‘You fucking son of a bitch!’ the man who’d thrown the projectile shouted.
A group of a dozen people – mostly men – were walking fast up the incline from the direction of the club. Another flung a second rock. Dance and Billy dodged. The throw was wide but if it had hit it would have cracked a skull. She was surprised to note that these were people who were well dressed. They seemed middle class. Not bikers or thugs. But their expressions were chilling: they were out for blood.
‘Get him!’
‘Fucker!’
‘You’re the fucking driver, aren’t you?’
‘Look! Over there! It’s the driver!’
‘Police,’ Dance said, holding up her ID, not bothering with specific authentication. ‘Stop right there.’
Nobody paid the least attention to her.
‘You asshole! Killer.’
‘No,’ Billy said, his voice choking. ‘I didn’t do anything.’
Suddenly the group was joined by others striding fast from the impromptu memorial site near the roadhouse. Some started running. Pointing. They numbered about twenty now. Faces red with anger, shouting. Dance had her mobile out and was dialing 911. Dispatch would have taken too long.
She heard: ‘Police and fire emergen—’
Dance gasped as a tire iron spiraled straight for her face.
CHAPTER 9
Billy tackled Dance as the metal rod zipped past.
They both collapsed onto the ground. Then he yanked her to her feet and together they hurried toward the company’s office door. She completed her call, officer needs assistance, and twisted back, shouting to the approaching mob, ‘This is a police investigation! Disperse now. You will be arrested!’
And was greeted with another missile – a rock again. This one connected, though obliquely, with her left forearm, not far from the watch, which had shattered in the CBI parking lot. She cried out in pain.
‘Arrest him!’ called the burly blonde woman, whose fiancé had been so badly injured.
‘Arrest him? Fuck him up!’
Now the crowd caught up with them. Several of the men pushed Dance aside and shoved Billy backward, their palms slamming into his chest.
‘You are committing a felony! There are police on their way.’
One man sprinted up and got right in their faces. Livid, he stuck a finger in Billy’s chest and raged, ‘You parked there to take a crap or something! Ran off. Fuck you, Officer! Why isn’t he under arrest?’
‘No, no, I didn’t do anything. Please!’ Billy was shaking his head and she saw tears in his eyes. He rubbed his chest from one of the blows a moment ago.
Others were swarming around them now. Dance held her shield up and this resulted in a momentary stay of the madness.
Dance whispered, ‘This’s going to blow up. We’ve got to get out of here now. Back to the office.’
She and Billy pushed around those immediately in front of them and kept walking toward the door. The crowd followed behind them, a hostile escort. She told herself: Don’t run. She knew if they did the crowd would attack once again.
And though it was impossibly hard, she kept a slow, steady pace.
Somebody else growled, ‘Give me five minutes with him. I’ll get a confession.’
‘Fuck him up, I keep saying!’
‘You killed my daughter!’
They were now thirty feet from the office door. The crowd had grown and were shouting insults. At least no more projectiles.
Then one short, stocky man in jeans and a plaid shirt ran up to his prey and slugged Billy in the side of the head. He cried out.
Dance displayed her shield. ‘You. Give me your name. Now!’
He laughed cruelly, grabbed the badge and flung it away. ‘Fuck you, bitch.’
She doubted that even a weapon brandished would have slowed them down. In any event she had no Glock to draw.
‘Fuck him up! Get him!’
‘Kill him.’
‘Her too, bitch!’
These people were insane. Animals. Mad dogs.
‘Listen to me,’ Dance shouted. ‘You’re committing a felony! You will be arrested if you—’
It was then that their control broke. ‘Get him. Now!’
She glanced back to see several picking up rocks. One gripped another tire iron.
Jesus.
She ducked as a large stone zipped past her ear. She didn’t see who’d thrown it. She stumbled and ended up on her knees. The crowd surged forward.
Billy yanked her to her feet and, hands over their heads, they sprinted for the office door. It was now closed. If Henderson had locked it, hell, they could very well be dead in a few minutes.
Dance felt the full-on panic, an antelope hearing the rhythm of the lion’s paws moving closer and closer.
The door …
Please …
Just as they arrived it swung open. Billy turned and this time a rock hit its target square. It slammed into the man’s jaw and he gave a sharp cry. Blood poured and it was obvious he’d lost a tooth or two and possibly a bone had broken.
He stumbled inside and collapsed on the floor, gripping his mouth. Dance leapt in too. The door slammed shut and Henderson locked it.
‘I called nine one one,’ the office manager said.
‘I did too,’ Dance muttered, looking at Billy’s gash. ‘They should be here soon.’
She peered out of the window, her hands shaking, heart pounding audibly.
Panic …
The crowd had ganged at the door. Their faces were possessed. She thought of the time when a crazed Doberman, off its leash, had charged her and her German shepherd, Dylan, on a walk. Only pepper spray had stopped it.
No reasoning, no escaping.
Dance grimaced, noting that Henderson was holding a revolver, a Smith & Wesson, short-barrel .38 Special. Gripped uneasily in his hand.
‘Put that away.’
‘But—’
‘Now,’ she snapped.
He set the weapon back in its drawer.
A rock smashed into the side of the office, a huge sound, thanks to the metal walls. Others. Two windows broke, though no one tried to climb in. More shouts.