Chapter 8 - The Price of Hospitality
"Evening, Sarah," Vance said, his voice flat and calm. He didn't look at her face; his eyes remained pinned to the porch floorboards. "Bad night on the back roads. Washout down near the old mill. We had a report of a vehicle abandoned in the ditch about two miles north of here. Stolen plates. Footprints leading straight down through your north pasture."
"Lots of things wash down from the hills when the culverts overflow," Sarah replied, keeping her voice level despite the drumbeat of panic in her throat. "I haven't seen anyone. Just trying to keep the water from coming in under the sill."
Deputy Cole stepped up onto the porch behind Vance, his shotgun angled toward the porch ceiling, his eyes scanning the windows on the upper floor. "Funny thing about those tracks, Sarah," Cole said, his voice carrying an edge of mockery. "One set was small. Bare feet, looked like a child. The other was an adult, limping heavy on the left side. Leading right past your apple trees."
Vance took a slow step up, bringing his towering frame onto the level of the porch floor. He tapped the wooden boards with the steel toe of his boot, right beside the smear of blood. "You mind if we come in out of the wet? My boots are soaked through, and Cole here hasn't had a hot cup of coffee since noon."
"My house is a mess, Sheriff," Sarah said, stepping firmly across the opening of the door. "And like I said, the power's dead. I was just heading up to bed."
Vance reached out with one gloved hand, resting his fingers against the wooden doorframe, just inches from Sarah’s face. He leaned in, the sour smell of stale coffee and wet wool washing over her. "I wasn't asking for permission, Sarah. I’m executing an emergency search for two fugitives involved in a homicide up in Pine Ridge."
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From deep inside the house, muffled by the thickness of the kitchen wall but unmistakable in the quiet night, the infant began to scream.
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