Chapter 11
Chief of Police Flint Colton jammed on the brakes of his patrol car and with a quick flip of the steering wheel, squealed to a halt along the side of the gravel road.
He slapped his black cowboy hat more firmly on his head and jumped out of the car, closing the door as quietly as possible behind him. He pulled his gun and headed into the woods that formed a perimeter on one side of the small town of Dead River, Wyoming.
He entered the heavily wooded area with his adrenaline pulsing through him. He’d seen something moving among the nearly bare trees...not just something, but rather someone on two legs, someone who definitely didn’t belong there.
It could be either one of two people, a cold-blooded killer who was on the loose or the stupid kid who had left Flint’s cousin, Molly, at the altar, but not before he’d cleaned out her bank accounts and stolen Flint’s grandmother’s heirloom ring.
Right now he didn’t much care which man it might be; he only knew he’d seen the flash of a red jacket running through the woods that might mean an arrest, and he was desperate for something positive to happen.
He’d lost sight of his prey, but raced in the direction he’d last seen the person running. All of his senses were acutely alive. The scent of November surrounded him with smells of withering leaves and the pleasant odor of a wood-burning fireplace coming from somewhere in the distance.
He not only heard the snap and crackle of dead tree limbs and the crunching of leaves ahead of him, but he also heard the nearby scurry of wildlife disturbed by his presence in their home.
A desperate need drove Flint forward. The town needed something good to happen after the past month of nothing but bad news and abject fear. He hoped the man he chased was Hank Bittard, a murderer who had nearly killed a deputy when he’d escaped from custody last week. Getting that man back behind bars would at least ease some of the worries of the people of the small town.
He muttered a curse as he tripped over an exposed root, nearly going down on one knee. He straightened up and then paused and listened.
Nothing. He didn’t hear the noise of somebody crashing over dried brush or the snapping of twigs as anyone ran away. He heard nothing to indicate that he wasn’t completely alone in the woods.
Had Flint only imagined the flash of red, the motion of a person running in the woods? Or was the person he pursued also standing perfectly still now as well, waiting for Flint to make a move and give away his position?
He tightened his grip on his gun, hearing his own heartbeat echoing in his head. Bittard wouldn’t think twice about putting a bullet through Flint’s heart. He was a ruthless killer who had initially been arrested for the murder of his boss. Flint would love to get him back into custody. But Flint also didn’t know for sure if the man had a weapon or not.
He moved forward once again, a dose of reality taking the edge off the initial adrenaline rush that had gripped him. He had to admit that whoever he might have been chasing was gone now, and he had no idea in what direction to proceed.
He continued walking and veered slightly to his left, attempting to move as quietly as possible. His breath caught in his chest as he came gun to gun with a man in a white HAZMAT suit.
Flint instantly raised his hands and slowly backed away, grateful that he was clad in his black police uniform and that the sun caught and glinted off his badge.
Flint knew there was only one reason the man in the HAZMAT suit would shoot him and that was if Flint tried to get by him and step out of the perimeters the CDC had set up. Whoever Flint had been chasing wouldn’t have a way out of town, not with the quarantine in place.
“Did anyone come this way before me?” Flint asked.
The man in the suit shook his head.
Discouraged, he slowly continued to back away from the man and then turned and headed to his car. The opportunity to catch the person in the woods had been lost this time.
It was just after noon. He’d check in with his men at the station and then head to the diner for some lunch. He still believed that Hank was hiding out in the woods, a place where he’d often go with his buddies for target shooting. The woods would continue to be a focal point for Flint to hunt for Hank.
As he drove onto Main Street and into the center of town, he was disheartened by the lack of people on the streets, the eerily deserted air of what had been a thriving little town until the mysterious disease had struck.
He clenched his hands around the steering wheel, acknowledging that at the moment there was nothing that could be done about the quarantine preventing people from entering or leaving the town.
The entire town of Dead River was trapped by a deadly disease with no cure so far and shut in with a desperate killer who had no place to run and had yet to be apprehended.
The police station was in the middle of town, a one-story brick building with two small jail cells in the basement and a larger general holding cell. The two cells had seemed adequate for such a small town when Flint had been voted in as chief of police, but he wondered now if, because of the quarantine, they’d have to figure out a way to cobble together more cells as tensions rose and tempers flared. Already occupying the general holding cell was Doug Gasper, a stalker who’d recently been apprehended at his brother Theo’s ranch.
The pair of cells in the basement were reserved for the likes of of Hank Bittard and Jimmy Johnson, the young man who had taken advantage of sweet Molly, and it was anyone’s guess who might go around the bend and become a danger to others due to the stress and anxiety of the quarantine.
He parked his car and got out, hoping that one of his deputies might have some news about the two missing men, or perhaps an update about the mystery illness that had struck and forced the CDC to quarantine the town.
Kendra Walker greeted him from behind her desk in the small reception area. She worked during the day as both receptionist and dispatcher.
“Hey, Chief,” she said and then the phone rang, taking her attention
