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André waited in the cruiser while Morrison went inside The Steam Donkey to pick up takeout for the both of them. As he’d expected, the parking lot was full. The pub wastheplace in town where everyone went for the latest gossip and, on rare occurrences, even learned something close to the truth. No way was André setting foot inside there until the hullabaloo had blown over or at least calmed down.
His radio crackled to life.
“Trespassers out near Murry Evison’s property,” Carol reported. “The caller said he had an encounter with an aggressive couple in an RV.”
André flicked on his blue and reds but decided against the siren as he backed out of the parking spot. Another day with Deputy Cooper taking some deserved vacation time and Carol would already have tried Deputy Trent, so he must be on another call.
“I radioed Deputy Trent first. He was on the way, but then called back. His car won’t start.”
The state of the fleet was an issue. If André hadn’t had the same thing happen when he first moved to town, he wouldn’t have believed Trent. At least he’d been able to procure a new-to-him cruiser through a grant from the Department of Agriculture.
Carol rattled off an address a few miles north of town, an area that was isolated from the highway as it curved away from the ocean. There had been issues over the past year with RVers thinking the wide space in the road was a good place to stay for a few days.
It was not. It was private property owned by a very prickly and private old man.
If they were lucky, Murry would just set his dogs on them. If they weren’t lucky, they might find themselves staring down the wrong end of a shotgun.
As he drove, André passed only two other vehicles, both coming from the other direction. The wind picked up as he drove, buffeting his car and causing the tops of the trees to sway back and forth. It wasn’t raining yet, but he sensed big fat drops were just minutes away.
Set back from the highway and partially hidden by a canopy of cedar and pine, Murry Evison’s home was a sad-looking single-wide that needed a new roof, a paint job—hell, a full remodel.
When André approached the green space next to the highway, there was no RV to be seen. Maybe the interlopers had been foolish enough to think Murry’s property was abandoned and had parked near his house instead. He turned left onto the bumpy gravel drive, heading toward the structure. Fifty yards later, there was no sign of Murry’s easily recognizable banged-up Jimny or an RV. Surely he wouldn’t have called the station and then left his property?
Stopping in front of the house, André cracked open the car door, intending to get out, go knock on Murry’s door, and find out what was going on.
It was too quiet. Even the wind had settled for the moment, and only the distant sound of waves crashing against the shore reached André’s ears. Murry’s three hounds were vocal and intimidating. If they were inside the house, they would have been howling and barking.
A terrible sinking feeling began to form in André’s gut. What the fuck was he thinking responding to a callalone, in the middle of nowhere, when someone had taken a shot at him less than twenty-four hours ago?
He pulled his foot back inside and slammed the car door shut before jamming the cruiser into reverse. Pressing the accelerator hard, he reversed up the drive as fast as he dared, gravel shooting from underneath his tires as the car careened backward.
He was navigating the driveway over his shoulder when there was a sickening thunk. Risking a glance forward, André saw the windshield now had a spiderweb fracture where the bullet aimed at him had been stopped. His ballistic vest was safe in the trunk. What a fucking idiot, especially after yesterday.
If he didn’t end up shot, Dante was going to finish the job himself.
Seconds later, there was another thunk. Bullet-resistant glass was only designed to withstand two or three shots, depending on the thickness. He had to get back onto the highway and hope no one was waiting to ambush him there.
“Motherfucking fucking hell.”
Stomping the gas pedal to the floor, André maneuvered around the last corner onto the highway. Once there, he slammed hard on the brakes so he could change gears. Thank fuck there was no one coming from either direction. Thank fuck he’d kept up with the tactical driving courses. Thank fuck whoever was actively trying to kill him had not been waiting at the end of the drive to ambush him.
That was a mistake and André might not be so lucky next time. Three was a charm.
Shoving the gear shift into Drive, André pointed his damaged cruiser back toward Cooper Springs. There was no way he was going to be able to keep this incident quiet. Was this their suspected serial killer or something else? He wasn’t any kind of profiler, but he would be surprised if someone who had been killing for years, quietly and efficiently, would suddenly start something that was loud and public.
Before reaching town, and once he got his breathing under control, André radioed Carol.
“Chief?”
“Carol, Murry wasn’t there. Somebody took a shot at me, but I’m okay,” he assured her. “I’m on my way back now. Reach out to Lani and Trent and tell them both to be on high alert. I think this person is only after me, but I don’t want anyone hurt.”
“Shot at?” her voice rose. “Did you get the bastard?”
André allowed himself one brief second to be impressed by Carol’s language. The dispatcher was known to be calm, cool, and collected at all times, unflappable.
“I didn’t see anyone, too busy trying to avoid the bullets.”
The sign for The Steam Donkey appeared out of the mist that had rolled in off the ocean. André’s stomach sank to the floor.
