I tore through the trees without heed to any of the lessons my grandfather had once taught me about moving silently through the forest. All I cared about was reaching that guardhouse, and I mentally counted down the distance to go as I ran, ignoring the sharp pain in my ankle.
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The ground was slippery with dried pine needles and crisscrossed with gnarly roots that sent me stumbling into trees and bushes every few yards. I careened my way through the dense forest, desperate for a glimmer of light that might lead the way. I stopped, gasping for breath, heard someone else crashing through the brush behind me and took off again at top speed, wheezing for air. There were no pockets in my sweat suit where I could store the gun and the waistband was too loose to grip it securely. I had to hold it to one side as I ran, terrified that if I fell, I’d end up shooting my own head off.
I was moving too fast for safety. I tripped over a fallen log, bounced off a tree, regained my balance, then entered the hell of a forest section where a tornado spawned by Hurricane Fran had upended dozens of trees and sent them crashing to the ground like giant pickup sticks. It was almost impossible to navigate. I ducked between trunks, crawled over debris and frantically scrambled to find my way around thick piles of dried branches. Behind me, the crashing sounds grew louder as my pursuer neared the devastated area.
I banged into a trunk that had fallen crossways across another fallen log and thought I had broken my shin in two. The gun flew from my hand upon impact, and I dropped to my hands and knees, searching the ground with frantic hands until I felt the metal of the butt. I took a deep breath, got back on my feet and forced myself to think. I had to calm myself; there were too many obstacles in the way. Panic would doom me.
I focused on a nearby tree, giving my eyes time to adjust to the darkness. As my pupils dilated, shapes became clear. I could make out a less-cluttered section of the forest ahead, where welcome moonlight cast a pale shadow over still- standing trees and, possibly, a clearing.
I moved over the pine needles more lightly, being careful where I stepped and taking the time to do so quietly. I was too confused by my fall to know at this point which direction led to the research facility and safety. My only option was to keep going and hope that I was right.
My pursuer reached the area of fallen trees behind me. There was a crash and deep curses echoed though the silence of the night forest. I pressed my back against a rough pine trunk and held my breath. “Say something,” I willed him. I had to know who he was. Somehow, I believed, it would lessen the terror if I knew who I was up against. I heard scrambling and then more crashing as he attempted to bull his way through the dried brush. A gunshot echoed behind me, and my feet took flight, automatically propelling me away from the sound. Was he stupid enough to shoot blindly into the darkness, hoping to bring me down? Or had he stumbled and fired inadvertently?
I didn’t wait to find out. I moved through the forest steadily, finding my stride, moving as quickly as possible away from the crashing sounds behind me.
I stopped as the knowledge hit me. Crashing sounds? There were two people pursuing me, I realized. c, I>< One farther back than the other. Another gunshot rang out, and I was certain of it then, the echo was weaker. More like a pop. It was a different gun. God, I thought, two maniacs? Shooting off bullets at random?
I jumped over a dead sapling blocking my path and spotted a light through the trees. The guardhouse. It had to be. I dashed forward in relief—and ran chest first into a six-foot hurricane fence. I bounced off the heavy wire and fell to the ground from the impact, impaling my left hand on a sharp bottom strand that bent up at the base of the fence. My hand began to bleed. Damn it. Who the hell needed a fence in the middle of nowhere? I peered through the thick wire. There was a deep drainage ditch on the other side. The fence had been put up for safety, not privacy. If I followed it back to the road, chances were good it would end when the ditch was no longer a danger.
Behind me, the crashing sounds grew nearer. Another gunshot split the quiet and I winced, trapped against the fence. They were getting closer. Before I could react, another series of gunshots rang out, closer than before. Hot pain flooded my left hip like a nest of fire ants had attacked me. I fell to the ground, cursing. Those lucky bastards. I’d been hit from behind. I grabbed the fence and hauled myself upright. It hurt like hell, but I could still walk. I was slowed down considerably, though, and the crashing sounds just kept coming closer and closer.
I had to change my plan. There was no time to follow the fence. They’d know I had no other choice, and any chance I had at escape would be gone. Running was out, anyway. Hobbling was the best I could manage. It wouldn’t take long for them to catch up.
I had no other choice. I’d have to bring them down.
I dropped to my knees behind a large pine tree that had fallen onto a smaller one, creating a prop for my shooting arm. Together, the two trunks shielded most of my body, while the top log allowed me to take steady aim. I gripped the .44 and took my position, sighting down the long barrel, willing my eyes to see through the darkness. Why hadn’t I taken one of Bobby’s semiautomatics? I’d have to make every shot count.
I was ready when Steven Hill burst through a clump of bushes and stopped just short of the fence. He held a small handgun and cocked his head to one side as he listened for a hint of my presence.
“Over here, asshole,” I said loudly.
He turned and I fired twice.
The bullets hit their mark a few inches south of their intended target. I blew off his right kneecap instead of neutering him for life like I’d planned. He dropped to the ground like someone had knocked both legs out from under him. Then he began to scream like a wildcat in heat. I bet every animal within five miles took off running at the sound. Some tough guy. He rolled around on the ground, holding his injured knee cinj
and wailing like a baby. His gun lay to one side, forgotten. I scurried to him, ignoring my own wound, grabbed the gun and told him to shut the fuck up or I’d blow his other kneecap off. He didn’t argue. I left him thrashing in silent agony as I retook my position and waited for the second pursuer.
Hill had been carrying a Lorcin. There was only one reason for someone like him to carry such a cheap gun—he had intended to kill me and toss it.
“Casey!” someone was calling through the woods. “Casey, are you there?” As the voice grew closer, Hill lost what little composure he had and began to moan again, leading whomever it was right to our spot. “Casey!” the voice shouted, only a few feet away in the darkness. I took aim and waited.
Bill Butler broke into the small clearing, gun in hand.
I couldn’t shoot. I hesitated, finger on the trigger, unable to squeeze. For months afterward, I would relive that hesitation again and again. And I would forever send a silent prayer upward that I did not complete the shot. Because Bill ran straight up to Steven Hill and stuck a Glock into his ear.
“Where’s Casey?” he demanded. “If you hurt her, you’re dead. End of story.”
“Hurt her?” Hill croaked, rolling on the ground and holding his knee. “That bitch doesn’t need protecting. It’s the rest of us who need protecting from her.”
Bill ignored him and stood, scanning the clearing. “Casey!” he called out.
“Don’t come any closer,” I said, stepping out from behind the fallen pines. I wasn’t taking any more stupid chances. I held the gun aimed at his waist but my hands were shaking. Badly. I was losing blood. Liquid seeped down my left leg and collected in my sock. I could feel it growing heavy around my sprained ankle. God, what if he had hit an artery?
Bill automatically put both hands in the air. “Jesus, Casey. I’m on your side, remember?”
“Are you?” I asked, more calmly than I felt.
“Yes. I am.” His voice rose an octave. “Do you really have to point that thing at me?”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
“Here—take my gun.” He held it out, barrel first.
“Toss it.”
He stared. “It might go off.”
“Then toss it and duck.”
Reluctantly, he flipped the Glock across the clearing as if he were playing horseshoes. It fell at my feet with a thud.
“Now, prop him up against that log,” I ordered, nodding a Hill. “And sit next to him.”
“Why?”
“We’re going to play twenty questions,” I explained “And you’re going first.”
“Casey,” Bill pleaded. “Come on. This is nuts.”
“Shut up and sit down.” I said. He slid to the ground next to a whimpering Steven Hill. “Tell him to shut up or I’ll blow his other knee off,” I added.
“Shut up?” Bill said. “Look what you did to him.”
“He’s lucky,” I explained. “I meant to shoot his dick off.”
“Jesus, Casey,” Bill croaked, appalled. “What the hell is going on here?”
“You tell me,” I answered. “Let’s start with what you’re doing here.”
“I followed you,” he said, hands still held high in the air “I was just kidding when I said I’d watch and make sure you weren’t being followed. At least, I thought it was a joke. But then I really did see a black truck pull out from behind the clubhouse and follow you out the drive. I realized you’d been right. I hauled ass to my Mustang and followed the truck. I lost it on 70, but I knew you were taking Alexander Drive. I was going over a hundred miles an hour when I saw your car and the truck by the side of the road. You left your car door open and the light was on. I heard the two of you running through the woods. It’s not like following you was difficult. You two sounded like moose mating the way you crashed around.”
“Shut up,” I ordered him. “If I want you to be funny I’ll tell you to be funny. Right now I want you to shut up and listen.” He shut up.
I believed Bill. Almost. But now it was time for him to believe me. And the only way that was going to happen was if he heard it from Hill himself.
“Move away from Hill,” I told him.
“Why?” Bill asked.
“Because I’m going to shoot him if he doesn’t answer my questions and my aim might be off again. I might accidently shoot something of yours off instead.”
Bill opened his mouth like he wanted to say something but changed his mind and scuttled away from Hill like a crab heading for its sand hole.
“You know what you did,” I told Hill. “And I know it, too. But Bill needs enlightening. I want him to hear it right from your mouth.”
Hill groaned and rolled toward the edge of the clearing.
“I’m going to ask you some questions,” I told him, training my revolver on his left knee. “If I think you’re trying to shit us, I’m going to shoot.”
“You can’t do that,” he said, the words muffled by pain.
“Sure I can,” I explained. “Watch this.” I pointed the gun up and squeezed the trigger. A small branch exploded from a pine tree and dropped to the ground at his feet. Luck. But impressive luck.
Hill groaned and Bill’s eyes grew wider. “Just stay put,” I warned Bill.
“Stop her,” Hill pleaded.
Bill looked at me. I shook my head. None of what Hill said to us in that clearing would ever stand up in court, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that I wanted to know that I was right. I wanted Bill Butler to know that I was right. And, lastly, I wanted to hear Steven Hill admit what he had done.
“Better hear what he has to say before you do anything,” I told Bill. “I don’t think you really know him very well.” I turned to Hill. “We’ll start with an easy one,” I said. “Question number one: who killed George Carter, not giving a shit that his wife was pregnant and he was a good cop?”
He knew as well as I did that he had nothing to lose by telling me. His need to be smarter than us won out over discretion. “Pete Bunn,” Hill said quickly. “I swear it was Pete.”
“Why?” I asked. “Because you told him to?” He met my question with silence, and I took a step closer, wincing. My left hip was starting to throb, my ankle was aching and a steady trickle of blood had turned my sock into a soggy mess. “Because you told him to?” I persisted.
“Yes,” he spit out. “Because I told him to. I promised him a cut of my action if he would.”
“What action?” I asked. “You’re off the streets now. Who would bother to pay you off?”
I swear there a smug smile just lurking beneath his controlled expression. He was dying to show how clever he had been.
“Isn’t it obvious?” he asked.
“Maybe to a scumbag like you,” I conceded. “But why don’t you fill us Boy Scouts in on the plan?”
He was silent.
“It’s the end of the line for you,” I assured him. “The only way to save your ass is to start talking. May as well practice your story on us.”
“Dirty cops,” he explained. “Pretty simple, really. I’d tell them they were under investigation and promise to keep the division off their backs for a percentage of their take. They spoke the same language. No one argued. They just looked at it as a business expense.”
“Enterprising,” I remarked. “You’re sort of the Amway of corruption.”
Poor Chief Robinette, I thought. A prostitution ring out of headquarters would have been preferable to this.
Bill was sitting on the ground, staring openmouthed a Steven Hill. “And you ain’t even heard nuthin’ yet,” I thought.