by Sean Lynch
As Ray headed for the trail, he passed the two cars in the driveway.
CHAPTER 41
Kearns suddenly stopped running and grabbed Paige’s arm. They’d been on the trail a little more than fifteen minutes.
“What’s the big idea?”
“Shut up,” he snapped, holding up his hand to signal silence. “Don’t you hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“Listen.”
She did. When she held her breath, she made out faint popping sounds in the distance. They sounded to her like firecrackers. Within seconds of starting, they ceased.
“Gunshots,” he announced, his voice tense. “Pistol caliber.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive; those are gunshots.”
“Aunt Elsa! We’ve got to get back–”
Kearns grabbed her around the waist as she turned and started to run. She struggled to free herself from his grasp. “Let go of me!”
“Don’t be a fool,” he said, restraining her. She stopped struggling and faced him.
“We can’t stay here and do nothing,” she said, her eyes showing the first signs of panic.
“We won’t. But running into an ambush won’t do your aunt any good. We’ve got to get help.”
She nodded and forced herself to calm down. She realized Kearns was right.
“Paige, you’re going to have to go for help.”
“How?”
He looked around. “We’re several miles east of the highway we came in on. If you run west, opposite the direction of the sun, you’ll hit the road eventually. Hail a motorist and get to a phone. Call the sheriff’s office and get them out to your aunt’s place with everything they’ve got.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going back to the house to see what I can do.”
“I’ll go with you. I can–”
“No,” he insisted. “There’s no time for debate. Go get help. It’s the only way.”
She gave Kearns a last look, squeezed his arm, and took off at a sprint. He turned and headed back the way they’d come at a full run.
Kearns had been a regular runner for years. He knew his pace and his limitations. He pushed hard, breathing through his nose and lengthening his stride over the uneven terrain. He realized he had to reach the ranch, and fast, but he also had to have some juice left in his tank when he arrived. He didn’t know what he was going to find when he got there.
Paige sprinted hard. The calf-high grass nipped at her ankles. She struggled to maintain even respiration, the fear in her heart affecting her lungs and forcing her to gulp in air. Images from the past week flashed through her mind as she ran. She tried not to revisit them, needing all her concentration to avoid falling down or twisting an ankle on the rocky hillside. The harder she ran, the more relentlessly the fear fought for purchase in her consciousness.
She remembered jogging last Monday, and the unexpected and savage blow that sent her sprawling into the sand. She recalled the raspy voice of her tormentor when he phoned her at work. She recollected the foul epithets sprayed in orange paint on the walls of her burned-out condominium.
Paige remembered the helpless, defeated sensation of having her stunned and immobilized body dragged across the pavement to her captor’s waiting car. She could almost hear the deafening gunshots as Kearns exchanged gunfire with her kidnapper.
The image of her father lying battered in the intensive care unit, tubes running into his nose and arms, danced in her mind. She ran on.
Minutes passed like days. Kearns heard several more gunshots, perhaps five or ten, in a steady, rhythmic succession. These shots were louder than the ones he’d detected earlier, and his military-trained ear told him they were the reports of a semiautomatic rifle-caliber weapon. Two gunmen, or one gunman with two guns? Neither scenario was pleasant. His heart sank, but he ran on, more determined than ever.
Soon, he realized he was climbing the last hill before the final descent onto the Callen property. He crested the hill and descended rapidly, then slowed to a walk, crouching low. Up ahead, less than a hundred yards in the distance, lay the house. He scanned the vicinity for signs of a vehicle besides his Jeep and Elsa’s Volvo station wagon, but saw nothing. He duck-walked as far as he dared and then slid to his belly and high-crawled the remaining twenty yards to the guest cottage. He could see the rear patio doors of the main house standing open.
He squinted up at the surrounding hills. It had been several years since his army days, the last time he’d scanned the ground above him for hidden snipers. He could smell the odor of burnt gunpowder heavy in the air.
Kearns wasted no more time. A skilled man with a rifle would have made quick work of him already. If Elsa was injured inside the house, he was wasting minutes that could mean the difference between life and death. He got up and sprinted around the front of the cottage and dashed through the open door, his fists clenched to deal with a potential threat inside.
The cottage was empty. He grabbed the shotgun, racked the slide action, and stuck another shell into the magazine. He peered out through the door, willing his breathing to calm down.
Kearns didn’t hesitate. He rushed from the cottage toward the rear patio door, aiming toward the interior. He noticed the blood trail leading away from the house but kept his focus and the Remington on potential threats ahead. He stopped at the entrance and put his back to the wall. After scanning behind him to see if someone had crept up, he ducked his head inside for a quick look.
The scene that met his view was a grisly one. The kitchen was a maelstrom of splattered blood and shell casings. More than a dozen bullet holes dotted the cabinets, stove, and refrigerator, leaving shattered remnants of food containers and glassware throughout. Lying on the floor, facedown, was Elsa Callen. Cody lay unmoving at her feet.
Still directing the shotgun in front of him, Kearns gritted his teeth and went inside. He stepped over Cody’s inert form to reach Elsa.
Elsa was warm and her chest was moving. He carefully rolled her over, and to his relief, she awoke and sat up. He checked her injuries. Her eyes were unfocused, she had a grazing gunshot wound to her hip and a nasty gash on her forehead, but thankfully seemed otherwise unhurt. He noticed there was a large cast-iron skillet on the ground next to where she fell. It had a crater in the center from a bullet’s impact and was still hot to the touch.
“Kevin–”
“Sit quiet,” Kearns said softly. The wound on her head wasn’t severe but, like all head wounds, bled badly. He reached up on the counter and retrieved a kitchen towel and pressed it against the injury.
“Where is he?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” she answered, her coherence returning. “I think he ran out.” She took the towel from him and held it against her head. “I’ll manage; check on Cody, will you?”
He went to the dog. Cody had a gunshot wound through his flank and several lacerations along his neck and shoulders. He also had a lot of blood around his muzzle, and Kearns could tell it wasn’t his. The Labrador had taken a bite out of someone, presumably the shooter. The dog whimpered in recognition of Kearns.
“It’s all right, old scout,” he consoled the dog, patting his head. “You did what you could. Help’s on the way.” Cody tried to lick his hand.
Kearns stood up and grabbed the kitchen phone. Elsa reached out her hand.
“Give it to me; I can phone for help.” Her eyes met his. “Cody took a piece of him, and I tossed a pan full of boiling grease in his face. He’s hurt bad.”
“That iron pan probably saved your life,” he said, noticing the nine-millimeter casings strewn about the floor. He surmised one of the bullets struck the pan as Elsa was wielding it, and the impact sent the skillet careening into her own head.
“Kevin,” Elsa said, her voice as hard as her eyes. “There’s only one road out of here.”
Kearns got her meaning and nodded. He handed Elsa the phone and wordlessly turned and left the kitchen.
&n
bsp; He tracked the blood trail out of the house, across the patio, over the stone walk, past the pool, and to a path leading up the hillside. The path led in the opposite direction of the one he and Paige ran each morning, toward the main road.
Kearns was about to head back to the cottage to retrieve the car keys to the Jeep when he noticed that all four tires on the vehicle, and those on Elsa’s Volvo, were flat. The second wave of gunshots he’d heard was undoubtedly the suspect shooting out the tires to prevent being followed. He cursed under his breath.
Kearns checked his watch, biting his lip. Nineteen minutes had passed since he and Paige first heard the shots. He knew shooting out the tires could only mean one thing: the suspect believed he could be overtaken by a vehicle on the only road off the Callen property leading to the main highway. That meant the suspect’s car was probably somewhere near the main road, possibly on the county fire road he’d seen when driving in. He presumed the suspect hiked in over the hills on foot; that’s the way Kearns would have done it.
Kearns could easily see the blood left by the wounded stalker on the dusty path. He started to follow the crimson trail but then abruptly stopped. It occurred to him if he avoided the winding path and instead climbed the steep grade directly in a line toward where the path merged with the road, he might be able to cut the gunman off. It would mean running a long way uphill, but he wasn’t wounded like his adversary, who was apparently limited to the flat, well-worn path out of necessity.
It was worth a try. Kearns took off at a full sprint, running with all his might. He was grateful his muscles were already warm, but the awkward weight of the shotgun interfered with his stride. He knew holding anything in reserve now would be pointless if he was going to reach the fire road in time to catch his opponent. His legs pumped furiously up the steep hill, sticks and brambles tearing at his shins. He spent the next five minutes toiling up the grade.
By the time he crested the hill, his taxed lungs were on fire and his legs were trembling. His breath was coming in labored gasps, and several times during the ascent, he had to use the butt of the shotgun to break a forward tumble. After fifty yards of relatively flat ground at the top, he began his descent.
Once again, he spared nothing. Going downhill was much easier, and he hoped to make up for lost time. He had to focus intently on his footing, knowing the likelihood of injury from a fall was much greater with the increased speed of his reckless, full-speed plunge down the grade.
Ahead, vague in the expanse below, Kearns could make out the tracing of the fire road. And he could just discern the outline of a vehicle. The car’s silhouette became more pronounced as he watched a man, an ant in the distance, stripping off what appeared to be brush camouflage.
Kearns’ heart thumped in his chest. His arms were lead stumps and his legs felt like anchors. He knew he was nearing exhaustion but willed himself to push on. He remembered his shotgun training at the Iowa Law Enforcement Academy in Fort Dodge and knew the reliable effective range of the 00 buckshot in his shotgun was no more than twenty-five yards. He hoped the longer twenty-six-inch barrel of the Wingmaster he was carrying, as opposed to the twenty-inch police models he’d trained with, might provide a bit more range. By his estimation he had several hundred yards to go to even have a chance at nailing the suspect.
He ran on.
As Kearns rapidly closed the distance, he could see that the vehicle was a blue-colored compact sedan. The man standing next to it was Caucasian and wearing camouflage military fatigues. By the stiff manner in which he moved, Kearns could tell he was in a great deal of pain. He was fumbling with a brown cloth and some branches he’d placed on top of the car to hide it. The car was parked near a small grove of trees, and if Kearns hadn’t seen the man peeling off the vehicle’s disguise, he never would have spotted it. He was a little more than one hundred yards away, and beginning to fear the man would hear his footfalls.
When Kearns was almost completely down the slope, he entered a flat plain of waist-high grass. All the suspect had to do was look up; Kearns was completely in the open.
Kearns thought about ducking beneath the grass and sneaking up on the suspect but quickly discarded that idea when he saw the man open the driver’s door of his car, remove his hat, and toss it inside. In another few seconds, he’d start the engine and drive away. There was no time for any tactic other than a straight-on charge. He still had thirty or forty yards to go before he was in shotgun range. He was now close enough to notice the man was balding. Kearns put everything he had left into his sprint.
At thirty yards, the suspect must have sensed the motion of Kearns’ approach. He suddenly looked up, recognition widening his eyes. He swung a carbine up from a sling and aimed it at Kearns.
Kearns dove, allowing his considerable momentum to carry him forward as he tucked his head and shoulders and rolled. He executed a sideways combat roll in the manner he’d been taught in basic training. An instant later, the sharp reports of rifle fire echoed across the plain.
He began to crawl forward, hoping his movement would not disturb the tall grass and give away his position. He felt and heard the shots whistling overhead, interspersed with the occasional crack and whine of a bullet impacting rock. Kearns knew the military carbine couldn’t have more than a thirty-round magazine, but it felt like a hundred bullets screamed toward him.
The sounds of shooting stopped; replaced by the sound of an automobile engine starting up. Kearns knew it was now or never.
He leaped to his feet and shouldered the Remington. He fired his first shot as the blue sedan began to move, putting the bead sight slightly ahead of the vehicle’s windshield. He was at the farthest possible effective range of the nine approximately .30 caliber balls contained in each twelve-gauge shell.
The car picked up speed, heading for the main road. Kearns pumped the shotgun as fast as he could and sent the remaining four 00 buck rounds in the direction of the retreating blue sedan. The dirt kicked up by the wildly spinning tires clouded his view and he was forced to watch in defeat as the vehicle vanished from sight, apparently unhindered by the fusillade of buckshot.
Kearns dropped the shotgun and went to his knees. He put his head in his hands. He hadn’t gotten close enough to the car to obtain the license plate number or more than a cursory description of the man driving it.
He remained in that position for several minutes, waiting for his breath to return. He could hear sirens faintly in the distance and surmised Paige had been successful in her effort to summon help.
Kearns finally got up and retrieved the shotgun. He walked the thirty yards to where the car had been stashed in hopes of finding something the suspect had discarded. All he found were tire tracks and sheets of burlap covered in grass and sticks. Upon examining the improvised vehicle camouflage, Kearns couldn’t help but be reminded of his own military training. Was the suspect a vet? He’d have to discuss that possibility with Farrell.
Kearns began to trudge back the way he’d come and then stopped. Standing at the place where the suspect had his car deposited, and looking at the sun for bearing, he realized that neither the well-worn path the suspect had used to make his getaway nor his own overland route was the most direct course to Elsa’s property. A second hill, adjacent to the one he’d just surmounted, was the simplest means. He could see now, from the perspective of where the suspect’s car was stashed, the stalker chose the smaller hill for his escape, even though it was a greater distance. He presumed the stalker took the more level path back to his car due to his injuries.
Kearns elected to follow the other route back to Elsa’s ranch, the one he suspected the stalker originally used. As he walked, he contemplated what he knew of the suspect. He was discouraged to conclude, despite the day’s encounter, that he knew little more than before.
He knew the stalker was smart. He planned his acts with cunning and care. But he made mistakes. He must not have anticipated that Elsa and Cody would put up a fight.
The mist was finally
burning off, and with the sun’s arrival came heat. Kearns plodded up the hill, spent from his exertion and the energy vacuum created in the wake of adrenaline release. The shotgun felt heavy in his hands. He was almost to the top of the hill overlooking Elsa’s property. He could see a large downed tree surrounded by scrub foliage.
When he reached the summit, he was surprised to find a small clearing within the remains of the fallen oak tree. In the center of the clearing was a camouflage tarpaulin draped over some bushes to form a makeshift tent. There was a sleeping bag beneath it. There were also a faded olive drab US Army duffel bag and the remnants of potato chips, crackers, and assorted snack wrappers lying about.
Kearns squatted down over the sleeping bag and from that vantage point discovered a bird’s-eye view of the Callen ranch below. Clearly, the stalker had been here observing. But for how long?
Kearns dumped out the contents of the duffel bag. He found an empty canteen, still in its canvas cover, a GI L-shaped flashlight complete with a red lens, an expensive pair of military-grade Swiss binoculars, and several thirty-round magazines for an M1 carbine, loaded with standard full-metal-jacket “hardball” ammunition. There were also a bayonet and a scabbard for the M1 and a mostly eaten bag of beef jerky, along with an empty box of saltine crackers. None of the items would have been conducive to latent fingerprints, and Kearns remembered being told that even the battery inside the stun gun the suspect left at the scene of the attempted kidnapping had been wiped clean. He doubted these articles would be any different.
Kearns picked up the binoculars and looked down at the house below. There were two sheriff’s cars and an ambulance in the driveway, and he could see Paige standing outside talking to the paramedics as Elsa was being treated.