Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

off balance, but I come forward quickly, get beneath the rifle, jam it upward again. The stock hits her left cheekbone this time, hard enough to open the skin.
    A guttural sound tears from her throat as she yanks back on the rifle. I catch a glimpse of her eyes. The rage reflecting back shocks me. The next thing I know, she’s charging forward, using the rifle to drive me backward. My backside hits the table. The legs screech across the linoleum. I twist the rifle, but she doesn’t release it. When I get her close enough, I bring up my knee, ram it into her abdomen.
    The breath rushes from her in a sound that’s part roar, part scream. She lets go of the rifle, reels backward into the stove.
    “Do not move!” I shout. “ Do not fucking move! ”
    I’m checking to see if there’s a bullet in the chamber when she turns toward the stove.
    “I will shoot you!” I scream. “Get down on the floor!”
    She yanks the pot from the stove. Water sloshes over the side as she spins toward me. The jars clank together as she hurls the pot at me. Boiling water spews onto my clothes, my face and neck. I know I’m being scalded, but there’s too much adrenaline for me to feel pain. I use the rifle like a bat, slam it against the side of her head with such force that she’s knocked off her feet.
    Somewhere in the periphery of my consciousness, I hear a mason jar shatter as it hits the floor. Blood spatters the counter as Irene Mast goes down. The sensation of heat streaks down my neck, my right shoulder, my breast.
    Irene Mast is lying on her side, not moving. Glass crunches beneath my feet as I cross to her, nudge her with my toe. She’s deadweight. Her eyes are open, but she’s not quite conscious. The blow opened a gash the size of my index finger just in front of her ear.
    My hand shakes as I reach for my cuffs, only I’m not wearing my uniform belt. I look around for something with which to secure her hands, spot a towel on the floor. Using my teeth, I tear it into three strips and tie them together. Kneeling, I roll her over, pull her arms behind her back. As I secure her wrists, I glance toward the basement door behind me, half-expecting an armed Perry Mast to burst out shooting. I don’t think I’m in any condition to go another round.
    I get to my feet, give Irene Mast a final look. “Don’t go anywhere,” I mutter. Picking up the rifle, I start toward the back door.
    Midway through the mudroom, I pull out my phone, punch 911. Standing to one side, I move the curtain with the muzzle and peer out. I notice two things simultaneously. My Explorer is nowhere in sight. And a Trumbull County Crown Vic is parked in the same place my Explorer had been parked just a short time earlier. Where the hell is the deputy?
    “Nine one one. What’s your emergency?”
    Once more, I identify myself and tell her the sheriff’s cruiser is here but that there’s no sign of the deputy. “He could be down. Perry Mast is armed with a rifle and shooting at cops.”
    “Ten-four. Stand by.”
    The cruiser is too far away for me to discern if the deputy is inside, injured or otherwise. He could be in the barn or one of the outbuildings, searching for me. Unless Mast shot him . . .
    I look down at the rifle in my hands. It’s an old Winchester with a tubular magazine. There’s no quick way to tell how much ammo is inside. When I pump the lever, I see a single bullet move into place. Better make it count.
    “There’s another deputy en route,” says the dispatcher.
    “What’s the ETA?”
    “Six minutes.”
    It’s not an unreasonable amount of time for a rural call. But a lot can happen in six minutes.
    Clipping the phone to my belt, I peer through the window again. The yard between the house and barn is deserted. No sign of the deputy. No sign of Perry Mast. I hate not knowing where he is. It would take only a few minutes for him to double back and exit through the slaughter shed. He could be anywhere.
    I open the door and step into a light rain. Feeling exposed, keeping low, with the rifle at the ready, I descend the porch steps and jog toward the cruiser. The headlights and wipers are on, but the engine is off. I’m twenty feet away when I notice blood spatter on the passenger window. From ten feet away, I can make out the silhouette of the deputy. He’s slumped over the steering wheel, still wearing his hat.
    “Shit,” I mutter, my steps quickening. “ Shit. ”
    Keeping an eye on the barn, the slaughter shed,