Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

trip.”
    “Clever.”
    “I’d like you to come with me, Molly. But I guess that’s too much to ask.” He looped the belt over her other wrist.
    “Too fuckin’ right.” She drove the stiletto-sharp point of her four-inch heel into his groin.
    He screamed like a vampire in the night woods, and his grip collapsed. She whirled around, shaking her arms, trying to get that belt off. He hadn’t tied a knot yet, so it fell away. She grabbed one end and swung the length of leather at Duncan’s head. The impact was as loud as a gunshot. A line of red burst across his face as if she’d drawn on it with a fat crayon.
    “You bitch,” he said. She swung the belt again, aiming for an eye. He ducked and she staggered toward the ditch.
    Duncan ran.
    Smith recovered her footing and took off after him, holding the belt as a weapon. But she wasn’t in police boots. The thin heel of one sandal broke, almost taking her to her knees. She staggered to a halt and kicked off the shoes. She ran on, barefoot.
    Pain sliced through her feet. She concentrated on taking deep, cleansing breaths, reaching inside for something to push the pain aside, to keep her moving. But she knew that she’d soon fall to her knees.
    “Don’t be a fool, Duncan. You can’t get away. Don’t make it worse.” If he went into the woods, she’d not be able to follow, not without shoes.
    Duncan turned but kept running backward. River to one side, mountain to the other, ahead of him the highway took a sharp turn. “Think of me, Molly,” he yelled. “Because someday soon I’ll be coming back for you.”
    Lights found the leaves and branches of the tall pines. Yellow eyes blinked in the undergrowth. A car was turning into the corner.
    Smith yelled, “Look out!”
    Brakes screamed. A cry. A dull thud.
    An SUV heading out of town had struck Duncan full on. He crumpled to the roadway like an overcooked gingerbread man.
    The driver tumbled out of her vehicle. “Oh, my god. He came out of nowhere. He was just there. I couldn’t stop in time.”
    Smith fell to the pavement. She touched Duncan’s neck. “Trafalgar City Police,” she yelled. “Do you have a phone on you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Call 911. Fast.”

Chapter Thirty-two
    This was one depressing book. Molly Smith tossed it on the table. Right now she did not want to be reading about the collapse of civilizations. Her mother had settled her into a chair in the family room, with a cup of fair-trade tea, oversized oatmeal cookies from Rosemary’s Campfire Kitchen, a pile of political magazines, and this book. Lucky had arranged music on the CD player, and the lush, romantic vocals of Il Divo washed over the room.
    Constable Smith was not in a lush, romantic mood.
    Her face ached, and she hadn’t dared look at herself in a mirror. Her heavily bandaged feet were propped up on the ottoman. Sylvester was curled up on the rug by her chair, snoring. His legs moved now and again, and she wondered if he were dreaming. Hopefully his dreams were better than hers had been of late. Dreams in which she’d been having sex with Duncan, locked to him, gasping with orgasm, staring up at him, as his eyes dripped blood.
    Some cop she was—ready and willing to have sex with the perp in her first murder investigation. First and, probably, her last. She’d misjudged this one so badly, she didn’t know if she wanted to ever make detective.
    “That was Christa,” Lucky said from the doorway. Smith reached for the phone on the table.
    “I’m sorry, dear, but she didn’t want to talk to you. She called to let me know that she’s back home.”
    “She blames me. She thinks I should have protected her.”
    “She has to blame someone. Perhaps when Charlie comes to trial she’ll turn her anger on him, where it belongs, and realize that you couldn’t wrap her in cotton wool.”
    Smith turned the page of her book to avoid her mother’s eyes. Christa might forgive her, but she herself didn’t know if she’d ever be able to.
    The doorbell rang, and Sylvester ran to answer it, barking greetings. Lucky didn’t move. Anyone known to the family was welcome to ring and walk right in.
    The bell again.
    “I’d better see who that is,” Lucky said.
    “Company,” she trilled a moment later, sounding as unlike Smith’s mother as if her body had been taken over by aliens.
    Sergeant Winters stood in the doorway. Lucky plucked a bunch of peach roses out of his arms. “I’ll put these in water,” she said.
    “Step