by Liliana Hart
“Did her dad kill her mom?” he asked.
It wouldn’t surprise him. Nothing surprised him anymore. Cops were human just like the rest of the population. There were bad eggs and good eggs. The uniform didn’t change its owner’s core disposition.
Meechum looked away and rubbed a square, rough hand over the bristles covering his head. “There was enough circumstantial evidence to warrant an investigation. The last time anyone saw Francisca Armund she was on her way to talk to Joseph about child support. He was behind by two years.”
“How old were the girls at the time?” Their father sounded like a first class fucktard.
“Lea was twelve, Lina sixteen. Their mother had walked out on their dad two years earlier, but he was fighting the divorce.”
“He was never charged in the mother’s death?”
“He had an ironclad alibi which nobody wanted to challenge.” There was both frustration and disgust in the detective’s raspy voice.
Logan studied the veiled anger stamped across the leathery face across from him. “You think he did it.”
It wasn’t a question. There was no doubt in Logan’s mind.
For one long moment Meechum simply stared at the ground, before releasing a heavy sigh. “Joseph Armund wore the badge like a bully stick. When he was in a good mood, the man was a cold-hearted bastard; when he was in a bad mood, or drunk—which happened too damned often—” He broke off with a scowl. “Either way, the department failed Cisca Armund and her two daughters.”
Which explained Kaylea’s fanatical reaction to his new career path. Not only had her father been a first class fucktard wearing the uniform of Logan’s chosen profession, but the department had formed the blue shield and let him get away with murder.
However, nothing was stopping them from going after the bastard now.
“There’s no statute of limitations on murder,” Logan reminded him quietly. “Nothing’s stopping us from reopening the investigation.”
Meechum smiled grimly. “There’s Joseph’s alibi and the fact he disappeared years ago.” He frowned slightly. “Seventeen years ago, give or take.”
Logan thought about that, before shrugging. “An investigation will give his daughters some closure. Was their mother’s body ever found?”
“No. No trace.” Meechum fell silent for a moment. “They should have combed Spirit Woods. It would have been ridiculously easy for him to drag her into the forest and bury her there. But with his alibi—” he broke off, disgust flashing across his face. “Albright decided it wasn’t worth the overtime.”
Stuart Albright had been the station’s previous police chief, but he wasn’t in charge anymore.
“We should take a new crack at the alibi.”
Meechum barked out a laugh, real humor in the sound. “Yeah, that would go over like gasoline on a barbeque.”
“Why?”
“Stuart Albright was Armund’s alibi.”
“As in Chief Albright?” Logan asked, his voice rising incredulously.
“The one and same.”
What the fuck??
“And nobody questioned whether that was a conflict of interest?”
Meechum shook his head, his frustrated gaze locked on Logan’s face. “Albright ran the station with an iron fist and Armund was his best friends, had been since high school.”
“Why the hell didn’t you call in the feds? Or turn the investigation over to the state? Under those circumstances, Albright should have steered clear of any investigation.”
A twinge of sympathy for Kaylea pierced him. Christ, they’d been royally screwed, on all fronts. “What happened to Kaylea and her sister? Was that when their aunt step up to raise them?”
“She tried, but Joseph demanded the girls be returned to him and with no arrest warrant in the works...”
“Jesus Christ!” Logan’s gained volume until it was almost a shout. “You sent two defenseless children back to the man who’d murdered their mother?”
He tried to calm his racing heart. Why the hell this should affect him so deeply was a mystery. This wasn’t the first time there hadn’t been enough evidence to prosecute a spousal murderer and the children had been returned to the surviving parent.
Nor would it be the last time.
But his memory kept flipping between Kaylea’s solemn, watchful face and livid, enraged one. What had happened to her mother, and the lack of resolution to the murder, had obviously defined her.
Meechum shrugged, making no effort to defend himself. “No arguments from me.”
The whole fucking situation was indefensible.
At least until Logan put the timeline together.
Meechum was in his late thirties, which would have put him in his early twenties seventeen years ago. If he’d even been in the department, he would have been a new hire, and pretty damn inexperienced to stand up to his commander in chief, let alone the whole damned station.
Scowling, Logan ran through the details Meechum had passed on. If Albright hadn’t changed his story by now, there was little chance they’d convince him to admit to lying by this late date. They needed a different route into the investigation.
Kaylea’s closed, suspicious face came to mind. If she believed her father had killed her mother, would she open up to him and tell him what she remembered of those days prior to her mom’s disappearance? Then again, maybe it wouldn’t matter to her. Maybe digging into those memories would simply open wounds better left scabbed. Her father was dead, after all, he couldn’t hurt her anymore. Except…Meechum hadn’t actually said the man had died, he’d said he’d disappeared.
“What happened to Armund?” Logan asked.
“He disappeared, a couple of months after his wife’s disappearance.”
Interesting.
Logan mulled that over. “Any chance the two cases are connected?”
“It’s uncertain,” Meechum said with a frown. “Jessa, the girls’ aunt, raised enough of a stink to eventually attract the sheriff’s attention. There was an unfriendly rivalry between Albright and the elected sheriff back then. The Sheriff’s department jumped onto the case full throttle. In no time they’d unearthed strong evidence that Joseph was neck deep in some pretty unsavory business. The working theory is his business partners didn’t want him dragging attention their way, so they cut him loose—with a Berretta. When Lea and her sister returned from playing in the woods they found their dog dead, blood everywhere and their dad missing.”
Logan winced at the description.
Christ, that must have been terrifying.
While the sheriff’s department had the ability to investigate any crime committed within its jurisdiction, regardless of whether that crime fell within the boundaries of a town or local precinct, it was rare for the county sheriff to take on a case the local house refused to pursue; there was generally some professional courtesy involved between the various agencies.
Still, it did happen, usually pursuant to extenuating circumstances. And God knew what Meechum was describing had been the very definition of extenuating circumstances.
“What happened after Armund disappeared?”
Meechum shrugged. “The case hit a brick wall and sank like a stone. No sign of him during the past seventeen years.” He paused, an odd gleam, almost of anticipation, in his pale eyes. “You want to hear the weird thing, though? The dog that died back then? It was Kaylea’s—a golden retriever. She’d named him Max.”
Chapter Three
Kneeling on the floor of the clinic, Kaylea pulled the stethoscope from her ears and draped it around her neck. So far the dog—Max, he’s Max, you know he’s Max—had passed the physical exam with flying colors. She’d pulled blood, and the preliminary panel had been normal. He was an intact male, in good weight, good coat, heart and lungs normal. From his teeth, she estimated he was somewhere between one and two years of age.
Which put him at the same age Max had been when he’d died.
When the dog leaned into K
aylea’s chest and rested his chin on her shoulder, her arms automatically closed around him. His thick, blocky body felt so familiar in her arms, as though her body recognized him, even though her mind fought the truth.
With a deep sigh, she basked in the warmth of the cuddly body pressed against her chest, until she felt the stethoscope slip from her neck. She reached up to catch it, but her fingers brushed warm, soft fur instead. The dog danced away, his brown eyes sparkling, the stethoscope hanging from his mouth.
Kaylea laughed, rising to her feet. “You silly boy. That’s not a toy.”
Holding his prize high, the dog pranced to the edge of the office and back, a soft, chuffing growl trailing behind him.
The sound added to the confusion swirling around her. Max had made that same playful growl when showing off his toys. She stood there, watching him return to her, watching him rub against her legs and look up, as though offering her his prize. He looked so much like Max it made her heart ache… acted like Max, too.
What were the odds of that? That there would be another dog that looked and acted so much like the one from her childhood?
“It’s been seventeen years, Kaylea. That’s over half your lifespan. It’s unlikely you’re remembering things correctly. He probably isn’t as much like Max as you think.”
She said the words out loud in the hopes that hearing them might give them weight, might put this strange situation in perspective. Nothing proved he was Max. His looks and personality could simply be breed specific. Maybe a certain bloodline within the golden retriever population looked and acted like this. Maybe he was Max’s cousin three generations removed.
She nodded emphatically, her mind skating away from the truth her heart already accepted. He wasn’t Max. He couldn’t be, but he could be related to Max. A relative.
And then he sat down on Kaylea’s feet, the stethoscope still dangling from his black lips and lifted one huge paw in a high five. Kaylea’s head swam. Would a relative do that? Was that instinctive behavior or learned behavior? Where was the line? She froze while the question ran through her mind.
There was a way to test him, to find out whether he was Max. While a relative might have Max’s looks and personality, they wouldn’t have his memories. They wouldn’t know his tricks.
“Max,” she said, her stomach tightening. “Roll over.”
He dropped to the ground and rolled to the right, and then the left and then over onto his back.
“Oh My God,” Kaylea whispered, watching him lie there with head tilted back and tongue hanging out, legs splayed to the right and left, exposing his furry belly.
She’d taught him that trick. A relative wouldn’t have that training.
“Max,” she watched through a fog of shock as he whipped upright and scrambled to his feet, “owwie.”
He limped theatrically across the office floor, holding his front, left paw way, way up—exactly as Max used to. It was a trick that had never failed to make her mother laugh. Kaylea buried the memory of her mother’s laughing face as quickly as it rose, before it had a chance to settle in and throb like an abscess.
She ran through trick after trick and the dog nailed every single one of them. What were the odds of that? A relative might have Max’s looks and personality, but he wouldn’t have his memories. He wouldn’t know his tricks.
Max?
He had to be Max... but how?
It seemed to take forever before the thick haze of disbelief lifted enough to allow her mind to function.
Okay, if she accepted that this animal was Max, her childhood companion returned to her in perfect health seventeen years after his death, the next question was how in the world had it happened?
Instantly, the answer came to mind.
Spirit Woods.
They’d buried Max in the shadows of the forest—a forest that had quite a reputation. She’d been born and raised in Jamesville, had been spoon-fed the town’s mythology, had heard dozens of tales about strange, jewel-toned lights, odd weather patterns, and the whisper of voices that echoed among the trees.
And then there had been the legends—tales of things disappearing amid that primeval swath of hills and valleys and trees, tales of things suddenly appearing. Spirit Woods… some called it haunted, some called it dangerous, and some called it a window into another dimension.
She’d called the rumors and stories pure foolishness, nothing but campfire stories meant to caution children.
After spending most of her childhood in the shadow of the forest and not witnessing any of the conditions so often attached to the area, she hadn’t put much stock in the spirits of the woods, as some called the colorful lights.
In fact, she’d only witnessed those weird, jewel tones once—
Her heart skipped a beat as the memory burst bright and clear in her mind.
The iridescent glitter of sapphire snaking between trunks of trees, a bright ruby glow seething within the underbrush, so brilliant it looked like the forest floor was on fire, the sheen of emerald twisting between branches and leaves, the spill of purple washing the grassy boundary between the field and trees…
Holy crap!
She’d witnessed the lights of Spirit Woods, or the spirits of the woods as some called them, only once in her life—several hours after burying Max. She went icy cold, Goosebumps raced up her spine and down her arms. Max hadn’t been the only burial that night in the woods. What if—
A sudden hard knock on the clinic door startled a scream from her.
Max let loose with a trio of deep, throaty barks and bounded for the front entrance, his protective assault mitigated by his wagging tail. Kaylea followed slowly, her heart still beating way too fast and way too hard. Lord, she could actually hear her pulse in her head.
Nudging the blind aside, she peered out the glass, relaxing upon recognizing the familiar face. Twisting the latch to release the dead bolt, she cracked the door open an inch or two, and used her body to block any possible view of the room.
There were very few people in town that would recognize the dog behind her, but Douglass Meechum was one of them.
“Doug, what brings you by?” She winced at the high pitched squeak to her voice.
Yeah, that hadn’t come out at all suspicious, had it?
“LeeLa,” he said, using the nickname only family used, or at least what family she had left. “I hear you got yourself a dog. A Golden Retriever, named Max.”
Bugger, how in the world had he—
Logan! Had to be.
“Let me in, Lea,” Douglass said, firmness in his raspy tone. “I want to see him.”
Kaylea hesitated, her hand tightening around the edge of the door before reason kicked in. She wasn’t doing anything wrong. There was no reason to hide the dog from him. Logan had brought Max to her, she hadn’t taken him. She was just trying to make sense of this curve ball life—or more accurately, Spirit Woods—had thrown at her.
Besides, maybe Doug wouldn’t even recognize him. Sure, he’d gone with them to pick the puppy out and hung around the house enough to recognize him during those blessed two years they’d escaped her dad. But to Doug, Max had just been a dog, and that had been seventeen years ago.
Decision made, Kaylea swung open the door and stepped back. As Doug slipped past her into the room, Max bounced up to him, feathery tail waving like a flag in the middle of a windstorm.
Obviously Max remembered Doug.
“I’ll be damned,” Meechum said slowly, holding out his hand. He watched, his body absolutely still as Max sniffed it. “He really is the spitting image of Max Midnight.”
When the furry butt hit the ground and a huge front paw lifted, Doug caught his breath and then slowly shook the offering. “What about the other tricks you taught him? You test him on those?”
“Yeah,” Kaylea said slowly.
Okay, maybe he would put two and two together and arrive at one: one dog, the same dog.
“And?” Doug prompted, without taking his eyes from
the blocky head and lolling tongue, with the soft eyes gazing adoringly up at him.
“He knows all of them.” She was afraid to make the connection verbally, in case she was wrong, and he thought she was crazy.
Doug was quiet for a long moment. Suddenly he squatted. Running his hands through the thick golden coat, he spread the fur at the broad chest, and skimmed his palm up, pink skin flashing beneath his hand.
He was looking for scars.
“I already checked,” Kaylea admitted. “There’s no sign of any scarring.”
Doug climbed to his feet and just stood there, his face slack, like someone had sucker punched him. His arms were loose at his sides, his brown suit hanging baggy at the shoulders and knees. He looked shaken, like someone had taken his whole sense of reality, turned it upside down, and given it a good, hard shaking.
Kaylea knew exactly how he felt.
“He was dead. Hell, by the time I got out there, rigor had set in,” he finally said, his voice as shell shocked as his face.
“We don’t know this is Max,” Kaylea protested, hearing the lack of conviction in her own voice. “Maybe someone is playing a nasty trick on me. Maybe someone found a golden that looked like Max and taught him those tricks to mess with me.”
Doug didn’t buy that explanation either. “Why? What would be the motive?” He paused and shook his head. “You know he’s Max.”
The certainty in his voice was hard to argue with. So was the fact he was right. Instinctively, her heart had recognized the dog at her feet.
Max had returned to her.
“But it doesn’t make any sense. How is this possible?”
“The lights are back.”
The words hung there, echoing through the silent clinic.
“What? When?” Kaylea wrestled the question out through her tight voice.
“Sometime last night.”
Logan had said the dog had been waiting for him when he got home that morning, apparently the morning after the lights had returned. He’d said the dog had been waiting for him on the porch. A porch her Max had been intimately familiar with.
