A Glimpse of Evil (11 page)

“Shoot him!”
Rodriguez hissed.

“I don’t know how!” I mouthed.

“You don’t need to do anything more than point and shoot,” Rodriguez growled through clenched teeth. “He’s going to come out here any second to make sure we’re dead. When he gets close, take him out.”

I had never shot a gun in my life. And, up to that moment, I’d never even held one. At home, whenever Dutch set his gun down, I avoided it like the plague. The truth is, firearms scare the sheep outta me.

But this was life or death, and as terrified as I was of the big black object in my shaking hand, I was even more afraid of those approaching footsteps.

“Hold the bottom of the handle with your left palm to steady your right,” Rodriguez whispered quickly. “Then, just stare down the sight and point at his chest. Fire as many shots as you can. Once you start, don’t stop.”

Just like Rodriguez had predicted, outside we could hear the distinct sounds of slow moving footsteps crunching on gravel. Darrell was heading to finish us off.

The footsteps on the gravel got closer and I tried to hold the gun steady in my sweaty trembling hand. I didn’t want to take the shot too early, but if I waited too long, I’d never get the round off.

Crunch . . . crunch . . . crunch,
came the footsteps.

I looked to Rodriguez for courage. He leveled his gaze at me and nodded. Then, ever so carefully I twisted and slid over Rodriguez’s waist, angling myself toward the driver’s-side window, which had been completely blown out. Keeping my head and torso low and wedged up against the steering wheel, I tried to hold the awkward position. I leveled the gun, closed one eye, and stared down the sight, and when a blurry shape came into view just a few feet away, I squeezed the trigger.

The gun reacted like a small bomb in my hand. It recoiled and something shot out the side and hit the dashboard before striking the side of my neck. Whatever hit my neck was hot and I winced, but I was so focused on following Rodriguez’s instructions to keep firing that I didn’t pay attention to anything else but firing the gun over and over.

I shot again, and again, and again, and each time the gun bucked in my hands and metal casings pinged off the dashboard, striking me in the arm, cheek, and neck.

My nostrils filled with the sharp acrid scent of gun-powder and my mouth went completely dry. I pulled that trigger until the magazine was empty, and kept pulling it reflexively until I felt Rodriguez’s hand on the muzzle.

“Did you get him?” he asked urgently.

I was breathing so hard that I had a difficult time forming words, and my brain didn’t want to catch up to the massive input on all my senses. “Yes,” I finally managed, recalling that blurred shape in front of the gun sight recoil backward two or three times as I shot at it. I also recalled the loud
whump
as the blurry shape hit the ground. “But don’t make me look.”

Rodriguez groaned. He was clearly in pain. “You have to,” he told me. “If he’s still moving, you have to take him out.”

I clutched the gun with both hands. “I’m out of bullets.”

“There’s another clip in the glove box,” he said. “Get it out and I’ll help you reload.”

I twisted again in the seat and slid back to the passenger side, keeping low. It was difficult to open the compartment and extract the extra magazine in the cramped space, but I managed okay. I wiped my hands on my pants and followed Rodriguez’s instructions to change the clip, but it was much more difficult than I thought it’d be, and all the while I kept imagining that at any moment Darrell would pop up and take us both out.

Finally I got the new magazine in. “Slide the top back to load the chamber,” he said.

I didn’t know what he meant, and when I looked at him, I saw how pale he was and how much blood was leaking onto the seat. Rodriguez seemed to recognize I didn’t understand, because his left hand came up again and landed heavily on the top of the gun. “Pull this back,” he instructed. I pulled, but it wouldn’t move. “Pull harder,” he urged, his words jumbling together like he was tipsy.

I gripped the top firmly and pulled hard. The top of the muzzle slid back, then zipped closed. “It’s ready to shoot,” Rodriguez told me. “But be careful.” As he said this, his eyes fluttered. I knew he was about to lose consciousness and I had to do something quickly to make sure we were safe before we could call for help.

Sliding over Rodriguez and keeping my body low, I inched toward the window. Holding the gun with both hands again, I carefully eased my head over the top of the door window and looked out.

Darrell lay flat on his back, his eyes wide open in surprise. There were three big holes in his chest and one more in his abdomen. The giant revolver he’d fired at us was lying on the ground about three feet away from him.

The reality of what had happened and what I’d done hit me like a freight train. I began to tremble in earnest and tears welled, then dribbled down my cheeks. “Did you get him?” Rodriguez asked.

I moved away from the window and back to the wounded agent. “He’s dead,” I said, and I couldn’t help it—a small sob came out with the words.

Rodriguez’s eyes fluttered. “Call for backup,” he mumbled before he passed out.

What felt like an eternity later I found myself sitting on a gurney enclosed by a green curtain. Someone emitted a small moan in the bay next to mine and I drew my legs up to hug them and close my eyes. In my arm an IV dripped saline and glucose while I was treated for shock.

I was having a hard time keeping it together. Rodriguez had been rushed into surgery and I’d collapsed as I’d gotten out of the ambulance. It was the oddest thing—my knees had just buckled and I’d hit the pavement hard.

Someone—probably an EMT—had lifted me up and helped me inside. The sheriff followed close behind me, and one was right now stationed on the other side of that curtain.

Rodriguez hadn’t regained consciousness when the sheriff had shown up, and I wasn’t sure they believed my story, but I could hardly blame them. Until Rodriguez woke up . . . if he woke up . . . I was the only witness to what had gone down.

Abruptly the curtain was pulled aside and a man in a yellow dress shirt and green tie said, “You Abigail Cooper?”

I nodded dully.

His head disappeared again around the curtain, but I heard him say, “She’s in here, Agents.”

Footsteps approached and the curtain was summarily ripped aside and Dutch’s pale face, creased with worry, appeared. “Jesus!” he said when he took one look at me before he moved quickly to my gurney only to scoop me up into his arms and hug me tightly.

The waterworks began again in earnest and I clung to him for dear life. I was so overwhelmed by all the emotions that had been storming through me that all I could do was cry, and cry.

My sweetheart held on to me, rocking us gently while stroking my hair and whispering, “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m here, dollface. Everything’s going to be all right.”

Eventually I calmed down and I was able to take a breath without shuddering. Dutch cupped my ears and tipped my head back to look earnestly into my eyes. He seemed to want to say something to me, but his own eyes were moist and I was amazed that he seemed so emotional. Instantly I wanted to reassure him. “I’m fine,” I whispered.

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against mine. “What was Rodriguez thinking?” he growled. “I’m gonna kill that son of a bitch when he gets out of surgery.”

“It wasn’t his fault, Dutch,” I said, gripping his wrists. “Really. We were there just to check a few facts from the old owner, who wasn’t even a suspect. We never dreamed we’d be in trouble until we found the oil drums and the owner’s son started shooting at us.”

Dutch backed his head off mine and his features were hard again. He’d put on his cop face. “Start from the beginning,” he ordered.

Behind him another voice said, “And don’t leave anything out.”

I looked past Dutch to see Harrison, his shirt damp and pressed against his chest. “What’d you do, run here?” I asked him, and somehow, making a wisecrack helped more than anything to ease the terrible tension gripping my insides.

“We were worried,” Harrison said, pointing to Dutch. “And I tend to sweat when I’m worried.”

The corner of my mouth lifted. “Attractive,” I said drolly. “That Candice is one lucky lady.”

Dutch made a sound like a half cough, half laugh, and when I looked back at him, I had some hope that I could in fact bounce back from this terrible day.

Forty-five minutes later I’d given them the whole story about all the events leading up to my arrival at the hospital. I’d been interrupted only once, when a deputy from the crime scene had arrived to let us know that they’d found two decomposing bodies in the two oil barrels behind Clady’s.

“The vics are Wendy Hayes and Tyler Harvin,” I told Harrison, jumping slightly ahead in my story. “They’re part of a missing-persons case Rodriguez and his partner had worked when he was with the Dallas bureau.”

We also learned that when his father was still alive and running the shop, Darrell did most of the heavy lifting and drove the tow truck. While Russell was indeed a sweet old man who’d never hurt a fly, his son was a different character altogether.

Darrell had a record of domestic abuse. He’d put his wife in the hospital more than a few times and she finally left him in 2006, when he’d done two years in the can for assaulting her.

But since he’d gotten out of prison in 2008, he’d stayed low under the radar working at his father’s garage until Russell died, and Darrell took it over. Why had he killed the teens? Maybe it was because he found Wendy attractive, and wanted to rape her, but needed her boyfriend out of the way. Maybe it was for another reason altogether. The only thing I knew for certain was that sociopaths don’t always need a reason—they just need an opportunity to cause harm.

Once the nurse freed me from the IV, I sat with Dutch and Harrison in the waiting room until we heard news from the surgeon operating on Rodriguez. I’d been given a mild sedative, which was starting to kick in, and it was making me drowsy. Still, I was really surprised when Candice burst in through the automatic doors and dashed straight for me.

Just like Dutch had done, she pulled me up to her and hugged me fiercely. “I got the message an hour ago that you’d been in a shoot-out and were in a Waco hospital. I drove like a maniac to get here. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Can I do anything?”

She said this all in a rush and she was squeezing me so tightly that I could barely take a breath big enough to answer her. “I’m fine,” I reassured her, but she only tightened her grip. “Okay, so my ribs hurt,” I added with a squeak.

Candice immediately released me and placed her hands gently on my side. “Where? Which ones? Has a doctor seen you? Have they taken X-rays?”

Harrison stood and moved over to us. “Hey,” he said softly. “She’s fine. Just a few abrasions and she’s been treated for shock.”

Candice acted as if he didn’t exist. “Where does it hurt, honey?” she asked me again.

I blinked at her. She didn’t get that I’d tried to make a joke. “I’m fine. Honest, Candice. I’m okay.”

My friend stepped back to give me some space, but then seemed to rethink it and reached forward to clutch my hand in hers. She then closed her eyes and swallowed hard. “Don’t you
ever
do something like that again,” she whispered. “I nearly had a heart attack on I-Thirty-five.”

I shuffled forward and hugged her this time. After hearing her take a nice deep breath, I coaxed her to the chairs and noticed that she made sure to sit on the other side of Dutch, which was three chairs away from Harrison.

I saw the muscles in Brice’s jaw bunch, but he wisely chose not to push the issue.

Just as we all sat down, the surgeon came out to tell us that Agent Rodriguez came through the surgery just fine. He’d lost a fair amount of blood, but after several transfusions his vitals were all good.

“He was shot with a hollow point,” the doctor told us. “It did some damage, nicked his lung and took out some muscle tissue, but there was nothing we couldn’t repair or any permanent injury done to the shoulder or any of the surrounding tendons, so with some good physical therapy he should make a full recovery.”

I felt another huge chunk of tension leave me and exhaustion began to take over. I leaned against Dutch and held his hand. “Can we go home soon?” I asked.

Harrison spoke before Dutch had a chance. “Take the car,” he said. “I’ll wait here until I can take Rodriguez’s statement.”

“I can drive you,” Candice said quickly, and I realized she didn’t want to get stuck taking Harrison home.

If I’d had even an ounce of energy more, I would have told her she was acting like an idiot, but energy was something I was in short supply of. In fact, as the three of us headed out to her car, I couldn’t get my legs to work right and I kept tripping. Dutch must have noticed because he scooped me up and carried me the rest of the way. I think I even fell asleep before he loaded me into the car.

 

The next day Dutch gave me the news over breakfast. “You’re going to have to meet with Internal Affairs this morning.”

“Internal Affairs?” I gasped. “Why do I have to meet with Internal Affairs?”

Dutch took a deep breath and let it out slowly, something he always did before telling me news he thought I wasn’t going to like. “Abby,” he began, “you have to understand. You shot a man yesterday.”

I recoiled as if he’d physically slapped me. “In self-defense!”

He held up his hand in a stop motion. “I’m well aware,” he said calmly. “This is just procedure. You’ll go in and give your statement to them—”

“I already gave my statement!”

Dutch took another deep breath and let it out. “Yes,” he said. “We got that. So all you’ll have to do is repeat what you told us, and they’ll investigate to make sure the shooting was justified.”