Parallel Lies by Ridley Pearson Page B

slamming a seven-month-old baby girl against a wall, turning her skull into sponge cake. He’d done it before, and we knew it—the doctors, us, even the girl’s mother—but no one could prove it. The mother was too afraid of him to bring charges. And there I was—on surveillance. The mother had agreed to let us wire the house. My partner and I
heard
that sound—her head, those cries.” He felt breathless, a little dizzy.
    He couldn’t see Priest; he saw only those long dark arms clutching that little girl and driving her against the wall. The stream of blood running from her ear, her eyes so filled with tears he couldn’t see them. The child’s sweaty head. He looked up and saw the stars. All he ever needed was a little space. He recovered and stepped farther away from the car.
    She climbed out, came around the front, arms crossed in the headlights against the cold. “You okay?” she asked him.
    “Guilt,” he answered. “Or at least that’s what the staff psychologist says.”
    “If you’re putting me on …”
    “I lost my shield, my car, I’m about to lose my house. You did your homework. You probably know all that. So you might think twice about reminding me of my situation. I think I’m pretty much aware of it.”
    She asked, “Are you going to puke, or can we get back in the car?”
    “We go into the camp without headlights. We use the Suburban because of the snow. We hike the last quarter mile or so. We roust whoever we find. Are you carrying?”
    She nodded, the shadows and light playing across her features like fire.
    “You have a permit for Illinois, or only Missouri?”
    She told him, “We have agreements with everyone but Louisiana. I’m licensed.”
    “So if one of these bozos runs, I’ll pursue. You’ll get your back against a tree and your weapon out.”
    “And if two run, I’ll pursue the other one,” she clarified.
    “Fresh snow,” he reminded her. “We can track them. We don’t need to turn this into more than it is.”
    “If that statie you talked to is right, then there’s no one out there anyway.”
    “He’s not right,” said the ex-policeman. “When are the cops ever right?”
    It won a grin. She asked, “They gave you how many days—on the taxpayers’ payroll—to make a determination on this?”
    “Three.”
    “Typical government excess. If we strike out here, there isn’t much to follow.”
    “More time, if needed,” he informed her. He felt better now. He didn’t know if it was the air or this woman.
    “Park that thing somewhere it won’t get stuck,” she stated.
    Tyler headed back toward the convertible, wondering what he’d gotten himself into. With the state police as backup, he would have felt a lot safer.

    They walked down a farm road through a cold slice of a midnight moon and the spindly silhouettes of trees, leaving the Suburban far behind. The car’s ignition key was hidden inside Tyler’s sock, placed there on the off chance they lost whatever confrontation was ahead and that Tyler’s pockets were searched. The key lay alongside his ankle, cool and scratchy, where it was unlikely to be discovered. If things went wrong, they didn’t want the Suburban stolen. It was cold going on colder, and Tyler’s Ford was two miles away.
    The tree-covered terrain rose to their right, and it was here that the long-haul freight trains slowed, giving riders a chance to jump them. Tyler expected the camp to be close to the tracks but on level ground. Nell picked up the smell of the burning wood first. Tyler switched off his flashlight—they would navigate by moonlight; they didn’t want to be seen.
    Priest was also the first to pick up the yellow light of the distant campfire—an oil drum stuffed with broken limbs and flaming like a smokestack fire. They approached in silence, the air so still that the crackling of the fire sounded incredibly near. They began to detect voices through the woods and then, finally, less than a hundred yards off, the