Chapter 52
Conor flew along the unfamiliar Somerset County roads, around bends, up and down hills, over lumps and potholes and at least one creek crossing.
A sense of urgency was growing tighter and tighter in his chest with every mile, every minute.
He’d have gone faster if he hadn’t had to pay attention to the MDT (Mobile Data Terminal) mounted on the dashboard of his cruiser, where a map overlay indicated his position and was providing turn-by-turn cues along the highlighted “shortest route” to the address he’d been given of the Bratcher farm.
He was double-teaming, using the Maps app on his iPhone as well because it provided voice navigation, and he needed all the help he could get in the dark.
“Your destination is on the right,” a voice suddenly spoke into the silence in a clipped British accent. (Irish hadn’t been an option.)
The only thing on the right side of the road for as far as the lights on Conor’s cruiser shone out into the darkness was an empty pigsty and a deserted chicken house.
He’d passed a mailbox about a hundred yards back. Turning around, he drove back to the box. The house beyond it was dark and there was no number on it.
Conor swore under his breath, grabbing hold of the fear rising up in his gut, and looked at the dog sitting in the passenger seat beside him.
He’d opened the back door for Trident when they left the barracks and the dog had leapt in, then over the console and settled in the front.
The dog’s eyes were penetrating, his body as tense as a bowstring.
Did he … could he sense some danger to Jojo?
Conor resisted the urge to try her cell phone again. If she hadn’t picked up after a dozen attempts, she obviously didn’t have cell coverage. Unless she couldn’t answer because …
Pushing all the deadly scenarios he’d been entertaining out of his head, he punched “End Route” on his Maps app. Then he entered a different address. Instead of 1170 Hollister Road, he entered 1169 Hollister Road.
Maybe he could find that number on a mailbox. The maddeningly calm and disinterested AI voice directed him to go another half mile in the direction he’d been traveling to begin with, so he whipped a U-turn and headed back out.
At least this time when he was informed that “your destination is on the left,” there was actually a farm there.
But he couldn’t see the numbers on the mailbox, the house was also dark and there were no vehicles in the part of the driveway he could see.
He pulled into the drive to turn around and two things happened at once.
His Maps app announced “Arrived!”
And a gunshot cracked in the distance.
Conor picked up the mic on his radio.
“Dispatch, this is unit one. Send all available units Code 10-12 to the Harold Bratcher farm at 1169 Hollister Road. Shots fired, repeat, shots fired.”
He looked at his watch as Linda Carter confirmed his transmission, knowing there wasn’t a single state police unit that could get to this location in under fifteen minutes. And he was certain Jojo was here somewhere out in the darkness where a gun had just been fired.
Killing the lights on his cruiser, he pulled farther into the driveway that led to the buildings behind the dark house, spotted a single light coming through both the open doors at the top of the corn silo.
And then a dog began to bark, a yappy dog. It barked and barked and barked, announcing his presence to the world.