Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

Cutter found Blodgett leaning against the back wall of the condo, one leg drawn up under him like a gimpy horse, as if he couldn’t put weight on it. The deputy waved them off, pointing to the line of trees across the open, park-like area behind the building.

“Slavich went after Shiloh Watts!” he yelled. “The two males went that way!”

Cutter heard Nancy put out the call over the radio for more officers, setting up a perimeter. Lola fell in beside him as they ran. She glanced up when one of the K9 units who’d been doing paperwork at the station attached himself to the call.

“That’s Blitz,” she said as she ran. Her panting breaths punctuated her words. “That dog… scares the crap outta me. We’ll have to pull off when he shows up…”

“Yep,” Cutter said, preferring not to waste his breath. “Eyes up while I watch the tracks.”

“Copy,” Lola said. She was half a foot shorter than Cutter’s six-three, but long legged and in good enough shape to match him stride for stride.

It was all too easy to become fixated during a foot pursuit and forget that the person on the run might just decide to wait around the corner and hit you in the face with a rock – or blow your brains out if he or she happened to have a gun. Cutter wanted Lola’s mind on what was ahead, not a Belgian Malinois that was still ten minutes away.

This would all be over in ten minutes – one way or another.

The frost on the grass grew heavier as they neared the cold sink of the depression that contained Chester Creek. Slippery, but easy tracking. Two sets of prints, both large, darted left as soon as they reached the tree line. The long strides between each track told Cutter the men were still running. A deep divot in the leafy muck and two handprints showed where one of the runners had stumbled. He’d hit a knee, caught himself, and scrambled to his feet. Muted morning light filtered through gnarled, bone-like branches of white birch. The gurgling water looked like quicksilver in a stream of fog.

The nights were still cold enough to coat the rocks along the bank with a thin layer of ice. In a matter of weeks, snow in the high country would begin to melt. The water would rise and the creek would widen, but for now, it flowed and eddied lazily around and between snot-slick rocks.

The strides began to grow smaller and the tracks zigged and zagged, cutting through the trees as if looking for the best route. Lola shot a glance at Cutter when both sets of footprints ended at the water’s edge. The creek was no more than eight or nine feet across, just wide enough to make it un-jumpable without getting wet in the numbingly cold water.

Lola skidded to a stop in the half-frozen duff, scanning the snow-covered bank on the far side. A jogging trail ran along the water, beyond that, the backyard of a faded cedar house, a tall wood fence, and a rusted swing set were visible through the trees.

“I don’t see any tracks,” Lola said. Her voice was concerned, but controlled. She’d already caught her breath. “So they didn’t cross.”

Cutter stooped quickly to pick up a fist-size rock, then tossed it into the crystal-clear water where the tracks disappeared.

“This way,” he said, turning to trot downstream, cutting in and out of the brush without explanation. Lola was learning to track. This would be a good lesson, but explaining would come later. He wanted to press the runners, force them to stay on the move. Cutter and Lola were loaded with tactical gear, but wore heavy boots and warm, loose clothing meant for rough work. From the looks of the sign, one of the men had fled wearing shower shoes. The other wore a pair of sneakers with wallowing, flopping tracks that said they probably weren’t even tied. Cutter doubted either of the fugitives even had time to grab a jacket. Good. Exertion and adrenaline would warm them for a time, but exhaustion would kick in soon. Cutter would let fatigue and cold do the heavy lifting when he caught up with them.

Runners – good guys and bad – almost always had to make a choice between quick or quiet. Fortunately, sloshing and floundering through calf-deep water was much louder than trotting along the frosty duff on the bank.

Cutter heard the two outlaws before they came into view – a series of barked shouts, heavy splashing, the snap of breaking branches. He shot a glance to his left, watched Lola hurdle a rotten birch log like a doe. He gestured forward with a knife hand to make sure she’d heard it too. She gave him a thumbs-up.

Neither drew their pistols – running with a gun in your hand was a recipe for disaster. Both did, however, habitually drop an elbow to make certain their weapons were still in the holsters where they’d left them.

Clipped shouts, angry, then frightened, then angry again, sifted through the tangle of brush above the noise of gurgling water. A low growl, long and feral, slowed Cutter a half step. It was the sound of a cornered animal.

He raised his hand, signaling Lola to slow, straining to hear details and decipher what was going on.

Lola matched his pace.

A sudden scream clipped into a yelp, spurring Cutter forward. Five quick strides through the brush and he realized his fears. McGrone and Gorman had run headlong into a teenage couple out on a chilly morning ride on fat-tired bikes. Both wore orange West High Eagles sweatshirts. The boy, probably sixteen or seventeen, was on the ground, a knee bent oddly behind him. Bronco Gorman already straddled this one’s bike. The outlaw’s gray cotton sweats were sodden to mid-thigh from splashing his way down Chester Creek. He wore no shirt, and he had to clutch his wet sweats