Page 94 of Fallen

Dear God.

I lift my head. Spit mud. “Skid!”

The wire on my wrists snaps. I twist my head around, look up to see Ben Bontrager. His back is to me. Loretta is nowhere in sight. I twist my hands and the remaining wire falls away.

I lie still. Facedown. Listening. My mind racing. Even with my hands free, if I try to climb out, one of them will bludgeon me and force me back down. I don’t have much time. In the periphery of my vision, I see Ben move away, leaving my line of sight. No sign of Loretta, but I hear her speaking to him.

I jump to my feet, look around wildly. For a foothold. A weapon. Anything I can use. A three-foot length of rebar lies on the ground. I snatch it up, spot the jut of a broken cinder block. Heart pounding, I set my boot on the cinder block and heave myself up.

I hear the whoosh of air before I see the shovel. I glance left, see Ben swing it like a nine iron. But his angle is bad. I flatten myself against the earthen wall, feel the gust against the back of my head. I throw my leg over the top of the pit, scramble out. I roll, get to my knees, swing the rebar with all my might. Steel clangs against his shin with such force that I nearly lose my grip.

A howl tears from his throat. He drops the shovel. Goes down on one knee. Face contorted. But his eyes are on me. Enraged and filled with intent as he rises.

I scramble to my feet, kick his shovel away. Gripping the rebar with both hands, I swing it with all my might. The steel clocks him across the chest. He dances sideways, bends, snatches up the shovel, comes at me.

“Drop it! Do it now!”

Skid.

I swivel, catch sight of my officer rushing toward us, weapon drawn, moving fast.

Ben Bontrager swings the shovel at me. I pivot, reel backward. Trip on a clod of dirt. Lose my balance. I land on my backside.

The shovel arcs 180 degrees. A heavy hitter smacking in a home run, inches above my head.

“Drop it!” Skid screams. “Get your hands up! Now!”

A dozen things happen at once. I see Loretta rush Skid from behind, shovel raised over her head. “Behind you!” I shout.

Skid spins, fires once as the shovel comes down on his shoulder. The Amish woman drops. The shovel clatters to the ground. Cursing, Skid lowers his weapon, goes to his knees, injured.

Ben Bontrager charges Skid. Shovel at the ready. Footfalls heavy and pounding. A roar pouring from his mouth.

“Get on the ground! Show me your hands!” Pickles lumbers toward us. Ten yards away. An old man’s run. But his weapon is trained and steady on Bontrager. Authority rings in his voice. “Do not move or I will put you down! Do you understand me? Get the hell down!”

For a moment, I think Bontrager isn’t going to comply. That he’s going to force Pickles to fire his weapon. But the Amish man’s stride falters. A couple of feet from his wife, he stops. He looks down at her. The shovel clatters to the ground. He goes to his knees and raises both hands.

Pickles goes to him, works the handcuffs from the compartment on his belt. “Get down. On your face.” He sets his knee on the Amish man’s back. “Do not move.”

Bontrager doesn’t resist. Doesn’t seem to care as Pickles snaps the cuffs onto his wrists and pats him down. The Amish man never takes his eyes off his wife.

I get to my feet. My legs are still shaking as I cross to where Loretta lies. I’m aware of Skid standing a few feet away, speaking into his shoulder mike, requesting an ambulance. Of Pickles standing over Ben Bontrager.

I kneel next to her. She’s lying on her side, one arm stretched over her head, the other bent with her hand pressed against her abdomen. I can see the rise and fall of her chest. Her eyes open and blinking.

“You’re going to be all right,” I tell her.

Wincing, she shifts, rolls onto her back. “He shot me.”

“I know,” I say. “Be still. An ambulance is on the way.”

Her hand falls away from her abdomen as if she no longer has the strength to keep it there. I see a hole the size of my thumb in the fabric of her dress, just below her rib cage. Blood runs from the wound, soaking the fabric and pooling on the ground.

“Here you go, Chief.”

I look up to see Skid approach, his first aid kit in hand. He sets it on the ground, then passes me a sterile pack of gauze and a pair of disposable gloves.

“You okay?” I ask him.