The Christmas Target

by Shirlee McCoy

  Had there been footprints?

  Had she looked?

  Her sluggish brain clicked along, the connections harder to make because her mind was functioning at super-slow speed.

  Rocks at glass.

  Someone had been throwing something at the window and woken Beatrice. That was the easiest explanation for what had happened. A few rocks, a little noise, and Beatrice had woken and gone to the window.

  And had been given a message that she couldn’t ignore? One that had sent her outside into the snow? Why would anyone do that to a harmless elderly woman?

  A nurse stepped through the double doors. Male. Tall. A mask covering his face, his hair a dark shade of brown that didn’t look natural. Too monotone. Too dull.

  Her brain was still chugging along slowly, but she knew. Even before he moved. Even before she realized he was heading in her direction.

  Trouble.

  It was written in the lines of his body—tense and rigid.

  She didn’t question the instinct to move back, to put herself in a position to guard the doorway to Beatrice’s room.

  His gaze was on the floor, trained away from her with such determination that she knew he felt her gaze. He moved past, and she almost believed that was it, that she’d imagined the shiver of unease, the feeling that he wasn’t what he seemed.

  Then he was on her, turning so quickly she almost didn’t see the movement. A knife flashed in the light, and if she hadn’t been so well-trained, if her muscles hadn’t been conditioned to react before her brain, he’d have taken her out with one swipe of the blade.

  She blocked the attack, shoved him back, tried to rip at the mask on his face. She was seeing double and maybe triple, her head pounding sickeningly, her movements too slow.

  The blade came up again, and she slammed her fist into his throat, heard him gag as the knife clattered to the floor. She dove for it, landing with a thud, her fingers grasping the handle. She had it in her hand, and she was up, nearly blinded by the pain in her head, praying that the guy didn’t have another weapon.

  She expected him to come at her again, to try to wrest the knife from her grip, but he was gone, the corridor empty and quiet.

  If she hadn’t been holding the knife, she might have believed she’d imagined it all.

  The doors he’d entered through were closed. None of the patients’ rooms were open. There was a right turn at the end of the corridor, though. He must have run that way.

  She wanted to go after him, but she was afraid to leave Beatrice. She was also afraid she wouldn’t be quick or strong enough to apprehend him. She felt shaky and off balance, and that wasn’t a good way to go into a battle.

  She turned back to the room, fumbled with the doorknob, her grip clumsier than before, her heart beating hollowly in her ears. She needed to sit, but first she needed to buzz for a nurse, explain what had happened.

  “Stella!” Chance called, and she turned, saw that he’d walked into the corridor and she hadn’t even heard him.

  His gaze dropped to the knife, jumped back to her face.

  “What happened?” He took the knife from her hand, using his shirttail to keep from touching it. Then he cupped her cheek. His palm was warm and calloused, his touch light.

  She wanted to lean into the comfort of it.

  Lean into him, but she’d made her choice, and what she’d chosen was to go it alone. Live life without the connections that could break a heart and bruise a soul.

  “Some guy thought he could go through me and get to Beatrice,” she said, and was surprised to hear the shakiness in her voice.

  She never got shaky. Ever.

  “That explains the fire in the stairwell,” he muttered. “A great diversionary tactic. I shouldn’t have left you here alone.”

  “How could you have known?” she asked.

  “Easily. I shouldn’t ever be surprised at the lengths a criminal will go to get what he wants. Did you get a good look at him?”

  “He was wearing scrubs. I thought he was a nurse. He had dark brown hair. Tall. He was wearing a surgical mask, so I didn’t see his face.”

  He didn’t ask for more details. He already had his cell phone out, was dialing a number. Probably Cooper’s. Or, maybe Boone’s.

  Seconds later, he tucked the phone away, set the knife on the ground and studied her face.

  Carefully.

  Thoroughly.

  She wasn’t sure what he was looking for.

  Maybe signs of her weakness. Of her desperate need for support.

  “Are you okay?” he finally asked.

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t hurt you?”

  “I didn’t give him a chance.”

  He offered a grim smile.

  “Typical,” he said, and it didn’t sound like a compliment.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that you could have called for help. There are nurses, doctors and security guards all over the place.”

  “I didn’t have a whole lot of time to think about that. I barely had time to react,” she said. No heat in her words. She was too tired for that. Too sick.

  “Right. Sorry.” He glanced at the knife. “He meant business.”

  “I know. I’m just glad I was able to keep him from getting to my grandmother.”

  “You’re assuming he was going after her.”

  True.

  She was.

  Because of the rocks on the glass and the message Beatrice said she’d been given.

  She would have told him that, but two security officers ran into the corridor, Boone right behind them. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, the noise tearing through Stella’s skull.

  She leaned against the wall, closing her eyes and trying to stop the whirling, swirling world.

  Warm hands wrapped around her waist, slid along her sides, and she was being lifted, carried somewhere by someone. She’d have opened her eyes to see who, but she felt the edges of a silky tie brush her face, caught a whiff of pine needles and snow and familiar cologne.

  “I can walk,” she said without opening her eyes.

  “And?” he responded, the words rumbling against her cheek.

  “I should walk.”

  “We’re not going far.”

  He set her down, and she finally opened her eyes.

  He’d brought her back to Beatrice, and she was sitting in the chair by the bed again.

  “Law enforcement will be here soon,” Chance said, crouching in front of her. He had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen, the longest lashes, and if she hadn’t been such a coward, she’d have stuck it out with him. Because he wasn’t just handsome. He was smart, driven, kind. All the things any woman could want.

  And she had wanted him.

  She just hadn’t wanted to lose him.

  “I want you to rest until they get here. All right?” She could have argued.

  She could have insisted that she should be out in the hall, helping him run the show. That’s what she usually did, and he was usually happy enough to let her.

  But she didn’t think she could walk if she wanted to, and she didn’t think she’d do anyone any good if she passed out in the hallway.

  She nodded, wincing as pain shot through her head again.

  “Good.” He smiled, tucking a blanket around her, touching her cheek as if they were exactly what they should have been—a couple, tied together by years of seeing and meeting each other’s needs.

  She wanted to tell him how stupid she’d been, how foolish. She wanted to tell him how much she longed to go back to that day when she’d let him walk away and make a different choice, a braver one.

  But her words seemed to be coming as sluggishly as her thoughts, and be
fore she could even open her mouth, he was gone.

  It was for the best.

  She knew that.

  So, why was she having such a difficult time believing it?

  * * *

  Chance didn’t like being played for a fool. He liked it even less when someone he cared about was nearly killed because of it.

  He closed the door to Beatrice’s room and pulled out his phone, snapping a few pictures of the abandoned knife. He’d wanted to ask Stella if the guy had been wearing gloves, but she’d been so close to passing out, he’d decided to wait. Security was already combing the hospital, trying to find the perpetrator. A tall guy in scrubs with brown hair.

  Only the guy had probably already changed back into street clothes and was moving through the hospital unchallenged by security guards. He’d be outside before law enforcement arrived with the K-9 team Chance had asked for.

  “Strange-looking knife,” Boone commented, crouching beside the weapon.

  He was right. The blade looked typical enough, but there were odd symbols and pictures carved into the wooden handle. “Looks like an old bowie knife.”

  “Old being the operative word,” Boone murmured. “Weird carvings, but the blade is all business.”

  “Yeah,” Chance responded. “Stella said the guy was trying to get through her to get to Beatrice. I’m wondering why anyone would want to kill a lady who already has Alzheimer’s.”

  “Inheritance? Does she have other family? Maybe someone who’s a little too anxious to get that big old house and whatever money she might have?”

  “Maybe. We’ll check into it.”

  “But you think this is about Stella, right?” Boone straightened.

  “It makes more sense.”

  “She’s got more enemies, but that doesn’t mean it makes more sense,” Boone argued. “If someone wanted to go after Stella, why do it this way? Why not shoot her while she was walking outside? Set the house on fire? Plant a bo—”

  “I’m sure I can think of just as many ways she could die as you can,” Chance said dryly.

  “All I’m saying is that Stella’s grandmother is vulnerable. Without Stella to look out for her, she’s an easy target for an accident like what happened tonight.”

  “You’re saying someone wants Stella out of the way so he can get to Beatrice?” It was something Chance hadn’t thought of.

  “I’m not saying that’s a fact. I’m just saying it’s a possibility.”

  Maybe it was.

  But accidents could happen with or without Stella dead. According to Stella, Beatrice still had an active social life, going to book club meetings with friends, participating in a women’s mission group that met at church every week. She and Stella weren’t always together.

  “There are a lot of possibilities. I’m going to ask Trinity to do a little research for me, go back through the reports from some of Stella’s more recent missions. Maybe there’s a clue there. If she comes up empty, we’ll know to focus things closer to home.”

  “Trinity never comes up empty,” Boone said.

  True. Chance’s younger sister was an expert in computer forensics, was training to be a search and rescue worker, and had been an integral part of HEART for several years.

  She excelled at finding people and at coordinating missions from headquarters. She kept track of the team members as they went out on missions, got them help quickly when they needed it. She also filed reports, wrote up bids and generally made things run a lot more smoothly than they would have without her.

  Office work.

  That’s what Trinity called it.

  Chance called it necessary and safe. His parents had already lost one daughter, and he was going to make sure they didn’t lose another. He’d been six years younger than his older sister. Old enough to remember her leaving for mission work. Old enough to remember his mother and father crying when they’d heard that the village she was working in had been attacked.

  She’d been kidnapped, and she’d never been found.

  He wasn’t going to let that happen to Trinity.

  He’d call her, ask her to do some research.

  Maybe that would make her happier than she’d been in recent weeks.

  “She never comes up empty, and she’s never slow. That’s going to pay off in this situation,” he said, eyeing the knife. He’d already snapped a few pictures. He texted one to his sister. Asked her to find out what it was and if it was rare.

  “You should have her look at Stella’s personal life, too. Didn’t she just break up with someone?”

  “How should I know?” But he was pretty certain she hadn’t been in a serious relationship with anyone since they’d broken up.

  Boone snorted. “You know everything about everyone on the team. Especially Stella.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “None of us are guaranteed another day. It would be a shame to wait for tomorrow only to find out that tomorrow isn’t going to come.”

  “Since when did you become a philosopher?” he asked, and Boone grinned.

  “Since always. It’s one of my best characteristics.”

  “That and your ability to down more food than sixteen truckers?”

  “Exactly. So didn’t she just break up with someone?” Boone pressed for the answer that he knew Chance had, because he was right. Chance made it his business to know about his operatives’ lives.

  “If you’re talking about the navy guy, they went out twice. I don’t think saying no to a third date could be considered breaking up.”

  “He might be Navy. Stella mentioned him to my wife a few months ago.”

  “Like I said, they went out twice. I don’t think that can be considered a breakup.”

  “Maybe you don’t, but what about the guy she was with?”

  Good question.

  Stella didn’t date often.

  He knew that. Just like he knew that if she’d ever planned to be serious about anyone, it would have been him.

  No pride in that thought.

  Just honesty.

  They were made for each other. Two halves of the same whole. As corny as it sounded, he thought it was true. If he’d been another kind of guy, he would have tried to prove it to her.

  He wasn’t, so he’d let her go.

  And here they were—her dating life the subject of a conversation he’d rather not be having. He might keep close tabs on his team, but he tried hard not to stick his nose into their personal business.

  “I’ll have Trinity check into that relationship. Just to make sure the guy was in DC when all this went down.”

  He dialed his sister’s number, waiting impatiently as the phone rang. He needed to find the guy who’d gone after Stella, and he needed to return to his life, because he could feel himself being pulled back into that nice little fantasy—the one where he and Stella were exactly what each other needed, where both of them were willing to admit it and where happily-ever-after became the ending they both longed for.

  A pipe dream, and he’d never been much of a dreamer.

  He was a doer, and what he was going to do was make certain Stella and her grandmother were safe. Then he was going back to DC, back to the life that only ever seemed lonely when Stella was around to remind him of what he was missing out on.

  FIVE

  Sheriff Cooper Brighton had been the town bad boy when Stella was growing up—the guy every girl wanted to be with, the boy every father distrusted and the rival every young man wanted to defeat.

  Now he was the town sheriff, and he wore the uniform and the badge as easily as he’d worn the bad-boy label.

  She watched him as he jotted something into his notepad, waiting impatiently for the next question. He’d asked at least a hundred a
lready. Most of them just repeats of earlier ones. Same question worded in a different way.

  At least he hadn’t insisted that he conduct the interview somewhere besides Beatrice’s room. He’d been agreeable and cooperative, telling Stella that they could talk wherever she felt most comfortable.

  She felt most comfortable right beside Beatrice, Chance standing behind her. She didn’t have to glance over her shoulder to assure herself that he was still there. She knew he was.

  She also knew that Boone was outside the door, sitting in the chair again, firearm holstered beneath his jacket.

  Beatrice was safe. For now.

  “Is there anything you want to add to what you’ve told me?” Cooper finally asked, looking up from the pad and meeting her eyes.

  There was something. It had been scratching at the back of her mind since the sheriff arrived, trying to catch and hold her attention. If she hadn’t had the headache to end all headaches, she’d have already mentioned it.

  “Beatrice said someone tossed rocks at her window and woke her up. She also said that he told her he had a message from Henry.”

  “Is that why she went outside this morning?” Cooper asked, and she nodded.

  “That’s what she said. It’s possible she was confused.”

  “It’s also possible that she wasn’t,” Chance broke in.

  “I know. But I don’t know why anyone would want to hurt her. What other motivation would someone have for luring her outside during a winter storm?”

  “That’s a good question.” Cooper stood, grabbed his coat from the back of the chair and handed Stella his business card. “That’s my direct number. I’m going back to your place. I want to see if there’s any evidence that someone was outside Beatrice’s window. Which room is she in?”

  “It’s at the back of the house. The far left window. Pink curtains.”

  “I bet Henry loved that,” Cooper said, a half smile curving his lips. He’d always had a soft spot for her grandparents, because they’d never bought into the town’s view of him. When he was a tween and teen, they’d given him odd jobs to do around the property, and they’d paid him well for the work.