I can feel the energy of the storm now. That sharp zing in the air, the anticipation of violence. I feel a similar anticipation running through my veins. Predator hunting predator. I’m ready for him.
The cloud cover obliterates any moonlight and the house is incredibly dark. I wish for a flashlight as I descend the stairs. But even blind and deaf, I feel as if my other senses are heightened. Even with the thunder and the drone of the rain, I would know if someone were in the house.
I’m reassured by the .38 in my pocket, the backup .22 sheathed at my thigh, the knife in my boot. I’ve branded the location of each weapon into my brain. When the time comes, reaching for the right one will be second nature, pure instinct, no hesitation. Pausing at the front door, I check the knob. Unlocked, the way I want it. I peek out the window. Lightning flickers, illuminating the white rail fence and the cherry tree beyond the porch. The rain is coming down in torrents. The branches of the trees sway in the wind, spindly fingers clawing at the night sky.
The rain will affect visibility. If someone were to approach the house on foot, Skid and T.J. may not see them. They wouldn’t be able to alert me. But I’m not unduly alarmed. The killer is expecting an Amish family, not an armed cop.
Leaving the living room, I head toward the kitchen, keeping an eye on the windows. I’ve already decided that if someone were to enter the house, they’ll probably do it via the kitchen door. It’s the point of entry farthest from the bedrooms. Not visible from the road. And there’s plenty of glass to break if needed. Tonight, that won’t be necessary because I’ve left the door unlocked. . . .
I decide to spend the night there, at the table, where I have a decent view of both the rear and front doors. If I’m going to get ambushed, I want to see him coming.
I enter the kitchen. Cool, wet air brushes against my legs. The hairs at my nape prickle. Lightning flashes, illuminating the silhouette of a man, standing just inside the door. Adrenaline blasts through me. I reach for the .38. Hand in my pocket, fingers closing around the wood stock. Gun coming up. Finger on the trigger.
I’ve got you, fucker.
“Police!” My voice comes out as a scream. “Put your hands up now!”
Lightning flickers like a strobe. I catch a split-second glimpse of wet hair plastered to a pale face. Water dripping onto the floor. Recognition kicks my brain. Jack Warner, I realize and shock reverberates in my head.
He doesn’t obey my command.
“Get them up!” I scream. “Now!”
I see something in his hand. Too dark to discern what it is. His hand rises. I fire twice in quick succession, center of mass. Thunder drowns out the sound of my gunfire. He stiffens, then drops to his knees.
Something clatters to the floor. Gun, I think. Keeping my weapon poised on the intruder, I kick it away. “Get facedown on the floor! Do it right fucking now!”
“You shot me.”
His voice is startlingly boyish. I’m shaking violently, but my gun hand is steady. If he moves I have no compunction about finishing the job. “Don’t move,” I say as I reach for my radio.
“Drop the gun, bitch. Or I’ll shoot you where you stand.”
The voice comes from behind me. Shock is a knife slash across my back. Two of them, I think. For an instant, I consider spinning, taking a wild shot. But he’s got me dead to rights. Lowering my weapon, I slowly turn. I see the silhouette of a man. The black outline of a sawed-off shotgun.
Lightning flashes.
Recognition staggers me. Scott Barbereaux levels the shotgun at my chest. I see deadly intent in his eyes, and I know as surely as the rain pounds down outside that he’s going to kill me.
“Drop the gun, bitch.”
Knowing I have a backup weapon, I offer the .38. butt first.
Barbereaux makes no move to take it. “Drop it and kick it to me.”
Moving slowly, I do as he says, kicking it so that he has to come closer to retrieve it.
He directs his attention to his fallen comrade. “How bad are you hurt?”
“She got me twice,” Warner chokes out. “I’m bleeding. I think it’s bad.”
“You’re going to be okay. Hold tight.”
In that moment, I realize I probably only have seconds to live. Terror sweeps through me. Vaguely, I wonder if I can hit my lapel mike without being noticed. Even if I can do that, I know that unless I can somehow keep Barbereaux and Warner talking, T.J. and Skid won’t be able to get here in time to save me.
I look down at Warner. He’s lying on the floor to my left, bent slightly, holding his abdomen with both hands. A slowly growing puddle of blood encircles his body like a black halo.
I turn my attention to Barbereaux. “I’ve got EMT training. Let me stop the bleeding.”
Barbereaux hikes the shotgun. “Where’s that fucking Amish kid?”
Only then do I realize he still believes Billy Zook can identify him. I try to think of a way I can use that to my advantage. A dozen lies fly at my brain. “I’ll take you to him,” I blurt out.