CHAPTER 19
I land on my back hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs. The back of my head strikes the ground. I’m sprawled with my arms stretched above my head. I’m still clutching my .38, but I can’t move. I can’t speak or shout. I can’t draw a breath.
I lie there, trying to suck air into compressed lungs. The ceiling of the building is a blur of steel beams, broken lights, patches of rust, and scraps of dry grass from birds’ nests. An undignified sound grinds from my throat as I roll onto my side, wheezing. I glance at the loading dock, half expecting to see the shooter with a rifle shouldered, but there’s no one there. The broken rail dangles by a single cable, still swaying. The steel post was rusted through and snapped when I leaned against it.
“Damn it. Damn it.” I’m aware of my radio cracking and spitting, urgent voices and codes I should know but can’t seem to remember. I need to reply, but I’m still trying to get air into my lungs. My chest hurts. The small of my back. I move my legs and I’m relieved when they work. Propping myself on an elbow, I sit up.
Where the hell is the shooter?
I get to my feet. Crouching, I stumble to the loading-dock wall and peek over the top. There’s no one there. I raise my .38 and call out. “Painters Mill PD! Drop your weapon!”
My voice echoes wispy and high within the building. I listen for footsteps, for a door opening or closing, an engine in the lot out front, but I get nothing. I fumble for my lapel mike. “Ten-thirty-one E! Shots fired! Need assistance!”
“What’s your twenty? What’s your goddamn twenty?” comes a voice I don’t recognize.
“County Road Twenty-four,” I say. “Hewitt Hog Producers.”
“Ten-seven-six,” comes another. Glock, I realize. Calm. Determined. Capable. Glock. “ETA two minutes.”
*
“Chief!”
I’m standing at the base of the loading dock, .38 in hand, listening to the radio traffic, when I hear Glock’s voice.
“I’m here!”
He’s standing just inside the door, sidearm at the ready, shotgun slung over his shoulder. Kevlar vest thrown on over his uniform shirt. I know from the radio that a Coshocton County deputy has gone around the back. Another is in his cruiser, circling the block.
I take the steps to the dock, trying to conceal the fact that my legs are shaking. “You clear the front?”
“No one there.” He jogs toward me, his eyes assessing. “You hit?”
“No, I’m okay.”
His eyes take in the dangling rail. “You fall?”
“Rail gave way.” I brush bits of dried grass and dirt from my slacks. “I busted my ass.”
“You need an ambulance?”
I shake my head. “Nope. I’m fine.”
Sirens sound in the near distance. I know multiple agencies are responding. Coshocton County. Holmes County. I know they’re already setting up a perimeter on the little-used roads surrounding the facility. Searching the immediate area.
“You get a look at him?” Glock asks. All the while his eyes scan the interior of the building, the door, the open area at the rear.
I shake my head. “No.”
“Vehicle?”
Another shake.
“How many shots?”
“Three.”
Shouts sound at the front of the building. “Sheriff’s department! Sheriff’s department!”
“Clear!” Glock calls out. “Painters Mill PD! Over here.”
I glance over to see two uniformed Coshocton county deputies enter, eyes sweeping, sidearms drawn. One carries a shotgun.
“You think Kester is stupid enough to pull something like this?” Glock asks.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I hold his gaze. “He was pretty pissed last time I talked to him.”
His jaw clenches. “You sure you don’t need to get yourself checked out?” He motions toward the busted rail. “That’s a five-foot fall.”
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me. Like he’s worried and pissed off and once I’m out of the picture he might cut loose with something unbecoming a cop.
“I don’t want you talking to Kester when you’re half-cocked,” I tell him.
“Chief, if that motherfucker’s taking potshots at cops, someone needs to shut him down.”
“Find out where he’s living,” I say. “Get a search warrant and pick him up.”
The sound of voices from the front of the building draws my attention. Deputy Fowler “Folly” Hodges and a second deputy I don’t recognize come through the door.
“I’m probably going to be tied up here for a while,” I tell Glock. “If the judge gives you any shit, tell him to call me. Take Skid with you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Giving me a mock salute, he turns to leave.
“Glock.”
He stops and turns.
“And if it’s not too much trouble, be careful.”
*