He collapsed. Lance bucked hard and bridged over one shoulder, rolling his attacker onto his back and reversing their positions.
Morgan dropped the board. With Lance in control, relief surged through her, the rush of adrenaline making her light-headed.
He flipped the man onto his belly and twisted his arms behind his back. “Get some zip ties.”
Morgan ran back to retrieve the backpack. Returning to Lance’s side, she handed him a plastic tie, and he used it to secure the man’s hands.
Then he rolled the man to his back, and Morgan shone a flashlight on his face.
Harold Burns.
“You’re trespassing!” Harold spat.
“Then you should have called the police, Harold.” Lance climbed to his feet. “But I bet you didn’t.”
“I did,” Morgan said.
From inside the trailer, a woman cried. “Who’s out there? Please help me.”
The woman!
Morgan grabbed the bolt cutters from the backpack. While Lance secured Harold’s ankles with a second set of zip ties, Morgan cut the padlock, opened the trailer door, and shone her flashlight inside.
The trailer was one open space. The only furnishing was a filthy mattress in the center. A large, dark stain in the center of it turned Morgan’s stomach. A woman huddled on the edge of the mattress. She was chained to a ring bolted into the floor.
The space was warmer than outside, so the trailer must have heat. Morgan felt along the wall by the door for a light switch. Finding one, she flipped it.
A light bulb suspended from the center of the ceiling shone weakly on the woman. She huddled at the end of her chain. Handcuffs bound her wrists. She raised her hands in front of her face, shielding her eyes from the light.
In one sweeping glance, Morgan took in the woman’s shivering, naked body, the blood and bruises and battered face. Shaking off her shock, she lifted her foot to step through the doorway.
“Not so fast,” a man said behind her.
Morgan turned.
Jerry Burns stood fifteen feet away, a pistol in his hands pointed directly at Morgan.
Her stomach flipped.
“Get down here.” Jerry’s head jerked toward Lance, who knelt over Harold’s prone body. “You, cut my brother free or I will put a bullet in this bitch’s pretty face.”
This couldn’t happen. Morgan and Lance had to save this woman and themselves.
Morgan glanced at Lance. Harold was incapacitated. There was no way Lance was going to release him. He and Morgan would never survive against both of the Burns brothers. And neither would the woman chained in the trailer. If they were going to get out of this alive, they needed to act now. Allowing themselves to be taken prisoner by the Burns brothers would get them all killed. She weighed the bolt cutters in her hand. She was too far away to use the tool as a club. Jerry’s gun was pointed at her. She wouldn’t get closer before he reacted. Nor did she have time to drop the bolt cutters and draw the weapon under her jacket.
There was only one option.
Morgan would have to get out of the way and pray that Lance could take Jerry down before he could turn the gun on him.
She was fifteen feet away. Outside of television, handguns weren’t that accurate beyond eight to ten feet.
There were no options.
Her eyes met Lance’s. A silent agreement passed between them. From his position, kneeling on the small of Harold’s back, Lance extended three fingers on his thigh.
Two.
One.
Morgan dove through the doorway and covered her head with her arms. Her flashlight rolled across the floor. The bolt cutters landed with a thud. A gunshot rang out. Jerry’s shot went low, hitting the floor. Wood splintered. The thin walls of the trailer wouldn’t stop a bullet. A second shot boomed. Morgan drew her weapon and belly-crawled toward the open trailer door.
Her heart vibrated inside her chest. Had Lance shot Jerry or vice versa?
No.
Lance just had to be all right. He’d almost died by gunfire last year. He couldn’t—she shut down that thought. Her brain couldn’t go there and still function.
The woman in the trailer needed saving.
Inching forward, heart hammering, Morgan peered around the bottom of the door frame and took in the scene with profound and surreal shock.
Jerry lay on the ground, a bloodstain spreading across his shoulder. Behind him stood Sheriff King and two deputies. The gun in the sheriff’s hand was still pointed at Jerry.
Her gaze found Lance, still kneeling on the ground, his hand on his weapon holster as if prepared to draw his gun. Obviously, the sheriff had beaten him to it.
“Get handcuffs on this scumbag.” The sheriff stepped around Jerry and started toward Morgan.
Relief and surprise rolled through Morgan. There was no way he could have responded to her call that quickly. But she didn’t have time to question the sheriff’s presence. The traumatized woman sobbed in the darkness behind her. Morgan glanced at Lance once more, verified that he was whole and alive, then scrambled to her feet and turned to the victim.
She picked up the bolt cutters.
“I’m going to free you now.” Not wanting to frighten her any further, Morgan approached her slowly.
The woman continued to cry, her words unrecognizable, her voice as rusty as her prison.
Behind her, the trailer creaked as the sheriff stepped inside. “Oh, my God.”
Morgan severed the chain with the bolt cutters. The woman stumbled forward, sobbing, into Morgan’s arms. She slid off her jacket and put it around the woman’s shoulders.
“There’s an ambulance on the way.” The sheriff stood back, his face drawn, as he scanned the interior of the trailer.
“Out.” The woman pushed to her feet, her words desperate. “Get me out. Please. I have to get out of here.”
Who wouldn’t?
Morgan wrapped an arm around her shoulders and steadied her balance.
Lance peered through the doorway. “I’ll get a blanket.”
Morgan helped the woman limp toward the door. The sheriff stepped aside, allowing them to pass.
“What’s your name?” Morgan asked.
“Karen. Karen Mitchell,” she said, her voice growing stronger with each step toward freedom.
The missing woman.
They stepped through the opening. The trailer, while not cozy, had been warmer than the air outside. Karen shivered, her body quaking from head to toe. A frigid wind kicked up. Morgan blocked it with her body as best she could.
Lance appeared with an outspread blanket. As he enveloped Karen in it, her legs gave out. Lance caught her and swept her off the ground, and Morgan tucked the blanket around the woman’s bare feet.
Two sheriff’s deputy cars drove through the salvage yard, their headlights illuminating the trailer. The cars parked, and the deputies got out of their vehicles.
“This is Karen Mitchell,” Lance said.
“I’ve got her.” One of the deputies retrieved a first aid kit and another blanket from his trunk. “Put her in the car. It’s warm. The ambulance will be here soon.”
Lance put her in the back seat of the police car “You’re safe now.”
Talking in a calm voice, the deputy squatted in the door opening, covered her with the second blanket, and lifted the lid of his first aid kit.
Morgan’s face felt hot in the cold air. She was simultaneously freezing and sweating as her heart rate dropped back to normal. Nausea rose in throat. She bent over, resting her hands on her thighs. She sucked in some cool night air.
Lance turned back to her. “If you need to puke, move away from the scene.”
“I think I’m OK. It’s an irritating reaction to the rush of adrenaline.”
He walked over and handed her a bottle of water. “You get the job done first. That’s what matters.”
“I guess.” Morgan took an experimental sip. The cold water soothed her stomach.
Lance put a hand between her sho
ulder blades. “We saved that woman’s life. That’s worth a little puking.”
“Says the guy who doesn’t get sick.”
“It’ll catch up with me,” Lance said.
“Kruger and Dane. Over here. Now.” Sheriff King pointed at Lance and Morgan and jerked his thumb away from the growing crowd of law enforcement. Morgan’s legs felt like rubber bands as she and Lance joined the sheriff.
Sheriff King propped his hands on his hips. “Let’s get this straight. I am pissed as hell at both of you. You were trespassing on private property.” The sheriff stabbed an angry finger at Lance. “I expect you to risk your own life, but endangering a woman?” He pointed at Morgan.
“It was her idea.” Lance crossed his arms over his chest. “She’s a lot tougher than she looks.”
The sheriff threw his hands into the air. “You could have both been killed. I should have known you’d pull a stunt like this.”
“But we weren’t killed,” Lance said. “And Karen Mitchell is alive because we pulled this stunt.”
The sheriff glowered at Lance, then redirected his anger at Morgan. “And you, Counselor, you should know better. The very first thing the Burnses’ defense attorney is going to do is claim all the evidence in that trailer could have been planted and is therefore inadmissible against them in court.”
Morgan cut him off. She’d had enough. She and Lance had taken over the situation and saved Karen Mitchell. The sheriff’s misdirected anger was not her problem. “We both know that isn’t going to happen. Karen Mitchell will provide testimony. There will be physical evidence on her body, and as a previously convicted sex offender, Harold Burns and his brother will be hated by any jury they are put in front of. Nor do I know any judge who will give them any leeway. If my suspicion is correct, the very large bloodstain on that mattress is from victim number one, Sarah Bernard. The Burns brothers will be charged with two counts of kidnapping and one count of murder, along with as many lesser charges as possible.”
The sheriff huffed. “I could charge you both with trespassing.”
Morgan didn’t care about a ridiculous trespassing charge. Exhaustion and her adrenaline crash were catching up to her with the speed of a freight train. “Are you going to arrest us?”
“Not at this time.” The sheriff frowned at her. “I need statements from you both. Now.”
“When we talked with Chelsea earlier, she mentioned an oily odor.”
“And you didn’t call me?” The sheriff chewed his molars.
“She specifically said it didn’t smell like motor oil, but it made us think hard about Burns.” With a glance at Lance, Morgan gave a very abbreviated version of their search of the property. She didn’t mention their trip through Harold’s garage. If asked, she wouldn’t lie. But there was no point in volunteering the information. When she was finished, she asked, “How did you get here so quickly?”
“We’ve been watching Harold and Jerry all night,” the sheriff said. “Chief Horner called me to tell me the DA forced him to cease his surveillance. Considering that we’ve been searching for Ms. Mitchell, I decided we should focus on this area. But we had no good reason to search the property until you called in that scream.”
“You’re welcome,” Lance said drily.
The sheriff glared.
Lance finished describing the events of the night. The sheriff released them with a threat of arrest if they didn’t report to his office first thing in the morning to cross t’s and dot i’s. The walk back to the Jeep was only a few hundred yards, but it seemed like miles.
“I don’t like it.” Morgan crawled into the passenger seat.
“What?”
“I can’t explain it. Something feels unfinished.”
“We still have to deal with the sheriff again tomorrow.” Lance started the engine. “I’m tired of his controlling bullshit.”
“He didn’t arrest us for trespassing.”
“But he wanted to. He wishes he was the one who found Karen Mitchell.” Lance drove out onto the road. “He’s been chomping at the bit all night, wanting to search the property but without enough evidence for a warrant.”
“The laws exist for a reason.” Morgan pressed her head to the back of the seat.
“We saved that woman’s life tonight,” Lance said. “Who knows if she would have still been alive in the morning? The Burnses could have killed her and buried her out in the woods before the sheriff accumulated enough evidence to satisfy a judge that there was probable cause. Would you rather Karen Mitchell have spent the night in that trailer? I would rather go to jail.”
“So would I,” she said. “Which is why we did what we did tonight.”
“Plus, I’ll bet forensics will find evidence that the first victim and Chelsea were both held in that trailer. Chelsea will be able to go on with her life knowing that the men who kidnapped her are behind bars. Your family can rest easy too.”
“I know.” But uneasiness stirred in Morgan’s belly. It didn’t feel over.
“Do you think they’ll get a plea deal?” Lance asked.
“I doubt it. After what happened last month, the DA needs to save some face, and he’s up for reelection next month. He’s going to promise to bring the hammer down. A high-publicity case against a previously convicted sex offender and his brother is media fodder. Plus, New York no longer has a death penalty. What can the DA offer the Burns brothers in exchange for a guilty plea? This is a particularly heinous crime. The Burns brothers kidnapped and held a woman captive for eight months, impregnated her, and then beat her to death. The beating also killed her unborn baby. They are going to prison, probably for life.”
“So what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. Something doesn’t feel right.”
“We’ll know more after we talk to the sheriff tomorrow. The forensics team will be in that trailer all night. Let’s see what they find and then reassess the case.” Lance drove toward town. “We’re both too tired to think straight. We need food and sleep. We’ve been running on adrenaline all night. The most useful thing we can do is get some rest and look at the facts with fresh eyes in the morning.”
“You’re right.” She was wired. Her blood was still humming even though her eyelids were as gritty as sandpaper.
There was something lurking in her exhausted brain, a connection she was too tired to make.
Were adrenaline and stress stimulating her paranoia? Or was her subconscious issuing her a warning?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Morgan paced Lance’s guest room, her cell phone pressed to her ear as she talked to her sister. Her nerves were still frayed by what happened with the Burns brothers that night—and by the sight of Karen Mitchell chained up in that trailer. But rescuing Karen was worth every drop of clammy sweat and rush of adrenaline-induced nausea.
If only Grandpa would wake up.
“So there’s no change?” she asked Peyton.
“No.” Behind Peyton’s low voice, a monitor beeped in a steady rhythm. “He’s stable. Please try to get some sleep.”
“When do you think he’ll wake up?”
“I’m a doctor, not a psychic, Jim,” Peyton said in her best Dr. McCoy voice.
Morgan appreciated her sister’s attempt to lighten her mood, but she didn’t have the energy to laugh. “You’ll call me if anything happens?”
“I promise.” Peyton’s tone grew sincere again. “I will watch over him all night. I’ve got this covered. Go. To. Sleep.”
“OK.”
“And Morgan?”
“Yes?”
“Grandpa is tough,” Peyton said. “Don’t give up on him yet. He’s not going down without a fight.”
“Thanks, Peyton. Good night.” Morgan ended the call, crossed the hall to the bathroom, and turned on the shower. She undressed as the water warmed. The instant Morgan stepped into the heat, her tightly reined emotions burst. She leaned against the tile and let herself cry. She was too damned tired to hold back any longer.
> Her sister meant well, and as a doctor, Peyton was a far better judge of Grandpa’s medical condition, but Morgan was afraid to let herself hope. She’d just crawled out of a seemingly bottomless pool of grief and now felt the need to brace herself. To prepare. To gather her energy against the possibility of another devastating loss.
Hope raised the platform from which she’d fall if the worst happened.
She had children to care for.
When her husband had died, they’d been too young to understand, and John had been deployed more than he’d been home. Their world hadn’t been disrupted. But this time, they were old enough to grieve for the great grandfather who’d willingly stepped up to fill the role of a father.
Just as he had for Morgan and her siblings.
Grandpa had been her rock. Without him, she’d never have gotten through the deaths of her parents and then John. She couldn’t imagine losing him.
Who did you turn to when your source of comfort was gone?
But someday that would happen, even if it wasn’t today. No one lived forever. And when that day came, her girls would need Morgan to be strong. She would have to be their rock. She couldn’t allow herself to sink again.
She turned the water to cold and stuck her head under the spray, letting the shock of freezing water jolt her out of her heartache. Shivering, she shut off the water and dried herself.
Morgan emerged from the bathroom, her damp hair hanging down her back and soaking the borrowed T-shirt. Her eyes were raw, and her face felt tender from crying. No matter how much resolve she mustered, the despair inside her refused to back down.
She’d never felt so alone.
In the bedroom, she stepped into the sweat pants Lance had given her, tying the drawstring tight to keep them from falling down. Returning to the hall, she glanced into his room. The decor reflected him: all masculine, nothing fussy.
His furniture was modern and clean-lined. A dark-wood dresser and leather headboard. The king-size bed was covered in a solid navy-blue comforter. A single nightstand held a clock, a lamp, and a book. The entire room smelled faintly of his cedar-scented body wash. She sniffed her skin. So did she.
She’d slept in his guest room once before. But that’s not where she wanted—or needed—to be tonight.
Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2) Page 27
