“I called the police.” The neighbor huffed. “They didn’t respond for fifteen minutes. He continued to harass his wife until he heard the sirens. Then he took off.”
“Have you talked to Mrs. Voss recently?” Morgan asked.
“No. I’m staying out of it.” The neighbor pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “I have to get to work.”
“Thanks for the help.” Lance handed the neighbor a business card. “If you see Dean around, would you give us a call?”
The man tucked it into his pocket. “Sure. Right after I call the cops. But if I were you, I wouldn’t be looking for Dean Voss. That man is nuts.”
The uniform was standing outside his car when they walked back toward Voss’s house.
“Can I see some ID?” the rookie asked.
Lance pulled his license from his wallet. “Don’t you remember us?”
“I still need your license number.” The rookie took Morgan’s ID as well. “Wait here.” He took their IDs back to his car. He returned a few minutes later and handed their documents back to them. “Thank you.”
Morgan and Lance went to the door. Lance pressed the doorbell. The window curtains to the left shifted. A few seconds later, the door opened as far as the chain would allow. A woman’s thin face appeared in the gap.
“Mrs. Voss?” Morgan asked.
The woman’s nod was uncertain and full of suspicion. “Who are you?”
Morgan introduced them. “Can we ask you a few questions about your husband? We had an encounter with him a few days ago.”
“You’re the people he shot at?” Mrs. Voss asked.
“Yes,” Morgan said.
The door closed, the chain scraped, and Mrs. Voss opened the door wide. “I suppose I owe you a few minutes.”
“Thank you.” Morgan stepped over the threshold.
The living room was dark, the curtains and blinds closed.
Mrs. Voss led them into a tiny but tidy kitchen. The vinyl floor was spotless and the countertops gleamed in the overhead light. A spray bottle of cabinet cleaner and a pile of rags sat on the floor. She sat at a round oak table and folded her hands in front of her, their skin red and irritated.
“I don’t know what to do, so I clean.” She rubbed at her knuckles. “I’ve been afraid to leave the house, even though the police are following me everywhere. Yesterday, I went to the store. I was so scared, I barely managed to get milk and bread before I had to leave.”
“There’s a police officer right out front.” Morgan slid into the seat next to her.
Mrs. Voss blew out a quick breath. “They don’t know Dean. If he wants to get me, one uniformed officer won’t be able to stop him.”
“You don’t have to convince us that he’s dangerous,” Morgan said. “He tried to kill us.”
Mrs. Voss shook her head. “If Dean wanted to kill you, you’d be dead.”
“How good of a marksman is Dean?” Lance leaned on the counter. He’d suspected Voss had intentionally missed them.
“Dean hits what he aims at. Every time.” Mrs. Voss rubbed her hands together.
“Has your husband always been violent?” Morgan asked.
Mrs. Voss plucked a tissue from the box and blotted her eyes. Her voice grew harsh. “No. This all started last winter, when that little bitch accused him of kissing another student.”
Morgan leaned her forearms on the table. “You don’t think Dean was guilty?”
“Dean has his issues, but he would never be inappropriate with a student.” Mrs. Voss met Morgan’s gaze, then Lance’s. She might be frightened of her husband, but she was equally sure he hadn’t made advances toward his student. “Under all his delusions, Dean is a good man. A moral man.”
“But you’re afraid of him now?”
“You don’t understand. The Dean that’s running around town in a state of paranoia isn’t really him.” Mrs. Voss leaned back, crumpled her tissue in her hand, and hugged her waist. “Dean came back from Iraq a changed man. Whatever happened over there destroyed him. But he went to therapy. He talked to other vets. He worked damned hard to pull himself together for the whole first year. When he felt steady enough, he applied for his teaching certificate. He’d gotten his master’s degree in history while he was in the service.”
More tears formed, and she dabbed at her eyes and nose. “He loved teaching. It gave him purpose. He loved the kids, and the kids seemed to love him back. I thought he’d made it. The nightmares had stopped. He was actually sleeping through the night. The longer he worked at the school, the more like his old self he became.”
She paused again. A small shudder shook her body, then a sigh. “Then that girl went to the principal and said she’d seen him kissing another girl. Dean denied the accusation, and so did Ally Somers, the girl he was accused of kissing. There was no proof. None. Except that one statement from Kimmie Blake. But his reputation was tarnished, and his career over. He quit. After that, depression hit him hard. He became volatile. He refused to go back into therapy. It was too much. He’d already remade himself once. He couldn’t do it again. He sank from depression into paranoia.”
Mrs. Voss went silent.
“Does your husband ever mention Tessa Palmer or Jamie Lewis?” Morgan asked.
“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Voss said. “Of course, I know Tessa’s name from the news.”
“Has your husband ever mentioned a man named Zachary Menendez?” Lance asked.
Mrs. Voss shook her head. “No. Why?”
“We thought they might have served together in the military,” Lance explained, disappointed. An established connection between Voss and Menendez would have simplified matters, but Mrs. Voss’s denial didn’t totally rule it out.
“The name isn’t familiar,” Mrs. Voss said.
“What happened in May?” Morgan asked gently. “Why did he move out?”
“He hit me.” Mrs. Voss pressed the tissue to her face. A small sob sounded behind it before she sniffed and lowered her hands. “I don’t know which one of us was more horrified, but I knew something had to change. I couldn’t live with him unless he was willing to get help. Frankly, I was afraid of him. So I gave him an ultimatum. If he wanted to stay in our marriage, he had to get treatment.”
Tears poured down her cheeks, and this time, she didn’t bother to wipe them away. “I meant well. I thought he loved me enough that he’d work to keep our marriage together, but Dean was too far gone by then. He left. Got his own apartment. He refused to answer my calls. I didn’t know what to do. In my heart, I still love him. But how do you live with a man who scares the hell out of you? Even after Dean moved out, I’m still afraid to close my eyes at night. He’s become unpredictable and irrational. He’s come over a couple of times to apologize and beg for me to take him back. But when I say no, he flips out. I finally filed for divorce. I can’t help a man who won’t let me.”
A dog barked outside, and Mrs. Voss jumped from her chair. She went to the window over the sink. With one forefinger, she separated the mini blinds and peeked between the slats.
Lance crossed the kitchen and peered over her shoulder. “Do you think he’d come here in the middle of the day?”
“Dean wouldn’t let a little thing like daylight stop him.” Mrs. Voss eased back from the blind. When the house remained quiet, she paced. “Getting the divorce papers seemed to be the last straw. He came here the day he received them. He begged me to take him back. He said he loved me. But he couldn’t go through therapy again. It was too much. I asked him to leave. He started shouting. I locked the door, but he didn’t leave until the police came.” She stopped in the corner and turned. Her hands gripped the counter on either side of her. “He’s at some kind of breaking point. I could feel it.”
A floorboard overhead creaked. Mrs. Voss’s gaze shot to the doorway. A few seconds later, a man stepped into the opening. He pointed a rifle into the kitchen.
How the hell did he get inside?
Lance’s pulse jump-started, and h
e automatically shifted sideways to try and put himself between the armed man and the women in the room.
“Stop.” Dean Voss’s tone was soft but commanding. He was dressed in desert camouflage BDUs that would have blended with the dead leaves of autumn. His face was smeared with dirt, and he carried a rifle like a man who was comfortable with his weapon.
Lance considered his options. He didn’t have many. He had no time to draw his gun. So how would he keep Voss from hurting his wife or Morgan?
“Don’t move,” Voss said.
“Don’t worry.” Lance raised his hands. The rifle was aimed in the dead center of his chest.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Morgan’s heart stuttered as she recognized Dean Voss. His face was thin, his eyes feral. She kept both of her hands on the table in front of her.
Voss jerked the gun at Lance. “Put your hands on your head. Interlace your fingers.” He shifted his gaze to Morgan for a second. “You too.”
“Dean, they were just talking to me,” his wife said.
“No.” Voss shook his head. “They want to take you away. They want to hurt you. The only way you’ll be safe is if you come with me.”
“I won’t go,” she said. “You need me. You need help.”
“The only kind of help I need is the kind that’ll make me disappear. They want me to pay for what I did.” Voss’s voice softened. “I have to pay.” He lifted his chin. There was too much white around his eyes. They blazed with a crazy light.
“Dean. No one wants to hurt you. They want to help.”
“No,” he shouted. His grip on the rifle tightened until his knuckles were as white as his eyes. “That’s just what they told you to make you cooperate.”
Dean Voss was clearly paranoid and likely delusional. Morgan could not draw her gun before Voss shot Lance. Talking Voss down from his paranoid ledge was their only option. Plus, she’d never shot another human being and didn’t want to start now if it could be avoided. Though she would do it to protect Lance.
A fist banged on the front door. “Hey, Mrs. Voss. Is everything OK in there?”
The rookie.
That was not going to help.
Voss’s eyes widened. He grabbed Morgan by the hair and dragged her from her chair. Pain burst in her scalp. She cried out. Both of her hands went to the top of her head, an instinctive attempt to alleviate the pulling.
Lance lunged forward, but the rifle in his face stopped him.
“I’m OK, Lance.” Morgan got her feet under her body. Standing eased the pressure.
Lance put his hand up in front of his chest and inched back a half step. “You don’t want to hurt a woman, do you, Dean?”
Dean laughed. “What does it matter? The world is backward. I get accused of a crime I didn’t commit but never caught for the one bad thing I did do.”
“What did you do, Dean?” Lance asked.
“Can’t tell. Promised. But I gotta pay.” Dean’s head bobbed in rhythm with his words. “She’s dead. It’s my fault.”
“Who is dead?” Morgan asked. Was he confessing to Tessa’s murder?
The rookie banged again. “Mrs. Voss?”
“Tell him you’re fine.” Dean pulled Morgan closer. The rifle remained pointed at Lance. Voss’s unwashed body smelled ripe with fear. Morgan breathed through the pounding of her heart and trembling of her hands. She needed him to put down the rifle. If Voss fired at Lance at a distance of five feet, the bullet would rip right through him.
“Dean,” his wife begged. “Don’t hurt them. I’ll go with you. We can be together forever.”
“We’ll never get away.” Voss shook Morgan by the hair. Her scalp screamed.
“I’ll tie them up, and we’ll go,” his wife pleaded. “Just you and me. I know you’ll be able to make us disappear. You were right all along. We’re not safe here.”
Voss nodded. “If you mean it, get rid of the cop at the door.”
“Mrs. Voss?” the rookie shouted through the door. “If you don’t open this door, I’m going to break it down.”
“Coming!” his wife called out toward the door as she wiped her palms on her jeans. She lowered her voice. “I’ll get some rope.”
She ran out of the room. Morgan didn’t know whether to expect her to return or not. Mrs. Voss could run right out of the house if she wanted to escape. But she didn’t. She hurried back into the kitchen, a coil of nylon rope in her hand. “Put your hands behind your back,” she said to Lance.
He complied, and she tied his wrists. Morgan’s racing pulse echoed in her ears. She couldn’t allow her own wrists to be tied. They’d all be at Voss’s mercy.
“Zip ties would have worked better,” Voss said. “And take her weapon.”
Damn. He’d spotted her gun under her jacket.
“I couldn’t find zip ties.” His wife tied a knot. She moved a chair behind Lance, and he sat while she bound his ankles to the chair legs. “This will hold them long enough.” She took Lance’s gun from his holster, then moved on to Morgan’s. “What should I do with the guns?”
“Give them to me,” Voss said.
Once Lance was tied, Voss set the rifle down on the counter and tucked Morgan’s gun into his waistband. He brought Morgan to a second chair. She had to act now. She wasn’t going to get another chance. But it had been years since she’d practiced physical self-defense. Would she do it correctly? If she didn’t . . .
Before he could force her into the chair, she slapped her hands on the top of her head, crushing the fingers entwined in her hair. Pinning his hand to her scalp, she dropped to her knees and bowed her head toward his knees, bending his hand backward. Bone crunched as his wrist broke. His useless fingers released her. He reached for her with his other hand.
No! She wouldn’t allow him to get a fresh hold on her.
She scrambled a few feet away, fear tightening around her throat like fingers. Breathing hard, Morgan rolled onto her back and kicked out. Voss jumped out of the way and tried to get around her feet, but she kept her legs drawn up and prepared to fire another kick.
Lance sprang to his feet. Mrs. Voss’s knots must have been all show. Lance dove across the room, tackling Voss around the waist. They landed hard on the floor and rolled in a tangle of limbs, coming to a stop with Lance on top. With a grunt, Voss heaved Lance off him.
“Mrs. Voss. I’m coming in.” The rookie kicked at the door. It didn’t open. He kicked again.
Morgan hoped he’d called for backup. She climbed to her feet and raced for the door. She opened it, and the rookie stumbled inside. He recovered his balance and lifted his drawn handgun. Pointing it at the men on the floor, he shouted, “Freeze.”
Voss jumped to his feet and ran. Lance lunged after him, grabbing his shirt. Voss spun around, his right hand cradled against his body.
Boom!
The gunshot reverberated in the small room. Voss stopped midstride. Lance froze. Morgan’s heart skipped a beat. A red stain bloomed across Voss’s chest. He fell to his knees and swayed for a few long seconds before crashing facedown to the floor.
The rookie didn’t move. His gun was still pointed at Voss. Lance was on his knees beside Voss. “Get me a towel.”
Crying, Mrs. Voss ran to the kitchen and brought a dish towel. Lance put it over the wound on Voss’s chest and applied pressure. “Call for an ambulance.”
The rookie jumped to action. Holstering his weapon, he used his radio to call for assistance.
Morgan’s knees felt like water as she stumbled to Lance’s side. Despite Voss’s attack, she didn’t want him to die. He couldn’t help what he’d done. He wasn’t sane. “How is he?”
“Bleeding way too much.” Lance said. “I need another towel.”
Mrs. Voss brought him a stack. Then she dropped to her knees beside her husband. She grabbed his hand. “Dean? Dean, don’t you give up.”
Lance caught Morgan’s gaze. He shook his head. The bullet had hit Voss in the center of his chest, right over his heart.
/>
Morgan put two fingers to Voss’s neck but felt nothing. “No pulse.”
Lance started CPR and performed chest compressions until the paramedics arrived. Then he stepped back. The paramedics worked on Voss for ten minutes before shaking their heads. “He’s gone.”
Mrs. Voss began to weep. Morgan went to her, putting an arm around the woman’s shoulders.
The next few hours passed in a blur of I can’t believe that just happened. More police arrived. Morgan’s and Lance’s guns were recovered from the scene and kept as evidence until they were cleared by ballistics. Though everyone agreed the rookie had shot Voss, a thorough investigation dotted every I and crossed every T. The police determined that Voss had scaled a tree and broken in through an upstairs window at the back of the house.
Morgan, Lance, and Mrs. Voss went to the police station to give statements. They were separated and put in individual rooms. Numb, Morgan recounted the incident like a robot. She wasn’t even aware that she was shivering until an officer brought her a jacket and a cup of coffee. As the adrenaline faded, her scalp throbbed from her encounter with Voss, but other than a few bruises, she was uninjured.
It was after lunch by the time Morgan emerged from the tiny, windowless room. Lance was waiting for her.
Lance led Morgan out of the station. The sun had emerged while they were inside, and as much as Morgan craved heat, the warmth of its rays felt wrong.
“He shouldn’t have died.” Morgan shivered in the sunlight. She’d given the officer’s jacket back before leaving the station. “He was mentally ill.”
“Do you think he killed Tessa?” Lance opened the Jeep door for her.
Morgan replayed Voss’s words. “I don’t know. He wasn’t any more specific than the first time we encountered him. I’ve no doubt that Voss’s words will help Nick’s case, but I wish we had more.”
“We know Voss had a campsite not far from where Tessa’s body was found. He was suffering from delusions and paranoia.” Lance closed the door, rounded the vehicle, and slid behind the wheel. “Hopefully forensics will be able to tie Voss to the crime scene.”
Say You're Sorry (Morgan Dane Book 1) Page 29
