Among the Wicked: A Kate Burkholder Novel (32 page)

I dart right to the disking implement, drop to my knees, and use the rim of the plowshare to saw at the fabric binding my wrists. The pain in my ribs screams with every movement, but I don’t stop. I don’t slow down. I scour at a frantic pace. Back and forth. Back and forth. My breaths rushing in and out as the pain hacks like an ax against my ribs.

Comeon
.
Comeon
.
Comeon.
The words are a scream inside my head.

Four feet away, Suggs coughs and spits, digging into his eyes with his fingers. I’m about to give up on the binds and make a run for it when the fabric gives way. Hands free, I rise and start toward Suggs and his .38.

He turns devil-red eyes on me. Nose and eyes streaming. Tears and snot dripping off his chin. “You fucking—”

I hit him with the spray again.

Spinning, I sprint through the door and into the night.

*   *   *

I run to the snowmobiles, checking for keys as I pass. Nothing there. Damn. Damn.
Damn.
Pouring on the speed, I lope toward the cover of the trees and the path that brought me here, think better of it, and swerve right. I’m running full out when I enter the woods. There’s just enough moonlight for me to make out the trunks as I whiz past. I try to keep an eye on the ground, watch for fallen logs, rocks or holes or anything else that might send me tumbling. But all I see is a blur of white.

Behind me, I hear shouting. Suggs. The rev of a snowmobile engine. Yoder and Smucker are coming after me.

I’m in no shape to run. The pain in my side is intense and growing worse as my breathing begins to labor. I’m in good physical condition, but I won’t be able to keep this up for long. My only hope is that the rough terrain and dense trees will slow them down. Had I stayed on the path, they’d already be on top of me.

The land slopes abruptly. My feet tangle and I nearly go down, but manage to maintain my balance. I slow my pace, ignore the pain, keep moving. I’m running parallel with the path I used to get here. The same path the snowmobilers use. If I stay on course, I should be able to find my way back to the trailer, my cell—and my .38.

A second snowmobile engine fires. Fainter now because I’ve descended a hill and put some distance between us. I barrel down an incline, skidding over rocks slick with snow, nearly falling a second time. There’s a stream at the base of the hill, frozen and snow covered except where the water runs fast. Slowing, I glance both ways, looking for the best place to cross. I dash right, round a boulder and step onto the ice. Three strides and I’m across. The opposite bank is steep, so I use my hands and climb.

Headlights glint off the trees in front of me. I glance back to see one of the machines approaching fast.
Too close.
Panic flares hot in my chest. I veer right, pick up speed. Every breath is an agony now. I’m not going to last.

The high-pitched rev of an engine sounds behind me. I look over my shoulder, see the second snowmobile nose down in the creek. The driver misjudged and tried to cross where the bank dropped off too steeply.

The second machine is still in business, less than thirty yards away, weaving between trees, gaining fast. I slide on a fallen branch covered with snow, go to my knees. I scramble to my feet, crash through heavy brush, barely avoiding a low-slung branch. I duck left, pain screaming in my side.

At the crest of the hill I slow, look around to get my bearings. I’m a scant half mile from the trailer. I run at a reckless speed, downhill now. Branches grab at my coat and scratch at my face like claws. I push through the boughs of a massive spruce. Round an outcropping of rock. I’m ever aware of the rise and fall of the engine as the driver makes his way over and around obstacles. Headlights glint on the trees ahead of me, moving up and down as he flies over bumpy terrain.

Arms flailing, I fly over a fallen log and then I’m at the bottom of the hill. A path of sorts runs left and right. The trailer is straight ahead, so I cross the path, back into the trees, go down a short incline. That’s when I realize I’ve reached a lake, snow covered and blending into the land. I’ve walked here, I realize. Straight across the lake is the shortest distance to my trailer. I’m debating whether to go around or cross the ice when the snowmobile bursts from the trees a few yards away.

I start across the lake at run, the snow giving me some traction on the ice. Hovering in the back of my mind is the thought that if my pursuer is armed, I’m a sitting duck. I have zero cover and nowhere to hide. My only hope is that the machine is too heavy to venture onto the ice.

A quick glance over my shoulder. A small thrill goes through me when I see the machine stopped at the bank. The driver stands on the ice, watching me. I wonder why he’s not coming after me. The thought flits though my brain, leaving a streak of uneasiness in its wake.

I’ve nearly reached the opposite shore when the ice groans beneath my feet. A chill runs through my body. I spent many a day on the ice when I was a kid; I know what that sound means. The ice is unstable, too thin to sustain my weight, or else there’s a pressure ridge.

I slow, sliding my feet across the surface to more evenly distribute my weight and lessen the force of impact. I keep my eyes on the surface, looking for water coming up over the snow. Even with the moonlight, it’s difficult to see.

“It’s gonna break!” comes Yoder’s voice from behind me.

I don’t stop.

“I’m not going to fish you out!” he calls to me, his voice amicable. “Come on back here and we’ll forget about all this.”

I continue toward the bank, cautiously, sliding one foot in front of the other. The opposite shore is twenty yards away. Almost there. I glance behind me. I can just make out the hulking form of the snowmobile, but the driver is nowhere in sight.

Where the hell did he go?

The back of my neck prickles. I focus on the shore, moving faster now, like a speed skater, covering the distance as quickly as possible. I’m nearly there when water sloshes over my boot. I slide my other foot forward. The sole of my boot bumps over a large ridge in the ice.

A loud
creak!
echoes across the surface. I know I’m going into the water an instant before the ice breaks open beneath me. A giant mouth swallowing me whole. I spread my arms to break the fall, but the momentum sucks me down, forcing my arms over my head. My coat rides up, trapping my arms.

The cold shocks my brain, paralyzes my body. My lungs contract. I gasp and inhale water. Chest too tight to cough. The world goes silent and black. Water in my mouth. In my eyes. My ears. Panic descends.

I struggle mindlessly against the tangle of my coat. My fist strikes ice and for a terrible moment I think I’ve been swept under. I kick my feet. My boots hinder me but I don’t stop. Somehow my coat rights itself. An instant later my face breaks the surface.

I spew water, coughing and retching. The cold burns my skin like fire. My face dips below the surface again. I tamp down panic, kick harder. My face scrapes ice and emerges. Reaching out, I grasp the edge of the ice. It breaks off in my hands. I make another wild grab. It holds this time and I cling to it.

It takes precious seconds for my brain to kick in. I try to remember my cold-water rescue training. I roll onto my back. Night sky overhead. Clouds rushing past a hazy moon. I’m shivering so violently I can barely maintain my grip on the ice. I know my strength won’t last long.

The opening through which I fell is about three feet in diameter. I raise my right leg, try to get my foot out of the water and onto the ice, but my boots are too heavy, filled with water. I can’t reach down, so I use my foot to remove the other boot.

My strength is waning at an alarming rate. If I’m going to survive, I have to get out of the water. Turning, I locate my tracks, the last place where the ice was strong enough to support me. Sliding my arms across the surface of the ice, I kick my feet as fast and hard as I can. I’m hampered by my single remaining boot, but it can’t be helped. Kicking, kicking, I claw at the ice. An animal trapped and fighting for its life. Slowly, my feet rise so that I’m belly down and nearly horizontal.

Then my chest is on the ice’s surface. I reach out, hands scrabbling, sliding, fingers digging in. A flurry of kicks and I’m facedown on the ice, wet hair in my eyes. Violent shivers rack my body. I don’t have the strength to get up. Even if I could, the risk of falling through a second time is too great. Instead, I do the only thing I can—roll.

A few feet from shore, I get to my hands and knees and crawl. Frozen cattails scratch my face, but my skin is numb. I don’t stop until I’m on solid ground, where the bank slopes steeply up. I collapse, coughing and choking. I rest my head against the snow. My hands and legs are numb. Oddly, I’m no longer cold. My thoughts slog through a brain filled with cotton.

I think I hear the engine of a snowmobile. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m physically spent. I know if I close my eyes I’ll tumble into a waiting darkness.

But the darkness scares me. I don’t want to die here. I want to see Tomasetti again. I want to see my team of officers back in Painters Mill. Glock and Mona and Pickles. I want to sit at the table in my old farmhouse and listen to the rain pound the roof. I want to stand on the dock of the pond and look out over the water with the man I love.

Rolling onto my side, I push myself upright. I get my knees under me and crawl to the top of the bank. My hands are in the snow, but I don’t feel the cold. Unsteadily, I get to my feet.

Swaying like a drunk, I put one foot in front of the other. One foot bare. The other sloshing in a boot. I’m so uncoordinated I go to my knees twice before reaching the woods. Once I enter the trees, my mind shuts down. I don’t think about anything except putting one foot in front of the other. I’m a machine. Left foot. Right foot. Stay upright. Keep moving. I hear the snowmobile, but I feel no fear. The only thing that matters is one more step. Reaching the trailer. Survival.

By the time I emerge from the woods, I’m staggering. My hair and the hem of my dress are frozen. The whine of an engine sounds scant yards away. I see the glint of headlights against the trees. Choking back sobs, I make my way around the end of the trailer, stumble to the stairs, crawl up them using my hands. The snowmobile skids to a stop twenty feet away. The driver cuts the engine. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him dismount and start toward me.

“I got you now,” he says. “Fucking ran me all over hell and back.”

Yoder. Getting closer. Feet crunching through snow.

Somehow I get the key into the lock. Then I’m inside, slam the door behind me. I’m about to throw the lock when the door explodes open. A scream pours from my throat. I lurch across the living room, down the hall, into the bedroom. Footsteps thud against the floor.

“Come here, you bitch!” But he laughs.

I reach the bed, go to my knees, jam my hands beneath the mattress. I can barely feel the .38. I clutch it, spin, thrust it at Yoder’s silhouette as he comes down the hall.

“Police officer. I got a gun.” I try to shout the words, but they come out as puffs of air. “Stop.
Stop
.”

He doesn’t stop.

I fire and miss. Cursing, he ducks sideways, keeps on coming. I have no grip. No aim. Little strength in my hand. I fire four more times. Yoder yelps and goes down three feet from where I’m huddled on the floor against the bed. He’s facedown. Still moving, scrabbling toward me. Hands reaching. I fire the final round. He jolts and goes still.

Swiveling, I jam my hand beneath the mattress, yank my cell phone from its nest. I’m trying to dial Betancourt when pounding sounds at the front door. If it’s Suggs or Smucker I’m done. I have nothing left.

Betancourt picks up with a harried, “Where are you?”

“My trailer,” I pant. “I’m down.
Hurry
.”

He says something, but I don’t hear. I drop the cell without disconnecting and pick up the .38 even though the cylinder is empty.

“New York State Police! Chief Burkholder!” comes a male voice. “Kate Burkholder! New York State Police! Are you there?”

The trailer rocks as someone comes inside.

The .38 clatters to the floor. I sag against the bed, put my face in my hands. It’s not until I speak that I realize I’m crying. “I’m here,” I say. “I’m here.”

A man wearing a navy parka with the iconic flat-brimmed trooper hat stops at the end of the hall. I catch a glimpse of his sidearm in hand an instant before he blinds me with his flashlight.

“You Burkholder?” he asks.

“Yes.”

Lowering his head slightly, he speaks into his shoulder mike. “I’m ten seventy-five Burkholder.” He lets dispatch know he’s made contact with me as he approaches. “Ten fifty-two,” he adds, requesting an ambulance. “I got an officer down. I repeat, officer down.”

CHAPTER 24

One of my most vivid memories of the police academy was the day the instructor brought in a retired vice detective who proceeded to tell us it’s usually the easy cases that kill you. That case you swagger into with a shit-eating grin on your face because you think it’s going to be a cakewalk. Those are the cases, he told us, where in the end you’ll probably end up getting your ass handed to you.

We got a good laugh out of that. Some old dude with an eye patch and a limp. What did a dinosaur like him know about law enforcement today? Turned out he knew plenty because in addition to the eye patch and limp, he also had a dead partner. He’d worked undercover narcotics for seven years. He’d infiltrated a dangerous cartel and become one of them—until the day he was found out. The cartel had tortured him nearly to death with a cattle prod and roofing nails. He wasn’t quite so cocky the day they airlifted him to the hospital with the assignment left unfinished.

I spent the night in the ER at Alice Hyde Medical Center in Malone, where I was treated for hypothermia and frostbite. When I arrived, my core body temperature was 94.3 degrees Fahrenheit. Over a period of six hours, it was raised back to normal by heated blankets, warm fluids, and an IV. An X-ray revealed I had sustained two cracked ribs. A CT scan showed no evidence of a concussion, but I had a headache and didn’t argue when they gave me painkillers. By dawn, I’d had enough and asked to be checked out. They wanted to keep me for observation, but I’m no fan of hospitals. By the time Betancourt arrived with my street clothes, I was showered and ready to go.