Shamed (Kate Burkholder #11)(66)

“I’m ten-sixty,” comes a male voice—the sheriff’s deputy, meaning he’s in the vicinity.

“Can you ten-eight-five?” I say, asking him to look for an abandoned vehicle.

“Copy that.”

Tugging out my Maglite, I shine the beam on the gravel shoulder, looking for tire tracks, footprints, or spent casings, but there’s nothing there. I cross the road, check the other side, but the gravel is undisturbed. The shooter could have parked right here, turned off his headlights, and fired from inside his vehicle.

Turning off my Maglite, I cross through the ditch and climb the tumbling-down wire fence. Chances are, the shooter made the shot and fled in a vehicle. But the woods would be an advantageous position. He would have a clear view of the house, close enough to make the shot, and yet be hidden within the cover of the trees—where he wouldn’t have to worry about being spotted by Skid.

That’s when it occurs to me he could have parked on the county road south of here and walked through these woods unseen. After taking the shot, he could have run back through the woods and reached his vehicle in two minutes.

Darkness closes around me when I enter the woods. There’s just enough light filtering through the clouds for me to avoid a collision with a tree trunk or low branch. The trees are bare, but tall and tightly packed. I do my best to tread quietly, but leaves crunch beneath my boots. Fifty feet in, I stop, listening. I can just make out the silhouette of the Helmuth farmhouse behind me. It would take a good marksman to make the shot from this distance, but I’ve no doubt it could be done.

I’m reaching for my shoulder mike to hail Skid when something rustles in the leaves. I see movement twenty yards ahead. I freeze, squint into the darkness. I can just make out the silhouette of a man. He’s stone still, looking at me. I don’t see a weapon, but that doesn’t mean he’s not armed. For an interminable second, we stare at each other.

“Police! Get your hands up!” Sliding my .38 from its holster, I start toward him. “Do not move! Get your hands up now! Slowly. Get them up.”

The man spins and runs.

I hit my lapel mike, give the code for suspicious person. “Ten-seven-eight.” Need assistance.

“Stop! Halt! Police!” I sprint after him, dodging trees, plowing through bushes and saplings. All the while I shout into my lapel mike. “Ten-eighty! Subject is on foot! Southbound, approaching County Road 79. Male. Dark coat.”

I’m no slouch when it comes to running, but the man is faster and putting space between us at an astounding rate. I skirt a brush pile. Brambles claw at my coat and trousers. Branches whip my face. I fling myself over a fallen log, splash through a shallow creek. I’m thirty yards from the road when I see the flash of a dome light.

“Police!” I scream. “Stop!”

An engine roars. I hear the screech of tires. I see the glint of a vehicle through the trees. Moving fast.

I hit my shoulder mike. “Subject is in a vehicle,” I say, breaths puffing. “Eastbound. No headlights.”

My police radio lights up with a dozen codes and voices. Word of a possibly armed suspect has garnered the attention of every law enforcement agency in the county. The sheriff’s department. The Ohio State Highway Patrol. My own department. Still, Holmes County is large—a labyrinth of highways, back roads, dirt roads, and plenty of woods.

I burst onto the road, my breaths labored; I see the red flash of taillights to my left. I sprint another twenty yards, trying to keep him in sight, see which direction he goes next. But the vehicle disappears into the night like a ghost.





CHAPTER 21


Eighty-seven hours missing

When you’re a cop and working a missing-child case, the last thing you want to do is give up hope. The expectation of a positive outcome is the thing that drives you forward when you’re exhausted beyond your limit, uncertain of your path, and besieged by bad news and dead ends at every turn. The longer the case drags on, the more difficult that precious hope is to hang on to, no matter how tight your grip. But cops are realists; when the time comes to give it up, your focus turns to finding the son of a bitch responsible, bringing him to justice—or maybe just bringing a small body home to rest.

I didn’t get much sleep last night. I spent most of it with the Helmuths and on the roads surrounding the farm. The sheriff’s department searched for the shooter and, later, collected what little evidence they could find, which boiled down to a single tire-tread mark that may or may not have been from the perpetrator’s vehicle. There was no brass. No sign anyone had been in the woods with a rifle at all. Still, in light of the threat, I’ve permanently stationed one officer at the Helmuth farm twenty-four seven. I’m working with a skeleton crew to begin with; I don’t know how I’ll sustain the manpower. I’ll find a way.

Tomasetti and I are on our way to Crooked Creek. We’ve spent most of the drive talking about the case, the players involved, their motives, brainstorming the possibilities and different scenarios.

Our first stop is the Scioto County Sheriff’s Department. It’s nine A.M. when Sheriff Dan Pallant ushers us through the secure door and into the same interview room where I met with the deputy two days ago.

Pallant is a middle-aged African American man with a quick smile and a booming voice. He’s neatly dressed in khaki slacks and a navy pullover. A salt-and-pepper goatee covers his chin. A slightly receding hairline and heavy-framed eyeglasses lend him a studious countenance. He’s cordial, but once the niceties are out of the way, he’s ready to get down to business.