. Kroll. I got the impression it wasn’t the first time he’d tried to catch her at home. He must have come back later.”

  “Saturday?” Pete’s brain threatened to explode. “Dave Evans was at the farm on Saturday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

  “You never asked. Why?”

  Saturday. The fire at the barn. The man who claimed to be interested in boarding his horse there. “I’m an idiot,” Pete muttered. He had known Sylvia had been at the farm that day. Hell, he’d sat in Mrs. Kroll’s kitchen talking to her. And Maddie. About Holt’s University of Kentucky ball cap. If Evans had been there the same day, it would have been a simple matter for him to pocket the hat and plant it near the body later.

  Sylvia grunted. “You’ll get no argument from me. Wait. What? Hold on.”

  “Sylvia?”

  There was a muffled scratching noise on the phone, as if she was trying to mute the call with a hand over the speaker. From the valley below, distant sirens wailed. Now what?

  The phone line cleared. “Oh my God,” Sylvia said, gasping.

  “What is it?”

  “Pete, a fire call just came in. The Kroll farmhouse is burning.”

  Mrs. Kroll had slumped over. Adrenaline numbed Zoe’s hip, and she raced to her landlady’s side. As gently as possible, Zoe eased her onto her back and leaned over her, feeling for a carotid pulse and watching for some hint of breath.

  There was neither.

  Zoe pinched Mrs. Kroll’s nostrils shut and blew two breaths into her mouth. Watched the woman’s chest slowly fall as the air released. But there was no spontaneous inhalation.

  Zoe scooted over, palpated the bottom edge of Mrs. Kroll’s sternum, the xiphoid process, and, using it as a guide, positioned her hands for chest compressions. Behind her, Maddie sobbed. But Zoe didn’t have time to comfort the girl. She counted each powerful downward thrust. One, two, three, four, five, six…

  Her shoulder protested with every beat, but she blocked it from her mind. At thirty, she shifted for two more breaths before returning to compressions.

  Half of her brain counted. She’d only performed CPR without the benefit of an ambulance and its advanced life support equipment once before. The time she’d been in the middle of a crowd at a flea market. An ambulance had been summoned and was on its way. She’d only needed to sustain life for a few minutes even though it had felt much longer.

  This time there was no way to call for help. No one coming. No defibrillator. If Mrs. Kroll’s heart didn’t kick back into rhythm on its own…

  …twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. Shift. Two breaths. Shift back. Pump and count.

  How long could she keep this up? The rule was continue until skilled medical assistance arrived to take over. Or until you were physically exhausted and unable to continue.

  …eighteen, nineteen, twenty…

  No. She would not let Mrs. Kroll die.

  …twenty-nine, thirty. Shift. Breathe. Shift. Compress and count.

  She had only one hope. “Ma
ddie.”

  The sobbing had stopped, but the little girl didn’t answer.

  Zoe risked a glance over her shoulder. She and Mrs. Kroll were alone.

  …five, six, seven…

  “Maddie?”

  …ten, eleven, twelve…

  Where on earth had the kid gone?

  When Zoe completed the thirty compressions, she paused, taking a moment to check for a pulse. To watch for unassisted breathing. None.

  “Maddie!” Zoe yelled.

  Could she have somehow gone for help? Or had Evans gotten back into the basement and snatched her while Zoe focused on Mrs. Kroll?

  Two more rescue breaths.

  Before Zoe could decide whether to feel hope or despair, as she positioned her hands over her landlady’s sternum for more compressions, a new concern crept into her consciousness.

  She sniffed. No.

  Good God, no.

  Smoke.

  The moment Pete drove clear of Tierney’s fence, he stole a glance across the rolling hills toward the Kroll farm. Zoe’s farm. A thin gray wisp rose above the towering pines that blocked his view of the house.

  Zoe’s house.

  He flipped on the sirens. Mashed the gas pedal to the floor. And careened down the hill, Baronick’s sedan on his back bumper. At the bottom, Pete checked for traffic and then blew through the stop sign hanging the left onto Route 15. Tires squealed, and the Explorer swayed, skidded, but held the road.

  One lousy mile felt like a hundred. At least traffic was light. The two vehicles he roared up behind pulled out of his way. He glanced in the rearview mirror. Baronick was keeping up with him.

  Zoe had been on duty last night. She’d be home now. Possibly asleep if she’d been up all night as Sylvia suggested. Did they have smoke detectors in the old house?

  Pete dug his phone from his pocket. Speed-dialed Zoe’s number. It rang five, six times before going to voicemail.

  Damn it.

  Maybe she was out in the barn. Maybe she wasn’t home at all, but was out looking for Maddie. Surely Zoe would be okay.

  Zoe had to be okay.

  Pete cleared the final bend in the road and barreled down the straightaway. Massive old pines partially blocked his view of the house, but he could see the smoke drifting above them.

  A tractor-trailer came around the turn just beyond the farm lane. Pete jammed his foot to the floor and veered across in front of the semi. The driver hit the brakes and the air horn. Pete muscled the SUV’s steering wheel, fighting to maintain control against the ruts in the red-dog gravel. He didn’t look back. Hoped Baronick was okay. But figured the detective could take care of himself.

  As the lane swept around toward the back of the house, Pete got his first awful view of the Kroll farmhouse on fire. Flames engulfed the enclosed back porch, orange tongues lapping through the windows, reaching back over the tin roof toward the main body of the structure. Zoe’s truck sat in its usual spot. Next to it, a navy pickup with the words Dave Evans, Land Developer stenciled on the side.

  Pete dove out of his SUV. Where was Zoe? Her truck was here. If she was safe outside, she’d be doing something. Dragging out a garden hose to fight the fire.

  She was inside the house. He knew it. Trying to save Mrs. Kroll or the cats. Or both. He started down the path, but a hand clamped onto his arm, stopping him. Baronick. “Let’s be smart about this.”

  Above the crackle and pop of the hungry fire, sirens grew closer. The ancient timber of the old house wasn’t going to wait to be saved by the fire department. “You be smart,” Pete snapped. “I’m getting Zoe out of there.”

  “Do you know for certain she’s in there?”

  Pete gave him a look. Baronick had gotten to know Zoe well enough over the last six months. “What do you think?”

  The detective let out a growl. “Yeah. But we aren’t going through that.” He tipped his head at the flames which were now blackening the one-story add-on, which housed Zoe’s kitchen.

  “The front door,” Pete said.

  Both men took off, charging down the hill, through the gate. A scream pierced the roar of the fire. Pete veered toward the sound, around the side of the house.

  The sight of a man gripping a wriggling Maddie Farabee in one hand and a red gas can, the cap hanging open, in the other stopped Pete cold.

  Baronick bumped him from behind as he pulled up short.

  “Dave Evans, I presume.” Pete said, forcing himself to stay calm. Behind him, he heard, sensed the detective un-holstering his weapon.

  “Stay back,” the man shouted.

  Maddie strained against him. “Lemme go!”

  “Do what she says, Evans.” Pete kept his voice even, authoritative. “Let her go.”

  The man dropped the gas can softly at his feet. Readjusted his hold on the girl. “I can’t do that.”

  “I’m going around,” Baronick whispered and backed away.

  “Don’t move,” Evans yelled.

  But Baronick disregarded the order, spun, and bolted. Pete contained a smile. Evans didn’t appear to have a gun or a knife. Just a squirming ten-year-old.

  Pete held up both hands and took a step toward them. “You need to let her go. Now.”

  “And I told you. I can’t.” Evans held up his free hand.

  Pete swore. No, Evans didn’t have a gun or a knife. He had a lighter. And an open gas can at his feet.

  Maddie twisted hard, nearly breaking his grip. “Lemme go.”

  Evans held fast, jerking her back against him. She let out a yelp.

  Damn it. Pete didn’t have time for hostage negotiations. A wave of smoke rolled over the roof of Zoe’s kitchen. The sizzle and snap of flames grew louder, closer. He was vaguely aware of the throaty rumble of a fire engine grinding to a halt behind the burning house. And he was keenly aware Zoe was nowhere to be seen.

  “Listen to me,” Evans said. “You’re going to back off and let me walk out of here with the girl.”

  “Not gonna happen.”

  He held the lighter above the gas can. “I’ve heard gas fumes from an empty tank are even more combustible than the gasoline itself. If I light this thing, there isn’t gonna be much left of this little kid.”

  Pete’s jaw ached. This was the kind of sick bastard he lived to put away. “The flaw to your plan is there won’t be much left to you either.”

  “Doesn’t matter. I imagine you know I’ve already killed two people.”

  Or more. “Yeah. I do. So what makes you think I’m gonna let you go and take her with you?”

  “It’s her only chance.” Evans turned his head side to side, as if saying no in slow motion. “I never wanted to kill Lillian Farabee. I just wanted her old man to back off. She wasn’t even supposed to be home.”

  “You wanted to kill Holt, but she died instead?”

  Maddie let out a wail. Evans gave her a shake. “Shut up.” To Pete he said, “I didn’t intend to kill him either. I only wanted him to know I meant business. If he realized I could get into his house, he’d know I wasn’t kidding.”

  Pete spotted Baronick, gun in hand, at the front of the house, behind Evans and Maddie. “Well, you proved your point, didn’t you?”

  “For all the good it’s done me.” Evans switched hands on Maddie, and for a moment Pete thought he might release her. Instead he grabbed her ponytail, wrapping it around the hand that wasn’t holding the lighter.

  The girl squealed.

  “Pick up the can,” he told her.

  “No,” she howled.

  “Do it,” he hissed.

  This was his plan? Walk out of there with Maddie, the gas can, and a lighter. He might as well have a bomb strapped to her.

  From the corner of Pete’s eye, he knew the entire rear
of the farmhouse was fully involved. Firefighters dragged hoses from the truck and shouted orders over the din. Additional fire apparatus rumbled past on Route 15 below, slowing to make the turn. But it wouldn’t matter. The Kroll farmhouse was doomed.

  Where was Zoe?

  In one practiced move, Pete brought his Glock up, leveled at Dave Evans. “Are you a betting man?”

  Evans froze, staring at the muzzle of the Glock, his mouth hanging open. But he held tight to Maddie’s ponytail.

  “I am,” Pete said. “And I’m willing to bet I can make this shot before you can flick that Bic of yours.”

  Evans appeared to be considering his odds.

  Pete glanced past Evans and the girl to Baronick who stood several yards behind them. “And,” Pete went on. “If I miss, the county detective back there will definitely get you. One way or another, you are not leaving here with the child. Let. Her. Go.”

  Evans looked down for a moment. When he lifted his head again, he fixed Pete with a tired stare. “I’m not going to jail.” He held out the hand with the lighter. His thumb twitched.

  The two gunshots were nearly drowned out by the sharp crack of Zoe’s kitchen’s outer walls collapsing and the roof crashing into the inferno.

  Thirty-three

  “Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.” Zoe shifted and forced two labored breaths into Mrs. Kroll’s lungs.

  Smoke hung close to the basement’s ceiling. Kneeling on the floor, Zoe remained beneath most of it. For now. Still, the air was getting hot, oxygen depleted. Her nose and throat burned.

  The house above them was on fire. She knew that. Her beloved home. Her beloved cats.

  She couldn’t allow herself to think about her cats. Poor Jade and Merlin.

  Eventually the house would collapse into the basement.

  They never listed that as one of the reasons to stop CPR.

  She shifted again, positioned her hands, and counted. Out loud now. She needed to focus on the sound, the rhythm of her own words, to keep going. “One. Two. Three…” She had to keep going.