Linda Castillo - Pray for Silence

“We’ve got the other disks, too. The ones we found at Long’s place.”

“Just when I was starting to think you’re smart, you blow it by saying something stupid.” He shakes his head, feigning pity. “There’s nothing incriminating on any of those disks. Just that little bitch getting what she wanted. Who do you think planted them, for fuck sake?”

Now it’s my turn to smile. “You screwed up. We’ve got you dead to rights on one of the disks.” I need to buy some time, keep him talking, thinking.

Next to Barbereaux, Warner coughs up a spray of blood. “For God’s sake . . . get me to the hospital. Fuckin’ dying . . .”

Barbereaux steps quickly away from the other man, casts me an irritated look. “Bullshit, I went through every disk.”

“You willing to stake your life on that?” I shrug, let the statement hang. When he says nothing, I add, “Technology is an amazing thing. You’d be surprised by the information those techies can pull off a disk these days. That scar on your hand?”

He glances quickly down, then back at me. The look he gives me is so utterly devoid of emotion that it’s like looking into the eyes of a corpse. I sense he’s going to raise the shotgun and kill me. The urge to appeal to his compassion is overwhelming, but I know it would be futile. He’s a sociopath, incapable of feeling remorse. My heart pounds so loudly, I can no longer hear the storm. Keep him talking . . .

“How could you do that to those two girls?” I ask.

“It’s a sick world out there. It was all about the money. The snuff flick went to the highest bidder.” He says the words as if he’s talking about negotiating the sale of a used car instead of the final minutes of life for two innocent girls. “Some people get off on the whole death thing.”

His mouth twists into a terrible grin. “If we had more time, I’d like to get some vid of you in those clothes. A lot of men out there dig the Amish shit. I bet you’ve got a tight little snatch.”

He’s looking at me the way a wolf looks at a rabbit it’s about to devour. In the back of my mind I wonder if T.J. saw them approach the house or if the rain obscured them. Staring at Barbereaux, I’m keenly aware of the .22 pressing against my thigh. The lapel mike of my radio just a second away. I know he’ll gun me down before I can reach either.

I scramble for a way to keep him talking. “We know you killed Long, too.”

“That motherfucker died of stupidity.” Mild amusement drifts across his expression. “Lethal dose.”

“There’s still time for you to run.”

“I don’t think so.” He raises the shotgun.

Terror paralyzes me. I can’t breathe, can barely think. “If you kill me, they’ll hunt you down. They won’t stop until they find you.”

“I’m not going to kill you.” He glances at Warner and whispers, “He is.”

I look at Warner. His face is the color of paste and slick with sweat. His glazed eyes find mine. “You’re about to become another Todd Long,” I tell him.

Warner opens his mouth to speak, but no words come.

Barbereaux’s finger tightens on the trigger. Out of time, I think. Panic spreads through me like a wildfire burning hot and out of control. I launch myself at him. My palms hit the barrel hard, shove it up. The muzzle explodes. The concussion hits me in the face like a punch. Plaster rains down. Barbereaux steps back, brings down the muzzle, takes aim. All I can think is that I’m too far away to stop him.

As if in slow motion, I see the muzzle flash. Thunder explodes. The next thing I know I’m flying backward into space. My chest feels as if it’s been caved in by an axe. I can’t breathe. I can’t see. A scream sounds in my head, and then the night rushes in and yanks me down into the abyss.

CHAPTER 28

Tomasetti hit one hundred miles per hour on Highway 62 just out of Brinkhaven. He knew it wouldn’t look good if some local yokel stopped him. He wasn’t in the best mental state, thanks to Kate. That wasn’t to mention the booze he’d sucked down earlier. He wasn’t sure what his blood alcohol level might be, but it was probably over the limit. He had his badge to back him up, but with some cops that only went so far.

The panic attack came out of nowhere. One moment he was putting the pedal to the metal, concentrating on his driving, on making time, on reaching Kate. The next moment, it was as if a giant hand reached into his chest and squeezed all the oxygen from his lungs. He couldn’t breathe. His brain couldn’t form a single coherent thought. The only thing he could discern was the grip of a fear so primal he honestly believed it might kill him.

Gasping for breath, Tomasetti backed off the accelerator. He gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles ache. The Tahoe slowed. He tried to look for a rest area or exit, but there was nothing on this particular stretch of road, so he pulled into the bar ditch. The truck bumped over something, but Tomasetti was too far gone to discern what it was. He could hear himself gasping now. The sounds tearing from his throat reminded him of a wild animal in the throes of death. The hand squeezed his chest, twisted his lungs into knots. He couldn’t draw a breath. His face went numb. Darkness encroached on his peripheral vision. He was going to pass out. Pain streaked up the center of his chest.

“Fuck,” he choked out. “Fuck!”

Shoving open the door, Tomasetti stumbled from the truck. Vaguely, he was aware insects flying in the headlights. The flicker of lightning on the horizon. Terror like he’d never felt before turning him inside out.

A few feet from the truck, he went to his knees. He couldn’t believe the sounds coming from his mouth. Whimpers. Choking gasps. He fell forward, his hands plunging into wet grass. Mud squeezed between his fingers. Soaked into his slacks at his knees. Panic was like some small, clawed animal trapped inside him, tearing at his guts, trying to claw its way out for air.

Tomasetti didn’t try to get up. It took every bit of effort he possessed to draw a breath. But his chest was too tight. Someone drawing a rope ever tighter, cutting off his oxygen.

His nose, lips and fingers tingled. He could hear his breaths rushing in and out, like a hacksaw cutting through wood. A hard knot of nausea rose in his gut. He opened his mouth, tried to suck in air. A string of drool hung from his lips. His stomach clenched. He tasted bile at the back of his throat. Gagging, he spit, threw up on the grass. Inhaled puke and gagged again. He didn’t care.

Intellectually, Tomasetti knew what was happening. He knew this was a panic attack. He knew he wasn’t going to die. That he should breathe deeply, count backward from one hundred, and tell himself it would only last for three minutes if he calmed himself down. None of that knowledge helped.

The next thing he knew his cheek was pressed against the cold, wet ground. He had mud in his hair. Dirt in his mouth. The rank aftertaste of vomit. He was lying on his stomach in the bar ditch in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the fucking night. He’d blacked out. . . .

Cursing, Tomasetti slowly got to his feet. His nerves jittered beneath his skin. The muscles in his legs twitched. Fatigue was a black hole he was about to fall into. The fact that he’d survived gave him the strength to bend and pick up his keys.

He’d pulled over in a forested area south of Killbuck. The chorus of frogs and crickets was inordinately loud on the deserted stretch of road. At some point, it had begun to rain. Not a storm, but he could smell it coming. He could hear thunder, see the lightning above the treetops ahead.

Ten feet away, the Tahoe sat at a cockeyed angle in the bar ditch. It looked wrecked out, but it wasn’t. Tomasetti hoped the damn thing wasn’t stuck. He looked down at his clothes, wondering how he was going to explain the mud. He’d helped a motorist who had been stuck. He’d hit a deer and fallen when he’d gotten out to check the vehicle. On second thought, fuck it. He didn’t have to explain. All he wanted was to get to Painters Mill. To Kate.