Lisa Jackson - Born To Die

“You’re gonna die, O’Halleran, and it’s not gonna be easy!” the killer snarled. “You hear me? You’re a dead man, cocksucker! You and your bitch girlfriend!”

Kacey staggered to her feet, swaying, struggling to think straight. Her mind was sludge, her face on fire, her head thundering in pain. She held the door jamb for support. Trace is out there somewhere and so is Eli and. . and the psycho. . Gasping, she dragged in deep breaths of air to clear her head.

Craaack!

Outside, the sharp report of a rifle split the snowy night.

What? Kacey cut back a scream.

Trace? Oh, God. Eli?

In the darkness, she fumbled across the kitchen table for Trace’s cell phone. Please, oh, please… her fingers hit something that jangled and fell. His damned keys. But next to it… yes! She found his cell phone and dialed the last number in her brain, that of Detective Alvarez.

The call went directly to voice mail.

Damn it! She left a quick message. “The bastard’s here! We need help… oh, God, please send. .” She tried to tamp down her rising panic, found the control she’d used with patients. “Detective Alvarez, this is Kacey Lambert. I’m at Trace O’Halleran’s place on Old Mill Road. He’s here. The killer is here, somewhere. He’s attacked me and I just heard gunshots coming from one of the outbuildings. Both Trace and Eli are missing. Please, send help. STAT! I, uh, I don’t know the address, but it’s only about a quarter of a mile west of. . of. . Red Wing Corner, a mile from the county road. Please, send officers!”

Heart clamoring, she dialed 9-1-1. She couldn’t wait for Alvarez to respond. When dispatch picked up, she tersely explained the situation and the operator insisted she not go forward. “Keep me on the line,” the female voice ordered. “I’m dispatching deputies right now. They’re ten minutes away.”

“Ten minutes is too long!” Kacey spat. “Tell them to hurry!”

She knew in her heart that there was no way they could make it in time. She clicked off, anxiously peering through the darkness of the house. She didn’t dare go into the stable without a weapon. But she didn’t want to take the time. What if Trace were wounded? She was pretty sure Trace hadn’t fired the gun. No. It was probably the sick son of a bitch who had Eli, who had taunted her with his rifle barrel.

Oh, God, was it possible that either one of them was hurt… or worse?

Don’t go there. You don’t have time for recriminations. Move! Save Trace! Save his son!

In her search for Eli, she’d discovered Trace’s rifle, hidden in a closet. Now, pain screaming through her brain, she hurried forward, then up the stairs in the dark, using Trace’s cell phone’s weak, bluish light as a guide. Fumbling, cursing, determined to save them. Into Trace’s room. She cracked her elbow on a dresser corner as she stumbled her way to the closet where she pushed aside clothes and a suitcase. It was here! I know. . there!

Her fingers curled around the shotgun’s barrel and she yanked the old gun from the closet. The Winchester was dusty, unused, but she didn’t care. Praying that the rifle was armed, she checked the chamber.

Empty!

Of course. He had a kid. Was careful. Frantic, the cell phone winking out every ten seconds, she scoured the closet. There were no bullets nearby, no boxes of ammunition on the shelf, nor in a dresser where she rifled through Tshirts and underwear, socks and jeans. “Come on, come on!” The nightstand, too, was empty, no loaded handgun, no bullets for an ancient rifle.

Precious seconds ticked by.

Her heart was racing, her brain on fire.

“Where. . oh, God, where?” She didn’t dare bluff the killer; knew better than to take an empty rifle to the stable.

Fear spurred her. She hauled the rifle downstairs and through the living room where the fire was dying.

Where would he keep the ammo? Far from the gun, yes, but where it was safe and could be accessed by him, not so easily by his child. Close to the door, because he would only use it outside? Quickly she went through several drawers in the kitchen, opening them, searching them with her fingers, slamming them shut, then seeing, as the cell phone’s light faded again, the handle of another flashlight!

Oh, please, she thought, feeling precious time slipping past. Even now Trace could be bleeding, dying…

She flipped on the flashlight, and a sure, strong beam lit up the room. Quickly she went to work, searching the remaining drawer, when she spied the tallest cupboard mounted above the refrigerator. The same place her grandfather had hidden his ammunition. Could it be?

Hurrying, counting her heartbeats, she hauled herself onto the counter, then yanked the door open. Next to a nearly empty bottle of whiskey was a metal box. Locked tight. No way could she pry it open. She needed a key… oh, God, where? She raked her gaze around the room and spied Trace’s key ring that she’d knocked over searching for his cell. Quickly, she pulled the musty box from its hiding place, hopped to the floor, and scooped up the jangling keys. With shaking fingers she separated the keys and found one that was tinier than all the rest.

“Please, oh, please.” She shook the other keys away from it and threaded it in the lock. Click!

Thank God. She popped open the box and found the mother load: a box of shells.

“Take that, you miserable son of a bitch,” she said under her breath as she thought of the killer.

Mentally thanking her grandfather for her lessons years before, she loaded the rifle quickly, pocketed an extra pack of shells, and prayed to God she wouldn’t have to use either as she headed outside again and into the storm.

“Shit!” Trace’s attacker swore loudly, his voice reverberating through the stables.

Who the hell was this lunatic? Not that it mattered. In that respect, the killer was correct. For the moment, Trace just had to figure out a way to stop the son of a bitch before he did any more damage.

Moving slowly, dragging himself toward the wall, Trace tried to come up with a plan.

Over the rage of the wind he heard the distinctive sound of the would-be killer drawing in his breath through his teeth. “Shit!” the man growled again, then let out a yowl accompanied by the soft, whooshing suck of the pitchfork’s tines being yanked from his body. “You fuckin’ cocksucker!” Pain echoed in his voice. “You’re gonna pay for this. You hear me, O’Halleran?”

Trace didn’t respond, just kept low, pulling himself with his hands as he slid silently along the floor, edging toward the wall.

The horses were out of their minds with fear, hooves shuffling, shoes ringing against the stalls from slamming feet.

Sarge — or was it Bonzi? — too, was upset, growling deep in his throat. A warning.

No! Don’t!

“And the dog,” the gunman said aloud. “He’s dead, too! Where are you, you mangy mutt?” Now, there was satisfaction in his voice. “Oh. . there you are, Cujo. Come on, boy,” the assailant cajoled as the horses snorted and stomped. “See what I’ve got for you!”

Fury singed through Trace’s brain. If he could just get the drop on this son of a bitch, he’d kill him. He felt his blood flowing, reached down to feel it wet and sticky from his leg wound. But he’d be damned if he was going to lie here while this maniac killed his dog, then went after Kacey or Eli.

No doubt she was the true target. His son, like Sarge and Trace himself, were just extraneous, obstacles that had to be cleared to the killer’s main objective: Dr. Acacia Lambert.

Travis scooted backward, felt blood flowing out of his leg, his head slightly dizzy from the adrenaline rush. He reached the wall.