He had no chance to find out. The children broke into a run, disappearing into the woods that lined the street. And suddenly, as if it had dropped from the sky, there was a police car in front of him. Red lights flashing, sirens blaring, it cut him off and forced him to a stop.
A police officer exited the car, hand on his gun. Slowly Trefill got out of his own vehicle. It would be okay. He’d spotted the kid and she wouldn’t get very far. With a shaking hand he reached into his pocket for his wallet. He opened it to show his ID.
“Off-official government b-business,” he gasped.
The look on the cop’s face went from cool sternness to wide-eyed shock. Trefill just stared at him, knowing how bad he looked but not caring. He just wanted to get away, to get that little freak before he lost her again.
“What happened to you?” the cop asked after a thorough look at Trefill’s driver’s license.
“I was . . . mugged,” Trefill said. How could he say he’d been attacked by a five-year old kid?
“Your face is all scratched to pieces,” the cop said, eyeing him carefully. “Those look like . . . like teeth marks.”
Trefill breathed in deeply.
“I have to go,” he said. “This is—”
“Official government business,” the cop repeated. “You said so already. What branch of the government are you with?”
Trefill only stared at him.
“Come on, fella,” the cop urged. “FBI? CIA? Are you in the military?”
“I’m after someone,” Trefill said. “You’re letting her get away. You’ll go to jail for—”
The cop became serious again.
“I saw who you were chasing,” he said. “Three little kids. Look, I don’t know what happened to you. But you know something? I don’t believe you’re part of any government agency at all.”
Trefill nodded. “Yes, yes. It’s a special task force. See, we found these two kids and . . .”
Trefil never finished his sentence. His eyes went very wide and staring. The cop looked at him in confusion, wondering what was wrong.
Then Trefill slumped forward into the officer’s arms. The back of his head was half-gone.
“Oh, damn,” the cop wailed, dropping the man to the ground.
Then, as he grabbed for his gun and dived for cover: “Oh, damn!”
He crawled on his belly until he was safely behind his squad car. He could tell from the wound on Trefill’s head the direction from which the bullet had come. Carefully he reached up into his car for his radio mike.
“This is Car Seventy-one at the Westbrook Junction,” he said. “I need backup here, now! There’s been a shooting!”
“A what, Seventy-one?”
“You heard me, Betty,” the cop said, recognizing the dispatcher’s voice. “A shooting! Possible sniper! Get someone down here!”
Betty mumbled something into the airwave; then an announcement went out to all available cars—in this little town, that amounted to just two. In moments, sirens filled the air as other cops headed to their colleague’s location.
There was no need for backup, because the cop wasn’t in any danger. The shooting, a first in Westbrook’s history, was finished.
Walter LaBerge had had a ringside seat at the shooting, in the back of a van. He climbed to the front and got into the passenger seat.
“Go that way,” he said to the driver. “There’s a path that cuts through the woods. We’ll get them ourselves.”
They drove in the opposite direction from the incoming police cars.
“I don’t get it,” the driver said. “Why’d you wait so long to shoot him?”
“I should have got him after he lost her the first time,” LaBerge said. “I was an idiot to let an incompetent handle such an important job. But I knew he’d lead me to her.”
“What do you suppose she was doing with those other kids?”
LaBerge shrugged. He was a massively big man, nearly three hundred pounds, with small eyes that gave him the appearance of a hog. There was anger in those eyes, anger at himself for letting Trefill go as far as he had, anger at the kid for running away.
The driver of the van, though he thought LaBerge was the ugliest man he’d ever seen, had nothing but respect for the man’s intelligence.
“You don’t think they have something to do with her?”
“Maybe,” LaBerge said. “We’ll find out, won’t we? The most important thing to do is find out what she has to do with that little monster we’ve got back at headquarters.”
With that, the driver turned into the path that cut through the woods. After he’d driven a short distance, LaBerge ordered him to stop and cut the motor. Then the fat man jumped out of the van and began to run. The driver was amazed that someone that big could move so fast.