Rising Heat (86 page)

No movement in any direction. This hadn’t happened long ago. The blood was still… still fresh, still dripping. I took another look at the officer’s neck, the gaping wound, the… what looked like a severed tube that I knew was his esophagus jutting upward, the ends of the veins and arteries, the shredded muscle tissue and skin…

I couldn’t halt the surge of nausea rising up my own esophagus. I darted around the hood of the police cruiser, stepped into the underbrush along my driveway and vomited. It got in my nose, went down my throat, which only made me gag and retch again. My entire body began to shake.

I heard the sound of crying and realized it was me. I didn’t know if I was crying more for me and the horror that I had just witnessed, or that poor police officer. It was a combination of grief that tore at my soul.

Dammit! He hadn’t asked for this! What if he had a family? A wife or children? It was my fault he was dead.
My fault!

Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I half ran, half stumbled toward the house, my eyes scanning the trees, the brush, the shadows. Where was the killer? Was he hiding somewhere in the woods, silently taking pleasure in my horror? Was he still holding the knife down by his side, dripping with the police officer’s blood? Was he coming after me now?

I had to get my phone, had to call the police, then Hawk. And then I would get away. Away from my house. Away from the sight of what happened at the end of my driveway. I would not be the cause of someone else’s death.

I felt despair overwhelming me, trying to choke back the sobs that erupted from my throat as I rushed past my truck, up the porch steps, and into my house. I nearly slammed my chin into the door when it didn’t open.

Then I remembered. I’d locked the door. Muttering an oath under my breath, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my keys, my hands shaking so badly I could barely find the key to the front door and insert it into the lock. I kept glancing over my shoulder, sure that at any second now I would see the stalker, the killer, rushing toward me, knife raised, ready to plunge it into my chest. I choked back another scream, finally managed to unlock the door and pushed it open. Once inside, I slammed it shut, stood against it for several moments, and then turned to lock it again.

I wasn’t sure if that was such a good idea.

Was it?

I didn’t know.

What if the killer had gotten inside the house while I was standing at the police cruiser, screaming my lungs out and puking up my guts? Should I look? Should I hide? Should I simply leave again without looking back?

I didn’t know what to do.

I wasn’t prepared for this.

Could anyone ever be prepared for something like this?

Giving myself a mental shake, I hurried into my office, spied the throwaway cell phone Hawk had given me, and grabbed it, holding it to my chest. I glanced quickly around the living room and in the kitchen as I retraced my steps to the front door, but I didn’t see anything out of place. I didn’t smell, see, or hear anything that indicated the killer had entered my home.

Still, I had to get away from here. I unlocked the door and exited the house, slamming it shut behind me. I almost didn’t take the time to lock it again, but did, my eyes continually scanning the woods, the driveway, anywhere someone could hide. Not that it would do any good. If he
was
here, how was I supposed to defend myself?

Dammit, where was the gun? The Ruger. Probably still in Hawk’s Jeep. Why hadn’t he reminded me to take it? Better yet, why hadn’t I remembered to take it when he dropped me off? It was my life in danger, after all. How could he have forgotten it? How could I?

I know he was focused on his trip to visit the FBI profiler, but was the profiler still in town? Or had he returned to the scenes of the earlier murders? I guess it didn’t matter. Yes, it did. I wanted to know where Hawk was. We had both forgotten the gun — he because he wasn’t used to loaning out his weapons apparently, and me because I didn’t make it a habit of having or using one.

I guess both of us had been distracted, but now more than anything, I wanted to feel my hand wrapped around the butt of that gun. I would be holding it tightly in my hand right this minute, my index finger on the trigger, ready to blast anything that jumped out at me from the woods surrounding my house.

Who was I kidding?

The cop had possessed a gun and hadn’t used it. Hadn’t been able to save himself despite his weapon, his communication system, the shotgun mounted on the rack on the metal mesh barrier that separated the front seat from the perps that sat in the back.

In five steps, I was at my truck. I quickly unlocked it and climbed inside, then immediately locked the door behind me. Not that the glass would stop a bullet, or a fist smashing through it, or the butt of a knife handle.

My heart still pounding, my hands trembling, I groaned aloud. An intense headache had formed right in the middle of my forehead and it felt like the top of my head was going to explode. I quickly started the engine, threw it into reverse, and peeled out of my driveway, heading toward the road. I barely had enough room to ease my truck between the front bumper of the parked cruiser and the trees encroaching on the other side of the driveway. I refused to look into the squad car. I did look one more time as I drove away from my house.

The driver’s door was still open. Damn. I should have closed it. I wasn’t going back. “I’m so sorry,” I apologized to the officer who couldn’t hear me. Would never hear anything again.

Only when I was on the highway, speeding away from my house, did I open the simple flip-top phone Hawk had purchased. I dialed Hawk’s number, which he had pre-programmed into the phone. It rang several times and then went to voicemail.

Damn.

Where was he? Talking to the FBI agent? I realized that he couldn’t know what happened, but it was frustrating. I was scared to death, not sure where to go. Then I remembered the business card Detective Westin had given me. One eye on the road, I held the business card in the hand clutching the steering wheel while I pressed the numbers on the phone pad with the other. I blew out a breath and inhaled slowly, forcing myself to calm down while I waited for him to answer.

And waited.

I was just about to hang up when I heard the click. “Detective Westin, can I—?”

“Detective Westin, it’s Tracy Whitcomb!” I recognized the frantic tone in my voice.

“Tracy… Miss Whitcomb, what’s the matter? What happened?”

“He’s dead!” I cried. The sound that came out of my mouth was somewhere between a sob and a howl.

“Who’s dead?” he asked, alarmed.

“The police officer… the one you sent… the one at the end of my driveway!”

Nothing for a moment.

“What? How… when?”

“I just went out to get my mail, to take him some coffee… blood everywhere… his throat’s been slashed!” I managed to explain, my voice trembling. I felt like retching again at the image of the gaping wound in the officer’s throat. “Oh my God, he’s dead!”

“Tracy, where are you?”

“In my truck! I had to get away from the house—”

“I’m sending some help out there right now,” Westin said, his voice strong and carrying a sense of urgency. “Where are you going?”

Where was I going? I had no idea. Would it do any good to run? I was beginning to wonder. “I don’t know,” I cried, trying not to sound like I was in a full-blown panic, even though I was. “I’m going to Hawk’s office. I tried calling him, but he’s not answering his phone. Do you know where he is?”

“Come down to the station,” he said.

“No, I’m going to Hawk’s office…” Then I remembered that his office would likely be closed and locked if he wasn’t there. “Never mind, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I disconnected the call, my hand shaking so badly I accidentally pushed a couple of numbers before I managed to press the end call button.

Halfway into town, two police cruisers, an ambulance, and the Seneca P.D. marked van that I figured belonged to the crime scene techs roared past me, heading for my house.

I couldn’t take it.

I couldn’t stop the tears. My vision was so blurry I could hardly see the solid yellow lines in the center of the highway. I pulled off onto the side of the road, put the truck in park, and let it all out in shoulder jerking, stomach-clenching sobs. I couldn’t stop thinking of the police officer. He’d been there to protect me and had ended up paying the ultimate price.

Oh God, when was this going to stop? I had to talk to Hawk. I tried his number again, but it rang several times, and then I got a computerized female voice notifying me that his voicemail was full. Right after that I heard a beep. I glanced down at the phone screen. I only had five minutes left. Damn! Should I go to Walmart and get a phone card to reload the minutes or should I go directly to the police station? I was torn, frozen with indecision.

My mind was spinning. Why had the killer attacked a police officer? Why? Why kill him? Why not just wait for him to leave, or for me to leave the house? He could’ve followed me anywhere. The fact that he seemed to know where I was — a shiver ran up my spine.

The only people who had known I was going home were Detectives Cutter and Westin, those involved in arranging for the police cruisers to park in front of my house, and Hawk.

I nearly threw up again. I didn’t even want to contemplate the suggestion that a police officer was behind this. Nor Hawk. I was being foolish. I was letting my panic overcome my common sense. But still, who would know the particulars of the case?

No, push that thought right out of your head, I scolded myself. I wiped my eyes, rubbed my hands over my face, and then tried to pull myself together.

Think, Tracy, think!

Chances were anyone familiar with this area had the opportunity to follow me. Drive a nondescript car, blend into the environment, and there you have it. Maybe I would mention my concerns to the detectives. They would probably shut me down if I broached the suggestion that the killer might be a cop, but if they were good investigators, they would at least consider that someone within the law enforcement community was a possibility. It wasn’t something I wanted to consider either, but at this point, I didn’t know what else I could do. In my book,
everyone
was a potential suspect.

I took several deep breaths and then pulled back onto the highway, made my way into town and to the police station. By the time I parked my truck, climbed out, locked the door behind me and headed up the steps to the front door, I felt like I had better control over myself. Still, my legs shook, my hands still trembled, and when the desk officer saw me, he did a double-take.

I didn’t recognize the officer. I hadn’t seen him before, but he obviously knew me.

“You’re Tracy Whitcomb?”

I nodded.

“Detective Westin told me to take you into his office.”

He came around the desk, through the swinging gate, and gently grasped my elbow. “Come on, I’ll take you to their office. Detective Westin went out to your house, and Detective Cutter’s in the next county following up a lead on a case—”

“My case?” I asked, hopeful.

“I don’t have the particulars,” he said. “But he should be back soon. You sit down and I’ll bring you some water.”

His kindness brought another wave of tears and my eyes glistened with them. One even managed to escape down my cheek and I impatiently brushed it away, offering a tremulous smile to the police officer. “Thank you…” I glanced at his name tag. “Officer Shelton.”

He guided me into Cutter and Westin’s office. I sat down and then looked up at him. “You know what’s happened?”

He nodded somberly. “Yes, ma’am. I do.”

I didn’t want to know, and yet I did. “Officer Shelton, did the officer… at my house… was he married? Did he have children?”

He didn’t reply to that question.

“I’m going to get you some water. Can I get you anything else?”

“No,” I managed, my voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “No, thank you.”

“Do you want to wait here for the detectives? Is there somewhere you want to go?”

I shook my head and watched as he quickly left the office. I clasped my trembling hands together and shoved them between my knees, trying to fight another wave of tears. All I could think about was that officer sitting in the police cruiser in front of my house. Alive one minute, dead the next.

The scene reappeared in my mind in vivid detail. The officer’s gun was still holstered, his hands down by his sides. His left hand looked like it had dropped from the steering wheel, his right resting on the console between the seats. It looked like he hadn’t even had a chance to defend himself.

How had the killer gotten so close? Come to think of it, the window on the driver’s side door was up, but had not been sprayed with blood. I would’ve noticed that when I approached his door. His window must’ve been down when he was attacked. The killer had approached the driver side of the car, maybe on the pretext of asking a question. Before the officer could react, the killer slashed his throat.

But the police officer would have been on guard, wouldn’t he? He would’ve known the reason he was at my house in the first place. My heart skipped. A terrible thought struck me. Maybe whoever had killed the police officer knew him, if not by name, then by appearance, and vice versa. That was the only way I could think of that would enable the killer to get so close.

Could the killer be one of my neighbors? Or, as I previously imagined, a fellow police officer? What if—?

“Here you go, Miss Whitcomb.” Officer Shelton stepped into the room and extended a bottle of water toward me. “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can get you?”

I shook my head and reached for the bottle, croaking out a thank you.

“I’ll be at the front desk if you need anything.”

I nodded as he left the room. Outside of the detectives’ office, I didn’t hear many sounds in the bullpen, or whatever it was called. The building was eerily quiet. Then again, the news of an officer down was bound to take most police officers to the crime scene. Maybe Officer Shelton was the only one left in the building. I didn’t know.