by Rebecca Deel
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
About the Author
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
About the Author
WITNESS
Rebecca Deel
Editor: Jack Williams
Cover: Melody Simmons from ebookindiecovers.com
Copyright © 2015 Rebecca Deel
All rights reserved.
#
To Dad for always believing in me.
CHAPTER ONE
Serena Cahill stared at the gaping door. George Miller always kept his doors locked and curtains drawn. Uneasiness coiled like a snake in the pit of her stomach. She knocked on the door, easing it open further. “Mr. Miller? It’s Serena. I brought your package.” Silence. She called out again. No response.
She pushed through the doorway and froze. Drawers lay scattered, their contents dumped on the linoleum along with shattered dishes and empty food containers. The aroma of roast beef intermingled with chicken and dumplings.
Serena crossed the linoleum on rubbery legs, reached the hallway and stopped. Where should she look for Mr. Miller?
A low moan resonated from the left. She dashed toward the living room. Though each room she passed revealed disorder, the living room chaos stole her breath.
Books, bookcases, and paper littered the floor. A shattered computer monitor lay on its side near a dented wall. Cushion and pillow stuffing formed a heap in the middle of the floor.
A moan surfaced from the pile. She shoved debris aside and uncovered a battered George Miller. Stomach churning, Serena thrust her hand into her purse and grabbed the cell phone.
A female voice answered the second ring. “911 Emergency.”
“Send an ambulance to 324 Tulip Road.” Serena steadied her quivering voice. “There’s been a robbery and a man’s injured.”
“Are you calling from a cell phone?”
“Yes.”
“Give me your number.” After recording the information, the woman said, “Stay on the line while I dispatch emergency personnel.”
With the dispatcher’s muffled voice in the background, Serena’s gaze darted from an unconscious Miller to the demolished computer and gutted cushions, and the untouched television, DVD player and stereo system. She frowned. Why vandalize property, yet leave quick-selling electronics?
“Ma’am, help is on the way. What’s your name?”
“Serena Cahill.” Trembling fingers pushed long blonde hair from her face. How could this happen? Small Tennessee towns like Otter Creek didn’t have brutal crimes. Who would want to hurt an old man?
“Serena, where is the victim bleeding?”
Serena eyed her client, nausea mushrooming. “His nose and mouth.” She averted her gaze. “There’s so much blood.”
“Is his breathing obstructed?”
“No. It’s shallow, though.”
A loud crash followed by the clatter of broken glass reverberated overhead. Serena’s gaze flew to the ceiling. Heavy footsteps thudded in an upstairs bedroom. Her stomach lurched. “Oh, no.”
“Serena, what’s wrong?”
“Someone’s upstairs.” An invisible band tightened around her chest.
“Get out of the house.”
“But what about Mr. Miller? I can’t just leave him.”
“Hang up and run! Go to a neighbor’s house. Call back when you’re safe.”
The siren sounded close. Whoever lurked upstairs heard it, too. Running footsteps thundered on the stairs. Blood drained from Serena’s face. A few more steps and he’d see her. She would never make it to the door. Her gaze scoured the room. Panic clawed at her.
Nowhere to hide.
#
Police Chief Ethan Blackhawk’s SUV skidded to a stop behind a yellow Volkswagen. He released the thumb snap on his holster and, staying out of the line of sight from the windows, approached the front door.
Screams and a gunshot fractured the silence. No time to wait for backup. After a glance assured him no one waited behind the door to ambush him, he grabbed his radio. “Shots fired. Perp may be armed.” Adrenaline pumping, he slipped into the living room, weapon drawn. The coppery scent of blood assaulted his senses. He scanned the room. Lying beside a battered old man, a woman stirred in response to his footsteps.
Outside, another officer shouted. Running footsteps faded. Alert to the possibility of another concealed gunman, Ethan searched the rest of the house. Every room trashed, but no one hiding.
Holstering his weapon, he returned to the front room. Seated on the floor, the blonde peered at him. Her tense expression vanished. She stood, cell phone still clutched in her hand. He kept his voice low. “Ma’am, are you hurt?”
Her lips curved downward, she cocked her head and motioned to the man at her feet. “The ambulance is for him.”
“Are you sure?” He didn’t know if the blood on her shirt and jeans came from the victim or if some of it was hers. She appeared calm. Maybe too calm.
“I’m sure. Why?”
His gaze flickered over her clothes.
She glanced down. “I’m going to be sick.” Hand clamped to her mouth, she staggered to the bathroom and slammed the door.
Ethan knelt beside the victim, checked his pulse and clicked on his radio. “Suzie, what’s the ETA on that ambulance?”
The radio static crackled before a disembodied voice responded. “Two minutes, Chief. Is Serena okay?”
So that was her name. “She’s covered in blood she says isn’t hers. I’m not sure yet.” Ethan studied the victim’s face, frowning at the familiar injury pattern. Broken nose, two black eyes, split lip. He wondered if th
e old man had broken ribs, too.
Coincidence? Ethan’s jaw clenched. He hoped so.
#
Ethan stepped off the victim’s front porch and strode toward the approaching patrolman. He glanced at a baseball-shaped magnetic sign on the door of the yellow Beetle parked in the driveway. Home Runs, Inc.
“What happened?” Ethan waited for the winded cop to catch his breath, impatience knotting his gut.
According to the town council who interviewed him six weeks earlier, Otter Creek didn’t see much crime. Johnson couldn’t have worked more than a couple of fender benders during the past three months. A rash of home burglaries had begun two weeks ago and was the worst crime wave since the bootlegging days of the 1920s.
“Chased him a few blocks. He jumped into the passenger side of a blue pickup.” The patrolman grabbed a couple of breaths.
“Get the plates?”
“Yes, sir. Make and model, too.”
“Have Suzie put out a BOLO. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Gage, another rookie, drew near. “Vic’s name is George Miller. Neighbors said he was housebound. Injured in a car wreck.” Gage’s pasty face beaded with sweat. “Will he be okay?”
“He’s in bad shape. EMTs took him to the hospital two minutes ago. What’s our wit’s name and where is she?”
“Serena Cahill.” Gage nodded toward the top of the bush-lined driveway.
Ethan stared at the jeans-clad figure bent over at the waist, half-hidden by hydrangeas. The sound of retching made his stomach clench in sympathy. Cahill. Why did her name sound familiar?
He pulled some folded bills from his wallet and handed them to Gage. “Tell Stein to put up crime-scene tape, then buy Cokes for Ms. Cahill and anyone else who needs them. I’d rather not have to worry about changing my uniform after interviewing our witness.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ethan fought a smile as Gage’s stoic expression morphed into one of relief at avoiding the blood-splattered house. He crossed the lawn and found his men photographing the scene and dusting for fingerprints.
“Sorry about the delay, Chief. Had to finish processing the other break-in.”
Ethan turned to his tall, red-haired detective, Rodney Kelter. “Same MO?”
Kelter dragged on a pair of thin rubber gloves. “House trashed. Nothing missing but computer flash drives. Our thief’s thorough and careful. No clues left behind.”
He studied the ransacked room. No flash drives. Ethan sighed. His thieves had added assault and perhaps attempted murder to their string of offenses. Otter Creek residents brushed off the earlier incidents, accusing a group of troubled kids. Instinct had told him they were wrong.
“Who’s the other victim?”
Kelter’s blue eyes crinkled at the edges as he grinned. “The pastor of Cornerstone Church, Marcus Lang. He said the thief should read his sermon notes for Sunday. His message is on stealing.”
Ethan chuckled. “Let me know what you find. I’ll interview our witness.”
#
“Ms. Cahill?”
Serena raised her head to look at the towering figure. His voice reminded her of rich, velvety chocolate. Her stomach turned another flip. Thinking about food wasn’t a good idea. Hand trembling, she sipped more of her Coke.
“Is that helping?”
“Yes, thanks.” Serena’s cheeks flamed. “Just do me a favor and don’t mention this to my family. They think my weak stomach is hilarious.”
“Why do they think it’s funny?”
“Know many chefs who lose their breakfast at the sight of blood?”
The man glanced away and cleared his throat. “I can see where that might be a problem.” His voice sounded different.
Serena narrowed her eyes against the sun’s glare. Was he laughing at her? She frowned. “I control it well, but seeing Mr. Miller like that caught me by surprise.”
“Everyone reacts to violence, but some don’t show it on the outside.” He sat beside her on the step. “I’m Ethan Blackhawk. When did you find Miller?”
She noted his coal black hair, hawkish features and copper-toned skin. The incredible voice and attractive face created a potent combination. “About 1:30.” Serena pressed folded arms across her stomach.
“Are you a relative, a friend?”
“His personal chef. The past two weeks, I also ran errands and took him for doctors’ appointments. He’s recovering from a car wreck and can’t drive yet. My helper, Pam, usually covers the errands, but she’s sick today.”
“Notice anything out of the ordinary when you arrived?” He studied her with eyes dark as obsidian.
“His door was open. Mr. Miller never leaves doors or windows open. One day last week I tried to pull back the curtains to let in sunshine. He almost clipped me with his crutch.”
“Sounds like a crusty old guy.”
Serena gave a short laugh. “You don’t know the half of it.”
“Tell me what you did when you entered the house, step-by-step.” His silver pen glittered in the sunlight as he recorded Serena’s response.
“I can’t believe someone beat an 80-year-old man like that.” She turned her head, blinking back tears.
“We’ll find whoever did this, Ms. Cahill.”
“Please, call me Serena.”
A red-haired man stopped in front of Blackhawk. “Same as the others, Chief. I’m headed to the hospital to talk to Miller.”
Blackhawk nodded. “This is Serena Cahill, our witness. Serena, Detective Rod Kelter.”
Kelter shook her hand. “I’d like to talk to you later, ma’am.”
Serena took business cards from her pocket and handed them to both men. “You can reach me at one of these numbers.”
After Kelter drove away, Blackhawk returned his attention to her. “Tell me again about the man in the house.”
Serena stared at her hands, clasped in a white-knuckle grip. “I heard a loud crash upstairs while I was on the phone with the dispatcher. He heard your siren and ran downstairs.” Her breath caught in her throat.
“You’re doing fine.” His serene voice wrapped around her like a balm. “What happened next?”
“He looked surprised to see me. He raised his gun.” A shudder wracked her body. “I screamed and dropped to the floor as he fired. The rest you know.”
“Can you describe him?”
“He had a big black gun.”
“Notice anything besides that? Like his height or weight, what he was wearing?”
“Well over six feet, maybe six inches. No clue about his weight except he looked like he could bench press my car. Black hair, tanned skin, dark pants, white shirt, no neck.”
He stared at her, pen poised over the notepad. “No neck?”
“No neck. Like a football player—huge shoulders and big head with no neck.”
His lips twitched, but he wrote the description. “I hate to ask in light of your sensitivity, but did you see blood on his shirt?”
Serena closed her eyes and pictured no-neck coming down the stairs. Black shoes had appeared first, then black pants, white shirt. Clean white shirt. “No blood.” She opened her eyes and turned her puzzled gaze to Blackhawk. “That doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t he have Mr. Miller’s blood on him?”
Blackhawk’s lengthy silence made her uncomfortable. “I think he had an accomplice.”
Chill bumps surged across Serena’s skin despite the afternoon heat. She wished she hadn’t asked.
CHAPTER TWO
Rod Kelter rubbed work-calloused hands over his bristly face. He’d started home after working the night shift, but ended up at the Cornerstone parsonage just after 9:00 a.m. He checked his watch again, wishing the doctor would update him on Miller’s condition.
Memorial Hospital’s waiting room smelled and sounded like any other. Constant traffic, blaring television, the sting of antiseptic and fear. He hated hospitals. His last close association with this place ended at Otter Creek Cemetery.
Rod noticed
a young couple at the nurses’ station, the man holding a little girl. He turned away, jaw tightened against the pain squeezing his heart. Across the street, a large white concrete angel stood guard over the graves of his young family. Though eighteen months had passed, the crushing enormity of his loss still overwhelmed him. Rod shied away from the painful memories. He had to focus on the job. That’s how he trudged through each day.
Ethan Blackhawk strode into the waiting room, his powerful body moving like a jungle cat. Stealthy, controlled, dangerous. “Any news?”
How would it feel to absorb a punch from those large hands? Rod flinched. “Not yet. What did you learn from Ms. Cahill?”
“She found Miller about 1:30. He’s been housebound for the last month because of an accident.”
Rod nodded. “The EMTs confirmed he already had a broken leg and arm. No telling what’s broken now, poor guy.”
“She saw the man who trashed the house.”
Hope blossomed. “Can she help with a composite sketch?”
Before he could answer, a young woman in green scrubs approached, glanced at Blackhawk, but focused on Rod. “Detective Kelter, Mr. Miller’s in serious, but stable condition.”
“We need to talk to him,” Blackhawk said.
“He’s on pain meds. He has cracked ribs, bruised kidneys, and multiple contusions and abrasions. You can talk to him for a couple of minutes, but I doubt he’ll be awake long.”
#
“Hey, sis. How’s Old Yeller?”
The call came sooner than Serena expected. Megan’s sources must have fried the phone wires to catch the attention of the Gazette’s editor that fast.
“Still running, thanks to your nimble fingers.” She turned left at the intersection of Main and Johnson Street. “Get to the real reason you called, Megan.” Serena moved the cell phone away from her ear.
“Why did I find out from someone else that my sister is knee deep in the hottest story of the year?”
She grimaced. Meg’s strident tones grated against Serena’s still raw nerves. “I was going to call you.”
“When? After we put the weekend edition to bed?”
Heat stung her cheeks. More than Serena’s mirror image, Megan often appeared to read her mind. Her other sister, Madison, also claimed to know Serena’s thoughts 99 percent of the time. Sometimes being one of the Cahill triplets had drawbacks. This counted as one of those times.
