Pushed Too Far: A Thriller (24 page)

The chuckle loosened the tightness in Lund’s chest. He caught up with the chief.

“About time you got here,” the chief said.

“Soon as I could.”

“We’ve been holding off, just trying to contain it, keep it from spreading to the trees and outbuildings. We know he has some explosives in there and ammunition, of course.”

“I want to go in, see if I can get him out.”

The chief didn’t even blink. “Okay. Take Sandoval.”

Almost a foot shorter than Lund, Sandoval was one of the toughest guys he’d ever known. Former military and just back from Afghanistan, he could face down any situation without a blink. Lund nodded. “Perfect.”

“And Kevlar.”

Lund groaned inwardly at the thought of wearing body armor under his heavy turnout gear. Even if it was only a vest, he would be dripping sweat before he even got close to the fire.

But orders were orders. He peeled off his gear and put on the vest Dempsey handed him. After getting redressed, Lund hooked up his SCBA and donned his mask.

He took his first breath, stomach hitching a little bit at the split second delay, then the air started flowing and his breath settled into rhythm. He pulled the soft hood over the back of his head, attached all the straps, and put on his helmet. Dempsey checked him over, then Sandoval, fussing with covering every inch of skin as if they were little boys going out to play in the snow.

In minutes, they were ready.

Smoke billowed from the open front door, and as soon as Lund stepped through, he couldn’t see a thing.

Sandoval took the lead. Left hand skimming the wall, he crawled on hands and knees, shouting out when he reached a window, door, or any other feature Lund needed to be aware of.

Also on hands and knees, Lund kept his left hand in contact with Sandoval’s boot. While Sandoval guided along the walls, Lund’s job was to search for Kasdorf. Stretching, he skimmed his right hand in front of him and swept his right leg toward the room’s center.

Sweat ran down Lund’s back in steady streams, beaded his forehead and stung his eyes. Not for the first time, he wished the department had the funds for thermal imaging cameras. The devices made seeing through smoke and darkness a breeze, picking up both the heat of flame and body heat of victims.

Without the technology, the going was much slower. Luckily Kasdorf had little furniture, so little, in fact, that Lund had to wonder if he lived in the house at all.

After finally completing their sweep, Sandoval paused. “Upstairs or down?”

Lund thought for a second. He knew little about the man, but Val had mentioned his survivalist tendencies and hatred of police. If threatened, he’d guess someone like that would burrow underground. And with all this smoke, that was probably the only place he might still be able to breathe. “Down.”

On the move again, Sandoval led back through the kitchen to the cellar door. They rose to their feet and walked down the stairs, the smoke thinning from too thick to see your hand to disconcerting gloom. Like many old farmhouses, the cellar was made of stone, water seeping through the chinks between. With the SCBA, Lund couldn’t smell a thing, but dank mildew was a good bet.

Movement stirred in the corner.

He squinted through mask and face shield, trying to focus through the gloom, but could make out nothing but phantoms of smoke from above.

They searched the area on their feet this time. Like the first floor, the cellar was relatively uncluttered, just an old chest freezer, a new hot water heater, furnace and water softener. And a wall of shelves lined with canning jars.

It couldn’t be. The whole idea was ridiculous. And yet …

Lund braced a hand against one side of the shelves and shoved.

Solid.

Apparently he’d guessed wrong. Kasdorf wasn’t the burrowing type. The man must be on the second floor. There was no way he could have survived the smoke up there. Lund had likely failed to save his third victim in a week.

He turned to direct Sandoval up the stairs only to see the phantom materialize behind him ... but it was no phantom.

It was a man holding a big-ass handgun.

V
al couldn’t wait any longer for the big reveal. “So who was with Kelly before she died?”

Becca glanced at Olson, then back to Val, but didn’t answer.

A nervous shimmy started right below her rib cage. “Spit it out, Becca.”

“David Lund.”

Val’s throat constricted.

Pete narrowed his eyes on the rookie. “So we recovered a used tissue with David Lund’s DNA in it from the scene? He was there that morning. Couldn’t he have blown his nose?”

Becca shook her head. “It wasn’t from him blowing his nose.”

“Semen?”

She nodded. “Some killers … get excited when they take a life.”

Val’s mind stuttered. What Becca was saying was impossible. She couldn’t wrap her mind around it.

“And if you remember,” Becca continued, “we had snow the day before, so a tissue couldn’t have been there long without being dissolved by the elements.”

Pete focused on Val. “Are we going to bring him in?”

Val forced a nod, although her mind was screaming. It didn’t feel right, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? When it came to Lund, she’d been going by her feelings since Kelly’s body showed up in the lake. Could she have been wrong? Could she have slept with a killer?

She felt sick and tired and numb and ready to throw in the towel on the whole thing. But she couldn’t do that, could she? She had to do the job, even though it was not technically hers to do. There was no one else.

She cleared her throat, but the dry constriction remained. “We pay the chief a visit first. Then we talk to Lund.”

Val hated the idea of letting Grace out of her sight, but she certainly wasn’t going to drag the girl to either an arrest or what could be a rather explosive fire. Besides, when push came to shove, the safest place in Lake Loyal was sitting in the dispatch center of the police station, Oneida feeding her sugar cookies and mothering her with the ferocity of a grizzly.

For now, circumstances required officers to stop responding to crashes where no one was hurt. Her entire department was focused on helping the injured and assisting the county sheriff’s department and state patrol with the interstate pileup nightmare.

That left two cars. Becca took the remaining black-and-white, and Olson and Val piled into his SUV. She left Jack’s Nova safely parked.

The chief had retired to a remodeled seventies split level in a wooded development on the north side. It wasn’t far, but Olson drove so slowly, Val thought they probably would’ve arrived sooner on foot. Each time he tapped the brakes, the vehicle slid in slow motion several yards through a stop sign or toward a ditch, before the curb or lack of momentum would bring them to a stop.

If she’d thought the trees were breathtaking this morning, tonight they were otherworldly, except in the spots where it appeared as though a tornado had blown through. Supple branches sparkled like glass and arched under heavy ice, sometimes reaching all the way to the ground. Larger and older branches snapped and hung like a scene from a disaster movie. It was a miracle anyone in the area still had power.

By the time they reached the chief’s place, her back was covered with clammy sweat, and every nerve in her body was starting to feel as useless as her hand and her right eye.

Even in the early dark of a cloudy late afternoon, no lights were on in the house. They parked in the driveway, Becca pulling in behind them.

Deciding to take the straightforward approach, they climbed from their vehicles, marched up to the front door, and rang the bell.

Nothing.

Val shielded the glass side light from the glow to the west and peered through the glass.

As in most split level houses, the front door opened to a small landing. Half a flight of stairs stretched upward to the main floor, the other half led down, a difficult floor plan to manage for people with disabilities … and for police.

At the top of the stairs, a small table rested on its side. The clock that had once set on top lay beside it, crystal shattered, pieces scattered down the stairs.

“Olson.” She stepped away from the window and motioned for him to look.

His body stiffened, and he drew his gun. Becca did the same.

Val could only wish she had hers. Another casualty of her suspension. She reached for the door knob. It twisted under her hand. Pausing, she eyed the two of them.

They nodded.

She pushed the door open.

Olson then Becca flowed into the house. They climbed the stairs, guns ready, footfalls scuffing lightly on tile.

Val stayed on the landing, keeping an eye on the dark yawn of the lower level. The harder she tried to hear what was going on upstairs, the louder her pulse drummed. Seconds crawled, ticked off by the broken clock’s still functioning hands.

Finally Olson appeared at the top landing, lips pinched with tension, brows low. “Upper two levels are clear. Take a look.”

He descended, Becca following, and the two passed Val and continued to the lower level.

Val climbed the stairs.

The table and clock were only the beginning. The rest of the living room was a wreck as well. A lamp was shattered, a chair tipped over, papers strewn around. She could only conclude it was the scene of a brawl.

She stepped around the mess and into the kitchen. Compared to the living room, things were neat in here. But the items that were out of place gave her a chill.

A knife block had been knocked to the floor, knives scattered across the counter. The chef’s knife nowhere to be found.

The dining room was all that was left on this level. She picked her way to the doorway, stepping carefully as not to disturb any evidence.

No damage here. The hardwood floor showed no scuffs, the chairs sat straight in their places, even the bills, calculator and checkbook were still spread across the table top, undisturbed.

Blowing out a breath of relief, she circled the table.

The missing knife lay on the floor, its blade dull and sticky, matching the rusty stain on the corner of the oriental rug.

The bullet went wide.

Lund went in low.

With each step, he waited for the slug to connect, braced himself for the pain.

He hit the man square in the gut, plowing into him like a linebacker, driving with his legs, just as another explosion pummeled his ears.

The man flew backward, bounced on the floor once, then slammed into the chest freezer, Lund on top of him. His weapon clattered loose and skittered across the floor.

Holding the guy’s arms against his sides, Lund took a look at his face.

Buzz cut and scruffy beard, he squinted, eyes barely open. His skin was flushed pink, as if he’d spent too long in a sauna, but Lund knew his biggest problem wasn’t excessive heat, but the carbon monoxide he’d been breathing while trying to save his precious weapons store.

“We’ve got to get this guy out,” he called to Sandoval. His ears rang, head throbbed. He could hardly hear his own voice. “Give me a hand.”