Of course. He had a kid. Was careful. Frantic, the cell phone winking out every ten seconds, she scoured the closet. There were no bullets nearby, no boxes of ammunition on the shelf, nor in a dresser where she rifled through Tshirts and underwear, socks and jeans. “Come on, come on!” The nightstand, too, was empty, no loaded handgun, no bullets for an ancient rifle.
Precious seconds ticked by.
Her heart was racing, her brain on fire.
“Where. . oh, God, where?” She didn’t dare bluff the killer; knew better than to take an empty rifle to the stable.
Fear spurred her. She hauled the rifle downstairs and through the living room where the fire was dying.
Where would he keep the ammo? Far from the gun, yes, but where it was safe and could be accessed by him, not so easily by his child. Close to the door, because he would only use it outside? Quickly she went through several drawers in the kitchen, opening them, searching them with her fingers, slamming them shut, then seeing, as the cell phone’s light faded again, the handle of another flashlight!
Oh, please, she thought, feeling precious time slipping past. Even now Trace could be bleeding, dying…
She flipped on the flashlight, and a sure, strong beam lit up the room. Quickly she went to work, searching the remaining drawer, when she spied the tallest cupboard mounted above the refrigerator. The same place her grandfather had hidden his ammunition. Could it be?
Hurrying, counting her heartbeats, she hauled herself onto the counter, then yanked the door open. Next to a nearly empty bottle of whiskey was a metal box. Locked tight. No way could she pry it open. She needed a key… oh, God, where? She raked her gaze around the room and spied Trace’s key ring that she’d knocked over searching for his cell. Quickly, she pulled the musty box from its hiding place, hopped to the floor, and scooped up the jangling keys. With shaking fingers she separated the keys and found one that was tinier than all the rest.
“Please, oh, please.” She shook the other keys away from it and threaded it in the lock. Click!
Thank God. She popped open the box and found the mother load: a box of shells.
“Take that, you miserable son of a bitch,” she said under her breath as she thought of the killer.
Mentally thanking her grandfather for her lessons years before, she loaded the rifle quickly, pocketed an extra pack of shells, and prayed to God she wouldn’t have to use either as she headed outside again and into the storm.
“Shit!” Trace’s attacker swore loudly, his voice reverberating through the stables.
Who the hell was this lunatic? Not that it mattered. In that respect, the killer was correct. For the moment, Trace just had to figure out a way to stop the son of a bitch before he did any more damage.
Moving slowly, dragging himself toward the wall, Trace tried to come up with a plan.
Over the rage of the wind he heard the distinctive sound of the would-be killer drawing in his breath through his teeth. “Shit!” the man growled again, then let out a yowl accompanied by the soft, whooshing suck of the pitchfork’s tines being yanked from his body. “You fuckin’ cocksucker!” Pain echoed in his voice. “You’re gonna pay for this. You hear me, O’Halleran?”
Trace didn’t respond, just kept low, pulling himself with his hands as he slid silently along the floor, edging toward the wall.
The horses were out of their minds with fear, hooves shuffling, shoes ringing against the stalls from slamming feet.
Sarge — or was it Bonzi? — too, was upset, growling deep in his throat. A warning.
No! Don’t!
“And the dog,” the gunman said aloud. “He’s dead, too! Where are you, you mangy mutt?” Now, there was satisfaction in his voice. “Oh. . there you are, Cujo. Come on, boy,” the assailant cajoled as the horses snorted and stomped. “See what I’ve got for you!”
Fury singed through Trace’s brain. If he could just get the drop on this son of a bitch, he’d kill him. He felt his blood flowing, reached down to feel it wet and sticky from his leg wound. But he’d be damned if he was going to lie here while this maniac killed his dog, then went after Kacey or Eli.
No doubt she was the true target. His son, like Sarge and Trace himself, were just extraneous, obstacles that had to be cleared to the killer’s main objective: Dr. Acacia Lambert.
Travis scooted backward, felt blood flowing out of his leg, his head slightly dizzy from the adrenaline rush. He reached the wall.
“Here, doggy, doggy. .” The killer’s singsong voice masked a groan of pain. The bastard was hurt worse than he’d admit.
Good. Suffer, you bastard. And while you’re at it, die!
Trace reached over his head and felt the handle of the shovel. With a wide, sharp blade it was perfect for scooping manure or shoveling snow, and tonight, he hoped, as a weapon to kill a murdering psychopath.
“Come on, boy—” The son of a bitch made twisted, little kissing sounds as he moved closer, still invisible in the darkness.
Trace’s fingers coiled over the smooth wooden handle.
BAM!
The door to the stables banged against the wall.
Horses nickered in terror.
Trace jumped as a rush of cold air swept into the room.
“What the hell?” The gunman turned his attention away from the dog.
No! Trace went into full-blown panic. Kacey, no! She was the only one at the house… or Eli. And the killer knew it!
“Get away!” Trace screamed.
“Sister,” the attacker drawled smoothly, almost gleefully. “About time you showed up!”
CHAPTER 37
Damn it all to hell!
Alvarez listened to her message from Kacey Lambert and mentally kicked herself from here to hell and back. Furious, she punched in the emergency number and talked to dispatch who said there had already been a distress call logged and deputies sent to an address for Trace O’Halleran, that gunshots had been reported. Hanging up, she dialed Kacey’s number but was sent directly to voice mail.
“Too late,” Alvarez said grimly to Pescoli. “Looks like he’s at the O’Halleran place.”
“What? No!” Noreen let out a cry that rose to the coffered ceiling. Alvarez, standing just inside the Johnsons’ front door with Pescoli, threw a look over her shoulder.
“I was afraid of this,” Judd said. “You know he’s never been right, Mother. Even from the start. When he pushed Aggie down the stairs.”
Alvarez held up a hand, stopping her partner from yanking on the door handle.
“It was an accident,” Gerald said, sinking into his chair again as Alvarez stepped back into the den with its cheery fire, fresh-cut flowers, and simmering lies.
“It was,” Judd insisted. “Of course it was an accident. But essentially, that’s what happened.”
“You told me,” Gerald reminded his son, looking up to meet Judd’s narrowed eyes, “that Aggie got tangled in her blanket.”
“I know. That’s right,” Judd said smoothly, almost as if he’d practiced the line. “And then Cam ran by and knocked her down. She got wrapped up in her damned blanket and fell.”
Noreen shuddered.
“To her death.” Gerald glared at his son.
“We’ve got to go,” Pescoli said tersely. Alvarez rejoined her as she opened the door and the breath of winter blew through the room, rattling umbrellas in a nearby stand. To Gerald, his wife, and oldest son, Pescoli added, “You all stay put! Don’t go anywhere.”
“It’s not Cameron,” Noreen wailed, but Judd Johnson’s tense face said it all. His mother, appearing far frailer than she had just half an hour earlier, collapsed in his arms. Tears rolled from her eyes and she sobbed against his expensive coat, her voice muted as her shoulders shook. “It’s. . it’s not Cameron. It can’t be!”