by Frank Zafiro
He reached behind her again, grabbing a fistful of hair. With a powerful yank, he pulled her away from his chest, creating enough distance between them for him to blast her with his right fist.
He put everything he had into that one punch. He knew he was only going to get one, so it had to count. When it landed against her face, the force of the blow reverberated up and down his arm.
She went limp.
That felt wonderful. Better than sex.
Reluctantly, he released her head, letting her flop to the wet ground. Then he clambered to his feet and sprinted away. Behind him, the sound of men scrambling through the bushes and calling out –
“Katie!”
—filled the air.
He ran, joy and anger still coursing through his blood.
* * *
Tower was the one who found her. She lay stunned on the wet grass.
“MacLeod?” He knelt down next to her. “Give me some light!” he yelled out to whoever was nearby. Almost instantly, he and Katie were awash in a powerful flashlight beam.
“Is she all right?” Sully asked him.
Tower didn’t answer. Her face was bruised and bloody, but the fact that her eyes were closed and her mouth slack concerned him even more.
“MacLeod?” he asked her again, giving her a gentle shake. When she didn’t respond, he glanced toward the bright light. “Call for medics,” he ordered.
* * *
Chisolm crashed through the wet bushes and past the dark trees. He tried to light up his path as much as possible, while still shining his light up ahead for a sign of the suspect. While he ran, he reached for his radio.
“Adam-112, foot pursuit!” he shouted into the portable radio.
“Adam-112, go ahead.”
“In pursuit of a rape suspect,” Chisolm bellowed into the mike. “We’re Mona and Post, northbound through the wooded area.”
“Copy.”
Chisolm gulped in a breath as he side-stepped a large root and hustled around a tree. He paused and swept his light beam ahead of him again.
Nothing.
Think, Tom. He can’t be that fast.
Chisolm glanced around. Maybe he was, but maybe not. He might have gone to ground, trying to hide in the bushes to avoid them. Either way, they needed to secure the area.
“I need a perimeter,” he told Dispatch. “Get me units up the hill on Garland at Post and at Monroe.” He figured that if he hadn’t gone to ground yet, that perimeter might hem in the suspect.
Battaglia appeared at his side, breathing heavily. “You see anything?”
Chisolm shook his head.
“You hear anything?” Battaglia asked.
“Not with you talking,” Chisolm said. He raised the radio to his mouth. “And start a K-9,” he added.
He stood in the small wooded area and waited for the K-9. The sound of speeding police cars rushing past on Post and the reflection of the flashing red and blue lights as they zipped up the hill gave him some hope. If this guy had decided to hide, the dog would find him. If he’d continued to run, Chisolm’s only hope was that he wasn’t a fast runner. Hopefully, the perimeter would be in place quickly enough.
Constant chatter issued from his portable radio as the dispatcher and officers coordinated the perimeter positions. Chisolm knew it was necessary, but he was impatient to get on the air to inquire about Katie’s condition.
A few minutes later, he heard the heavy steps of Shane Gomez, the K-9 handler. His partner, a jet black German Shepherd named Čert, ran toward Chisolm in desperate lunges. Every surge forward pulled Gomez along as he held onto the dog lead. Chisolm braced himself in case the dog mistook him for the suspect, but the muscular canine brushed past him without acknowledgement.
Gomez reined in his partner. “Čert!” he yelled, pronouncing it ‘Chairt.’ The dog whined back at him, then yelped his dissent. Gomez gave the lead a short, firm pull. “Sadni!” he ordered.
Čert reluctantly sat, but not before issuing two more angry barks at his handler.
Gomez grinned excitedly at Chisolm. His hair was just as black as his dog’s and his large, muscular frame made Chisolm think of him as a human version of the K-9 he was partnered with.
“He’s got a good scent,” Gomez said. “Anything I need to know?”
Chisolm shook his head. “No known weapons. Last seen northbound.”
Gomez gave him a short nod. “Okay. Cover me. And stay close.”
“You bet.”
Gomez turned his attention back to Čert. “Let’s go, boy. Fuss him up. Get that bad guy!”
Čert yelped and lunged forward. Gomez and Chisolm scrambled after him, with Battaglia struggling to keep up.
“Still northbound through the woods,” Chisolm reported to Dispatch. “Nearing Glass.”
“Copy.”
Chisolm kept pace with Gomez and Čert. The black dog was almost invisible in front of him. The only signs of his presence were the sound of his paws scrambling over the dirt and leaves and the deep huffs of his breath. Occasionally, he let out a yearning whine. Chisolm assumed that was to let his handler know he was still hot on the trail. Of course, with the demon dog, it could simply be a desire to catch up to his prey and get his crushing jaws wrapped around it.
The thought didn’t disturb Chisolm at all. In fact, he hoped Čert went straight for the groin.
Battaglia had fallen back too far to be an effective cover officer. Chisolm kept his eyes trained to the left, right and behind of the K-9 handler. During a track, Gomez focused on his dog, reading the reactions to determine what the dog was sensing. That left him vulnerable. Chisolm’s duty was to protect the handler. He kept his flashlight ready, but avoided using it. He didn’t want to back-light Gomez, thereby making him an easy target.
“Baker-126,” Chisolm’s radio crackled. He recognized James Kahn’s gravelly voice. “I’ve got a vehicle that just crossed Post at Glass. Eastbound. You want me to break perimeter and stop it?”
Gomez reined up with Čert. He turned to Chisolm. “It’s your call,” he said, barely breathing heavy. “But I’ve got a strong scent here.”
Chisolm considered. If Tower was right and the guy lived in the area, the odds were that he’d try to run home. If that were the case, the dog would track directly to his front door. And if the perimeter managed to hem in the suspect, breaking that perimeter now would risk giving him an opening to escape through.
He raised the radio to his mouth. “Negative,” he said. “Hold perimeter.”
Gomez gave him a nod in agreement.
“Copy,” Kahn replied. “But if you’ve got any mobile units, have them check east of Post. There’s not a lot of vehicle traffic out tonight.”
“Baker-127,” came Officer Hiero’s voice. “I got that, from Ruby and Sharp.”
“That’ll work,” Chisolm said, slipping his radio back into the holder on his belt.
Čert whined impatiently.
“Let’s go,” Gomez said. “Get him, boy!”
2301` hours
“I don’t need to go in an ambulance,” Katie argued, her words slightly groggy.
Tower shook his head. “It’s the medics’ call, MacLeod.”
“Then I’ll refuse and they can A-M-A it.”
“You can’t invoke Against Medical Advice when you’re on duty,” Tower lied. “Just take the ride.”
Katie’s jaw set, followed by a wince. Tears formed in her eyes, though Tower couldn’t tell if they were the result of pain, anger or perhaps embarrassment. Maybe some of all of them, he decided, and reached out to touch her hand.
“It’ll be all right,” he said in low voice that he hoped no one else besides the medics could hear.
Katie didn’t answer, but after a moment she nodded in acquiescence.
Without hesitation, the medics raised the gurney and slid her into the ambulance. One medic crawled in after her while the second slammed the door behind them. The second medic turned to head toward the driver’s do
or.
Tower grabbed his sleeve. “Which hospital?”
“Sacred Heart,” the man answered.
Tower glanced down at his nametag. It read A. Hoagland.
“Is she going to be all right, Hoagland?” Tower asked.
Hoagland gave him a neutral look. “She took some heavy blows to the head. I think she has a concussion at the very least. They’ll do some tests on her up at the hospital to see if she sustained any injuries more serious than that.”
“But she’ll be okay?”
Hoagland bit his lip. “It’s hard to say with head injuries, but she’s coherent now, so that’s a good sign.”
Tower clenched his jaw. “That doesn’t sound too promising.”
Hoagland reached down and removed Tower’s grasp from his sleeve. “Head injuries are tricky, but she looks good right now.” He put his hand on Tower’s shoulder. “She looks like a fighter to me. I think she’ll be all right.”
Tower nodded.
“I’ve got to get her transported,” Hoagland said. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and hurried to the driver’s door. Within another moment, the ambulance’s engine fired to life and it lumbered forward. Tower watched the flashing lights atop the large, white box approached Post, slow, then turned right and disappear down the hill.
2303 hours
Chisolm followed Gomez and Čert out of the bushes and onto the sidewalk. His uniform was soaking wet, but he ignored the chill. Čert charged eastward along the sidewalk. Gomez loped along behind him while Chisolm sprinted to keep up.
About twenty yards from the intersection, Čert stopped. He dropped his nose lower toward the ground, sniffing urgently. Chisolm stopped and drew in deep breaths while he waited. The street was clear of foot traffic. There were no cars. He glanced over his shoulder. There was a single house up the street without any exterior lighting. Other than that, all was clear.
The dog seemed to be wandering in a large circle, searching for scent. He whined again, but even Chisolm could hear that the sound was now frustration, not eagerness. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach.
Gomez didn’t give up. He worked Čert up and down the sidewalk on both sides of the street for several minutes, trying to pick up the scent. They always returned to the same point on the sidewalk, where the dog finally sat down and let out an angry, mournful howl.
“Shit,” Chisolm finally muttered.
Gomez sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “He must have jumped in a car, Tom. That’s the only thing I can figure happened.”
“Shit,” Chisolm repeated. He realized that meant the car that Kahn had seen was probably the suspect. He raised the radio to his lips. “Secure the perimeter,” he said.
“Copy,” the dispatcher replied. “Secure the perimeter.”
The two men stood on the wet sidewalk, brooding. Čert whined, his tone suggesting that he commiserated.
We almost had him. The thought throbbed in Chisolm’s skull. We almost had him and it’s my fault he got away.
Gomez knelt next to Čert and rubbed the dog’s head. “You did a good job, boy,” he whispered. “It’s not your fault.”
“Shit,” Chisolm said a third time. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
2304 hours
At first, he’d fought the terrain, blasting through the bushes and bouncing off the trees. The water from the bushes he forced his way through soaked his clothes to the skin. That coldness jarred him enough. He put aside the absolute ecstasy that hummed through his body and tamped down the rage that was seething and bubbling beneath it. Instead, he focused on his escape.
Instead of blindly running, he dodged and slipped around trees and bushes. That sped up his progress considerably. When the hillside steepened, he leaned forward for balance, even using his hands to pull himself along.
He kept his ears piqued for the sound of pursuit, but for some reason it fell off almost right away. Had he outrun them? Outrun the police? That surprised him, but it made him smile in spite of the cold and the darkness around him.
He hurried forward.
He burst out the bushes and onto the street near his car. Without hesitation, he sprinted to the car, got in and started the engine. Then he sat for a moment, thinking.
Which way to go?
The police weren’t stupid. They had radios. There would soon be cop cars all over the neighborhood. What would they be looking for? Probably a man on foot. But they had seen his car when he drove by. Would they remember it and make the connection? Did they write down his license plate? Take his picture?
He decided in an instant, flipping a quick U-turn on the small street.
It was too narrow for a complete turn, so he bounced up onto the sidewalk with his front tire. Once he was pointed back east, he drove forward. He paused briefly at the stop sign, then crossed Post and continued east at the speed limit.
He frowned as he drove. If they had his license plate, they’d soon have his address. Going home could mean walking into a trap.
This wasn’t something he’d planned for. He never imagined his own home as a danger. Home was his sanctuary. He’d have to trust it was still safe.
Drive home. Throw his clothes in the washer. Shower. Think of an alibi.
If the cops came, he’d bluff. That was the only play he had right now. Later, maybe he could come up with a different plan for another time, but for now, he’d bluff.
His frown turned into a scowl. Did they have his picture?
Did that bitch get a look at his face?
He shook his head. It was too dark. She didn’t see him.
He reached Atlantic Avenue and turned left. Two blocks later, he turned off his headlights and cruised quietly up the street. His block was still. Most of the lights inside the small ranchers and brick single story houses were turned out for the night. It was too cold for anyone to be sitting out on the front porch. No one would notice his stealthy approach.
He pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine. Before exiting the car, he took several deep breaths. Then he went inside.
2310 hours
Officer Paul Hiero turned onto Atlantic just as the order to secure the perimeter came over his radio. He frowned, knowing that meant the K-9 track had failed. Which meant the suspect had escaped.
He cruised slowly northbound along the residential street. Most of the lights inside the houses were turned off. Outdoor lights burned over the front doors of almost every porch. The occasional flicker of a television behind curtains told him that some people were still awake, but the majority of people in the neighborhood had already called it a night. That didn’t surprise him. The neighborhood consisted largely of retired folks and working class families. The retired folks went to bed early because they were old. The working families had either school or a job to get to in the morning.
Hiero sighed. This was a waste of time. There was no way a scumbag rapist would live in a neighborhood like this.
Nonetheless, he drifted along the street, watching for any pedestrians or anything suspicious. There was nothing, just as he expected.
When he reached Garland, he stopped for the stop sign. He lifted the radio mike and spoke into it. “Baker-127, clear of the call.”
“Copy, Baker-127.”
He turned right and headed back east to Baker Sector.
FOURTEEN
Tuesday, April 23rd
Day Shift
0611 hours
Tower stood in his kitchen, staring at the small cactus in a coffee cup that was on the windowsill. That cactus was his sole contribution to the flora and fauna life in his home. All the rest came with Stephanie as she slowly moved in. As he sipped the strong coffee from his own cup, he ran the events of the previous night through his head.
He tried to work up some anger toward Kahn for not breaking perimeter to go after the car. Or at Chisolm for directing him not to. But in the end, he knew it had been the right decision. Besides, he’d been too worried about MacLeod’s in
juries to even be aware of the track. It wasn’t until she’d been shuttled off to the hospital that he turned his attention to the activities around him.
He took a long sip of the brew in his cup. The bold blend overwhelmed his mouth with taste. As he swallowed and enjoyed the after-scent of the coffee, he decided that even if there had been mistakes made by the officers, it had been his task force. He should have foreseen the mistakes or prevented them. Or had a better plan.
The cactus on the windowsill looked dry. He supposed that was the cactus’s nature, but that didn’t stop him from reaching out and dribbling coffee over the top of the spiky bulb. The steaming hot liquid washed down the green cactus and darkened the dry earth beneath it.
A shuffling sound arose behind him.
“John, what’re you doing?”
“Watering the plants,” Tower said evenly.
Stephanie brushed past him toward the cupboard containing the coffee cups, leaving a trail of bed-warmth from her body in her wash. She poured herself a cup and sidled up next to Tower.
“You didn’t get in ‘til late last night,” she said.
Tower grunted and took another sip.
“You should have woken me,” Stephanie said, giving him a gentle nudge with her hip.
Tower sighed. “I was exhausted.”
“What happened? Did you catch the guy?”
“Nope.” Tower reached out and dribbled some more coffee onto the cactus.
Stephanie watched him. Then she said, “You know, some people believe that plants can feel pain. You could be burning the hell out of that poor cactus.”
“Those people are idiots,” Tower remarked. He gave the cactus one last splash of coffee. “Besides, cactuses are tough.”
“Cacti,” Stephanie corrected.
Tower sighed again, a tickle of irritation going through him. “Thanks. Are you getting into crosswords or something?”
“What?”
“Never mind.” Tower drank the last of his coffee. He thought about pouring himself another cup but hesitated. He should get to work. Of course, he knew what was waiting for him there.