A Long December - Donald Harstad

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      He had to have been on all fours and to the right of the frame, just to get his head that low and at that angle. Almost instinctively, I fired four rounds through the old wallboards, at what I hoped was the right level to blow him to hell.

      Mistake. The overpressure from the muzzle blast of that AR-15 in the confined area of the barn brought down a shower of dust and bits of stuff from the rafters and between the floorboards above my head. The concussion made my ears ring. The only plus was a series of high-pitched screams from outside the barn, which seemed to get weaker and weaker, and then stopped altogether.

      I looked back at Sally, who was brushing the debris from her hair even as she was talking on the walkie-talkie, and giving me a dirty look. Over at Hester, who had put up her shoulder to hold the compress in place while she too tried to brush the dust from her hair and keep her handgun pointed at the old door.

      I was sure I’d killed whoever it was. It was a funny, sad kind of feeling.

      “George,” said Sally, loudly, “says he can see him now.”

      I looked quizzically at her.

      “He says the guy is running. Back to the shed. It looks like you might have hit him.” She held the walkie-talkie closer to her ear. “In the hand, maybe…”

      Damn. The funny, sad feeling left instantly, replaced by regret that I hadn’t killed him. I thought that was really interesting. So much for the humanitarian deputy.

      Sally continued to listen. She smiled. “He says it was the dumb one, and that you made him lose his hat out in the yard.”

      There was an upside yet. At least he’d left the immediate vicinity of the barn.

      “Ask him,” I said, “if he can see any others out there moving around.”

      “You don’t have to shout,” said Sally.

      I hadn’t realized that I was. The effect of the noise of the rifle, of course.

      “Luuggg!” said Hester.

      I stepped toward her, pointing my rifle at the door.

      “Nunh,” she said, and actually sounded happy. “Lugg.” She was looking at me and holding out her hand. “I gawdd id!”

      In her palm was the nail fragment that had been lodged in her cheek. She’d apparently managed to push it back out somehow, despite what had to be some considerable pain. She appeared exceptionally pleased with herself.

      She held the piece of iron up to show Sally.

      “Hey,” said Sally into the walkie-talkie. “Hester got the fragment out of her cheek… yeah. Okay, ten-four, I’ll tell ‘em.” She pointed a finger upward, toward the general area where George was in the loft. “He says, ‘Good, now put gauze in your cheek,’ and that he can’t see anybody out there anywhere moving at all.”

      “Okay.”

      Sally looked me squarely in the eye. “I can’t believe this is happening,” she said. “I just can’t believe it.”

      “Don’t feel bad. Neither can I, and I know a lot more about this case than you do.”

      “So, we got a plan?”

      I shrugged. “Wait for help. Best I can do.”

      Back to square one. Don’t get me wrong. Sometimes that can be a very good thing.

       CHAPTER 02 TUESDAY, DECEMBER 18, 2001 16:07

      I WATCHED THE BLUE AND WHITE AMBULANCE COMING TOWARD US, lights flashing, the siren silent now that they had us in sight. I hoped they wouldn’t be too irritated, seeing as how their patient was so obviously dead. It was just that we called them automatically, because we weren’t about to take the chance that an amateur diagnosis was absolutely correct. There was nothing worse, from a lawsuit standpoint, than to take the word of a bystander that somebody was dead and decide not to dispatch an ambulance. I mean, we probably should call a mortician for those who we know to be dead, but if there’s any doubt, we use the ambulances. The morticians are really nice people, but their save rate isn’t too high.

      The ambulance rolled to a stop, and the driver stuck his head out the side window. “What have you got for us, Carl?”

      It was Red Schmitt, volunteer driver and emergency medical technician, who managed his uncle’s clothing store in the real world. I’d known him for years.

      “Hey, Red! What we got is one dead, and I mean really dead, dude lying in the roadway up around the curve. There’s a bunch of tracks in the gravel right in front of you, so you gotta stop here.”

      “You bet,” he said, setting his emergency brake and opening his door. He left the engine running. Years of experience with the rigs had taught him that. “What, a tractor roll over?”

      “Nope. Not that easy. You guys just follow us on up, now.” Hester and I started walking back up around the curve with the three members of the ambulance crew walking along behind. I felt like we were leading a little parade.

      “Why are you way over there? “asked Hester.

      “Lookin’ for his other shoe in the ditch on this side. I was checking the other side on the way down.”

      I heard Red talking again, and turned around. “What you need, Red?”

      “It’s not one of the Heinman boys, is it? “He sounded really concerned.

      “No. No, it’s not.” I turned back and we led them up to a good spot about ten yards short of the body, over on the left side of the roadway. “You can take a look at him, if you have to. Just close enough so you can see he’s deceased.”

      One of the crew was Terri Biederman. She was in her thirties and had been an EMT with this crew several years ago. I hadn’t seen her since about 1995, though, when she’d left for Milwaukee. I saw from the patches on her jump suit that she’d made paramedic. Cool.

      “Mr. Houseman,” she said. “Still here, huh?”

      “Oh, yeah. How you been?”

      “Pissy, mostly.” As always, direct and to the point.

      “Glad I asked.” We’d always liked her.

      The third member of the ambulance crew was Meg Hastings, about forty, and a clerk at the Coast-to-Coast store in her real life.

      “I’ve been fine,” she said, brightly. “No complaints at all.”

      Terri stuck out her tongue.

      It wasn’t advisable that we have the ambulance personnel actually examine the body, and they did not. If they’d left a footprint or observed something closely enough to form an opinion, they’d have to testify in court. They were volunteers, and it wasn’t fair to have them waste time from their real jobs just sitting in court because some defense attorney wanted to try to trip one of them up. They did observe the body at a few feet, however, and all agreed that, whoever it was, he was most assuredly dead.

      They decided to stick around for the medical examiner, who was on his way to the scene. He might want them to move the body fairly soon, and they were more than willing to help. Besides, EMTs always liked to watch the ME at work. In the meantime, they stood off to one side, watched us, and listened to the Heinman boys tell about what they’d seen. We could have stopped that, but the Heinman boys would be telling the same story in the coffee shop within hours anyway.

      I motioned the ambulance crew over.

      “Yeah, Carl?”

      “You guys meet any cars on your way up here?”

      “Sure,” said Terri.

      “Very many?”

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