Marion Laird - No Place To Run

“Can you see the shooter?”

“No. Please send someone soon.”

“Relax, ma’am, and stay on the line. I’ve already notified the sheriff’s department, and they have a deputy en route.”

Lorie barely heard the reassurance, straining every part of her to listen for another shot. Colleen padded over to the window and looked out. Noticing, fear stole Lorie’s breath for a moment, but she forced herself to speak.

“Colleen, come!”

The dog hurried to her side by the phone table and leaned into her.

The 911 operator was saying something else.

“What? I’m sorry.”

“I asked if you have anyone with you.”

Lorie reached down to pat Colleen’s elegant head. “Just my dog. The cats are outside.” The realization of their danger slammed a blow to her stomach. “Oh, no, my cats are outside.” Please, Lord, keep them safe.

In the distance, the sound of a siren reached her ears. Please protect the deputy, Lord. The metallic slam of a door up on the road preceded a motor suddenly roaring to life.

“Tell the deputy I think the shooter is headed his way.”

* * *

Matt was near the southern end of his regular patrol when the call came in from dispatch. The address on Wolf Hollow Trail didn’t strike an immediate chord, but earlier in the month, he’d busted a marijuana growing operation south of there, in Oak Hill. Wondering if this call of shots fired was related, Matt turned left onto the Trail.

Moments later, Dispatch crackled over the radio again.

“The shooter may be headed your way. Do you copy?”

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