Page 98 of A Gathering of Secrets

I slide into the seat. Gravel flies from beneath the tires as he turns around and starts toward the road. “She’s probably on her way to her farm.”

He makes a right. The engine groans when he floors the accelerator and cranks the speedometer to seventy.

“Skid, she’s got my gun,” I tell him. “You got an extra?”

“Just that shotgun in the trunk.”

“That’ll do.”

The radio lights up with activity as the alert goes out to dispatch and the Holmes County Sheriff’s Department. Most days Skid is Mr. Laid-Back Practical Joker. Tonight, he’s all business. He’s driving fast, eyes scanning left and right as he passes dark country roads, fields, and lanes obscured by trees.

Taillights appear ahead. “There,” I say.

“Looks like our vehicle.”

I pick up the mike. “Ten-thirty-eight,” I say, letting our counterparts know we’re about to stop a suspicious vehicle. “That’s her,” I tell Skid.

Hitting his bright lights, he pulls up close behind the car, keeping slightly left. We’re moving at about forty miles per hour; she’s not slowing quickly enough, so he pulses the siren three times.

For a second, I think she’s going to run. Then the turn signal flicks on; she pulls onto the shoulder and stops. Skid sticks with her, keeping left, and stops. He jams the shifter into park, glances my way. “I’m going to get her out.”

“Armed driver protocol,” I say. “Pop the trunk.”

“Yep.” He draws his weapon.

The trunk mechanism clicks.

Opening his door, he grabs the mike for his loudspeaker. “Driver! Turn off the engine! Roll down your window and let me see your hands!”

Never taking my eyes from the Taurus, I open my door and, staying low, slink around to the trunk. Ever aware that a .38 round will penetrate everything but the engine, I lift the trunk and unseat the Remington 870 from its mount.

“Driver!” Skid’s out of the car now, his weapon trained on the vehicle. “Show me your hands now!”

The Taurus’s engine goes silent. Headlights still on. Brake lights glowing. I watch, waiting, holding my breath. All the while, my heart pounds adrenaline to every muscle in my body. I can hear myself breathing heavily, the rush of blood through my veins.

Two hands appear through the driver’s-side window.

“Open your door and step out of the vehicle! Keep your back to me.”

The driver’s-side door opens. The Amish woman sets her feet on the ground and slides out of the vehicle.

“Get your hands up! Turn away from me! Face the other way!”

I raise the shotgun, praying I don’t have to use it.

Edna Lambright stands quietly with her back to us, her hands raised to shoulder level. She’s shaking. It’s a surreal scene. Because she’s Amish. A woman. A mother. The last kind of person anyone would expect to be involved in a situation like this.

“Walk backward!” Skid shouts the command twice.

When she’s a few yards away, he orders her to stop. “Get down on your knees! Keep your hands up.”

She turns her head to look at him, but he shouts her down. “Do not look at me! Face forward! Get on your knees!”

Skid’s .38 is aimed at the woman, center mass. I move forward, round the front right quarter panel, shotgun at the ready.

“Do not move!” he tells her. “Do you understand? Do not move!”

In the light of his headlights, I see him remove the handcuffs from his belt. Cautiously, he approaches her. I stay slightly behind and to the right of them. Shotgun level, my finger inside the guard.