The Pact (Kate Burkholder #11.5) - Linda Castillo Page 0,14

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“Chief?”

I look up to see my second-shift dispatcher, Jodie Metzger, standing in the doorway. “I just took a call from Ashley Hodges. She’s in the park. Hysterical. Says someone attacked her.”

I get to my feet. “Is she hurt?”

“Says she’s just shaken up.”

“How long ago?”

“A minute.”

Grabbing my keys, I head toward the door. “Who’s on duty?”

“Skid.”

“Tell him to meet me there.”

* * *

Creekside Park is a pretty little green space that’s been around as long as I can remember. There’s a playground complete with a swing set, a slide, and old-fashioned monkey bars. A fountain featuring a giant catfish spurting water draws kids to splash around in the summer months. A small, trickling stream spanned by a wood footbridge cuts through the park’s center. All six acres of it is jam-packed with stately hundred-year-old trees.

I’m not sure what to expect when I arrive. Generally speaking, Painters Mill is a safe town; parents don’t hesitate to let their kids play outside or walk to and from school. My first thought is that whatever happened to Ashley Hodges is related to what happened to Noah Kline. But how?

The final vestiges of dusk hover above the treetops to the west when I pull into the park. The shadows swallow me as I idle along the narrow asphalt roadway. There’s no sign of Skid. I hit my high beams and keep an eye out for Ashley.

I find her walking alongside the road, huddled in a hoodie, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. She startles upon spotting my headlights, then recognizing my vehicle, raises both hands and runs toward me.

I stop and pick up my radio mike. “Ten twenty-three,” I say, letting Dispatch know I’ve arrived on scene. “I’ve got her. Stand by.” I’m about to hail Skid when his flashing lights appear in my rearview mirror.

Grabbing my Maglite, I get out and start toward Ashley. “What happened?” I ask. “Are you all right?”

She stumbles toward me, sobbing. “Chief Burkholder!”

I set the beam of my flashlight on her, catch a glimpse of a ravaged face streaked with tears. A thin line of blood on the right side of her mouth. She reaches me, throws her arms around my waist and clings.

“Someone attacked me,” she chokes.

Her entire body trembles. Wanting to get a better look at her, I ease her to arm’s length. “Are you injured?”

“No,” she says in a tremulous voice.

Vaguely, I’m aware of Skid coming up behind me, listening, the beam of his flashlight illuminating the surrounding trees and brush.

“Do you know who it was?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “He wore a mask.”

“Did he have a weapon?”

“I don’t think so.”

“How long ago?” I ask.

“Just a few minutes.”

“Where did he go?”

“He ran into the park.” She motions toward the playground.

“What was he wearing?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she cries. “Just . . . a skull mask. And a hoodie, I think. Dark. Blue or black.”

I glance at Skid. “Go.”

Nodding, he takes off in the direction she indicated.

I speak into my radio and hail the sheriff’s department. “Ten forty-eight A,” I say, using the code for suspicious person. “Male. Dark hoodie. Skull mask. Creekside Park.”

I turn my attention back to Ashley. “Did you call your parents?”

“My mom’s on the way.” She swipes tears from her face. “I can’t believe this happened.”

The sound of tires alerts us to an approaching vehicle. I turn, see the white Escalade pull up beside my Explorer. The door swings open and Belinda Hodges gets out.

“Mom!”

“Sweetheart!” The woman runs toward us, heels clicking against the asphalt. “What on earth happened?”

She reaches us, gets a look at her daughter’s face, and gasps. “Oh my God! Your lip is bleeding.” Pulling her daughter into her arms, she looks at me. “Who did this?”

As the girl tells her mother about the attack, a Holmes County sheriff’s deputy rolls up behind my Explorer. I go to him, give him the basics, and ask him to stay with the women while I assist Skid.

I take off at a jog and enter the trees, speaking into my shoulder mike. “Skid, what’s your twenty?”

“At the fountain, heading west.”

“I’m ten seven-six,” I say, letting him know I’m on my way.

I catch up with him at the footbridge that spans the creek. “Anything?” I ask.

“Nada,” he says.

Our boots echo hollowly against the wood planks as we cross the bridge, the twin beams of our flashlights bobbing, not quite penetrating the shadows. I hear the gurgle of water below. Around us, the trees whisper and sway.

On the other side of the