Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [101]
Chloe shoved up from the ground with every ounce of strength, lunging for the gun. As she leapt, a sharp pain tore through her right thigh.
“Chloe!” The shout was distant—from perhaps the front of the house. A man’s voice.
Joel jerked the gun away just before Chloe landed on the bottom fence board. “Stay where you are!” he hissed. He ran to the front of the breezeway and pressed his body against the log wall.
“Chloe!” Louder now.
One of the hogs tore at Chloe’s shoe and she climbed high enough to straddle the top fence board. “Roelke, be careful!” she yelled. “He’s got a gun!”
“Shut up!” Joel snapped. He coughed again, then walked from the breezeway. “Stop right there! You take one more step and I kill her!”
The Ossabaw gave the fence one last angry smack before trotting away. Chloe’s heart was pounding, her chest heaving. Her leg was on fire.
But something unexpected glinted in her peripheral vision. A pair of sheep shears was hanging on the back wall of the stable. They were old-style, a curve of metal that ended in two heavy, sharp points. One of the farmers shearing sheep in the breezeway earlier that spring had probably hung them there over the hog pen, out of sight of curious young visitors, and forgotten them. Maybe, maybe, she could reach them.
____
Roelke’s nerves were taut when he edged around the back corner of the house. When he heard Chloe’s shouted warning, he pulled his gun.
A young man separated himself from the shadows of a log barn. “Stop right there!” he cried. “You take one more step and I kill her!” A wooden bowl dangled from his left hand. Something powdery on his face and chest gave him a weird, clownish appearance. But there was nothing clownish about the revolver in his other hand. The gun was pointed toward the ground.
Roelke froze, feet planted firm, both hands supporting his own revolver as he took aim. “Drop the gun!” he bellowed. “You raise that gun and I’ll shoot you in the head! Drop it!”
The young man’s hand twitched. His finger was on the trigger. “Oh, God,” he said. “Oh, Jesus.”
Roelke was acutely aware of his own right finger, still pressed against his revolver’s barrel. But the guy didn’t aim. They stared at each other. Roelke felt every second pulsing by. This wasn’t working. Chloe was somewhere nearby. And because he had no business driving onto the Old World Wisconsin grounds, Roelke had not radioed his location in to dispatch.
“OK,” he said. “Let’s talk about this. Nobody needs to get hurt.” He edged a little closer. “Put the gun down. All you need to do is put the gun down.”
“Just—just shut up. Oh, God. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I—I have to think.”
Roelke took another tiny step. “Come on, buddy. Help me out. I’m trying to make things easier for you. Put the gun down.”
The young man stared down at the gun in his hand as if he didn’t know how it got there. He still held the barrel pointed down. But he shook his head with a last gasp of bravado. “I’ll only let Chloe go after you get in your car and drive away.”
Roelke’s nerves winched even tighter. “Keep me instead. They’ll give you whatever you want if you have a cop.”
The guy swallowed—he was close enough that Roelke saw the bob of his Adam’s apple. “Chloe,” the younger man called. “Come out here.”
“No!” Roelke yelled. Too late. Chloe crept from the breezeway. Her face looked white. Black mud coated her hands and lower legs. The blood staining one thigh of her tan chinos was a rusty red.
Roelke’s anger crystallized into hot rage, sharp and clear. This bastard shot Chloe, he thought. I’m going to fucking plug him. “Chloe, get back behind the wall.”
“Don’t do it!” the guy cried. And Chloe stayed rooted where she was, about a yard behind and to the right of the assailant.
Roelke shoved down surging adrenalin. “You need to let Chloe walk away,” he said, edging still closer. “Look, I’ll put my gun away.” He forced himself to holster his revolver.
“I need—” The young man coughed, his chest heaving. “I need to