Blow Out
Page 2
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He clasped her face between his hands and looked right in her face. “Listen to me. I’m a cop. You’re going to be all right. I’ll protect you. Just tell me, where do you live?”
“Over there.” She threw a wild hand in the direction off to their left.
“All right, is the man still there?”
“Yes, yes, he’s there, he wants to kill me.”
“It’s okay, just hold yourself together. I’m going to call the sheriff.”
“No, please, please, help me now, you’ve got to, take me back to the house, the man’s there, please! Help me!”
“Why do you want to go back there if someone is trying to kill you?”
“Please, you’ve got to take me back. You’ve got to get him, stop him. Please!”
Savich drew back, held her arms in his hands and stared down into her white face. Her eyes were very dark, and her face was so white he thought she was going into shock. “The sheriff,” he said, but she jerked away from him and began running away, off the main road.
He caught her in an instant. She fought, sobbing, the wild frenzy bubbling out of her, until he said, “All right. I’ll take you back home. You can trust me. No, don’t try to move. But it would be stupid for me to go there with you alone. I’m calling for help.”
He held her by one arm, pulled out his cell and punched in 911. She made no move to get away. She stood docile and quiet beside him, saying nothing. The phone didn’t work. But that made no sense. He’d spoken to Sherlock just a half hour before, calling from the very same spot. He tried again. The cell was dead as those shriveled carrots he’d just bought. It made no sense. He tried one final time. Nothing. What was he to do? “My cell doesn’t work. It doesn’t make sense.”
“You’ve got to help me.” He looked down into her white face. There was no choice. He could haul her into the car and drive to the sheriff ’s office, but he knew in his gut that she’d fight him like a madwoman. He saw her urgency, her fear, pumping off her in vicious waves. “Listen to me. I’ll take you back to the house. It will be all right. Come back to the car with me.”
He put the groceries back in the bag and moved the bag to the backseat. He picked up the watermelon and heaved it into the trees, then helped her into the car and fastened her seatbelt. She whispered thank you a dozen times, maybe more, over and over. In that moment, there was no doubt in his mind that someone was trying to hurt her. He shook his head at the vagaries of fate. All he’d wanted was a nice long weekend where he could go for walks in the woods with his wife and his son, teaching him how to tell a spruce from a pine, and now he was back on the job. He turned the heater on high, but she didn’t seem to notice. She didn’t even seem to be cold.
“Where do you live?”
She pointed to a side road, up off the main road, to the right. “Up there, please hurry. He’s going to kill me, he’s waiting, he’ll—”
Savich turned onto Clayton Road, narrow, but nicely paved. “This is the way?”
She nodded. “Please, hurry, hurry—” She was heaving for breath, gasping. He drove in the middle of the road. Snow was piled up around them.
He drove around a corner to see a large house on a gentle rise to the left, lights shining from the windows on the first floor.
“That’s it, yes, that’s my house, please hurry, please God, you have to hurry—”
“Yes, we’re here. I want you to stay here—”
But she was out the door, running to the front door, shouting over her shoulder, “Hurry, hurry, hurry! You’ve got to stop him!”
Savich pulled out his SIG, caught up with her, and grabbed her arm. “Slow down. This man—do you know him?”
She said nothing, wildly shook her head, sending her hair flying, and kept repeating, “Hurry, hurry!”
The front door was unlocked. Savich held her behind him as he opened the door, swinging his gun from side to side. He saw nothing, heard nothing.
He nearly lost her as she tried to jerk free, but he held her, saying, “Where’s the living room?”
She seemed more terrified now than before, her pupils wildly dilated, and she was sobbing, incapable of speech. She pointed to the right.
“All right, it’s okay, we’re going in the living room.” He moved slowly, carefully, fanning his SIG in every direction.
There was no sign of anyone. Nothing. It seemed to be an empty house except for the two of them.
There was a lovely fire burning in the fireplace, so she couldn’t have been gone long. It was warm in the large room, even cozy, with all the lamps lit against the blackness and the bitter cold outside.
“Over there.” She threw a wild hand in the direction off to their left.
“All right, is the man still there?”
“Yes, yes, he’s there, he wants to kill me.”
“It’s okay, just hold yourself together. I’m going to call the sheriff.”
“No, please, please, help me now, you’ve got to, take me back to the house, the man’s there, please! Help me!”
“Why do you want to go back there if someone is trying to kill you?”
“Please, you’ve got to take me back. You’ve got to get him, stop him. Please!”
Savich drew back, held her arms in his hands and stared down into her white face. Her eyes were very dark, and her face was so white he thought she was going into shock. “The sheriff,” he said, but she jerked away from him and began running away, off the main road.
He caught her in an instant. She fought, sobbing, the wild frenzy bubbling out of her, until he said, “All right. I’ll take you back home. You can trust me. No, don’t try to move. But it would be stupid for me to go there with you alone. I’m calling for help.”
He held her by one arm, pulled out his cell and punched in 911. She made no move to get away. She stood docile and quiet beside him, saying nothing. The phone didn’t work. But that made no sense. He’d spoken to Sherlock just a half hour before, calling from the very same spot. He tried again. The cell was dead as those shriveled carrots he’d just bought. It made no sense. He tried one final time. Nothing. What was he to do? “My cell doesn’t work. It doesn’t make sense.”
“You’ve got to help me.” He looked down into her white face. There was no choice. He could haul her into the car and drive to the sheriff ’s office, but he knew in his gut that she’d fight him like a madwoman. He saw her urgency, her fear, pumping off her in vicious waves. “Listen to me. I’ll take you back to the house. It will be all right. Come back to the car with me.”
He put the groceries back in the bag and moved the bag to the backseat. He picked up the watermelon and heaved it into the trees, then helped her into the car and fastened her seatbelt. She whispered thank you a dozen times, maybe more, over and over. In that moment, there was no doubt in his mind that someone was trying to hurt her. He shook his head at the vagaries of fate. All he’d wanted was a nice long weekend where he could go for walks in the woods with his wife and his son, teaching him how to tell a spruce from a pine, and now he was back on the job. He turned the heater on high, but she didn’t seem to notice. She didn’t even seem to be cold.
“Where do you live?”
She pointed to a side road, up off the main road, to the right. “Up there, please hurry. He’s going to kill me, he’s waiting, he’ll—”
Savich turned onto Clayton Road, narrow, but nicely paved. “This is the way?”
She nodded. “Please, hurry, hurry—” She was heaving for breath, gasping. He drove in the middle of the road. Snow was piled up around them.
He drove around a corner to see a large house on a gentle rise to the left, lights shining from the windows on the first floor.
“That’s it, yes, that’s my house, please hurry, please God, you have to hurry—”
“Yes, we’re here. I want you to stay here—”
But she was out the door, running to the front door, shouting over her shoulder, “Hurry, hurry, hurry! You’ve got to stop him!”
Savich pulled out his SIG, caught up with her, and grabbed her arm. “Slow down. This man—do you know him?”
She said nothing, wildly shook her head, sending her hair flying, and kept repeating, “Hurry, hurry!”
The front door was unlocked. Savich held her behind him as he opened the door, swinging his gun from side to side. He saw nothing, heard nothing.
He nearly lost her as she tried to jerk free, but he held her, saying, “Where’s the living room?”
She seemed more terrified now than before, her pupils wildly dilated, and she was sobbing, incapable of speech. She pointed to the right.
“All right, it’s okay, we’re going in the living room.” He moved slowly, carefully, fanning his SIG in every direction.
There was no sign of anyone. Nothing. It seemed to be an empty house except for the two of them.
There was a lovely fire burning in the fireplace, so she couldn’t have been gone long. It was warm in the large room, even cozy, with all the lamps lit against the blackness and the bitter cold outside.
