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Smith notified dispatch that she’d arrived, switched off the engine and got out of the car. The yard of the house she was interested in was a mess of weeds, broken bikes, and abandoned furniture. Plywood covered the bottom right window. The porch steps creaked under her boots, but there wasn’t a sound from inside the house. She knocked on the door. “Police. Open up.”

The door opened a crack. A woman peered out, blinking against the light of day. Her face wasn’t much more than a skull with a bit of skin stretched across it. Her pupils were black pinpricks in red eyes. She wore a dirty white T-shirt and faded jeans and a line of blood dripped out of her right nostril.

“Did you call 911, Ma’am?” Smith asked.

“Yes,” the woman said, her voice very low.

“I’m coming in. Stand back, please.”

She put her hand on the door and it swung open. The woman stared at her with frightened eyes and Smith took a step forward. Her fingers moved for the radio at her shoulder. “Are you alone, Ma’am?”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw something moving toward her. She ducked instinctively and began to turn. She felt a sudden, blinding pain in her left shoulder, and staggered backwards. A hand wrapped itself around her arm, her own hand was pulled away from the radio, and she was jerked forward. She stumbled into the house, stars dancing in front of her eyes, her shoulder screaming. She made a grab for her gun, but before she could get a grip, her left ankle gave way in a shower of pain and she dropped to the floor.

A great weight settled across her back.

“No,” Charlie Bassing said. “She isn’t alone.”

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-ONE

“Sergeant Caldwell, I might have a problem,” Jim Denton said. “Smith went to a 911 call on Redwood Street. She notified me when she first arrived at the scene, but hasn’t said anything since, and now I can’t raise her.”

“Where’s Dave?”

“Couple of kids were overstaying their welcome at Big Eddies and he’s gone to sort it out.”

“Get him over to Redwood Street immediately. Keep trying to raise Smith. Her radio might be wonky. Tell Dave I’ll be joining him.”

“Problem?” John Winters came out of the legal office, carrying a stack of papers to do with the pending trial of Diane Barton for the murder of Rudolph Steiner. Dick Madison had returned to his unit to receive high praise for a job well done. Winters was perfectly happy to let the Mountie have all the credit. That way he didn’t have to spend as much time in court. He and Eliza had finally been able to have their vacation in San Francisco. It had been nice to see the California sun putting some color in her face and bringing a smile back to her lips. Although the smile was small and rarer than it had been, and he knew it would take time before her faith in him was fully restored.

“Potential problem,” Caldwell said. “I’ve got an officer out of contact. Join me?”

“Glad to.” Winters handed the papers to the passing law clerk. “Who is it?”

“Molly Smith.”

Winters turned to Denton. “Locate Charles Bassing. He’s on a vendetta against Molly.” He grabbed a radio from the dispatch desk.

“Got it,” Denton replied.

Winters and Caldwell took the back stairs to the cars, moving fast. “You think this has something to do with Bassing?” Caldwell asked.

“Wouldn’t put it past him.”

Smith’s patrol car was parked neatly on the side of Redwood Street. There was no sign of the officer who’d driven it. The door of number 34 was closed and the curtains were drawn. As Winters got out of the vehicle, a second police car turned the corner.

Caldwell spoke into his radio. “Jim, have you heard from her?”

“Nothing. I tried her cell phone, but no answer there either.”

The officers looked at each other. Caldwell walked around the car to stand with Winters on the far sidewalk. “Let the Chief know what’s happening,” Caldwell said, “then contact the Mounties and ask them to send some help. Until I know otherwise we have a situation here.”

A woman was working in her garden. At a word from Evans she abandoned her tools and quickly went indoors. Four teenage girls watched the police from the veranda of a gentrified house. Evans spoke to them, and they also went inside.

“Four-Two,” Caldwell said. “Secure the street.”

Evans moved his vehicle a few yards down the road, where he parked it in the center of the intersection, lights flashing.

Radio. “Charles Bassing isn’t answering his phone, Sarge,” Denton said.

“Send someone around to his residence and place of business. If he’s not there, put a look out for on him,” Winters said, “Have him brought in if he’s found. Get a car to the corner of Redwood and Pine to block that end of the street. Evans has Fir blocked.”

“Ten-four. Horsemen are sending two cars.”

“This is your show,” Winters said to Caldwell. “How do you want to play it?”

“If Molly is in that house, and we have to assume she is, she’ll be well aware she should have heard from dispatch. Therefore, we have to assume she isn’t responding because she can’t.”

“Agreed.”

People came out of their houses to see what was going on. Evans sent them back indoors. An RCMP car, with the logo of three stripes and a horseman carrying a lance, arrived and moved into position to block the intersection to the west. Caldwell told them to send the next car into the alley behind the houses.

“We’ll phone first.” Caldwell leaned into the car and used the computer. He read the phone number for the house to Winters, who punched the numbers into his cell phone. In the quiet street, they might have heard the sound of a phone ringing inside the house, but no one picked it up.

“Can’t stand here all day,” Winters said. “I’m going to knock on the door.”

“Are you wearing a vest?”

“No.”

“I’ve got one in the trunk. Put it on first.”

They’d kept the car between the house and their bodies. Except for the police, the street was empty. Curious faces peered out of windows. An ambulance quietly pulled up behind Evans’ car.

Winters slipped the Kevlar vest over his jacket and adjusted the Velcro straps. He took a deep breath. “Guess I’m ready. I hope to God she’s having cookies and milk at the kitchen table and doesn’t realize her radio is off.”

***

“Not so tough now, are you, Molly?”

“What the fuck are you playing at, Charlie. Get off me.”

She lay face down on the dirty floor; pain coursed through her shoulder and the back of her left leg. Bassing straddled her hips and his hand moved along her side. It stopped, for just a moment, to caress her buttocks. The touch as light as a lover’s. She kicked and wiggled, trying to escape, to get out from under his weight. She felt like one of Frank Spencer’s red-headed toddlers, scooped up to be carried to bed. But instead of warm kisses and tons of love, Bassing, she knew, had nothing to offer but pain and humiliation. He laughed, the sound so mean it made her blood run cold. His hands began to move again, fingers reached between her legs, seeking the sweet spot. But she wore thick trousers, and the probing fingers moved on. They reached her gun belt, and she knew what he was after. Tucking her arm tight up against her holster, the way she’d been taught, she bucked harder, trying to toss him off. But he was heavy, very heavy. Her hands were jerked up behind her back, and Bassing shifted to trap them beneath his weight. Laughing, he ground his crotch into her body. Hard. Probing. Bile rose. She fought against the gag reflex.

“Nice, eh?” he said in a low voice. “There’s plenty more to come.”

In the corner, the woman whimpered.

“First things first. You learn lots of useful things in jail,” Bassing said. “Like how to get one of these things free.”

He pulled at the clips, gave the gun a twist, and yanked it out of the holster. His weight moved and Smith was clear. She flipped onto her back and looked up. Charlie Bassing stood over her, his legs apart, on either side of hers. He held her weapon and pointed it down at her face.

“Gotcha,” he said with a smile that froze her guts. The room was dark, the heavy curtains pulled tight. It smelled of sweat and tobacco and pot, unwashed clothes, food sitting out too long. And fear. Fear emanating from her. The baseball bat he’d used to bring her down lay on the floor beside him. She’d played ball in University and knew a Louisville Slugger when she saw one. A good bat—tough and unyielding. Eyes focused on his face, she slid backwards, out from under his legs, and sat up.

He weighed maybe fifty pounds more than she did. She was runner-lean, a near-Olympic class skier, young and fit, but he was solid muscle. Without her gun, she was as good as dead.

For some reason Molly Smith thought of her mother. They’d just buried Lucky’s adored husband; it would destroy her if her daughter died so soon after.

Her radio crackled. Denton trying to get her to respond, tone rising with every request. His voice brought her back to the present, to this room. To Bassing. To survival.

“Throw that into the corner,” Charlie said.

Smith hesitated. He swung the gun and pointed it at the woman who’d opened the door. She stood against the wall, hands over her mouth, eyes round with shock. Blood had leaked into the deep crevices of her face; a crooked red river ran down the side of her mouth.

“You said you wanted to play a game,” she whispered. “You said it would be a laugh.”

Bassing ignored her. “I said ditch the radio, Molly. You have two seconds, starting now, or I shut that one up the easy way.”

Smith unfastened the radio and tossed it into the air. It fell to the floor with a thud as Jim Denton called “Five-One! Smith! Come in, Molly.”

“You’re out of your mind, if you think you can get away with this.” Her voice broke and she coughed in an attempt to clear her throat. “Assaulting a police officer is a serious offense, Charlie.”

“Assault,” he said, with the sneer Smith knew so well, “is the least I’m going to do. You and me, we’re going to have some fun. Before you die.” He lifted the gun so it pointed directly between her eyes. She could see all the way to hell. “My car’s out back. We’re going for a little ride before your friends get here. Stand up.”

“Charlie,” the woman said, “Can I go now? You said there wouldn’t be any trouble when the cops arrived.”

“Get into the bedroom and stay there.”

Smith heard footsteps cross the floor, the sound of a door closing. There would be no help from that quarter.

“Four-Two,” Caldwell said. “Secure the street.” The radio transmission was full of static. People who weren’t used to it couldn’t make much sense of it. Hopefully, Bassing wouldn’t be able to either.

“Get up,” Bassing repeated. He gave the bat a kick, and it rolled across the floor. Out of range.

“My ankle really hurts, Charlie. I think it’s broken.”

“Use the other one.”

She put all her weight on her right leg and, gripping the back of a chair for support, pulled herself upright. She stifled a groan of pain.

He waved the gun at her. “Out the back. Move.”

“Please,” she said, her voice cracking. “Let me go, Charlie. I’m sorry if I’ve upset you.”

The sneer broadened. “Damn right you’ve upset me. Now you can make me happy. Before we settle the score.”

“You won’t be able to get away. They’ll be searching for me, everywhere. Look, I’ll tell them the house was empty when I got here. Is that your girlfriend, Charlie? She’ll back me up.”

“Girlfriend? Hardly. Just another junkie bitch who, with a little persuasion, will do anything for a fix. No different than you, Molly, except power’s your fix, isn’t it? Well I’ve got the power now, so shut the fuck up and move. Plenty of time to talk later.”

Her eyes filled with water. “Please, Charlie, don’t hurt me.” She felt her body deflating, getting smaller. Her shoulders hunched and she dropped her head. “I’m sorry Sergeant Winters arrested you. I asked him not to.”

His face tightened with anger. A vein throbbed in his temple. “After I’ve sorted you out, that fuckin’ bastard’s next. Move!” He screamed the last word.

She stepped away from the chair. Her leg buckled and she gave a small, high-pitched cry as she pitched forward. Instinctively Charlie reached out with his free hand and grabbed her arm. “Goddamned useless bitch, can’t you even walk straight.”

She pulled her collapsible baton from her belt and extended it with a flick of the wrist. Knowing her fate would be decided here and now, that there would be no second chances, she brought it down, putting every last bit of strength she could find into the hit. The baton crashed into Charlie’s gun arm. She twisted out of his grip. He yelled, in pain and surprise, letting go of her, but didn’t drop the weapon. Smith pivoted on her left leg and brought her right foot up to smash it into his knee cap. He howled as his leg gave way and he dropped to the floor. The gun went off. She heard the bullet strike the wall. The woman in the bedroom started to scream.

Bassing swung the weapon around so it pointed at Smith’s chest. She had only one chance left, do it now or die. Praying that the Kevlar vest would give her sufficient protection, she closed in. Before he could fire again, she brought the baton down with both hands, going for the spot she’d hit before. It connected. Screaming abuse, roaring with pain, Bassing fell to his knees and dropped the weapon. The gun skidded across the floor. No choice but to turn her back on him. She swooped on it, fumbled for it, put her hand on it, closed her fingers around it, felt for the trigger. Got it. She swung around to face him.

Charlie Bassing’s face shone with rage and sweat; his eyes were so full of hate they scarcely looked human. While she scrambled for the gun, he’d managed to grab the baseball bat and pull himself to his feet. He stood there, swaying but upright. His eyes were black pools in a red face. Spittle ran out of both sides of his mouth. He held the Louisville Slugger high, as if he were about to hit a home run. He gasped around pain. “You fuckin’ bitch.”

He took a step toward her.

Molly Smith fired at the same moment John Winters came through the door.