Capitol K-9 Unit Christmas

by Shirlee McCoy

  “Some of them even more upsetting.” He held up a Polaroid photo of a woman, her face battered—eye black, lip swollen.

  “Laurel,” Virginia murmured, taking the photo from his hand. “She always said her husband was the best thing that had ever happened to her.”

  “Maybe she believed that, but there are several more. Dated.” He handed her one that showed the same woman, blue and black smudges on her neck, eye blackened, lip cracked and bleeding. Someone had beaten her black-and-blue, and someone else had shot the Polaroid photo documenting the abuse that had happened decades ago. “She was keeping record of the abuse. Maybe she’d planned to go to the police.”

  “Maybe.” She studied the photo, her eyes dark with sadness. “I believed her when she said her husband was a wonderful guy. She showed me all the things he’d bought her and told me dozens of stories about vacations and spa days and flowers for no reason.”

  “Flowers as apologies. Gifts to say ‘I’m sorry,’” he said without thinking, and she winced, obviously familiar with the pattern, with the thought process that allowed an intelligent, independent woman to be pulled into an abusive relationship. “When did he die?” he asked, changing the subject because he hated to see the darkness in her eyes.

  “When Kevin was ten. He had a stroke.” She worried her lower lip, lifted another Polaroid photo from the stack he was holding. “She stayed in this house, told everyone what a wonderful marriage she’d had, made the lies bigger and brighter, made the past so much more beautiful than it was.”

  “Maybe it was the only way she could survive,” he said gently, and she nodded, the gesture stiff.

  “Maybe so.” Her shoulders slumped, and she glanced around the room. “No wonder she called this the blue room. She had a lot of sadness stored in that safe.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sitting beside her, his fingers playing in the ends of her silky hair. She had beautiful hair, beautiful skin, the kind of soft prettiness that would only grow more lovely with age.

  He could imagine her at fifty, sixty, seventy, could imagine himself, still looking in her face, still seeing her quiet determination, her strength.

  “Me, too. If she’d been more open about her past, Kevin might have learned from the mistakes of his grandfather, or I might have learned from hers. But...she wasn’t, and it’s all water under the bridge. There’s nothing that anyone can do about any of it.”

  “You’re wrong there,” he said. “He’s part of the past, and a big part of the present, and there is most definitely something that can be done about him. He can be tossed back in jail. You’re certain Kevin never mentioned him?”

  “Positive.”

  “Do you think he knew? Or maybe the better question is—do you think Laurel told him?”

  “Based on all the other secrets she kept, I’d say she didn’t. Laurel liked things tidy and nice. The idea of her son having an illegitimate child was probably difficult to swallow. Finding out he’d had two? I don’t think she’d want anyone to know that. That doesn’t mean Kevin didn’t know. He kept secrets, too. I guess it was a family heritage.” She smiled, but there was no humor in it.

  Samson stood, growling quietly as he paced to the window and stood on his haunches, looking out into the yard.

  “What is it, boy?” John stood and took a step toward the window, calling for the dog to heel. He didn’t want Samson anywhere near the window if the suspect was outside. They knew Luke was armed, they knew he was dangerous. They knew he wouldn’t hesitate to kill if he had the chance.

  Samson retreated, still barking.

  “Cease,” John commanded, the sudden silence thick with something—tension, danger.

  Downstairs, Dylan’s dog sounded an alarm.

  That was it. All John needed to hear. He called for backup, snagging Virginia’s hand and pulling her into the hall.

  Glass shattered. The blue room suddenly filled with smoke.

  Something rolled across the floor skittering toward them as Samson howled.

  “Get down,” John shouted, tackling Virginia to the floor as the world exploded.

  TEN

  Chaos.

  Dogs barking. Someone shouting. Darkness. Smoke.

  Something nudged her cheek. A cold nose, a furry face.

  Samson?

  Virginia tried to get up, but John was pressing her down, his body a solid weight holding her in place.

  “Wait,” he said as she struggled to sit.

  “The place could go up in flames.”

  “There’s no fire. That was a smoke canister of some sort,” he said. “He’s just trying to draw us out.”

  “He’s doing a good job of it,” she said, pushing against John’s chest. “I want out.”

  “We leave, and we’ll walk right into the line of fire.”

  “We can’t just—”

  He pulled her to her feet. “We aren’t going to do anything. Go in Laurel’s room. Lock the door. Stay away from the windows.”

  He shouted the instructions as he dragged her down the hall. The smoke was nearly gone, just tiny wisps of it still swirling through the air.

  “You’re not going after him?” she said, fear making her voice hollow.

  “I’ve been waiting for this chance for days.” He opened the door and nudged her in. “I’m taking this guy down.”

  “What if he takes you down first?” she asked, all the old fears gone, all the nightmares disappearing in one moment of clarity—the past didn’t matter, the pain didn’t matter. The old hurts? They didn’t matter, either.

  All that mattered was John staying safe. All that mattered was him walking through the door again and again, smiling at her, telling her that she needed to be more optimistic. All that mattered was seeing where hope took them, seeing where trust led, seeing what the future would bring if she stopped being too afraid to grab hold of it, believe in it.

  “Don’t go,” she said, grabbing his hand, trying to pull him into the room with her. “He’s crazy. He could kill you and not blink an eye while he was doing it.”

  “I’ve got Samson, Dylan and his dog. We’re better armed and better prepared than Luke.”

  “But—”

  “I already called for help, Virginia. Backup will be here any minute.

  “I—”

  “Enough,” he said quietly. “We’re wasting time we don’t have. You’ve got to trust me, Virginia. I know what I’m doing.”

  She looked into his eyes, had a million words she wanted to say. Only a few mattered, only a few could be the start of what they were going to build together.

  “I do,” she finally said, and he smiled, dropping a quick kiss to her lips.

  “Stay away from the windows,” he reminded her as he pulled the door closed, and then he was gone, and she was alone, fear pulsing through her veins, hope filling her heart.

  * * *

  Samson ran for the back staircase, barking ferociously. They hit the landing and raced into the kitchen. Dylan was there, Tico on his lead, lunging at the back door.

  “He’s out there,” Dylan said grimly. “I caught a glimpse of him near the tree line at the back edge of the property. Too far for me to get a good shot, or I would have taken it.”

  “We get him now, or this could drag on forever. You stay here. I’ll take Samson out.”

  “It’s your show,” Dylan said, his eyes trained on the back door. “I suggest you go out the front, though. The guy is probably packing.”

  No doubt about that. John was prepared, though. He knew what he was up against, knew that Gavin and Chase were only minutes away. Luke Miller was going to be sorry he’d come back. He was going to be sorry that he’d ever decided to make a play for Laurel’s property.

  That had to be what this was—an effort
to get rid of Virginia so that Luke could inherit. It was a crazy plan, but Luke seemed like the kind of guy who just might think it would work. He’d been in and out of juvenile detention from the time he was thirteen until he was arrested at eighteen. Went to jail three times before he was put away long-term.

  The guy had an inflated sense of his own abilities, and he seemed to think he could stay one step ahead of law enforcement.

  It wasn’t going to happen.

  John opened the front door and eased outside. Samson was alert but relaxed, no sign that Luke was anywhere nearby.

  “Find!” John commanded, and the German shepherd rounded the side of the house. John hesitated at the corner, letting the dog get a good whiff of the air.

  Nothing.

  Had Luke retreated?

  That would be the best-case scenario.

  And the worst.

  He wanted to take Luke down, put him in jail, make sure he never got out.

  “Find,” he urged Samson, and the dog trotted across the yard, then sprinted toward their old apartment.

  Nothing was left of it but a pile of rubble.

  They raced out onto the street. A dark car was parked a few houses up. Empty, but Samson spent a few minutes sniffing the door, scratching at the windows.

  Luke’s ride. It had to be.

  That meant the suspect was still in the area, still trying to fulfill whatever mission he’d set for himself.

  Kill Virginia?

  Take something from the house?

  Whatever it was, John planned to stop him.

  He called in the location of the car, updated Gavin and Chase on his location and put Samson back on the scent. They moved toward the park, darkness pressing in on every side. No moonlight. The clouds were too heavy, the air thick with moisture. A few flakes of snow fell as Samson led the way through the empty park. Nothing moved. No animals. No people.

  Behind them, a branch cracked, and Samson let out a long, low growl, turning sharply toward the sound.

  “Come out of there!” John called, knowing the perp was close, that he was somewhere in the darkness of the trees. He stayed low, keeping foliage between him and whatever Samson could sense.

  Samson growled again, his body tense, his scruff raised.

  John reached for his lead, unhooking it from Samson’s collar. “Come out, or I’ll release my dog.”

  Nothing.

  No movement.

  No hint that someone was there.

  Someone was. John felt the danger as clearly as he felt the cold air.

  “I said—”

  A flash of light cut off the words. Seconds later, he heard the gun’s report. The bullet slammed into a tree a few yards from where they stood.

  John released his hold on Samson’s collar. The dog was well trained, he knew what to do. He needed no command, just leaped through the foliage, barreling toward the gunman.

  Seconds later, Samson snarled, the sound a clear indication that he had the suspect in sight.

  A man yelled, and the gun fired again, the bullet flying into the tree canopy.

  Success.

  John knew it, could hear the man’s frantic cries for help.

  He ran toward the sound, found Samson standing over the suspect, the guy’s arm in his mouth.

  “Release!” John commanded, pulling his gun, aiming it at the perp. “Don’t move.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” the guy said, his face pale in the beam of John’s flashlight, his eyes dark rather than hazel, his skin tan rather than light.

  Black hair. A tattoo over his eye.

  Not Luke Miller. This was a kid. Maybe nineteen. His gaze darted back and forth—his jerky movements and pockmarked skin telling a story of addiction that John didn’t have time to read.

  “Where’s Miller?” he demanded, yanking the kid to his feet and frisking him. The gun he’d used lay a few feet away, and John cuffed the perp before retrieving it.

  “I ain’t talking.”

  “John!” Someone called, the sound reverberating through the darkness. Gavin. Chase was probably with him, both of them thinking they were chasing after Luke.

  Which left Dylan alone at the house with Virginia.

  He could handle himself, but John didn’t like the feeling he was getting. The one that said he’d made a mistake, that he’d walked right into a trap set by a madman.

  “Here!” he called, shoving the kid back the way they’d come.

  “You’re not taking me back to that house,” he spat, struggling against John’s hold.

  “That’s exactly where we’re going.”

  “No way, man!” the kid whined. “I don’t want to die.”

  That was it. All the words John needed to hear. Gavin was just a few feet ahead, Glory on lead, Chase a few yards behind. He shoved the kid their way.

  “There’s trouble back at Virginia’s house,” he said. “Call it in and take care of this kid.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Chase asked, moving in beside him as he raced back the way they’d come.

  “I don’t know, but—”

  His voice trailed off.

  Smoke was billowing up from somewhere just in front of them, the puffy tendrils of it dark against the clouds.

  His heart raced, adrenaline pouring through him.

  “Fire,” he shouted, running back toward the house, his feet pounding on grass and then pavement, every nerve in his body screaming for him to hurry.

  The trap had been set.

  Send in a ringer, get one guard to leave the property, lure the other one out.

  So much easier to take out one person than two, so much simpler to get to the person you wanted if you made her come to you.

  If the house was on fire, Dylan would have to bring Virginia outside.

  Luke was waiting there, ready to fire a shot as soon as they exited the building.

  John knew it.

  He tried to call Dylan, warn him, but his friend didn’t pick up. Were there other officers nearby? Someone who could stop what was about to happen?

  John couldn’t count on it.

  Please, God, let me get there in time.

  The prayer filled his head, gave wings to his feet.

  God, please, he prayed again as he raced out of the park and into the street beyond.

  ELEVEN

  Smoke filled the room, filled her lungs, the heat of the fire lapping at the floorboards making her want to open the window, climb out into the wintry cold.

  She didn’t. Couldn’t.

  She had to find Dylan, make sure he was okay.

  She didn’t hear his dog, didn’t hear him, could hear nothing but the roar of the blaze that seemed to be sweeping up the exterior wall of the house.

  A crack. A whoosh.

  Heat. Flames.

  All of it had happened too quickly for thought, too quickly for panic.

  She felt the bedroom door—cool to the touch—and opened it.

  There was less smoke in the hall, less heat.

  “Dylan?” she called.

  No response. She ran to the bathroom, grabbed a towel and soaked it.

  She draped it over her head and shoulders, running for the back stairs.

  No sign of the fire there. The house was eerily silent, the kitchen dark.

  She crept into the room, cold air blowing in through the open door.

  Someone was outside.

  Waiting.

  She could see the shadow of his head, the outline of his shoulders.

  Not Dylan. This guy was too narrow, too short.

  Not John, either.

  She was terrified to move forward, terrified to go back.

  �
�You may as well come out,” someone called in a singsong voice that made her skin crawl. “I’ve already taken care of your friend and his mutt. There’s no one here to help you. It’s just the two of us, so let’s talk about what I want.” A lie. She knew it. There was no way Dylan and Tico had been ‘taken care of.’ They were somewhere, waiting to step in. She just had to trust that they’d do it before Luke acted.

  “What do you want?” she asked, her voice shaky.

  She didn’t move forward, didn’t dare put herself within reach of Luke.

  “Everything that belongs to me. All that is rightfully mine. This house. The money. All of it.”

  “The house you’re burning down?” she asked, hoping to distract him, to keep him talking until help arrived.

  And it would arrive.

  She had to believe that, had to trust that John had realized what was happening and was heading back toward the house.

  “Barely a flame, Ginny,” Luke called in that same singsongy tone. “The wood and paint on this place are fire retardant. Laurel had a deep fear of flames. Didn’t you know that?”

  “No.”

  “I did. She told me all about it when she came to visit me in prison. Amazing what a little guilt will do. Opens up the floodgates, makes people reveal things they normally wouldn’t. She told me that she’d had the whole place painted with something that would prevent a fire from taking hold. I checked into that before I came up with my plan. Just to make sure she was telling the truth.”

  “She didn’t feel that guilty. She left the property to me,” she said, purposely rocking the boat, purposely prodding him.

  She needed to keep him talking, and she needed to keep him outside.

  Could she get to the door? Close it before he had time to react?

  “She felt plenty guilty,” he growled. “But she felt guiltier about raising another wife beater. Third in the line, you know. The old man beat the stuffing out of my mom when she was pregnant with me. That’s why they didn’t marry. That’s why I was born into poverty and squalor instead of excess. She should have just taken the beatings and let me have what was rightfully mine. It would have saved us all a lot of trouble.”

  “You’re crazy.”