Dust to Dust

middle to keep the chill out. She thought she heard the faint ring of wind chimes in the distance. She nodded toward the house.
    “David called me about this. What’s going on?”
    David Goldstein was assistant director of the crime lab. This evening he was on duty handing out assignments while he worked in the lab.
    “David called you?” said Neva. “He didn’t have to. We’ve got it covered. Ol’ Izzy here is doing pretty good.” Neva punched him affectionately in the shoulder. “Rosewood PD said a woman was attacked here earlier tonight.”
    “Attacked? She survived?” Diane asked. Her body relaxed.
    “Yes, but I don’t know how bad off she is,” said Neva. “The lead detective’s on his way. I think he’s been questioning someone. That’s all I know.”
    Neva looked at Patrolman Daughtry as if he might have more information. He shook his head and shrugged.
    “I was told to wait here for Detective Hanks,” he said.
    Neva squinted, observing Diane. “Is there something special about this case?”
    “Marcella Payden is an adjunct professor of archaeology at Bartrum and a consultant for the museum,” said Diane.
    “Oh,” said Neva. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
    The crunch of gravel and two blinding headlights heralded an approaching car. Diane stepped closer to the van with Izzy, Neva, and the patrolman, and they watched the car pull in behind the police car.
    Detective Hanks , she thought. She recognized him, but she hadn’t worked with him before. He took a step in their direction just as gunfire cut the ground at his feet.

Chapter 2
    Loud bursts of gunfire exploded one after another. Diane ducked beside the van, pulling Neva down with her.
    “What the hell?” she heard Izzy shout, ducking for cover himself.
    The shots were coming from the woods beyond the drive where they were parked. Bullets dug out plugs of dirt from the ground. One ricocheted off a rock and hit the van; some hit the piles of lawn sculpture; others flew over their heads. The gunman didn’t seem to be aiming at anything in particular, or he was aiming at everything. It sounded to Diane like a rifle, but she wasn’t an expert on guns.
    Izzy, his gun out, eased to the rear of the van. Neva took out her gun and followed him. Patrolman Daughtry moved toward the front of the vehicle and peeked out at the dark woods. A bullet struck the side of the van and he pulled back.
    “Shit,” he hissed. “Hey, you crazy son of a bitch, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Lay down your gun and come out with your hands—”
    His reply was cut short by a hail of bullets.
    Keeping low, Diane climbed into the van through the sliding side door. She crawled to the driver’s seat and cut off the inside lamp and the headlights. As she called for backup on her cell phone, a bullet zinged through the driver’s window and exited on the passenger side. Diane jumped and hit her elbow on the gearshift.
    “Diane, you hurt?” called Neva and Izzy together.
    “Fine. Just startled—and pissed.” Diane crawled out of the van, cursing herself for being in a cocktail dress. What kind of idiot comes to a crime scene in fancy dress?
    Kneeling on the ground, she could see that Detective Hanks was down. Because of the positions of the parked vehicles in the drive, he was open to the woods when he got out of the car.
    “Hanks is down,” Diane said. “Keep the shooter occupied long enough for me to get him to cover.”
    “What?” said Izzy. “Well, hell.”
    He fired in the direction of the shooter. Daughtry fired a couple of shots blindly across the hood of the van in the general direction from which the bullets seemed to be coming.
    Diane dashed out in the open to Hanks, only a few feet away. He was already struggling to his feet just as she reached him. She slipped an arm around his waist and helped him take cover beside the patrol car. A bullet would have to go through the van and the police vehicle to get to him. It was a safe place to wait.
    Diane examined the wound in his thigh by what little illumination his headlights provided to their position. It was bleeding, but blood wasn’t pulsing out, nor was it profuse. The bullet hadn’t hit his femoral artery. It had only nicked him.
    “My leg is fine. It’s my shoulder,” he said. “Damn it. I fell and landed on my bad shoulder. Who the hell is that?”
    “I don’t know,” said Diane. “Is your shoulder out of joint?”
    Hanks rolled his shoulder, stretched his