by Lori Foster
“Okay,” he said slowly, his voice losing some of its professional edge. “Uh, great. We’re pulling up to the E.R. now.” He laughed softly, his voice sheepish. Endearing. “I just wanted to double-check before I actually walked him in.”
“Wonderful,” Molly said, then hesitated. He didn’t hang up. Neither did she. For some reason, she was reluctant to end the call. It had been completely routine. Two colleagues discussing a case. She received several such checkins on any given night. Yet this was the first time she’d ever been tempted to turn a routine crisis call into something more—something personal—-even if it was only to ask how long Officer King had been a cop. Or why he’d become one. Or whether he looked anything like he sounded, and if he did, how he could possibly function with women doubtlessly following him around all day and throwing themselves at his feet.
“Are you still there, Molly?”
Molly jerked at the low male voice in her ear. “Uh, yes, Officer King, I am.” She picked up her pen again. “Did you have another question?”
“Please, call me Wade. And actually, yes, I do have another question. But I need to escort my in-custody into the E.R. first. Can I call you right back? Will someone else answer the phone or will you…?”
“No, I’m the only one manning the hotline. There’s twenty-four-hour medical staff here, but they’re on the other side of the building. If you call this number again, you’ll get me.” Her unintentionally provocative words made her blush. “I mean-—”
“Good. Because you’re the one I want. That is—I like the sound of your voice. I’ll call back in a few.”
She hung up. Good, he’d said. And he’d definitely sounded pleased at the prospect of talking to her again. Her in particular. But that couldn’t be, could it?
It wasn’t the celibacy that was getting to her, it was the double shifts and lack of sleep. Why else was she responding so foolishly to a routine call?
Nonetheless, several minutes later, when the phone rang again and she picked it up, the caller seemed to breathe a sigh of relief before saying, “Hi, Molly. It’s Officer King—Wade.”
Amazing how she almost breathed a sigh of relief herself. “Hi again.”
“Hi.” He cleared his throat, as if gathering his courage. “I wanted to pose a hypothetical question. Is that all right?”
“The phone lines are clear, so sure.” She bit her lip, curious and slightly apprehensive. Hypothetical questions almost always came from someone seeking advice for himself or herself.
“Say I know someone who’s acting… Oh, how should I say it…a little off. Like…let’s say this hypothetical someone has taken a sudden liking to hunting ducks.”
An odd sense of disappointment filled her. Okay, so this was just another crisis call, albeit one more personal to him. Unless “hunting ducks” was a euphemism for something kinky, which she seriously doubted.
Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. Concentrate, Molly. “Go ahead,” she said softly. “Is it this hypothetical person, the ducks or someone else you’re worried about?” The part about the ducks just popped out. She wasn’t a hunter. Didn’t understand people who were. But even her grandfather had hunted game when he was younger, which, considering how close he’d been to Gator, seemed quite ironic.
Officer King remained silent for several seconds before saying, “You a yank, darlin’?”
Pure sex, she thought again. That slow southern drawl was tinged with humor. Low and deep. Masculine with a hint of sweetness and spice. After several months in Charleston, she should be immune to the unique strains of southern dialect, both male and female, but this man’s voice was different. Mesmerizing.
“I’m a yank through and through,” she confirmed. “But I’m here to help. Who is it you’re concerned about?”
“Actually, it’s my grandfather,” he said, and she felt an immediate rush of relief. Far better to reconcile that virile, tempting voice with a concerned grandson rather than with a man—and a cop, at that—personally on the emotional or mental edge. Either way, she was suddenly glad she’d been asked to extend her shift and was here to answer this man’s call.
It wasn’t simply that he had a sexy voice. Somehow she knew the voice belonged to someone who didn’t ask for help, at least of the personal variety, very often. She didn’t know how she knew it, she just did. Her desire to heal and nurture welled inside her. Her job was about helping others get their emotional bearings back, but too often she only encountered people when they were in pain, whether it was personal or the pain of witnessing someone they loved suffering, and then she mostly evaluated them and referred them elsewhere. Despite this man’s attempts at humor—an obvious defense mechanism—he sounded genuinely concerned for his elderly relative. It reminded her of the close relationship she’d had with her own grandparents. It made her miss them even more. And it made her feel less alone in her mission to aid others.
“So why is it you’re worried about your grandfather, and what does duck hunting have to do with it?”
He laughed, the sound both amused and frustrated, and it shivered through her, traveling straight to every erogenous zone in her body. Lord, the man’s voice was lethal.
“You haven’t been in the south very long, have you?”
“What makes you say that?” Her muscles relaxed slightly and she sank a little deeper into her chair. The situation clearly wasn’t an emergency, given Officer King’s casual questions. Still, she needed to get the conversation back on track.
“Any self-respecting southerner knows that duck-hunting season ended over a month ago.”
Ah, she thought. Right. “So how does his desire to go duck hunting equate to a psychiatric problem? I’m not sure I follow.”
“Well, it just so happens my grandfather hates duck hunting. And he hasn’t been any kind of hunting in over thirty years. Plus, now he has two ticked-off neighbors who no longer have mailboxes.”
“Sorry, but again, I’m not sure I follow. Did he leave to go duck hunting and mow down the mailboxes? Does he still have his driver’s license?”
“Molly, I don’t think you’re understanding me. He didn’t take out the mailboxes by sideswiping them with his fifty-seven Buick. He used a Smith and Wesson.”
“Excuse me? Oh.” She winced slightly. “Ohhhh yeah, that could be a problem.”
“Yes. Thankfully, he lives on a remote farm and doesn’t seem to mistake humans for fowl. But he keeps talking about his successful hunt.”
“How old is your grandfather?”
“Seventy-five.”
“Has he been exhibiting signs of senility? Alzheimer’s?”
“No. In the past year, he’s gotten a bit more forgetful, but nothing like this. The duck-hunting thing has been coming and going for about a week, and seems to be worse in the late afternoons and evening. He’s fine during the day, and when I ask him about duck hunting then…well, he looks at me like I’m crazy.”
“Any other signs of confusion?” she asked.
“No…not really.”
She wondered if it could be sundowning, a symptom that often occurred in people with dementia. “Has he ever had these types of incidents before? Any recent stressors?”
“No and no.”
“Has he been ill?”
“He did say he felt a little warm, but I figured it was just a change in the weather, as they say.”
“Change in the weather, huh? I’m guessing that’s not something I’m going to find in the American medical journal.”
“Na,” he drawled. “Probably not. It’s an old-timer’s term for sinusitis.”
“Okay. Well, there are a few different possibilities, but I wouldn’t be able to say for sure unless he was properly evaluated.”
“Hmm,” he sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of.” The line was silent for a few seconds before he said, “My grandpa isn’t what you would call a fan of shrinks, but I bet I could get him to come in to see a pretty lady for a physical.”
Pretty lady, huh? For all he
knew, she was a troll. But she was betting that voice of his was matched by dreamy eyes and a lazy smile. His charm probably worked on every woman he ever came across.
“You can have him stop by the clinic. We can run a standard psych exam, a few memory-skills tests and some basic labs.”
“Labs? What kinda labs?”
“Just a met panel and urinalysis. You can always take him to his primary-care physician, of course.”
“We’ve made an appointment. But to be honest, I drive right by your clinic almost every night and I’ve seen the sign advertising complete confidentiality. I mean, in theory, the results of any doctor’s visit would be confidential, but…” He sighed. “My grandfather’s proud and—well, his standing in the community is an issue. I don’t want word getting around that he’s…ill…if I have no cause to worry.”
Ah, she thought. So the charming voice went with an upper-class background and a need for discretion. Instantly, she felt a part of herself close up. She knew it was happening, but she couldn’t stop it. Her own father, who’d made his money in the dot-com boom, was a perfect example of how the wealthy generally equated fairness with favoritism. With entitlement. As if that hadn’t been enough of an example, the last well-off man she’d dated had been genuinely perplexed when she’d broken things off with him after several dates; it had taken only a few angry comments and some rough handling from him before she’d finally understood why—he couldn’t believe someone like her (read humbly middle class) wasn’t genuflecting with gratitude at the chance to date a man like him (read arrogantly loaded).
Please. As if being rich and well-connected outweighed that the guy had sweaty palms, bad breath and left her completely cold.
When he’d put his hands on her, she’d taught him just how truly uninterested she was. He’d been walking funny when he left. Needless to say, she hadn’t been moved to break her bout of celibacy with or since him.
Abruptly aware that she hadn’t responded to the officer’s last statements, she reassured him, “You’re certainly right, you know. Everything you say to me, and anything your grandfather might say to me, is confidential.”
“Thank you.”
His obvious gratitude seemed so genuine, she relaxed. She jotted down a few notes next to the incoming phone number on her sheet of paper.
Duck hunting = shot mailboxes. Wants discretion. Social standing. Grandson caring and HOT….
She stared at the last word she’d written and shook her head. She’d circled “hot” several times. What was wrong with her? Throwing down her pen, she spoke more crisply.
“So…what do you mean by increasing forgetfulness? And is your grandfather being supervised? Have you locked up his gun?”
“Mailboxes aside, he’s not dangerous. But yes, I have confiscated his shotgun. And he’s forgetful in the way many of us can be, although he’s never been so in the past. Misplaces his keys. Walks into his room and forgets why.”
“Does he live alone?”
“Yes. He has ever since my grandmother died three years ago. But he has a full-time assistant, and I try to stop by as often as I can.”
“So, what do you say? Will you consider bringing him into the clinic for an evaluation?”
“Would you be the one to evaluate him?”
She sensed more than concern and curiosity in his tone. She sensed…hope? Anticipation?
“Our medical techs would run the labs. As for the psych evaluation itself, I wouldn’t necessarily—”
“Because that’s what I’d want. I’d certainly be grateful to you, ma’am, if you can make time for him.”
To a “Yankee” like her, being called ma’am would normally have been an insult, given she wasn’t quite yet thirty, but the way this man said it…
“Why do you want me to see him?”
“I’m a good judge of character, and I feel like I can trust you with him. With this situation. Can you see him later today?”
Since it was just after ten p.m., later today would mean early in the morning. When she’d be sleeping. Then again, he’d said his grandfather’s psychosis had only presented itself later in the day. “I’m afraid after working two shifts, I won’t be back until tomorrow night, but the staff here is—”
“What time does your next shift start?”
She hesitated then said, “Nine p.m. tomorrow.”
“That should be perfect. How about I see you tomorrow, Molly? When I introduce you to my granddaddy.”
She was suddenly anxious for the opportunity to meet him. To see if his face and body matched his voice. To see if he really cared for his grandfather as much as he seemed to. “If you’re sure you don’t want to bring him in earlier,” she said slowly, “that’ll be fine.”
“I’m sure. Thanks for talking to me, Molly. Sweet dreams.”
Sweet dreams? With that voice running in her head, they would be sweet indeed. But first she had to finish the rest of her shift.
It was almost two hours later when Nick, Molly’s replacement, finally showed up. By then, she was running on exhaust and anxious to get home. After gathering her things, including Gator’s round cage, she walked into the main clinic lobby and passed by the guard’s station, frowning when she saw he was gone, likely making his rounds. Danny was a quiet young man who appreciated the brownies she sometimes baked for him and the rest of the staff at the clinic. It had been awkward when he’d asked her out last month, but he’d taken her gentle refusal in stride and things had gotten back to normal after he’d started dating a girl he’d met at church. She’d been hoping Danny would walk her to her car, as he usually did on late evenings, but who knew how long he’d be gone. And though there were a handful of employees working graveyard throughout the building, Molly certainly didn’t want to bug them. Even so, despite being bone-deep tired, with the lure of a soft bed calling to her, the thought of walking outside alone unnerved her.
She’d been a victim of a carjacking a few years ago when her grandparents had still lived in Los Angeles. The guy, a man named Luther Jones, had knocked her around. After she’d testified at his trial, he’d yelled that he was going to hunt her down as soon as he got out of prison. It had taken years for her to start to feel safe again, but self-defense classes had helped. She’d felt secure enough that she’d even started dating again—until Elliott Rich-and-Stuck-on-Himself had proven once again that some men didn’t know how to control themselves. Despite growing up with a father who’d smacked her mother around, logically she knew all men weren’t violent. Still, she was beginning to believe that, when it came to dating, at least, it was better to be safe than sorry.
She walked to the outer door and peeked out.
Her car was about halfway down the near-empty parking lot, not more than two hundred feet away. She took out her keys and held them between her fingers the way she’d been taught in self-defense class. Then she stepped out, Gator’s cage in hand.
She walked quickly.
“My little friend,” Gator chirped suddenly.
“Yes, say hello to my little friend,” Molly said with a smile. Gator and her grandfather had loved watching the same type of shoot-’em-up action movies that her grandfather had once acted in and directed. Gator could quote Arnold, Clint and Bruce. With Al, Gator had never managed to say the entire line from Scarface, but Molly hadn’t given up hope yet.
Her steps slowed slightly as she relaxed. “You were such a good bird today, Gator. Maybe I can convince Jenny to let me bring you—”
She was almost to her car when a voice sounded from just behind her.
“Mawwwwwlleeeeeeeee,” it singsonged.
Involuntarily, she screamed and dropped Gator’s cage, which tipped over on its side. Dimly, she heard Gator’s piercing shrieks as the cage rolled away. She jerked around and caught a flash of movement out of the corner of her eye. Instinctively, she tried to turn, but it was too late. The hooded figure was almost on top of her.
Strong fingers dug into her arms.
Un
der the dim parking-lot lights, most of what she saw was black. Black clothes. Black ski mask over her attacker’s face. But she also saw two tiny patches of white where his eyes shone through the mask’s eyeholes. Terror seized her, but then her previous self-defense training clicked in. “You bastard! Let go of me!”
He jerked her closer. “Shut up!” he muttered, the strong odor on his breath escaping from the mouth hole in his mask. For a second, the distinct scent made her freeze, but then she continued to struggle.
“You damn—” But his words choked off when she kicked out, catching him in the groin. She’d hoped his grip would loosen, but it tightened instead. She fought to wrestle away, but a second later she felt a stunning blow to the side of her head.
Through her dizziness, she lunged forward, trying to bite the man’s neck or chest, anything she could reach, but he grabbed a hank of her hair, yanked her head back and punched her in the face. Her body slumped and she almost blacked out. Dimly, she was aware of Gator shrieking and her feet dragging against the asphalt as the man hauled her away from her car.
Suddenly, light blazed directly in her face, blinding her. She heard the heavy, panicked breaths of her attacker just before he cursed and shoved her forward. She fell face first toward the ground, scraping her palms where she caught herself, but her torso and head hit with painful thuds anyway.
She heard the pounding of running feet. A deep, masculine voice just over her head shouting for backup to apprehend a fleeing suspect while he checked on a victim. Then gentle hands touched her shoulder.
“Shhh. You’re okay, darlin’. He’s gone.”
When she whimpered and flinched back from the hands touching her, they retreated. A victim, he’d called her, when she’d never wanted to be a victim again.
She lay there for a few seconds, the newcomer crouched down next to her, his hands deliberately hanging between his knees where she could see them, as if he wanted her to know he wasn’t a threat. Her eyes wandered upward until she could take in his dark blue police uniform. In the background, blue lights flashed, and she registered it was from his patrol car.
