Hostage at Hawk's Landing

by Rita Herron

Worry for Melissa mushroomed inside him, and he slid into his SUV, backed out of the driveway, then drove down the street. A rough looking man next door saw him and darted down the alley.

  If whoever was behind the shooting learned where she lived, he might send someone else after her. If it was Smith, hell, the man could have followed her home at any time while he stayed at the shelter.

  Unable to shake the feeling that she might still be in danger, he parked two doors down from Melissa across the street and decided to watch her house.

  * * *

  MELISSA PACED THE confines of the small house, scrutinizing the interior as Dex must have seen it. Shabby was the word she’d use. Worn and outdated furniture, mismatched kitchen appliances, a beat-up wooden floor and curtains that should have been replaced ten years ago.

  She’d done nothing to make it her own. Except for the lone photograph of her and her father, she had no personal items of any kind. No collections or special art or mementos.

  Her family consisted of the volunteers and workers at the shelter and the people who sought refuge at Lend-A-Hand.

  Material things didn’t matter. People did. All she needed was a place to lay her head at night.

  That was all she’d ever known.

  It had to be enough.

  Dex’s masculine fragrance lingered in the air, teasing her with what-ifs. What if she could have love and a family, a child, of her own? What if she had a home where she could display family pictures of her baby and the memories they made?

  What if she stayed in one place instead of moving around as if on the run herself?

  On the run from what?

  She’d wondered that about Jim Smith and so many others that joined them at Lend-A-Hand and the other shelters where she’d worked the past decade. Yet she’d never realized how much she was like them.

  She moved around so she wouldn’t get too attached.

  She pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering that kiss. She would be lying if she didn’t admit that she wanted it again. That for a second when she’d closed her eyes, she’d fantasized about making love with Dex and waking up in his arms the next morning. And the morning after.

  Thankfully, though, he’d left. Tomorrow they’d go to the shelter and get back to business. No more heated kisses.

  She walked to the bedroom and glanced at the suitcase she kept in the corner. The urge to pack and find a new start seized her.

  But she couldn’t leave until she understood what had happened with Smith. And Harry. And if other homeless men were being targeted.

  Too antsy to sleep, she snatched her purse and keys and decided to go to the shelter. Jim Smith had constantly written in those little notebooks. But he hadn’t had time to retrieve them after the shooting.

  Maybe they held something that would help Dex solve the case.

  She slipped out the side door and locked it, then rushed to her minivan. It was just as battered as the house. But it served its purpose. It got her around and was big enough to transport supplies to the shelter and from donation centers to alternative housing when necessary. That usually meant a positive step for a person or family. They’d obtained employment and were moving into a home or apartment of their own.

  She glanced to the neighbor’s drive, grateful it was dark and the driveway empty. She hadn’t shared with Dex her anxiety over the guys next door. She was almost certain they were dealing drugs, but she had no proof. At this point, she couldn’t afford to anger them or they might retaliate against her.

  She pulled onto the street and drove toward the shelter, keeping alert as she maneuvered the roads. She’d never been paranoid, just careful. After the last two days, she’d be crazy not to be.

  Darkness enveloped her, the night a reminder that the house she lived in might need updating, but she had a roof over her head and she was grateful for it. There were others out there less fortunate, sleeping on park benches, or alleys or in their cars.

  She turned onto the narrow road leading to Lend-A-Hand, veered into the back parking lot and parked. It seemed odd to see the place dark, closed, empty.

  Hope brightened her dismal mood. Tomorrow they could reopen. She scanned the exterior for signs of trouble, then grabbed her flashlight and slid from the van. She clenched her keys as she approached the back entrance, unlocked the door and slipped inside.

  The scent of blood lingered. Or maybe it was embedded in her memory. She paused and forced herself to remember that the police had cleared the shelter. It was time to move forward and prove that she wouldn’t shut down this place because of one incident.

  She eased the door closed, listening for sounds of an intruder, but an eerie quiet reverberated through the space. She fought off her fear and allowed pleasant memories to return. Thanksgiving, when they’d served turkey and dressing, then Christmas, when they’d given wrapped packages of socks and hygiene supplies as gifts. Like a family, they’d worked together to prepare a warm holiday feeling.

  Not wanting to alert anyone of her presence in case a vagrant or questionable sort was watching, she used her flashlight to shine a way to the bunk room. She forced herself not to go into the common room where the shooting had occurred.

  Smith had occupied a cot in the back left corner of the bunk room, so she passed the other cots, shining her light on the floor. A coin in the corner caught her eye, a battered comb, and a bus ticket stub. All fallen between the cracks of the cots.

  She reached Smith’s, and shined the light across the mattress. The blanket still lay neatly folded as he’d left it. He had always been neat and orderly. She checked the floor beneath the bed, then raked her hand between the sheet and blanket, and underneath the mattress.

  Suddenly a creak of the floor made her freeze. She clenched the flashlight, braced to use it as a weapon if necessary.

  But a cold hand grabbed the flashlight, then another hand covered her mouth and the man jerked her against the wall.

  Chapter Eleven

  Melissa’s heart pounded as the man tightened his grip. She’d escaped death twice lately—was this going to be the end for her?

  She dug her nails into his arms, struggling to get free.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” the man growled in her ear. “Just be still and don’t scream, and I’ll let you go.”

  Melissa froze again, the voice registering. Jim Smith?

  “Do you understand?” he said in a low voice.

  She nodded, her breathing rasping out as he released her. She whirled around, squinting in the darkness.

  Yes, it was him. Jim Smith.

  The scar on his face made him look menacing in the dark.

  Detective Lamar’s accusations rang in her head. “What are you doing?” she cried. “And why did you run? I told the police you saved my life.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you told them,” Smith said, his voice laced with frustration. “That cop is gunning for me.”

  Melissa narrowed her eyes. “What does he have against you?”

  Smith paced in front of the beds, his limp pronounced, his agitation obvious. “I don’t know.”

  “Please let me call him. We’ll explain what happened together. I was a witness.”

  “You already did that and he’s still after me,” Smith said. “I’m serious, Melissa. I think that cop wants me dead.”

  Melissa shook her head in denial. “That can’t be true. Why would he want you dead?”

  Smith’s jaw tightened as his gaze landed on the bruises on her neck. “He’s a dirty cop,” Jim finally said.

  Chilled, Melissa rubbed her arms. “Why would you say that?”

  “Because he tried to kill me,” Smith said.

  “What? When? Where?”

  “At that vet’s clinic.”

  Melissa inhaled sharply. “You were there?”

  He nodded. “But I
didn’t kill the vet. I swear. He was dead when I arrived. I saw someone dragging him toward the barn. I hid, but Lamar appeared out of nowhere and shot at me.”

  Confusion clouded Melissa’s mind. “Detective Lamar was there before Dex and I arrived?”

  He nodded. “I’m telling you—he’s dirty. And he’s setting me up.”

  “None of this makes sense,” Melissa said.

  Smith wiped his hand over his eyes. “I know. I’ve been trying to figure out why he’d frame me for murder, but I don’t have a clue.”

  “Then let me call my friend Dexter,” Melissa pleaded. “He’s a private investigator—”

  Smith shook his head. “I saw that Hawk guy with the detective. Melissa, if they’re friends, then you can’t trust Hawk.”

  Melissa’s breath caught. She hadn’t trusted very many people in her life.

  But Dex was the one man in the world she did trust. Occasionally he might cross the line, but he fought for justice.

  Still, what if Jim was right and Lamar was dirty?

  * * *

  DEX’S IRRITATION HAD mounted as he followed Melissa to the shelter. Why the hell had Melissa driven here tonight? They’d planned to come together in the morning.

  Dammit, didn’t she know how dangerous it was to be here alone at this hour?

  The interior was dark, but her flashlight beam glowed through the window. Had she simply wanted to see the damage to the place without him hovering over her?

  If so, why hadn’t she turned on a light?

  He slid from his truck and eased up to the side of the building. The light from her flashlight was coming from the back, maybe the bunk rooms?

  He crept closer and inched along the wall, then peered through the window.

  Cold fear seized him. A man was inside the room with her. He leaned closer. A male voice, one that sounded angry.

  Had she stumbled on a vagrant who’d drifted in? Or did she know this man?

  He peered closer, trying to discern the man’s face. A sliver of moonlight illuminated a deep jagged scar on his cheek, and a nose that had been broken at least twice. He was tall but thin, tattered clothes hanging on his frame as he paced. His left leg must have been injured because he limped as he paced. Thick shaggy silver hair made him look like he was in his fifties maybe sixties, and he was missing a finger on his left hand.

  Was it Smith?

  Had Melissa intentionally come here to meet him?

  According to Lamar, Smith was armed and dangerous. Dex pulled his gun. He couldn’t take any chances, not with Melissa’s life.

  Moving slowly, he eased into the side door and inched down the hall, his gun at the ready. The voices drifted to him, Melissa’s soft and hushed, the man’s low and rough. He couldn’t quite understand what they were saying. Except he did hear Melissa call the man Jim.

  It was Smith, dammit.

  He gripped his weapon tighter, bracing himself to barter for Melissa’s life.

  He crept to the doorway, then raised his gun and aimed it inside as he stepped into the entry to the bunk room. Just as he did, the man’s hand came up, a gun clenched in it.

  “Don’t come any closer,” Smith growled.

  Dex planted his feet firmly, his stance a statement that he didn’t intend to back down. “Let her go,” Dex said coldly. “If you want a hostage, take me instead.”

  Their gazes locked in a standoff.

  Melissa stepped between them, her hands raised. “Both of you put your guns down. We all have to talk.”

  “He was holding a gun on you,” Dex snapped. “Why should I listen to anything he has to say?”

  “He didn’t have a gun on me,” Melissa said. “We were just talking.”

  “That cop is framing me,” Smith said bluntly. “How do I know you aren’t helping him, that you aren’t here to kill me?”

  Dex hardened his jaw. “Every criminal claims he was set up.”

  “I’m not a criminal,” Smith said.

  “You ran from the law,” Dex muttered. “You wouldn’t do that if you weren’t guilty of something.”

  “He’s not a cold-blooded killer,” Melissa interjected before Dex could argue. “He saved my life, Dex. When he took that gun from McTruitt, he could have hurt others at the shelter, but he didn’t.”

  Melissa turned to Smith before Dex could speak. “And Dex is not going to shoot you. He’s a good guy, Jim. I trust him. So can you.”

  Smith’s gaze moved from Melissa to Dex, skepticism darkening his eyes. “But he’s buddies with that detective.”

  “Believe me, Jim, Dex just wants justice.” She pinned them both with a disgusted look. “Now put down your guns, both of you.”

  Dex and Smith stared at each other for a long moment, the tension thick.

  Dex shifted as Melissa gave him an imploring look. “You do trust me, don’t you, Dex?”

  His lungs squeezed for air. He did trust her. But he didn’t trust Smith or any other man where Melissa was concerned.

  Smith cleared his throat. “I trust you, Melissa.” He slowly lowered his gun, then eased it onto the cot nearest Melissa.

  Dex inhaled and did the same. “All right,” he said as he stepped away from his weapon. “Now we all know Smith is not your real name. Who the hell are you?”

  * * *

  MELISSA BREATHED A sigh of relief as the men relinquished their weapons. For a moment, she’d feared they’d go at it, if not with guns, with fists. The testosterone and anger in the room was a visceral force.

  Dex stepped toward the wall, flipped on a light and seemed to study Smith. “Who are you?” Dex repeated.

  Jim’s face paled. “That’s a question I can’t answer.”

  “Can’t or won’t?” Dex growled.

  “Can’t,” Jim said in a gruff tone.

  Dex crossed his arms. “What does that mean?”

  Melissa shot him a warning look. “Jim, tell us what’s going on and maybe we can help you.”

  He glanced back and forth between the two of them, then sank onto one of the cots and scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked wary and exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept since the shooting. Maybe he hadn’t.

  She softened her tone. “Please talk to us.”

  He cut his gaze toward Dex. “Why? So he can call his dirty cop friend to arrest me?”

  “Because we all want the truth,” Melissa said. “Dex has been searching for his father who disappeared almost two decades ago. Recently he found him, but he was dead. He traced him to a homeless shelter where he learned that several homeless men have gone missing the past few months.”

  Jim’s brows climbed upward. “I don’t understand.”

  “Me neither,” Dex said. “But I think someone is preying on homeless men.” Dex paused, voice cold. “Detective Lamar thinks that person is you.”

  “Me?” Jim flattened his hand on his chest. “Why in the world would he think that?”

  “I don’t know,” Melissa said. “Dex?”

  Dex shrugged. “Maybe you should start with who you are and why Clark McTruitt was after you.”

  Silence fell across the room, filled with Dex’s mistrust.

  Melissa softened her tone. “Please, Jim, talk to us.”

  He made a frustrated sound. “I wish I could tell you who I am. My real name. But I don’t know what it is.”

  “Don’t bother feeding us some story,” Dex said sharply. “Either tell the truth or I will call Detective Lamar.”

  Jim lifted his head, resignation in his eyes. “I am telling you God’s honest truth. I have amnesia.”

  Melissa traded a look with Dex, questions echoing between them. Finally she broke the strained silence. “What happened? Were you in an accident?”

  Jim rubbed the back of his head. “A head injury.”

  “How did
you get it?” Dex asked.

  Jim stared at the floor, at his boots, his hand tracing a line over his head where a scar must have settled in his hairline. “The last thing I remember was being on some farmland near a bunch of rocks. Someone attacked me and hit me in the back of the head. I blacked out. When I came to, I was disoriented and confused. I didn’t remember anything, but my head was hurting and I was bloody. I started walking and eventually found the road.” His voice cracked. “Some trucker picked me up and dropped me at a free clinic where they stitched me up. I went from there to a shelter near the clinic, and I’ve been wandering around ever since trying to figure out what happened, and who I am.”

  Melissa’s heart ached for the man. If his story was true, Jim had been the victim of a violent attack.

  And whoever had attacked him might still be after him.

  * * *

  DEX LOCKED HIS teeth together. Melissa was buying Smith’s story, hook, line and sinker. He straddled the fence. The man sounded sincere, but amnesia?

  It was possible, he supposed.

  It was also downright convenient.

  “Why was McTruitt after you?” Dex asked again.

  Smith raised his gaze, his look flat. “I have no idea. But he’s not the first person who’s tried to kill me over the years. That’s one reason I’ve stayed on the move.”

  “Did you have any ID on you when you regained consciousness?” Dex asked.

  Smith shook his head. “No, nothing.”

  “How long were you out?” Dex asked.

  Smith shrugged. “I don’t know.” He touched his hair again. “The blood had dried on the back of my head so it must have been a while.”

  “How long ago was this?” Melissa asked.

  Smith frowned. “Years. Maybe fifteen, sixteen.” He rubbed his head again. “Maybe longer. I...sometimes my memory slips. I’ve lost days, even weeks at times.”

  “That must be awful,” Melissa said softly.

  “Where exactly were you were attacked?” Dex asked.

  Smith worked his mouth from side to side. “Some farmland or a ranch, I think. It was rugged, miles from a road.” He pulled an arrowhead from his pocket and showed it to Dex. “I found this on the ground beside me. There were a lot more arrowheads there, too.”