"In there," he whispered, pointing to the pantry.
A breathless moment, then the light Shane had turned on in the back hallway went off. The house was thrown into darkness.
As they crouched in the darkened pantry, Shane slipped his service revolver out of his belt holster and pulled the hammer back. He held the Smith amp;c Wesson.38-caliber roundwheel out in front of him with both hands, using a two-hand Weaver grip. He could hear three, maybe four men conducting a careful search, looking for them. One of the men moved into the kitchen.
"In here, Cal," the man called out. The kitchen lights went on, exposing Shane and Barbara cowering in the back of the pantry. Shane aimed his revolver at the overhead light and put a round in the fixture, shattering glass and throwing the kitchen back into blackness.
Then all hell broke loose.
Gun muzzles flashed in the darkness. Shane pushed Barbara down, grabbed a can off the pantry shelf, and threw it out into the kitchen. It landed on the counter across the room, and where it hit, shots rang out, breaking glass.
Shane grabbed Barbara's hand and pulled her out of the pantry, into the kitchen. He ran full into one of the men, knocking him down, then heard the man's gun hit the floor and slide on the linoleum. Shane dove into the dining room, pulling Barbara. When they landed, two more shots lit the kitchen with their muzzle flashes as the slugs slammed into the dining-room wall over their heads. Shane rolled off his back, came up into a sitting position, and blindly fired all five of his remaining shots into the kitchen. He heard somebody yell in pain, then there were footsteps running. The back door was thrown open. He could hear people fleeing along the side of the house.
"Barbara, you okay?" he whispered.
"Uh-huh," she replied.
Shane got to his feet. His gun was empty, so he knocked open the revolver, tilted it up and dropped the hot brass into his palm, then quickly dumped the shells into his jacket pocket. He pulled his quick-load off his belt and pushed the six-slug package into his open revolver, then snapped it shut. A speedboat at the dock started, and he heard it roar away.
"Stay there," he said, and stepped into the kitchen, his gun out in front of him, combat-style. He moved slowly across the room and finally found the light switch in the pantry. He flipped it on. Whoever he had hit had left about half a pint of blood behind, but somehow had managed to escape. Then he heard a siren's distant wail across the lake.
"These bohunk sheriffs have even better response time than we do," Shane said. "Let's get outta here."
He had dropped the bagged videotape box in the gun battle, and it took him almost half a minute to find it. On his way out of the kitchen, he saw an answering machine sitting on the counter. He grabbed the entire unit and yanked it out of the wall. Then, leading Barbara, he ran out the side door of the house.
The siren was dangerously close. Shane ran up the street, pulling Barbara along. Suddenly he stopped, reached down, and stuffed the videotape box, camera, and answering machine into an overgrown hedge, wedging it way down, out of sight.
Shane and Barbara sprinted to his car. He got behind the wheel, and they took off. As he streaked out of the side street, he ran right into the headlights of the arriving sheriff's car. Shane jerked the wheel, hit the gas hard, and powered past the black-and-white. The sheriff's car spun a U-turn and came after them.
"What're you doing? Why don't you stop? You're a cop!" Barbara shouted.
Shane didn't answer. He had his hands full and his foot on it, trying to take as many corners as he could to get out of sight of the pursuing police unit.
Finally he made a skidding right turn and accelerated down a narrow street. Bad choice. He had picked a residential cul-de-sac and slammed on the brakes. He started to turn around when the sheriff's car squealed in behind them. The two cops were out instantly, crouching behind their squad-car doors. One had a shotgun resting in the window frame.
"On your stomach, assholes!" the shotgun officer yelled. "Do it now!"
"Do as he says," Shane ordered Barbara. He opened the door, dropped his revolver, and kicked it across the pavement toward the sheriff's car. "LAPD!" he yelled.
"On your stomach, now!" the man repeated. Shane and Barbara did as they were told. In seconds he could feel a sheriff's deputy's hot breath on his neck, and cold steel handcuffs on his wrists. They were ratcheted down hard. In L. A. it was what they called an "adrenaline cuff." His hands were pinned painfully behind his back, then he and Barbara were jerked up onto their feet and shoved into the back of the sheriff's car.
Chapter 19
THE ARROWHEAD SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT was wedged in betveen a gas station and a small country market. The parking L: behind the station had three empty Plain Janes.
Shane and Barbara were unloaded from the back of the patrol car and shoved angrily into the station. The two arresting officers were still burning off their chase adrenaline.
Shane was pushed into a chair at the booking desk while Barbara was taken into another room. Separate interviews were always the rule in any half-decent police department. All cops quickly learned that most criminals never expect to get caught. As a result, they rarely have a cover story. One would tell you he was going to the market to get beer; the other would say they were picking up a sick aunt. Separating suspects to take statements was pro forma.
Shane was pissed at himself for making the same dumb mistake as every deadhead felon he had ever busted. He didn't know what Barbara would say, so he planned to tell them the exact truth.
The Arrowhead Sheriff's Department was in turmoil. Earlier that day they had found a dead body in the lake. From what Shane could pick up, it was so decomposed that they hadn't been able to make an ID. In L. A., a dead body was no big deal, but up here an unexplained death was the kind of unusual tragedy it should be everywhere. Shane watched as the tall, balding, fifty-five-year-old sheriff of Arrowhead made multiple calls to the coroner's office. After five minutes he hung up and walked over to Shane. His nameplate read SHERIFF CONKLYN.
"Sorry to add to your problems, Sheriff," Shane said pleasantly.
"What's your story?" Conklyn asked angrily.
"I'm LAPD. I'm up here working on a case."
The sheriff nodded to one of the deputies, who handed Shane's leather ID wallet to Conklyn. He opened it and looked at Shane's tin.
"If you're a cop, why did you run?" the sheriff said, looking at him critically.
"I'm out of my jurisdiction and I didn't take the time to check with you guys like I should have, so I just decided to get small," he said. "Bad choice. Your guys were magnificent."
"Put away the jar of Vaseline," Conklyn said. "You got a CO we can call?"
"I'd really appreciate it if we didn't have to do that," Shane said. "He's not going to be happy."
"It's a big club. I'm not happy." He pointed to his deputies. "They're not happy. You're up here on Lake View Drive, busting caps, and now I've got lots of unhappy people in houses up there. All of a sudden it's like Mexican New Year."
"My captain is Bud Halley," Shane relented. "He's in Southwest Division Robbery/Homicide."
The sheriff took one of Shane's business cards out of his wallet and went to the phone. He talked softly for a minute, waited, then hung up and dialed another number. The second call was taking entirely too long, and Shane's danger lights started flashing. After another minute Sheriff Conklyn moved back and unhooked Shane's cuffs.
"He wants to talk to you," he said.
Shane went behind the counter and picked up the phone. "Captain?"