Old World Murder - Kathleen Ernst [102]
That hubris almost cracked Roelke’s self-control. Then the dispatcher’s voice crackled from the radio on his belt. “George 220.”
When Roelke had learned to fly, his instructor had once summarized a pilot’s priorities during difficult situations: aviate, navigate, communicate. It still made sense. Roelke ignored the radio.
“Joel.” Chloe’s voice was shaky. “What is it you want?”
Joel? Roelke flipped through his mental stack of index cards: Stanley, Byron, Ralph. Who the hell was Joel?
Joel’s breath came in little heaves. “I want you to understand that Nika had nothing to do with this.”
“Um … OK.” She sounded half frightened, half bewildered.
“George 220,” dispatch called again. Roelke eyed Joel, trying to decide if he could make a move.
“No radio!” Joel barked. Then, “It was Emil.”
Who the hell was Emil? Roelke took another step.
“Emil? He—he died young,” Chloe said.
“No, he didn’t. But he married a black woman and changed his last name to Austin.”
“You mean … Austin?” she stammered. “Austin?”
“George 220!”
“Don’t touch the damn radio!” Joel snapped at Roelke.
Roelke didn’t. It occurred to him that if he didn’t respond, dispatch would sound the tones. And that alarm might be the only distraction he could get.
Joel stared at Roelke, still speaking to Chloe. “I wrote that old bitch a letter. She—Berget Lundquist—wrote me back. It was hateful.”
“Hateful …?” Chloe faltered. “So you decided to steal the ale bowl?”
“Officer McKenna!” dispatch blared.
“Rupert said—” Joel ended the statement with a dry hacking wheeze. “Never mind.”
Rupert? Who the fuck was Rupert? Roelke slid one foot a little closer to Joel, shifted his weight.
The radio crackled its final warning: “All county units stand by for the alert tones.”
Roelke held his breath, tensing for the spring.
“Chloe—please don’t fire Nika because of me. She doesn’t deserve—”
The radio on Roelke’s belt let loose with an ear-piercing scream. Roelke launched. Something whirling and metallic stabbed his shoulder as he grabbed Joel’s wrist with his left hand, and clenched the revolver wheel with his right. Roelke jammed Joel’s hand back, getting the barrel pointed away from him and Chloe. The thrust broke Joel’s grasp. His trigger finger too, most likely. Then Roelke brought his right knee up hard into Joel’s crotch.
Joel fell to his knees with a howl of pain. But Chloe was diving at them.
“Lie on your belly, you piece of shit!” Roelke bellowed at Joel, as he emptied the chamber of Joel’s gun. He tossed the gun out of reach and whipped his own from its holster. “Face down! Stretch your arms out from your sides!”
Joel uncurled slowly, cringing and whimpering. Roelke kicked the sheep shears away. Chloe scooped the ale bowl up from the ground.
“Chloe,” Roelke growled, “go get in your car. Lock all the doors.” She scurried away with the bowl hugged to her chest.
Keeping his gun trained on Joel, Roelke pulled his handcuffs free. Joel wasn’t moving but Roelke knelt on his back, instead of the ground, while he jerked Joel’s wrists into the cuffs. He yanked the younger man to his feet and dragged him, stumbling, around the log house to the squad car.
With Joel locked into the back seat, Roelke pulled the radio from his belt. “George 220, 10-78.” After providing directions, he stood panting. Trying to come down. Jesus.
Two minutes later, wailing sirens announced backup. A county car roared up the site road and skidded into the farm driveway behind his squad. Deputy Marge Bandacek emerged. “McKenna!” she barked. “What you got?”
“That asshole was holding a woman at gunpoint when I arrived,” Roelke said. “I’m taking him in.”
Marge frowned. “It’s my jurisdiction.”
“I have charges on him in the village,” Roelke lied. “I’ve got a municipal warrant. His gun’s back beyond the house, though. I tossed it. You could look for it.” Marge obeyed without argument.
Roelke found Chloe sitting in her car, clutching the wooden bowl. When he knocked on the window she jumped, then unlocked the doors. He slid into the passenger seat.
“Is Joel all right?” She