A tractor, Dalton’s empty car, and an old Port-O-Potty were the only manmade items around. Where could she be? Could Steven have hidden her in the trunk of his car? Was she tied up on the floor of the back seat? Or had he killed her? His hand shook and his legs weakened at the thought.
Right on cue, Phil slipped out from the woods behind Dalton, his gun raised. Hunter’s muscles instinctively flexed. Lightning lit up the sky, and five seconds later a loud clap of thunder shook the ground. Dalton didn’t flinch and Phil didn’t shoot.
Hunter shuffled his feet on the dirt path and kicked a stone into the leafy underbrush in an attempt to cover Phil’s movement as his partner snaked closer.
Time to go for the kill. “Mr. Dalton, we found your hand print on Chanel Carlitto’s car window. Can you explain how it got there?”
A twig cracked behind Steven. Shit. Dalton spun around. In one fluid motion, Steven pulled a 45-caliber pistol from the back of his jeans, drew and fired at Phil.
“Noooo.” Hunter wrenched his Glock from his holster, pulled back the slide and nailed Steven in the back. Both Phil and Steven dropped to the ground just as the rain came down in earnest, as if to punctuate the grand finale.
Adrenaline kicked into high gear as panic threatened to freeze Hunter’s muscles. He leaped toward Steven, kicked Dalton’s gun away from his hand, and then sprinted to Phil.
A large red splotch between Phil’s shoulder and heart oozed blood. Writhing on the ground, Phil moaned. His face paled. His partner was going into volume shock.
“Hold on, buddy.”
“It hurts... like a ...bitch.”
Hunter winced at the effort it took for Phil to say those few words.
At least he was alert. That was a good sign. Hunter shielded his phone from the rain and called 9-1-1. He gave the dispatcher Phil’s respiration rate and other vitals he could guess without any equipment. “I need my hands free to stop the blood,” he told the woman on the line. He knew she’d ask him to remain on the line until help arrived, but he had to give Phil assistance.
Hunter stashed the cell in his pants pocket, ripped off his own shirt, and told Phil to hold the wadded material over the wound to stem the bleeding. “I’ll be right back.”
Hunter raced to the car, snatched a blanket from the trunk, and zoomed back. He shoved the soft fleece under Phil’s head, which rested in a one-inch deep puddle. “This should be more comfortable, buddy. The ambulance is on its way. Hold on.”
Phil coughed, and blood dribbled out of his mouth. Fuck. Phil couldn’t die. He might have been a pain in the ass some times, but he’d had Hunter’s back more times than he could count.
Less than five minutes later, a van raced up the road. He glanced over his shoulder at the racing ambulance. God the EMTs were fast. Gotta love ‘em. Hunter leaned over his partner to keep him comfortable and to give him support. A door opened and closed. Footsteps sounds behind him. He waited for the paramedic to drop down next to him.
Instead, the click of a gun sounded right behind Hunter’s head, and his heart stopped.
“I hear you’ve been looking for me.”
Paul Dalton.
Hunter’s body shot to high alert. The doctor jammed the gun against Hunter’s scalp. He froze, debating whether he should whip around and attempt to disarm his attacker. If Hunter and Dalton struggled, and the gun went off, Phil could be shot again.
Hunter glanced down at Phil’s face. Eyes closed, his breaths were coming out in short bursts, and his complexion was waxy. Phil was losing blood fast. He didn’t have long to live.
Hunter didn’t turn around. “Howdy, Doc.”
“Stand up. Slowly.” Paul Dalton could have frozen fire with his command.
Hunter held up his hands and stood, not wanting to piss off the doc.
“Drop the gun, Detective.”
Hunter lifted his weapon from his holster and lobbed his Glock five feet from him. He turned around in slow motion and prayed backup would arrive soon.
Dalton came dressed in his green scrubs, which by now were rain soaked. He must have been in quite a hurry. His nephew probably called him after taking Kerry—if he had Kerry. Or had the doctor killed her already?
Kerry. Hunter’s soul burned.
“You killed my nephew.” Paul Dalton spat in Hunter’s face, but Hunter didn’t react.
“He shot my partner,” Hunter tossed back.
Keeping his tone even had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He wanted to beat the shit out of Paul Dalton, but if he too was shot, who would search for Kerry? For her he had to stay cool.
“Doesn’t matter now. They’re both going to die.”
He wanted Dalton to focus his attention away from Phil. “Take a look. I think Steven’s still clinging to life.”
Dalton’s eyes narrowed as he backed up. A quick flash of hope crossed his face, surprising Hunter that the man was capable of caring.
“What are you doing up here?” Hunter asked the good doctor.
“None of your business.” Hunter hadn’t expected him to say he was here to harm Kerry.
“Mind if I tend to my partner? Killing a cop will shorten a person’s freedom. If Steven lives, it would be in his best interest if Phil does too.”
Dalton seemed to mull over the situation. He sidled over to Hunter’s gun, picked it up and chucked it far into the woods. “Go ahead, but don’t make any sudden moves.”
God, the man sounded like he was a scriptwriter for a bad B movie.
As Hunter knelt next to Phil, he angled his body to keep an eye on both the uncle and the nephew. The doctor leaned over Stephen and felt for a pulse. His back stiffened.
“Is he alive?” Hunter wanted Steven to live, to pay for what he’d done.
“Barely.”
Hunter swiped the rain from his eyes, wondering where Dr. Ahern was. After all, his sole job was to follow the doctor.
Sirens sounded in the distant. Gotcha! Hunter wondered what Dalton would do when the cavalry arrived.
He didn’t have to wait long.
Dalton jumped up. “Sorry, Detective.” He aimed his gun at Hunter. “I see you already called for backup. I can’t afford to have any witnesses. You’ve been a thorn in my side for way too long.”
Out of nowhere, John Ahern sprang from behind Dalton’s auto and wrapped an arm around the man’s neck. Dalton’s gun fired, the bullet missing Hunter by inches.
Ahern and Dalton struggled. While the forensic pathologist was no Bruce Lee, and the man’s arthritis put him out of commission more days than not, surprise was on his side. Hunter flew toward him, and wrenched the weapon from the doctor’s hand.
“John, it’s okay. I got him,” Hunter said. “Get the cuffs from my cruiser.”
Hunter spun Dalton around and slammed his face against the Mercedes. Ahern backed away, his breaths coming fast. A diesel engine vehicle roared up the road.
“I hope you’ll enjoy prison,” Hunter said.
“Fuck you. You have nothing on me.”
Once the ambulance transported Steven Dalton and Phil to the hospital, and backup had carted Dalton off to jail, Hunter slumped against his car. The rain had disappeared as fast as it had arrived.
“You find any signs of Kerry?” John asked.
His gut soured. “No, just her satchel in the trunk of Steve Dalton’s car. If Paul Dalton came racing up here, Steven must have called and said he had her. Let’s spread out.”
John headed for the Port-O-Potty and ripped back the door. “She’s not here.”
“Kerry has to be somewhere.”
“I’ll check the other side of the drive.”
Hunter studied the area for clues. The shovel meant Steven had been digging. Only where?
A strong claw twisted Hunter’s gut as he headed into the woods. He halted the moment he spotted a large rectangular plot of fresh dirt packed down. Oh shit. He doubted the guy was taking soil samples. That job belonged to the EPA.
His mind reeled back to when he’d first met Kerry. The mass gravesite they’d worked on looked like this one, and panic clouded his brain.
“Ker-ry,” he yelled and dove to the ground, furiously pawing the dirt.
Tears stung his face as he scooped handfuls of mud and tossed them aside. She can’t be under there. She can’t be dead. The bastard couldn’t have killed her. Not Kerry.
Please God, don’t let her be dead.