Deputy Defender

by Cindi Myers

  “Someone hung a mannequin from a ceiling beam,” Dwight said, keeping his voice low, though only a few people remained, waiting for their turn to exit.

  “Sick joke,” Gage said.

  “Maybe,” Dwight said.

  “Eddie is supposed to be on duty all night,” Brenda said. “But I’d feel better if one of you would take the book back to the station and lock it in the safe until morning.” She picked up The Secret History of Rayford County, Colorado. “It’s by far our most valuable item.”

  “I’ll make sure it’s safe.” Dwight took the book from her. Gone was the sparkling, happy woman of earlier in the evening. She looked exhausted, weighed down by worry. “We don’t know that the hung mannequin had anything to do with the book,” he said.

  “No, but too many unsettling things have been happening.” She looked around the room. “I need to get you that guest book.”

  He followed her back to the entry hall, where they found Lacy with Travis. “Do you need me to stay and help with anything?” Lacy asked.

  “No, thank you,” Brenda said. “I’m going to go in a few minutes myself.”

  “We’ll be here a little while longer,” Travis said. “We’ll lock up when we leave, and we’ll be back in the morning for the auction.”

  “So will I.” Lacy squeezed Brenda’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  Brenda nodded. “I’m fine.”

  Lacy frowned, but didn’t say anything else. “I’ll walk you to your car,” Travis said, and they headed out the door.

  “The guest book is over here,” Brenda said, walking to a small desk to the right of the door. The guest book, bound in blue leather, lay open on the top, a brass can filled with pens next to it. Signatures half filled the open page. Brenda picked up the book and flipped through it. “I don’t see Robert Brownley’s name here,” she said. “And I didn’t see him among the guests. Maybe he changed his mind about bidding for the book.”

  “Or maybe, since he plans to outbid everyone else, he’ll be here tomorrow.” Dwight slid the book from her hand, closed it and tucked it under his arm. He stroked her cheek. “Are you okay?”

  She sighed. “I’m ready for all this to be over.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why that stupid mannequin upset me so much. It’s just a sick joke, like Gage said. But it took me back to when we found Henry Hake...”

  Her voice trailed away. Dwight set the book on the desk once more and pulled her to him. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he held her tightly for a long moment, saying nothing. He closed his eyes and let himself revel in the sweet scent and soft feel of her. When all this was over, he’d ask her to go away with him somewhere—a beach where they could lie side by side on the sand and sip fruity drinks. He smiled, picturing Brenda in a bikini.

  “What are you smiling about?” She pushed away from him.

  “How did you know I was smiling?” he asked, his expression solemn once more.

  “I felt it.” She rested a hand on his chest.

  “I’ll tell you later,” he said. “Now, go home and get some rest. I’ll take care of everything here.”

  She looked past him, at the crime scene techs filing up the stairs. “I feel like I should stay.”

  “There’s nothing you can do. Go home and rest.”

  “All right. Let me get my purse.” He waited while she retrieved her purse from her office, then walked with her to her car.

  “We’ll talk in the morning,” he said. “Try not to worry.”

  She nodded. “I’m not going to let a stupid prank get the best of me.” She rose on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I was thinking...instead of going to the ranch house, I might wait for you at your cabin.”

  The words sent a current of heat through him. “I’d like that.” He fished his key from his pocket and pressed it into her palm. “You’ll need this.”

  “Try not to be too late.”

  No, he’d be wrapping up his business here as quickly as possible. One lifeless mannequin couldn’t compete with the very live woman he would have waiting for him.

  * * *

  AT LEAST HER bold suggestion to Dwight had provided a welcome distraction from the terrible way the evening had ended, Brenda thought as she drove through town. When he had pulled her to him and held her—just held her, without offering empty words or advice—she had felt so comforted and supported. He wasn’t hovering or trying to control her or dismiss her or any of the things she had experienced at the hands of other men. Dwight was simply there for her, letting her find her own strength by lending her some of his. His calm, practical nature was exactly what she needed.

  But Dwight was more than a calming presence or a strong friend. He was a man she wanted to be with more and more. Time to stop denying that and admit what was happening. In spite of all her efforts to resist—all the logical reasons this shouldn’t be happening—Brenda had fallen in love with Dwight. The realization made her a little light-headed.

  Maybe, when things had calmed down—after the auction at least—she would find a way to tell him.

  That is, if she could get through the auction with no more disasters. At least it hadn’t been a real body hanging in the display room, but who would do something like that? Was someone trying to frighten her?

  Everyone in Eagle Mountain—and anyone who read the local newspaper—would have known that she and Dwight had found Henry Hake hanging in that underground laboratory at Eagle Mountain Resort. Was that mannequin supposed to be a sick reminder of that event—or some kind of warning?

  She rubbed her temple, trying to ward off the headache that was building there. It didn’t make sense, but then, nothing that had happened really did. She went over all the events in her mind—the two threatening notes on cheery yellow stationery, the crime scene photo from Andy’s murder, the stolen banner announcing the auction, the fire that had destroyed her house, the slashed tires on the car that had been transporting her and her friends—and now this hanging mannequin. It was such a crazy combination of shocking violence and almost juvenile pranks. Everything seemed to have been aimed at either her or the museum, but why?

  She turned onto the county road that led from town up to the Prentices’ ranch. She couldn’t keep from going over the events in her mind. It was like trying to find a missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle—find that piece, that link, and everything would make sense. She would have a clear picture where there had been only chaos before.

  Glaring lights filled the car, reflecting off the rearview mirror and into her eyes as a vehicle with its brights on came up behind her. Brenda put up a hand to shield her eyes from the glare and stepped on the brakes. She pulled the Subaru toward the shoulder, hoping the rude person behind her would pass. The car—or probably a truck, judging by the height of the headlights—was approaching very fast, obviously in a hurry to get somewhere. She would have pulled off the road altogether, but there wasn’t room. The Eagle River followed the road here, the waters spilling over rocks some ten feet below.

  She shifted her gaze to her side mirror and realized the other driver wasn’t slowing down. He was traveling much too fast for this narrow, winding road. She took her foot off the brake and sped up, thinking she should drive until there was a safe place to pull over. But she had no time to gain much speed before the other vehicle was on her. Horrified, she realized the other driver wasn’t going to stop. He hit her full-on, throwing her forward, her airbag exploding with painful violence, the car skidding off the pavement, rocketing down the bank of the river and into the icy water.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Pain throbbed in Brenda’s head, and her chest hurt. She moaned and tried to shift into a more comfortable position, held upright by her seat belt. Confused, she opened her eyes and stared through the spiderwebbed windshield into a tangle of broken tree limbs and underbrush illuminated by one headlight. The lights on the dash bathe
d the interior of the car in a faint blue glow. The airbags had deflated, though their powdery residue lay like a dusting of sugar over everything. As her still-painful head began to clear, Brenda realized the car was still running. She felt around on the steering column and found the key, and turned it to cut the motor.

  She had expected silence, but instead heard a car door slam and someone approaching, clumsy footsteps slipping and sliding on the steep embankment down from the road. The memory of the bright headlights rushing toward her sent panic through her, and she grappled to unfasten the seat belt. If her attacker was coming after her, she would have to run, to hide—

  She was still fumbling with the seat belt when her door was wrenched open. A tall, dark figure, face covered by a black ski mask, grabbed her arm and shook her. “Give it to me!” he demanded, in a gruff, unfamiliar voice.

  “G-give you what?” Brenda stared up at him, fighting for calm. She had to think, but her head hurt so much—the pain made her nauseous.

  “Give me the book!”

  The book. She wished she had never laid eyes on that cursed book. “I don’t have it,” she said.

  “It’s not at the museum. Where is it?”

  “The sheriff has it.”

  Her attacker let loose a stream of invective that had her shrinking back. But even as she did so, she put her right hand down by her side, on the button to release the seat belt. As soon as she saw her chance, she would leap from the car and run. Better to risk the dangers of the mountainside than this madman.

  “You’re lying!” He punctuated this statement by thrusting a pistol in her face. Brenda had seen plenty of firearms in her life. Her father had collected guns. The museum owned several antique pistols and rifles. But she had never been eye to eye with a weapon that was pointed directly at her. She was both terrified and icily calm.

  “I’m not lying,” she said, shocked by how even her voice sounded. It was almost as if some other person—a cooler, more courageous person—had taken over her body. “The sheriff has the book.”

  “Give me your purse.” He thrust the gun toward her.

  “It’s in the passenger seat,” she said. “You’re welcome to it.”

  He reached past her and grabbed the purse, as well as the tote bag that contained auction paperwork she had planned to look over before she returned to work in the morning. He riffled through these items, then tossed them onto the ground at his feet. She bit her tongue to keep from pointing out that she had already told him she didn’t have the book. Why wouldn’t he believe her?

  “Where were you going tonight?” he asked, the end of the barrel of the gun only a few inches from her forehead.

  “I was going home,” she said.

  “You don’t live out this way,” he said.

  I didn’t until you burned down my house, she thought. But then, maybe this man hadn’t burned her house. She had no way of knowing. “I’m staying with friends,” she said.

  “Friends? Or one particular friend?” He reached over and unsnapped the seat belt, then dragged her from the car. “You’re staying with that cop, aren’t you? The tall, dark-haired one.”

  Brenda said nothing.

  “He lives on a ranch, doesn’t he?” the man asked. When she didn’t answer, he yanked on her arm—hard.

  She cried out and tried to pull away, but he only held on tighter and dragged her after him. “Come on,” he said.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked.

  “To wait for your boyfriend.”

  * * *

  WRAPPING THINGS UP at the museum took longer than Dwight had wanted. Usually, he appreciated how methodical and thorough Travis could be, but tonight the routine had chafed. Brenda was waiting, and Dwight didn’t want to lose the chance to be with her—not just to make love, though he certainly hoped they would do that, but to talk to her about something besides the case. About their future.

  Finally, he had gotten away, with a reminder from Travis that he would need a report on his desk in the morning. Dwight had suppressed a groan and nodded, then hurried away, leaving Travis and Gage to lock up the museum. He pushed the SUV on the drive to the ranch, though the narrow, curvy road limited how fast he could safely travel. He watched the sides of the road for deer or elk that might decide to leap out in front of him. He had attended more than one wreck caused by wildlife. Most of the people involved escaped with only minor damage, but he still remembered one young woman who had been killed when her truck rolled down the embankment, crushing her, after she swerved to avoid a deer.

  His headlights glanced off a vehicle parked ahead, half on the shoulder, half in his lane, and he braked. The car appeared empty, not running. Had someone abandoned it like this? He prepared to pull in behind it. He might have to call a tow truck to retrieve the big SUV—another delay, but necessary. Parked as it was, the vehicle was a real hazard.

  But as he pulled in behind the SUV, two figures emerged ahead of the vehicle, climbing up from the stream bank. The larger figure—a man—appeared to be dragging the smaller one—a woman—behind him. Dwight hit his brights and recognized Brenda’s battered face even as his windshield was shattered and the sound of a gunshot echoed around them.

  Dwight threw himself to the floorboard, drawing his pistol as he wedged himself beneath the steering column. “You can come out now, Deputy,” a man’s voice shouted. “Come out with your hands up and I promise I won’t shoot you. But try anything and I’ll kill your girlfriend here.”

  Dwight didn’t answer. He glanced at the radio, wondering if he could reach it and call for help. But a woman’s scream, sharp and filled with pain, froze him. “Come out now!” the voice demanded. “Unless you want me to kill her now.”

  “I’m coming out!” Dwight answered, and raised his hands, though the rest of him remained shielded by the cruiser’s door.

  “Throw out your weapon.”

  Dwight tossed the gun onto the ground.

  “Now come out with your hands up.”

  Everything within him resisted the idea of stepping out and exposing himself to the shooter, but the idea that Brenda could die if he hesitated propelled him to open the door and step into the open. A stocky man with a black knit ski mask pulled over his face held Brenda by one arm, a long-barreled pistol pressed to the side of her head. Brenda locked her eyes to Dwight’s, determination shining through the fear. She trusted him to get them out of this, and that knowledge made him stronger.

  “What do you want?” Dwight asked.

  “I want the book,” the man said.

  “The Secret History of Rayford County?” Dwight wished he had urged Brenda to burn the book when she received the first threatening note.

  “Yes. I want it.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  The man drove the barrel of the gun into Brenda’s cheek so that she cried out. “Don’t lie to me!”

  “The book is at the sheriff’s department,” Dwight said. “In the safe.”

  “Then we’re going to go get it,” the man said. He adjusted his grip on Brenda’s arm. “But we don’t need her to get it.”

  Instinct overwhelmed reason as Dwight realized what the man intended to do. With a roar, he launched himself at the other man, even as the pistol flashed in the darkness and the explosion of gunfire rang in the night stillness. Brenda’s scream merged with his own cry of rage as he and the shooter grappled on the ground. Dwight clawed and kicked at the other man, who was shorter but heavier than him. And he knew how to fight.

  He slammed his fist into the side of Dwight’s head as Dwight grabbed hold of the pistol and tried to wrench it away. Dwight drove his elbow into the man’s stomach, then thrust up his head, striking his assailant’s chin and forcing his head back. The man roared in either pain or anger, and punched Dwight in the nose. Pain exploded behind his eyes and his vision went black, but he kept hold of t
he gun and struggled onto his knees, battling for equilibrium.

  When the other man tried to kick him, Dwight scrambled out of the way, keeping hold of the gun and forcing the man’s hand back at an awkward angle. The man cried out in pain, and Dwight shoved harder, putting all his weight behind the move. The man’s fingers loosened, and Dwight seized the gun and trained it on the man.

  But the other man shoved up to his feet and ran, the black of his clothing blending into the darkness. Dwight fired, but the shot went wide. Seconds later, the man was in the big SUV. Dwight steadied the gun with both hands and fired again, but only succeeded in taking out one taillight as the vehicle sped away.

  Dazed and vaguely aware of blood streaming down his face, Dwight clutched the gun and tried to steady his breathing and think past the pain. A low moan cleared some of the fog engulfing him. “Brenda!” He looked around and heard the moan again, to his right. He unhooked his MagLite from his belt and played the beam along the shoulder of the road until he saw her. She lay back in the gravel and leaf litter, blood bathing her torso, her face ghostly white, her eyes closed.

  “Brenda!” He shouted her name, but she didn’t stir. He shoved to his feet and ran to her, dropping to his knees beside her. “Brenda!” He took her hand, staring at the blood covering the front of her shirt.

  She moaned again, and her eyes fluttered open. “Dwight.” She struggled, as if trying to sit.

  “Don’t move.” He put one hand on her shoulder to keep her from rising. “Where are you hurt?”

  “My shoulder.”

  He trained the light on her left shoulder and surveyed the round hole that was seeping blood. The blood loss was a concern, but at least she hadn’t been shot in the chest or stomach or head. “Lie still,” he said. “I’m going to call for help and get the first aid kit from my cruiser.”

  “All right.”

  He ran to the cruiser, ignoring the pain from his nose, which was probably broken. Once there, he grabbed the radio, identified himself, asked for an ambulance for a gunshot victim and gave his location. “The shooter is a man about five ten, a hundred and eighty pounds, driving a black Land Rover, license Alfa, Foxtrot, Sierra, two, two, eight.”