“You wouldn’t be the first cop to eat a bullet because of the job.”
“Here’s a reality check for you, Detrick. Tomasetti knows what you did. He’s going to take you down. Your problems are just beginning.”
Moving with the speed of a striking snake, he grasps both sides of my face with his hands and pulls me close. “I’d sell my soul right now to cut you,” he whispers. “I’d slice you open and pull out your intestines the way I did the Johnston girl. Then I’d turn you over and stick it in places where you good girls don’t like it stuck in.”
I steel myself against his closeness, against the horror of the words. I stare at him, hating him, hating everything he is. “You do that and the cops will know I didn’t commit suicide. How are you going to put these murders on Jonas if another body turns up while he’s in jail?”
“You think you’re real smart, don’t you? Let me tell you something. There are a lot of things I can do to you the cops won’t be able to detect if this place burns down with you in it.” He motions toward the heater. “You put that thing too close to those curtains and this dump will go up like it was the Fourth of July.”
I shudder when he runs his tongue down my cheek. I smell garlic on his breath. The musk of drugstore cologne. The warmth of his breath against my face. The wetness of his spit on my skin.
“As long as I don’t break any bones, the fire will take care of any evidence. I wear a condom, you know.” He pats his coat pocket. “Got a whole box right here just for you.”
I head-butt him in the face as hard as I can. I hear his nose crack. He shoves me, cursing, and clutches his face. I catch a glimpse of blood between his fingers an instant before I land hard on my backside. I don’t wait for him to come after me. I roll toward the Kimber he dropped, wiggle like a worm until my right hand brushes the grip. If I can get my fingers around it . . .
Detrick kicks the weapon away. I look up to see him slide the knife from his pocket. He leans over me. I roll onto my back. Raising both legs, I mule kick him. He reels backward, arms flailing. I hear glass shatter, realize I nearly sent him through the window. I flip onto my side and look wildly for the gun. My last chance. My only chance of getting out of this alive.
But the Kimber is nowhere in sight. I squirm frantically in the direction he kicked it. Detrick’s hands come down hard on my shoulders. I twist, try to get into position to kick him again. I see his arm come toward me.
Crack!
Five hundred thousand volts of electricity ignite every nerve ending in my body. Pain wrenches a scream from my throat. My muscles contract. Light explodes inside my head. The next thing I know my cheek is against the floor. Another crack! and my body goes rigid. I feel my eyes roll back. I hear my teeth snap together. I taste blood at the back of my throat. My bladder releases.
Crack!
And the world fades to gray.
CHAPTER 34
LaShonda wasn’t happy about him going out in the storm. Glock didn’t like it either, but he didn’t have a choice. He’d tried Kate’s home phone and her cell and gotten voice mail both times. Considering the weather and Tomasetti’s cryptic call, he was worried.
He knew Kate was despondent about the murders and the loss of her job. Best case scenario, he’d find her at home snuggled up with a bottle of something eighty proof. It wouldn’t be the first time a cop had turned to alcohol for comfort or escape. It was the other possibilities that had him concerned.
He parked on the street in front of her house and squinted through the swirling snow. Usually, she parked in the driveway. Tonight, the driveway stood vacant. He told himself the Mustang was probably in the garage due to the storm. But Glock had been a cop long enough to know when he needed to listen to his gut. This was one of those times.
Wind and snow pelted him as he walked to the garage and looked in the window. Uneasiness rippled through him when he found it empty. At the back door, Glock tried the knob, found it locked. Using his gloved hand, he broke the pane nearest the knob, reached inside and unlocked the door. The house was warm and smelled of coffee. He flipped on the light. “Chief? It’s Glock. You here?”
The wind whipping around the eaves seemed to mock him.
Glock set his hand against the coffeemaker, found it cold. Papers and files and a laptop covered the kitchen table. He glanced down to see handwritten notes. The state police in Indiana. A former detective from Alaska. A newspaper story.
Quickly, he cleared the rest of the house, but Kate was not there. Back in the kitchen, he called Tomasetti. “She’s not home,” he said without preamble.
“I’m twenty minutes away,” Tomasetti said. “Meet me at the station.”
“What the hell’s going on? Where’s Kate?”