Page 92 of An Evil Heart
I blink something out of my left eye, swipe at it with my hand, seeblood on my glove as I tug handcuffs from the compartment on my equipment belt.
“I got him.” I kneel next to Tomasetti, grasp Fisher’s wrist, snap open the cuffs.
“You okay, Chief?”
“Yep.”
I’m not sure how bad the damage to my face is, but it hurts. I can feel the blood dripping down my temple. I don’t let myself think about it as I snap the cuffs into place. Fisher puts up a token struggle, more residual adrenaline than actual fight, but I crank the bracelets down tight.
When the cuffs are in place, I rise and we haul Fisher to his feet. For the span of a full minute, the only sound comes from the three of us huffing and puffing.
“Why the hell did you run?” Tomasetti asks.
“You fuckers planted that shit.” Fisher shakes his head and looks down at the ground. “That bitch, Burkholder, threatened me. Said she was going to get me.”
I sense Tomasetti’s eyes on me, but I don’t look at him. After a moment, he runs his hands over the other man’s jeans and shirt, checking for weapons, turning his pockets inside out. “You got any weapons on you?” he asks.
“I got nothing,” Fisher mutters.
Frowning, Tomasetti finishes patting him down. “He’s clean.”
T.J. bursts from the trees, slows upon spotting us. His expression relaxes as he takes in the scene. “Everyone okay?”
“We’re fine.”
He’s breathing hard, but not as labored as the rest of us, and it makes me feel a little… old. He raises a gloved hand and opens it. “Found this thirty yards back.”
I go to him, look down at what appears to be a wad of cellophane. On closer inspection, I discern the white powder and rocks inside.
I look at Fisher. “What is it?”
He grimaces. “That ain’t mine.”
“In light of the bolts we found in your garage”—I send a pointed look at the wad of cellophane—“you realize whatever’s in the bag is the least of your problems, don’t you?”
“Not to mention slugging the chief of police,” Tomasetti puts in.
Fisher meets my gaze. His face is sweaty and red, his hair sticking to his forehead. “Those bolts are not mine. I have no idea where they came from or who put them there. But they do not belong to me.”
“How did they end up taped to the back of your toolbox in your garage?” I ask.
“I don’t know. The only thing I can figure is someone put them there.”
“Like who?”
“Like you,” he snarls. “I guess you found a way to make good on those threats, huh?”
“You’re under arrest,” I tell him.
“What for?” he cries. “I told you. Those bolts aren’t mine.”
“So you say.” I nod at T.J., who has a “cage” in the back seat of his cruiser. “You want to transport him?”
“My pleasure, Chief.” He crosses to me, hands me the bag of dope, then grasps Fisher’s biceps. “Let’s go, dude. Watch your step.”
I remove an evidence bag from a compartment on my belt and drop the cellophane inside.
“Probably coke or meth,” Tomasetti says. “I’ve got a field test kit in the Tahoe.”
