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He met Josh’s eyes in the mirror again. “Where did you go this morning? Where were you when—”
Josh’s eyes went wide. “Look out!”
Matt turned back to the road a moment before Eisa Heaton half stumbled, half ran out between houses, tripped on the curb, and fell in front of his cruiser. He slammed down the brakes and squealed to a stop, expecting a thump but hearing nothing.
“Jesus!”
He jerked the gearshift into park and got out, nearly slipping as he rounded the front of the car.
Eisa Heaton was on her back, trying to get back on her feet, a terrified look on her bloody face.
Matt got an arm around her shoulders and tried to steady her. “Are you okay? Did I hit you?”
Her palms were scuffed from the asphalt, but aside from that, she didn’t have any visible cuts or bruises. Eisa clenched a hand around her throat, tried to speak, and couldn’t, then started jabbing at the air, pointing frantically.
Norman Heaton rounded the Peterson house, stomped through the center of his neighbor’s prized yellow roses, and started across the lawn at a fast clip. He was holding something. It looked like a hammer.
Trembling, Eisa pulled out of Matt’s arms. She managed two steps before falling again.
“Don’t listen to her, Matt!” Norman shouted. “Don’t listen to a goddamn word she says!” He raised the hammer and smacked it down against his palm.
The last time Matt had seen Norman Heaton, the man needed a cane to climb the steps at the front of the VFW hall. The fingers of his right hand were twisted with arthritis, and he made this wheezing sound when he breathed; the by-product of smoking a pack a day most his life. He had no cane now, his fingers looked just fine, and his breathing was more akin to a locomotive steaming up a hill than someone with third-stage emphysema.
Matt stood, got in front of Eisa, and spread his arms. “Norman, what the hell are you doing? Drop the hammer!”
The man didn’t stop. Instead, his pace quickened and he brought the hammer down against his palm again. “You best stay out of this, Matt. It’s family business. Doesn’t concern you.”
Not a hammer at all. A meat tenderizer.
Matt grabbed the taser from his belt and fumbled the safety off. “Norman, stop! Don’t come any closer!”
Norman struck his palm again with a wet slap, and Matt realized he’d hit his own hand with the tenderizer so many times the flesh had turned to pulp. The side of his face was torn up, too. Part of his cheek flapped against his jowl. Yet, the man was smiling as he stepped off the curb to the pavement and brought the tenderizer back up. “You best move, you little—”
Matt pulled the trigger.
The taser jerked in his hand and let out a softpop. Two probes shot out the front and embedded in Norman’s shirt. That was followed by a high-pitched crackle as electricity raced down the thin wires from the gun to the probes.
Norman’s body went rigid. His head jerked up and his fingers splayed out. The meat tenderizer clattered to the ground amoment before Norman did. Matt held the trigger down until the charge fully dispersed, watching the man flop around in a stiff, electrically induced seizure. When it ended, Norman was finally still.
Matt dropped the taser and crouched, checked for a pulse—found one, and let out a breath. Although rare, tasers could induce cardiac events in those who were predisposed, and Norman Heaton was far from the prime of his life. Not only was he breathing, but he was already coming back around.Was he on something?
“Don’t move, Norman. You’ll be just fine.” Matt reached around his back for his handcuffs, found the leather case on his belt empty, and remembered they were on Josh. He had another pair in the glove box. “Stay on the ground.”
He ran back to his cruiser and had just opened the passenger door when he heard a raspy grunt.
Eisa Heaton had retrieved the tenderizer and was standing over her husband, glaring down at him. She brought the mallet down on his head with a sickening crunch.
20
Sheriff Ellie
SHERIFF ELLIE PRITCHET DIALEDthe sheriff’s office in Jackson for the third time, and for the third time, the call rang twice and disconnected.Call Failedappeared on the display. She tossed her phone over to the passenger seat, muttering “Damn it all.”
A few years back, some telecom company approached the town select board and offered to put up four more towers to help supplement the one up on Mount Washington. The board shot them down, caving to a handful of locals who felt the towers wouldn’t blend with the town’s quaint aesthetics. The same group of people complained when the Bend’s first traffic light went up on Main and Court Avenue next to town square, petitioned to keep out the fast-food chains, and generally shit on progress of any sort. Well, maybe a good week or two of spotty service would bring them around.
She tried her radio again. “Sally, you there?”
Nothing but a rush of static.
