by CJ Birch
The next few moments happened in a blur. When Elle tried to piece it together later, she couldn’t remember if pulling her gun had caused her to drop her flashlight, or if she had purposely thrown it to the ground to unholster her gun. All she would remember was the spinning action the flashlight made as it disappeared under Stan’s cruiser.
Elle glanced around before ducking her head into the front seat. Stan slumped back, his eyes closed, mouth gaped open. His blood ran over his shirt where someone had shot him. Elle placed two fingers on his neck to check for a pulse. As she did, he jerked awake. His eyes went wide with confusion and panic. Inches apart, they stared at each other. He gulped back air, but didn’t say anything.
Still keeping eye contact, she unclipped the radio and switched it to the emergency channel. “This is Sheriff Ashley, I’m reporting a ten-thirty-three. I need assistance. Send an ambulance to County Road Six,” she glanced around, “between mile marker sixty-five and sixty-six.” Her voice wasn’t more than a croak by the time she added, “Please hurry.”
Elle reached for Stan’s hand, sticky with blood. She held tight. For some reason, this reminded her of Bailey finding her father sitting in the driver’s seat of their Buick. Only Bailey hadn’t known her father was dying. To Elle, it was obvious Stan wouldn’t be alive by the time the ambulance arrived. His breathing was forced and loud. Much too loud for the confined space of the cruiser. She had this inexplicable urge to call a time-out as if she could yell toward the forest and put the game on hold. She felt helpless. There was nothing she could do to calm the fear in Stan’s eyes. They were so clear, it struck Elle how young he was. He didn’t deserve this.
And that’s how Stan Carrick spent the last moments of his twenty-four years, gazing into the emerald green eyes of Elle Ashley.
He wanted to let her know he’d be okay because he knew she would blame herself, but he would be fine now. He wished he could tell her that. But every thought took forever to pull from his brain. Like slipping underwater, the deeper he went, the darker everything became. He would be fine. It was only a short swim to the top. There was something he wanted to say. Something about a face, but as he sunk deeper the less it mattered, the less he cared. He was fine now.
Elle removed her fingers from Stan’s throat. She staggered back, away from the car. The dancing red and blue was the only movement for miles. Blood from the puncture in Stan’s chest covered her fingers. He had bled to death in a few minutes. She froze, opening her ears to the movement in the surrounding woods. Instead of the silence she had expected, the forest came alive. And she had definitely heard a crunch farther down to her right. Every noise amplified, every rustle heightened, until she imagined the killer stalking her from every tree.
Slow as the grass grows, Elle unhitched her radio, keeping an eye along the edge of the trees.
“Come in, Neil.”
Several moments of static passed before a voice come back. Groggy. “Yup?”
“I need you to come out to County Six. Out by the ravine, just before the bridge.”
“Now?”
“Yeah, now. Bring Case.” She switched her radio off. Neil could bitch to Case. She wasn’t interested in hearing it.
Elle heard the snap of a twig, only a few feet into the trees. Without wasting too much thought on it, Elle walked toward the edge, her gun at her side, her boots crunching on the gravel, and entered the forest. Immediately, the dark enveloped her. The sliver of moon couldn’t penetrate the canopy, even at the edge. It made for difficult navigation. Her footing was slow at first, as her eyes adjusted, then gained momentum. A lot of the boys in town were hunters and knew these woods better than Elle knew the layout of the sheriff’s office. They were experienced trackers who could stalk and kill just about anything. Elle was not one of them. She knew she was making too much noise. Her footfalls should be silent, not a stampede.
When she was around ten or eleven, her grandfather took her out hunting once. He’d woken her up before the sun had come over the hills. He put his index finger to his lips, not wanting to wake her folks. She remembered the way the air smelled that early in the morning, fresh, as if nothing had yet marred the new day. There was something so pure about being in the woods before the day had begun, like you were experiencing something only the animals got to see. At first, she thought of it as a magical forest. A place where humans didn’t exist yet. She could see why the natives had settled in the hills thousands of years ago. This world was beautiful. But as the morning wore on, and their purpose for being out there grew near, the forest began to turn on Elle. Halfway up a hill they came upon a rabbit, its foot maimed and bloody, limping through the brush. Elle rushed toward it to help. Her grandfather grabbed her arm. Even at seventy-eight his grip was like handcuffs, rooting her in place.
“You don’t know where it’s been.” His Irish brogue lilted on the word “been.”
“It’s just a rabbit, Granda.” She could see the panic in the animal, like it was seeping out its pores and wafting into the air. “Who would do something like this?” To Elle, bunnies were cute pets, harmless and playful. She thought everyone must see them like that and couldn’t understand anyone who would hurt such a defenseless creature.
“Not who. What,” her grandfather said. “Something has attacked this animal. A coyote or possibly a bobcat. I’ve seen them in these woods.” He knelt next to the rabbit, covered its eyes with one large wrinkled hand. This seemed to calm the rabbit. He turned its injured leg to examine the damage. “Sadly, for whatever reason, it didn’t finish the kill.”
“Sadly? But she’s alive.”
Her grandfather sighed, it was a large sigh. It moved his shoulders like he was lifting a pack to readjust his burden. He shook his head. “No, it’s suffering now. We can’t leave it like this. It needs to be put out of its misery.”
“What do you mean?” Her voice went up two octaves.
He took her hand and pushed her toward the top of the hill. “I want you to go up to the top and wait for me there.”
“What are you going to do?” She knew exactly what he was going to do, but she wanted to hear him say it. To hear him say it was okay.
“It’s a good thing we’re doing. She’s in pain now, we’re going to help her out of that.” The more he said “we,” the less she wanted to leave. If she stayed he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. But she did leave.
Her grandfather never took her hunting again. When she thought of it, she always felt like she’d failed some test, like she’d let him down. A few years later, her grandfather passed away. But she always wondered, if EJ had been born first, would he be a hunter now?
About twenty yards into the forest Elle stopped. She heard a faint rustling up ahead. Whoever was moving through the forest wasn’t a hunter, nor were they taking particular pains to be quiet. The crunch of twigs and branches echoed through the quiet of the night forest.
They must have assumed she’d stay with Stan and wait for backup. They weren’t that far in, which also meant they had watched her with Stan, waited for discovery and watched her. It could have been a sadistic impulse or they had simply wanted to make sure Stan was dead. Was this the same person who’d killed Jessie? The thought of two killers walking around free in Turlough gave Elle the shivers. She had acted on impulse, running into the forest without backup or any idea of who she was chasing. If Bailey were here, he’d tell her she’d left her senses back at the cruiser with Stan. What she should have been doing, instead of going off half-cocked, was securing the scene, searching for evidence to link the two murders, waiting for backup. Then after that lecture he would have suspended her.
Would she have had the same reaction if it had been Stan out here running after a suspect in the middle of the night with no backup and no sense of direction? Probably. She would have reamed him out, just to prove they had rules that had to be followed.
Maybe that’s why Bailey had always come down so hard on her, then turned around and supported her succeeding
him. He was laying the foundation. Not that she’d listened.
The gap between Elle and her prey was closing. Every so often she could see a black shadow bob up, then disappear behind a tree. If she could maintain this pace for another mile she might catch a glimpse of who she was chasing. That’s when they’d reach the pasture at the back of Old Bailey’s property. That is, if she recognized them.
Moving deeper into the woods, the terrain became treacherous. Heavier underbrush meant deeper thickets to pass through, and ditches and roots to maneuver around. It was impossible to see more than a few inches ahead. She had to feel her way through, grabbing onto trees, onto stumps, anything she could use to steady herself. She was so focused on keeping the suspect in view that she didn’t notice the fallen tree blocking her path. Her shins slammed into it, knocking her to the ground. As she fell, her gun scattered into the underbrush and she smacked her head hard. It disoriented her. The soft cry she let out as she fell was enough. Whoever she was chasing took off at a faster pace through the forest.
She gave herself an instant to catch her bearings. When her instant was up so was she, running through the forest, fast. Her breath thumped against her chest, straining her lungs. She pulled out her backup flashlight, sweeping the beam across the foliage.
As Elle thudded through the forest, she used her sleeve to wipe the blood from her face, which was streaming like she’d tipped a jug of it out of her nose.
If she could make it to the clearing up ahead, she’d be able to see who it was. She could get a description even if she didn’t recognize the person. It was the break she’d been hoping for. The strongest chance of actually catching the killer.
Her blood rushed through her body so fast the sound was deafening, drowning out the noise of the forest. The adrenaline she was producing was enough to cause a heart attack.
She kept her flashlight dancing in front of her, scanning the trees for any sign of movement. Elle’s instincts told her the suspect was male. The baseball cap hid a lot, but the motion was masculine.
It had been several minutes since she’d seen him, but that could mean he’d made it to the field. She pushed harder, scrambling over branches and forest debris. The light made it easier to see, but it also made her easier to avoid. If she didn’t make it to the clearing fast enough, she would lose this opportunity. There were a million places for him to disappear. She had to close the gap.
Coming over the last gully, a branch slammed into Elle’s ribs. She bent forward, winded, clutching her abdomen. As she did, the branch smashed down on the back of her head. The wood splintered in a spray around her. She wanted to vomit but didn’t. Her face smacked into the ground. She inhaled a deep breath and choked on the dirt.
The last thing Elle remembered before passing out was a hand reaching out toward her.
Chapter Nineteen
The worst part was still to come, which was a testament to how bad the last few days had been for Elle. First, waking up at the edge of the forest with a fuzzy recollection of how she ended up crumpled in the dirt and her own dried blood. The morning haze obscured the grass in a pink fog. The humidity had already settled in for the day. As she stumbled back through the forest, the daze lifted. Slow at first, then rushing at her like the tree branch that had whacked her in the stomach.
The worst hadn’t been finding the bloodstained T-shirt stuffed in the roots of the tree next to her head. Or that she recognized it as EJ’s.
The worst hadn’t been the worry and concern on everyone’s face as she crossed the road toward a throng of cars and two EMTs loading Stan’s body into an ambulance. When she stood alone later in her bathroom, stripping off her uniform, she saw what they had seen. Micro scratches with beads of blood covered most of her body. Blood was caked around her nostrils. A bruise was forming on her left cheekbone, the side she’d used as a battering ram against the ground.
But nothing could compare to what was underneath her clothing. Dr. Crawford had called her lucky. She hadn’t broken anything, but she didn’t feel lucky as she stared at the deep purple crawling up the side of her body. It hurt to move, to breathe, to cry. It took forever to get undressed.
EJ found her curled up asleep in the shower, still mostly in uniform. He wanted to take her back to the hospital, but she refused to face Dr. Crawford for a third time. Instead he made her a cup of tea and helped her into bed. That had almost been the worst. Two days’ bed rest. Doctor’s orders.
Jack Case had come to visit her. He’d brought her coffee and lunch from the diner, as if she were an invalid in some nineteenth-century novel.
“It’s a chicken club on rye.” He handed her the paper bag. The bottom half was shiny with grease. “I assumed you weren’t up to cooking for yourself.”
“You’re assuming I ever cook for myself.”
He smiled, pulled up a chair and opened his own bag. Jack had brought himself a sandwich so Elle wouldn’t have to eat alone. They munched in silence for a while. Elle took large bites. She hadn’t eaten much that day. A bowl of Cap’n Crunch. It was the only thing to eat in the house.
EJ made a better adversary than nursemaid. Elle had always been the one to buy groceries, clean the house, and repair anything that needed fixing. EJ barely mowed the lawn or shoveled the driveway. It was only after Elle threatened to cut his driving privileges that he did anything.
Elle inhaled her coffee before taking a sip. They’d been out of coffee for two days. Just the smell sent shivers of pleasure down her spine. “Thanks for this.”
Jack grunted. “Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?”
“Jack, please. I don’t need the lecture.”
“You look like you lost a fight with a barbed wire fence.”
“I’ve had plenty of time to think over what I did. I had a chance. To end this, to catch the man who killed Jessie and Stan. That’s worth some scrapes and bruises.” She crumpled up her sandwich bag. “It’s worth the bed rest and boredom. All of it.”
“Is it worth alienating the only deputy you got left? I found Neil practically shitting himself on the side of the road, wondering what had happened to you. Did you think about that when you took off into the woods?”
Shit. She hadn’t. And the shame of that made the bruises and cuts feel ten times worse. All she could do was shake her head.
“I didn’t think so. Okay, I’m not going to say anything more. You’re a grown woman. Just be careful is all I ask. And think things through—all the way through—next time you go chasing a murder suspect into the woods in the middle of the night. Alone. Without backup,” Jack said.
There was a dull, all-too-familiar ache in the pit of her stomach. She hadn’t felt like this since high school. The shame and disappointment, the collection of bad decisions accumulating. The only time she’d ever felt more humiliated was the time Bailey had caught her and Jessie in the back of his truck. She’d been mortified as she scrambled for clothes to cover herself. Even now, picturing Bailey, his eyes averted as she squeezed back into her jeans, made her skin flush.
The only noise for the next while was the whirring fan above and the sound of Jack chewing. The one thought Elle had refused to think about all day was Stan’s body lying on Jack’s autopsy table. She knew he would have performed one, but she hated the idea of Stan’s last days above ground spent having his insides excavated.
She kept thinking about the first time she’d taken him out on patrol. They’d gone out to the Cheevers’. It happened a lot when the Cubs lost.
There’d been a noise complaint. And Frank liked to yell at his wife. She wasn’t sure what they’d get when they knocked on his door, but what happened was so much worse than she was expecting. Listening to Frank talk about her that way and not being able to do anything about it hurt.
She’d wanted to tell Stan then that the worst part of the job was how useless you felt most of the time. But she didn’t want to ruin it for him. She could tell how excited he was to be out on patrol. It would’ve only been a half t
ruth anyway. When they got back to the station, she’d locked herself in the washroom and cried great, big sobs. She’d shoved her face in her jacket, afraid Stan would hear. She’d felt like such a fake.
“How long do you think? Before Stan…”
Jack took her hand. “It would’ve been fast, he didn’t suffer much.”
“When I found him, he was still alive. He looked so scared.” She took in a huge gulp of air. “All I could think about was my dad and what he must have been thinking when Bailey found him.” She began crying then for the first time since all this had started. And once she started, she found she couldn’t stop. Within seconds she was hiccupping, trying to pull air into her lungs.
Jack moved next to her on the bed, taking her in his arms, and let her release her pain and guilt. “There was nothing you could have done.” He stroked her hair.
“I should’ve been thinking about Stan. I could’ve helped him.” She buried her face in Jack’s shoulder, letting him rock her. She gave in to all the raw emotions rising from her mind. All the guilt. All the frustration. All the second guesses. She’d wished then that she’d told Stan the whole truth, that the worst part of this job was how exposed it made you feel.
After several minutes, she pulled back and wiped the tears away with the palm of her hand. “This isn’t the Turlough I remember growing up in. Deputies don’t have to worry about getting shot pulling someone over. We’re not a dangerous place.”
“You think that’s what he was doing?”