Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

bridge. A big Dodge Ram is parked on a gravel turnout. Tomasetti parks behind the truck, kills the engine, and grabs a Maglite off the backseat. “There’s another one in the door panel.”
    I find the flashlight and swing open my door. The night sounds—crickets and bullfrogs and nocturnal animals—emanate from the thick black of the woods.
    Tomasetti is already walking toward the truck. “Where the hell’s the driver?” he mutters.
    I look around, but there’s no one in sight. I set my hand on my revolver as we start toward the Dodge. Chances are, this call is exactly as it seems: a citizen who’s stumbled upon a terrifying scene. But we’re all too aware of the fact that where there is murder, there is also a murderer. More than one cop has been ambushed when he thought he was walking into a benign scene.
    Lightning flickers on the horizon as I reach the truck. Tomasetti tries the driver’s door, but it’s locked. Using the Maglite, he checks the interior, sets his hand on the hood. “Still warm.”
    I drop to my knees, shine my beam along the ground. “No one underneath.”
    We’re checking the truck’s bed when I hear something large crashing through the brush on the other side of the bar ditch twenty yards away. At first, I think it’s some kind of animal—a rutting buck or a black bear—charging us. Adrenaline skitters through my midsection. I raise my sidearm and spin to face the path cut into the trees.
    Tomasetti rounds the front of the truck and comes up beside me, his Glock leading the way. “Police!” he shouts. “Stop! Identify yourself!”
    A man bursts from the darkness, stumbles, and goes to his hands and knees in the grass. Both Tomasetti and I take a step back as he scrambles to his feet and lunges toward us. I catch a glimpse of a bald head and a tan flannel shirt.
    “Jesus Christ!” he cries as he uses his hands to scale the incline.
    “Hold it right there, partner,” Tomasetti says. “I mean it.”
    His voice is deadly calm, but the man doesn’t seem to hear him. He’s either high on drugs or terrified out of his mind. Considering the nature of the stop, I’m betting on the latter.
    I maintain a safe distance as the man regains his footing and stumbles up the side of the bar ditch. He’s breathing so hard, he’s choking on every exhale. He’s slightly overweight and falls to his hands and knees in the gravel ten feet away.
    Tomasetti dances back, keeps his weapon trained on the center of the man’s chest. “Get your hands where we can see them.”
    The man is so out of breath, he doesn’t raise his hands. “For God’s sake, don’t shoot! I’m the one who called the cops.” He gulps air, chokes on his own spit, and begins to cough.
    Scowling, Tomasetti lowers his weapon, but he doesn’t holster it. “What happened?”
    “There’s a fucking dead body down there!” the man chokes out.
    Tomasetti’s eyes dart to the woods. Using his left hand, he shines the beam of the Maglite on the trailhead. Nothing moves. It’s as if the forest has gone silent to guard the secrets that lie within its damp and murky embrace.
    “Is there anyone else down there?” Tomasetti asks.
    “I didn’t see no one except that fuckin’ body.” He coughs, taking great gulps of air. “Just about gave me a heart attack.”
    “What’s your name?” I ask.
    “Danny . . . Foster.” The man raises his head and squints at us. “Who’re you? Where’s Sheriff Goddard?”
    I pull out my identification and hold it out for him to see. “You got your driver’s license on you?”
    He straightens and, still on his knees, digs out his wallet and thrusts it at me with a shaking hand.
    Tomasetti comes up beside me and glances at the wallet, then frowns. “What are you doing down there?”
    “F—fishing.”
    “At four o’clock in the morning?”
    “Well, I gotta be at work at eight,” he snaps.
    Tomasetti holsters his sidearm, and I do the same.
    The man looks from Tomasetti to me. “Can I get up now?”
    “Sure,” I say.
    He hefts his large frame and struggles to his feet. He’s a short, round man wearing oversize khaki pants, a flannel shirt, and a fishing vest. From ten feet away, I see that his crotch is wet.
    “What happened?” Tomasetti asks.
    “I was fishing by that deep hole down there, about a quarter mile in.” Swallowing hard, Foster jabs his thumb toward the path from which he emerged. “I’d just put my line in when I noticed something on the bank,