Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

listening for any sound from the house behind me, I try the passenger door, but it’s locked. I sidle around the front of the car. The hood is warm, the engine ticking as it cools. I approach the driver’s side. The window is shattered. I look inside, see blood and glass on the deputy’s shoulders. There’s more on the headrest, on the sleeves of his uniform shirt.
    I reach through the broken window, unlock the door, and open it. The deputy’s hands are at his sides, knuckles down. Blood covers the steering wheel and the thighs of his uniform slacks. Chunks of glass glitter on the seat. The scene is almost too much to process.
    “Deputy,” I whisper. “ Deputy. Can you hear me?”
    No response.
    The stench of blood assails me when I reach in and remove his hat. The bullet penetrated his left jaw. His face has been devastated. Most of the flesh of his cheek has peeled away. Some of the teeth have blown out, along with part of his tongue. The cup of his ear is filled with blood and has trickled down, soaking his collar. Even before I press my finger against his carotid artery, I know he’s dead.
    “ Goddamn it. ”
    Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t touch anything at a crime scene or risk contaminating evidence. But with an armed suspect at large in the immediate vicinity, I’m in imminent danger. I need a weapon. Unsnapping the leather strap of the deputy’s holster, I slide a .40-caliber Glock from its nest and back away from the vehicle.
    Using the lever, I eject six bullets from the rifle, drop them in my pocket, and toss the rifle on the ground. I look toward the house. No movement. Aside from the steady rap of rain against the car, the muddy slap of it against the ground, the farm stands in absolute silence. But I know I’m being watched. I feel it as surely as I feel the rain streaming down my face. Did Mast double back and exit through the slaughter shed? Or is he watching me from the house, his finger itchy on the trigger?
    The sound of tires on gravel draws my attention. Relief skitters through me when I see a Trumbull County cruiser barrel up the lane, lights flashing. I wave, and the vehicle veers toward me, skids to a halt a few feet behind the other cruiser. A male deputy lunges from the car, a shotgun aimed at me. “Drop that fuckin’ gun! Get your hands up!”
    “I’m a cop! I called.”
    He keeps his eye on the house, the shotgun trained on me. “Show me your ID.”
    Slowly, I reach into my pocket, pull out my badge. “I’m with BCI.”
    He’s a solid, muscular guy with sandy hair and a handlebar mustache. He takes a good look at my badge and lowers the shotgun. But his attention has already moved on to the other cruiser. “What happened?”
    “He’s down.”
    “Aw, man.” He dashes to the cruiser and peers through the passenger window. “Fuck!” He stares at the body, his face screwing up. “Walker! Fuck!” He spins toward me, his expression ravaged. “What happened?”
    “Perry Mast shot him. He’s armed with a rifle. In a tunnel below-ground. He’s got hostages down there.”
    He looks at me as if I’m speaking in a foreign language. “ What? ” He fumbles with his lapel mike, his hand shaking. “Six-nine-two. I got shots fired at the Mast farm. Walker’s down. I need backup.”
    A gunshot rings out. Simultaneously, we drop to a crouch.
    “Where the fuck did that come from?” he snarls.
    Another shot snaps through the air. A tinny whack sounds and I see a hole the size of my pinkie tear into the cruiser two feet away. “Barn!” I shout.
    Staying low, we circle around, take cover on the opposite side of the car.
    “Shots fired!” he shouts into his mike. “Possible ten-ninety-three,” he says, referring to the hostages. “Male suspect armed with a rifle.”
    “Ten-four,” comes the dispatcher’s voice. “HP is en route. Stand by.”
    Behind him, the radio inside the dead man’s cruiser lights up with a burst of traffic. It’s a welcome sound, because I know every cop within a twenty-mile radius, regardless of agency, is on the way here. It’s one of the things I love about being a cop. That blue brotherhood. When an officer is down, you drop everything and go.
    The deputy looks at me, wipes rain from his face with the sleeve of his uniform. “Is the house secure?”
    I tell him about my altercation with Irene Mast. “I left her on the kitchen floor.”
    “She in on this, or what?”
    “She tried to blow my head off.”
    “I’ll take