“No, Sheriff, not Deputy Glenda, she’s not too pleased with me right now. Besides, I ain’t no wuss, I can get there under my own steam. Hey, Rachael, I’m thinking you look familiar.”
“That’s because I shoot well,” she said, and poked him in his good arm.
The sheriff said, “Okay, Roy Bob, you go on over, see Dr. Post. As for you, Miss Abercrombie, I need you to come back to the office with me and we’ll talk this all over, you can give me a formal statement. Hopefully Agent Savich and Sherlock will bring this fellow down.”
“Roy Bob, about my car—”
“You gonna hurt my other arm if I don’t fix your fuel pump right away, Rachael?”
Rachael pointed gun fingers at him. “I just might. Then you might think I look like your mother.”
Roy Bob laughed, then moaned as he jerked his arm. “I’ll get to it then.”
But not in time. Now, how was she to get away from Sheriff Hollyfield?
The sheriff turned to see his youngest, greenest deputy come running into the bay.
Deputy Theodore Osgood, called Tooth because one of his front teeth was chipped half off, just turned twenty-one, was big, beefy, and panting. He wheezed out, “That guy in the black truck—he nearly hit old Mrs. Crump—missed her, but scared her so bad she fell into a hydrant. We’re getting her over to the clinic.”
Rachael wasn’t listening. She was thinking, He’ll get away, monsters always get away. Two and a half days since they’d tossed her into Black Rock Lake tied to a concrete block. Didn’t matter how they knew she was here, they’d found her, and now things were critical. She had to get out of Parlow, now. She had to get to Slipper Hollow.
But how?
ELEVEN
The sheriff was right, Savich thought as he sped the powerful Chevy to Judge Hardesty’s airfield. Bobby, their pilot, was sitting beneath a pine tree, puffing on a pipe, reading a Juan Cabrillo adventure.
He had them in the air in under five minutes.
Sherlock said into her headphones, “I bet he’s going to head back to the main highway, Bobby. He needs traffic to get lost in, and he’s not going to find it on this road.”
Savich said, “Agreed. We’re looking for a black Ford pickup, the first three letters of the license plate are F-T-E.”
Bobby swung the helicopter in a tight circle and headed toward the junction of 72 and 75.
Sherlock said as she scanned the highway below, “He’s also hurt, shot in the arm, so depending on how bad it is, he might drive erratically, maybe pass out, but there’s no way he’d stop.”
Bobby cruised at three hundred feet over the highway. Savich said, “Let’s not go any lower yet. People have seen enough attack helicopters in movies. We don’t want anyone to freak, cause an accident. Okay, traffic is getting heavier.”
Five minutes later Sherlock said, “There—there he is. He just turned off 75 onto a parallel access road. He’s in and out of sight, with all those trees canopying the road, and he’s having to go real slow what with all the ruts.”
Savich said, “You sure?”
“Yep, the license plate begins with F-T-E,” Sherlock shouted.
“Continue on about five miles, Bobby, then bring us down. Sherlock, make sure he stays on the access road.”
She grinned at him, gave him a thumbs-up.
The landscape was littered with dense clusters of oaks and pines, and rolling hills between higher peaks. About six miles up the road, Bobby brought them down not more than fifty feet from the access road. Savich and Sherlock jumped out of the helicopter, bent low, and ran toward the road.
Only seven minutes passed before they heard the Ford coming. SIGs drawn, they stood in the shadow of a trio of skinny pine trees.
When the truck was beside them, Savich fired three bullets into the front passenger-side tire and Sherlock blew out the back tire. When the truck swerved to a stop, Savich yelled, “Federal agents! Come on out now, easy!”
The driver’s-side door opened slowly. A man yelled, “I’m coming out, don’t shoot me!”
“Lock your hands behind your neck,” Savich shouted. He couldn’t see the man clearly, but he did see one hand go up to grasp his neck. That was okay, Rachael had shot him in the other arm. Then, so fast Savich barely had time to react, the man raised a pistol and fired off six fast rounds over the top of the hood. Savich fired back even as he hit the ground and rolled.
The man ducked behind the door, and Savich shoved a new magazine into his SIG and came up to his knees behind a big maple. He saw Sherlock out of the corner of his eye making her way around the back of the truck. She looked back once to see that he was all right, then crouched down and ran.
Keep his attention on me. Savich shouted, “All right, you’ve had your go at me. You missed. There’ll be six cop cars here in about a minute. Do you want to die here? If so, then keep firing at me and I’ll oblige you. If not, throw your gun onto the road so I can see it. Now!”
Aeons passed, perhaps ten seconds, before the man finally called out, “All right, I’m coming out. Don’t shoot!”
Sherlock pressed her SIG against the back of his neck.
“Drop it now. Don’t even twitch or you’re a dead man.”
The man jerked in surprise, then dropped the gun at her feet.
“Glad to see you’re not a complete moron. Dillon, I’ve got him.”
Savich came around the front of the truck, his SIG trained on the man’s chest.
Sherlock pulled off the man’s sunglasses.
They stared into the eyes of a man whose face was gray with pain. “Rachael got you good, didn’t she?” Sherlock said.
He moved quickly, a small derringer in his hand, and grabbed Sherlock. But Savich was faster. He shot the man in the forearm of his gun hand.
The man screamed, the derringer went flying, and he dropped like a stone at Sherlock’s feet. He wasn’t unconscious, but his breathing was hard and strained. He was moaning, holding his forearm. He’d tied a dirty oil rag around his other arm. Savich picked up the derringer. “You were fast.”
“But not fast enough,” Sherlock said, and kicked him in the ribs.
“Bitch,” the man whispered.
“Yeah, that’s what all you losers say,” Sherlock said and went down on her knees to handcuff his wrists in front of him. She gave him a handkerchief. “Here, put some pressure on your forearm. You okay, Dillon?”