Mean Streak

“Hayes, you—”

“I’ll handle them.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“We got here in time to head Jeff off,” Grange said as he wheeled the SUV into the suite hotel parking lot. “His car’s still here.”

Jack relayed that to Hayes, who said, “Save me a piece of him,” and then he disconnected.

Jack was still cursing him as he scrambled out of the backseat.

“I’ll check with our guy.” Grange struck out at a jog toward an unmarked vehicle on the other side of the parking lot.

Knight climbed out of the SUV’s passenger side. He sounded winded. “Still no answer on Emory’s phone. Got squad cars converging on the Floyds’ place, but this goddamn weather…” He didn’t need to elaborate on the additional hazards it imposed.

Jack said, “Well, it’ll hold up Hayes, too. That’s good.”

During this exchange, they’d been walking purposefully toward the door of the suite. Grange joined them there. “Deputy says Jeff had company. A lady.”

Jack said, “Lady? Emory?”

“No. The deputy didn’t recognize her.”

“Alice Butler?”

“She’d be my guess,” Knight said. He pounded on the door. “Jeff? Open up.”

They waited. Nothing.

“Jeff!” Knight called. “This isn’t a courtesy call. We have a warrant.”

After several more seconds and nothing happened, Knight said, “I’ve had it with this shitbag.” He took his pistol from its holster and shot out the lock.

No one was on the lower floor. Grange headed for the stairs, pistol drawn and aimed at the partially open door at the top. “Give it up, Jeff.”

When he reached the door, he stood aside and pushed it open. Nothing happened, so he stepped into the room. Jack slipped in behind the detective. Knight brought up the rear, huffing.

Later Jack would recall him saying, “Aw, now that’s just ugly.”

* * *

Emory hurt all over. It hurt even to breathe.

The foggy air felt full of something invisible but sharp, like ice crystals or glass shards. She was underdressed. The raw cold stung her face where the skin was exposed. It made her eyes water, requiring her to blink constantly to keep the tears from blurring her vision and obscuring her path.

A stitch had developed in her side. It clawed continually, grabbed viciously. The stress fracture in her right foot was sending shooting pains up into her shin.

But owning the pain, running through it, overcoming it, was a matter of self-will and discipline. She’d been told she possessed both. In abundance. To a fault. But this was what all the difficult training was for. She could do this. She had to.

Push on, Emory. Place one foot in front of the other. Eat up the distance one yard at a time.

How much farther to go?

God, please not much farther.

Refueled by determination and fear of failure, she picked up her pace.

Then, from the deep shadows of the encroaching woods came a rustling sound, followed by a shift of air directly behind her. Her heart clutched with a foreboding of disaster to