Atonement

by Winter Austin

  Leaving the sheriff behind, Nic proceeded toward the office. O’Hanlon stepped aside to allow her entry.

  “Deputy,” he said with a nod.

  Averting her eyes, Nic returned the nod. “Detective.”

  Sheriff Hamilton’s office was the only room in the entire building that could be used for privacy. The structure had originally been designed as a general store. It changed hands and functions until fifty years ago, when the county decided it needed a new place to house the growing sheriff’s department but didn’t want to spend money on a new building. They gutted and remodeled the interior to accommodate four jail cells, an open space for the deputies’ desks, and the sheriff’s office. Modern technology mingled with the ’60s décor in a clash of god-awful orange and puke green with sleek silver and black furnishings.

  Positioning herself at attention in front of the desk, Nic waited for O’Hanlon and the county attorney to take their seats. She didn’t dare make eye contact with either man for fear of giving away her thoughts. The last time she’d looked through the scope before today, the lens wasn’t able to shield her from the horror of watching someone die.

  And for a marine sniper, that was a clear sign to cut her loose from the job.

  “Deputy Rivers, you can take a seat,” the county attorney said.

  “Sir, I’d prefer to stand.”

  O’Hanlon’s chair squeaked. “At ease, Deputy.”

  She met his piercing stare. He’d kicked back in his seat with an ankle resting on the top of his knee and his hands cradling his head. The pose was both a mix of sexy and nonchalant. What an odd position for an investigator to take when questioning someone about a shooting. Like he wanted her to be comfortable around him—open up. That Irish charm oozed from him. They hadn’t talked much since that fated night. Had O’Hanlon given up on pursuing her attentions? Nic relaxed her stance, clasping her hands behind her back and tipping her chin down to better look at the men.

  The attorney shuffled through his legal pad, came upon a clean sheet, and then with a click of his pen he posed, ready to write. “Deputy Rivers, we’re recording this as we go. You’re well aware of your rights to have legal representation, and at any time you feel the need to ask for someone to come in, we’ll stop and wait.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay”—the attorney scribbled something on his pad—“take us through what happened out there today at the Walker residence.”

  O’Hanlon studied her as she retold her side, probably looking for the hiccups in her presentation or maybe a particular facial expression she might have when she came to a particular part. But she knew all the signs of someone poised to rip apart her words. The three NCIS investigators had done it to her after her last mission, and they’d shredded her to bits, leaving her nothing but a liability and a burden. She pushed those dark days aside and focused on the present. O’Hanlon didn’t seem to pick up that her mind wandered while her story didn’t.

  When she finished, she focused on the attorney.

  “Deputy, why did the sheriff choose you to take the shooting position? Especially when there were other deputies on hand?” the attorney asked.

  A muscle in Nic’s lower back twitched. “Excuse me, sir, but have you seen my dossier?”

  The attorney picked up a sheaf of papers, then set them down on the desk. “Right here.”

  “Then you know that I was a sniper in the Marine Corps, correct?”

  “So it says.”

  Heat filled her face. Either he was mocking her, or the man seriously doubted her capabilities. Tamping down her temper, Nic clenched her fingers. She’d squared off against this kind of sexism when she made it into the ranks of US Marine snipers and fought it off as she silenced every man stupid enough to want a shoot-out against her.

  “If I were to hazard a guess as to why the sheriff chose me, a highly trained sniper, to take a shooting position, it might be because there was no one else there to do it. As to why the other deputies were not called on to do the deed is simple. One is a greenhorn to this job. The other was a family member of the deceased who was told to remove himself from the situation.”

  “We have well-trained SWAT members in the Eider city police, Deputy Rivers,” O’Hanlon said.

  Her gaze slid to him, resisting the urge to show that the sardonic smile was playing havoc on her. “I believe the sheriff asked for assistance from Eider PD, and they were on the way. But the situation had escalated to the point we couldn’t wait.”

  “And”—O’Hanlon shifted out of his relaxed position and placed his elbows on the desktop, leaning against it—“you just happened to have your rifle handy?”

  “I always have my rifle handy. It goes with me every time I’m in the squad car. Just because I’m not in the Corps any more doesn’t mean my skills aren’t needed on my new job, Detective. Had I not been there? Had I not been trained as a sniper to take down threats in deadly situations, those children would be joining their mother.” She peered at the attorney. “And that, sir, is why the sheriff chose me to shoot. To save those kids’ lives. If I had a single regret, it would be that it wasn’t in time to save their mother.”

  • • •

  The Priest watched the muted scenes play across the TV screen. Yellow crime tape fluttered behind a male reporter and beyond that, the darkened home where tragedy struck. He rolled the rosary beads between the fingers of his right hand and tapped the armrest with his left. The image flashed to earlier footage of the home after the cops swarmed the place. The scene of the Walker family hostage situation ended in two deaths.

  Peace filtered into his system at the sight. The family had been cleansed, the wife paid for her sins, and her husband was free of his guilt. Atonement.

  But not fully. The children were still alive, and the husband hadn’t died by his own hand.

  The image on the TV switched to a full view of the McIntire Sheriff’s Department. The cameraman had zoomed in on a female figure darting into the back of the building, with the sheriff close on her heels.

  The Priest sat forward, his rosary slipping until the cross brushed the floor. A blue caption box stating that the McIntire Sheriff’s Department had used a female deputy to stop the killings scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

  A woman sniper?

  Grasping the remote, he increased the volume.

  “ … the sheriff reported they did what was best for the children. But residents are questioning the force used to end the standoff as nothing more than abuse of police resources.”

  The report switched to a scene outside the sheriff’s department as a truck crept past a bevy of reporters. The top of someone’s head peeked over the edge of the passenger-side window.

  “The deputy who pulled the trigger isn’t talking, and the sheriff’s department hasn’t released any more statements. We were informed the Eider Police Department is investigating the shooting. People here in Eider and Cornel are still demanding answers as to why a family man like Dusty Walker would be killed in such a manner.”

  The Priest turned off the TV and stood; the rosary banged against his leg as he walked into the kitchen. Halting in the center of the laminated floor, he stared at the cabinets.

  There was still the matter of the missing body the police hadn’t found. Dusty accomplished half the job, but the woman deputy didn’t allow him to end his own life. The Priest scowled, clenching the beads. These were variables he hadn’t considered before, and it meant a greater chance of failure the next time. Police interference was not a welcome sign. Had things not gone as they had, Dusty Walker might have slipped up and reported the wrong thing. The Priest couldn’t allow it to happen again.

  If the sinners did not atone on their own, how would they reach salvation? To ensure success with the next one, he had to outthink the sinners. He’d learn from this mistake and apply changes.

  With a nod, he moved to the dry goods cabinet and retrieved a box of crackers. Hunger consumed him most of the day, but his obliga
tions overrode the need for food. With his obligations completed, he could feed his body.

  Later he would feed his soul.

  • • •

  The nightmare always came after a particularly bad day. The dream hadn’t come to her in a while, but this time around it seemed worse than before.

  It started the same, the figures of men moving farther away from Nic, through a curtain of sand. The more she yelled, the more grit filled her mouth, choking her words. Suddenly the rattle of gunfire exploded. Nic screamed, begging them to listen to her. They finally turned, but their bodies became wisps of smoke. Dazed and unable to move, she watched as the men drifted away.

  But this time, the dream took a bloodier turn. This time, the men reappeared in a tunnel burrowed in rock. They stood before her, eyes glazed and faces bloodied. One by one they grabbed their hair with one hand, then a sword appeared in the other and each one whacked his head off. Their lifeless faces gaped at her.

  Nic bolted upright, screaming and kicking at the sheets tangled around her ankles. Breathing like an untrained marathon runner, her eyes jerked from one darkened corner of the room to the other. Home. Her home. Not the dank, far away hellhole in some godforsaken, Middle East country.

  Her stomach lurched. Scrambling from the bed, she stumbled into the bathroom and barely reached the toilet before her gut made its final heave. She vomited repeatedly until all that remained were the dry heaves.

  Flushing the toilet, Nic leaned against the cool porcelain bowl and sobbed.

  Chapter Three

  Con jarred awake at the shrill song coming from his cell. Cursing the holy saints, he flung the blankets aside, which caused a low growl from his bed companion. “I’m not the one calling me at ... ” Con snatched the phone from his bedside table and squinted at the time on his alarm clock—three in the morning. “Sweet mother.”

  The German Shepherd humphed and buried his nose under the blankets. Con turned his back to the dog as the phone rang in his hand. He peered at the number.

  Rivers? Shock coursed through him. She still had his number. As a precautionary measure and a neighborly gesture, he’d given it to her a couple of years ago to contact him if she needed assistance at home after a bad summer storm had torn through the area. He’d also hoped she’d eventually break down and give him a shot at getting to know her, but the lass was fiercely stubborn in that department. After she’d stood him up, Con thought for sure she’d trashed his contact info. This was a surprise.

  Tapping the green phone icon on the screen, Con placed the cell to his ear; unsure what to call her, he played it safe. “Deputy Rivers, do you realize it’s three blessed a.m.?”

  An unladylike snort vibrated over the connection. “I ain’t on duty. It’s Nic.”

  Okay, time for a different approach. He flopped onto the pillows. “What can I help you with, Nic?”

  She choked out a laugh. “Con, do you … know how it feels … to kill som’body?” The slosh of liquid interrupted her. She smacked her lips. “Feels like shit.”

  Not good. Con slid off the bed and pounded the wall for the light switch. “How much have you had to drink?”

  She mumbled something then coughed.

  His fingers brushed the switch, and he flipped it. Light burned his eyes, and he peered through slits to search for his clothes. “Listen to me, Nic. I’m on my way over. Don’t you hang up on me.”

  Cadno lifted his head, and his black and brown eyes followed Con around the bedroom.

  Nic burst into laughter. The bitter edge echoed in Con’s head. She better not have her sidearm out when he got there. With his phone braced between his shoulder and ear, he grabbed his jeans off the floor and rammed his legs into them, tugged on a T-shirt, and slipped his bare feet into his shoes.

  “Hey, Con.” Nic giggled. “Got a good … one fer ya.”

  Palming the keys to his truck, he snapped to Cadno and gave him the forward hand command. “What’s that?”

  The former military working dog jumped off the bed and darted for the door ahead of Con.

  “Didja know …” She hiccupped. “I got this damn job … ’cause I could shoot?”

  Cadno slipped through the crack before Con could fully open the door, ran over to the truck, and sat, waiting. Con let the door slap shut behind him and hurried to the Ford.

  “Yeah, Nic. I know you did.”

  Once Cadno hopped inside the cab and settled in his seat, Con followed suit. Ignoring his seat belt, he turned over the Ford’s engine. “Ya know that ain’t the single reason the sheriff hired you.” Con peeled out of the gravel drive. His place was a few miles from hers. Resisting the urge to smack the steering wheel, he navigated the lane. Keep her talking. Maybe—let it be so—she didn’t have her sidearm out. “You’re a good cop.”

  She snorted, and it sounded like she tipped the bottle again. Clearing her throat, she breathed into the phone. “I was a good l’il marine, too.”

  The lane ended at a T, and he squealed onto the paved road. “What happened today was bad—”

  “Shit, Con, I killed someone. Blew his brains all over a wall!” Her labored breathing made his heart race. “Bad … bad is … getting shot. Now tha’s bad.”

  Con took a curve like Jimmie Johnson at Bristol. “What choice did you have? He was going to kill his kids.”

  “He killed his wife.” The slosh of liquor came over the line again. “I shoulda stopped him before.”

  Damn it! How much liquor could the woman handle? He turned on the road leading to Nic’s house. The truck’s headlights slashed over the sign warning of the narrow bridge crossing ahead. “Why are you beating yourself up? You did the right thing.”

  She swore again and gulped.

  Rumbling over the bridge, Con steered the truck up to the house. A lone light shone on the first floor.

  “Open up, Rivers. I’m here.” The truck cruised into the drive, and he parked behind her Jeep. He bailed from the cab with Cadno hot on his heels as they marched up the walk.

  Nic didn’t answer the door when he knocked. He tried the handle—it was unlocked. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside, ending the call. Cadno weaved around his legs, darting into the house. Con shoved his phone in his jeans pocket and closed the door.

  “Nic?”

  The lone light came from above the sink in the kitchen. Cadno’s nails clicked on the wood floors as he headed down the hall. Con checked the living area—empty—then, bypassing the bathroom, followed his dog to elbow his way into her bedroom. Settling on his haunches, Cadno riveted his gaze on the woman in a black T-shirt and black shorts with the Marine Corps logo on the left leg.

  Nic sat on the corner of her messy bed, cradling a half-empty bottle of whiskey and her cell phone, staring at her Glock on the floor between her bare feet. She lifted her head and peered at Con between the straggly black curtain of hair.

  He eased into the room, gave Cadno the command for down, then moved around Nic to crouch in front of her as he cautiously slid the Glock between his feet. “This isn’t what we discussed about decompressing after today.”

  The shadows covered any facial reaction she had to his comment. Con being witness to her drinking, with her weapon out, after she’d killed someone on duty—especially if he was the investigator in this whole ordeal—had bad written all over it. This kind of reaction would warrant him suggesting a psych evaluation before she could return to duty. But her comment on the phone about being a good marine and the bitterness that laced her words spoke of something deeper, older at play here.

  Nic brought the bottle to her lips, and Con caught her arm. She tried to resist him, but the liquor’s effects had taken a toll on her strength, and gradually he brought her arm back down.

  “Why are you here?” she hissed.

  “You called me.” His fingers slid down the length of her arm until they curled around the bottle’s neck. “Don’t you remember?”

  Nic relinquished the bottle and dropped her face into her hands. �
��Why’d he make me do it? Why didn’t he just back down? I could have saved them. All of them. Damn him! Damn him to hell!” She pounded her fists against the side of her head.

  Confused by Nic’s drunken ramblings, Con grabbed her wrists and restrained her before she could actually hurt herself. With a whimper so unlike her, she sagged, her head flopping onto his shoulder.

  Cadno whined. The dog wanted to help but wouldn’t break command.

  Con pushed against Nic’s shoulders until she sat upright. “Nic, look at me.” Despite the dark, he saw her open her eyes, blink, and try to focus on him. “It’s not your fault,” he said firmly. “I don’t know why he made you do it, but you can’t blame yourself for what happened.”

  Shrugging free of his hold, she staggered to her feet and wobbled to the door. “Why’d ya come?”

  He stood to his full height, tucking Nic’s gun in his waistline behind his back, and grabbed the whiskey bottle. “To make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Placing the bottle on the dresser next to the door, Con inched closer. His muscles were taut and loaded, ready for anything she might throw at him. “No, you’re not.”

  She flung her arm around, grazing his face with a fingernail. “Go away. I don’t want you here.”

  Backing up a step, he caught her flailing arm. Nic stiffened and tried to jerk free of his grasp, but only succeeded in losing her balance and stumbling against him. Con hooked his arms under hers and hoisted her body upright.

  “All right, I think that’s enough.” He maneuvered her toward the bed. “Some sleep will help you burn off the liquor. You’ll feel like your old self again in the morning.”

  Nic’s hands crawled up his chest and snaked around his neck. She hung there, staring at him drunkenly. “You still want me … dontcha?” The tip of her nose brushed against his bristled chin.

  Ah, bloody hell. Con untangled himself from her, but she pressed her body against him and swayed seductively.

  “Come on, Con-boy. You know you wanna.”

  Extracting her tentacle-like limbs, Con danced her around until her back was to the bed. “Actually, Nic, I’d prefer it if you were sober and knew what the hell you were doing.”