“A rifle?”
“Thalia’s old Winchester was out in the grass.”
She stared across the meadow, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection. “So this bad guy must have known about the rifle already. He probably went inside the house to look for it before setting the fire.” She spoke softly, almost to herself, and he had to strain to hear her. “He was inside the house…with my things, foraging around. The rifle was well hidden for safety…so it would have taken him a lot of time. If it hadn’t been for the pizza, I would have been home much earlier. I might have surprised him.”
“And then you might’ve been dead.”
She shivered. “Where did you find it?”
“The rifle? Not far from your truck.”
She drew in a shaky breath. “He was across the field when I saw him take aim. So that means he came clear around the field to plant that gun close by.” She raised her troubled gaze to meet Trace’s. “You don’t even need to run ballistics on the rifle and the round that hit Sam. They’ll match. Otherwise, that guy wouldn’t try to plant the rifle close to me in hopes there’d be a murder charge.”
He looked at her, truly looked at her, and realized that it would be impossible to think she could be guilty.
Whatever the evidence might show, her words were filled with quiet honesty, but coupled with a sense of inevitability that things would be out of her hands.
“Shell casings,” he said.
“What?”
“Show me exactly where you were standing when you saw that guy take aim.”
She moved to her SUV. Studied the ground, then moved closer to the back wheels. “About here.”
“Where was the guy with the rifle?”
She lifted a hand, pointed to the far edge of the meadow. “About there.”
“Okay. I’m going to walk in a straight line until I get there. Yell out if I veer one way or the other.” He looked over his shoulder at her, smiled and started walking. “If we can find any shell casings, we might come up with fingerprints on them—which could ID your man.”
Her eyes opened wider with wonder, though he guessed it was as much at his show of faith in her as at his idea. “A little to the left—no, the right. Straight ahead.”
He made it across the meadow and turned. “Here?”
“Farther.”
He moved ahead another ten feet. “Here?”
“More—almost to those pines. Stop.”
“Okay, now the fun begins. Come on over and I’ll give you a pair of gloves, too. This’ll still be like finding a grain of sand on a beach.”
She hurried over, tugged on the gloves and dropped to her hands and knees, carefully parting the weeds.
He rocked back on his heels. “Let’s get a system going. Shoulders parallel and almost touching. We can traverse this little area and make sure we don’t miss anything.”
“Great idea. Thanks.”
A half hour later his knee was screaming in agony and he had to stand up. “We’ve been through most of this. Are you sure he was right here?”
She nodded decisively as she moved, closer to the line of trees and brush rimming the meadow. “Hey—I think I found it!” She parted the soft grass and revealed a gleaming brass casing.
“I’ll get it—the less we touch it, the better.” He gingerly picked it up using a fold of the plastic bag and dropped it in a small plastic bag. “This is going to the sheriff with the rifle, and I’m leaving right now. Will you be okay? Do you want to come along?”
“I’ll be fine. I need to take care of all the shelter animals and let Bailey out for a run.”
Trace stood up, then helped her to her feet. Their eyes collided, their gazes held…and the sudden, unexpected urge to kiss her nearly took his breath away. “I believe in you,” he whispered, pulling her close for an embrace. “This will be over soon.”
Her hair smelled of lemons and sunshine and something that was uniquely her own, and he held on a moment longer, not wanting to let her go.
She must have felt the moment, too, because when they stepped away, her eyes were shimmering and her cheekbones were brushed with a delicate hint of pink.
“We’re going to talk about this when I return,” he said. “I promise.”
“I’ll hold you to that, too.” She laughed and pointed a stern finger toward his truck. “Hurry, so you’ll get back sooner.”
He hesitated at the door of his truck as a sudden feeling of uncertainty washed through him. “Come along with me,” he urged. “Please.”
She rolled her eyes. “I’m a big girl. It’s broad daylight. And believe me, there’s nothing left to steal out here. I should be just fine.”
Grinning, Kris watched Trace drive away. What was that just a minute ago? A connection that was warm, and loving and filled with promise…and out of the blue.
She might’ve thought she’d imagined it, except she’d seen the stunned expression in Trace’s eyes and knew his reaction had matched her own.
It was as if that contact had brought forth a rush of intensified emotions that had been lingering, just below the surface, for the right moment to catch fire—though maybe that was an unfortunate analogy right now.
She turned for the kennels, feeling as if she could do a few somersaults on the way there—
And found herself staring up at a tall, unkempt man with shaggy dark hair, a snarl and one very, very big gun. An odor of stale beer and sweat surrounded him like a dank cloud. He looked familiar, and yet…
“Who are you?”
“Ain’t that sad. You go about destroying lives, and you don’t even recognize the person you’ve cut down.”
At his words she realized who he was—Harvey Bascomb. She’d seen him once when he was angry. She’d never seen him like this—enraged. Crazed. She took a small step back. Then another.
“You have any idea of what you did?” he roared, sending the dogs in the kennel into a furious round of barking. “Any idea at all?”
His white polo shirt was filthy, his baggy tan slacks were cinched tight at the waist. Light colors. Colors that might reflect that pulsing glow of a fire.
“W-were you here last night?”
He swore softly, the words oily and venomous, sliding over her flesh in a way that made her skin crawl. “Now, what do you think? There was a deputy here—and I’ll bet he remembers me real good.”
“That was Sam Martin. Didn’t you look before pulling the trigger? He’s a relative of yours.”
The cold, dead glitter in the man’s eyes didn’t waver. “Then I guess he’s just collateral damage.”
If this man didn’t care about his own flesh and blood, she had no illusions about her own future. She blinked and swallowed hard as she took another minute, sliding a step back, praying he wouldn’t notice.
“Going somewhere? I don’t think so.” His hand snaked out and grabbed her wrist in a viselike grip that he twisted until she cried out and fell to her knees, breaking his hold.
She staggered to her feet, her attention riveted on the rhythmic flexing of his fists.
This morning she’d fed the dogs and opened up their outside runs. Now the agitated animals were nervously pacing their enclosures, whining, their tails tucked between their legs.
“Shut up,” Bascomb shouted, gesturing angrily.
Some of the dogs cowered, but the rest started barking, the deafening chorus drowning out his next words.
Just another couple steps and she could reach the front latches of those pens. In the ensuing melee, could she run for safety?
“You fool.” He spat the words, the veins in his neck distending. “Thanks to you, word will get out about the county taking my dogs. My reputation will be ruined. No one will bring their hunting dogs to me for training now…not anymore. A lifetime of honors—wasted. I was ready for a big comeback and you destroyed it all.”
He reeled a bit on his feet, and at that moment she whirled around, ducked and slammed her hands upward against the dog-run l
atches, hitting two at a time as she ran down the line.
The dogs burst out of their pens, barking and snarling, clearly agitated by his belligerent behavior. One of them, a pit bull mix, went after Bascomb’s ankle and he screamed.
She didn’t look back. She ran into the kennel office. Slammed and locked the door. Then she spun toward the inner door leading to the dog pens.
A tall, vacant-eyed man stood in her way, big and solid as an oak, leering at her. “Now, we get to play.”
His voice was high and thin, with an odd note of hysteria, and it could not have come from such a hulking frame.
But as he advanced slowly toward her, she knew this was no joke…and if she couldn’t escape, this would be the day that she died. She could see it in his eyes.
EIGHTEEN
Uneasy, Trace stepped on the accelerator as he turned onto the highway leading to Battle Creek. The guy who’d shot Sam was probably behind the other troubles at Kris’s place. If so, he was rapidly escalating.
Trace had gone back, trying to convince her to come with him rather than stay alone. You’ll be back in an hour, she’d said. It’s broad daylight, and I’ve got Bailey here. I can’t expect you to be my babysitter 24/7. She’d been so adamant that he’d finally left to get the new evidence in the sheriff’s hands.
Evidence Trace prayed would resolve this situation once and for all.
In a perfect world there’d be a match between the microscopic rifling marks inside the barrel of Thalia’s rifle and the round that had been buried in Sam Martin’s chest. And the shell casing in Trace’s possession would yield clear fingerprints matching a set in AFIS, the national fingerprint registry.
But what if the casing had been left by someone who’d simply happened to be in the area weeks earlier?
A false lead would delay identification of the real shooter. And if he isn’t caught, he’ll go after her next. Please, Lord…help me here. Help us find this guy before it’s too late.
If only she’d come to town with him.
His nagging feeling of unease grew with each passing mile, but now he was practically to the outskirts of town and could see the one and only four-way stop sign on the main drag through town.
The sheriff’s office was a quarter mile beyond that. It wouldn’t take long….
But again, an inner voice urged him to go back.
He hesitated. Then pulled the truck off the highway onto the shoulder amid a boiling cloud of dust. When it cleared, he checked for traffic from both ways and floored the accelerator as that inner feeling became something close to panic.
She’d insisted on staying back there.
But how foolish was that? If someone wanted to get at her, this would be the perfect time—with no one to protect her. No witnesses.
He hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand, then fished for his cell phone and dialed 911.
Kris stared at the hulking man in front of her and back up along the edge of the desk, blindly groping at her side for any possible weapon, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Behind her, the older Bascomb kicked open the locked door, shattering the doorframe and sending splinters flying. A miasma of sweat, tobacco, and stale alcohol filled the small room as he took a step inside.
Time—she needed time.
If she could only stall long enough, maybe the phone would ring and she could scream for help…or someone might think it odd if there was no answer at all.
Or a visitor might stop.
Or Trace might come back.
Please, God, send him back.
“At least tell me,” she said, scrambling for a diversion. “W-why you let all of the dogs loose?”
“You stole ours, so we got our best ones back. Can’t build a big reputation again without good stock.”
“B-but what about all the records on the dogs? The county has copies. They’ll figure it out. If…if you just leave now, nothing will happen. I won’t say anything.”
Bascomb leered at her. “After I torch this building, no one will ever know which dogs died in the fire, so nothin’ will point to me. There’ll be no proof I was even here. And you won’t be alive to tell anyone different.”
“The sheriff will know. He’ll find dogs at your place—”
“Save it. Me and the boy are leaving town anyway.” He started toward her, the veins in his neck bulging, his face dark with hatred.
Already knowing the answer but praying for extra seconds, she took a steadying breath. “And y-you’re the one who burned down Thalia’s cabin?”
“Too bad Sam had to get in the way…and you, too.” He leaned in close, his breath foul. “Retribution. Right, Leonard? Payback, fair ’n’ square.”
The younger man nodded.
“You got everything you wanted, then. Just let me go. Please.”
Bascomb tossed back his head and laughed. “Right.”
When he looked away for a moment, she rapidly scanned the room for anything—any possible weapon.
Her gaze fell on a shoebox of several bark collars donated to the shelter. Next to them, because the office was still in such disarray, was a pile of bandaging material and a torn box holding several slim, stainless-steel scalpels. She palmed one, careful of its incredibly sharp blade, and turned sideways to keep both men in view.
Leonard was taller, younger, with an eerie presence that suggested he might veer dangerously into the macabre if given a chance. The elder Bascomb’s anger was palpable.
Please, God, give me a sign…tell me what to do.
The loose dogs outside had stayed close. Now, they started the agitated sort of barking that signaled a visitor. Let that be someone coming. Please…let that be someone coming. Someone big and burly and strong.
But what if it was a sweet young mother with children?
Or Trace was walking straight into a trap?
Bascomb’s eyes narrowed as he listened to the dogs outside. “It’s probably time for us to be on our way, so maybe we’d better make this short and quick. Leonard?”
Leonard started toward her. Bascomb moved closer, too, his hands clenched.
She spun around and slashed low, catching Leonard across the thighs.
He screamed in surprise and pain, his hands clutching his jeans. Bascomb lurched forward and grabbed her from behind, his breath hot and moist and fetid at her ear. She struggled, trying to kick and bite, but he clamped her to his chest with one arm, his other hand sliding up to tighten around her neck.
“I’m bleeding to death here!” Leonard screamed. “Kill her!”
She fought, then let herself turn to deadweight in his grip until he had to drop the hand at her neck to catch her. She clawed for anything within reach. Anything.
The small cardboard box tipped over, dumping the shock collars on the table. Blindly, she grabbed for one. Her fingers curled around each one of the thick, sturdy leather collars with long prongs and she fumbled at the tiny switch, praying she’d turned it on and that the batteries were good. Please, God.
She twisted in Bascomb’s arms and rammed the prongs against the bare flesh that held her. He yelped in pain and anger, releasing her just long enough for her to wrench herself from his grip and race for the open front door.
She met a solid wall of strong male. Muscled arms grabbed her, gently set her aside. “Go. Out to my truck. Call the cops and lock the doors. Now.”
For once in her life she didn’t ask questions. She ran.
Kris shivered as Sheriff Carpenter and his deputies stuffed the two Bascombs into separate patrol cars. Trace hovered nearby, clearly ready and more than eager to help.
With talent reminiscent of his rodeo days, he’d had both of the Bascombs tied up in no time flat, then he’d guarded them intently until the patrol cars finally arrived.
It’s over…it’s over. Thank You, God…it’s over.
The litany had been running through her head for the past forty-five minutes while she waited for help to arrive, gave her statement and wat
ched the officers prepare to haul the two men off to jail.
When the patrol cars finally rolled away, her knees almost buckled with relief. Trace moved instantly to her side. “You should have stayed warm in my truck all this time. You must be freezing.”
She shuddered, rubbing her upper arms against a deep chill that had nothing to do with weather. “I had to stay out here. I had to make sure that they were really taken away.”
“You still could’ve watched from the truck,” he teased. “You would’ve had a ringside view.”
“Not enough. I still can’t believe what they did. Even down to spreading all those rumors, wanting to drive me out of town.”
“But it’s the end of the road for them now.” His warm, dark eyes filled with unspoken emotion as he looked down at her. “In a way, maybe they did me a favor.”
“What?” She knew, but she asked anyway, just needing to hear the words.
“I’ve been so caught up in the past. Guilt. Regret. Anger at myself. Dwelling on how I should’ve been able to save my buddy’s life. I failed him, and I guess I failed my fiancée somehow, too. After all that, the last thing I wanted was to risk finding myself close to anyone else.”
“I know. It’s easier that way.”
“But then I met you, and I started to think.” His mouth tipped into a rueful smile. “I guess God was sending me a wake-up call. I always knew that He’d forgiven me, but I still needed to hand all that baggage over to Him and forgive myself.”
She laughed, a musical sweet sound that touched his heart. “I know exactly what you mean. There’s no sense staying in the past when the present might be absolutely wonderful.”
“Exactly. And seeing how close I came to losing you made me realize that without taking chances, I could lose a gift He has brought into my life. You.” He hesitated, his eyes searching hers, then he kissed her, his firm mouth gentle and warm. Little ribbons of delight unfurled around her heart as the kiss went on and on, sending tingles of joy clear down to her toes.
Fatal Burn Page 15
