Page 58 of Killer Clone

Slade’s sarcastic comment helped calm Hagen down a bit. In spite of himself, he laughed. But Ander was still rather pale.

Hagen refused to show Slade his lingering worry. “We should put out a BOLO for a blind man with a gun. His service dog should give him away.”

“A man? You saw him?”

“No. A hood, an arm, a gun. The top of a white vehicle. That’s all. Must’ve fled as soon as he got a shot off. I mean, he’s probably more of a knife guy.”

That got a tiny smile out of Ander. His color was returning.

Anja joined them. She held an evidence bag. At the bottom of the bag lay a single brass shell.

“A three-eighty. It’s all we found.”

Slade rubbed his temple. “All right. Let’s get back to the office. See what we can scramble up from security footage.”

25

Stella set her phone on the hood of their SUV parked outside the soup kitchen where Otto Walker had volunteered. Her hand trembled slightly as she withdrew it, adrenaline still coursing through her veins.

Calls like this were the nightmare haunting every law enforcement family, the one her mother had lived through when her father was killed. Someday, her phone would ring, and a voice from the office—Slade or whoever her supervisor was at the time—would speak in that unmistakable low, carefully measured tone.“There’s been a shooting, and…”

The rest would dissolve into white noise, words falling into her brain unprocessed, unnecessary. The hole in her chest would tell her everything she needed to know before the sentence was even finished.

This time, Hagen was safe. The bullet missed him. But the cold, hollow feeling that had swept through her body when she first answered the call lingered like a ghost.

Hagen had called her himself. A single shot had hit no one. He was fine. So was Ander. Police were scouring the scene, andthey were heading back to the office with security footage. He’d be home in time for dinner and a hug.

Now Stella understood how her mother felt every time her father pulled on his uniform and headed to work. Barbara Knox Rotenburg, too, had to have lived in fear of that phone call. Hell, she must continue to live in fear of that call because of Stella herself. The dread must’ve been a constant nagging concern at the back of her mind.

But her mother didn’t know the half of it. Stella knew the danger of responding to a callout or knocking on the door of a suspect. She knew all that. She’d felt it. And she knew the dangers Hagen faced each day, because she faced them too.

And that insider knowledge made the concern more solid, more real.

“You okay?” Stacy stared at her over the hood of the vehicle.

“Yep. Sorry.” Stella picked up her phone again. “That was Hagen. They were in the alley where the body was dumped. Someone shot at them.”

Stacy’s eyes widened. “They’re okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. Missed. Slade is there, and the police. Looks like the shooter got away, but they’re going to collect footage from security cameras now. They’ll go over them in the morning.”

“Right. Might not be related.” Stacy didn’t sound convinced.

“Possible, I guess. But Kerrick’s Alley isn’t exactly some hot spot for gun violence. I think the killer was setting a trap. He must’ve painted that cuneiform on the walls. Knew we’d respond and sat there, waiting.”

A chill ran down Stella’s back. Someone was pulling them around, putting them in position. Manipulating them. Exerting control over them.

The chill gave way to a hot rage. They were going to catch this killer, and they were going to do it now. They’d show himwhat control really meant. When they threw him into a cell and locked the door, he’d understand.

They needed to move faster.

She headed toward the soup kitchen. “Let’s go see what we can learn about Walker.”

They pulled open the door, and a wave of overheated air hit them, as thick and hot as gravy. It brought a rich smell of heavy stock and a clatter of pans and crockery.

The kitchen at the psychiatric hospital in Claymore Township carried a similar smell and noises, the atmosphere of a place that was more interested in filling bellies, and comfort foods were easy to prepare. There would be no menus there and few choices. Just food, served hot and free.

A long table had been laid out at one end of the room. A line of men—and the diners were mostly men—slouched forward, trays in hand. Behind the table, a couple of middle-aged women wearing hairnets and plastic gloves ladled out soup from a large pot. They spooned a dish of rice, sausage, and vegetables onto plates and waved the guests down, so they could help themselves to hunks of bread and a carrot cake topped with a thick layer of cream.

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