Beneath a Weeping Sky

THIRTEEN

Monday, April 22

Day Shift

0812 hours

Lieutenant Alan Hart proofread his first of his two reports to the Chief of Police. The complaint against O’Sullivan and Battaglia flowed nicely, laying out the facts of the complaint and his findings in a clear, succinct, but complete fashion. His eyes flicked over the familiar words, slowing down at the RECOMMENDATION section long enough to enjoy his own prose.

Clearly, both officers employ a great deal of irreverent humor in the course of their daily work. While humor is a common response to stress and can provide some relief to the tension associated with police work, it is not appropriate for officers to direct it maliciously toward the citizenry. The testimonial evidence uncovered in this case leads this investigator to the unavoidable conclusion that both officers are guilty of doing exactly that with regard to Mr. Elway, the complainant. Not only was Mr. Elway ridiculed and insulted, but this occurred while he was attempting to report a felony crime.

This investigator does recommend a finding of FOUNDED with respect to the complaint of POOR DEMEANOR and INADEQUATE RESPONSE. This finding should be entered for both officers. This investigator recommends the following sanctions: One (1) day suspension for Officer O’Sullivan and a three (3) day suspension for Officer Battaglia. The difference in the sanction is justified due to the use of profanity by Officer Battaglia.

Nothing Follows

.

Lieutenant Hart smiled. It was a well-written summary. Hopefully, the Chief would see things his way. These two clowns needed to get a firm message from management. Police work was not a big joke, no matter how much they might think so. A suspension might just get their attention. If it didn’t, well then it was a nice springboard to termination if they didn’t get with the program.

He closed the file and slid it into a confidential envelope. Then he reached for the Chisolm file, which he’d just completed earlier that morning. While he wished he’d been able to find a bigger hammer for this one, he figured he’d just have to settle for what the case gave him.

He flipped open the file and skimmed his report. Once again, he slowed at the RECOMMENDATION section and read carefully.

Officer Chisolm’s speed may have been justified, given the nature of the call which he was assigned to assist. However, if one concedes that the response speed was appropriate, it naturally follows that the officer should have engaged his emergency equipment. The use of overhead lights is the lowest acceptable measure, though the intermittent use of a siren to clear traffic may have also been in order, depending upon traffic control devices and the number of civilian vehicles present.

This precaution may or may not have occurred to Officer Chisolm, but in either event, he did not utilize this equipment as per policy. Rather than address this fact in his interview, he chose instead to become defensive and shift blame. As the transcript indicates, Officer Chisolm focused upon the criminal record of the complainant instead of his own actions. Although he rightfully identified the nature of the complainant’s offense, that fact had no bearing on the question of this investigation — did Officer Chisolm drive in an unsafe manner without using the appropriate emergency equipment as outlined in Policy 44A? The evidence clearly answers this question emphatically in the affirmative.

Given that this transgression is firmly established, what should the sanction be? Under most circumstances, with no mitigating factors, this investigator would recommend a written reprimand for the involved officer. However, Officer Chisolm has shown a history of working outside of policy, flaunting rules and displaying considerable disrespect to his superior officers. This behavior can be, and frequently is, contagious. Additionally, this investigator saw very pointedly during the interview process that Officer Chisolm did not believe he had done anything wrong. He certainly did not express any remorse or accept any level of accountability for his actions. Therefore this investigator recommends a harsh sanction-a five (5) day suspension.

Hart smiled grimly. He knew five days was excessive, but it was a calculated play on his part. Any more than five days might start to seem ridiculous and would probably be rejected outright by the Chief. But by recommending a five day suspension, he’d planted the seed that a suspension was warranted. The Chief might — probably would — reduce the sanction to one or two days, thinking he was going easy on Chisolm. And that played right into Hart’s hands.

Of course, if he had his way, he’d have fired a malcontent like Chisolm a long time ago.

But he wasn’t Chief.

Yet.

Hart smiled. A stint in Internal Affairs looked great on a resume when you walked into a promotional evaluation for the rank of captain. Especially a resume that showed that the time spent in IA was an active one.

Yes, he’d make captain next time around. And the irony that he’d make it off of holding certain officers — two clowns and a burnout — accountable was not lost upon him.

Hart slipped the Chisolm file into a confidential folder. He glanced through the small window in his office. Outside, a light misty rain was spitting water against the glass. He stood and reached for his raincoat. His smile spread across his face for a moment before he forced his expression back to neutral.

It wouldn’t do to look as if he enjoyed delivering these files to the Chief. Even if, in fact, he did.

No, a future captain had to keep up appearances.

Hart opened the office door and stepped out to do his duty.

2232 hours

He sat in the small lounge, reading through the editorial page a second time. In addition to the scathing Op Ed article about the police keeping a serial rapist a secret, there were several letters to the editor. The ones that expressed outrage at the police were amusing, but there was the one that caught his interest. He read it over and over.

Dear Editor:

I hope that the River City Police Department understands what it is like to live in fear of a man like the Rainy Day Rapist. Never knowing when he might strike. Looking into every face with suspicion. Afraid to live our lives the way we want to out of a perverse terror that at any moment we might become a victim.

This doesn’t just change my life every day. It destroys my ability to live.

V. Rawlings

.

He smiled.

This wasn’t something he intended. He’d considered that he may have to outduel the police once things started rolling. Some bitches just didn’t know how to keep their mouths shut and it was inevitable that law enforcement would get involved.

But the press? This was…unanticipated. And while he hated the current incarnation of his nickname in the media, he knew it would change soon. After he laid the whammo on the next one. More of a whammo than his father ever laid on any bitch, that was certain.

This next one would be almost like the first again, he mused, lifting his drink to his lips. He sipped the cognac (a gentleman’s drink, something else his father would never achieve nor understand), savoring the smooth bite of the alcohol. He’d only meant to have one, but then he got to reading the newspaper article, then the Op Ed and finally the letters to the editor. Especially the one written by V. Rawlings.

He wondered what the ‘V’ stood for.

Valerie? Vanessa? Veronica?

Victoria?

The last was his favorite of the lot, though he imagined that the pedestrian broad who wrote that letter was probably more of a Vicky than a Victoria.

He chuckled.

Vicky the whining bitch. That was probably it.

It didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was afraid of him. He was — how had she put it? Not ruining her life, but destroying her ability to live.

That was very satisfying. Not as good as laying the whammo on those other women, but there was a certain fulfillment to knowing that he was affecting more than just one bitch at a time. They were all sisters, after all.

Just like her.

And now he was making them all feel it. Fear. Apprehension. An unsettling feeling in the pit of every one of their stomachs.

Well, as far as he was concerned, they could just reap it.

Fucking reap it.

And then some, because more was on the way.

He drained the last of his cognac, even though such an act was decidedly ungentlemanly. Three cognacs in, he didn’t really care. Right now, he just wanted to get home and start planning for his next one.

The new first one.

2235 hours

Katie had refused to walk in the rain. When Tower argued with her briefly, she flat out told him that she wasn’t going to catch pneumonia instead of a rapist. Tower relented and the group retreated to Mary’s Cafe to wait out the downpour. They sat and talked idly about everything but police work — sports, movies, vacation plans, along with a little bit of department gossip. Tower noticed that MacLeod was quieter than Sully or Battaglia. She sat, fiddling absently with the fake headphone wires on the mock-up of a walkman that the tech guys had put together for her transmitter. He wondered if something might be wrong with her. Maybe she was stressing over the accidental discharge. Or some personal issue. Then he realized that Chisolm was just as quiet and that it had been Sully and Battaglia who carried most of the conversation. And the two of them could talk non-stop, especially when they were together.

When the rain let up half past ten, Tower laid down enough money on the table to cover everyone’s coffee.

“Let’s get to it,” he told them.

Sully and Battaglia grumbled, but Chisolm nodded his thanks. Katie rose without a word. She adjusted the disguised transmitter as she stood.

“You still want to focus north of Clemons Park?” Chisolm asked.

“Yeah. Unless you’ve got a better idea?”

Chisolm shook his head. “No, that’s as good as anywhere. It’s all a shot in the dark, anyway.”

“Glad you’re so optimistic.”

“Just realistic, Cochise.”

Tower smiled at the nickname. He didn’t know Chisolm very well, but he knew he only used terms like that with people he liked. Since he was pretty sure Crawford hated his guts, it was nice to have someone around who liked him.

“You and MacLeod can ride with me,” he said. “We’ll drop her about a block from the target area.”

The group filed out of the diner.

2239 hours

His car warmed up quickly and he started north on Monroe. The arterial ran from downtown all the way north to the city limits, making it a convenient road for him. He only needed to get out of the low valley area surrounding The Looking Glass River, though. The first real hill came just a few blocks before Garland, another main arterial. He lived up above that first rise, on Atlantic just a block south of Garland.

He took a deep breath and let it out. A glimmer of irritation fluttered through him. He could feel the impact of the three cognacs he had at the lounge. While the effect wasn’t unpleasant, the impairment irked him. He couldn’t afford for some overly aggressive patrol officer to pull him over and arrest him for drunk driving.

He kept his car pointed carefully north and drove.

2240 hours

“This is good,” Chisolm suggested.

Tower slowed but didn’t stop. “You sure?”

Chisolm nodded. “We’re right at the base of the hill here.” He pointed. “Look, there’s a minor tree line here for several blocks along Mona Street. Behind that, heavy bushes and some trees all the way up the hillside. No houses. It’s a perfect location for an ambush.”

Katie watched, fascinated with how quickly he evaluated the topography. A small chill went through her, though, when he mentioned the word ‘ambush’.

As if sensing her unease, Chisolm shifted his gaze to her. “Don’t worry. If we post up at opposite ends of this street, we should have good visibility. You’ll have an eye on you the majority of the time.”

“I’m not too comfortable with anything less than one hundred percent surveillance,” Tower said.

“Probably not possible. But you’ve got the transmitter for whenever she’s temporarily out of sight.”

“I’ll be okay,” Katie said. She looked back and forth between the two men. “Really.”

“All right,” Tower said, giving in. He slid the receiver earphone plug into his ear. “Go ahead.”

Chisolm opened the passenger door of the Toyota and slid out. Katie followed him. Once outside, she voice checked her fake walkman transmitter.

“Loud and clear,” Tower reported.

Katie fired him a thumbs up.

“How’s the leg?” Chisolm asked her.

Katie adjusted her fanny pack. “Still sore. But that goop really helped, whatever it was.”

“I told you what it was. Magic juice.”

“Right. Well, it helped. Thanks, Tom.”

Chisolm grinned. “Good hunting,” he told her.

Katie took a deep breath. She hunched her shoulders and looked down at the ground in front of her. Then she began to half-limp, half-shuffle toward Mona Street.

Behind her, she heard the Toyota truck door close. Tower’s voice floated across the wet air to her.

“Magic juice, Tom?”

“Shut up, Tower.”

Katie smiled and limped forward.

2244 hours

At the last minute, he decided to cut over to Post Street. It ran closer to Atlantic. The Garland Theater was at the corner of Monroe and Garland, anyway. This time of night, there’d be a show getting out and he didn’t want to get caught up in that traffic.

He slowed for Cora Street, but refused to turn there. The very sight of the letters on the white street sign sent a surge of rage barreling through his chest and out to his fingers. He didn’t want to think of the name Cora. He didn’t want to hear the name. He certainly didn’t want to drive down a street named for that worthless bitch of a mother.

Looking down, he saw that his knuckles were white where he gripped the steering wheel. One at a time, he let go and flexed his fingers, trying to work out the angry tension. In the process, he passed by Cora Street and continued north.

The next street was Mona Street.

He turned right.

2245 hours

A pair of headlights washed over her from behind. This time of night, there wasn’t a lot of traffic on this residential side street. This was only the fourth set of headlights to spotlight her like this.

Katie didn’t care for the vulnerable feeling it gave her. As each car approached, she felt at a complete disadvantage. The people in the car could see her clearly. The most she ever saw were shadowy silhouettes as the vehicle passed by.

She sighed, letting that sense of vulnerability flow through her. She hoped that it made her look even weaker to anyone that drove by.

* * *

Look at this.

From behind, he saw the slender form shuffling along, head bowed. No confidence there. And as he drew closer, he spotted the walkman clipped to her waistband. This one would be so easy…

No. It was too easy. And he hadn’t planned for it. Best to stick to the plan. That was how he’d had success so far.

Still…

He cruised past her as slowly as he dared without attracting attention. He angled his head to get a good look at her while pretending to adjust his radio.

She was pretty.

And she looked scared.

He continued onward, his internal debate raging.

* * *

“How about that one?” Tower asked aloud, even though he knew MacLeod couldn’t hear him. The wire was a one-way transmitter.

Even so, she spoke aloud as if anticipating his question. “Nothing there. Silver four door Tempo or Topaz. Guy didn’t even look at me. He was fiddling with his radio.”

Tower cursed. He broadcasted the information to Sully and Battaglia, who answered him with a dismissive click of the mike.

He sighed. It was going to be a long and fruitless night, he could tell.

* * *

He turned onto Post and drove north for a block, his mind racing. The arguments played themselves out in his head, one concern at a time.

There were plenty of trees all along that street. Only a couple of houses over the entire three blocks and all of them were dark.

But she might continue on across Post. Or she might even turn up the steep hill, especially if she’s out for exercise.

She might. But she might turn around and head back along Mona Street. If she did, the site was too perfect to pass up.

There’s too many people.

No. It was almost eleven at night. It’s cold, dark and the tail end of a rainy day. There’s hardly anyone else out.

No. It’s not smart. You’ve got to plan.

He set his jaw. Planning was important, but sometimes opportunities occurred that weren’t part of the plan. A smart man took advantage of these opportunities.

That’s the cognac talking.

No, he decided. It wasn’t.

It wasn’t the cognac at all. It was the new him. And that unlucky bitch just made his new self one lucky man.

He turned onto Glass Street and pulled his car to the curb just around the corner. A half block up the street was one lonely, dark house. Below him lay a tumble of bushes and a few scattered trees before the small thicket of trees that lined Mona Street.

At first, he reached for the glove compartment for his ski mask. Then he stopped. He wouldn’t need that precaution any more, would he? He looked down at his hands, flexing them wide open and back into fists. No, he wasn’t going to have to worry about this one telling tales on him. Not once he laid these hands on her.

He exited the car. The fresh air filled his lungs. He smiled because even the world smelled new to him.

2249 hours

“My fingers are getting cold,” Katie murmured, knowing Tower could hear her on the other end of the transmitter. She imagined him sitting in the truck with Chisolm, the white plug stuck in his ear.

Warm and cozy in that truck, she corrected herself. While she was out here like a worm dangling on a hook, hoping that a shark came along to take a bite.

And on top of that, she had cold fingers.

“I’m going to have to start jogging to keep warm,” she said in to the transmitter.

Of course, that was hardly true. The street took a decidedly uphill swing as she approached Post. The effort she expended climbing up the rise kept her core warm enough. It was just her fingers that didn’t benefit from the exertion.

Katie raised her hands to her mouth and blew on them. When she reached Post, she paused and looked around. It took her several moments to spot Tower’s Toyota truck. He’d picked a good spot, nestled between two other parked cars on the side of the street. From there, she figured they had a good view of her for most of her route along Mona Street. The only blind spot might be the area she’d just trekked up, but Sully and Batts would be able to see her from their end.

“One more pass,” she said quietly. “Then we’re going for some more coffee.”

Tower flashed his headlights, indicating he’d heard her transmission.

Katie turned and started back west on Mona Street.

2250 hours

Walking through the bushes soaked his clothing with a freezing wetness, causing him to shiver. He ignored the sensation and pressed on. The cognac kept him warm inside. He’d be taking a hot shower soon enough, anyway.

He spotted her coming back westbound from crest of the rise to Post Street. A thrill shot through his limbs, causing a sudden erection.

He’d been right.

He crept past a leafy bush and stepped behind a wide pine tree near the base of the small rise.

He crouched and watched her shuffle toward him.

He waited.

2251 hours

Katie breathed onto her frigid fingers again. She decided that she didn’t want coffee, after all. On a night like tonight, some hot cocoa was in order. She’d forgo any marshmallows or whipped cream in the interests of not appearing too girlish in the presence of her platoon mates, but secretly she was glad that she could do girl things like that on occasion.

Right now, she marveled at the absolute reverse chivalry at work in this operation. All four men were sitting in dry, warm cars while the sole woman on the team was trudging back and forth on wet pavement in the cold.

Well, Katie thought, we wanted equality. If this is how it feels, then I guess this is how it feels.

As she shuffled down the rise, she leaned back slightly to slow her descent. Her bruised quadriceps protested with small yelps of soreness.

There’s another point for equality, she thought. That Russian hadn’t even hesitated before blasting her in the leg. Even the criminals had left chivalry by the wayside in favor of equality.

Katie caught her toe in a crack in the asphalt, causing her to stumble. She windmilled her arms and regained her balance before she fell to the ground. She winced as the sudden movement put all of her weight momentarily on her injured leg.

She stopped and took a moment to catch her breath. Flexing and stretching her left leg, she thought about asking Chisolm for another dose of his magic juice.

* * *

Why was she stopping?

He watched her intently from twenty yards away. His body pressed against the tree in front of him. The odor of wet bark filled his nostrils, but he was already imagining the smell of her fear.

She’d stumbled and almost fell. Now she stood in the street, working her left leg as if testing the muscle. He admired her athletic form, resenting it at the same time. She probably thought she was something special, this one. She definitely needed to be knocked down a notch or two.

Still, what about the leg? Did she pull something when she tripped? It didn’t look like that bad of a stumble, but you never knew.

A weak leg meant a weak runner.

This was going to be easier than he thought.

* * *

“That didn’t sound good,” Tower said.

“What did it sound like?”

“Like she fell down or something,” Tower said. He raised the field glasses to his eyes and scanned the dark street in front of him. “I can’t see her, either.”

“Those aren’t worth much of a damn at night,” Chisolm told him.

“I don’t care if all I see is a shadow, as long as I know it’s her.” Tower lowered the glasses and shook his head. “I’m not seeing anything.”

“Check with the others.”

Tower raised the radio to his mouth. “Ida-409 to Adam-122.”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you have a visual on MacLeod?”

“Affirm. She’s near the base of the rise that leads up to Post.”

Tower copied, looked over at Chisolm and shrugged. “Sorry. Paranoid, I guess.”

Chisolm grinned. “Don’t be. A healthy dose of paranoia is the reason I’m sitting here and not in some military cemetery.”

2252 hours

He hesitated.

While she’d been stretching, her athleticism first irritated him. Then it set him thinking. Athletic people tended to be more confident than their sedentary counterparts. And she looked like she was in too good of shape to employ walking as a means of fitness.

When she finished stretching and resumed walking, he smiled to himself. Her shoulders slumped. He eyes fell. Even her walk was an insecure shuffle.

Maybe she hurt her knee. Maybe this was how she was rehabbing it. That would explain why the small trip worried her so much.

That made sense. And just because she was in good shape didn’t mean she wasn’t weak. The way she moved, it was obvious that something had happened to her in her past. Maybe she’d been some sort of victim before. If that were so, he was certain that she’d be more scared in the next five minutes than any other time in her pitiful, waste of a life. At least she’d have the opportunity to take part in his new beginning. At least she’d accomplish something in the brief moments left to her in this world.

He took in a deep breath. Things were falling into place nicely.

* * *

Katie focused on the small pools of water collected in puddles along the roadway as she shuffled slowly along. She drew her cold fingers into her middle and allowed herself to think about how good that hot cocoa was going to taste in about twenty minutes.

She wondered who would pony up and pay for the cocoa. She figured it would be a dead heat between Tower and Chisolm. Battaglia was too self-centered and Sully would be too conscious of the fact that they were both single. He wouldn’t want to send mixed messages. It was an unfortunate by-product of all the sexual harassment training that officers went through. A cup of coffee sometimes just can’t be a cup of coffee.

Katie figured Tower would still buy the cocoa because it was his operation and Chisolm would do it because…well, because he was Tom Chisolm. He just did things like that.

Her mind drifted to the events in the park two nights ago. She still hadn’t heard from any of the brass what was going to happen with her accidental discharge under the overpass. Tower told her before shift that he’d reported the incident to Lieutenant Crawford, who was going to discuss it with Captain Reott, the Patrol Captain. After that, who knew what-

The movement surprised her. The flash of shadow made her gasp. Before she could react, an arm had already snaked around her throat and pulled her tight against the body that appeared behind her.

She struggled, trying to reach for her fanny pack, but the attacker’s other arm wrapped around her chest and squeezed.

Her breath left her.

He grabbed onto her right wrist and drew him to her.

She felt his hardness grinding into her buttocks through his clothing and hers.

Katie froze.

* * *

“What the-?” Sully raised his binoculars.

Battaglia stirred next to him. “What?”

The scene through his binoculars was dark and difficult to make out. He saw a flash of shadow near the sidewalk, but it seemed to disappear into the trees.

He lowered the binoculars. “I can’t see her. Check with Tower.”

* * *

“Adam-122 to Ida-409.”

Tower raised the portable radio and answered, “Go ahead.”

“We’ve lost our visual on her. Do you have an eye?”

Tower shot an alarmed look at Chisolm. Then he answered, “No. She hasn’t come back into view yet once she headed down the rise.”

“Copy. We should roll in and check it out.”

Tower considered for a moment. If they rolled in and all was fine, they risked blowing the cover of the operation. But that didn’t matter if MacLeod were in danger. And besides, if all was well, who was really going to see that the operation was burned?

He pressed the transmit button. “Let’s go.”

* * *

“Don’t you move, bitch,” he grunted into her ear.

Katie’s knees went weak. Terror enveloped her as if she’d plunged into a freezing lake. Unable to think or move, she felt herself drift toward the bottom.

It was him.

The Rainy Day Rapist.

But to her ears, he spoke with Phil’s voice.

Her heels drug across the sidewalk and into the brush.

* * *

The words broadcasted over the transmitter were scratchy and distant, but they still managed to send a shock wave through Tower.

“Don’t you move, bitch.”

“Oh, God,” he breathed.

“Go!” Chisolm hollered at him, ripping his pistol from its holster. “Go, go, go!”

Tower started the truck, racing the engine. He slammed it into gear and punched the accelerator.

* * *

Ten more yards.

Ten more and then he was going to make this bitch pay. Tear her clothes away. Fuck her like she’s never been fucked before. Lay the whammo on her.

All the way.

His breath came quickly as he dragged her into the foliage.

2253 hours

His grip around her body was stifling. She could barely breathe. She stared out into the darkness, but it was the shadows of the past that washed over her.

Her own pleas.

Don’t do this.

His forceful replies.

You’ll do whatever the fuck I tell you to do, bitch.

And afterward, the condemnation.

You liked it. Don’t forget that.

A wet, leafy bush raked across her face, spilling cold water onto her cheek and down her neck. His ragged, excited breathing rang in her ears. His hardness bumped and grinded against her backside as he pulled her deeper into the brush.

Katie tried to cry out, but nothing happened. She felt strangely paralyzed, her limbs and mouth refusing to obey the weak commands that came from her mind.

Am I going to die?

* * *

He stopped near a pine tree. It was far enough away from the street to be out of sight through the other bushes and trees. And this one seemed too scared to scream for help. Just in case, he released her wrist and grabbed a handful of hair. With a jerk, he pulled her head back.

“I’m going lay the whammo on you, bitch,” he whispered directly into her ear. “If you make a sound, I will kill you. You understand?”

The woman didn’t respond.

He yanked hard on her hair, pulling her head further back.

“Fucking answer me!”

* * *

Katie felt no pain, only pressure. When he jerked her hair, it forced her head back. She stared up at the dark expanse of the sky. There were no stars visible through the cloud cover.

“Fucking answer me!” he growled in her ear.

Still unable to speak, she bobbed her head slightly in understanding. But in that moment, she felt a tickle of warmth in the pit of her stomach.

Fear melted away.

Who the hell do you think you are, you piece of shit?

The tickle became a flare and the flare turned into a blaze. Voices from the past echoed through the wet brush that surrounded her.

Don’t be a goddamn tease.

You liked it. Don’t forget that.

At least you weren’t a virgin.

Hot rage engulfed her.

* * *

He felt her try to nod her head in submission. That was all he needed from her before taking care of business.

With a hard shove, he threw her face-first into the ground. He heard her grunt as she landed. Even that modest amount of pain made him feel good. Of course, it was nothing compared with what was to come.

He dropped on top of her, straddling her just below her buttocks. Leaning forward, he pressed his left hand onto her upper back, pinning her to the earth. With his free hand, he reached for her waistband.

She squirmed beneath him. Without hesitation, he threw a hard punch into her kidneys. She let out a yelp as the blow landed.

He grabbed her waistband at the small of her back and tore it downward.

She twisted underneath him, scrambling onto her side.

“Stop moving, bitch!” he said through gritted teeth.

“Fuck you,” she growled back.

The words surprised him. So did the tone. There was fire in those two words. He felt it radiating upward toward him.

A white fury swept over him.

How dare she?

He slid upward, straddling her waist. Ignoring her struggling, he cocked his fist and began raining punches down on her head and face.

“You want the whammo, bitch, you got it.”

* * *

The first blow stunned her. She didn’t see it coming, but only felt the raw force collide with her forehead. She battled with a dark fog that seemed to be settling in across her vision.

“You want the whammo, bitch, you got it,” she heard him say.

Reflexively, she raised her own hands to fend off his punches. The next one landed on her forearm, followed by a shot that she caught on the wrist. That punch drove the heel of her own palm into her mouth.

Katie twisted and moved, trying to avoid each punch as they came out of the darkness.

* * *

Most of his punches weren’t landing solidly, but he didn’t care. The sheer exhilaration of raining his hatred down on this worthless bitch filled every part of his being. If it took another dozen blasts for him to catch her with one that put her out, so be it.

It felt good.

No.

It felt great.

Perfect.

Fulfilling.

He raised his fist for another punch.

That was when he heard the unmistakable sound of tires screeching to a halt, followed by slamming doors. Yells came next, several voices at once.

“Straight through there!”

“Katie!”

“Police!”

Police? How the hell did they get here so quick?

Flashlights darted through the darkness. The beams bounced and bobbed in his direction.

He turned to look down at the nearly defenseless form beneath him.

She twisted and rose toward him. Then he saw stars.

* * *

The punches stopped suddenly. In that brief moment, she heard tires on asphalt. Doors slammed. Familiar voices called out to her.

She moved without thinking, twisting underneath him. She torqued her body, forcing herself upward from lying on her side. As she reached a sitting position, she drove her elbow toward his head, following through like a baseball player swinging a bat.

Her elbow connected with something hard. Pain jolted through her arm, causing her to cry out again. Her arm fell to her side, sagging and useless.

* * *

The blow caught him behind the ear, stunning him.

Stars dancing in darkness paraded across his vision. He shook his head and the stars faded away quickly.

And his fury returned.

He realized she was sitting up, her face even with his chest. She was too close to hit with any force. He knew he had to run in the next few seconds or he’d be caught. But he wasn’t going to let this bitch get away with hitting him.

He reached behind her again, grabbing a fistful of hair. With a powerful yank, he pulled her away from his chest, creating enough distance between them for him to blast her with his right fist.

He put everything he had into that one punch. He knew he was only going to get one, so it had to count. When it landed against her face, the force of the blow reverberated up and down his arm.

She went limp.

That felt wonderful. Better than sex.

Reluctantly, he released her head, letting her flop to the wet ground. Then he clambered to his feet and sprinted away. Behind him, the sound of men scrambling through the bushes and calling out -

“Katie!”

— filled the air.

He ran, joy and anger still coursing through his blood.

* * *

Tower was the one who found her. She lay stunned on the wet grass.

“MacLeod?” He knelt down next to her. “Give me some light!” he yelled out to whoever was nearby. Almost instantly, he and Katie were awash in a powerful flashlight beam.

“Is she all right?” Sully asked him.

Tower didn’t answer. Her face was bruised and bloody, but the fact that her eyes were closed and her mouth slack concerned him even more.

“MacLeod?” he asked her again, giving her a gentle shake. When she didn’t respond, he glanced toward the bright light. “Call for medics,” he ordered.

* * *

Chisolm crashed through the wet bushes and past the dark trees. He tried to light up his path as much as possible, while still shining his light up ahead for a sign of the suspect. While he ran, he reached for his radio.

“Adam-112, foot pursuit!” he shouted into the portable radio.

“Adam-112, go ahead.”

“In pursuit of a rape suspect,” Chisolm bellowed into the mike. “We’re Mona and Post, northbound through the wooded area.”

“Copy.”

Chisolm gulped in a breath as he side-stepped a large root and hustled around a tree. He paused and swept his light beam ahead of him again.

Nothing.

Think, Tom. He can’t be that fast.

Chisolm glanced around. Maybe he was, but maybe not. He might have gone to ground, trying to hide in the bushes to avoid them. Either way, they needed to secure the area.

“I need a perimeter,” he told Dispatch. “Get me units up the hill on Garland at Post and at Monroe.” He figured that if he hadn’t gone to ground yet, that perimeter might hem in the suspect.

Battaglia appeared at his side, breathing heavily. “You see anything?”

Chisolm shook his head.

“You hear anything?” Battaglia asked.

“Not with you talking,” Chisolm said. He raised the radio to his mouth. “And start a K-9,” he added.

He stood in the small wooded area and waited for the K-9. The sound of speeding police cars rushing past on Post and the reflection of the flashing red and blue lights as they zipped up the hill gave him some hope. If this guy had decided to hide, the dog would find him. If he’d continued to run, Chisolm’s only hope was that he wasn’t a fast runner. Hopefully, the perimeter would be in place quickly enough.

Constant chatter issued from his portable radio as the dispatcher and officers coordinated the perimeter positions. Chisolm knew it was necessary, but he was impatient to get on the air to inquire about Katie’s condition.

A few minutes later, he heard the heavy steps of Shane Gomez, the K-9 handler. His partner, a jet black German Shepherd named Cert, ran toward Chisolm in desperate lunges. Every surge forward pulled Gomez along as he held onto the dog lead. Chisolm braced himself in case the dog mistook him for the suspect, but the muscular canine brushed past him without acknowledgement.

Gomez reined in his partner. “Cert!” he yelled, pronouncing it ‘Chairt.’ The dog whined back at him, then yelped his dissent. Gomez gave the lead a short, firm pull. “Sadni!” he ordered.

Cert reluctantly sat, but not before issuing two more angry barks at his handler.

Gomez grinned excitedly at Chisolm. His hair was just as black as his dog’s and his large, muscular frame made Chisolm think of him as a human version of the K-9 he was partnered with.

“He’s got a good scent,” Gomez said. “Anything I need to know?”

Chisolm shook his head. “No known weapons. Last seen northbound.”

Gomez gave him a short nod. “Okay. Cover me. And stay close.”

“You bet.”

Gomez turned his attention back to Cert. “Let’s go, boy. Fuss him up. Get that bad guy!”

Cert yelped and lunged forward. Gomez and Chisolm scrambled after him, with Battaglia struggling to keep up.

“Still northbound through the woods,” Chisolm reported to Dispatch. “Nearing Glass.”

“Copy.”

Chisolm kept pace with Gomez and Cert. The black dog was almost invisible in front of him. The only signs of his presence were the sound of his paws scrambling over the dirt and leaves and the deep huffs of his breath. Occasionally, he let out a yearning whine. Chisolm assumed that was to let his handler know he was still hot on the trail. Of course, with the demon dog, it could simply be a desire to catch up to his prey and get his crushing jaws wrapped around it.

The thought didn’t disturb Chisolm at all. In fact, he hoped Cert went straight for the groin.

Battaglia had fallen back too far to be an effective cover officer. Chisolm kept his eyes trained to the left, right and behind of the K-9 handler. During a track, Gomez focused on his dog, reading the reactions to determine what the dog was sensing. That left him vulnerable. Chisolm’s duty was to protect the handler. He kept his flashlight ready, but avoided using it. He didn’t want to back-light Gomez, thereby making him an easy target.

“Baker-126,” Chisolm’s radio crackled. He recognized James Kahn’s gravelly voice. “I’ve got a vehicle that just crossed Post at Glass. Eastbound. You want me to break perimeter and stop it?”

Gomez reined up with Cert. He turned to Chisolm. “It’s your call,” he said, barely breathing heavy. “But I’ve got a strong scent here.”

Chisolm considered. If Tower was right and the guy lived in the area, the odds were that he’d try to run home. If that were the case, the dog would track directly to his front door. And if the perimeter managed to hem in the suspect, breaking that perimeter now would risk giving him an opening to escape through.

He raised the radio to his mouth. “Negative,” he said. “Hold perimeter.”

Gomez gave him a nod in agreement.

“Copy,” Kahn replied. “But if you’ve got any mobile units, have them check east of Post. There’s not a lot of vehicle traffic out tonight.”

“Baker-127,” came Officer Hiero’s voice. “I got that, from Ruby and Sharp.”

“That’ll work,” Chisolm said, slipping his radio back into the holder on his belt.

Cert whined impatiently.

“Let’s go,” Gomez said. “Get him, boy!”

2301` hours

“I don’t need to go in an ambulance,” Katie argued, her words slightly groggy.

Tower shook his head. “It’s the medics’ call, MacLeod.”

“Then I’ll refuse and they can A-M-A it.”

“You can’t invoke Against Medical Advice when you’re on duty,” Tower lied. “Just take the ride.”

Katie’s jaw set, followed by a wince. Tears formed in her eyes, though Tower couldn’t tell if they were the result of pain, anger or perhaps embarrassment. Maybe some of all of them, he decided, and reached out to touch her hand.

“It’ll be all right,” he said in low voice that he hoped no one else besides the medics could hear.

Katie didn’t answer, but after a moment she nodded in acquiescence.

Without hesitation, the medics raised the gurney and slid her into the ambulance. One medic crawled in after her while the second slammed the door behind them. The second medic turned to head toward the driver’s door.

Tower grabbed his sleeve. “Which hospital?”

“Sacred Heart,” the man answered.

Tower glanced down at his nametag. It read A. Hoagland.

“Is she going to be all right, Hoagland?” Tower asked.

Hoagland gave him a neutral look. “She took some heavy blows to the head. I think she has a concussion at the very least. They’ll do some tests on her up at the hospital to see if she sustained any injuries more serious than that.”

“But she’ll be okay?”

Hoagland bit his lip. “It’s hard to say with head injuries, but she’s coherent now, so that’s a good sign.”

Tower clenched his jaw. “That doesn’t sound too promising.”

Hoagland reached down and removed Tower’s grasp from his sleeve. “Head injuries are tricky, but she looks good right now.” He put his hand on Tower’s shoulder. “She looks like a fighter to me. I think she’ll be all right.”

Tower nodded.

“I’ve got to get her transported,” Hoagland said. Without waiting for a reply, he turned and hurried to the driver’s door. Within another moment, the ambulance’s engine fired to life and it lumbered forward. Tower watched the flashing lights atop the large, white box approached Post, slow, then turned right and disappear down the hill.

2303 hours

Chisolm followed Gomez and Cert out of the bushes and onto the sidewalk. His uniform was soaking wet, but he ignored the chill. Cert charged eastward along the sidewalk. Gomez loped along behind him while Chisolm sprinted to keep up.

About twenty yards from the intersection, Cert stopped. He dropped his nose lower toward the ground, sniffing urgently. Chisolm stopped and drew in deep breaths while he waited. The street was clear of foot traffic. There were no cars. He glanced over his shoulder. There was a single house up the street without any exterior lighting. Other than that, all was clear.

The dog seemed to be wandering in a large circle, searching for scent. He whined again, but even Chisolm could hear that the sound was now frustration, not eagerness. A sinking feeling settled in his stomach.

Gomez didn’t give up. He worked Cert up and down the sidewalk on both sides of the street for several minutes, trying to pick up the scent. They always returned to the same point on the sidewalk, where the dog finally sat down and let out an angry, mournful howl.

“Shit,” Chisolm finally muttered.

Gomez sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “He must have jumped in a car, Tom. That’s the only thing I can figure happened.”

“Shit,” Chisolm repeated. He realized that meant the car that Kahn had seen was probably the suspect. He raised the radio to his lips. “Secure the perimeter,” he said.

“Copy,” the dispatcher replied. “Secure the perimeter.”

The two men stood on the wet sidewalk, brooding. Cert whined, his tone suggesting that he commiserated.

We almost had him. The thought throbbed in Chisolm’s skull. We almost had him and it’s my fault he got away.

Gomez knelt next to Cert and rubbed the dog’s head. “You did a good job, boy,” he whispered. “It’s not your fault.”

“Shit,” Chisolm said a third time. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

2304 hours

At first, he’d fought the terrain, blasting through the bushes and bouncing off the trees. The water from the bushes he forced his way through soaked his clothes to the skin. That coldness jarred him enough. He put aside the absolute ecstasy that hummed through his body and tamped down the rage that was seething and bubbling beneath it. Instead, he focused on his escape.

Instead of blindly running, he dodged and slipped around trees and bushes. That sped up his progress considerably. When the hillside steepened, he leaned forward for balance, even using his hands to pull himself along.

He kept his ears piqued for the sound of pursuit, but for some reason it fell off almost right away. Had he outrun them? Outrun the police? That surprised him, but it made him smile in spite of the cold and the darkness around him.

He hurried forward.

He burst out the bushes and onto the street near his car. Without hesitation, he sprinted to the car, got in and started the engine. Then he sat for a moment, thinking.

Which way to go?

The police weren’t stupid. They had radios. There would soon be cop cars all over the neighborhood. What would they be looking for? Probably a man on foot. But they had seen his car when he drove by. Would they remember it and make the connection? Did they write down his license plate? Take his picture?

He decided in an instant, flipping a quick U-turn on the small street.

It was too narrow for a complete turn, so he bounced up onto the sidewalk with his front tire. Once he was pointed back east, he drove forward. He paused briefly at the stop sign, then crossed Post and continued east at the speed limit.

He frowned as he drove. If they had his license plate, they’d soon have his address. Going home could mean walking into a trap.

This wasn’t something he’d planned for. He never imagined his own home as a danger. Home was his sanctuary. He’d have to trust it was still safe.

Drive home. Throw his clothes in the washer. Shower. Think of an alibi.

If the cops came, he’d bluff. That was the only play he had right now. Later, maybe he could come up with a different plan for another time, but for now, he’d bluff.

His frown turned into a scowl. Did they have his picture?

Did that bitch get a look at his face?

He shook his head. It was too dark. She didn’t see him.

He reached Atlantic Avenue and turned left. Two blocks later, he turned off his headlights and cruised quietly up the street. His block was still. Most of the lights inside the small ranchers and brick single story houses were turned out for the night. It was too cold for anyone to be sitting out on the front porch. No one would notice his stealthy approach.

He pulled into his driveway and shut off the engine. Before exiting the car, he took several deep breaths. Then he went inside.

2310 hours

Officer Paul Hiero turned onto Atlantic just as the order to secure the perimeter came over his radio. He frowned, knowing that meant the K-9 track had failed. Which meant the suspect had escaped.

He cruised slowly northbound along the residential street. Most of the lights inside the houses were turned off. Outdoor lights burned over the front doors of almost every porch. The occasional flicker of a television behind curtains told him that some people were still awake, but the majority of people in the neighborhood had already called it a night. That didn’t surprise him. The neighborhood consisted largely of retired folks and working class families. The retired folks went to bed early because they were old. The working families had either school or a job to get to in the morning.

Hiero sighed. This was a waste of time. There was no way a scumbag rapist would live in a neighborhood like this.

Nonetheless, he drifted along the street, watching for any pedestrians or anything suspicious. There was nothing, just as he expected.

When he reached Garland, he stopped for the stop sign. He lifted the radio mike and spoke into it. “Baker-127, clear of the call.”

“Copy, Baker-127.”

He turned right and headed back east to Baker Sector.