A Gift to Cherish (Road to Refuge Book 2)

by Victoria Bylin

  It killed Rafe to watch her walk into the restaurant alone. If another officer had been present, he wouldn’t have let her out of his sight.

  He opened the glove box and retrieved his off-duty weapon along with the handcuffs he kept with it. He knew the gun was loaded, but he still popped the cylinder of the .38 snubby and checked it. Confident, he climbed out of the Camaro, hid the gun in his waistband under his shirt, and slid the handcuffs into his back pocket.

  There was still no sign of the locals, not even a distant siren. Rafe scanned the cars coming and going, the faces of passersby, a row of shrubs. Nothing. A group of adults spilled out of the restaurant. No hats. No bald heads. A middle-aged couple sauntered past him, holding hands the way Rafe wanted to hold Daisy’s hand for the next fifty years.

  Three full minutes passed. Had she found Chelsea? How far away were the 911 responders?

  His neck hairs prickled like they did in his nightmare, but the sensation only sharpened his vision, his awareness of the vehicles in the parking lot, the risks to random passersby if Bald Guy had a gun and used it.

  Still no sirens. No sign of the 911 responders.

  Daisy raced out of the front door. “She’s gone. The hostess saw her leave with a bald guy about five minutes ago.”

  Five minutes. Long enough for Bald Guy to drive away with Chelsea and disappear into the night. Or long enough to assault her in the back of a van.

  Rafe’s eyes narrowed to a white van parked near a driveway that exited to Pioneer Boulevard. The brake lights came on, and the van backed out of the space. When it turned, the passenger window lined up with the restaurant. The window was down on the warm night, giving Rafe a glimpse of Chelsea slouched in the seat.

  “Let’s go!” he shouted.

  Chapter 34

  Daisy flung open her car door, buckled her seat belt, and braced for a wild ride. Her heart pumped at breakneck speed, but her thoughts remained calm, clear, and logical. With Rafe firmly in control, she sent up an urgent prayer for God to keep Chelsea safe, guide their steps, and give them the strength and courage to face whatever lay ahead.

  Instead of making a fast getaway, the driver of the van steered down Pioneer Boulevard as if he had all the time in the world. Daisy put the pieces together. “He doesn’t want to call attention to himself, does he?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But we’re following him, right?”

  “Yes. But from a distance. I don’t want him to suspect he’s being followed and take off.” Rafe called 911 for the second time. The same nasally dispatcher answered, and he updated her with the vehicle description, license plate, and location.

  “What’s your ETA?” he asked her.

  “One moment, sir.” Silence echoed until the dispatcher came back on the line. “Ten minutes.”

  Daisy broke in, her voice high. “That’s too long!”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” the dispatcher replied. “We’re doing our best.”

  Rafe took over. “We understand. The plan is to keep him in sight and approach only in a case of imminent danger to the victim.”

  “Your name, sir?”

  Rafe fully identified himself and informed the dispatcher he was armed.

  That was news to Daisy, but she wasn’t surprised. She didn’t like guns at all. They usually scared her, but in Rafe’s capable hands, the weapon promised protection.

  She kept her eyes glued to the van. When it turned on Highway 134—the road to Three Corners twenty miles away—the driver punched the gas.

  So did Rafe. Most people did. But it was a road full of dips and curves, and all she could do was pray the van wouldn’t notice them, speed up, and crash. Or veer onto a narrow side road even more isolated than the highway. Daisy glanced at the speedometer. They were doing seventy. So was the van. The needle inched toward seventy-five with a curve ahead of them.

  Rafe reported the speed to the dispatcher. “This guy’s in a hurry. Or he might be trying to lose us.”

  “Roger that.

  Daisy recognized the start of the dead zone. The call would drop any minute.

  Rafe continued to report until the dispatcher broke in. “Sir, we’re transferring this call to”—static—“however”—static—“injury accident.” Static scraped again at Daisy’s ears, then the call dropped completely.

  To her left, she saw the turnout where Rafe had changed her flat tire. So much had changed in her life—and in her heart. That night she’d been shaking, alone and armed with pepper spray. Now she trusted Rafe with her life.

  He turned off the phone through the hands-free system. “We’re on our own for a while. How are you holding up?”

  “I’m good.” She meant it. “We have to stop him. No matter what—”

  “We will.”

  For the next ten minutes, the van sped along the empty two-lane highway. An occasional car passed going in the opposite direction, ignorant of the drama unfolding on the other side of the double yellow line. Daisy knew the road well. From this point on, there were no turnoffs that led into the hills. No isolated homes. Nowhere to go except the town of Three Corners, where highways crossed on their way to the interstate system.

  The interstate . . . Like the I-75 corridor . . . Daisy flashed back to Lyn’s words about human trafficking and the new mission of Maggie’s House. Her stomach tightened. “Do you think he’s kidnapping her?”

  “Anything is possible, but Refuge doesn’t offer an easy getaway.”

  “I hope he stops in Three Corners.”

  “Me too.” Rafe kept his eyes on the van. “With a little luck, the locals will pull him over before anything worse happens. If they don’t make it, I’ll do what needs to be done.”

  Rafe . . . in danger. Her heart pinched, but she saw honor in his action, and his care and concern for others, even Chelsea, who drove him nuts. Daisy loved this man. Loved him! And she loved God, who promised to be with her through thick and thin. Her heart hammered even harder against her ribs, but the blood in her veins flowed with a deep inner calm. Much like a river in a violent storm, her faith remained true to its course despite the rain pounding the surface.

  Full of courage, she laid her hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “We need to pray.”

  “Go for it.”

  Daisy spoke in a strong, clear voice. “Lord, be with Chelsea. She’s in danger, and I’m afraid for her. Protect her from this evil, Lord. And protect Rafe as he does whatever he needs to do.”

  “Yes, Lord,” he murmured.

  “We need you, Lord Jesus. Every day—and especially right now.”

  When she paused, Rafe’s deep voice filled the void. “Thank you, Lord, for Daisy. Keep her safe, too. We’re headed into a tough situation, but we’re going forward with the knowledge that you’re with us—no matter what happens.”

  They both whispered, “Amen.”

  Rafe kept his eyes on the van as it swayed around a curve. “Thanks, Daize. I’m closer to God than I’ve ever been, but right now, I need something from you, too.”

  “Anything.”

  “Do not leave the car unless I tell you to.”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  The local junkyard loomed on Daisy’s right, and the van slowed to the speed limit. Ahead of them, the sky took on a neon glow from three fast food joints, the restaurant where Daisy use to work, a country-western bar, two gas stations, and random cars on the road.

  Rafe called 911 again. “We should have a connection now. But get ready. If Bald Guy rabbits, we’re sticking with him.”

  A male dispatcher answered in a deep voice. “911. Where’s your emergency?”

  The instant Rafe identified himself, the dispatcher took over. “Yes, sir. We’re aware. ETA is twelve minutes. Unfortunately, there’s an injury collision on Highway 185.”

  Rafe grimaced but responded calmly. “Understood.”

  “Sir, where are you now?”

  “Entering Three Corners. I have the van in sight.”

  So did Da
isy. With her heart in her throat, she watched as it turned left into the parking lot of the motel. Thanks to her time as a waitress, she knew the two-story building was L-shaped, occasionally infested with bed bugs, and staffed by an on-call manager who didn’t ask a lot of questions. There were thirty or so rooms, all alike with orange doors. If she and Rafe lost sight of the van, it would be next to impossible to know which room the man entered.

  Rafe’s brow furrowed. “If I follow too close, the creep will know he’s been made, but I can’t risk losing him.”

  They both watched as the van cruised around a corner of the motel.

  Rafe punched the gas to catch up but slowed near the back of the building. He spoke to both Daisy and the dispatcher as he swung into a parking space. “The van turned toward the side of the motel facing east. I just parked. You’ll see my car—a red Camaro. Daisy Riley is with me. She can point the responding officers in the right direction. I’m approaching alone and on foot.”

  “Sir, that’s unwise. Please wait in your vehicle.”

  “I can’t do that,” Rafe replied in an even tone. “The victim is in imminent danger of rape or worse. I’m going in.”

  Before the dispatcher could protest, he ended the call, cut the engine, and turned to Daisy. “I mean it, Daisy. No matter what you see or hear, lock the doors and stay in the car until the cops get here. I can handle the situation alone, but I need to know you’re safe. I love you. You know that—”

  “I love you, too.”

  Rafe climbed out of the Camaro. He closed the door, motioned for her to hit the locks, then he disappeared around a shadowy corner lit only by the dull glow of a broken overhead light.

  Rafe’s only advantage was that Bald Guy wouldn’t recognize him. Seconds mattered now. With every tick of the clock, the risk to Chelsea escalated. Assault. Rape. Even murder. Anything could happen, and Rafe knew it.

  He strode past the identical rooms as if he were just another guest, but his five senses were on full alert. The air smelled like grime; a light fixture buzzed. Ten feet away, he saw the white van parked between two orange doors with matching windows, one dimly lit and flickering as if the television was on, the other dark and private.

  Which room?

  Which door?

  He needed a sign, a break of some kind. A woman’s laughter spilled out of an open window on the second floor, almost like in his nightmare but not quite. He wasn’t running down a dark alley like in his dream. This situation was real.

  Adrenaline surged through him. He moved to pound on the closest door but stopped when he spotted a squinty-eyed man in plaid shorts coming down the walkway with a full ice bucket.

  Rafe called out in a friendly voice. “Hey, buddy. I’m looking for someone. Did you see a bald guy anywhere?”

  The man shook his head and kept walking. Rafe would have given a year’s vacation to be in uniform. Without the badge, he resorted to the man’s good will. “I don’t mean to bother you, sir. But a woman’s in danger. Did you see anything suspicious?”

  The man grunted. “I don’t want to get involved.”

  “You won’t be.” Rafe lowered his voice. “If you know something, just point to the door. That’s all.”

  The man heaved a breath, glowered at Rafe, then aimed his chin at the door the man had just passed.

  Rafe strode forward. Behind him, the reluctant good Samaritan walked into his own room and turned the deadbolt.

  The situation called for immediate action, but what kind? Did he kick down the door or go with a ruse? There were no guarantees one good kick would take the door completely down, so Rafe decided on the ruse.

  Pulse thrumming, he raised his arm and rapped on the door. “Hey, Rick!” Fake name, fake reason to knock. “I’m here, bro. Open the door.” To be convincing, he added a foul word that fit the foul situation.

  No answer.

  Rafe pounded harder. “I got the beer! Hurry up, man! What are you doing, anyway?”

  With a little luck, Bald Guy would open the door wide enough for Rafe to walk in, confirm Chelsea’s presence, and take the guy down before he knew what hit him. If that didn’t happen in the next five seconds, he’d kick the door.

  One . . . Two . . . Three . . . Rafe took a step back.

  Before he let loose, the door opened, but only three inches. A flimsy brass chain stopped it, but a sliver of the man’s face and his bald head were in plain view. Quick as a cat, Rafe landed a hard kick next to the handle. The wood frame broke with a splintering crack and he burst into the room with his instincts hot. Eyes peeled, he took in his surroundings with a sweeping gaze.

  Chelsea prone on the bed. Semi-conscious. Partially undressed. Lit up by studio-style lights.

  Video equipment.

  Bald Guy. Six feet tall. Shirtless. A snake tattoo on his belly. Barefoot. Lean build. And cursing a blue streak as he hauled back for a roundhouse punch.

  Rafe dodged, but the blow still landed near his left eye and broke the skin.

  “You’re under arrest!” he shouted. With a felony in progress, he could make that call even as a private citizen.

  Bald Guy called him a foul name and swung his fist again. Sidestepping, Rafe countered with an uppercut to the man’s jaw. The blow spun the suspect backward and into the lights and tripod. The camera smacked the hard linoleum floor. The light stand crashed with it and the bulb shattered into a hundred jagged pieces. Bald Guy stepped on broken glass, cursed, and started to fall.

  Rafe moved in, secured the suspect in a wristlock, and took him down to the ground. Bald Guy squirmed like the snake on his belly, but Rafe was now in full control of the situation. With the wristlock in place and his knee to the guy’s back, he pulled the handcuffs out of his back pocket.

  “Don’t move,” Rafe ordered as he applied the cuffs. “Stay calm and breathe evenly.”

  “What the—”

  “No talking. Save it for the cops.”

  “Who the devil are you?”

  Rafe didn’t waste his breath. The man’s cursing filled the air, but so did the war cry of an approaching siren.

  With the suspect secure, Rafe wiped the blood from the cut on his cheek and turned to Chelsea. Flat on the bed, sprawled bonelessly with her eyes half open, she was the picture of helplessness. Rafe wanted to cover her with a blanket but couldn’t. This was a crime scene, and it needed to be preserved.

  Only a hospital visit would reveal the extent of the assault, but very little time had passed with Bald Guy in the motel room. Rafe had arrived in time, and Chelsea was alive. Hannah wouldn’t lose her mother, and Daisy could take pride in saving a friend.

  Rafe had done a good job tonight, but his satisfaction didn’t come from saving Chelsea. It came solely from doing his job and doing it well. Cincinnati was still home and his first choice, but he could do that job anywhere, even in Refuge

  Chapter 35

  Eight long minutes ticked by, each more silent than the last, until a lone siren wailed in the distance. Though faint, it freed Daisy from her pledge to stay in the car. Relieved to take action, she flung open the door and hurried to a spot where the responders could see her when they arrived.

  She scanned the main road for flashing lights but saw only a stream of cars. “Hurry,” she muttered. “Hurry.”

  The siren howled in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. The motel butted up against the east-west highway, close to the overpass that crossed the north-south route. The grimy smell of exhaust filled her nose. So did the garbage smell of a Dumpster. It was all so unlike Cottonwood Acres, where pine trees scented the air and meadows stretched in languid beauty . . . so unlike Miss Joan’s bench by the river, where God had calmed Daisy’s own weary soul.

  But God was here too . . . and so was Daisy.

  The start of a revelation stirred deep in her chest, pressed upward to her lungs, her throat, seeking air until she inhaled sharply.

  What is it, Lord? What can’t I see?

  She peered up at
the moon, saw only reflected light, then lowered her gaze back to the road. The patrol car sped into view, the light bar strobing against the night. A second siren joined the first in a coyote-like song—the kind of song that belonged at Cottonwood Acres—but right now, it belonged here, too.

  The harmony of it all hit Daisy square in the chest and she gasped. Where she lived didn’t matter nearly as much as why she lived. And that was to love and to serve others. Geography didn’t matter to God—not one bit. He met people where they lived—on mountaintops and in gutters. In Refuge and in Cincinnati.

  Suddenly she knew with utter confidence that God hadn’t brought her to Refuge to put down roots. He’d given her refuge so she could heal. With a certainty born of faith, hope for a better world, and love for broken people like herself, she knew where she belonged—and where Rafe belonged.

  Rafe . . . the man she loved. The good man who had walked into the unknown to save Chelsea from the terror of rape, violence, even death. He’d been out of sight for eleven minutes now.

  Please, God. Keep him safe. Please!

  A sheriff’s car whipped into the parking lot and turned toward her.

  “Over here!” she shouted, waving her arms high. “Over here!”

  The car slowed, so she pointed frantically for it to go around the corner. The officer gave a crisp nod and made the turn.

  A second car with two officers, one female, followed thirty seconds later.

  An ambulance arrived in its wake, lights bright but siren off.

  Daisy sagged with relief, but the relief lasted a nanosecond. Every part of her body, mind, and heart yearned to follow the ambulance, but she had promised Rafe she would stay by the car.

  “Please, God. Please.” It was a plea for mercy, a plea for strength.

  A plea for the life and well-being of the man she loved.

  A plea for Chelsea to be spared anything worse than she’d already endured.

  As tempting as it was to peek around the corner, Daisy knew better. Gunfire could still erupt. Bald Guy could break loose, make a run for it, and take her hostage. That thought sent her scurrying back to the Camaro, where she climbed in, locked the doors, and settled for staring hard at the corner of the building, her heart in her throat.