Only the distant whine of an occasional motor driving by on the two-lane highway disturbed the deathly silence of the winter night. Minutes crawled by ...one by one ... by one. He fought the chill by sipping black coffee from his thermos. Fortunately, tonight was still. Falling temperatures to endure, but no wind chill. He'd dressed in layers, but the fizzing excitement in his blood did the most to keep him alert.
Wendy's soft voice spoke in his memory: "I'll be praying for you."
Wendy, all I need are your prayers to keep me awake. Everything's in place.
He'd taken Pastor Brace's advice and let Wendy help him set up the trap. But now it was all up to him. He didn't need God to do the stakeout for him.
At last, when the luminous dial on Rodd's watch registered 11:37 p.m., he heard the distant roar of an engine coming closer. His cold-dulled senses snapped alive. A headlight flickered far back on Olson's property, then disappeared. Moments later an unlighted snowmobile slid into the dark area just beyond the glowing back-door light. Something ... a rock? ... hit the side of the house. And again.
Then with the tinkling sound of shattering glass, that light went out.
Okay. Make your move. Leave your snowmobile. Get out in the open.
In the almost total darkness, Rodd detected nothing further until he heard the battering of the door. The sweet sound he'd been waiting for.
Chapter Four
Rodd opened the Jeep door and slid out. He ran lightly over the snow, grateful that the snow-packed ground muffled the sound of his boots breaking a path through dry snow.
With his gun drawn, he paused at the edge of the garage. He waited, making certain the perpetrator entered. Legally and logistically, it would be better to make the arrest just inside the door—before the thief got his bearings.
He's inside
.
Rodd left the cover of the garage and ran toward the house.
Without warning, a pickup truck barreled off the county road. Its high-beam lights blinded Rodd, who was caught between the house and the garage. Turning, running forward blindly, Rodd sped up, trying to reach the thief before he could escape the house.
"Hey! What's going on?" a voice boomed from behind the truck's lights.
Rodd heard footsteps both in front of and behind him. When he detected a flicker of movement in front of him, he lunged forward, but the slippery material of snowmobile gear slid through his grasp.
"Hey!" the voice behind him boomed once more.
Rodd shouted, "Stop! Police!" His eyes adjusted to the light. The thief in a dark snowmobile suit, helmet, and mask slithered away to his snowmobile. Rodd raised his gun to squeeze off a warning shot. "Stop! Po—"
The intruder from behind tackled Rodd. As Rodd went down, his gun fired into the air.
The snowmobile roared into action. Rodd tried to get up, but the huge man who'd tackled him held him down. Rodd shouted, "I'm the sheriff! Didn't you hear me? Let me up!"
"The sheriff? Really? Who was the guy on the snowmobile?"
"The thief who's getting away! Let me up!"
Giant arms released Rodd. He staggered to his feet. Staring into the blackness beyond the circle of light, Rodd could detect no sight of the snowmobile, only its distant roar.
And my Jeep can't follow a snowmobile cross-country
. Rodd swallowed a curse.
Vaguely aware that lights in the house had just come on, Rodd faced his attacker. "Who are you? Don't you know the penalty for interfering with a police officer?"
"I'm Ted Olson. I don't hear so good," the huge man with a boyish face explained. "They said my dad—"
"Reach for the sky!" an aged voice shouted.
Automatically obeying, they both spun around to face a shotgun.
"Dad! It's me, Ted!"
Behind the shotgun, an old man wearing pajamas glared at them. "What're you doin' here? And who's shootin'?"
Ted answered, "Dad, it's the sheriff—"
"The sheriff! What's he doin' out here?"
With a groan, Rodd let his arms drop. The old man must be Olson, but why was he here? Why had this carefully planned stakeout turned into slapstick comedy? Another vehicle turned in off the highway and up the short road.
Now who'd come
? Rodd fought his fury.
The familiar Blazer pulled up. He couldn't believe his eyes. "Wendy! What are you doing here?"
"I just found out Olie went home." She hustled into the glow of Ted's headlights. "Olie, what are you doing home? You're not well enough to leave the care center!"
"I didn't make you no promise, girl. That nurse wouldn't stop bothering ..." Olie's voice gave out. Clutching his chest, he began to sink to his knees.
"Dad!" Ted hustled forward and caught his father.
Rodd jogged beside Wendy as she ran to the doorway. She leaned down and spoke into the old man's face. "Olie, where are your nitro pills?"
"Bedside," he gasped, shifting his weight in an attempt to rise. Then he slumped against Wendy. Rodd knelt beside her to help support Olson.
Wendy shouted, "Quick, Ted, get his pills!"
The younger man squeezed by them. His thundering footsteps echoed in the stillness.
Rodd asked, "What is it? Shouldn't we move him in?"
"Yes, this bitter cold is the worst thing for his heart and lungs."
Rodd carried the man into the house and laid him on the couch in the cluttered living room.
Wendy pulled a frayed afghan from the sofa back and put it over Olie. "Once I slip the nitro under his tongue, it will work almost immediately. It's his heart. Call for the ambulance, will you?" Holding Olie's wrist and gazing at her watch, she explained, concern plain in her voice. "When I found out Olie would be here ...that's why I had to come out. I was afraid of this. You didn't know ...I'm so sorry."
"You did what you had to do." He pulled his cell phone from his belt and speed-dialed dispatch. What else could he say? Besides, she hadn't caused this farce. It was his fault. It had never occurred to him that Olson would turn around and come home early.
I should have called the clinic and made sure
.
He couldn't stop himself from questioning Wendy. "But why'd you wait so late to come? Why didn't you call me? let me know?"
"I was on a call; then the woman's neighbor went into early labor. I delivered the baby, then took them into the clinic afterward. That's when I found out Olie had called a friend to drive him home. I came right out—"
Rodd pushed all the what-ifs behind him. The old man was as white as the snow outside claimed his attention.
Wendy glanced at the nearby staircase and called, "Ted, what's taking you so long?"
Rodd hovered close to her, ready to help her any way she needed him.
Finally appearing with a bottle of pills in his hand, the son crowded close to them. Wendy quickly took one and slipped the tablet under Olie's tongue.
Rodd wondered if he should offer to speed them to the clinic as he had Mrs. Ukkonen. "Will he be all right?"
"This should help. But I want the ambulance with their equipment to take him back in. I don't want to take any chances. Ted, put your dad's shotgun away. We don't want it just lying around here."
The big man left to do the chore he'd been given.
"Thanks, Rodd." Wendy looked up at him. "I'm so sorry. This ruined everything, didn't it?"
Hours of quiet, then total chaos had turned him inside out.
I almost had him
. But the anguish in Wendy's eyes made him speak of hope. "There will be another chance. There always is." He touched her arm. "Do you need me?"
Wendy rose and drew Rodd a step away. In a low voice, she said, "His color is coming back and he's beginning to breathe better, but I'll feel safer when we get him back to the clinic."
Breathing in the last trace of her sweet scent, he nodded.
"I agree and I won't leave until the ambulance gets here." He didn't remind her that the ambulance hadn't made it to Mrs. Ukkonen's. "I'm certified for CPR so I could help."
"I still feel awful about all this, Rodd."
He felt the urge to draw her close but ignored it. She had her duty and he had his.
"You had to come. This isn't your fault." She looked so apologetic. He squeezed her shoulder. "It'll be fine. Don't worry. I have some other tricks up my sleeve." He forced a grin. He wanted to reassure her more but knew she would continue to feel responsible. She was that kind of woman..
Wendy nodded, then turned back to her patient.
Turning away reluctantly, Rodd walked past the big man in the kitchen and out into the night. Outside, he stood for a moment. The events of the bungled stakeout ran through his mind like a crazy YouTube video. Then he turned and began to push and pull the damaged door back into some semblance of its original shape to keep out the cold and little animals seeking a warm place to nest for the night.
He thought of how he should be examining the area just outside the door for evidence. But Ted, Wendy, and he had trampled the area because of the medical emergency. The only evidence this stakeout had turned up was that this time he'd actually glimpsed the suspect in dark anonymous snowmobile gear, which masked his identity from head to toe. All Rodd knew was that the thief was of average height, perhaps a bit under six feet. The thief had slipped in and out of the yard like a shadow, leaving nothing to follow up, nothing to link up. Rodd was left with only the sensation of slippery fabric sliding through his gloved hands. He gave a final savage push and the derelict door stood propped up but leaning.
He took a step, then paused. Trying to remember something that had happened in the excitement, he went back over the sights and sounds of the incident. He heard it again. A whack. He'd heard the snowmobile hit something—maybe a tree trunk? Had the burglar broken a headlight? Would there be some physical evidence at last?
Pulling a flashlight out of his pocket, he ran to the trees, following the machine's retreating track. Then he saw it. A fresh scar near the base of an old maple. Rodd examined the area painstakingly, hoping to find pieces of a shattered headlight.
Nothing. He'd already taken a cast of the snowmobile tread at the first burglary. Fresh irritation vibrated through him. The Weasel's snowmobile would probably have a fresh dent on its front end. But he couldn't arrest everyone in the county with a dented snowmobile. Still, he'd cord this section off and examine it by daylight.
Giving up for now, he walked over to Olie's son's truck and Wendy's Blazer. He switched off their headlights and motors. He almost removed the keys, but then he remembered where he was and left them dangling from the ignitions. This isn't Milwaukee all right. There when you set up a stakeout, it didn't turn into a clown act.
He waited for the ambulance to arrive. Wendy might still need him. The wind rattled the icicles on the garage. Rodd halted. He scanned the stark landscape. The glittering stars overhead gave just enough illumination so he could glimpse the spearlike tops of statuesque pines that surrounded him. He glanced higher.
The sight above him made him pause. Overhead, wispy veils of shimmering white and pale green light undulated like ghosts dancing a ballet Northern lights. The first he'd seen this year.
Silent moments passed as he drank in the ethereal beauty. It lifted him from the mundane facts of a botched stakeout. Lifted him from the frustration of coming so close, yet failing. Lifted him from himself.
Your ways are higher than our ways, oh God
.
When he finally heard the ambulance approaching, he moved toward his Jeep to get out the yellow tape to cord off the snowmobile path. First, he'd meet the EMTs and try to help them get Olie without destroying every possible bit of evidence on their way in and out.
This stakeout had been his best chance for a quick end to the burglaries. His plan had seemed flawless, and he would have carried it out successfully—if there had been no interference.
God, just keep everybody out of my way next time. That's all I'll need.
Fletcher Cram stalked toward Rodd, where he sat at the counter in the Black Bear Cafe on Steadfast's Main Street. "So, Sheriff, heard you had quite a time last night?" Cram, an older man shaped like a telephone pole, was the local newspaper editor and the Weasel's first victim.
The newspaperman's disagreeable tone set Rodd's teeth on edge, but he couldn't blame the man for not being happy with him. It had been weeks since Cram's house had been burglarized, and Rodd hadn't been able to close the case or the subsequent ones, which Cram had titled "The Snowmobile Burglaries" in his weekly paper, The Steadfast Times. Rodd lowered his brown stoneware mug. "Can I buy you a cup of coffee?" he asked, trying to buy time.
Was it his imagination, or had every other conversation in the cafe quieted? Wendy had called him at dawn and asked him to meet her here for breakfast. Why had she insisted on meeting him in such a public place?
Cram glared at Rodd, his bushy white brows squeezed together. "Got all the coffee I want back at the office. Saw your Jeep outside and came over to find out what the hullabaloo at Olie Olson's last night was about."