The breath rushes from her in a sound that’s part roar, part scream. She lets go of the rifle, reels backward into the stove.
“Do not move!” I shout. “Do not fucking move!”
I’m checking to see if there’s a bullet in the chamber when she turns toward the stove.
“I will shoot you!” I scream. “Get down on the floor!”
She yanks the pot from the stove. Water sloshes over the side as she spins toward me. The jars clank together as she hurls the pot at me. Boiling water spews onto my clothes, my face and neck. I know I’m being scalded, but there’s too much adrenaline for me to feel pain. I use the rifle like a bat, slam it against the side of her head with such force that she’s knocked off her feet.
Somewhere in the periphery of my consciousness, I hear a mason jar shatter as it hits the floor. Blood spatters the counter as Irene Mast goes down. The sensation of heat streaks down my neck, my right shoulder, my breast.
Irene Mast is lying on her side, not moving. Glass crunches beneath my feet as I cross to her, nudge her with my toe. She’s deadweight. Her eyes are open, but she’s not quite conscious. The blow opened a gash the size of my index finger just in front of her ear.
My hand shakes as I reach for my cuffs, only I’m not wearing my uniform belt. I look around for something with which to secure her hands, spot a towel on the floor. Using my teeth, I tear it into three strips and tie them together. Kneeling, I roll her over, pull her arms behind her back. As I secure her wrists, I glance toward the basement door behind me, half-expecting an armed Perry Mast to burst out shooting. I don’t think I’m in any condition to go another round.
I get to my feet, give Irene Mast a final look. “Don’t go anywhere,” I mutter. Picking up the rifle, I start toward the back door.
Midway through the mudroom, I pull out my phone, punch 911. Standing to one side, I move the curtain with the muzzle and peer out. I notice two things simultaneously. My Explorer is nowhere in sight. And a Trumbull County Crown Vic is parked in the same place my Explorer had been parked just a short time earlier. Where the hell is the deputy?
“Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”
Once more, I identify myself and tell her the sheriff’s cruiser is here but that there’s no sign of the deputy. “He could be down. Perry Mast is armed with a rifle and shooting at cops.”
“Ten-four. Stand by.”
The cruiser is too far away for me to discern if the deputy is inside, injured or otherwise. He could be in the barn or one of the outbuildings, searching for me. Unless Mast shot him . . .
I look down at the rifle in my hands. It’s an old Winchester with a tubular magazine. There’s no quick way to tell how much ammo is inside. When I pump the lever, I see a single bullet move into place. Better make it count.
“There’s another deputy en route,” says the dispatcher.
“What’s the ETA?”
“Six minutes.”
It’s not an unreasonable amount of time for a rural call. But a lot can happen in six minutes.
Clipping the phone to my belt, I peer through the window again. The yard between the house and barn is deserted. No sign of the deputy. No sign of Perry Mast. I hate not knowing where he is. It would take only a few minutes for him to double back and exit through the slaughter shed. He could be anywhere.
I open the door and step into a light rain. Feeling exposed, keeping low, with the rifle at the ready, I descend the porch steps and jog toward the cruiser. The headlights and wipers are on, but the engine is off. I’m twenty feet away when I notice blood spatter on the passenger window. From ten feet away, I can make out the silhouette of the deputy. He’s slumped over the steering wheel, still wearing his hat.
“Shit,” I mutter, my steps quickening. “Shit.”
Keeping an eye on the barn, the slaughter shed, listening for any sound from the house behind me, I try the passenger door, but it’s locked. I sidle around the front of the car. The hood is warm, the engine ticking as it cools. I approach the driver’s side. The window is shattered. I look inside, see blood and glass on the deputy’s shoulders. There’s more on the headrest, on the sleeves of his uniform shirt.
I reach through the broken window, unlock the door, and open it. The deputy’s hands are at his sides, knuckles down. Blood covers the steering wheel and the thighs of his uniform slacks. Chunks of glass glitter on the seat. The scene is almost too much to process.
“Deputy,” I whisper. “Deputy. Can you hear me?”
No response.
The stench of blood assails me when I reach in and remove his hat. The bullet penetrated his left jaw. His face has been devastated. Most of the flesh of his cheek has peeled away. Some of the teeth have blown out, along with part of his tongue. The cup of his ear is filled with blood and has trickled down, soaking his collar. Even before I press my finger against his carotid artery, I know he’s dead.
“Goddamn it.”
Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t touch anything at a crime scene or risk contaminating evidence. But with an armed suspect at large in the immediate vicinity, I’m in imminent danger. I need a weapon. Unsnapping the leather strap of the deputy’s holster, I slide a .40-caliber Glock from its nest and back away from the vehicle.
Using the lever, I eject six bullets from the rifle, drop them in my pocket, and toss the rifle on the ground. I look toward the house. No movement. Aside from the steady rap of rain against the car, the muddy slap of it against the ground, the farm stands in absolute silence. But I know I’m being watched. I feel it as surely as I feel the rain streaming down my face. Did Mast double back and exit through the slaughter shed? Or is he watching me from the house, his finger itchy on the trigger?
The sound of tires on gravel draws my attention. Relief skitters through me when I see a Trumbull County cruiser barrel up the lane, lights flashing. I wave, and the vehicle veers toward me, skids to a halt a few feet behind the other cruiser. A male deputy lunges from the car, a shotgun aimed at me. “Drop that fuckin’ gun! Get your hands up!”
“I’m a cop! I called.”
He keeps his eye on the house, the shotgun trained on me. “Show me your ID.”
Slowly, I reach into my pocket, pull out my badge. “I’m with BCI.”
He’s a solid, muscular guy with sandy hair and a handlebar mustache. He takes a good look at my badge and lowers the shotgun. But his attention has already moved on to the other cruiser. “What happened?”
“He’s down.”
“Aw, man.” He dashes to the cruiser and peers through the passenger window. “Fuck!” He stares at the body, his face screwing up. “Walker! Fuck!” He spins toward me, his expression ravaged. “What happened?”
“Perry Mast shot him. He’s armed with a rifle. In a tunnel below-ground. He’s got hostages down there.”
He looks at me as if I’m speaking in a foreign language. “What?” He fumbles with his lapel mike, his hand shaking. “Six-nine-two. I got shots fired at the Mast farm. Walker’s down. I need backup.”
A gunshot rings out. Simultaneously, we drop to a crouch.
“Where the fuck did that come from?” he snarls.
Another shot snaps through the air. A tinny whack sounds and I see a hole the size of my pinkie tear into the cruiser two feet away. “Barn!” I shout.
Staying low, we circle around, take cover on the opposite side of the car.
“Shots fired!” he shouts into his mike. “Possible ten-ninety-three,” he says, referring to the hostages. “Male suspect armed with a rifle.”