Even Steven (39 page)

Homer stopped the vehicle just long enough to get his bearings and then, without a word, started driving again.

The place looked empty as they pulled to a stop out front, thirty feet from the front porch. No lights burned anywhere. Homer kept his high beams trained on the front steps so they could see where they walked, and he pulled his long-handled Maglite from its clamp on the edge of the front seat, right next to his twelve-gauge shot gun-or riot gun as they still called it.

"Ready?" Homer asked.

Tim answered by opening his door and stepping out into the cold air. A single breath brought the heavy odor of freshly cut grass, and Tim drew his weapon. Someone was home, all right. They just wanted it to look as if they weren't. Off to his left, across the wide expanse of the cruiser's hood, he saw a spark of reflected headlight off the barrel of Homer's monstrous revolver.

"Three fifty-seven?" Tim asked, referring to the caliber of the trooper's cannon.

Homer shook his head. "Forty-four. If I shoot somebody, I want 'em to stay shot."

Tim pulled his six-inch mini-Maglite from its loop in his nylon utility belt and twisted it on with his mouth. If this were a full-scale assault, he'd have clamped it under the barrel of his automatic, but as it was, he wanted to be able to point a light in somebody's face without threatening to blow his head off. Nerves aside, they weren't even sure this guy they were visiting had done anything wrong. It was an important point to remember. On the other hand, he could have been the shooter, for all they knew.

Homer and Tim approached the porch steps shoulder to shoulder, both of them in a half-crouch, their weapons tucked out of sight behind their thighs.

"We don't look too paranoid, do we?" Homer whispered. There's a difference between paranoia and caution, Lieutenant."

Homer sighed and shook his head. "How about you lighten up and take about a pound of pull off the trigger?"

Tim Burrows had no desire to lighten the moment. He had no desire to do anything but concentrate on the job that lay ahead. If any single mistake killed the most cops at crime scenes, it was a lapse in concentration.

Homer paused at the base of the steps, so Tim decided to go first. He'd only made it to the second riser when LaRue interrupted his concentration a second time.

'To, Burrows," Homer said, stooping down on his haunches. "Take a look at this."

Tim didn't move, but instead grumbled, "What is it?"

"Come and see for yourself, you prick. It's what we country boys call evidence." Homer exaggerated his accent for maximum effect.

Keeping his eyes focused on the front door, Tim retraced his steps, then looked down just long enough to see what had so captured LaRue's attention. It was a footprint, embedded in the soft, muddy grass at the base of the steps.

"Look familiar?" Homer taunted.

Sure enough, the print looked identical to the one they'd found in the woods, where someone had stood and watched a murder. Just that quickly, Tim Burrows knew that he'd found the critical link to the case. Samuel Stanns was either a killer or a material witness. Either way, this was a big moment. He could already see the look on Russell Coates's face when he found out.

Tim started back up the stairs, this time with his weapon out front, leading the way.

"What are you doing?" Homer whispered.

"I'm going to make an arrest."

"The hell you are! Remember wondering a few minutes ago about backup? Well, we need it now."

"No, we don't." Tim's mind conjured images of a dozen potbellied deputies pouring down that driveway and swarming all over the place, getting in the way and clamoring for credit at a time when the career spotlight was rightfully his. "It's not your call. This is a federal operation, on which you are merely assisting. So, are you going to assist or not?"

"What is wrong with you, Burrows? Quit being such a tight ass. Let me call for assistance, and we'll wait here and keep an eye on things. It's not like the guy can run off without us seeing him."

"No, but he can dig in and build himself a hell of a defensive position. Turn this into another Ruby Ridge. You want that?"

"I'd prefer it to getting capped by some guy who knows the inside of his house a hell of a lot better than I do."

"Jesus, LaRue, there might not even be anybody in there."

"Then there's no harm in waiting, is there?" Homer turned and walked back toward his cruiser. "I'm calling."

"I'm going in." Tim climbed to the porch.

Pausing at the open car door, Homer called to Burrows in a harsh stage whisper, "Would you hold on just a second?" No, he wouldn't. Just one call for help. Five seconds on the radio. Why was that such a big deal to this asshole? These were great questions for the reports that would follow this incident-and, oh, you betcha, there'd be some kick-ass reports when Homer was done. For right now, though, Burrows was by God going ahead with his plan, and Homer couldn't abandon him.

"Goddamn fucking know-it-all feds," he grumbled as he brought the .44 to arm's length and hurried up the stairs after him.

With Burrows already standing on the knob side of the door, Homer took the hinge side, both of them standing with their backs pressed against the front wall. Tim shot a glance to LaRue, who said, "This is your game, buddy. I'm just here to take notes."

Shifting his weapon from his right hand to his left, Tim balled his free hand into a fist and hammered on the wooden door. After about fifteen seconds, when no one answered, he did it again, this time calling out at the top of his voice, "Samuel Stanns, this is the FBI. Open the door."

Another ten seconds passed.

"I'm breaking the door," Tim announced at a whisper.

Homer scowled. "You got a warrant I don't see?"

Tim glared at LaRue as if the trooper were an idiot. "I don't need a warrant when I've got a footprint. That's what we call probable cause." So you're just gonna crash on in there-" Homer saw the glare and shut up. "Suit yourself."

Tim took a step back and balanced himself for a mighty kick. "Cover me."

"Why don't you try the knob?" "What?"

"The doorknob. Why don't you try the doorknob? Maybe it's not even locked."

Tim tried his best to look annoyed, but mostly looked embarrassed for not having thought of that himself. He stepped in closer and put his hand on the knob. Sure enough, it turned. He saw Homer's big grin but refused to acknowledge it.

"Now, cover me, will you?"

Homer's .44 was up and ready. "You going in fast or slow?"

"Watch me." Tim settled himself, took a deep breath, then in one smooth motion, shoved the door open and swung his weapon down to confront whoever might be lying in wait for him.

From the corner of Homer's eye, the muzzle flash looked like a camera strobe in the darkened foyer, and the noise of the blast was deafening. He watched, horrified, as Special Agent Tim Burrows of the FBI bent at the waist, pirouetted once in place, then stumbled backward down the porch steps, leaving both his pistol and his flashlight on the wooden decking, amidst blood spatters and a heavy crimson gob of tissue.

Homer yelled at the sound of the shot and launched himself away from the wall. A lifelong hunter, Homer knew a shotgun when he heard it, and this was a big one. That thin wood siding wouldn't even slow down a double-aught pellet. Scrambling for the porch rail, he fired blindly over his shoulder, deafening himself with the heavy concussions of his own weapon. He didn't care about hitting anything; he just wanted the gunman to duck long enough for him to find decent cover.

In his mind, Homer saw himself vaulting the rail and landing feet-first in the little garden out front, but he'd seen too many years and too many pounds to pull it off. It felt like forever as he slung his right leg over the top of the rail, then sort of rolled himself over the rest of the way on his belly. As his left leg cleared, he dropped like a sack, landing heavily on his right side. Five feet away, Tim Burrows lay sprawled on his back at the foot of the stairs, the left side of his camouflaged BDUs soaked black and shiny in the beam of Homer's Maglite.

The agent's mouth opened and closed, and his lips worked as if trying to say something, but all Homer could hear was the high-pitched screech of his bruised eardrums as his fingers wrestled a speed loader

out of the leather pouch in his belt. His hands suddenly felt too big for his arms, and they felt disconnected from his brain. The simple reload-ing procedure that he'd practiced thousands of times on the shooting range felt foreign to him, and he found himself trying to reload the six-shot cylinder without emptying it first.

He cursed, unable to hear his own voice, as he slapped the eject rod and dumped the spent casings into the dirt. Reloaded now, he threw two more quick shots toward the front door and scrambled on his hands and knees to where Burrows lay, still trying to move, but apparently unable to make his muscles work in unison.

"I got you, Burrows," Homer said, finally able to hear again. "You've been hit, buddy. You've been hit. And we're out in the fucking open here." Homer grabbed a fistful of the agent's shirt collar and pulled. Burrows wailed, in obvious agony, but Homer didn't have time for any of that. "I know it hurts," he said as soothingly as he could, "but we've got to get you under cover."

The ground was more gravel that grass, and the sharp stones dug at Homer's hands and knees, drawing blood from both as he dragged Tim around to the back of his cruiser, into the shadow of the trunk. "Okay, buddy," Homer said hoarsely, "we got you under cover now. You're safe now. You're safe." He dared a peek over the trunk lid, and when nobody took a shot at him, he ducked down again. "You just wait here, okay? I've got to get some help."

Grabbing Homer's sleeve, Tim grunted, "No."

Homer fought the instinctive urge to pull away and instead leaned down closer. "I'm not leaving you, pal, okay? I'm just going up to the front to call this in. That's it. And to get us some more firepower. Then I'll be right back. I'll never be more than ten yards away."

The look he saw in Burrows's face was unlike anything he'd ever seen. Desperate pain combined with desperate fear. Tim's mouth worked some more, but to no effect.

then held it in his hand for a moment. "I gotta get you a chopper, kid. I need to get you flown out of here." With that, Homer laid Tim's hand back on his chest and duck-walked down the passenger side of the cruiser toward the front, keeping the vehicle between himself and the shooter the whole time. He pulled open the door and was instantly awash in the cast of the dome light. On a night as dark as this, he might as well have been onstage. Three swings of his heavy steel Maglite took care of the problem. If it had taken more than five, he would have shot it out.

Relieved to be back in the blackness, he found the microphone on the dash and pulled it free. "Four seven seven to control!" he shouted at a whisper, trying his best to sound collected on the air. "Signal thirteen, shots fired, officer down!"

He heard some distant static, then the familiar voice in the speakers. "All units hold your traffic," the dispatcher commanded to other units that Homer couldn't hear. "Unit declaring signal thirteen, repeat."

"Four seven seven," Homer repeated, this time much more slowly and distinctly, and he gave the rural route address and approximate map grid number. "Shots have been fired, and I've got one adult male badly wounded. Control, do you copy?"

"Ten-four, four seven seven. We've got help on the way. Life Flight will be airborne in two minutes, and ground units are being dispatched as we speak."

"ETA?"

"As fast as they can get there, four seven seven. Stand by and I'll advise."

Homer sighed. "Negative, control. I need to pull back to a more secure location. I will not be at my vehicle, and the portable's useless up here." One of the great frustrations of the new UHF radios the state police had purchased five years ago.

The dispatcher paused before transmitting, "Good luck, four seven seven."

He could use some luck. He could also use some manpower. Goddammit. He let the microphone drop to the floor mat while he reached across the center console to pull his keys from the ignition and fished in the dark for the one that would unlock the shotgun. He found it on the second try, and as the short-barrelled twelve-gauge fell into his hands, he pulled the portable radio from its charger as well.

Since the initial exchange, the gunman hadn't fired a single shot, and Homer didn't know what to make of it. It was possible, he supposed, that those rounds he'd fired into the open door had actually hit something, but that would make the guy the unluckiest son of a bitch ever to pick up a gun. The only other reasonable alternatives were variations on the theme of the bad guy moving for a better angle from which to finish what he'd started.

Homer returned to his wounded partner. To, Burrows, you still with me?" Homer worked hard to keep a light, nothing-to-worry-about lilt in his tone.

"Where the hell have you been?" the agent grunted. "I feel like my guts are on fire."

"I had to make a phone call. I got the cavalry started."

"How long?"

Homer dropped a beat before answering. "About five minutes," he lied. "About five minutes and we're set." Even in the darkness, he could see the frightening smear of blood. This guy was leaking out fast. "Tell you what," he went on, fishing his keys back out of his pocket. "I've got a first-aid kit here in the trunk. Let's see if I can patch you up a little while we wait."