The Pact (Kate Burkholder #11.5) - Linda Castillo Page 0,19

13, just past the railroad trestle.”

“Get an ambulance out there. I’m ten seven-six,” I say, letting her know I’m on my way. “Tell Skid to meet me there.”

“Ten four.”

Flipping on my emergency lights, I pull into the parking lot of the Lutheran Church on Main, hang a U-turn, and head out of town. I crank the speedometer up to sixty, blow the stop sign at Hogpath Road, and make the turn onto CR 13. The railroad trestle is a mile ahead, an ancient structure that stretches over the road like the skeleton of some long-dead dinosaur.

As I draw closer, I realize there’s no vehicle in sight. No sign that anyone is here at all. In the back of my mind, I wonder if Dispatch or the reporting party got the location wrong. I slow as I pass beneath the trestle. I’m reaching for my radio mike when my windshield explodes. Glass pelts my face, my jacket, shards clattering onto the dash. Something thumps onto the passenger seat. I stomp the brake. The Explorer skids into a spin. The ditch and trees loom. Too close. Too fast. I turn into the skid, but I’m not fast enough. The vehicle whips across the ditch, ends up in the field, facing the wrong direction.

Shaken, I unsnap my seatbelt, take a quick physical inventory. My face stings, probably due to small nicks from the glass. Otherwise, I’m uninjured. A section of railroad tie lies on the passenger seat, looking ominous and out of place. Someone threw it from the trestle . . .

I’ve ended up in a field in a foot of mud. The engine has died. I set my hands on the wheel, turn the key, but nothing happens. “Shit,” I mutter and get out.

This road dead-ends a couple of miles ahead. There’s not much through traffic. A chill scrapes up my spine when I realize it’s the perfect place for an ambush.

I hit my shoulder mike. “Skid. Expedite. Ten eighty-eight,” I say, reciting the code for suspicious activity. “Ten thirty-nine,” I add, letting him know it’s an emergency.

“ETA three minutes,” comes his reply.

I cross the ditch and step onto the road. There’s no one around. No accident. No sign of the ambulance yet. It’s so quiet I can hear the whisper of wind as it ebbs and flows through the trees. I glance up at the trestle. It’s about twenty feet high and has been abandoned for years. Northbound, the tracks head back to Painters Mill. South, they end up in Coshocton. In both directions, the tracks intersect roads. If someone tossed that piece of railroad tie, and wanted a quick getaway without being seen, all they would have to do is park to the north at Hogpath Road.

I hit my radio as I start up the steep embankment. “Skid, check for a ten forty-eight,” I say quietly, using the ten code for suspicious vehicle. “Railroad tracks at Hogpath Road.”

“Roger that,” he says.

The embankment that will take me up to the tracks is steep and tangled with high grass, bramble, and saplings. I’m midway up when I hear the pound of footsteps. Using my hands, I scramble to the top, glance left to see a figure running away. Adult male. Moving fast.

“Stop! Police Department! Halt!”

I break into a sprint, shout into my lapel mike. “Suspect northbound on the tracks! Moving toward Hogpath Road! Male! Dark hoodie!”

Vaguely, I’m aware of my radio lighting up with traffic. The sheriff’s deputy is en route. Skid is nearly to Hogpath Road. For now, I’m on my own.

“Stop!” I shout to the running man. “Painters Mill Police! Halt!”

He doesn’t even break stride.

I’m no slug when it comes to running, but he’s young and fast and pulls away from me at an astounding rate. He flies over the tracks, long strides, arms pumping, tossing the occasional glance over his shoulder. I’m thirty feet behind him and losing ground. In the back of my mind, I’m hoping Skid can get to him before this guy reaches a vehicle.

The man throws a look at me over his shoulder. His foot strikes a broken railroad tie that’s sticking up. He goes down hard enough to send gravel flying. He recovers quickly, scrambles to his feet. But the fall cost him precious seconds. I close the distance between us.

“Police!” I pant the word, not enough breath to shout. “Stop! Stop!”

The intersection is two hundred yards ahead. No sign of Skid. I’m just feet behind my suspect now, running full out. I pour