Gone(47)

Ski didn’t respond. Peter was so focused on Althea he hadn’t registered the sound of a scuffle. He glanced over and saw Ski fighting with one of the contractors. Joe Fleming had Ski in a headlock and was grasping for the firearm Ski had in his fist. Ski fired into the ground. Peter didn’t know whether it was intentionally or accidentally.

This is crazy. This is fucking crazy. How is this happening?

The men separated. Fleming landed a punch square on the side of the trooper’s head. Fleming lunged for the weapon again, and this time managed to grab it. Ski recovered quickly from the blow and seized Fleming by the arms. They fought over the gun, kicking at each other, tottering back until they both slammed against the side of the SUV in a metallic crash.

Peter returned his full attention to Althea. Do something, man! Do something . . .

He walked towards Terry, regardless of the warning. He slid his finger against the trigger.

The truck appeared from the far side of the restaurant. Gleaming white, extended cab, biggest size they came. It tore across the dirt lot on a cloud of boiling dust and the driver slammed on the brakes. For a moment, Terry and Althea were lost in a dust storm.

“Stop!” Peter had lost the shot completely; he was determined to get Terry in his sights again, and this time he would not hesitate. He heard the men shouting to each other — “Get in, get her in!” — and then saw their shapes as the dust settled. Terry was still behind Althea, hauling her around to the passenger side of the vehicle. They were at the back of the truck. Peter had his second chance. He lined up the sights and slowly let his breath out.

He fired, at the last second deciding not to aim directly at Terry, but just off to the side. The bullet punched into the tailgate, and it worked. Terry jumped, and Althea made a quick move. She planted her feet firmly, swung a leg around behind Terry and then jerked back, throwing him off balance. He slammed against the bumper. Althea spun, threw a fist, and smashed him in the nose.

Terry yelped. He covered his nose with his hands. Althea hit him again, in the ribs; two rapid-fire punches that knocked the wind out of him. Terry doubled over, howling.

Peter was only a few feet away. He could fire again, shoot Terry Rafferty; just take him out. Didn’t have to be fatal, but he could put him down. Only, he was distracted by the truck’s driver. The window was coming down, and Peter saw the tip of a rifle barrel. A split second later, the flash of gunfire as the driver pulled the trigger.

Peter felt the bullet tug the air beside his head. The shot had missed him by inches. He dropped to the ground and returned fire, pulling the trigger five, six, seven times. The explosions of the rounds were deafening; the bullets tore holes in the side of the truck, but the vehicle leapt forward, tires spinning, churning up dirt in a huge plume.

More shots followed — Trooper Ski was walking forward, gun extended, blasting at the fleeing vehicle. Peter couldn’t see Joe Fleming at first, but then he peered beneath the cruiser. Fleming was on the ground, his face turned in Peter’s direction, his eyes wide and mouth open. Dead.

Ski kept firing as the big truck ripped out of the dirt parking lot and onto the macadam, where the tires smoked as the rubber sheared away.

“The tires!” Peter called. “Shoot the tires!”

He turned to where Althea had been behind the truck. The wind dispersed the dust and he saw her on her knees.

He sprang to his feet and ran to her, ready to blast Terry as soon as he caught sight of him. But he didn’t see the man.

Ski yelled. “Son of a bitch!”

Peter looked up at the last second before the truck disappeared around a bend in the road. In that final moment, Terry popped his head up from the back. He’d managed to hop in before the driver had torn away.

The threat over, Peter slipped the gun into his holster and dropped to his knees. He took Althea into his arms. She was coughing, gagging, touching her neck where Terry Rafferty had choked her. Peter yelled to Ski: “In the house — see about the old woman!” He meant both see if she was alright, and see if she was getting her own weapon, and going to be a problem, too.

He cradled Althea in his arms, smoothing back her hair. This wasn’t something he’d expected. Terry and his brother Brad were armed and violent, but attacking multiple police officers like this? Trying to take Althea hostage? It upped the stakes in ways Peter hadn’t really thought possible.

Ski snapped the radio from his belt and shouted into it. He put out the call for emergency services and for more troopers to respond to the scene. Peter kept a hold of Althea until she seemed to regain her breath.

“Got that guy good,” she said.

Peter pulled her close. One thing was clear, this wasn’t just about EPA forms and violation of method codes for hazard waste transportation. No one in their right minds went up against sheriff’s deputies and a state trooper for what would likely amount to no more than loss of commercial driving licenses or fines. The only thing that made any sense was that this went deeper and worse. It involved the missing family, for sure. Either that, or the world had just gone completely nuts.

“You got him,” he said to Althea. “Yeah, you got him, babe.”

He looked beneath the vehicles. Joe Fleming was there, still dead as dead got.

That could have been Thea. But it wasn’t. She’d made it through, just. No more playing cowboy, from now on. It was time for the U.S. Attorney, it was time for the FBI. These sons of bitches had to go d—