Blam!
The crack of a rifle.
Instinctively, she hit the floor, every muscle tense, fear shooting through her blood.
Was it Trent’s weapon?
Or someone else’s?
Didn’t matter.
This was no good. No good. Whether he was shooting or being shot at, he was in trouble. Big trouble.
Over the rush of the wind she heard the frightened neighing of the horses.
Fingers trembling, heart drumming, a thousand questions darting through her mind, she dialed 9-1-1 and slid to the back door where she sat with her back against the wall.
Horrid thoughts gripped her.
Was Trent shot?
Even now bleeding out in the barn somewhere?
Oh, God, please, let him be all right! Please, please, please—
“9-1-1,” a female operator said over the wireless connection. “What is the nature of your emergency—”
“Help! Send help!” Cassie nearly screamed. “I heard gunshots and screams and . . . and my husband is in the barn, I think.” She was starting to panic and had to force herself to be coherent. “We were in bed, the dog got all weird and started barking and Trent went out to investigate and then I heard the scream and oh, God, just send someone. My husband’s outside!”
“Ma’am, if you’ll slow down,” the operator said calmly. “Is anyone injured?”
“I—I don’t know. But I heard a scream. First some kind of animal, horrible scream and then . . . a little bit later, a minute maybe, a gunshot.” She was frantic, her pulse ticking wildly. “I texted him, but he’s not responding! For the love of Christ, just send help!”
“What is your name and your address?”
“It’s Cassie, Cassie Kramer, and the address? Oh . . . crap, I don’t know . . . it’s on Benning Road . . . about, about a mile from . . . the Cougar Mountain turnoff. Trent Kittle’s farm. Please just send someone.” She was shaking all over, her fears congealed.
“Are you injured?”
“No! No! I’m fine, but my husband. He could be hurt! I don’t know!” She was panicking, but thought of Trent and how much she loved him and how, oh, God, he couldn’t be injured or worse. No, no, no! She wouldn’t go there. “The address . . . Oh, Jesus. Wait. Hold on.” She scrambled to her feet and ran through the dark hallway, phone to her ear, ankle twinging. Hadn’t she seen a stack of mail on the table, a bill with an address on the kitchen counter? She flipped a switch. Light flooded the kitchen and she picked up the top envelope. “Okay, okay. . . . Here it is.” She read the damn address to the operator and repeated it, all the while hearing the click of computer keys as the woman typed. “Please send someone now.”
“I’ve already dispatched officers,” the officer said calmly, as if the situation weren’t life and death. “They’re on their way. If you’ll just stay on the line.”
“No . . . no, I have to go. I have to find Trent.” Images of him, bleeding, in pain, battling for his life, flared behind her eyes. Didn’t this calm woman on the other end of the line realize that time was running out, that even now . . . She squeezed her eyes shut to fight the fear.
“No, ma’am,” the operator was saying. “Stay on the line. Officers will be there soon.”
“Soon’s not good enough. They need to be here now!” Cassie was having none of it. This operator didn’t understand. “This is an ongoing case. Call Detective Rhonda Nash of the Portland PD, her and her partner, whatever his name is. Detective Thomas, no, that’s not right.” She was starting to lose it. “Thompson. That’s it! Detective Thompson. Tell them to get out here now!” Before the operator could break in, Cassie added, “Just tell them Cassie Kramer called and it’s urgent, that there’s gunfire at the ranch.” She didn’t wait for a response, just clicked off, then flipped the light switch so that the kitchen was again blanketed in darkness.
Quickly she made her way to the back door. She only paused long enough to call her stepfather’s cell phone. She should have called Shane first. One ring. Two. “Hurry up,” she said, and then as the phone rang a third time, his groggy voice came over the connection.