Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

Maura screamed. “Help me! I’m
here!
”
    Deputy Martineau had already switched off the radio.
    She reached for the door handle, but there was nothing to grab.
Cop car. No way out
. Frantically she pounded on the windows, shrieking, oblivious to the pain of her fists slamming against the glass. He started the engine. What came next, a drive to a lonely spot and an execution? Her body left to the mercy of scavengers? Panic made her claw at the prisoner grate, but flesh and bone were no match for steel.
    He turned the SUV around in the driveway, and abruptly slammed on the brake. “Shit,” he muttered. “Where did
you
come from?”
    The dog stood in the road, blocking the vehicle.
    Deputy Martineau leaned on his horn. “Get the fuck out of the way!” he yelled.
    Instead of retreating, Bear rose up on his hind legs, planted two paws on the hood, and began barking.
    For a moment the deputy stared at the animal, debating whether to simply hit the accelerator and run over him. “Shit. No point getting blood all over the bumper,” he muttered, and stepped out of the SUV.
    Bear dropped to all fours and inched toward him, growling.
    The deputy raised his weapon and took aim. So intent was he on hitting his target, he didn’t notice the shovel swinging at the back of his head. It slammed into his skull and he staggered against the vehicle, his weapon flying into the snow.
    “Nobody shoots my dog,” said Rat. He yanked open Maura’s door. “Time to go, lady.”
    “Wait, the radio! Let me call for help!”
    “Are you
ever
going to listen to me?”
    As she scrambled out of the SUV, she saw that the deputy was on his knees and had retrieved his weapon. Just as he lifted it, the boy flew at him. The two went sprawling. Rolled over and over in the snow, wrestling for the gun.
    The explosion seemed to freeze time.
    In the sudden silence, even the dog went completely still. Slowly Rat rolled away and staggered to his feet. The front of his jacket was splattered with red. But it was not his blood.
    Maura dropped to her knees beside the deputy. He was still alive, his eyes open and wild with panic, blood fountaining from his neck. She pressed against the wound to stop the arterial gush, but already his blood soaked the snow. Already, the light was fading from his eyes.
    “Get on the radio,” she yelled at the boy. “Call for help.”
    “Didn’t mean to,” the boy whispered. “It went off by itself …”
    Gurgling sounds came from the deputy’s throat. As his last breath fled his body, so, too, did his soul. She watched his eyes darken, saw the muscles in his neck go slack. The blood that had been surging from the wound slowed to a trickle. Too stunned to move, she knelt in the trampled snow and did not hear the approaching vehicle.
    But Rat did. He yanked her up by the arm with such force that she was wrenched straight to her feet. Only then did she glimpse the pickup truck turning into the driveway.
    Rat snatched up the deputy’s weapon, just as the rifle blast slammed into the SUV.
    A second rifle blast blew out the SUV’s window, and pellets of glass stung Maura’s scalp.
    Those aren’t warning shots; he’s aiming to kill
.
    Rat took off for the trees, and she was right behind him. By the time the pickup pulled up behind the deputy’s vehicle, they were already scrambling into the woods. Maura heard a third blast of the rifle, but she did not look back. She kept her focus on Rat, who was leading them deeper into cover, loaded down with the ungainly backpack. He paused only to hand her the snowshoes. In seconds she had them strapped on.
    Then they were moving again, the boy leading the way as they headed into the wild.

J ANE STARED DOWN AT THE SPOT WHERE THE DEPUTY’S BODY HAD been found, and she tried to read the snow. The corpse had already been removed. Personnel from both the county sheriff’s office and the Wyoming Department of Criminal Investigations had searched the site, trampling the snow, and she could distinguish at least half a dozen different shoe impressions. What caught her attention, and the attention of the other investigators, were the snowshoe tracks. They led away from the dead deputy’s SUV and headed toward the woods. Moving in that same direction were a dog’s paw prints, as well as a set of boot prints—a woman’s size seven, possibly Maura’s. The trio of prints led into the woods, where the boot tracks later stopped. There a second pair of snowshoe tracks began.
    Maura