by Terry Odell
"You have the shop, Sarah. A piece of David."
Sarah burrowed deeper into David's robe, inhaling his scent. That Special Something. Hers and David's. Hers now. "You're right. And it's going to be the most successful shop in all of Pine Hills." She glanced upward. "No matter what it takes."
* * * * *
COPING MECHANISMS
Copyright © 2010 by Terry Odell
This follows Hidden Fire in the Pine Hills Chronology
Formerly published by Cerridwen Press
Randy may have his cop partner, but Sarah is his new life partner, and she's aware that any new relationship has its little hiccups. But what works with a fellow cop isn't going to cut it with Sarah. Determined to dismantle his fortress, brick by brick if she has to, she confronts him after a difficult case has him retreating. Follow these newlyweds as their relationship moves onto the next level.
* * * * *
For Dan – after all these years, we're still coping.
With thanks to my crit group, the Pregnant Pigs, and to Sandra, my first mentor, who's been there for me since we played with Duncan and Richie. Thanks for the help, support, and not-so-idle threats. To Jess, for the fight scenes. Thanks also to the many people at the Orange County Sheriff's Office who always answered my questions. Errors and liberties taken for the sake of the story are all mine. And of course, to Randy and Sarah—real or not, who refused to go away, even after I'd written them two happily ever afters.
COPING MECHANISMS
*****
Sarah smiled at the sound of the front door opening. She centered the last slice of cheese on a water cracker, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and gave a quick finger-comb to her new hairdo. Would he notice the gold highlights scattered though the otherwise dull brown? After all, he was a detective.
His night shifts had ended, and they could finally share a dinner followed by… Her grin widened as she thought of the night ahead. It had been awhile since both were awake enough to enjoy each other's company. Kind of tough on newlyweds, but the special meal she'd planned should start making up for lost time.
Her smile faded as she saw Randy's expression. She hurried toward him. "My God, what's wrong?"
He pushed past her to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a Jameson. He downed half in one gulp and stared at some distant point. His lips were clenched, his brow furrowed like a freshly plowed field. Being a cop was a high-stress job, but it wasn't like Randy to turn to whiskey. Her disapproval must have shown on her face. He glowered, and she felt the heat of rising tears behind her eyes.
"Not yet," he growled. He pivoted and stalked to the spare room. Sarah heard the door close behind him. Sounds of Chopin's Fantaisie-Impromptu burst from the piano. Sarah knew Randy played Chopin when he was upset, because he had to concentrate. She also knew there was no point in disturbing him. He'd appear when he worked through whatever had him so tormented.
Sarah crossed to the kitchen. Hands on hips, she took stock of dinner. The salad was ready. She added milk and butter to the boiled potatoes, gave them a quick mash and stored them in the refrigerator. Lamb chops, Randy's favorite, sat on a platter, ready to broil. Dinner would wait. Listening to Chopin wasn't what she'd had in mind for an appetizer, but she'd give Randy his space.
She went to the living room and clicked on the television. Maybe the news would explain Randy's distress.
She flipped through the local channels and found only commercials. As she waited, she mulled over Randy's behavior. Given his job, there were lots of things he couldn't share with her. But didn't she mean as much as his piano, his punching bag in the basement, or the high school track where he ran countless laps? True, their schedules had barely overlapped the last few weeks, but that didn't take away the hurt that he couldn't accept her as one of his coping mechanisms.
The news theme song brought her attention back to the television. "And, our lead story," the announcer was saying, "is the apparent abduction of eight-year-old Amanda Brooks. Could this be related to similar disappearances in Portland? We'll be right back with that story and more."
Sarah gasped. A missing child. Oh, God, no wonder Randy was upset. Sarah hit the mute button and listened for the piano. Still Chopin. Something in a minor key. Louder now. More frenzied. The announcer's face returned to the television screen, and Sarah turned up the volume.
"The parents of Amanda Brooks reported her missing when her teacher called to check on the child's absence. Pine Hills Police officers have been working diligently to locate the child." The television displayed a school photograph of a sweet young girl, auburn curls tied back with a green ribbon, freckles on her cheeks, smiling into the camera with the innocence of youth. The picture switched to a taped interview with the parents, surprisingly tolerant of the cameras and microphones intruding into their anguish. "All the kids walk to school," the mother said. "This is such a safe neighborhood. And it's only a few blocks."
Numb, Sarah thought. It hadn't sunk in for them. That their daughter might never return.
And then Randy and Kovak, his partner, were on the screen. Sarah saw Randy's clenched jaw, his hands jammed into his pockets. "We have a few leads," Kovak said. "If anyone has any information, please call the department." A number flashed at the bottom of the screen. "That's all I can say at the moment." The two men turned away from the camera, and the announcer's face came back on the screen.
"We'll keep you informed as we get more information. Now, for a look at the weather, here's our own Jamie Franklin." Sarah clicked off the television set.
Determined, she strode to the music room, but hesitated at the door. Closing it was Randy's way of establishing his need for privacy, something she'd never violated. But damn it, weren't they supposed to be there for each other? For better or for worse? She reached for the knob.
The music swelled as she opened the door. The curtains were drawn, and she stood in the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. Randy sat in the near darkness, oblivious to her presence. Sarah crossed the room and sat in the armchair by the window.
When the last note faded, Randy leaned his elbows on the edge of the keyboard and dropped his head in his hands. Sarah stepped behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders. He stiffened at her touch, then sighed as she began kneading his tense muscles.
"Please, let me help," she said.
"You know you can't help with a case," he snapped without lifting his head.
"Not the case. Help you. You're upset. I'm part of your life now. You can't ignore me."
"Stop." He reached up and removed her hands. "I'm going to the track. Eat if you're hungry. I'm not."
"Randy—" But he was already out of the room.
Sarah sat on the piano bench and slammed her fist on the keys. Before the discordant sound died, she heard the front door slam, followed by the sounds of Randy's truck tires crunching down the driveway. She whispered an apology to the picture of Randy's grandmother for abusing her piano and went to clean up the kitchen.
Randy had been single a long time, and letting her in would be harder than remembering to put the toilet seat down, but he'd have to adjust. She settled in front of the computer. Mahjongg solitaire was her Chopin. And when Randy got back from the track, she'd make him talk to her.
*****
Randy thudded around the high school track. He forced his mind into the trance that running created for him. One foot in front of the other. Concentrate on breathing. Let go. There was nothing but the run. After the first mile, he knew it wasn't working. All he could see was the innocent face of Amanda Brooks. All he could think of was her likely fate. No ransom demand yet. Odds were whoever took her didn't do it for cash. Rage surged through him again, and he realized he was running too fast.
Keep it steady. Let the endorphins kick in. Nothing but the run. Brick by brick, he began erecting the wall to keep the horror out of his private life. Work on one side. Everything else on the other. Sarah. He'd hurt her tonight. He hadn't come home like this since they'd been marri
ed. She'd wanted to help, and he'd pushed her away.
Would she understand how searching for Amanda had brought everything back to the time Sarah went missing, and he had no clue where to find her? He'd felt totally helpless and useless. He fought to push those thoughts to the other side of his wall. Concentrate on the run. Nothing but the run.
His heart jumped when the ring of his cell phone pulled him from his mental torture. He slowed to a trot and pressed the button to take the call.
"Where are you?" came the voice of his partner.
"High school. Running laps."
"Get your ass over here. I think we've found the bastard."
"On my way." Randy was already speeding toward his truck, fresh adrenaline surging through his system.
"What do we have?" Randy asked, panting, as he flew into his office. Kovak stood in front of his desk, telephone to his ear. He motioned Randy to wait.
"Got it," Kovak said. He hung up the phone and gave Randy a quick once-over. "You sure you're all right? I don't need a partner who doesn't have it all together. I can get someone else to go with me."
"I'm fine," Randy snarled. He started toward the parking lot. "Let's do it. Where are we going?"
"The old Cranford place. Caller said he thought he saw a man using the building over the last couple of days."
"How does it connect?"
"Guy drives a green Subaru."
Randy's pulse tripped. "Matching the one sighted near the elementary school?"
"One of at least five suspicious vehicles reported by the good citizens of Pine Hills. But this one came back registered to a George Watson, and his last known address was Portland."
Randy slowed his breathing, concentrated on getting behind his wall. He noticed that Kovak clenched and unclenched his fists as they drove. His adrenaline would be flowing, too.
Fifteen minutes later, they left the highway for the dirt road that led to the old building. The driveway swerved off to the left, and as he completed the turn, the edifice loomed at the top of the rise before them. The Cranfords had built their mansion in the mid-1800's, but no one had lived here for at least fifty years. There had been talk of restoration, or turning it into a museum, but it was too far outside of Pine Hills to interest anyone, and it remained, dying a slow, lingering death.
Randy stopped the truck about twenty-five yards in front of the building, under a copse of trees. Weeds and native scrub had taken over what once would have been a stately lawn. The county kept things trimmed back as a fire prevention measure, and it looked as though they had come through recently.
"Shit," Kovak said. "No cover." He pointed to the dirty green Subaru parked near the corner of the front porch of the mansion. "There's the car. Call for backup. Lab techs, too." Randy picked up the radio and called Dispatch.
"You see something move up there?" Kovak asked. "Second floor, to the right? The one window that isn't boarded up."
Randy tried to see something behind the grime-coated glass. "Maybe a curtain. There's a breeze, and there are enough holes in the roof to let the wind blow through."
"Maybe you're right. But if our guy is in there, I want him. You know anything about the layout of the place? Ever been here?"
"Only once, on a dare, as a kid on Halloween night. Scared the shit out of me. I do know the porch goes all the way around, and there's nothing but woods in back."
A high pitched whine brought both men to full attention. "You hear that?" Kovak asked. He drew his weapon.
"It could have been the wind. Tree branch. Or a bird."
"Or it could be he's got the kid in there. Let's do it."
Randy grabbed his Maglite, and both men approached the house, guns drawn, stopping behind the Subaru for cover.
Randy stared at their target before moving. The old wooden house stood three stories high, wrapped by a bare wooden porch. Not even a broken-down rocking chair remained. Parts of the roof had caved in, scattering pieces of slate across the porch and yard. About two thirds of the windows were boarded up. The rest were so filthy that Randy didn't think anything more than fleeting shadows could penetrate them.
Randy felt the adrenaline surge as he and Kovak covered the distance to the structure. He crouched as low as his frame would allow, and took the stairs in one stride, right behind his partner. Kovak reached out and tried the knob. It turned with a rusty squeak. Randy held his breath, strained to hear anything from inside. Silence.
Kovak pushed the door open six inches. More silence. Randy peered through the opening. A damp and musty odor filled his nostrils. He suppressed a cough and waited for his eyes to adapt to the dim light of the room inside. A faint moan came from upstairs.
"There," Kovak whispered. "You hear it?" Kovak was already on his way to the stairwell.
Randy followed. The stairs opened onto a dark, narrow hallway. Kovak hugged the wall, opened doors, and cleared each room. At the third door, Kovak disappeared inside. Randy waited in the hallway, every sense alert to the possibility that their dirtbag was somewhere in the house.
"It's Amanda." Kovak shouted. "She's alive."
Randy called for paramedics. Kovak knelt on the floor, stroking Amanda's hair. Her eyes were closed, and Kovak had spread his jacket over her.
"Easy, sweetheart. We're going to help you. Everything will be all right," Kovak whispered over and over. Even in the fading light, Randy could see the glistening in Kovak's eyes. His daughter was about the same age as this girl.
"What can you tell?" Randy asked.
"She's barely conscious. But her pulse seems strong."
"Backup should be here in a couple of minutes. Grady and Mac," Randy said. "I'm going downstairs to see if I can find anything." Not much point in being quiet anymore. He and Kovak had certainly revealed their presence. He began working his way through the downstairs rooms. Pizza boxes and beer cans in the kitchen. Mouse droppings in the pantry. He glanced through a couple of small rooms, perhaps a parlor and servants' quarters. He went back to the living room, where he'd entered the house. In the far corner, a thin mattress, stuffing protruding through rips in the ticking, sat on the floor, a filthy blanket crumpled beside it.
Randy crossed the room to examine it more closely when he sensed a presence behind him. He twisted around toward the porch and for a moment, all he could see was a silhouetted figure standing just inside the doorway, and the light glinting off the barrel of a shotgun.
"I think I've got the bigger gun here. How about you put yours down, cop?" a gravelly voice said.
Shadowed or not, there was no mistaking the man's size. Although he was shorter than Randy by a good eight inches, he must have outweighed him by at least fifty pounds. The guy was a goddamn refrigerator, solid muscle, his belly flat above the belt of his jeans. Randy held his gun away from his body, started to lower his arm.
"That's better," the man said. "Nice and slow. Hands where I can see them."
"Yeah, I'm a cop," Randy said, "and you're George Watson. You should know I'm not alone. Cops don't like it when other cops get hurt, so back off."
"Maybe that's a risk I'll have to take." He inched toward Randy, his shotgun still leveled at Randy's midsection.
Randy stood his ground, heart pounding. Once the man was close enough, Randy offered his gun. "I guess you're right. Here. Take it." He held the weapon by the barrel and extended it up and out to Watson's left.
Watson released his left hand from the shotgun and reached for Randy's gun. As he stepped in, he let the shotgun drop just enough to give Randy the opening he needed. Randy closed the distance between them and shoved the shotgun's barrel aside, wrenching it from Watson's grasp. Watson ignored the guns and swung his fist towards Randy's head. Randy blocked it and stepped in close. He sent his elbow into Watson's face and grabbed his shoulder.
Randy forced his elbow into Watson's throat. He took the off-balance man down with a well placed kick to his right leg and heard a satisfying thwack as Watson's head hit the floor. He kept control of Watson's right
arm and slid the shotgun across the floor, well out of reach. Randy put his left knee to the man's neck. His right leg pinned his torso to the ground. Randy switched pistol for cuffs and secured Watson's wrists. He removed a knife from a sheath on Watson's belt and sent it to join the shotgun. Randy kicked Watson over onto his back, stuck his knee on the man's chest and pointed his weapon at Watson's head. "Okay, mister. My little gun beats your no gun."
"You all right down there?" Kovak's voice said from the radio at Randy's belt.
"Just fine. Got him."
Randy looked up as Grady and Mac entered the room. "Watch this sleazebag," he commanded. He keyed his radio to speak to Kovak. "Mac and Grady are here now. You want me to send Mac up? A woman might make her feel safer."
Kovak agreed. "Besides, I want to see that scumbag."
Randy turned and found Grady standing over Watson's inert form. Colleen MacDonald had secured the weapons and was leaning against the wall.
"Mac, Kovak's with another kid upstairs. Why don't you stay with her until the paramedics get here, okay?"
She nodded and headed for the stairs. Within seconds, Kovak had stormed into the room.
"Wake up, creep." Kovak nudged the man in the ribs, not all that gently. Watson groaned, but his eyes remained closed.
Kovak ran his light across the stunned man. Randy took in the short-cropped brown hair, straight nose, tanned skin, clean-shaven. Not at all scary looking. He could believe a child might trust him.
Watson moaned and opened his eyes. Deep blue, almost friendly. He squinted against the light, then blinked. "You better let me go, cop," he said.
"Give me one good reason, slimebag," Randy said.
Any semblance of humanity fell away from Watson's face. The eyes grew cold, his lips tightened into a thin line. That was a face that would scare little children. Grown-up cops, too. "Because if you don't, I won't tell you where the other one is," the man snapped.
