Thrill of the Chase

Chapter 1, Thrill of the Chase

Taz wanted a hot bath, a good book, and a slice of Hoover's Meat Lover's Paradise, the specialty pizza at the Dog House. In fact, she could see herself wrapped in her fluffy lavender robe, wool socks on her feet, curled up on the sofa, digging into that first slice, which would comfort her after a lousy day at the station. Her workplace was a run-down double wide, all the town of Kaycee could provide for its EMTs, and her arrogant partner from Buffalo was four years her junior.

Today, she had rushed to a scene only to be turned away by a chauvinistic good ol' boy who'd rather have died than be rescued by a woman. Taz hadn't minded the fact that the idiot saw her as a member of the weaker sex or the fact that he'd insisted Bradley Dunlop, a.k.a. her arrogant partner, who was still in training, be the one to administer first aid. It hadn't been a big deal, even considering the man had had a hatchet sticking out of his back. How he'd managed that feat, she hadn't a clue.

Even though Bradley looked about twelve and weighed only one twenty, the balding overweight man had insisted he was his guy because, being male, he'd know more about what he was doing. That was laughable, considering Bradley still had to be reminded of some pretty basic rules—for example, that when he stepped out of the ambulance after getting the call, he needed to assess the scene and take a few commonsense steps. Look left, look right, and don't forget to look up.

She could hear the victim caterwauling and listened to the back and forth as she stood five steps away, that is, after she'd cut down the smoldering tree branch the guy had been sitting under. If Bradley had only looked up and assessed the scene as he was supposed to have done, he'd have seen it was only moments away from falling onto the shirtless idiot, whose fat belly was sticking out over his ripped blue jeans. She took in what she supposed was the barn, or rather a shed with rotted boards, a door hanging from one hinge, and rusty farm implements and piles of black garbage bags scattered everywhere, obviously the source of the rank odor that had hit her as she first stepped out of the rig.

"So how, again, did you get an ax in your back?" Bradley asked. He was on the ground, squatting, wrapping the gushing wound. Blood was pooling on the gauze, and the man was glassy eyed. Taz had to bite her tongue, fighting the urge to correct Bradley. It was a hatchet, not an ax. Big difference.

"I tripped. Goddamn fool woman didn't put the thing back, and next thing I knew, I had this blade jammed in my back."

Taz took in Wilma, the wife of the idiot on the ground, who was also standing five feet back. She wasn't a looker and appeared to be in her fifties, with salt and pepper hair that seemed to give her a bad hair day every day. She was wearing a faded house dress with an apron overtop, her face overly wrinkled, her eyes tired. She crossed her bony arms across her skinny chest. Her lips were thin, and she was shaking her head.

"Hap, you were weaving out here, dragging that thing and throwing it around, drunker than a skunk—"

"Oh, you hush up there, woman," Hap snapped.

Taz couldn't figure out why Wilma had stuck around, not that she knew these folks well. They had four grown boys, one doing a nickel of hard time for holding up a liquor store, another having enlisted in the army and been shipped off to some godforsaken country overseas, and the other two having fucked off somewhere. They had obviously been smart enough to realize that sticking around here with parents who took dysfunctional to a whole new level would get them a life in prison, living hand to mouth, or, if they were really lucky, following in their parents' footsteps.

Taz hoped they'd found a better life as she watched Wilma pull a cigarette and lighter with a shaky hand from a torn pocket of her apron. She slipped it into her mouth, lit it, and took a heavy drag. Taz could hear her lungs scraping, and then she coughed deep and long, waving her hand at Taz when she started toward her. It was always the same with Wilma: the cigarettes, the coughing, the wheezing—and then there was the booze. Wilma just hid it better, but Taz could smell the cheap gin from fifteen feet away.