Barbereaux turns to me, his eyes as dead as the man on the floor. “Looks like it’s just me and you now.” He levels the gun at my left thigh. “Broken femur’s going to hurt. I suggest you start talking. Where’s the kid?”
Adrenaline crashes through me. My arms and legs shake uncontrollably. I’m dizzy with pain and shock. But I know it’s now or never. He’s going to kill me and stage the scene so it looks like Warner and I exchanged gunfire, killing each other. Barbereaux’s going to get away scot-free.
“At a farmhouse nearby,” I say.
“Where?”
“Down the road. Five minutes. Left on Dog Leg Road.” I give him a bogus address and then shift my gaze to the dead man. “He’s still alive.”
Barbereaux jerks his head left to look, and I make my move. Pain explodes in my chest as I level the .22 on him. He makes eye contact with me an instant before I fire.
Two shots. His body jolts. I see disbelief on his face. He brings up the gun. I fire the final three bullets. Two in the chest. One in the shoulder. No more ammo. My finger keeps jerking. The empty chamber clicks.
Click. Click. Click.
Barbereaux steps back. For an instant, time stands still. He stares at me. His mouth opens. I see blood on his teeth. More blood blooming on his shirt. He glances down at it. His knees buckle and hit the floor hard. Then he falls face down and doesn’t move.
I struggle to my knees. The room tilts beneath me. Cradling my left arm, I crawl on my knees to Barbereaux. He lies perfectly still with his head to one side. He’s alive; his eyes are on me. My .38 lies a few inches from his right hand. I know I’m screwing up the crime scene, but I don’t care.
Picking up the .38, I level it at his forehead. “This is for what you did to Mary Plank, you son of a bitch.” I feel nothing when I pull the trigger.
Only then do I realize I’m sobbing. Loud, wrenching cries that fill the house with the sound of pain. I need my radio to call for help. But I want my cell phone. I need Tomasetti.
Somehow I make it to my feet. I stumble around in the dark. In the light from the window, I glance down to see my left arm hanging uselessly at my side. Blood dripping off my fingertips. A steady roar of pain climbs all the way up to my shoulder. My hand is numb.
I find my cell phone and radio in the living room where Barbereaux must have set them. I hit the radio first. “Ten-thirty-three.” My voice is little more than a whisper.
T.J.’s voice crackles, but I don’t reply. Unconsciousness beckons, a big dark hole tugging me down. Don’t pass out, a little voice inside my head warns. One more thing to do . . .
I hit the speed dial for Tomasetti. I hear his voice, but I’m not sure if it’s in my head or if he’s really there. “I got him.” The weakness of my own voice surprises me. “I got the motherfucker.”
“Kate, where are you?”
“Zook . . . farm.”
“How bad are you hurt?”
“I’m not sure.” My voice cracks. “Hurry. I need you . . .”
I need you . . .
Her words rang inside his head like the echo of a lover’s scream. Tomasetti could tell by the sound of her voice she was injured. That she didn’t know the extent of her injuries told him it was bad. The thought sent a bare-fisted punch of terror right through the center of him.
His hands shook so violently, he nearly dropped his cell as he dialed the Painters Mill PD. The night-shift operator picked up on the first ring. He quickly identified himself. “I need an ambulance out at the Zook farm. We’ve got an officer down out there.”
Keys clicked. “En route.” The line hissed for a second. “T.J. called a moment ago. He can’t get Skid or Kate on their radios.”
“Goddamnit.” Tomasetti cranked the speedometer up to sixty as he sped through town. He blew the stoplight at Main and headed toward the Zook farm. “Get the sheriff’s office out there, too.”
“Roger that.”
Snapping his phone closed, Tomasetti floored the accelerator, burying the speedometer along a straight stretch of highway, then dropped it down at the turn that would take him to Hogpath Road. The Tahoe skidded on the wet pavement as he hauled the wheel right. His headlights flashed over yellow corn to the left and the tall trees of a greenbelt beyond. Somehow he maintained control, pointed the Tahoe north, pushed the accelerator to the floor.
You’re too late.
He tried to quiet the little voice inside his head. He remembered all too well that awful night in Cleveland. He’d arrived to find his house engulfed in flames, found his wife and little girls dead inside. It wasn’t until after the autopsy days later that he’d learned they’d been tortured and burned alive.
You’re too late.
“Shut up,” he muttered. “Shut the fuck up!”
A person could bleed to death in a matter of minutes. The thought shook him so completely, he nearly ran off the road. He could feel the fear climbing over him, an ugly lumbering beast that tore him up from the inside out.