Gone, Baby, Gone (Kenzie & Gennaro #4)(69)

Major Dempsey came rushing across the grass toward us. “Broussard, what the hell happened up there?”

“Long story, Major.”

I climbed in beside Broussard.

“Where’s the child?”

“There was no kid up there,” Broussard said. “It was a setup.”

Dempsey leaned in the window. “I heard the girl’s doll was floating in the water.”

Broussard looked at me, eyes wild.

“Yeah,” I said. “Didn’t see her body, though.”

Broussard dropped the shift into DRIVE. “Got to find Poole, sir.”

“Sergeant Raftopoulos called in two minutes ago. He’s on Pritchett Street. Says we got some DOAs.”

“Who?”

“Don’t know.”

Dempsey leaned back from the window. “I have a ranger unit going over to Ricciuti Drive to get your partner, Mr. Kenzie.”

“Thanks.”

“Who fired all the ordnance up there?”

“Don’t know, sir. They pinned my ass down, though.”

The sudden whine of a turbine screeched into the field, and Dempsey had to shout to be heard.

“They can’t get out!” Dempsey yelled. “They’re locked in! There’s no way out!”

“Yes, sir.”

“No sign of the girl?” Dempsey seemed to think that if he asked the question enough, sooner or later he’d get the answer he was hoping for.

Broussard shook his head. “Look, sir, with all due respect, Sergeant Raftopoulos had some sort of heart attack on the trail. I want to get to him.”

“Go.” Dempsey stepped aside and waved several cars into line behind us as Broussard punched the gas and drove down the slope, pinned the wheel at a line of trees and spun onto a dirt path, swung left a few seconds later, and sped down a crater-ravaged trail toward the expressway off-ramp that would lead around a rotary and onto Pritchett Street.

Two more dusty paths and we broke onto Quarry Street and raced down the southern side of the hills, with red and blue lights bouncing and swerving behind us in the rearview mirror.

Broussard didn’t slow as he shot through a stop sign at the end of Quarry Street. He fishtailed over the shoulder and turned into the rotary, actually giving the gas pedal a deeper push. All four tires fought him for a second. The heavy car seemed to jerk in against itself and buckle, as if it would suddenly turn on its side, but then the wheels caught and the powerful engine moaned and we shot off the rotary. Broussard pinned the wheel again, and we tore over another shoulder, spewed grass and dirt up onto the hood, and burst past an abandoned mill on our right, saw Poole sitting against the rear quarter panel of the Lexus RX 300 on the left side of the road about fifty yards past the mill.

Poole’s head lolled against the fender. His shirt was open to the navel, and he’d placed one hand against his heart.

Broussard slammed the car to a stop and jumped out, slid on the dirt, and dropped to his knees by Poole.

“Partner! Partner!”

Poole opened his eyes, smiled weakly. “Got lost.”

Broussard felt his pulse, then put a hand to his heart, pushed up Poole’s left eyelid with his thumb. “Okay, buddy. Okay. You’re gonna be…you’re gonna be fine.”

Several police cars pulled past us. A young cop stepped out of the first one, a Quincy unit, and Broussard said, “Open your back door!”

The cop fumbled with the flashlight in his hand, dropped it to the dirt. He reached down to pick it up.

“Open your fucking door!” Broussard screamed. “Now!”

The young cop managed to kick the flashlight under the car before he reached back and opened the door.

“Kenzie, help me lift him.”

I got a grip on Poole’s lower legs, and Broussard eased behind him and wrapped his arms around his chest, and we carried him to the back of the police car and slid him onto the seat.

“I’m fine,” Poole said, and his eyes rolled to the left.

“Sure you are.” Broussard smiled. He turned his head to look at the young cop, who appeared very nervous. “You drive fast?”

“Uh, yes, sir.”

Behind us, several troopers and Quincy cops approached the front of the Lexus, guns drawn.

“Step out of the car now!” one trooper shouted, pointing his weapon at Gutierrez’s windshield.

“Which hospital is closer?” Broussard asked. “Quincy or Milton?”

“Uh, from here, sir, it’s Milton.”

“How fast can you get there?” Broussard asked the cop.

“Three minutes.”

“Make it two.” Broussard slapped the cop’s shoulder and shoved him toward the driver’s door.

The cop hopped behind the wheel. Broussard squeezed Poole’s hand and said, “See you in a bit.”

Poole nodded sleepily.

We stepped back and Broussard shut the back door.

“Two minutes,” he repeated to the cop. The wheels of the unit spewed gravel and kicked up clouds of dust as the cop blew out onto the road, turned on his lights, and sped down the asphalt so fast he could have been shot from a rocket booster.

“Holy shit,” another cop said. He stood at the front of the Lexus. “Holy shit,” he said again.