Chapter 28

CHAPTER 28

I plunge into the water headfirst. Cold shocks my brain and paralyzes my body. I try to move my arms, can't, and panic bursts inside me.

I'm cognizant of my boots and coat dragging me down. The water sucking at me like an icy mouth. Mindlessly I fight the binds at my wrists. All the while I'm sinking. I suck in water and choke, feel my body convulse. Instinct takes over and I kick my feet with every ounce of strength I possess.

My face breaks the surface. I gulp air and cough violently, treading water as best I can. Fighting to keep my head above water, I look around. There's no sign of Hofer. I don't know if he fell with me or if he's standing on the ledge above, a pistol trained on the back of my head.

The cliff from which I fell is a wall of rock rising out of the water, fifteen feet away. I don't know if there's a foothold. I'm managing to stay afloat, but the cold is sapping my strength fast. My hands, feet, and face are already numb, my extremities starting to ache. Kicking, I twist my body, try to bring my hands around to my front. Water laps over my face as I begin to sink, but I redouble my kicking. Jamming my fingertips into my waistband, I feel around for the knife.

Please be there. Please, God…

A sob escapes me when my fingers brush the pivot handle. Praying my grip is strong enough, I unclip it. My thumb seeks the safety toggle, but I fumble it. Choking back sobs, I try again, hit the release button, and the knife snicks open. Struggling to keep my face above water, scissoring my legs back and forth, I saw at the rope. My angle is bad and I nearly drop the knife twice. Lucky for me, the blade is sharp and my hands spring free.

Quickly, I fold the knife and clip it back on my waistband. Keeping an eye on the cliff above, I dog-paddle to the nearest shore, drag myself onto a rock shelf. My arms collapse and I lie there in water and mud, the only sound coming from my labored breaths. For several seconds, I can't move. Shivers rack my body. Only when thoughts of Tomasetti overtake me do I lift my head and look around. Dusk has fallen. Hofer took my flashlight. I've no sidearm or radio. No way to call for help or protect myself if he ambushes me. God knows, I'm in no condition for another confrontation.

It takes every ounce of strength I possess to get to my hands and knees. Somehow, I make it to my feet. My entire body shakes uncontrollably. I put one foot in front of the other until I reach the steep bank. Using my hands and feet, I claw my way over mud and rock and tangled roots.

I reach the top, my eyes searching for Hofer. There's no sign of him. I can feel the cold and wet stealing my body heat. My teeth chatter with so much force that my jaws hurt. On unsteady legs, I take the trail Hofer and I did earlier, push myself into a wobbly jog.

Relief washes over me when I spot the SUV. I reach it, try the doors, find it locked. I want to shed these wet clothes, but I'm familiar enough with hypothermia to know I'll retain more body heat if I keep them on. I've no idea where Hofer is or how far I am from the gravel pit office. I don't know if it's safe to go back. The only thing I'm certain of at this moment is I've got to reach Tomasetti.

I'm shivering violently as I start down the trail. First at a walk, then back to a jog. Arms pumping. Breaths steaming out in front of me. I'm aware of the deepening dusk as I run. I push on and pray to God I have the strength to make it back.

Fear for Tomasetti tracks me as I make my way down the path. I know that if he'd been able, he would have followed Hofer and me. I don't let myself think about why he didn't. Instead, I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.

I've only run a hundred yards when I spot the figure ahead. A dark silhouette in the fading light. At first glance I think it's Tomasetti and my heart nearly bursts. But it's not Tomasetti. I slow my pace. The figure continues toward me. Male. Dark coat. The distance between us narrowing. Something familiar in the way he moves…

"Chief Burkholder? Oh, my God! What in the hell happened?"

I recognize the voice immediately. Clarence Raber. He's close enough for me to make out his features now. I see shock and concern on his face. Relief floods me with such power that my legs go weak. What the hell is he doing out here at the quarry?

I stop walking, my mind trying to make sense of it. "Call 911."

"Of course." He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out his cell. "What on earth happened?" Putting his cell to his ear, he continues walking toward me. His eyes tracking my every move. Something in his expression, the way he's looking at me.

"Are you hurt?" he asks.

My brain is not so diminished by the hypothermia that I don't comprehend the danger. Raber has no reason to be here.

Other than the unthinkable.

"Stop." I raise my hand. "Don't come any closer."

He blinks as if I've confused him. He slows his pace, but keeps coming. A Good Samaritan set on helping an overwrought patient.

"My God, you're bleeding." He turns his attention to his phone. "Hello? I'd like to report an emergency. I think there's been an accident." He looks at me. "Chief Burkholder, do you need an ambulance?"

I'm trying to make sense of the scenario when he charges. I stumble backward, try to keep some distance between us, but he's fast. I catch a glimpse of his face an instant before his shoulder slams into my abdomen. My feet leave the ground. My back slams to the earth. I feel the air rush from my lungs. Out of the corner of my eye I see him draw back to strike me. I jam my hand between us, yank the Gerber from its nest. I turn my head barely in time to avoid his fist.

"Where the fuck is Hofer?" he roars.

I hit the blade release. Hear the snick of steel against steel. Using every ounce of strength I possess, I jab the blade into his side.

Raber stiffens. A scream tears from his throat. "You crazy bitch!"

I yank out the knife, bring it down a second time, feel the blade hit his rib. Gasping, he twists, reaches for the knife. I draw back again, slam the blade into his thigh. He screams, "Bitch!"

Clutching his side, Raber falls sideways. I scrabble from beneath him. I see blood on his coat. A copious amount pouring onto the mud. He's injured, but I don't know how badly; I don't know if it will stop him. For an instant, I consider taking his phone. But I don't want to get any closer to him or take the chance of him overpowering me. I don't have handcuffs, so I've no choice but to leave him.

I jab my finger at him. "Don't get up or I'll fucking kill you."

Face contorted, he lashes out with a booted foot, but I step back, easily evading the kick.

A look around, eyes digging into the shadows for any sign or Hofer. Then, turning, I walk to the trail and push myself into a run. I set a steady pace. Breaths hissing like a machine. One stride at a time. All the while I pray that the business office isn't too far.

A couple of hundred yards and the trees thin. I pick up the pace, round a curve. Relief courses through me at the sight of the building where the quarry office is located. I've approached from the rear. There's a narrow parking area. A small patio. A garbage can. A dark sedan sits alone on the far side of the lot, covered with a layer of snow. The windows are dark. No one in sight.

I glance over my shoulder. No sign of Raber. I think about Hofer, and can't help but wonder if he somehow got ahead of me and is already here, waiting.

I reach the lot, cross it, keeping my eyes on the building's windows, the door, the sedan. Wishing for my sidearm, I round the side of the building, head toward the front where I last saw Tomasetti. The first thing I see is the backhoe, silent and motionless twenty yards away. The rock bucket hovers above the crushed Tahoe. The roof is flattened so that it's nearly flush with the hood.

The rest of the world falls away as I run toward the vehicle. The amount of damage is staggering. The hood is buckled and partly open. The windshield peeled down. The passenger-side window has been shattered. If Tomasetti wasn't able to hunker down fast enough, he would have been crushed.

"Tomasetti!"

I barely recognize my voice. I reach the vehicle, set my hands against the passenger-side door. I try to open it, but it's jammed tight. Bend ing, I peer inside. The seatback is crunched. Busted dash. Fabric from the roof interior hanging down, blocking my view.

"Tomasetti!"

"I'm here!"

Relief pours over me with such force that I choke out a sob. I dart around the front end, approach the driver's-side door. The window opening is only about twelve inches. Bending, I peer inside. The airbag has deployed, so I reach in, shove it aside, catch my first glimpse of him. He's jammed against the seat, his head and shoulders visible, trapped.

"Are you hurt?" I say.

One look at his face and I know he is. Sweat beads on his forehead. Mouth drawn tight. Jaws clenched. "My arm is pinned. I think it's broken."

Reaching, I tear at the airbag until I can see his left arm. Sure enough, it's wedged between the steering wheel and roof. There's blood on his shirt. More on the vinyl.

I glance toward the backhoe. "Where's the driver?"

"I think I got the son of a bitch."

"Hang on." I step away and approach the backhoe. I spot the driver immediately. Male. Duck coveralls. He's slumped over, still strapped in his seat. Blood has dripped down the side of the cushion, puddled on the floor, run down the step-up and onto the ground. It's shocking and red against the yellow paint and there's enough of it for me to know he's no longer a threat.

My cop's mind spins into overdrive as I stride back to Tomasetti. I reach the door, bend to look at him.

"He's down." I try the handle, but the door is jammed. "I need to get you out of there. Tomasetti, I don't know where Hofer is. Clarence Raber is part of this, too."

"You armed?"

"No."

He curses, his face contorting in pain as he shifts. I catch sight of his right arm, the Kimber in his hand, realize he's trying to pass it to me. He forces his arm and weapon past the tangle of metal.

"Four rounds left," he tells me. "Make them count if you need it."

I take the pistol, tuck it into my waistband. "Do you have your cell?"

"Console," he says. "Can't get to it."

"Are you injured anywhere else?"

"No."

I look at the destroyed dash. The bowed steering wheel. The buckled steel of the roof pressing down on him. There's zero space for him to maneuver or crawl out, and I have no idea how I'm going to extricate him.

"Kate, there's a pry bar in my gear box in the back. See if you can get to it."

I scan the woods behind the building as I go to the back of the Tahoe. No sign of either man, but the hairs prickle at my nape. The rear of the vehicle isn't as damaged as the front, but the door pillar post and rear window pillars are folded like accordions. The door has come unlatched, but when I try to open it, steel grinds against steel.

"Shit." Spreading my feet, I bend my knees and powerlift it. To my relief, it screeches upward enough for me to reach inside and pull out the equipment box. Bending, I set it on the ground, flip open the lid, rummage until I find the pry bar. Back at the driver's-side door, I bend to make eye contact with Tomasetti. "You're going to have to crawl out this driver's-side window," I tell him. "There's not much room."

"Free up my arm and I'll get it done."

The last thing I want to do is risk further injury to his arm, but with Hofer and Raber unaccounted for and no help on the way, I've no choice. Carefully, I insert the long end of the bar so that the tip is between the steering wheel and roof.

"Not enough leverage," I tell him.

"Don't need much."

Grasping the pry bar tightly, I force it downward, using both hands, putting my weight into it. The steering wheel creaks. The roof groans like bending iron. Face contorted in pain, Tomasetti withdraws his arm.

"See if you can get the door open," he growls.

"Yep." I step back, jam the pry bar between the door and frame. Steel grinds as I pry it open. I get my first glimpse of his predicament. Tomasetti's body is contorted into an agonizing position. I watch as he maneuvers his arms toward the door. Using his uninjured arm to push his body along, he forces his head and shoulders through the impossibly small space. He growls out a curse when his injured arm flops. When his shoulders are free, I set my hands beneath his arms and pull. Using his legs, he pushes off, forcing the rest of his body through.

I try to lower him to the ground, but he's too heavy and lands awkwardly. Groaning, he uses his uninjured arm to support the injured one. My stomach roils when I get my first up-close look at it. His forearm is clearly bowed. There's fresh blood soaking through his shirt. Compound fracture, I think, and I go to my knees beside him.

"I'll fashion a sling—" I begin, but he cuts me off.

"Hofer." Face screwed up and wet with sweat, he lies still, shaking; then he looks up at me. "Raber. Where the hell are they?"

"No sign of them. No movement."

He glances toward the Tahoe's destroyed interior. "My cell's in the console. Get it."

I go back to the opening and bend, reach inside. I can't see the console, so I feel around the seat. Safety belt, torn vinyl from the seatback, and the remnants of the airbag are in the way, so I dig past all of it. Finally, my fingertips brush the console. I force my shoulders through, go deeper, find the cell phone, and I back out.

Tomasetti has gotten to his feet and is leaning against the rear fender, cradling his injured arm, his eyes on the building and wooded area beyond. His face is shockingly pale, and despite the cold, his forehead is beaded with sweat.

"That was one hell of a rescue, Chief," he says.

"You can thank me later."

Never taking my eyes from his, I call 911. Relief flares when the dispatcher informs me the nearest sheriff's deputy is six minutes away. I ask her to send an ambulance and disconnect.

Aware that the Kimber is tucked into my waistband, I go to Tomasetti, set my hands on either side of his face. "Don't ever do that to me again," I whisper.

"If I've any say in the matter, you can bet your ass I won't."

Blinking back tears, I lean into him, set my head against his chest. "Tomasetti, I thought you were—"

"I'm not." He puts his uninjured arm around me and pulls me close. "I'm right here. With you. And I'm not going anywhere for a long time."

"Promise me, damn it."

"Promise." Mustering a smile, he raises his hand, sets the backs of his fingers against my cheek. "You can take that to the bank, Chief."

"Deal," I say.

And he presses a kiss to my forehead.