Page 67 of Shamed

His fist bounces off my knee as I bring it up. I kick at him with both feet. My right heel glances off his chin. He grabs my ankle, but I punt his hand away with my other foot.

Kicking, wildly and without aim, I roll, launch myself at the .38. My hand finds the butt.

He comes down on top of me, a boulder slamming against my back. I’m facedown, my right arm extended, gripping my weapon. A fist comes down on my head like a sledgehammer. My chin slams against the floor. My teeth clack together. My finger is inside the guard.…

“Get off me! I’m armed! I will shoot you!”

My screams fall on deaf ears. He’s straddling the small of my back. A second punch lands between my shoulder blades. Pain tears the breath from my lungs. His fist slams against the right side of my head. Red and white lights flash. My ear rings. Hands fumble, find my neck. Viselike fingers clamp around my throat, squeezing.

He pulls me backward, lifts the top part of my body off the floor, then shunts my head down. My forehead and nose slam against the floor. Another round of stars. Pain climbs up my sinuses. The warmth of blood on my lips. The copper taste of it in my mouth.

I yank the .38 toward me, bend my arm at the elbow, aim as best I can over my shoulder, and I take a blind shot. The explosion rocks my brain.

My attacker goes rigid. An animalistic howl tears from his throat. I pull the trigger again. He rolls off me. I twist, crabwalk back, bring up the gun. “Police! Get on the ground! Get on the ground!”

I see his silhouette against the window, coming toward me, and I pull off another shot. I hear a whoosh! A piece of furniture flung at me, something heavy hitting my arm. Another zing of pain. A damn chair.…

I kick it aside, hear it clatter across the floor. He’s nowhere in sight, but I hear him moving around in the living room. “Get your fucking hands up!” I scream. “Get them up! Get on the ground or I will shoot you dead! Do it now!”

The chair flies at me from the mouth of the hall. I block it with my foot. I catch a glimpse of him as he sprints to the kitchen.

I scramble to my feet, dizzy, stumble right, hit the wall with my shoulder. “Police! Stop!”

I follow, round the corner, see him go through the back door. “Police! Halt!”

The man jumps from the porch, streaks across the yard. Then I’m through the door. I level my .38 at the man.

But he’s gone.

The deputy with the Scioto County Sheriff’s Office arrives on scene in fourteen minutes. I’m sitting in the Explorer, which I’ve moved to the road’s shoulder in front of the house. I was able to preserve some of the tire-tread imprints, but not all of them, and the snow is melting quickly. The prospect of capturing plaster impressions doesn’t look good.

The deputy isn’t happy with me. For pulling into the driveway. For letting myself into the house. For touching the victim and corrupting a crime scene like some backwoods rookie. He’s not shy about letting me know. I don’t blame him, so I let him take his jabs. In my defense, I had no way of knowing what I was walking into.

“You make a habit of walking into other people’s homes when they don’t answer the damn door?” he asks.

“She was elderly. She’d recently had a stroke. I figured a welfare check was in order.”

It’s a pretty good reason to enter a residence. He’s still not pleased.

“Do you need an ambulance?” he asks.

“I’m fine.”

Within minutes, another deputy arrives on scene, followed by an ambulance from Portsmouth and a fire engine from the Ironton Fire Department. I’m standing next to my Explorer on the shoulder of the road in three inches of mud when a trooper with the Ohio State Highway Patrol pulls in. In the last two hours, I’ve been questioned by three deputies and a female trooper. I’ve relayed the turn of events half a dozen times. I expect I’ll be retelling it a dozen more before I’ll be allowed to proceed with what I need to get done.

“Chief Burkholder.”

I turn to see Deputy Martin Harleson approach. He’s frowning at me, but his hand is outstretched so I shake it.

“You’ve certainly had a run of bad luck since you’ve been here in Crooked Creek,” he says.

“I’m not sure it has much to do with luck.”

I tell him everything I know about the case, my suspicions about an infant being taken from the area seven years ago. I don’t know if I can trust him, but in light of what happened to Sadie Stutzman, I don’t have a choice. I hold nothing back.

“That’s why you were asking about missing kids,” he mutters almost to himself.

I nod. “And Noah Schwartz.”