Blood Stained (17 page)

The strange feeling of being disconnected, everything moving in slow motion, wouldn't leave her. Each breath filled her mouth with the taste of cat piss and burnt plastic; she couldn't stop trying to swallow it away.

Finally, she bent to the second biker, the one she'd shot. He wasn't moving, was face down as she searched him for weapons. Safety first. After removing a knife and two pistols, she rolled him over to begin first aid.

His face was pale but she could swear his lips were moving. Fighting to breathe or trying to tell her something, she wasn't sure. She pulled open his leather jacket and vest. Blood gushed up as she opened the vest, like water caught behind a dam that burst. She wadded his tee into her fist and pressed her weight against it. 

Blood kept welling, covering her hands, at first bright red, then darker and darker.

"I need some help here!" she shouted. "Don't you die on me, you bastard," she told him as she fought to stop the bleeding. "Don't you dare."

His lips kept moving even after his eyes went dead. Why wouldn't they stop moving? Was he cursing her or forgiving her? She needed to know. She had no idea how long she knelt there, trying to force life back inside him, but finally Lucy pulled her away.

"He's gone," Lucy whispered. 

The sounds of the scene: the roar of the fire, the snap of plastic exploding, the ambulance wailing and the fire truck's horn blaring, rushed back as if a bubble surrounding Jenna had popped. The noise cursed and clanged and clamored for her attention but she couldn't tear her gaze away from the man she'd killed.

Still the taste of cat piss and ash caught in her throat. Sagging, only Lucy's grip around her waist keeping her on her feet, she bent double and vomited, staining the freshly fallen snow with bile.

Chapter 17

When Adam was in fourth grade, during his last year at school, and the bullies chased him, he'd devised a few plans of escape. The first was to remain inside his classroom, hoping they'd forget about him. Big mistake since as soon as the teachers left for bus duty, he became an easy target in an enclosed space.

Next he tried being the first out the door, even if it meant leaving his coat and books behind in his locker. He'd stand right in front of everyone, teachers especially, on the curb, waiting for his bus. But the big kids would simply follow him on board and push him into the back while the bus driver talked to the teachers. Or worse, they'd drag him behind the bus and keep him there until his bus left without him and he'd be forced not only to suffer whatever torture they had in mind that day but also walk home alone in the cold, without his coat.

His third stratagem had a fifty percent success rate. Better than the first two, it quickly became his preferred option. He'd jump the fence near the teacher's parking lot, hide behind a car—usually Mrs. Chesshir's Beatle, just because it was so cool he loved being near it and always had the secret hope she'd find him and offer him a ride home—and then make a run for the bus just as it was pulling out of the drive. If the driver saw him and was in a good mood, he got a ride home and an excuse to sit in the front of the bus. If not, he had a head start on anyone chasing him.

One January day during his final year at school, he slipped going over the playground fence and fell into a cinder and salt covered snow bank at the edge of the parking lot. The big boys spotted him and pelted him with ice-balls as he fought to regain his feet. The biggest, meanest bully of all, Fat Ollie, was heaving his weight over the fence, ready to pounce on Adam, when a miracle occurred. 

Mrs. Chesshir came out, looking regal in her long puffy down coat and jaunty red beret, and caught Fat Ollie and his friends just as Ollie stomped Adam's face into the snow bank. 

Ollie and goons got detention while Mrs. Chesshir clucked over Adam's sorry state. She wiped snow and ice and cinders and salt from his face and hair and front, finally pronouncing him much too wet and cold to risk a ride home in a drafty old school bus, and offered to drive him home herself.

So there he was, perched high in the front passenger seat of Mrs. Chesshir's bright yellow bug, toasty warm with the heat howling from the vents, waving goodbye to Ollie and company. One of the best days of his life. 

Still was.

He wasn't too surprised to see Marty and Darrin had adopted the same survival skills. Marty was already over the fence, trying his best to help Darrin make it to the other side, but Darrin kept falling, his weight pulling him back to the playground side.

"Go without me," he told Marty as Craig Mathis and his comrades in arms rounded the corner.

"No. You can do it."

"Hang on," Adam said, striding up from behind the corner where he was blocked from everyone's view except the two boys. "Darrin, swing your leg up. That's right. Now push your hip over, shove your weight behind it."

Gravity helped, dumping Darrin onto the ground—but on the right side of the fence. The boys gave a whoop of delight and raced to join Adam.

"Darrin says you're his big brother," Marty said. "They told us about you guys in Sunday School. Said you do cool things with younger kids like teach them stuff?"

Wrong kind of big brother, but Adam didn't correct him. "That's right. I thought today it would be fun to go exploring a cave. It's very safe," he quickly added when Darrin showed alarm. "There are tons of cool Indian artifacts and stalagmites and even a room that glows in the dark. What do you think?"

At the mention of Indian artifacts, Darrin bobbed his entire body from his nose to his toes in eagerness. "Cool. Can Marty come, too?"

Adam hesitated. Pretended like it was a big deal. "Okay. But I need you guys to run over to the woods. See where that path starts? Wait for me there while I go tell your bus driver not to worry, that you're with me. Make sure no one sees you because there's not room for anyone else, okay?"

The boys nodded and took off for the woods. Anyone who saw them from the school windows—although the classrooms were empty so it was low risk—would simply see two boys playing. Adam walked around to the far side of the school, towards town, then as soon as he hit the road, he turned into the trees and doubled back, out of sight.

Easy as pie, Dad would say.

<><><>

The first person Lucy called as she and Jenna followed Officer Bob over the mountain to Huntingdon was Nick. Just in case this cluster-fuck made the evening news. After letting him know she'd be stuck in Huntingdon for the foreseeable future, she hung up and called John Greally, her Assistant Special Agent in Charge.

"So now you call? Where've you been for the past eight hours?"

"You know where. New Hope. Galloway and I got caught in a firefight." She quickly explained.

"Anyone hurt?" he asked.

"No," she answered, knowing he meant law enforcement. "But one shooter DOA and two more injured. A woman presumed dead in the fire. Our witness."

"Cut the crap. You had no reason to be there and that girl had nothing to do with Galloway's case. If the locals make a stink, this could have serious ramifications."

"Technically, it's a Postal Inspector Involved Shooting. Maybe let them handle it, keep the Bureau out of things?"

"Were you involved?"

"Only as a witness. I took cover, didn't fire a shot. Never had a chance it was over so fast."

"Maybe that would work. Who the hell do I call? Not like there's been many US Postal Inspector Service involved shootings. How's Galloway doing?"

"Stunned. But okay. She handled herself well." She didn't tell him about Jenna puking over the dead biker's body. It was a perfectly normal reaction to that kind of stress but no reason to give the desk jockeys any reason to Monday morning quarterback.

"Locals giving her a hard time?"

"No, not at all." The sheriff's dispatcher recorded the entire incident since Jenna had been on the phone to Deputy Bob at the time. Plus he'd seen most of the action and corroborated her story. "She's in the clear."

"You're certain this has nothing to do with any case we have jurisdiction over?" 

"No sir. Just wrong place, wrong time."

"Okay. Let me talk to someone over at the post office and I'll get back to you. In the meantime, Galloway needs to be on restricted duty."

"The locals already took her gun into evidence."

"She doesn't carry a backup?"

"No."

He made a noise that sounded like a swallowed chuckle. "By the time she's finished hanging out with you, she will. Keep me posted." He paused. "And don't think I've forgotten about your psych eval. You're walking a fine line, Lucy. Don't do anything I'm going to regret."

He hung up. Lucy handed Jenna the phone. "Anyone you want to call? It's okay if you need to talk to someone. Just use my phone so you won't have to worry about the record."

Jenna said nothing. She stared straight ahead at the snow swirling in the headlights. Then she looked at her hands, frowning at them as if she still had blood on her despite the paramedics cleaning her up at the scene. Then at Lucy. Back to the snow. 

"You killed a man, didn't you?" Jenna asked.

Lucy knew Jenna knew the answer—anyone not living on the moon heard about what happened in September, given the national headlines and media coverage. "It gets better. I promise."

"I don't even know his name. Do you?" Jenna swiveled towards Lucy, stretching her seat belt. "Know his name?"

"No. We'll find it out soon enough." Lucy hated to tell the postal inspector, but knowing the name only made things worse. It gave the ghost a voice. And Jenna would be haunted no matter how righteous the shoot.

"His lips kept moving. Like he was trying to say something. They just kept moving."

"Probably pressure from you leaning on his chest."

"Oh." Jenna hauled in a breath. "But they just kept moving."

Lucy steered into the sheriff's parking lot. The snow had accumulated enough to skid the Taurus' rear wheels as she turned into a space and hit the brakes.

"This is it?" Jenna asked, leaning forward to peer up at the two and a half story fieldstone building. "Are you serious? This place belongs in a museum."

"Built almost two hundred years ago." Lucy kept the car running but turned the windshield wipers off so they could have some privacy. "You okay with this?"

Jenna shook her head, her gaze aimed up at the top floor. "Is that a turret? Like on a castle?"

"Yes." Lucy didn't care about the sheriff's department's antiquated design. "If you need to wait until tomorrow, it's no problem. You have twenty-four hours."

"I feel like I'm Robin Hood visiting the freaking Sheriff of Nottingham."

"Jenna—"

The postal inspector turned to face Lucy. "I'm a fully trained and qualified federal law enforcement officer who shot and killed a man who was shooting at me and my partner. There's nothing more to say. I'm fine. Honest."

She opened the car door and marched up the steps and inside the double doors before Lucy could say anything more.

The interior of the department was like local law enforcement offices all over the country: cramped, undermanned by overworked officers and civilian staff, gray industrial carpeting, acoustic ceiling tiles once white now grayed by age, and the background vibration of people talking, walking, and ready for action.

The receptionist passed them off to a deputy who escorted them into the bullpen. The noise level suddenly decreased as all eyes focused on them. First at Jenna, but the older staff turned their attention to Lucy, recognizing her from four years ago. The deputy fled, leaving them standing beside an empty secretary's desk.

"You know how much a meth lab cleanup is going to cost me now that the federal money's dried up?" barked a man in a brown suit through the open office door behind the secretary's area. The uniformed officers ignored him, knew he wasn't talking to them. He remained at his desk, beckoning Lucy and Jenna inside like an old-time king seated on his throne. 

"Jack Zeller. That's Sheriff Zeller to you," he introduced himself with a flick of his bolo tie. "Don't suppose we could work a deal? I'll trade you one hazmat clean up for a walk on the OIS."

Lucy's smile was diplomatic. They both knew he had no say in the officer involved shooting investigation's outcome. "Sorry, Sheriff. No can do."

"What was his name?" Jenna asked, her voice with a hint of a quaver.

"Who? Oh, Leroy Lamont. That's the one you nailed. For the next few weeks, maybe even a month, our crime rate will be cut in half thanks to you, Agent Galloway."

Jenna swallowed hard and nodded, saying nothing, not even correcting her title. But her color was pale.

"Sit, sit," Zeller instructed. 

Jenna sank into the chair in front of his desk, just tall enough to make eye contact with him over the stack of brown cardboard folders. Lucy remained standing, her adrenalin still pumping too fast to let her sit still. 

Zeller narrowed his gaze at Lucy. "I remember you. Why do you always bring trouble with you?"

Then he gave Jenna a grandfatherly smile, even though he was only in his late forties. "I never been where you are, young lady. Most of us around here haven't. But you need anything, need someone to talk to, you just let me know."

"We appreciate that, Sheriff," Lucy answered for Jenna. She felt protective of the younger woman. "How long do you think you'll need Inspector Galloway here for the investigation? It'd be nice to get her back home."

Jenna planted both feet on the ground. "No. I still have a fugitive to catch."

"Who's that, then?" the sheriff asked. "I thought you were following up on Rachel and the New Hope Killer. Is there something else going on in my jurisdiction I should know about?"

"No," Lucy said in a firm tone.

"Yes," Jenna argued. "I'm on the trail of a kid who sent a federal agent a threatening letter. In violation of US Code 18-876."

"What kid?"

"Adam Caine. And we'd already be long out of your jurisdiction if my partner here hadn't—"

Lucy spun to face Jenna. "I'm sure the sheriff has more important things—"