His Witness, Her Child

by Ann Voss Peterson

  THE ONCE-PRISTINE snowdrifts framing Spaight Street had decayed into tiny mounds of gray slush. Heavy and moist, the air carried the odor of Lake Monona’s early thaw. Cars lining the curb still wore chalky cloaks of crystallized road salt, echoing the color of the sky.

  Jacqueline slammed her car door and trudged up the sidewalk to her house, despair seeping into her bones like the cold, drab weather. She clutched Amanda’s hand, her daughter dragging despondently by her side. After visiting the three lawyers she knew in the city, she’d found out she couldn’t get in to see any of them until this afternoon. She was no closer to knowing what to do than she had been when she’d walked out of the house an hour ago, leaving Dillon standing in the doorway, mouth agape. She almost smiled at the memory. At least by staying away from the house for that long, she could be sure he was gone.

  And thank God for that. A shiver clambered up her spine at the memory of his bigger-than-life presence. His black eyes that seemed to peer into her heart. His strong arms that had held her the night the threats began. His smoky drawl that had promised to keep her family safe.

  When she first met him she’d believed he was a hero. A white knight dedicated to upholding justice and protecting the innocent. But then the threats had begun. The threats against Mark. Against Amanda. Then she’d seen the real Dillon Reese. And protecting the innocent wasn’t nearly as important to him as upholding justice.

  She’d tried to hate the man. She’d spent night after sleepless night cursing the day he was born, but it hadn’t done any good. She could blame him for Mark’s death, she could blame him for the danger Amanda faced, but somehow she couldn’t hate him. He wasn’t a bad man, she knew that. He wasn’t an evil man. He didn’t want to hurt Amanda.

  It was worse than that. Much worse.

  He truly believed he was doing the right thing. And that was the problem. Doing the right thing was so important to him that he would sacrifice everything, even her little girl, if he had to. Even if he didn’t mean to put Amanda at risk, even if he didn’t mean to endanger her, the result would be the same.

  And it was a result she couldn’t live with.

  What he would do next, she didn’t know, but it didn’t really matter. For as much as Dillon loved justice, she loved Amanda more. Amanda wouldn’t testify. She wouldn’t be one of Dillon’s witnesses. She wouldn’t follow in her father’s footsteps. Jacqueline would make sure of it. She just had to figure out how.

  Resolutely she climbed the wooden steps to her front porch, her precious little girl by her side. Except for her disclosure to Dillon, Amanda had barely spoken a word in the past eighteen hours. She had gone through enough trauma to last a lifetime. Jacqueline would give up anything to make sure her baby didn’t have to go through any more.

  Turning her key in the lock, she heard the faint ring of the telephone inside. Let it ring. It was probably someone from the newspaper looking for an interview with the dead man’s ex-wife. Or the district attorney’s office checking up on her. She entered the house with Amanda in tow and closed and locked the door behind them.

  The phone kept ringing.

  She paused and glanced at the white cordless receiver on the kitchen counter. Maybe one of the lawyers’ offices was calling. Jacqueline had pleaded with the receptionists to call immediately if they received a cancellation. The sooner Jacqueline could talk to a lawyer, the better. Mustering her courage, she crossed into the kitchen and picked up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Jacqueline Schettler?” The low voice grated like a steel-shank boot on wet gravel.

  Jacqueline’s ears hummed. Her throat grew hot and dry as sunburn. She knew this voice. She recognized… Oh, God.

  “Don’t say a word. Just listen. Are you listening?”

  The acrid taste of fear assaulted her mouth and turned her stomach. The voice on the phone was the same one that had threatened Mark’s life. Even though she hadn’t heard that voice since her divorce, she’d never forget that low growl. Not as long as she lived.

  Buck Swain.

  “Are you listening, Jacqueline?”

  “Yes,” she managed to whisper. She clutched the phone, the plastic slick in her clammy palms. “I’m listening.”

  “Good. I know your girl was at the brew pub. I know you talked to Dillon Reese this morning. I’m giving you one chance to get out of state. One chance. I don’t like the thought of dealing with a child. I’m an honorable man. But I will kill her if you force me to. Do you understand?”

  Panic swelled inside her, threatening to erupt in screams. She understood. She understood perfectly. Her head whirled. She leaned against the counter for balance. “Yes, I understand.”

  “Good. I’ll be watching, Jacqueline, so don’t call the police and don’t try any tricks. If you do, her blood will be on your hands.” A click sounded, and the line went dead.

  She let the phone slip from her hand, the plastic clattering on the kitchen floor. Her vision blurred. Her knees wobbled. All her fears, all her worst nightmares were coming true.

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks, trying to cool her burning skin, trying to clear her spinning head. She needed to think, to focus on some kind of plan. Nausea clamped her stomach. She willed it away. She couldn’t give in to panic. Not now. She had to keep her mind sharp. Her daughter’s life depended on it—depended on her. The police couldn’t help her. Dillon couldn’t help her.

  She needed to pack her car, raid her meager bank account and drive as fast as she could for the Illinois border. She needed to leave Wisconsin and never come back. Ever. She had to save her little girl. If she didn’t—She couldn’t let herself think about the alternative.

  Chapter Three

  Dillon leaned against the doorjamb of District Attorney Neil Fitzroy’s office and tried his best to look relaxed. Truth be told, he was anything but. The muscles in his arms and legs coiled with tension like a wildcat ready to spring. He could still see the contempt in Jacqueline’s eyes. Still hear her car engine rev to life and pull out into traffic. Still taste the ashen flavor of failure—his steady diet nowadays. Ignoring the others in the room, he zeroed in on the district attorney. “She’s getting herself a lawyer, Fitz. Looks like we got a fight on our hands.”

  Fitz looked up from the sheaf of paper on his desk. From his movie-star face and satin-smooth voice to his talent for hiring good people and delegating with authority, Neil Fitzroy was everything a successful district attorney had to be. His piercing green eyes touched on each of the other three members of his experimental task force on violent crime before latching on to Dillon. “You’re sure the little girl saw the murder and can identify the killer? Forcing a child to testify is tricky enough without some witness-rights lawyer in the mix. Is it going to be worth the hassle?”

  Again the image of Jacqueline Schettler flashed through Dillon’s mind, the lines of tension rimming her mouth and eyes, the stiff, battle-ready carriage of her spine. He was in for a hassle, all right. But if little Amanda could lead him to Buck Swain, it would be worth any hassle Jacqueline could cook up. “The little girl watched while her daddy was killed. It’ll be worth it.”

  Fitz’s frown deepened. “We can’t afford another mistake on this case, Reese. Buck Swain is a celebrity, a war hero with the scars to prove it. You know how the news media loves that kind of thing. And now a witness dead—Let’s not give them any more flub-ups to write about.”

  Dillon returned the frown. “Politicking is your job, Fitz. My job is to win justice.”

  Dex Harrington cleared his throat with an annoying coughing growl and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “You’re right, Fitz, we can’t let this case get out of control. Reese sometimes forgets he’s not in the wild West anymore. I’ll deal with the media on this one. I have the experience and tact to handle them.”

  Dillon gritted his teeth. The man probably had calluses from patting his own back. A pretty-boy assistant D.A. with sandy hair and a cleft chin, Harrington wore glasses not to see better but
to make himself look more serious and dependable. Two qualities he damn well didn’t own.

  Dillon opened his mouth to defend himself. Thinking better of it, he snapped it shut. Dex might look like an up-and-comer, but a look was all it was. He had no real power. At least, not while Fitz was still in office. After the next election, things might be different. But for now, Dillon could afford to ignore Dex Harrington.

  Next to Dex, Kit Ashner tossed her cropped, mousy hair and shot Dillon one of her conspiratorial looks. “Gee, Dex. Why can’t we all be as astute and politically savvy as you?” She rolled her eyes, not bothering to temper her sarcasm. Too busy building her career to suffer fools lightly, Kit was known in the D.A.’s office for her caustic remarks and downright bitchiness. The woman had so many rough edges, Fitz kept her tucked away from the media whenever possible. But personality aside, she worked harder, longer hours than anyone in the office but Dillon himself.

  Or maybe Britt Alcott. The classy-looking blonde sitting on the other side of Fitz’s desk could pull long hours with the best of them. At least she used to, before her recent marriage. Britt sat straight in her chair, her legs crossed at the ankles, deep concern shining in her blue eyes and wrinkling her fair-skinned brow. “If the little girl witnessed her father’s death, you need to be very careful about how you proceed on this, Dillon. You don’t want to put extra strain on her. Has anyone looked into getting her psychiatric help to deal with what she saw?”

  Dillon nodded in Britt’s direction. He hadn’t thought about that before. Little Amanda had gone through hell. She would surely need help to handle what she’d witnessed. “Another reason to get her into protective custody.”

  Fitz’s intercom buzzed, halting the conversation. He picked up the phone. “Yes? Send him in.” As he dropped the phone back in its cradle, the door swung wide.

  Detective Al Mylinski ambled into the room, his mouth twisted into a familiar pucker while he sucked on a piece of his endless stream of fruity candy. “Got some news. News you folks are gonna like.” Mylinski slowly, dramatically surveyed the room, nodding to each member of the task force. He reserved one of his lopsided grins for Dillon. “Especially you, Dillon.”

  Leave it to Mylinski to draw out a story. “Out with it, Al. I’ve never known you to be tongue-tied.”

  Mylinski’s grin stretched ear to ear. “No, I suppose not. We found ourselves another witness. Seems a bartender at the Schettler Brew Pub was near the kitchen window at the time of the murder. She had a perfect view. Saw everything. Her name is Valerie Wallace.”

  “Why didn’t I hear about her last night?”

  “She lied to the cops who interviewed her. Said she didn’t see anything. Scared, I guess. But her conscience and my charm finally got the best of her. She’s downstairs looking at some pictures as we speak.”

  Good old Mylinski. Dillon allowed a smile to form on his lips and spread over his face. Another witness. An adult this time. Maybe he wouldn’t need little Amanda’s testimony in court after all. If he could promise her daughter wouldn’t have to testify, maybe Jacqueline would let him arrange for some kind of counseling for the little girl. If the state wouldn’t foot the bill, he’d pay for it himself.

  Jacqueline’s vanilla scent flitted through his mind. The husky quality in her voice echoed in his ear. He’d enjoy taking away the desperate gleam in her eyes, smoothing the lines of tension from her beautiful face. He’d enjoy it more than he cared to think about. “Come on, Al. Introduce me to your bartender. Let’s find out exactly what she saw last night.”

  DILLON BOUNDED UP the wood steps of Jacqueline’s old Victorian, Mylinski thumping up the stairs behind him. The interview with the bartender had gone well, better than he had dared hope. Val Wallace had seen the murder and the murderer. It had taken her less than a heartbeat to identify Swain’s picture.

  Which meant that he didn’t need little Amanda Schettler to testify. He didn’t try to hold back his smile. It wasn’t often that he could give people good news. He couldn’t wait to deliver this particular piece to Jacqueline.

  He pressed the doorbell button. The light tinkle of chimes jingled through the house. He waited. No movement came from inside. He rapped the oak door with his knuckles, the deep, hollow timbre reverberating off the ceiling and floor of the porch.

  Nothing. He looked at his watch. Four hours had passed since Jacqueline had run out of the house to meet with a lawyer. She must still be out. Either that, or she was inside waiting for him to get discouraged and leave. He walked across the porch to one of the narrow windows. She’d have a long wait. She should know by now he didn’t give up easily.

  The window’s antique glass rippled like water, reflecting the overcast sky. He peered through the white lace curtains and into the living room. The room appeared as before. The same tall white walls and wood moldings, the same simple furniture. Everything exactly the same.

  Except…

  “The pictures. The whole table full of pictures.” Adrenaline flooded his system like a jolt of Mylinski’s infamous coffee. He spun around and strode down the porch steps toward the car. “Damn. I must have pushed her too hard.”

  Mylinski jogged behind, his footsteps thundering on the wooden steps. “Not following you. What pictures?”

  Dillon opened the sedan’s passenger door and ducked inside. Mylinski jumped into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and paused, waiting for the punch line.

  “The family pictures. She had a whole table full of family pictures. They’re gone.”

  Understanding dawned in Mylinski’s shrewd hazel eyes. “Jackie’s flown the coop.”

  “She couldn’t have left too long ago. Maybe we can catch her before she gets too far.”

  “I’m on it,” Mylinski said, grabbing for his radio and stepping on the gas.

  CLAMPING HER HANDS to the steering wheel, Jacqueline piloted her car up the on-ramp leading to the interstate. She didn’t dare review her decision. She didn’t dare think about leaving her home, her work, the brew pub her father had built from the ground up. She just drove. She had to reach the Illinois border. It was her only chance to save her little girl.

  Two miles passed before she worked up the courage to check the highway behind her. A green sedan followed several car lengths back. A rusted-out truck pulled even with her in the passing lane, its engine roaring above the pounding of her heart.

  She held her breath until the truck drove past, then glanced at her daughter. Amanda stared out the window at the snowy winter scenery whizzing by. She squeezed her stuffed horse to her chest.

  Guilt chilled Jacqueline to the bone. If only she’d done things differently from the very beginning. Divorcing Mark wasn’t enough. She should have moved away, far away, the night she’d received Swain’s first threatening phone call. She should have put her daughter’s safety first.

  If she had, Amanda wouldn’t have seen what she’d seen, and she wouldn’t be suffering so now. “Sweetheart, everything is going to be okay. We’ll go to Chicago, stay in a hotel and visit the museums. We’ll have an adventure.” Even to Jacqueline the promises sounded as brittle and transparent as fine crystal.

  Amanda nodded, clutching Dorsey the Horsey with all her strength as if the stuffed horse was the only thing she could really count on.

  Jacqueline riveted her gaze to the road. Soon Amanda would be safe. And that was all that mattered. She checked the mirror again.

  Blue and red lights flashed from the roof of the state trooper’s car behind her.

  No.

  She looked down at the speedometer of her car. She couldn’t possibly have been going fast enough to catch the state trooper’s attention, could she? Had Dillon discovered they were gone and sounded the alarm?

  She pulled the car to the shoulder of the interstate and stopped. Her heartbeat throbbed in her head and resonated in her ears. In her side mirror she watched the state trooper climb from his car and walk slowly, deliberately to the driver’s window.

  She
rolled down the window just as he peered inside. Drawing in a deep breath, she prayed she could keep her voice from faltering. “What can I do for you, Officer?” She looked into the trooper’s face, her hands shaking so hard she could barely grasp the wheel.

  “May I see your driver’s license?”

  Her heart tumbled into a free fall. If Dillon had discovered her gone, if he was looking for her, the state trooper would know as soon as he picked up his radio.

  The man stood waiting, his hand held out for the license. Her face reflected in his sunglasses, distorted and twisted like a reflection in a fun-house mirror. The strong odor of car exhaust heightened the spinning in her head, the rolling of her stomach. What could she do? If she said she didn’t have the license, he could easily call in her car’s license plate and get the same information. If he hadn’t already.

  She had to remain cool. She’d just left the house. Maybe Dillon hadn’t discovered she was gone yet. Maybe the trooper would write her a speeding ticket and send her on her way. With trembling fingers she pulled her license from her wallet and handed it to him. The trooper ambled back to his car and ducked inside.

  Listening to the traffic whiz by on the interstate, she held her breath. Was Swain watching as he’d said he would? He’d warned her against going to the police for help. Would he see her talking to the state trooper and jump to the wrong conclusions? Her stomach balled into a hard knot.

  Minute followed minute. Cool air buffeted her face through the open window, the wake of passing cars. She worried her bottom lip between her teeth until it was sore. If only she could stomp her foot on the gas pedal and run. But that would never work. No matter how fast she drove, she could never outrun the state trooper’s radio. Anyway, she’d never subject Amanda to the danger of a high-speed chase. She couldn’t risk her daughter. Physically or emotionally. Never again.