Read Online Eleven Days by Donald Harstad - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Donald Harstad
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was where he worked, it was worth just being there for a few minutes.
I left the machine shed with the impression that McGuire, while a farmer, wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about it.
I went toward the house, walking around the corner toward the door we had entered two nights ago. I saw something reflecting in the beam of my flashlight, something affixed to the door. I stepped closer. An expensive-looking crucifix, wooden with what appeared to be a silver Christ. It had been nailed to the door.
I went back to the car, for my camera, and to call Mike as a witness.
“Comm, have Mike work his way out here, would you? Not urgent, but within the next few minutes, if he can.”
“10–4.”
“And I’ll be out of the car again.”
I rummaged around in my backseat, got out my camera, attached the flash, and went back to the door to photograph the crucifix. I was holding the camera to my eye, with my flashlight tucked under my arm and pointing at the door, to let me see well enough to focus the camera,when I heard somebody running on the back side of the house. Sounded like they were running on wet carpet.
Well, when the clarion call sounds, you always think you’ll be ready. Here I was with my wife’s camera, fumbling for a good grip on my flashlight, thundering around the corner of the house, not able to draw my gun without dropping the light or letting go of the camera, and totally unprepared to tackle a suspect. But I was there. Just in time to see a figure disappear into the pine trees that formed a windbreak on the west side of the house. Running at an angle, which would bring him or her out either on the road or at the next farm. And running fast.
I ran back to my car.
“Comm, I have, I see, a subject, on foot, running west, get five, up here, I’ll be in pursuit …” I was breathing pretty hard.
“Three, 10–9?”
Repeat. Breathing harder than I thought. I put the camera in the car, got behind the wheel, and picked up the mike again.
“Comm, I have a suspect on foot, running northwest from the residence. Get five here quick.”
“10–4, three.”
I drove back down the lane, almost losing control on the little hill. The lane was greasy. Got out to the gravel, turned left, and went down the road about three hundred yards, to a high point where I would be able to see fairly far. I turned on my spotlight, pointing it back toward the McGuire lane and lighting along the roadside fence line. I pointed the car about forty-five degrees right, shining the headlights into the area the suspect was heading. I got out of the car, locked it up, and went across the barbed-wire fence and into the field. I ran down into the field, out of the light from my car, and then squatted down to listen.
The field was very rough, with the remains of last year’s cornstalks sticking up about a foot or so. Hard to travel through, and I should be able to hear someone runningpretty easily. I was hoping I had got to my vantage point well ahead of the suspect, and he would think I was in my car. I waited.
“Three, five?”
I always keep the mike-speaker of my walkie-talkie clipped on my left shoulder. You can keep the volume down that way and still hear. Unfortunately, in situations like this one, it always startles you.
“Go ahead, five.”
“Three, five?”
Great. With a walkie-talkie, in open terrain, it is not unusual for you to be able to receive far better than you transmit. The case now. He couldn’t hear me, and I couldn’t get to the car to use the main radio.
“Comm, three?” Softly, because I didn’t want my voice to carry into the field.
“Three? Your signal is breaking, try again.”
“Tell five to come west of the house, and he’ll see my car. I’m out in a field to the left.”
“Three, try again?”
Shit. I stood up, unclipped the walkie-talkie from my belt, and held it up over my head, increasing the antenna height.
“Comm, you copy?”
“10–4, three.”
“Okay, comm,
I left the machine shed with the impression that McGuire, while a farmer, wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about it.
I went toward the house, walking around the corner toward the door we had entered two nights ago. I saw something reflecting in the beam of my flashlight, something affixed to the door. I stepped closer. An expensive-looking crucifix, wooden with what appeared to be a silver Christ. It had been nailed to the door.
I went back to the car, for my camera, and to call Mike as a witness.
“Comm, have Mike work his way out here, would you? Not urgent, but within the next few minutes, if he can.”
“10–4.”
“And I’ll be out of the car again.”
I rummaged around in my backseat, got out my camera, attached the flash, and went back to the door to photograph the crucifix. I was holding the camera to my eye, with my flashlight tucked under my arm and pointing at the door, to let me see well enough to focus the camera,when I heard somebody running on the back side of the house. Sounded like they were running on wet carpet.
Well, when the clarion call sounds, you always think you’ll be ready. Here I was with my wife’s camera, fumbling for a good grip on my flashlight, thundering around the corner of the house, not able to draw my gun without dropping the light or letting go of the camera, and totally unprepared to tackle a suspect. But I was there. Just in time to see a figure disappear into the pine trees that formed a windbreak on the west side of the house. Running at an angle, which would bring him or her out either on the road or at the next farm. And running fast.
I ran back to my car.
“Comm, I have, I see, a subject, on foot, running west, get five, up here, I’ll be in pursuit …” I was breathing pretty hard.
“Three, 10–9?”
Repeat. Breathing harder than I thought. I put the camera in the car, got behind the wheel, and picked up the mike again.
“Comm, I have a suspect on foot, running northwest from the residence. Get five here quick.”
“10–4, three.”
I drove back down the lane, almost losing control on the little hill. The lane was greasy. Got out to the gravel, turned left, and went down the road about three hundred yards, to a high point where I would be able to see fairly far. I turned on my spotlight, pointing it back toward the McGuire lane and lighting along the roadside fence line. I pointed the car about forty-five degrees right, shining the headlights into the area the suspect was heading. I got out of the car, locked it up, and went across the barbed-wire fence and into the field. I ran down into the field, out of the light from my car, and then squatted down to listen.
The field was very rough, with the remains of last year’s cornstalks sticking up about a foot or so. Hard to travel through, and I should be able to hear someone runningpretty easily. I was hoping I had got to my vantage point well ahead of the suspect, and he would think I was in my car. I waited.
“Three, five?”
I always keep the mike-speaker of my walkie-talkie clipped on my left shoulder. You can keep the volume down that way and still hear. Unfortunately, in situations like this one, it always startles you.
“Go ahead, five.”
“Three, five?”
Great. With a walkie-talkie, in open terrain, it is not unusual for you to be able to receive far better than you transmit. The case now. He couldn’t hear me, and I couldn’t get to the car to use the main radio.
“Comm, three?” Softly, because I didn’t want my voice to carry into the field.
“Three? Your signal is breaking, try again.”
“Tell five to come west of the house, and he’ll see my car. I’m out in a field to the left.”
“Three, try again?”
Shit. I stood up, unclipped the walkie-talkie from my belt, and held it up over my head, increasing the antenna height.
“Comm, you copy?”
“10–4, three.”
“Okay, comm,
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