Page 51 of Fallen

“You keep your fucking mouth shut about that night. Not a word to anyone. You got me?”

She couldn’t stop nodding.

He ground his teeth, looking at her as if he didn’t believe her. “Nothing happened. Do you understand me? You say anything about what you think happened, and I’ll come back. Next time, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill your husband. I’ll kill your fucking kid. And I’ll burn your goddamn house to the ground. You got that?”

“Please don’t hurt them.” She twisted, tried to duck away.

He clamped his hand around her throat, pressed her hard against the wall. “I’m an inch away from slitting your throat right now, you lying bitch.”

She stared at him. Heart pounding. Blood raging in her veins. Terror clouding her brain. Pure evil stared back at her.

“I don’t know anything,” she said.

“Good. Keep it that way. Don’t speak my name. Don’t even think it.” He lifted his hand and jabbed his finger against the side of her head. Once. Twice. Three times. “That sinking in? You got it?”

His other hand was still around her throat, crushing her windpipe, her voice box. She tried to answer, but couldn’t so she nodded.

He stepped back, but didn’t release her throat. She stumbled forward, set her hands on his wrist, tried to pry off his grip with her fingers, but he was too strong. He swung her around. Teeth grinding, a sound of rage gurgling in his throat, he shoved her hard.

Loretta tottered backward, struck a wood column, and went down on her backside.

Snarling a profanity, he stepped toward her, jabbed his finger at her face. “If I hear you been talking to the cops again, it’s over for you.”

She scrabbled back. “I won’t.”

“Don’t make me come back,” he whispered.

She didn’t want to look at him, but she did. She could see his hands shaking. His finger pointing, an inch from her face. Forehead shiny and red and beaded with sweat despite the chill. Veins protruding at his temples. Spit on his lips. Breaths rushing between clenched teeth.

“Okay,” she whispered.

He straightened. Shook himself as if coming out of some strange dream state. Blinking, he stepped back, looked at her as if suddenly he didn’t recognize her. As if he wasn’t quite sure why he was here. Abruptly, he turned and ran from the barn, disappearing into the darkness like a phantom.

CHAPTER 21

It’s midnight by the time Tomasetti and I arrive back in Painters Mill. The service station owner wasn’t happy at having his evening interrupted, but he met us at the station, and after a few technical issues, he provided a disk containing the security camera footage of the previous twenty-four-hour period. We’re lucky, because in a matter of days, all of it would have been recorded over and lost.

I enter the station to find my newest dispatcher, Margaret, standing at the reception desk, headset clamped over brown-and-silver curls, the Painters Mill PD’s policy and procedure manual open on the credenza behind her. She’s updating the master file, printing everything out, and replacing the pages that have changed, something that hasn’t been done since I’ve been chief.

“You’re working late tonight,” she says cheerily.

Her desk is bedecked with framed photos of grandchildren—ski vacations, summer picnics, and dogs of every shape and size. A sweating glass of iced tea and a sample-size tube of hand cream take up space next to her keyboard. Not only has she turned the reception area into her home away from home, but she runs it with a level of military discipline not before seen. My officers have learned to provide her with what she needs in a timely manner—or else receive a thorough dressing-down.

“How’s the P and P manual coming along?” I ask.

“Still waiting for Jodie to email me the file with the job descriptions.” She punctuates the statement with a direct look over the tops of her bifocals, brows up.

“I’ll light a fire,” I tell her.

I hear Tomasetti enter as I unlock the door to my office. He exchanges niceties with Margaret—a meeting of two strong personalities—and I smile as my laptop boots up. I’m sitting at my desk when he appears in the doorway.

“She runs a tight ship,” he says in a low voice.

“Cross her and you’ll be walking the plank.”

“I’ve no doubt.”

I slide the disk into the drive and bring up the file. Instead of taking the visitor chair across from me, he rounds my desk and comes up behind me so he’ll have a better view. Using the mouse, I click PLAY. The grainy footage comes to life. The camera angle is bad; the parking lot and front entrance of The Pub are too far away for us to see much in the way of detail. The lighting is far from ideal, the angle worse. On the positive side, we have a clear line of sight without obstruction.