Edge of Midnight (30 page)

The rifle cracked. Thunder tumbled. With an instant's thought of causing further injury, Ida holstered her gun and yanked Kelby to a sitting position.
Hurry hurry hurry
.

Arm around Kelby's waist, Ida slogged toward the other cabin, the one on the left, across the field. Slipping, sliding, feet getting tangled in soggy grass, she dreaded the next lightning flash that would spotlight them for the sniper. She ran smack into barbwire and punctured her arm and the back of one hand. Gently lowering Kelby to the soggy ground, Ida wriggled under, then pulled Kelby through after her. Howling wind tore at her clothes and blew rain in her face. Where the hell was the backup?

Lightning flared and she saw crumbling porch steps. Stumbling under Kelby's weight, Ida struggled to the steps. Fearing the weathered boards would cave under her feet, Ida got herself and Kelby up onto the porch. Blessed relief. Hail battered the roof making it even harder to hear anything, but they were sheltered from the rain.

Lowering Kelby to the warped floorboards, Ida swiped water from her face and knelt. “Kelby?”

She picked up a limp hand and squeezed it. There was no responding squeeze. Placing icy fingers against Kelby's throat, Ida felt the pulse beat thin and fast. She pushed hair away from Kelby's face. A tornado was about to blast in and here she was with an injured woman on a flimsy porch and a creep with a rifle out there.

Crouching beside Kelby, gun in hand, Ida strained to see through the darkness. The drumming against the roof meant the sniper would have to make noise louder than a marching band for her to hear him.
Wait … Was that a footfall on the porch steps?

No. Wind whipping tree branches against the house. Wasn't it? She stared into the pounding rain. Blinked and saw something move. The sniper! She raised her gun. “Police! Put down your weapon!”

No response. At least none louder than her pounding heart.
Noise? A shout? Was it him?

She yelled again. “Police! Put down your weapon!” Rain poured down in a heavy curtain. Lightning forked across the sky. For an instant she saw, thought she saw, a face frozen in a grimace of rage.

“Drop the gun! Hands on your head!”

Another jagged streak of lightning. She saw him again. Closer. Features twisted. Mouth opened. She strained to hear. No words. Only a scream. Of rage and grief and despair and menace. A guttural noise mixed with and nurtured by the storm.

Rain on the porch roof sounded like rapid gunfire. Shaking with cold, she yelled, “Hands on your head!”

Oh, Jesus, the lightning had let him see where she was. Worried about Kelby in danger of a bullet, Ida yelled again, “Drop your gun! Hands on your head, or I'll shoot!”

Thunder mingled with the pounding of her heart. Was that a response?
Oh God.
“I will not hesitate to shoot! Lay down your weapon and put your hands on your head!” Should she fire? Desperately, she wished she could see more clearly.

A strong gust of wind tore a hole through the curtain of rain and for a moment, she thought she saw a pale oval with hair plastered down, the entire face twisted into a mask of rage.

She imagined eyes that glowed with demonic fever. Fear slipped in along with the icy damp air she breathed.

The horrible mask faded, then appeared again, mouth open. She strained to hear words, a raging curse that would tumble from that distorted devil face. Rain, wind-whipped into pounding fury, dissolved the image. Hesitantly, she raised the hand that held her gun, listened, raised the gun slightly higher. She could hear nothing but hammering rain.

She blinked, she waited. Still hesitant, she raised her gun higher yet. Way in the distance, through the murky blackness, she saw a weak glow.
That had to be high enough
. Anxiety knotted her gut.

She squeezed the trigger. The shot was lost in a clap of thunder.
Surely that was high enough.

Another shot, the muzzle flash closer. Aiming high, she squeezed her finger.

The blast blended with thunder as it rumbled through the pounding rain. Kelby stirred. Ida crouched and trailed gentle fingers across her face. “It's going to be all right,” she whispered. “Help is on the way. Just hold on.”

Whether Kelby heard her or not, Ida had no idea. She stood. Another rifle shot. Thunder echoed in her ears. She returned fire. Pounding rain and howling wind made hearing anything else impossible. Had her shot discouraged him? Was he getting away? Waiting out there in the dark? Moving closer? Waiting for another flare of lightning to get a fix on her? Muzzle raised, finger on the trigger, aimed at the porch, ready?

She struggled to see through the blowing rain. How critical was Kelby? Lying on the porch floor in wet clothes wasn't helping. What further damage had Ida done by dragging her across the pasture and up the steps? Would a twister wipe them both out before help arrived?
Where was he?

Keeping her gun ready, she moved slowly to the steps and started carefully down. The decaying wood was slick with rain and her hard-soled shoes slid. Grabbing at the railing to keep from falling got her a handful of soggy splinters.

Down toward the road, two football fields away, she thought she saw the glow of headlights through the rain. Backup finally here? The glow disappeared. Simply a motorist slowing to pick out the road? When her foot felt squishy ground, she backed up against the house and waited, listening. She needed another flash of lightning to spot him. After sweltering for days, she was now freezing and couldn't feel her toes in her wet shoes.

Finally, a siren wailed in the distance. She wished for a flare. How the hell were they going to find her? Her flashlight was lost out there somewhere, dropped when Kelby collapsed against her. Ida did the only thing she could think of. Pointing her gun straight up, she pulled the trigger. After what seemed an interminable time, a squad car, lights flashing and siren wailing, jounced into the field. It was followed by another squad car and then an ambulance.

Relief wormed its way through her cold, wet body and threatened to buckle her knees. With cops swarming across the field, they should scoop up the sniper. He'd be collected, cuffed, and shoved in the back of a squad car. Paramedics could get to work on Kelby, get her in the ambulance and to the hospital. Doctors, nurses, dry clothes.

Ida yelled, hoping to be heard over the storm. Someone must have heard something, because cops moved toward the house. Wind impeded their progress and blew them off course as they staggered in her direction. The glow of flashlights bobbed through the dark.

White and Brennan stomped up on the porch shaking water like wet dogs. Two paramedics followed. One crouched over Kelby, wrapped a blood pressure cuff around her arm and pumped it up, listened and murmured to his partner, then listened to her chest and murmured again. Quickly, they loaded her on a stretcher and carried her to the waiting ambulance.

White gave Ida a hard look she didn't understand and muttered about setting up parameters. He disappeared into the wall of rain.

Brennan scrubbed rain from his face. “What a friggin' mess. First all the endless heat, now this. God sends devastation. You okay?”

Ida was so cold she had trouble making her throat muscles respond to a simple yes. She nodded.

“Osey's on the way. He said you weren't to say anything until he got here.”

What? “Did you catch the guy?”

Brennan gave an ambiguous dip of his head and clambered down the porch steps. Ida tried to flex her toes inside her wet shoes, but it only made them hurt more. What did he mean by devastation?

Why were White and Brennan acting so squirrelly?

 

38

Rain hammered like a mad drummer against the roof of the squad car. Parkhurst slid out and crouched, then braced himself as a gust of wind flattened him against the door. “More light!” he yelled at Osey. Howling wind tore the words from his mouth. “Lose the fence!”

“Right,” Osey yelled back. He snipped strands of barbwire, then he and Demarco peeled them aside. Osey clambered up the embankment to the road and used his flashlight to wave two more squad cars onto the field. Four cars parked at angles, with headlights on, made sickly tunnels through the dark and sparked against the pounding rain.

Not much help, not nearly enough light to penetrate the wall of rain. They needed a helicopter. Hell, it couldn't fly in this shit anyway. Parkhurst hoped the cruisers wouldn't get bogged down. A tornado on the way and four vehicles out of commission, mired in mud. Just what they needed.

When the next jagged streak of lightning forked across the sky, he took note of the cabin on the rise above. Seconds later the sky blacked out and thunder rolled. Flickering light glowed from the cabin interior. Flashlight or lantern. Candle maybe. He had a snarky feeling about this. One of those situations with everybody keyed up, fingers too quick on the trigger. He hoped one of the good guys didn't put a hole in another one of the good guys.

A shot rang over the field.

Parkhurst keyed his radio. “Osey?”

“Yeah, Ben?”

“Send Yancy and Quince to the left. Tell them, move slowly up toward the cabin. Don't get tangled in barbwire, and for God's sake, don't shoot each other.”

“Right.”

“You and Demarco come up the middle.”

“Got it.”

“Try not to kill him. We need this guy in cuffs. He has questions to answer.”

“Do my best.”

“And keep talking to him. Keep his attention focused on you.” Parkhurst moved up the right of the field, keeping low, and getting buffeted by a wind so strong at times that he staggered and nearly fell. A bright flash of lightning lit up the sniper standing fifteen yards above, legs planted wide, rifle raised. Parkhurst dropped to the muddy ground, scrambled to his feet when the sky darkened.

“You're too late!” the sniper screamed.

“Drop the gun!” Osey yelled.

Parkhurst could barely hear him over the shrieking wind. He rubbed at the rain on his face.

“She's dead!” the sniper screamed.

“Put down the gun! Hands on your head!”

The wind howled down from the north with icy fingers, tore at his wet shirt, whipped his dripping pants legs, and fluttered the ballooning back of his jacket.

“Why'd you kill her?” Osey was following directions, keeping the sniper's attention focused down the slope.

The noise of the storm covered any sound Parkhurst might make creeping up behind. The trick would be to disarm the suspect before he whirled and reflexively pulled the trigger, thereby blowing Parkhurst's head off. He sincerely did not want that to happen. Through the two front windows in the cabin, he saw light burst up. Flames licked out the broken pane. Oh, Christ, the place was on fire. What other disaster could occur on this beastly night?

An unexpected depression in the ground had him coming down hard on one foot, splashing through two inches of standing water and twisting an ankle. Damn. It would help if he could see where he was going. Keeping a straight course in the dark, with nothing to guide him, was difficult. He hoped he didn't angle too far to the right and get impaled on the barbwire fence on that side of the field.

He heard Osey yell again, but couldn't make out the words. At the next burst of lightning, he waited for the resulting thunder and scuttled toward the row of trees circling the rear of the cabin. Air wheezed in and out his lungs. He had no idea what obstacles were in his way back here. Any number of discarded junk items could be littering his path. Hell, he could cut himself on some rusty farm implement and end up with tetanus.

When he heard Osey's voice again, he listened intently. A response, even though the words were undecipherable, told Parkhurst the sniper was still in front of the cabin. He turned on his flashlight for a moment. Uneven muddy ground up against the cabin, and beyond that tall weeds battered down by the rain. Being careful to avoid the mud, Parkhurst moved in a straight line across the rear of the cabin. When he reached the far side he waited again and listened. Osey yelled, the suspect replied.

Parkhurst used his flashlight to check the terrain along the side of the cabin. Rougher here. Areas of depression like basins filled with water. Hard rain pounded the puddles and splashed back with a bounce. Flames licked through a side window. He murmured in the radio for Osey to make his move.

“Put down the gun!” Osey yelled and shined his flashlight at the suspect.

While the suspect was trying to decide whether to shield his eyes from the light or shoot, Parkhurst rushed at him from behind. Even with the storm covering any noise, the sniper must have sensed something. He whirled and fired. Parkhurst dropped, landing in a hollow full of water. He rolled and splashed and scrambled out. Osey tackled the suspect and grappled with him on the soggy ground. Parkhurst threw himself into the tangle and grabbed at arms and legs. The suspect's clothes were soaked, and with mud added, he was slippery as an eel. Parkhurst felt him wriggle free. It took Demarco and Parkhurst to hold him down while Osey cuffed him.

Once the cuffs were secured, the suspect was a pussycat, wet and miserable and all fight gone. Parkhurst grasped an arm and helped the man to his feet. Osey shined his flashlight in the man's face.

“What's your name?” Parkhurst said.

“Joe Farmer. You're too late. I shot her.”

“Shot who?”

“Kelby Oliver.”

“Anybody in the cabin?”

Farmer shook his head. Parkhurst handed the suspect over to Demarco with instructions to take him in. Parkhurst was wondering what to do about the fire, when flames shot through the cabin roof, only to be quenched by the rain. More water pouring down on it than the fire department could provide. He keyed his radio and asked dispatch to send out the firefighters. There might be evidence inside that needed preserving.

“Uh, Ben,” Osey said. “We really should get everybody into some kind of shelter. This tornado's supposed to be a bad one.”