she hoped he’d listen to her and do as she said. She then stepped across the barn’s threshold into shadow.
She immediately stepped to the side so she wouldn’t be backlight by the light filtering in through the open doorway. The barn’s tin roof kept the light out, but the planks, like the large double doors, had warped over the years, creating numerous spaces for sunlight to penetrate. The interior of the barn remained dim and shadowy, but there was enough light that Joanne’s eyes quickly began to adjust. She swept her gaze from right to left then back again. She saw the bulk of an old tractor, a jumble of gardening tools, a rototiller, and the like. Evidently Bill Deveraux hadn’t kept any animals in the barn and had only used it for equipment storage. Joanne didn’t like it. Too many places to hide in here.
Joanne unclipped the flashlight from her belt, thumbed the switch to activate it, and held her breath as she shined the beam where the mass of junk was the thickest. If there was anyone in here and they were armed, she’d just made herself the perfect target. There was another reason she held her breath, though: so she could listen better. She strained to hear the slightest sound that would indicate someone was hiding in the barn — a foot sliding across the dirt floor, the rustle of clothing as someone shifted position, the too-loud respiration of excited breathing. But she heard nothing.
“Cross County Sheriff’s Department!” she called out. “Anyone in here?” She waited for a count of ten as she panned the flashlight beam around the barn. Still nothing.
One side of the barn was relatively clear of clutter, and as the flashlight beam passed over it, Joanne had the impression that a shadowy form was standing there. A thrill of adrenaline surged through her, and she swung the beam back as she drew her 9 mm from its holster.
But no one was there.
“Sheriff’s Department!” she repeated. “Come out with your hands in the air!”
She moved the beam rapidly back and forth, searching for whoever it was because goddamnit, she’d seen someone! But once again the light revealed no one, and Joanne knew that there wasn’t enough cover on that side of the barn to allow someone to hide so swiftly and silently.
The noise she’d heard was probably an animal of some sort — a raccoon or a feral cat — that had been spooked when she’d opened the door. Whatever it was had most likely fled the barn and taken refuge in the high grass outside. She was angry at herself for allowing her imagination to run away with her like a damned rookie. It was one thing to react cautiously when one heard a noise, but quite another to imagine seeing someone that wasn’t there. Even worse, the figure had resembled Carl Coulter: stocky, thick-necked, shaved head, black muscle shirt, and ratty jeans. It was the way he’d looked when Sheriff Manchester and Dale had caught him right here in this very place. She knew, because she’d seen the photos Dale had taken. In the pictures, Carl’s hands had been coated with blood, for he’d just finished working on the corpse of his latest — and as it would turn out last — victim, Marianne Hendrickson.
Had her imaginary Carl had bloody hands? She’d tried to remember, but the vision, if that was the right word for it, had lasted only a fraction of a second. She decided it didn’t really matter. It hadn’t been real, so who cared about specifics? Still, she thought maybe she
had
seen smears of crimson on his hands. Red, wet, and fresh.
She replaced her weapon in its holster. “All right, Dale. You can come in.”
Dale entered and walked over to join her. “All clear, I presume.”
“I make no guarantees that there aren’t any bats hanging from the rafters, but I’m fairly confident there are no murderers hiding in the shadows.” She decided not to mention her “vision” of Carl to Dale. Not only because it was embarrassing, but because he had a tendency to
She immediately stepped to the side so she wouldn’t be backlight by the light filtering in through the open doorway. The barn’s tin roof kept the light out, but the planks, like the large double doors, had warped over the years, creating numerous spaces for sunlight to penetrate. The interior of the barn remained dim and shadowy, but there was enough light that Joanne’s eyes quickly began to adjust. She swept her gaze from right to left then back again. She saw the bulk of an old tractor, a jumble of gardening tools, a rototiller, and the like. Evidently Bill Deveraux hadn’t kept any animals in the barn and had only used it for equipment storage. Joanne didn’t like it. Too many places to hide in here.
Joanne unclipped the flashlight from her belt, thumbed the switch to activate it, and held her breath as she shined the beam where the mass of junk was the thickest. If there was anyone in here and they were armed, she’d just made herself the perfect target. There was another reason she held her breath, though: so she could listen better. She strained to hear the slightest sound that would indicate someone was hiding in the barn — a foot sliding across the dirt floor, the rustle of clothing as someone shifted position, the too-loud respiration of excited breathing. But she heard nothing.
“Cross County Sheriff’s Department!” she called out. “Anyone in here?” She waited for a count of ten as she panned the flashlight beam around the barn. Still nothing.
One side of the barn was relatively clear of clutter, and as the flashlight beam passed over it, Joanne had the impression that a shadowy form was standing there. A thrill of adrenaline surged through her, and she swung the beam back as she drew her 9 mm from its holster.
But no one was there.
“Sheriff’s Department!” she repeated. “Come out with your hands in the air!”
She moved the beam rapidly back and forth, searching for whoever it was because goddamnit, she’d seen someone! But once again the light revealed no one, and Joanne knew that there wasn’t enough cover on that side of the barn to allow someone to hide so swiftly and silently.
The noise she’d heard was probably an animal of some sort — a raccoon or a feral cat — that had been spooked when she’d opened the door. Whatever it was had most likely fled the barn and taken refuge in the high grass outside. She was angry at herself for allowing her imagination to run away with her like a damned rookie. It was one thing to react cautiously when one heard a noise, but quite another to imagine seeing someone that wasn’t there. Even worse, the figure had resembled Carl Coulter: stocky, thick-necked, shaved head, black muscle shirt, and ratty jeans. It was the way he’d looked when Sheriff Manchester and Dale had caught him right here in this very place. She knew, because she’d seen the photos Dale had taken. In the pictures, Carl’s hands had been coated with blood, for he’d just finished working on the corpse of his latest — and as it would turn out last — victim, Marianne Hendrickson.
Had her imaginary Carl had bloody hands? She’d tried to remember, but the vision, if that was the right word for it, had lasted only a fraction of a second. She decided it didn’t really matter. It hadn’t been real, so who cared about specifics? Still, she thought maybe she
had
seen smears of crimson on his hands. Red, wet, and fresh.
She replaced her weapon in its holster. “All right, Dale. You can come in.”
Dale entered and walked over to join her. “All clear, I presume.”
“I make no guarantees that there aren’t any bats hanging from the rafters, but I’m fairly confident there are no murderers hiding in the shadows.” She decided not to mention her “vision” of Carl to Dale. Not only because it was embarrassing, but because he had a tendency to
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