Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(54)

“Sadie?”

Shadows fill the room, so I go to the front window and open the curtains. Dim light seeps in. I glance into the hallway to my left. The thread of worry I’d felt earlier augments into an adrenaline punch when I see the Amish woman lying on the floor, a small heap, unmoving.

“Oh, no.”

I go to her and kneel. She’s sprawled on her right side with her left arm above her head. Wearing the same dress as yesterday. A mug lying on its side. Urine has soaked into her skirt and puddled on the floor. Something dark smeared on her kapp. I know she’s dead even before I see her face. Cloudy eyes open and staring. Mouth sagging. Darkish tongue hanging out between hit-or-miss teeth.

“Oh, Sadie.” I press my fingers to her carotid artery, but there’s no pulse. A chill coils at the base of my spine when I realize her flesh isn’t yet cold to the touch.

I have no way of knowing what I’ve walked into. Sadie was an elderly woman, a stroke victim, and well into her eighties. She could have fallen during the night and broken a hip. She could have had another stroke or a heart attack. Any number of things could have happened. But I can’t stop thinking about the tire tracks in the driveway. The footprints on the front porch.

Rising, I step back, slide my .38 from the holster. The hallway is dark; with my other hand I tug the mini Maglite from my jacket pocket. No movement in the bedroom or bathroom beyond. In the periphery of the beam, the old woman’s flesh is colorless. Her lips dry and nearly purple. The smear on her kapp snags my attention. Blood, I realize. A dribble of it runs from her ear to the crease of skin at her throat. Something not right about her face.…

I shift the light. Horror burgeons when I realize one side of her skull has been crushed.

“Shit. Shit.”

Every sense attuned to my surroundings, I back away, retrace my steps. The floor creaks behind me. I spin, catch a glimpse of the rocking chair an instant before it crashes into me. The curved slat strikes my temple. Pain sears across my scalp. The armrest slams against my left shoulder. The force sends me to my knees. My .38 clatters to the floor.

A jet engine of adrenaline roars through me. A dozen thoughts register at once. My attacker is male. Tall. Heavily built. Beard.

I dive for the .38. An instant before I reach it, a hand slams down on my shoulder. Fingers dig into muscle and skin, yank me backward with such force that I spin, land on my back. He comes down on top of me, straddles my midsection, draws back to punch me.

I bring up both knees, drive them against his spine. He rocks forward, unfazed, but it buys me an instant. I ram the heel of my hand into his face. The cartilage in his nose crunches. His head snaps back.

His fist careens off my left cheekbone. Stars scatter in my peripheral vision. Pain zings. I’m at a huge disadvantage, weight and strength and position. We’re in the hall, hemmed in by the narrow space. I do the only thing I can and bring up my right leg, hook it over his head, my heel against his throat, and send him backward. He growls like an animal. He’s off balance now, halfway off me. I bring up my other leg and stomp his chest. The force drives him back. Not for long. He lunges at me, throws a wild punch.

“I’m a cop!” I scream. “I am armed! Get the fuck off me!”

His fist bounces off my knee as I bring it up. I kick at him with both feet. My right heel glances off his chin. He grabs my ankle, but I punt his hand away with my other foot.

Kicking, wildly and without aim, I roll, launch myself at the .38. My hand finds the butt.

He comes down on top of me, a boulder slamming against my back. I’m facedown, my right arm extended, gripping my weapon. A fist comes down on my head like a sledgehammer. My chin slams against the floor. My teeth clack together. My finger is inside the guard.…

“Get off me! I’m armed! I will shoot you!”

My screams fall on deaf ears. He’s straddling the small of my back. A second punch lands between my shoulder blades. Pain tears the breath from my lungs. His fist slams against the right side of my head. Red and white lights flash. My ear rings. Hands fumble, find my neck. Viselike fingers clamp around my throat, squeezing.

He pulls me backward, lifts the top part of my body off the floor, then shunts my head down. My forehead and nose slam against the floor. Another round of stars. Pain climbs up my sinuses. The warmth of blood on my lips. The copper taste of it in my mouth.

I yank the .38 toward me, bend my arm at the elbow, aim as best I can over my shoulder, and I take a blind shot. The explosion rocks my brain.

My attacker goes rigid. An animalistic howl tears from his throat. I pull the trigger again. He rolls off me. I twist, crabwalk back, bring up the gun. “Police! Get on the ground! Get on the ground!”

I see his silhouette against the window, coming toward me, and I pull off another shot. I hear a whoosh! A piece of furniture flung at me, something heavy hitting my arm. Another zing of pain. A damn chair.…

I kick it aside, hear it clatter across the floor. He’s nowhere in sight, but I hear him moving around in the living room. “Get your fucking hands up!” I scream. “Get them up! Get on the ground or I will shoot you dead! Do it now!”

The chair flies at me from the mouth of the hall. I block it with my foot. I catch a glimpse of him as he sprints to the kitchen.

I scramble to my feet, dizzy, stumble right, hit the wall with my shoulder. “Police! Stop!”

I follow, round the corner, see him go through the back door. “Police! Halt!”