Dirty Secrets

by Karen Rose

  Megan nodded. “I understand.”

  “And Megan. If something happens to me, you keep running, you understand me? Run and use that phone to call for help.”

  Megan drew a breath. “I understand.”

  “Then let’s go. Jerry, are you coming?”

  He blinked. Just blinked. Emma sighed. “Then it’s just you and me, Megan. Stay behind me and when we get out, you run like hell.”

  Quietly Emma pulled the door open an inch. Hudson stood with his back to the door, staring at the trees that lined the gravel. There was another trailer next to this one. A Jeep was parked about ten feet away, between the two trailers. She couldn’t see Jerry’s SUV. She’d handled guns before, tagging along when Will had taken up target shooting as a hobby. But shooting a paper target was different from a breathing man. She’d never shot anyone before. Never even considered it. Well, except for meting retribution on the punk that killed Will. But that was a revenge fantasy. This was very, very real. There would be emotional fallout, she knew. Taking the life of another . . . But she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.

  Praying for calm, she leveled the gun at Hudson’s back and quickly pulled the trigger. Once, twice. Three times. The shots cracked like cannon. In seconds they would be overrun. Andrews would come back. Hurry, Emma, hurry. Hudson managed to turn after the third shot and lunged. Her fourth shot hit him squarely in the chest. Gurgling, he dropped to the ground, his body covering the wooden stairs.

  “Megan, run!” Uncertainly, Megan stepped over Hudson. “Dammit,” Emma hissed. “Run, girl!” But Megan stared, the cell phone clutched in her hand. Her own hands shaking, Emma trapped the gun under her arm and lit the match. Held it to the vodka-soaked cotton, waited a full second.

  Then aiming at the Jeep parked just outside the trailer, threw it with all her might. The bottle shattered on impact. And Emma grabbed Megan’s hand and ran like hell.

  Andrews emerged from the other trailer, and Emma might have enjoyed the look of stunned shock on his face had she more time. The gun in her hand again, Emma dragged Megan as shouts filled the air, shouts to get them, get them. They’d gone about fifty feet when a huge explosion rent the air. She tackled Megan, knocking her to the ground, covering Christopher’s daughter with her own body, wincing as debris showered down, pelting her back. Gravel stung, hot metal burned, but they weren’t dead. “Do you have the phone?”

  “Yeah,” Megan grunted.

  “Then get up and run!”

  “I don’t think so, Dr. Townsend.” The shout stopped them both in their tracks.

  Emma rose, turned and found herself staring into the barrel of Andrews’s gun. It was a .38, much bigger and more powerful than her .22. She pulled Megan behind her, but the girl was already half a head taller than she was, so the gesture meant little.

  “Drop your gun, Dr. Townsend. Now.”

  * * *

  Harris grabbed his radio at the dispatcher’s call. He was less than a mile from the site where Grayson’s SUV had been tracked. “Harris.”

  “A 911 call has been received from the same coordinates as the tracked SUV. It’s Townsend and Megan Walker is with her. We’ve heard gunfire and an explosion.”

  Harris surveyed the sky. “I see the smoke. How many units are here?”

  “Ten. Five more are on their way. Sirens silenced.”

  “Thanks.” Harris hooked his radio back in its bracket. He pulled his car alongside the line of radio cars that had responded to the call. “What happened?”

  A county cop came forward, frowning. “We don’t know. We just got here when something through those trees just exploded.”

  Harris spotted Phillips and beckoned him over. “Is the SUV still in position?”

  “It’s there. Whether the lady and girl are with it, that’s anybody’s guess. We called the fire department, Wes. If this fire gets going, it could spread to all these woods and the winter’s been so dry . . . This whole area will go up like a tinderbox.”

  Harris raised his hand, getting the attention of all the responding officers. “People! If you see fire coming your way, don’t go further. The last thing we need is to send the fire department in to rescue trapped law enforcement. You’re looking for a woman and a little girl. Thirty-four and thirteen. The girl’s name is Megan and she’s probably scared stiff. The lady’s name is Emma. Be careful and let’s go.”

  * * *

  Christopher brought his car to a stop at the tail end of a long line of police cars. Common sense told him to stay put, that he was more likely to get shot by a cop than to do any real good. He stared at the thick black smoke, his heart going a mile a minute.

  My baby’s in there. Megan.

  Emma.

  He pulled his shirt over his mouth and moved toward the trees.

  * * *

  Emma drew a labored breath. Thick black smoke rose from the burning Jeep, burning her lungs, but the discomfort was nothing compared to the sight of Andrews and his gun. If the call to 911 worked, the police could be on their way by now. If not, she was on her own. So to his demand to drop her gun she said, “No.”

  Andrews’s brows rose. “No?”

  “I said no. You’ll kill me either way, so I’d be insane to give up my only hope of escape.” She clutched the gun in her hand, feeling its weight. “I killed Hudson. I don’t have anything to lose. So, no, I won’t drop my gun. You’ll have to shoot me.”

  He lifted his hand and she could actually see his fingers squeezing the trigger when a dark blur came from the right, barreling into Andrews, sending him flying to his back.

  Jerry stood before him, chest heaving. “You will not touch that girl,” he hissed.

  Fury on his face, Andrews stared up at Jerry. And pulled the trigger.

  Jerry dropped like a rock and Emma cried out, covering Megan’s eyes with her hand. Megan’s scream rent the air.

  “Jerry. No.” She tried to pull out of Emma’s arms, but Emma held her firm. Turned her the other way. And pushed with all her might.

  “Run, Megan.”

  She could hear Megan stumbling behind her, moving away. She wasn’t running yet but Christopher’s daughter was at least moving. Andrews was struggling to his knees, shaking his head. Jerry must have knocked the wind out of him. Well, I’ll knock out the rest. She pointed the gun straight at his chest and squeezed, catching her breath at the crack of the bullet. At the rapidly spreading red stain in the middle of his chest.

  With a roar of indignation Andrews lurched to his feet, stumbling a few steps closer. Emma backed away, matching his pace. He’ll fall down soon. He’s bleeding. Why isn’t he falling down? Why isn’t he dead?

  She fired again, flinching at her gun’s recoil that hadn’t hurt the first few times, but her shoulder was now sore. Then the soreness in her shoulder was simply eclipsed by the ripping, excruciating burning in her gut. She looked down at her stomach as her legs buckled. She was on her knees, staring at her own body. At Christopher’s sweatshirt. Christopher’s sweatshirt was growing wet and dark. Blood.

  He shot me. God, it hurts. Nausea roiled and she fought it. Because he was coming closer. Andrews was coming closer.

  Christopher was running, his eyes scanning the ground for some trace of them. Some sign they’d been there. My baby. Jerry has my little girl.

  Jerry. His heart threatened to break even as it pounded against his ribs. His foot caught on a root, sending him crashing to the ground. Not stopping, he forced himself to his feet, skidding along the pine needles.

  His rampaging heart nearly stopped when he saw her. Megan. She was thrashing, pulling herself free from branches that tangled in her hair. Sobbing, panting. Breathing.

  Alive. He ran to her, grabbed her in his arms. Was shocked when she fought him, clawing and screaming. “Baby, baby, it’s me. It’s me. It’s Daddy. Megan, it’s me.” He rocked her in his arms. Felt h
er stiffen, then sag as she recognized his voice. He supported her as she crumbled, sobbing wildly.

  “He’s dead. Jerry’s dead. He shot him. He’s dead.”

  He. “Who, baby? Where’s Emma?”

  “He’s got her. He’ll k-k-kill her.”

  Christopher stilled. “Jerry has her?”

  “No!” Megan screamed. “Didn’t you hear me? Jerry’s dead. I saw him. He shot him and he died.” Her fists pounded his chest and Christopher held on. “She’s still there. She made me run. I was so scared, Daddy.” She convulsed into a terrifying spasm of sobbing and Christopher grabbed her shoulders and pulled her face back.

  “Megan, listen to me. Listen. Is Emma alive?”

  Megan shook her head, gasping for air, her body shaking with the force of her weeping. “I’m sorry, Daddy. She made me run. I couldn’t do anything.”

  Christopher gut turned to water. “Stay here.” He pulled her behind a tree, made her lie flat on her stomach. “Stay here. Don’t move, Megan. I’ll be back.” He dug for his cell phone and dialed Harris. “Where the hell are your men?”

  “Where the hell are you?” Harris shot back, breathing hard. He sounded like he’d been running. Run faster.

  “I’m at the south end of the woods. Back from the line of police cars.” Christopher squinted at the sun, high in the sky, but not straight overhead. “A quarter-mile southwest of the road. My daughter is here, Harris. Emma Townsend is still inside.”

  “Walker, stop right there.”

  But the crack of gunshots tore the air and Christopher was running again, following the path of broken branches Megan had left behind. His heart in his throat.

  Andrews was coming closer. On his knees, crawling. One hand clutching his chest, the other his gun.

  He’ll kill me now.

  It hurts. She wanted to curl up and cry. But she didn’t. She wasn’t dead yet. But neither was he. She wouldn’t give up.

  “No.” Saying the word aloud gave her strength when she would have sworn she had none left. Hands shaking, she lifted the gun. It was heavy. God, so heavy. It must weigh a thousand pounds. The thought was airy, it echoed in her mind.

  I’m losing blood. I’ll die here. She gritted her teeth. Then so will he. Closing her eyes she squeezed the trigger. And felt nothing. Heard nothing but an empty click.

  Andrews laughed, his breath wheezing from his chest. Rattling. “Next time you steal a gun . . .” He drew a labored breath. “Make sure it has a full . . . magazine. Like mine.”

  Slowly he extended his arm. His whole body shook, but at this range, he couldn’t miss. Megan, please get away. Please. She could only watch, unable to move, unable to look away. Then Andrews crumpled into a heap.

  Emma blinked, her limbs heavy. He finally fell down. It was getting dark. It can’t be dark. It’s only noon. Dammit.

  Christopher threw the rock to the ground and wrested the gun from the unconscious man’s fingers. He was bleeding badly, whoever he was.

  But so was Emma. She’d collapsed just as he’d run up behind the man with the gun. Now she lay on her side, his gray sweatshirt dark with blood. She was so pale. The blood is hers. My God. She’s been hit.

  He dropped to his knees by her side, gingerly rolled her to her back. “Emma. Dammit, wake up.” His breath hitched in his chest, a terrified sob building. Gritting his teeth he forced it back, forced himself to breathe. To remember basic first aid. Harris was coming. He’d call an ambulance. I just have to make her hold on till they get here.

  Trembling, he tore his shirt open, buttons flying. He shrugged out of the shirt and ripped a three-inch-wide strip. Gingerly lifted the hem of the sweatshirt.

  Gritted his teeth again to choke back the bile in his throat. It was bad. Really bad. She might die. Oh, God, she might die. Not if I can help it. “Come on, Emma,” he growled, carefully tucking the strip of cotton against the gaping hole in her stomach. “You didn’t find me after all this time to die on me now. Stay with me. You stay with me.”

  “Walker!”

  Christopher didn’t turn around, intent on pulling his belt from his pants. “Did you find Megan?”

  “She’s with a policewoman. She’s fine.” Harris dropped to his knees between Emma and the unconscious man as two uniformed officers skidded to a stop behind him. “Radio for a bus,” he barked. “Tell ’em we have two coming in. GSWs. Both unconscious.” He frowned at Jerry’s body. “Your friend—”

  “He’s not breathing,” Christopher said flatly. “I don’t know who this other guy is, but Megan said he shot Jerry. Help me lift Emma up.” Harris tilted Emma’s body, allowing Christopher to thread his belt beneath her back. His hands shaking, he fastened the belt over the makeshift bandage, just tight enough to put pressure on the bleeding wound. “Emma, stay with me! Listen to my voice. Lift her legs, Harris.”

  “I know,” Harris snapped. He glanced around, then pulled Jerry’s body closer, lifted Emma’s legs and propped them on Jerry’s chest. Then Harris yanked at his jacket. “Put this under her head. Move over, Walker, you look like you’re ready to pass out.”

  Christopher sat back on his heels, breathing in, out. Trying to stay calm. Be all right, Emma. Please. He took Emma’s hand in his, so gently. Her hand was so cold. “Emma, hold on. Just a little longer. Megan’s fine. You saved her. Thank you.” He brought her hand to his lips, a shudder racking his body. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 10

  Thursday, March 4, 7:15 a.m.

  “Daddy?”

  Christopher woke with a jerk. Megan stood in the doorway of Emma’s room in the ICU. He pushed himself straight in the chair and opened his arms. “Baby. I thought they wouldn’t let you in because you’re not sixteen.”

  Megan slid onto his knee and pressed her face into his neck. “Detective Harris told them to let me in.” Harris had been waiting for Andrews to regain consciousness after his surgery. If Harris is back at the hospital, that bastard Andrews must be awake. Fury blazed through Christopher, making his body tense. “Daddy, I’m so sorry.”

  “You didn’t do this, baby,” he murmured. “Andrews did.” Harris had identified the man that owned the construction company building on the contaminated land in the area Darrell had labeled “Number Seven.” The man who’d killed his best friend. The man who’d threatened to . . . to sell his child. His stomach rolled at the thought. The man who’d damn near killed the woman he’d waited for more than half his life.

  Touch and go, the doctor had said. But Emma was a fighter. They’d nearly lost her on the operating table, but she fought back. Her heart kept beating. Now she lay still as death, tubes running from her body. But the monitor continued to beep as her heart continued to beat. The next twenty-four hours would be critical, the doctor had said when he came out of surgery. It had already been twelve and Emma wasn’t yet awake.

  “No,” Megan whispered. “I meant I’m sorry about the note I wrote. I wanted to hurt you. I’m so sorry, Daddy.”

  Christopher brushed a kiss across his daughter’s hair. She was cleaned up, her minor cuts, bruises and scratches attended to. Her friend Debbie’s mother had come, taken her to their house, let her shower and sleep. While he sat, keeping vigil at Emma’s side. “I know, Megan. You were hurt. I understand that. You never should have been told any of this to start with. Your mother should have come to me, never to you. I’m sorry you’ve carried that burden all this time.” He lifted her chin with a gentle forefinger. “But honey, I never, ever was unfaithful to your mother, no matter what she thought or believed. I need you to believe me.”

  She nodded, shakily. “I do.” Her eyes darted to Emma. “Mother hated her.”

  “I never knew,” Christopher said simply. “Once I decided to marry your mother, I didn’t look back. I may have thought about Emma from time to time, but it was more with . . . wistfulness. I may have occasionally wondered about what might
have been, but I loved your mother, Megan. She gave me . . . you.”

  Megan swallowed hard. “She . . . Daddy, she wasn’t.”

  Christopher’s brows snapped together. “She wasn’t what, Megan?”

  Megan closed her eyes. “Faithful. To you.”

  Christopher dropped his head back against the chair, closing his eyes on a soft groan. “Dear God. She told you that, too?”

  “You knew?” Megan’s voice was slightly accusatory. “You knew?”

  “She told me.” Christopher opened his eyes with a sigh. “I never knew who.”

  Megan shifted uncomfortably. Looked guilty. And said nothing. Christopher rubbed the bridge of his nose. Mona, how could you? “But you do?”

  “Jerry.”

  It was barely a whisper. Christopher’s eyes widened. His heart stuttered. He’d thought it couldn’t get worse. “Jerry?”

  Megan was pale. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”

  He pulled her to his chest, enveloping her in a hard hug. “It’s all right, honey. I guess I never really knew him. Do you know why he did all this?”

  “No. He just kept saying he was sorry. He tackled that man, Andrews. He may have saved our lives.”

  No, Emma did that. But Christopher gritted his teeth, knowing his daughter needed some part of her childhood to hold on to. Her mother had abandoned her. The uncle she loved had been killed before her eyes. “Maybe he did at that, honey.”

  She was quiet for a long, long moment. Then she sighed and pushed back, sitting on the edge of his knee again. “No, Daddy. Emma saved us. She shot the man outside the trailer. She made that bottle bomb and blew up the Jeep.”

  A Molotov cocktail. Christopher’s heart had burst with pride when Megan had first told the story, hours ago now. His Emma thought on her feet.

  “She made me run,” she whispered harshly. “She pushed me, made me go.”

  Christopher swallowed. Thank you, Em. “She’s a good person, Meg.”