When Ghosts Come Home(80)

“Hold on!” Winston screams.

When the radio blasted a voice into the quiet car, Winston lurched forward as if tossed by a wave, his feet kicking as if trying to swim to the surface. He was in the cruiser on the runway, the beacon light behind him, the airplane’s silhouette lit by the moon.

“We just got another fire reported in Plantation Cove,” Rudy’s voice said over the CB.

“I can be there in ten,” Glenn’s voice responded.

Winston caught his breath, shook the image of the fiery ocean from his mind, and picked up the receiver.

“I can be there in two. I’m right out here at the airport.”

“Meet you there,” Glenn said.

Winston looked at his watch. It was a few minutes past midnight. He cranked the engine and threw the cruiser into reverse, cutting a wide semicircle before pulling it into drive and gunning it down the runway back toward the parking lot.

There was no traffic and he was already so close that there wasn’t any need to turn on his siren or roof lights, but he drove as fast as he could down Beach Road before turning right into the development. He’d known the arsonist would keep setting fires, but he was surprised that he was back at it—especially back at it at the same place—so soon. It meant that, at least to the arsonist, the fires he was setting were personal.

Winston killed his headlights once he’d driven into the neighborhood, the cruiser’s running lights giving him plenty to go by. He followed the road to where it ended in a T-bone at the marsh-front properties, and he looked to his left at the house he’d investigated the night before. It appeared quiet and vacant, but across the street from that house he caught the flicker of orange flames coming from another home that was under construction. He watched a truck pull into the muddy yard and turn its high beams on. Someone had beaten Winston there. He turned left and barreled down the road as fast as the cruiser could accelerate.

He slammed on his brakes in front of the house, and when he climbed out, he was surprised to hear someone yelling on the other side of the garage. He grabbed a flashlight and drew his pistol and kept it by his side as he ran up the yard, through the truck’s headlights, and around the side of the house. There he found Englehart holding a rifle on someone standing at the edge of the woods. “Englehart?” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Don’t move!” Englehart screamed at the person at the end of his barrel.

“Englehart,” Winston said again.

“This is private property, Sheriff,” Englehart said, then screamed at the person in the woods, “Get down on the ground!”

Winston clicked his flashlight on and pointed it toward the woods. A Black man was standing there, and Winston held his pistol on him. “Lower your weapon, Englehart.”

“Hell, no,” Englehart said. “I’m doing my job.” He was wheezing, trying to catch his breath after running from his truck.

“You are no longer an officer,” Winston said.

“Not for you.”

The man at the edge of the yard must have seen an opportunity. He leapt out of the ring of light and disappeared into the darkness of the woods. “Stop!” Winston yelled. Englehart fired into the trees, and the crack of the shot deafened Winston for a moment. “Jesus, Englehart! Stop!” Winston holstered his pistol and ran after the fleeing man.

As he ran, he managed to work his walkie-talkie free of his belt. “I’ve got a suspect on foot, heading east through the woods,” he said. He ran at full speed. At each turn he took, the woods exploded with the bright light from his flashlight. He could hear the man’s footfalls through the trees, and he could make out his movements as he crashed through the undergrowth.

“Stop!” he called. “Sheriff’s office!”

The flashlight’s beam bounced ahead of him, catching snatches of clothing as branches snapped and rebounded when the figure ahead of him shot past.

Before he knew it, Winston found himself out of the forest and running through backyards, his flashlight fixed on the man’s back. He was out of breath, but he did his best to shout into his radio.

“Suspect is a Black male, approximately six feet tall, white T-shirt and jeans.” He took a deep breath. “On foot in the Grove.”

“Almost there,” Glenn radioed back.

The man crashed through a wall of azaleas. Winston wasn’t far behind him. Their foot chase had disturbed the quiet community. Dogs were barking and howling from inside fences. Porch lights and floodlights had come on, illuminating yards and driveways and carports.

Winston found himself in a backyard. The suspect raced toward the back of a house and tore through the tall hedges that separated the house from the yard. Winston saw the man’s hands grab on to a window and try to raise it. Winston dropped the walkie-talkie and drew his pistol from its holster, aiming it and the flashlight beam at the center of the suspect’s back.

“Brunswick County sheriff!” Winston screamed. “Do not make me shoot!” The man’s hands dropped from the window and disappeared into the tall shrub. Winston could see nothing except snatches of the man’s white T-shirt and his tennis shoes beneath the bushes. “Come out,” Winston said. “You’re cornered. There’s nowhere else to go.”

A light came on in the window the man stood outside of, and inside the house someone tore back the curtain. It surprised Winston, and for a moment he raised his gun and pointed it at the person standing behind the glass. It was Janelle Bellamy.