Protective Instincts

by Shirlee McCoy

  Something moved in the early-morning darkness, and she leaned closer to the glass. Probably just a deer. This far out, she saw plenty of them. There were coyotes, too. An occasional bear that wandered in from the deep woodland and hill country. The thing crossed the yard, heading toward Larry’s property. No streetlights illuminated the shape, but she was sure it was a biped. Too small to be a bear. A man?

  She flicked on the outside light. The shadow darted across the street, disappearing into heavy shrub.

  Larry?

  She hoped not. Two days ago, he’d been outside barefoot, walking up the road. She’d spotted him on her way home from work at the medical clinic. He’d said he’d been heading to his mailbox at the head of their road, but that hadn’t explained the bare feet in fifty-degree weather.

  She grabbed the phone and dialed his number, knowing that he wouldn’t answer. He never did. That was the thing about Larry. He wanted to be left alone, but if he was outside, he could freeze to death before anyone ever realized he was in trouble.

  She yanked on jeans, pulled a coat over her flannel nightie and shoved her feet into boots.

  The flashlight was still where Matt had always left it—tucked on the top shelf of the closet with a first-aid kit, a box of candles and matches and a stack of blankets. If Matt had been an outdoorsman, she might have a shotgun to take, too, but he’d been more of an academic, country living more a dream than a reality he’d been prepared to deal with.

  She’d been the practical one in their relationship, the one who thought of things like bears and bobcats, who’d built the chicken coop that now stood empty. She’d taught Matt how to camp, fish and even hunt. Not that they’d ever been successful at any of those things. Matt’s idea of camping was staying in a hotel near hiking trails, and his vision of hunting had never included actually shooting anything.

  She smiled at the memories, touching the bear spray she kept in her coat pocket. Better safe than sorry. It was cold for early November, the temperature well below freezing, ice coating the grass and trees. It took five long strides to cross the front yard, the wind snatching her breath and chilling her cheeks. Across the street, Larry McDermott’s house stood shadowy and dark. Shrouded by overgrown trees and a hedge that had probably been planted in the 1950s, it was a Gothic monstrosity that looked as worn and mean as its seventy-year-old owner.

  Not mean, she could almost hear Matt whisper. Lonely.

  Maybe. In the years since Matt’s and Joseph’s deaths, Raina had tried to be kind to her neighbor. For Matt’s sake, she’d baked him bread, invited him for Thanksgiving and Christmas. She’d shoveled his driveway after snowstorms and checked in on him when she hadn’t seen him for a few days. No matter what she did, he never seemed to warm up to her.

  She walked to the edge of his property and made her way along his driveway. Her flashlight beam bounced over cracks in the pavement and illuminated the three stairs that led to Larry’s front door. She jiggled the doorknob, knocked twice, wondering if Larry would hear if he were asleep. Her fingers were freezing, but she wanted to check the back door, too. She swept the flashlight across the front yard, her pulse jumping as it passed over what looked like footprints in the icy grass. Instead of thick ice, a thin layer of slush coated the grass there. She scanned the area, found another set of prints near the edge of the house.

  “Larry!” she screamed, her voice carried away by the wind. “Larry! Are you out here?” She rounded the side of the house, following the footprints to a gate that banged against the fence with every gust of wind.

  “Larry!” She tried one last time, her flashlight tracking footprints to the edge of the woods that separated Larry’s yard from the church his grandfather had pastored. The church Matt had pastored for five years before his death. Their home away from home. The only church Joseph had ever known. She knew the path that cut through the woods so well she wouldn’t have needed her flashlight to follow it. She used it anyway, making sure that the footprints didn’t veer off into the woods.

  Larry couldn’t be too far ahead.

  If it was Larry.

  She glanced back, could see nothing but white-crusted trees.

  She walked another half mile. She’d reach the church parking lot soon, and then what would she do? The place was closed for the night. She was already near frozen. She’d be all the way frozen by the time she walked to the church.

  This was a stupid idea. A colossally stupid one. She needed to go back to the house and call the police. If Larry was out in the cold, they’d find him. The problem was, she couldn’t stand the thought of her crotchety old neighbor freezing to death while she cowered in her house. She couldn’t stomach the idea of one more person dying because she hadn’t been able to offer the help he needed.

  “Larry!” she shrieked, her words seeming to echo through the woods. The trees grew sparser as she neared the church, and she flashed her lights toward the end of the trail, hoping to catch sight of the older man. Suddenly, a figure stepped out from behind a tree. Not stooped and old like Larry. Tall and lean. Her light flashed on thick ski pants. It glanced off a heavy black parka, landed straight on a black ski mask and glittering eyes that could have been any color.

  “Who are you?” she said, her voice wobbling. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Go home!” he hissed, pulling something from his pocket.

  No. Not something. A handgun. He lifted it, pointed it straight at her head.

  “Go!” he repeated, shifting the barrel a fraction of an inch and pulling the trigger.

  The night exploded, a bullet whizzing past her head and slamming into a tree. She dodged to the left, dashing into trees as another bullet slammed into the ground behind her.

  She tumbled down a small hill, pushed through a thicket. Behind her, branches cracked and feet slapped against frozen earth. He was following her!

  She didn’t know where she was, where she was heading. She knew only that she had to run. If she didn’t, the death she’d avoided in Africa was going to find her.

  * * *

  “This wasn’t one of your better ideas, Stel,” Jackson Miller muttered as he maneuvered the SUV along an icy dirt road that led to Raina Lowery’s house.

  “Shh!” Stella responded. “You’re going to wake the kid.”

  “Avoiding the comment doesn’t negate it,” he replied without lowering his voice. “Besides, Samuel slept through your rendition of ‘Take Me Home, Country Roads.’ I think he can probably sleep through anything.”

  “You could be right. My mom once told me that my voice could wake the dead.”

  “Did she also tell you that driving down icy country roads in the middle of the night could turn you into one of the dead?”

  Stella laughed. “My mother was all about the thrill. She would have loved this, and you would have loved her. She was crazier than I am.”

  He doubted it. Stella had a reputation at HEART—hard-core, tough, determined and absolutely fearless. A former army nurse, she handled stress well, and in the four years he’d known her, she’d never caved under pressure. “Most of the time, I like your kind of crazy, Stella, but the next time you want to go for a country ride in the middle of an ice storm, call my brother.”

  The silence that ensued told Jackson everything he needed to know. Stella and Chance hadn’t worked things out.

  He hadn’t expected them to. They were both as stubborn as mules. The fact that they’d dated at all still surprised him. The fact that his brother, a consummate bachelor, had bought an engagement ring had shocked him. Stella and Chance’s breakup four weeks ago? Not surprising at all.

  “I didn’t call you,” Stella finally said. “I stopped by your place. I wouldn’t have done that if Samuel hadn’t had to use the bathroom.”

  “Sure. Go ahead and blame it on the kid who’s asleep in the backseat,” he
responded, and Stella laughed again.

  “Okay. So I didn’t want to come all the way out to Podunk Town alone. Country roads are creepy.”

  “You’ve been to some of the most dangerous cities in the world, and you think this is creepy?”

  “Every ghost story I’ve ever heard has taken place on a country r—”

  Someone darted out of the woods, and Jackson slammed on the brakes. The tires lost traction, and the SUV spun. Jackson managed to turn into the spin, get the vehicle back under control. It coasted to a stop an inch from a giant oak tree.

  “What was that?” Stella yelled into the sudden stillness.

  “A person.” He unbuckled his seat belt, praying for all he was worth that he hadn’t hit whoever it was.

  “Where’d he go?”

  “I don’t—”

  A woman appeared beside the car. Hair cropped short and plastered to her head, black coat hanging open to reveal what looked like a flannel pajama top. Jeans. Plastic rain boots. A face that was so familiar his breath caught.

  Raina.

  It had been over six months since he’d seen her, but her image had been carved into his memories so deeply that it seemed like yesterday. He’d been on dozens of rescues, brought plenty of people to safety. He hadn’t forgotten any of them, but Raina had been different. He hadn’t just remembered her; he hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind.

  “Help me!” she begged, glancing over her shoulder, her eyes wild with fear. “There’s someone chasing me.”

  He opened the door, scanning the woods behind her. “Who?”

  “I don’t know. He had a gun. He tried to shoot me.” Her teeth were chattering, and he dropped his coat around her shoulders and bundled her into the car.

  She grabbed his wrist before he could turn away, her hands cold against his skin. “We need to call the police.”

  “Okay,” he responded, meeting Stella’s eyes. Raina didn’t seem to know who either of them was. Her lips were pale from cold, rivulets of water streaming down her cheeks and neck. She’d been outside for a while, and she seemed to be suffering the effects of it. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I told you. Someone was chasing me through the woods.” She glanced at the trees, her eyes widening. “There, look!”

  He whirled in the direction she’d indicated, his hand resting on the gun strapped to his chest. All he saw were trees and deep shadows. “I don’t...”

  His voice trailed off. Something did seem to be moving through the forest. Stella must have seen it, too. She leaned toward him. “You want to check it out, or you want me to?”

  “I’ll go.” He grabbed a flashlight from the glove compartment and headed toward the trees, moving quickly and quietly, the patter of icy rain enveloping him as he entered the woods. It had been years since he’d been hunting, but he knew what to look for. Tracks in the ice, broken branches. He could clearly see the path Raina had taken, the slippery progress she’d made. She’d run haphazardly, zigzagging through foliage.

  He moved deeper into the trees, the stillness of the woods broken only by the murmur of leaves and the soft whistling of the wind. The storm seemed to be dying down, the ice turning to a gentle rain. He pushed through a thicket and found himself on a dirt path that ran east and west. West led to the road and the SUV, so he headed east, his light illuminating the slushy path. He could make out footprints, all of them indistinct. Other than that, the dirt yielded nothing.

  The path opened into a parking lot, a small church at the far end of it glowing grayish-white in the gloom. A Jeep sat near the tree line a hundred yards away. Dark-colored, the windows tinted, it had a thin layer of ice covering the roof and so much dirt on the license plate it couldn’t be read.

  He moved toward it, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He knew the feeling of impending danger. What six years as a U.S. marine hadn’t taught him about it, five years working for HEART had.

  Someone was in the car.

  He was as sure of it as he was of his own name.

  He kept his firearm loose in his right hand, tucked the flashlight into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell. He snapped two pictures of the Jeep and was getting ready to take a third when the engine coughed. Black exhaust poured from the muffler, but instead of speeding out of the parking lot, the driver backed up and pointed the Jeep straight at Jackson.

  He dove for cover, tree branches snagging his coat and ripping into his face as the Jeep slammed into the trees behind him. Leaves and water rained down on his head, blurring his vision as he dropped the cell phone, pivoted and fired his Glock.

  TWO

  If the perp escapes, Chance isn’t going to let me live this down. I’m not going to let myself live it down.

  Those were Jackson’s first thoughts as he fired a second shot at the tires of the fleeing vehicle. The tire blew, the Jeep swerving and righting itself as the driver stepped on the gas and raced away.

  He wouldn’t get far.

  Not in the Jeep.

  He might get somewhere on foot. Jackson didn’t know the area well, and he wasn’t sure how far they were from a main thoroughfare. He ran out into the street, watching as the Jeep’s taillights dipped and swerved along the country road. No streetlights to speak of, but Jackson could see a small town in the distance.

  If the Jeep was heading in that direction, it should be easy enough to track down. Jackson jogged back to the tree line, flashing his light on the giant oak the Jeep had hit. Bits of bark had sheared off and specks of dark blue paint stuck to the wood. Evidence for the police to collect. Jackson left it alone, careful not to step on tread marks deeply engraved in the muck at the edge of the blacktop. The last thing he needed was to get in deep with the local P.D. The fact that he’d fired his Glock was going to cause problems enough.

  Problems that Jackson wanted to handle without any help from Chance.

  Not that he didn’t appreciate his older brother’s input and advice, but Chance got a little too involved sometimes. He worried a little too much. Since they’d lost Charity, everyone in the family did.

  His cell phone rang, the sound muffled. He followed it to a pile of ice and leaves, dug through the dirty mess and pulled out the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Where are you, Jackson?” Chance’s shout cut through the quiet.

  “In a church parking lot just outside of a little town called—”

  “River Valley,” Chance cut him off. “Where’s the church? Stella said—”

  “You two are finally on speaking terms again?” He tried to change the subject, because he wasn’t in the mood for one of his brother’s lectures, and because a police car was pulling into the parking lot. Sirens off, lights on, it moved toward him slowly.

  “We’re always on speaking terms when it comes to work. Delivering Samuel Niag to Raina is work. Chasing people through the woods in unfamiliar territory is not.”

  “Maybe not,” Jackson responded lightly. No sense in getting into it with Chance. Not when he was pretty certain he was about to get into it with River Valley law enforcement.

  The officer got out of the car, face shrouded by the rim of his uniform hat. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he growled.

  Jackson obliged, lifting both hands in the air, his brother’s voice still audible.

  “You have any weapons on you?” The officer asked, his gaze on Jackson’s shoulder holster and the gun that was visible in it.

  “Just my Glock,” he responded.

  “You have a permit?”

  “In my SUV.”

  “Which is where?” The officer stayed neutral, but he was moving in closer, and Jackson could sense the tension in his shoulders and back, the nervous energy that wafted through the darkness.

  Jackson rattled off R
aina’s address, and the officer nodded. “I’m going to have to take your firearm until your permit can be verified.”

  Apparently the officer also had to handcuff Jackson and stick him in the back of the police cruiser while he looked around, because that’s exactly where Jackson found himself. Sitting on a cold leather seat, the smell of urine and vomit filling his nose. He’d been in worse situations, been in a lot more danger, but he still didn’t like it. Not when the guy who’d tried to run him down was making his escape.

  He would have been happy to tell the police officer that, but the guy was a few feet away from the cruiser, speaking into his radio as he scanned the parking lot.

  An SUV pulled in. Not just any SUV. The brand-new one Jackson had purchased to replace his old Chevy truck. Chance must have called Stella. She got out of the vehicle and stalked to the police officer’s side, her close-cropped hair barely moving in the wind. Used to be, she’d had shoulder-length hair. That was before she and Chance had called it quits. Seconds later, Raina exited the SUV and opened the back door. Samuel slid out, an old wooden crutch under one arm, a giant coat wrapped around his shoulders.

  He was tiny for ten, his cheeks gaunt from illness, his jeans hanging loosely, one pant leg rolled up and pinned beneath his stump. Seeing him after so many months had only made Jackson regret leaving him in Kenya more than he had the day he’d flown home. He’d left hundreds of dollars for the young boy’s care, and he’d planned on keeping tabs on Samuel, making sure that he got what he needed to survive and thrive.

  Raina had stepped in first, making phone calls from her hospital room, transferring money, doing everything a mother might do for a child stuck in a foreign land. Jackson had heard all about it, had followed the news stories about Raina’s fight to get a medical visa for Samuel, about the offers from medical experts in D.C. who’d promised surgery and state-of-the-art prostheses for the child if he could be brought to the United States.