Castillo Linda - Outsider

“Roger that.”

I’m pocketing my radio when another shot rings out, so close I instinctively duck. “Shit.”

“There.”

I glance over my shoulder to see Gina standing twenty feet away, pointing. I swivel, eyes seeking. Sure enough, through the trees, on the other side of the creek, I see movement. Adult male wearing camo. Moving fast.

I run north along the bank of the creek, speaking into my lapel mike. “I got eyes on him. Subject is male. Wearing camo. Running northbound, toward Dogleg Road.”

“Ten-seven-six.” The voice of a county deputy cracks over the radio.

I’m aware of Gina slightly ahead and running parallel with me, struggling through snow. I’ve only traveled a few yards when I lose sight of camo guy.

The last thing I want to do is get my feet wet. The water temperature hovers at the freezing mark this time of year. It doesn’t take long for frostbite to set in. My boots are waterproof, but they’re not tall enough to keep my feet completely dry.

I scramble down the bank of a feeder creek, my boots sliding. I glance right, across the water, catch another glimpse of movement. “Shit.” I muscle through a drift, pause at the water’s edge, and start across. The water reaches my knees; it’s swift, unseen rocks making it difficult to maintain my footing. The cold penetrates fast, burns my skin. I’ve lost sight of Gina, but I hear her coming down the bank a few yards away. I rush through the water, stumbling over rocks, slip on ice on the other side and clamber up the bank.

“Police Department!” I call out. “Halt! Police!”

I stop, breaths puffing out in front of me, and listen. The rush of water over the rocks seems inordinately loud. I hear Gina tromping through snow on the other side of the creek. The call of a hawk above. I keep moving, going north toward Dogleg Road, hit my lapel mike.

“Glock, what’s your twenty?”

“North a hundred yards from TR 36. I got tracks.”

“I had eyes on him. He’s running. Heading north. I’m north of you.”

“Roger that.” He’s breathing heavily, telling me he’s running, too.

I break into a run, zigzagging through trees, eyes ahead and on the ground, looking for tracks. Where the hell is he?

I’m nearly to Dogleg Road when I get my first good look at him. He’s a large man. Camo coveralls and jacket. Long stride. Running full out.

I pour on the speed. “Painters Mill Police! Stop!”

I speak into my lapel mike. “County, what’s your twenty?”

“County Road 4.”

Too far away to help.

I traverse a deep ditch, lose sight of the man, nearly lose my footing at the base, climb up the other side, plunging my gloved hands into the snow to steady myself. The road looms into view. I burst from the trees.

“Burkholder!”

I spin toward the sound of my name to see Gina running full out, thirty feet away, parallel with me. The creek has curved, putting her closer to the man we’re pursuing. She points with her uninjured arm. “There!”

I follow her point and catch a glimpse of camo through the trees. Thirty yards ahead and to my left. “Police Department!” I launch myself into a run, plunge into deep snow, nearly go down, right myself just as I come out of a drift.

Gina and I are running straight north. Ten yards apart. She’s having a difficult time because of the sling and her injured arm, but moving at a decent clip.

I hear her shout something at the running man. For the first time I spot the rifle he’s carrying, one hand on the stock, the other clutching the barrel. Relief skitters through me when he makes no move to raise it. He tosses a look over his shoulder, not slowing down.

He disappears into a thicket of trees. I’ve no longer got eyes on Gina. “Dammit,” I pant, run headlong into another drift, stumble on something buried in the snow, and go down hard. My face plows into snow. In my eyes. My mouth.

“Stop!” comes Gina’s voice, ahead and to my left. “I’m a police officer! Get on the ground!”

Spitting, I scramble to my feet, follow the sound of her voice. I round a fallen log and a bramble of blackberry. I’m nearly to the road when I spot Gina. She’s standing over a man the size of a bear. He’s lying facedown in the snow, arms and legs spread. I watch her pick up the rifle with her uninjured hand and toss it aside. She kneels, sets her knee against his back.

“Do not move,” I hear her say.

A few yards away, a blue pickup truck with big tires and a camper shell covering the bed sits parked on the shoulder.

I reach them, taking in the scene. I’m so out of breath I can barely speak into my radio. “Ten-twenty-six.” I pant the words, using the code for detaining subject—expedite.

I look at Gina. She’s mussed and covered with snow, cheeks red, breaths puffing out in front of her. Looking far too satisfied with herself, she grins when my eyes meet hers and mouths, “Got him.”

Shaking my head, I walk to where the man is lying on the ground. He’s huffing, his entire body heaving with each breath. He raises his head and looks at me as I approach. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” he says.

I get my first good look at his face, and I recognize him. I busted him on a DUI last year. He wasn’t very nice about it and I ended up having to call Skid for assistance.

“What are you shooting at?” I ask, noticing that the door of the camper shell is open.

“Saw a coyote,” he tells me.

Because of coyote overpopulation in Ohio, the animals can be hunted legally year-round, unlike game animals such as deer, which can only be hunted during a narrow window.

“Do you have permission from the landowner?” I ask.

Shaking his head, he looks away. “Didn’t know I needed it.”

“Are you armed?” I ask. “You got another gun on you?”

“Just the rifle,” he says.

“You can sit up,” I tell him. “I need to see your driver’s license.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.” He rolls over, sits up, digs out his driver’s license, and hands it to me. “This is a bunch of shit,” he mutters.

Ignoring him, I look at the ID. Bruce Winslow. Painters Mill address. Thirty-eight years old. “You have your hunting license on you?”

He looks down at the ground, shakes his head.

“Is that your truck?” I ask, motioning toward the pickup.

“Last time I checked.”

“Do not move,” I tell him.

I walk to the truck. I do not have the right to search any vehicle without the owner’s permission or a warrant. That doesn’t mean I can’t look through the open door at the rear to see what’s inside. The sight of the deer carcass laid out on a blue tarp, a big buck with a nice rack of antlers, shoved hurriedly onto the bed, makes me shake my head.

“Big coyote.” I turn to him and frown.

“Aw, man. Come on.”

“Deer season ended two weeks ago.”

“I got my dates mixed up is all. Give me a break, will you?”

“He was shoving that carcass into the truck when I caught him.” Gina comes up beside me, looks at the dead deer, and lowers her voice. “For a fat guy, he runs pretty damn good.”

I don’t succumb to the smile tugging at my mouth. Instead, I tilt my head and speak into my radio. “Mona, I need a wildlife officer.”

“Ten-four,” comes her reply.

I give her my approximate location as well as the man’s name and license number. “Expedite.”

I’m standing next to the truck when Glock emerges from the trees. Unlike the rest of us, he’s barely out of breath and moves through the snow with the ease of an athlete out for a morning jog. I see him taking in the scene, eyeing the man sitting on the ground. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of Gina. He sends a questioning look my way.