Page 64 of Rage

I tilt my head to my radio. “Lois, were you able to come up with the owner of the property?”

“Still working on it, Chief.”

“Anything come back on Borntrager?”

“She’s clean. Nothing on known associates.”

I join Mona and we continue around to the other side of the garage. We’re on our way to the front when a distinct thump! sounds from inside. As if something was dropped onto the concrete floor.

Mona and I freeze, exchange puzzled looks.

“Someone inside?” she silently mouths.

I nod. We stand there a moment, unmoving, listening. A full minute passes without another sound. I start toward the front of the garage. “Painters Mill Police Department!” I call out. “We’re here for a welfare check! Can you come out and talk to us?”

I walk past the overhead door and start toward the nearest window of the house. Mona is a few feet behind me, her eyes on the overhead door. Her head is cocked as if she’s listening for movement inside.

An engine turns over and revs. I stop, spin. Mona has stopped, too. She’s on alert, feet wide, looking at the door.

“Mona!” I scream.

The overhead door explodes.

Pieces of wood fly. Mona swivels to run. She’s not fast enough. A vehicle bursts from inside the garage. Wild acceleration. Engine screaming. The front end strikes her hip. Her feet leave the ground. She cartwheels in the air, arms and legs flailing. The vehicle speeds past, motor whining like a jet engine.

Mona hits the ground with a sickening thump and rolls. I charge to her, hit my radio. “Ten-thirty-three!” I scream. Officer in trouble. “Send an ambulance!”

In the periphery of my vision, I see the vehicle fishtail down the driveway. The tires spew gravel and dust. I glance over my shoulder, see the driver go left, take note of the description. Dark sedan. Blue. Midsize. Older.

I drop to my knees beside Mona. “Be still. Don’t move.”

“I’m … okay.”

“Where are you hurt?”

Groaning, she rolls onto her back. “Everywhere.”

Her face is deathly pale in the bright sunlight. She’s squinting. I see sweat on her cheeks. Face screwed up in pain. Vaguely, I’m aware of the vehicle pulling away, engine groaning. Getting away. High rate of speed.

“Hip hurts,” she groans.

“Back? Neck?”

She raises her head, gets her elbows beneath her. “I think I’m okay.”

“Lie still,” I snap.

“To hell with that.” She sits up, her eyes zeroing in on the road where the vehicle has already disappeared. “Chief, I’m fine. Go get that son of a bitch.”

“Ambulance is on the way.”

“I got my radio! Go!”

Then I’m on my feet, sprinting to the Explorer. “Ten-eighty!” I shout. Chase in progress. I rip open the door, slide behind the wheel, jab the ignition button. “Eastbound. Lost Creek Road. Dark sedan. Older. Midsize.”

I jam the Explorer into drive. My wheels spew gravel as I fishtail 180 degrees. “High rate of speed.”

I hit the gas. The Explorer tears across the yard, bounces through the ditch. The wheels bark when they hit asphalt. I cut the wheel. The engine groans when I stomp the gas. “Ten-seven-eight.” Need assistance.