Robert Browne - Kill Her Again

The dog walker, a lean female deputy dressed in civilian clothes and sporting an iPod, was walking her German shepherd along the encampment’s side of the street. A typical local out for a pre-dawn stroll.

She paused a moment to let the dog sniff at the base of a lamp post, then raised a hand to her left ear to adjust an earbud.

The van’s radio crackled. “Looks like I’ve struck gold here, Jake.”

Worthington, who sat up front with Chavez, raised his mic. “What’ve you got?”

“Black Ford Mustang with a flame on the side. Parked between two motor homes.”

“That’s our guy,” Worthington said. “You see any movement inside the trailers?”

“Not a thing. What do you want me to do?”

“Get back to the van. We’re going in.”

They went in fast and hard, in two teams of four, each of the deputies moving with a speed and agility that put the lie to Royer’s unspoken assumption that they weren’t skilled enough to handle such an operation.

Each team took one of the motor homes parked near the Mustang, two covering the windows as the other two made swift entry through flimsy aluminum doors, weapons and flashlights raised.

Chavez accompanied Worthington into the second motor home as Anna and Royer circled it outside. Screams and shouts filled the air, and seconds later lights began coming to life all over the yard. Doors and canvas flaps flew open as alarmed carnies poked their heads out of their motor homes and tents to find out what the hell was going on.

The two motor homes in question were quickly flushed out, a couple of dazed and confused occupants emerging from each, only half-dressed and blinking. A male and female from one, two females from the other, all looking disoriented.

And not a Tommy Lee wannabe among them.

Or bearded lady, for that matter. Just four frightened people, wondering what they’d done wrong.

Royer and two deputies pointed weapons at them, Royer shouting, “Get down! Down on your knees, hands locked behind your head.”

The four did as they were told, one of the women starting to cry. Anna heard a banging sound from inside the motor home near her, then Worthington emerged, and he didn’t look happy.

“Shit,” he said, spitting the word out as if it had assaulted his tongue. He shone his light into the Mustang, then moved to the two women he and Chavez had just chased outside.

“Where’s the man who owns this car?”

One of the women, the one who was crying, stammered, “H-he’s not here.”

“Where is he?”

“I–I’m not sure-he went out after we dropped the awnings.”

“After you what?”

“After we closed for the night.”

“Sonofabitch,” Worthington said, looking as if he wanted to put a fist into the side of the motor home.

But then his gaze shifted abruptly, leveling on a spot past Anna’s shoulder, his eyes widening just enough to tell her that something was up.

She turned and saw a tall man in white boxer shorts scrambling out of a tent several yards away, and even from this distance she could see the dark patch of a tattoo on his neck.

Tommy Lee, aka Rick.

And he didn’t stop to wish them all a good morning.

Raising her weapon, Anna shouted, “Freeze!” and wasn’t surprised when he ignored her.

A split second later her feet were moving and she was running after him as he tore around the side of the tent.

Picking up speed, she followed, but then the pain in her tweaked ankle returned, her gate faltering as the suspect rounded a corner and disappeared behind another motor home.

“Stop!” she shouted, but knew it was a wasted effort.

Pushing past the pain, she flew around the motor home, emerged onto a clearing, and spotted Rick about halfway across it, his long, muscular legs propelling him like a gazelle toward a dark cluster of trees at the edge of the property.

There were houses beyond the trees, and Anna knew that if he managed to reach them, he might be impossible to find again-not to mention the potential threat he posed to the occupants.

She had to catch him, but her ankle hurt and her breath was starting to come up short and she wasn’t sure she could.

No sooner had she thought this than someone blew past her. It was-to her surprise-Royer, moving like a blur through the darkness toward Rick, effortlessly closing the gap between them.

If Rick was the gazelle, Royer was definitely the cheetah, and just before Rick reached the trees, Royer took a flying leap and tackled him, dust billowing as the two hit the ground hard and rolled.

Royer came up first, slamming a fist into Rick’s face-twice in rapid succession-then flopped him over and cuffed his hands behind his back.

Then he was on his feet, SIG Sauer in hand, pointing it at the back of Rick’s head. “Where’s the girl, you son of a bitch!”

Rick spit dirt, his mouth bleeding. “Fuck you.”

“Where is she?” Royer punctuated the question with a kick to the ribs.

Rick howled, rolling into the pain, his body involuntarily curling into the fetal position.

Royer pressed his SIG against Rick’s temple, making it clear what his intentions were. “Last chance, asshole.”

“All right, all right,” Rick gasped. “She’s in the tent. Back in the tent.”

Without a word, Anna did a 180, saw Worthington and another deputy coming up fast, and signaled for them to turn around.

“In the tent,” she shouted. “She’s in the tent!”

Still huffing for breath, she picked up her heels and ran, following them back to the encampment.

By the time they got there, one of the deputies was already emerging from Rick’s battered tent, a young girl in bra and panties squirming in his grip, tears in her eyes.

“Please,” she begged. “Please don’t tell my mom…”

“What’s this?” Worthington asked. “Where’s the kid?”

“This is all I got,” the deputy told him.

The girl, a high schooler wearing too much makeup, was sobbing now, mascara running down her cheeks. “Please… You can’t tell her about this; she’ll kill me…”

Ignoring the plea, Worthington pushed in close. “What’s your name?”

The girl hitched a breath, eyes blinking blackened tears at him. “Are you gonna call my mom?”

“Your name,” Worthington snapped.

The girl flinched, taking a moment to find her voice again. “Wendy. Wendy Johanson.”

“How long have you been with this guy, Wendy?”

“Are you gonna-”

“Just answer the goddamn question.”

Fresh tears filled her eyes and she lowered her gaze. “I met him at the arcade last night. He runs the coin toss.”

Worthington grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. “That isn’t what I asked you. How long have you been with him? All night?”

She shook her head. “No. He had to work. We hooked up around two.”

“Did he have a little girl with him?”

Her face went blank. “What?”

“A girl. A four-year-old girl.”

“Why? Is he married or something? He said he wasn’t-”

“Answer me.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “He was alone. I don’t know anything about a little girl.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“I’m not stupid. I think I would’ve noticed if he was dragging a kid around with him. Why are you asking me this? What did he do?”

Worthington just stared at her for a long moment, and Anna thought he might be weighing the girl’s words, trying to decide if she was telling the truth. But Anna herself had no doubts. This kid was clueless. Just another of a string of restless teenagers Mr. Rock and Roll had talked into sharing his sleeping bag.

“Shit,” Worthington said finally, then looked at the deputy. “Put her in the van and call her mom.”