Running for Her Life

by Beverly Long

  “I got a piece of plywood to nail over the window,” he said.

  “Perfect.” Jake walked outside and it took only a couple minutes for the two men to nail the covering in place.

  Frank shook his hand when they were finished. “Welcome, Jake. By the way, my daughter Lori Mae is your daytime dispatcher and department secretary. If you want to know anything, she can tell you. And if I can be of assistance, let me know. In fact, if you’ve got the time tomorrow, we could meet for a cup of coffee here at Nel’s, say ten?”

  “I’ll see you then,” Jake said. When he stepped inside the restaurant, Tara was standing near the door.

  “You’ve been busy,” she said, motioning to the floor and the window.

  “Frank helped. Seems like a nice guy.”

  She nodded. “When I opened the restaurant fourteen months ago, he was my first customer, and he’s eaten lunch here every day since then.”

  “Did you grow up in Wyattville?”

  She shook her head. “I moved here from Florida.”

  He’d spent five of the worst weeks of his life in Miami, working undercover, sniffing out drug dealers. “Where at in Florida?”

  It might have been his imagination but he thought she pulled back a little. “We moved around a lot,” she said. “You know, I’m really tired. I should finish up here so that I can get home at a reasonable hour.”

  She didn’t need to hit him over the head with a baseball bat. And it wasn’t as if he really wanted her life story. No matter how cute she was, he was a short-timer, and in six weeks he’d have paid his debt back to his friend. Then he was driving back to Minneapolis and forgetting about this wide spot in the road.

  “I still need to get in contact with Toby Wilson about Veronica. My truck,” he added quickly.

  She didn’t bat an eye that he’d named his truck. Just grabbed the pen that was next to the cash register, tore a napkin out of the two-sided dispenser on the counter and scribbled a number down. “There’s a phone in the kitchen.”

  For a second time, he yanked the directions to Chase Montgomery’s house out of his pocket. “By my calculations, Chase’s house should be just a couple blocks from here. I’ll call from there.”

  “I heard he was out of town, visiting his parents. Something about his mother being ill.”

  “That’s right. He’ll be back in a couple weeks. I’m going to stay at his house while I’m covering for Chief Wilks.” He walked toward the door. “By the way,” he added, “watch out for the deer when you’re driving home.”

  Once again her eyes flicked toward the street. He got the strangest feeling that whatever or whoever it was that Tara Thompson was watching out for, it didn’t have four legs.

  Chapter Three

  It was still dark when Tara woke up. The light was blinking on her alarm clock, telling her that sometime during the night the electricity had come back on. She reached for the switch on the lamp and glanced at her watch. Ten minutes before five. In one smooth movement, she stretched and rolled out of bed. She pulled on a running bra, shorts and a shirt, and sat on the edge of the mattress while she laced up her shoes. After a quick stop in the bathroom, she bounced down the steps, grabbed a bottle of water on her way past the refrigerator and was out the door. The sun had not yet crested the horizon but night had faded, leaving the quiet countryside bathed in a soft blue-gray.

  She jogged for the first quarter of a mile, then picked up the pace. With each step, she felt stronger, sturdier, more confident. She hadn’t been a runner when she’d lived in D.C. She’d rarely exercised, choosing to spend what little free time she had with Michael. But shortly after settling in Wyattville, she’d started jogging and lifting weights. She hadn’t been worried about her jeans zipping. She’d simply been focused on getting strong.

  If Michael ever got lucky enough to find her, she needed to be both physically and mentally ready. The head stuff was harder. But she was making progress. It had been months since she’d had one of the nightmares that had plagued her when she’d first come to Wyattville. She knew she’d turned the corner when she’d dreamed that he’d found her and she—dressed like Catwoman, but hey, it was a dream—had kicked his butt.

  She tried to get in three miles several times a week, generally before work. If she kept her pace steady, she could get to Wyattville, turn around and be home in time to jump in the shower and still make it to work with ten minutes to spare.

  Normally when she ran, her mind emptied out. There was no room to worry about leaky water pipes or a temperamental fryer that had a touchy on-off switch. She was consumed with the cadence of her steps, the harshness of her breath, the pure thrill of pushing herself to the limit. Absolute freedom from thought. It was all good.

  But not today. She was tired and edgy and felt stupid because she’d lost sleep over a broken window. It wasn’t as if she’d been robbed at gunpoint. She was getting soft. There’d been a time when crime was part of her everyday life. She’d talked about it, wondered about it and even joked about it. Most every reporter at the paper had.

  Not that many would have admitted to the last. After all, everyone knew it wasn’t a joke. But in a city where even murder seemed routine, laughter was the coping mechanism of choice.

  That was life B.W. Before Wyattville. Now she talked about the weather, wondered about the price of lettuce and laughed at dumb jokes that her customers told her. It still hardly seemed possible. Nel’s Main Street Café had gone on the market the week before Tara had come through Wyattville on her way to nowhere. She took one look at the cozy little diner and paid cash for it two days later. It had eaten up every bit of her savings. But somehow she’d known it was the right thing to do.

  And every day for the past fourteen months, she’d been thankful. She’d had a reason to get up, to get dressed, to work hard. A reason to forget.

  Although some memories were harder to shake than others. She extended her arms straight from her shoulders, automatically noting the slight difference in the length. Her arms were covered, like always. No matter how sweaty she got running or how steamy the kitchen became, she didn’t dare let people see the damage. There’d be too many questions, too much speculation. She didn’t need the constant reminder, either. Didn’t need to look at the two scars on her right arm that ran seven inches long and a sixteenth of an inch wide, crossing over each other at the bend in her elbow, to remember the pain, the absolute terror. The orthopedic surgeons had told her the pink, slightly puckered skin would continue to fade until it turned completely white some day.

  She supposed that was true. Her arm looked better than it had fourteen months ago, although it was still hideous. And as crazy as it sounded, she was almost grateful for it. The injury had made her realize that ultimately Michael would kill her. It was the push she’d needed to leave her fiancé behind, to leave her life behind.

  Otherwise, she’d have been one of the crime stories they reported in the early edition. Maybe one of the ones they laughed about, or shook their heads about.

  She’d made a life here in Wyattville. It was a different life than the one she’d left behind, but still, a good life. And most important, she’d felt safe here.

  And she still did. She wasn’t going to let a busted window change that.

  The summer air was already thick with humidity, and sweat trickled down her front and back. There was barely a breeze on her bare legs. She sipped on her water bottle and pushed herself harder.

  She was less than a mile from town when she saw a car crest the hill. Without breaking stride, she edged farther to the side of the road, onto the hard-packed gravel that bordered the blacktop. She’d just lifted her hand in a neighborly wave when the car swerved, gunning straight for her.

  * * *

  JAKE DESPERATELY NEEDED COFFEE. On his best days, he didn’t generally participate in any real conversation until he’d had his first cup followed by two or three quick refills. And he wasn’t at his best today. He hadn’t slept well. Wanted to belie
ve it was because he’d been in a strange bed in a strange house with six weeks of duty facing him. But he suspected it had less to do with that and more to do with a strawberry-blonde with freckles on her nose and pretty green eyes.

  Chase had left a brief note, wishing him well, along with keys to a cruiser that matched the car Andy Hooper had been driving the previous night. There were also a couple sets of uniforms. After waking up, he’d showered, pulled on a pair of khaki pants, a shirt that fit well enough, and buckled the standard-issue duty belt that Chase had left hanging over the door.

  Now, fifteen minutes after his feet had hit the floor, he was in the car, headed toward Nel’s Café. The night before, he’d seen the sign on the door, indicating that business hours started at six and ended at three. He parked, got out, and could see that someone had turned the blinds enough that he could see inside.

  The dining area was still dark. Through the service window, he could see light in the kitchen and somebody moving around. Female. But definitely shorter and heavier than Tara.

  Not that he was looking for her.

  He debated returning to his car to wait, but liking the stillness of the early morning, he merely leaned his back against the building. He’d barely taken three deep breaths when an old man walked around the corner.

  “Morning,” the man said. He stuck out a weathered, arthritic hand. “Nicholi Bochero.”

  Jake returned the shake. “Jake Vernelli.”

  “Figured as much. I live upstairs, above the restaurant. Got the lowdown on you last night from my grandson, Andy Hooper. The boy should be along shortly. He meets me for breakfast most mornings.”

  The door to the restaurant opened. The woman from the kitchen, wearing a white apron over her navy shirt and slacks, motioned them in. Her coarse gray hair was cut military-short and her face was lined with years of experience.

  “Uh…morning, Janet. How…uh…are you?” Nicholi asked. The old man suddenly sounded out of breath.

  “I’m all right, I guess,” the woman answered. She turned away, but not before Jake saw a flush start at her neckline and spread its way north, filling in cracks and crevices. And like most cops who’d been cops for any length of time, he was pretty good at knowing when the energy in the air changed. In the past few seconds, it had skyrocketed upward.

  Janet had Nicholi’s coffee poured before the old man carefully lowered himself down on the second-to-last stool at the counter. He nodded his thanks and followed her movements with his eyes. Meanwhile Janet was looking everywhere but at him.

  Oh, boy. Hormones—albeit some old ones—were shaking off some dust motes here. Jake slid in next to Nicholi, and when Janet held up the coffeepot in his direction, he nodded and practically sighed in appreciation when he took his first sip.

  “New police chief?” Janet asked.

  “Interim,” Jake corrected immediately.

  The door opened and Officer Hooper walked in. His face was freshly shaved and with his ruddy complexion, he looked about sixteen. “Morning, sir…uh…Chief,” he said to Jake.

  The kid made him feel ancient. “Morning, Andy.”

  The young officer walked past Jake, patted his grandfather gently on the back and took the last seat at the counter. “Where’s Tara?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Janet said. “When I arrived and she wasn’t already here, I called her house. There was no answer, so I thought she must be on her way. However, if that’s true, she should have been here at least fifteen minutes ago.”

  Jake tried to ignore the uneasy feeling in his stomach but he couldn’t shake the memory of the fear that he’d seen in Tara Thompson’s eyes before she’d so carefully concealed it.

  “She’s never late,” Andy said.

  Nicholi unwrapped his silverware that had been rolled tight in a napkin. “You’re right, son. Not even when we had two feet of snow in the middle of January.”

  Damn. Jake stood up and threw a buck on the counter. “You’ll save my life if you put this in a to-go cup for me.”

  “You’re going to go check on Tara?” Janet asked.

  He nodded.

  She shoved the dollar back toward him and filled a large paper cup with fresh coffee. “It’s on the house.”

  A half mile out of town, Jake saw a bicycle on its side. He slowed down to take a closer look and saw a man squatted down in the shallow ditch. Jake slammed on his brakes, swung his car off to the shoulder and got out.

  There was a woman lying on the ground. Jake saw strawberry-blond hair and scrambled down the steep embankment. He heard a noise behind him but didn’t bother to look around. Andy Hooper had been following him since the edge of town.

  The man was patting Tara’s hand. Her eyes were closed and her head was tilted back slightly. She was holding a bloody handkerchief under her nose. Jake dropped to his knees.

  “Tara,” he said, his voice soft. “It’s Jake Vernelli.”

  She opened her pretty green eyes and started to sit up. “I’m okay,” she said, her voice muffled by the cloth.

  Yeah, right. She had scratches on her legs and torn skin on her right knee. There were splotches of blood on her shirt that he hoped were from her nose. “Don’t move,” he said. Every cop knew some basic first aid. He reached for her wrist. Her pulse was strong and a little rapid but not horrible. He leaned closer and checked her pupils. Both the same. Both the right size.

  “What injuries do you have?” he asked.

  “Just scratches. Nothing much.” She looked over his shoulder. “Hi, Andy.”

  “Thought you might need some backup, Chief,” Andy explained. “You okay, Tara? You look like my dog did the last time he mixed it up with a coon.”

  Jake resisted the urge to rub out the pain that was gathering between his eyes. “What happened here?”

  “I was running. A car coming toward me lost control, so I took the ditch.”

  She said it as if it was no big deal. Jake could feel the coffee churning in his empty stomach. He looked over his shoulder at the man. “Who are you?”

  Tara sat up. She pulled the handkerchief away from her nose and set it aside, without looking at it. “Jake, this is Gordon Jasper. He’s a good customer and was kind enough to loan me a handkerchief. Gordon, this is Jake Vernelli, our temporary police chief.”

  He nodded at Gordon. “Did you see what happened?”

  “I’d just crested the hill on my bike and saw Tara running ahead of me. A car was coming toward us. There was nothing unusual until suddenly the car swerved toward Tara. From where I was, I thought she’d been hit. I have to tell you, it was a relief to find her in one piece when I got here.”

  Jake looked at Tara. “Did either of you get a license plate?”

  “No,” Tara said.

  “Me either,” Gordon added. “I got the hell off the road in case the idiot decided to take a swipe at me. I know it was white. A four-door. Maybe a Buick.”

  “Man or woman driving?” Jake asked.

  Gordon shrugged. “Sorry.”

  Tara shook her head. Andy Hooper stood up. “It ain’t much but I’ll call it in. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Tara started to get up. He reached out a hand to help her, and after just the slightest hesitation she took it. Her touch was warm and soft, and he could feel his own heart start to beat a little fast. It jarred to a sudden stop when he saw the blood on the back of her head.

  “Tara,” he said, letting her hand go and reaching to brace her arm. “Slow down. You’ve got a head injury.”

  Her steps faltered. “I do?” She reached and patted her head. When she looked at her fingers and saw the blood on them, she turned white, and he was afraid she was going to faint.

  He wrapped an arm around her. She felt fragile and vulnerable, and he wanted five minutes alone with the idiot who’d been too much of a damned coward to stop and help her. He stepped behind her and gently parted her hair. On the back of her skull, almost level with her ear, she had a bump and a small cut. There was qu
ite a bit of blood, but he knew that head wounds bled more than almost any other part of the body. “It looks as if you might have sliced it on a rock. You’re going to be fine,” he said, wanting to reassure her. “The doctor may tell you that you don’t even need stitches.”

  She turned to look at him. Her green eyes were big. “I’m not going to a doctor.”

  “You could have a concussion,” he said. “You should be checked.”

  “No.”

  Hell. Scratch fragile and vulnerable. “Can I at least drive you home so that you can wash the blood off?” Once there, he’d take another look, and if he needed to, he’d throw her in the car and head for the nearest emergency room.

  She swallowed hard. “That would be okay.” She looked at Gordon. “Can we give you a lift?”

  “No, thanks. Can’t stand anything with an engine. Just glad to see you’re okay.” The two men, with Tara between them, walked up the hill. Jake kept his hand just inches away from her elbow, ready to catch her if she faltered.

  Andy stood next to Jake’s car. “Got a hold of Lori Mae. Officers in the surrounding four counties will be looking for the vehicle.” He smiled at Tara. “I guess it’s a good thing Chief Vernelli decided to look for you.”

  Tara stared at him. “Why did you do that?” she asked. Her tone wasn’t as friendly.

  He could hardly tell her that from the moment she’d answered the door last night and tried to rearrange some of his favorite parts with her knee, he’d been thinking about her. That would make him seem like some kind of nut. “I’m a cop. It’s what we do.”

  It took a minute but finally she gave him a halfhearted smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. “We started off on bad footing and I guess I haven’t regained my balance yet.”

  Then they were even. He felt short of breath and a little light-headed himself. He opened the passenger door and motioned for Tara to sit. “Andy, I’ll give Tara a lift home. Go have breakfast with your grandfather.”