Page 52 of Rage

“Why not?”

“Because you’re a cop.” Straightening, she throws another look at the door. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bother me again,” she says, and leaves the patio area.

I watch her cross to the door and go through. An instant before the door closes, the strawberry blonde sticks her head out and looks at me.

“Check the trailer,” she whispers, and then she’s gone.

CHAPTER 13

I leave the break area and look out across the rear parking lot. Despite the late hour, the area is congested with vehicles coming and going and revelers walking into and out of the club. I shudder to think how many of these individuals are driving drunk tonight.

Check the trailer.

The woman’s words echo in my head as I walk to the edge of the lot. The metal building surrounded by the chain-link fence is to my left. The trailer in question is dead ahead. The porch light is on. There are no vehicles parked nearby, but the windows glow yellow with light. Not for the first time, I wonder why the trailer is there. Does the local township zoning permit it? Is it some kind of extension of the club? An office or break area?

I tilt my head to my radio and hail T.J. “What’s your twenty?”

“Just now crossing the interstate,” he says, referring to Interstate 77. “Five minutes out.”

“I’m here at the club,” I say. “Back lot.”

“Roger that.”

I start across the grass at a brisk pace. I’m midway to the trailer when a bout of lightheadedness descends. I attribute the uncharacteristic sensation to my having missed dinner or maybe I’m dehydrated due to the heat. Brushing it off, I continue on.

Even if I find Cassidy, I’m well aware that she may not be able or willing to help. While Samuel Yutzy may have thought enough of her to keep her photo next to his bed, it’s possible they weren’t close or even friends. She may have no idea what happened to him or what was going on in his life. At the moment, it’s all I’ve got, so I keep going. I’ve already decided that if she’s not in the trailer, T.J. and I will do one more walk through in the club. If we don’t find her there, we’ll call it a night and start fresh in the morning.

I’m twenty feet away from the RV. I see insects flying around the globe of the porch light. I’m about to take the metal stairs to the front door when a wave of vertigo assails me with so much power that I miss the first step and stagger right. Startled, I stand there a moment and take a couple of deep breaths. I want to blame the dizziness on the unrelenting heat, too little sleep, or too many hours without food. But I don’t think any of those things are the culprit and a tinge of worry lodges in my gut.

Turning, I go back to the stairs, grasp the rail, and start up them. The first step seems to tilt beneath my foot, throwing me off-balance. I stumble back, alarm bells ringing hard in my ears. What the hell is going on? Why can’t I make it up those three small steps?

Not trusting my balance, I stand there a moment, baffled and worried. My face burns with heat. My mouth is dry. I press my hands to my cheeks, find the skin hot to the touch and moist with sweat. I’m thinking about going back into the club for water when another wave of dizziness sends me sideways. This time my feet tangle and I go down on my left hip.

“Son of a bitch,” I hear myself hiss.

What’s wrong with me? The question pounds my brain, but I have no answer. I feel as if I’ve just stepped off some wild carnival ride and my equilibrium is going haywire.

The knowledge that I’m in trouble lands like a rock in my gut. I mentally retrace everything I’ve eaten and drunk in the last hours. I think of the coffee I consumed a few minutes ago. The bartender having it ready even before I asked …

It takes every bit of strength I possess to get to my feet. The moment I’m upright, another surge of dizziness sends me sideways. I fight it, brace my legs, and manage to stay on my feet. Bending at the hip, I put my hands on my knees and gulp air. I can hear myself breathing hard. Fear, I realize, because I’m pretty damn sure someone slipped something into my drink …

The trailer is just a few feet away. The club is farther. Radio, I think. T.J. is only a couple of minutes out. Tilting my head, I reach for my shoulder mike, but miss. It’s as if my hand weighs fifty pounds. I look down at the mike, reach for it again. My fingers brush the button.

I’m fumbling with the button when in the periphery of my vision, I see movement. I glance left, see a figure moving toward me. Male. Mere feet away. Not T.J. Friend or foe?

“I’m a cop.” To my horror, my words slur.

He rushes me. Before I can react, he shoves me with so much force that I reel backward. Arms flailing, I stumble and land on my back hard enough to knock the breath from my lungs.

“Don’t touch that motherfuckin’ radio,” he growls.

I try to sit up, but he puts his foot on my chest and shoves me back. He’s standing over me, looking around. His face in the shadows. I don’t recognize him. I don’t know who he is.

I reach for my .38, but my reflexes are skewed. He drops to his knees beside me. I don’t see the blow coming. It lands squarely in the center of my face. Pain zings up my sinuses. My ears begin to ring. I feel the warmth of blood on my lips and chin. In my peripheral vision, I see my attacker yank my .38 from its holster. Quickly, he empties the cylinder, then tosses the bullets and gun.

“I’m a cop.” My words slur. I can’t speak. My brain is muddled. I can barely conjure a coherent thought.

I lift my legs to kick him, but I’m not fast enough. He leans to me, grasps my arm, and yanks it so that I’m flipped onto my stomach. I’ve barely gotten my arms beneath me when a hand slams down on the back of my neck. My collar is yanked tight. The next thing I know I’m being dragged by my scruff, facedown, my legs and feet scrabbling.