The Heirloom Murders - Kathleen Ernst [100]
With sickening clarity Chloe understood that she was staring at the creature that had left Dellyn torn and bleeding on the floor. The dog snapped and snarled and lunged as Chloe jabbed ineffectually with the eight-foot-long tool. The hot kettle rim burned against her back. The fire beneath the kettle scorched her ankles. Steam basted her shirt, her hair. Her arms already ached.
Don’t show fear, she told herself. But it was way, way too late for that.
_____
“I’m gonna kick your fucking ass,” Lester Odell promised from the back seat, as Roelke drove him to the Waukesha hospital. “I’ll shoot you while you’re sleeping.”
Roelke gritted his teeth. Was this a little joke from the cosmos? The drunk he’d wanted to talk, hadn’t. Now this one wouldn’t shut up.
Worse, Odell had to compete with an equally persistent voice whispering in Roelke’s head: Chloe wouldn’t have left a message like that if it wasn’t important. Roelke still couldn’t imagine what might have prompted the call, but it nagged at him.
A moment of blissful silence was cut short by a loud thump. Although cuffed, Odell had managed to undo his seat belt. He lay now on the seat, his feet raised to make another try at kicking out the side window.
Roelke made sure the road was clear. Then he hit the brakes.
Lester Odell bounced onto the floor. “You’re trying to kill me!” he howled, as he flopped fish-like back onto the seat.
“Sir, your safety is my top priority,” Roelke assured him. “If you’d kicked that window out, you might have gotten cut on the glass. I couldn’t let that happen.”
Roelke had radioed ahead that Odell was combative and refusing the state-mandated blood draw. When he reached the ER lot, the goon squad was waiting—five of the biggest, burliest deputies in the county. “He’s all yours,” Roelke told them. Once inside, they disappeared behind a curtain to wait for a nurse.
Roelke paced the hall. Simon Sabatola was drinking himself into oblivion at Roxie’s Roost. There was no reason to be concerned about Chloe. She and Dellyn were visiting some old people—hardly a reason to call out the New Glarus police.
Even if he wanted to, he didn’t know where to send them.
But Chloe’s phone message bothered him. He needed to do something. And he’d be busy with Mr. Lester Odell and paperwork for hours.
One solution presented itself. No way, Roelke growled silently. He paced again. Tried to come up with Plan B. Couldn’t.
Damn it all to hell. “Hey,” he called to the nearest deputy. “I need to make a phone call.”
Roelke fished several dimes from his pocket and fed the waiting room’s pay phone. He felt ready to whack the receiver against his forehead a few times. He’d been acting like a nutjob for a while now, but this was beyond reason.
Then he thought about Chloe and Dellyn. He started dialing.
It took several calls, actually, but he finally got through to the person he was trying to reach. “This is Officer Roelke McKenna of the Eagle Police Department,” he said, jaw muscles clenched so tightly he had to force out the words. “I need your help.”
_____
The German shepherd trotted back and forth in front of Chloe, ears back, ready to spring the moment she lowered the harp. Was he rabid? Or had somebody trained the dog to attack, and then let him slip away from home? More important, was Dellyn still alive? She hadn’t moved, even when the dog growled inches away from her. And—oh God, had the dog attacked Frieda and Martine too? Maybe they lay somewhere outside, bleeding to death like Dellyn.
“I can’t do this,” Chloe whimpered. Tears stung her eyes. Her throat was raw. Her muscles trembled. Soon her arms would stop obeying commands. It occurred to her that the dog knew that. He could get past the curd harp right now if he wanted to. He seemed to be toying with her, waiting for her to tire.
Chloe scanned the tiny building. The shepherd was between her and the main door. The side door was closed … but even if it wasn’t,