Page 40 of Rage

Ivan lurched back so fast, his feet tangled and he went down on his backside. Spooked, he scrambled to his feet, went to his son, and motioned to the rope. “Climb up,” he said urgently. “Hurry. Both of you. Go!”

Neither boy hesitated.

“Run as fast as you can to Mr. McIntire’s place. Call the police. Hurry.” He looked back at the barrel and shuddered. “Tell them something very bad has happened.”

It’s not yet eight A.M. and the temperature displayed on my dashboard already registers eighty-two degrees. Before heading in to the station, I decided to swing by Aaron Shetler’s residence on the outside chance he’s there. There’s no vehicle in the driveway. No lights on inside that I can see.

Sighing, I pick up my radio and hail Dispatch. “I’m ten-twenty-three,” I say, letting them know I’ve arrived on scene.

“Roger that,” comes Margaret’s voice.

“Is Glock in?” I ask, wondering about the warrant.

“On his way.”

“Tell him to meet me here. I’m going to take a quick look around.”

The small bungalow is set on a generous-size lot. Across the gravel parking area is a small detached garage. I pull up between the house and garage and kill the engine. A few yards to my left, a loafing shed is filled with firewood. A chain-link fence encircles the backyard. The grass is uncut and yellowed from the heat.

I get out and take the narrow sidewalk around to the front door. I open the screen and knock. “Painters Mill Police Department!” I call out. “Aaron Shetler? Come on out and talk to me!”

I wait a full minute, listening for movement inside, but no one comes.

No one home, Kate.

I walk around to the rear of the house and knock, but no one answers.

“Where the hell are you?” I mutter.

I’m on my way back to the Explorer when on impulse I cross to the garage. Both overhead doors are closed. There are no windows; I can’t tell if there’s a vehicle inside. I take a beaten-down path to the man door at the side. I’m about to try the knob when I spot a smear of something dark on the jamb. Not oil or dirt. It looks like dried blood.

I step back, glance down at the ground, and notice droplets of more in the dirt, on the concrete, and on the threshold. Not fresh, but dark and dry with age. Pulling my duty gloves from my belt, I slip them on and try the knob. Locked.

“Shit.”

Normally, in a situation like this I wouldn’t be overly concerned. Aaron Shetler is a farm kid, after all. He works with his hands. A cut or injury isn’t out of the ordinary. But in light of his best friend having been found murdered and dismembered, my mind takes me into the darker nooks and crannies. Is it possible something happened to Aaron Shetler, too? Or is this someone else’s blood? Samuel Yutzy’s? Has Shetler gone on the run because of something he did?

I don’t have the warrant in hand yet. That said, blood qualifies as exigent circumstances. Those two things run through my mind as I study the door. It’s an old thing with worn hinges and a cheap lock. The wood frame is warped and dry, the paint peeling away.

I try the door again, bump it with my shoulder. It doesn’t budge. I back up a few steps and land a solid kick next to the knob. The door shudders, wood creaking.

“Painters Mill Police!” I call out.

I land another kick, the heel of my boot landing just above the knob. The door flies open, swings wide, and bangs against the wall. I pull out my .38 and step inside.

“Aaron Shetler! Police department! Show yourself!”

There’s a vehicle inside. I hit the light switch with my left hand. I take in a dozen things at once. An air compressor against the wall. A rollaway toolbox. Workbench. I smell the blood before I see it. A sick copper smell that’s gone rancid in the heat. Hairs on my back standing up, eyes everywhere, I stride to the overhead door, spot the side lock, kick it open. Bending, I lift the door. Light pours in. The pool of blood is the diameter of a car tire. Sticky and black against the concrete. Flies everywhere.

Keenly aware that I’m likely standing in a crime scene, I exit through the overhead door and back away. Only when I’m outside do I realize I’d been holding my breath.

I call Tomasetti first. “I’ve got blood at Aaron Shetler’s place,” I say without preamble. “A lot of it.”

“You alone?”

“Glock’s on his way.”

He growls. “Keep your eyes open, Chief. I’ll get a crime scene van out there ASAP.”