Page 107 of The Burning

“Stop.” I raise my hand. “Don’t come any closer.”

He blinks as if I’ve confused him. He slows his pace, but keeps coming. A Good Samaritan set on helping an overwrought patient.

“My God, you’re bleeding.” He turns his attention to his phone. “Hello? I’d like to report an emergency. I think there’s been an accident.” He looks at me. “Chief Burkholder, do you need an ambulance?”

I’m trying to make sense of the scenario when he charges. I stumble backward, try to keep some distance between us, but he’s fast. I catch a glimpse of his face an instant before his shoulder slams into my abdomen. My feet leave the ground. My back slams to the earth. I feel the air rush from my lungs. Out of the corner of my eye I see him draw back to strike me. I jam my hand between us, yank the Gerber from its nest. I turn my head barely in time to avoid his fist.

“Where the fuck is Hofer?” he roars.

I hit the blade release. Hear the snick of steel against steel. Using every ounce of strength I possess, I jab the blade into his side.

Raber stiffens. A scream tears from his throat. “You crazy bitch!”

I yank out the knife, bring it down a second time, feel the blade hit his rib. Gasping, he twists, reaches for the knife. I draw back again, slam the blade into his thigh. He screams, “Bitch!”

Clutching his side, Raber falls sideways. I scrabble from beneath him. I see blood on his coat. A copious amount pouring onto the mud. He’s injured, but I don’t know how badly; I don’t know if it will stop him. For an instant, I consider taking his phone. But I don’t want to get any closer to him or take the chance of him overpowering me. I don’t have handcuffs, so I’ve no choice but to leave him.

I jab my finger at him. “Don’t get up or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Face contorted, he lashes out with a booted foot, but I step back, easily evading the kick.

A look around, eyes digging into the shadows for any sign or Hofer. Then, turning, I walk to the trail and push myself into a run. I set a steady pace. Breaths hissing like a machine. One stride at a time. All the while I pray that the business office isn’t too far.

A couple of hundred yards and the trees thin. I pick up the pace, round a curve. Relief courses through me at the sight of the building where the quarry office is located. I’ve approached from the rear. There’s a narrow parking area. A small patio. A garbage can. A dark sedan sits alone on the far side of the lot, covered with a layer of snow. The windows are dark. No one in sight.

I glance over my shoulder. No sign of Raber. I think about Hofer, and can’t help but wonder if he somehow got ahead of me and is already here, waiting.

I reach the lot, cross it, keeping my eyes on the building’s windows, the door, the sedan. Wishing for my sidearm, I round the side of the building, head toward the front where I last saw Tomasetti. The first thing I see is the backhoe, silent and motionless twenty yards away. The rock bucket hovers above the crushed Tahoe. The roof is flattened so that it’s nearly flush with the hood.

The rest of the world falls away as I run toward the vehicle. The amount of damage is staggering. The hood is buckled and partly open. The windshield peeled down. The passenger-side window has been shattered. If Tomasetti wasn’t able to hunker down fast enough, he would have been crushed.

“Tomasetti!”

I barely recognize my voice. I reach the vehicle, set my hands against the passenger-side door. I try to open it, but it’s jammed tight. Bending, I peer inside. The seatback is crunched. Busted dash. Fabric from the roof interior hanging down, blocking my view.

“Tomasetti!”

“I’m here!”

Relief pours over me with such force that I choke out a sob. I dart around the front end, approach the driver’s-side door. The window opening is only about twelve inches. Bending, I peer inside. The airbag has deployed, so I reach in, shove it aside, catch my first glimpse of him. He’s jammed against the seat, his head and shoulders visible, trapped.

“Are you hurt?” I say.

One look at his face and I know he is. Sweat beads on his forehead. Mouth drawn tight. Jaws clenched. “My arm is pinned. I think it’s broken.”

Reaching, I tear at the airbag until I can see his left arm. Sure enough, it’s wedged between the steering wheel and roof. There’s blood on his shirt. More on the vinyl.

I glance toward the backhoe. “Where’s the driver?”

“I think I got the son of a bitch.”

“Hang on.” I step away and approach the backhoe. I spot the driver immediately. Male. Duck coveralls. He’s slumped over, still strapped in his seat. Blood has dripped down the side of the cushion, puddled on the floor, run down the step-up and onto the ground. It’s shocking and red against the yellow paint and there’s enough of it for me to know he’s no longer a threat.

My cop’s mind spins into overdrive as I stride back to Tomasetti. I reach the door, bend to look at him.

“He’s down.” I try the handle, but the door is jammed. “I need to get you out of there. Tomasetti, I don’t know where Hofer is. Clarence Raber is part of this, too.”

“You armed?”