An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(74)

I stare at them for a beat, not quite believing my eyes. To say I hadn’t expected to find anything this earth-shattering would be an understatement.

I straighten, stand there a moment, trying to get my head around it. I look at Tomasetti, who’s already noticed my response. Even Fisher has stopped pacing.

Tilting my head, I hail T.J. on the radio. “Ten-seven-eight.” Through the glass, I see him stop what he’s doing and turn to look at me. I nod and he starts toward the door.

I say Tomasetti’s name, but he’s already striding toward me, his eyes flicking from me to the toolbox.

“What?” Fisher says. “Did you find a fucking wrench or something?”

Tomasetti goes to the rollaway and stretches to look behind it. He’s not easily surprised, but I see the flicker of it on his face as he hauls the toolbox away from the wall. The lighting isn’t great, so he tugs the mini Maglite from his pocket and sets the beam on the back of the rollaway.

“My my,” Tomasetti says.

Without speaking, I tug my cell from my pocket and snap half a dozen photos of the bolts from different angles and distances. I’m aware of Tomasetti fishing nylon gloves from his pocket, working them onto his hands. T.J. comes through the door, looking confused. I glance at Fisher. He’s sidled closer. I see his eyes flit to the back of the rollaway. His brows snap together.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” he says.

The beer he’s been holding falls to the concrete. And then he’s out the door and running toward the woods.





CHAPTER 25


Fisher tears out of the garage and darts left. Ten yards away, Glock spots him and starts after him, but when one of the other men dashes for a vehicle, Glock changes course and goes after the nearest man instead. And then I’m past them, running full out across the parking area. Fisher is fifty feet ahead, running like a gazelle, feet barely seeming to touch the ground. I hear the crunch of gravel beneath my boots, hear the rush of my breaths, feel the strain of my muscles. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tomasetti fall in behind me. I don’t know where T.J. is. And in that moment, my only thought is to stop Fisher.

I’m midway across the lot, running as fast as I can. Ahead, Fisher enters the woods. There’s no path, just an ocean of trees, bramble, and high grass, and he plows into it like a tank.

Shit, I think, and hit my lapel mike. “Ten-eighty.” I pant out my location. “Ten-seven-eight.” Chase in progress. Need assistance.

“Stop!” I shout at Fisher, knowing it’s futile to try to catch him. He’s younger than me. Faster. “Police! Stop!”

I burst into the woods. Branches slash at my face and hair. Undergrowth tears at my clothes. I muscle through, hands raised to protect my eyes. I sidle between two good-size trees, catch a glimpse of Fisher fifteen yards ahead, and I push myself into a sprint.

I call out his name. “Stop!”

The trees seem to thrust from the ground as the land slopes sharply upward. I hear Tomasetti behind me as I struggle up the grade. Vaguely, I’m aware of my police radio lighting up as deputies respond. I leap over a fallen log, claw through raspberry bush and saplings. Catch sight of my quarry through the trees, and I change course. I’m no slouch when it comes to running, but the grade is so precipitous I have to use my hands in a couple of places. The terrain is rugged, littered with rocks and deadfall, and within minutes, I’m out of breath, my quads burning as if they’re on fire.

A dead branch comes out of nowhere, catches my shirt, yanks it. I hear fabric rip, keep going even though I’ve lost sight of Fisher. I reach the apex of the hill, look around. The woods are thinner here. I pause, try to catch my breath, spot movement ahead and to my left. I launch myself back into a run. Not as fast. I’m running out of steam, so I try to pace myself. I hear someone behind me. No time to look. The ground slants sharply down. I pick my way around rocks the size of truck tires. I think there’s a creek ahead, but my sense of direction is skewed.

The ground drops away beneath me. I turn, plant my feet sideways to avoid sliding, but I’m not agile enough. My left foot finds purchase on a rock, but the rock gives way and I slide. My left hip strikes the ground hard. I reach for a sapling, but I’m not fast enough and I roll. Once, twice. My feet flailing. Arms reaching. Handholds flying past. Shit. Shit. I’m about to roll a third time when the small of my back strikes a tree trunk, stopping me. I twist, scramble to my knees, look around. I’m almost to my feet when I see movement scant feet away. At first, I think Tomasetti has caught up with me. I swivel, spot the pale oval of Fisher’s face. Ball cap. Blue shirt. The branch comes out of nowhere. I hear a whoosh! It strikes my left cheekbone. A lightning burst of pain and then I’m reeling backward. My shoulder strikes a sapling. I slide in mud and go down on one knee. I’m keenly aware of my .38 against my hip. Think better of reaching. I set my hand on my baton. Something in my eye, a dark blur, messing with my vision.

Fisher stands three feet away, chest heaving, face red and covered with sweat. “I didn’t do anything!” he screams.

I yank out my baton as I scramble to my feet. “Do not move!” I shout.

Hissing a curse, he swings again. I turn away, but the branch slams into my shoulder. Pain zings down my arm, but I’m too pissed to feel it. I lunge at him, swing the baton, find purchase. Fisher squeals.