Bloodstream by Tess Gerritsen Read Free Book Online Page B

saw the dome light flashing through the trees as his vehicle streaked away.
    “Must be an emergency,” said Lucy.
     
    Officer Pete Sparks was already at the scene, trying to talk old Vein Fuller into putting down his shotgun. Night had fallen, and Lincoln’s first glimpse of the situation was of two wildly gesturing silhouettes intermittently backlit by the flashing dome light of Pete’s cruiser. Lin
    coin pulled to a stop in Vern’s driveway and cautiously stepped out of his vehicle. He heard bleating sheep, the restless clucking of chickens. The sounds of a working farm.
    “You don’t need the gun,” Pete was saying. “Just go back in the house, Vern, and we’ll look into this.”
    “Like you looked into it the last time?”
    “I didn’t find anything the last time.”
    “That’s because you take so damn long gettin’ here!”
    “What’s the problem?” said Lincoln.
    Vern turned to him. “That you, Chief Kelly? Then you tell this—this boy here that I’m not about to hand over my only protection.”
    “I’m not asking you to hand it over,” said a weary-sounding Pete. “I just want you to stop waving it around. Go inside and put the gun away, so nobody gets hurt.”
    “I think that’s a good idea;’ said Lincoln. “We don’t know what we’re dealing with, so you go in and lock the door, Vern. Stay close to the phone, just in case we need you to call for backup.”
    “Backup?” Vern gave a grunt. “Yeah. Okay, I’ll do that.”
    The two cops waited for the old man to stomp into the house and shut the door.
    Then Pete said, “He’s blind as a bat. Wish we could get that shotgun away from him. Every time I come out here, I half expect to get my head blown off.”
    “What’s the problem, anyway?”
    “Aw, it’s the third time he’s called nine-one-one. I’m so busy runnin’ my tail off with all these other calls, it takes me a while to get here. He always has the same complaint about some wild animal stalking his sheep. Probably just seeing his own shadow, that’s what.”
    “Why does he call us?”
    “Cause Fish and Game takes even longer to respond. I been here twice this week, didn’t find anything. Not even a coyote print. Today’s the first time I seen Vern this riled up. Thought I’d better get you out, just in case he decided to shoot me ‘stead of some wild animal.”
    Lincoln glanced at the house, and saw the old man’s face silhouetted in the window. “He’s watching. Might as well check the property, just to keep him happy”
    “Says he saw the animal over by the barn.”
    Pete turned on his flashlight, and they started across the yard, toward the sound of bleating sheep. Lincoln felt the old man’s gaze every step of the way. Let’s just humor him, he thought. Even if it is a waste of our time.
    He was startled when Pete suddenly halted, his flashlight beam trained on the barn door.
    It hung open.
    Something wasn’t right. It was after dark, and the door should have been latched to protect the animals.
    He turned on his flashlight as well. They approached more slowly now, their jerky beams guiding the way. At the entrance to the barn they paused. Even through the earthy melange of farmyard odors, they could smell it: the scent of blood.
    They stepped into the barn. At once the bleating intensified, the sound as disturbing as the cries of panicked children. Pete swung his flashlight in a wide arc, and they caught glimpses of pitchforks and fluttering chickens and sheep fearfully bunched together in a pen.
    Lying on the sawdust floor was the source of that foul odor. Pete stumbled out of the building first, and retched into the weeds, one hand propped up against the barn wall. “Jesus. Jesus.”
    “It’s just a dead sheep,” said Lincoln.
    “I never seen a coyote do that. Lay out the offal.
    Lincoln aimed his beam at the ground, quickly scanning the area around the barn door. All he saw was a jumble of boot prints, his and Pete’s and Vern Fuller’s. No