If he had run the license plate, he would have seen that Brock Cutter had a suspended license and a bench warrant for a failure to appear for a court date related to a harassment case over in Kossuth County. He would have learned that Brock Cutter wasn’t as innocent and good-natured as his cousin, Brett.
“How about you tell that son of a bitch cousin of yours to give me a call next time he’s in town, and I’ll give you a break,” Levi said with a grin. “But you gotta promise me to be more careful. I don’t want to have to pull you over again. Got it?”
“Thank you,” Cutter said with relief, finally releasing the steering wheel and wiping his wet palms on his jeans. “I promise.”
Levi waited until Cutter pulled carefully back onto the road, drove slowly away, his taillights fading to red pinpricks in the dark. He shook his head. Brett Cutter. Damn, he hadn’t thought of him in years. Good guy.
He got back into the cruiser and turned the ignition. On the radio, country music was replaced by some talk show program.
Levi continued his rounds, stopping at the gas station for that pop and a slice of pizza. The rest of the night remained calm, uneventful.
The sun slipped into the hazy sky, bringing a new wave of heat. Levi had one hour to go before his shift was over. He was exhausted. He was going to go home, take a shower, and go to bed.
Sixty minutes later, Deputy Levi Robbins was summoned to the bloodiest crime scene in Blake County history.
13
Present Day
Once back at the house, Wylie dropped the shovel and sled on the front steps and went inside. She wearily pulled off her boots. What was she going to tell the boy? Simply armored with Wylie’s hat and coat, there was no way that the woman was going to survive out in the elements.
There was no sign of the woman. Any footprints left behind in the snow were swept away by the harsh wind. It was as if she had simply disappeared.
Now the living room was empty. The boy and Tas weren’t where she left them. The fireplace had dimmed to orange embers and the room was chilly.
She moved from room to room with increasing worry. She made her way up the steps, the cold from the wood floor seeping through her socks. The second-floor landing was dark.
Her bedroom door was shut tight and Wylie turned the knob and nudged the door open. Standing in the dim pool of light from her bedside lamp was the boy, his back to the door with Tas lying at his feet.
“There you are,” Wylie said, and the boy swung around, startled. Clutched in his hands was Wylie’s 9 mm gun. Wylie gasped. Wide-eyed, the boy stood frozen; the gun was aimed directly at Wylie’s chest.
“Put it down.” The words came out raggedly, like fabric caught on barbwire.
He just stared, his mouth agape.
“Put it down, now!” Wylie ordered.
Tas began barking and the boy dropped the gun as if burned. It clattered to the floor and Tas scrambled away. Wylie closed her eyes and covered her ears, waiting for a bullet to discharge and rip through her. When it didn’t come, she pounced on the gun, throwing herself atop it, the cold metal digging into her midsection.
Above her stood the boy, frozen in terror, with Tas yapping wildly.
“What were you thinking?” Wylie snapped as she staggered to her feet, gun in hand. With shaking fingers, she removed the bullets. “Never, ever pick up a gun. You could have shot yourself, or Tas, or me. Do you understand?”
The boy didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. His breath snagged in his throat, and he tried to gulp in air.
“This is not your house,” Wylie snapped. “You could have killed someone. You shouldn’t be going through other people’s things.” Wylie moved to the closet and shoved the gun as far back as it would go on the top shelf. As she turned back around, she saw the boy crawl beneath her bed.
Wylie felt like she was going to be sick. She never worried about locking the gun away here because she was the only one in the house. She had no guests; no one came to visit.
“Tas, hush!” Wylie shouted, and Tas’s barks faded to soft whimpers. He looked up at her with trepidation.
Wylie lowered herself to the edge of the bed and tried to calm her thumping heart. When she trusted her voice again she spoke. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I didn’t mean to scare you.” There was no response, just the soft snuffling hitches of the boy’s breath from beneath the bed.
“It wasn’t your fault. It was mine. I should have had the gun locked away. Come out,” Wylie urged.
The boy remained beneath the bed. “I was scared,” Wylie tried to explain. “Have you ever been scared? Really, really scared?”