Line of Fire (Southern Heat Book 5)

by Jamie Garrett

  Charlie shuffled two steps to the right, until she had Mary’s body in her line of sight. They started the dance again—Charlie and the man. Mary lay still, her chest rising but more slowly and much more shallowly than Charlie would like.

  Watch. Move. Duck. Dodge. Jab. Move.

  It could have been five minutes or five hours. To Charlie’s mind, it was all the same, until somewhere out in the darkness she heard “Freeze, police!” and then “Drop the knife!”

  She dropped it and fell to her knees.

  “They recognized it,” she said to Scott. “The guys from the station. They’d been stopping by for a late-night coffee and seen my car in the parking lot, doors open and bag still on the front seat. Thank God they’d recognized it and come looking for me.”

  “She was still alive? Mary?”

  Charlie nodded. “Yes. Barely. One of the guys called it in while I managed to slow the bleeding. It was just enough for her to hang on until we got her to the hospital. Mary survived, Scranton was arrested, and no one died that night.”

  Scott nodded, his face still grim. “So he was arrested? He’s in jail?”

  “Arrested, yes.” Charlie scrubbed at her face. “In jail, no.”

  That got Scott’s attention. “Why the hell not?”

  She rubbed at her eyes again, suddenly tired. The edges of her vision bobbed and weaved. Damn concussion. Maybe she should go lie down for a bit.

  “Why isn’t he in jail, Charlie?”

  She flopped back on the couch, suddenly out of any energy to move. “Technicality, complete fuckup . . . call it what you will. Someone fucked up the chain of evidence, DNA test . . . I don’t know. I didn’t want to know. I gave the police my statement, but you see, Mary didn’t die, so . . .”

  Scott nodded. “There was only so much they could charge him with.”

  “Assault with an attempt to kill. They pled him out to avoid embarrassment.” The words tasted bitter in her mouth. “He was a marine—a local hero. Never mind that he was discharged on suspicion of rape. That was the rumor, anyway.” She shrugged. “Who knows what was really true. I still don’t. He got three years. It took less than three weeks for me to leave town.”

  Unlike her, Scott still sat rigidly on the couch, and when those words left her mouth, every muscle in his body tightened. It was nearly imperceptible, but Charlie still saw it. The nerves tying her stomach into knots flew back to life. Was Scott worried she had done something she shouldn’t, that she’d brought her problems with her to Monroe? She took her time looking up to meet his gaze again, but when she did, compassion reflected in his eyes. That, along with an edge of anger. For her or about her? “I’m sorry if I’ve caused you any problems. I should have told you at the beginning, it was just so long ago and I’ve tried to put it out of my memory. I—”

  Scott held up a hand and she stopped talking, jerking a little. How she could be exhausted and yet wired at the same time, she didn’t know. The compassion in his eyes flared, replaced with guilt. “Shit, Charlie. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Scott sat back, running his fingers through his hair, a wry smile on his face. “Shane would have my head if I ever upset you, but Sweetheart, I need to know this, at least. Why did you leave town? Was someone threatening you?”

  There were those jitters again. They seemed odd, out of place—as if this had all happened to someone else. Maybe the years of wishing that it had, of trying to put it out of her mind, had dissociated her from it. God, if only it could stay that way.

  She thought back through the years, trying desperately to look at it all through fresh eyes. Had she missed anything back then? It was probably useless. True, ten years had passed, but if she’d missed the fact that her eccentric patient was a fucking murderer, then she couldn’t trust her judgment on anything.

  “Not in exact words,” she said, choosing her own carefully. “But it was clear things were going to be . . . uncomfortable for me if I stayed.” She looked up at Scott, forcing the memories to the surface while trying to stuff down the emotions that came with them. She managed, sort of.

  At least Shane was still out on his errand. If there’s one thing she could be grateful for, it was that she didn’t have to go through all of this while he was there. She’d already loaded way too many problems on him, and she’d be damned if she cried in front of him again. The fact she’d done that in front of any of the guys at the firehouse was mortifying, but with Shane, especially so. It didn’t make any logical sense. Shane had made it clear time and time again that she could be herself around him, but that didn’t make it any easier to let go.

  He was already treating her with kid gloves after the day before, nearly driving her insane that morning when he’d tried to tell her she wasn’t well enough to push buttons on the microwave, for heaven’s sake. How would he look at her if he knew she’d faced off with a serial killer, alone in a forest?

  Charlie held in a snort. If she told him what she’d finally spilled to Scott, she doubted she’d see the outside of her apartment, probably for months. Shane would have her wrapped up in cotton and under his protection before she even noticed he’d moved.

  So why did that suddenly not seem like such a bad thing? Hanging out in her apartment, waking up every morning next to Shane . . . that would be a pretty sweet way to start the day. She looked back over at Scott. Better get this finished with. Maybe then he’d give her a lift over to the firehouse and she could check in. She hated being away from there for too long. Her fingers got itchy when she didn’t work.

  “He was well known in town, as was his family. Anyone who was anyone never really believed the rumors about him. Well, that’s what they said in public, at least.” She shrugged. “There weren’t any problems, though, not before that day. But I was just me—regular resident, normal person. I had friends, a job, but I wasn’t part of ‘society’.” She air quoted as she spoke and then lowered her hands. The next topic still haunted her when she let it sneak into her dreams. She hoped it wouldn’t start again now.

  “There were others, you know. Bodies that were found over the years before that, all with knife wounds. Some girls who just disappeared. Maybe they ran off with boyfriends, maybe something else happened to them. No one knew.”

  “And you think Scranton was responsible?”

  “Scott, the look in his eyes that night.” Her hands twisted together in her lap and Charlie felt the weight of his hand on her forearm again, offering what comfort he could. She was suddenly cold. Maybe it wouldn’t have been such a bad thing to have Shane there, holding her, wrapping her in his warmth while she forced the words out. She suppressed a shiver. There was no going back now. Just get it finished and move on. Surely Langley, Scranton, whoever, was gone, left town now that law enforcement had figured out who he really was. “He looked exactly like he did up on the mountain ridge last night. Like he was going to kill me. How long until he succeeds?”

  Scott drew in a sharp breath. “If there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s that I won’t let him get anywhere near you. None of us will.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, punching at the screen as he dialed. “I’m calling Jesse. I bet he still has some contacts, probably some who’ll do him a favor now that everyone knows how much the FBI screwed him over. Then we’ll work out what we do from there.”

  Before he could dial Jesse’s number, the phone rang in his hand. Scott’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and Charlie peeked at his phone screen. Why would Shane be calling Scott? Did he know he was still here, or was there news he wasn’t telling her?

  Scott’s voice cut off her galloping thoughts. “Shane? What’s up, Man?” He went silent for a moment, only seconds, before his face went grim. “Where?” he barked into the phone. Silence again. The fluttering in Charlie’s stomach sank, filling it with lead. “I’ll be there in five minutes.” Pause. “Of course I’m bringing her. Sit tight, and get to where there’s people, if you can.”

  He hung up the phone and turned to her. Charlie tried to talk. Ins
ide her head her mind was screaming—what the hell was going on?—but her mouth wouldn’t cooperate. Neither, apparently, would her legs or arms.

  Scott moved quickly, dialing another number on his phone before barking something into it, then picking up his papers and shoving them back into the folder. He moved over to the coat rack and grabbed her jacket, draping it over her shoulders and practically slipping her arms through it before holding her elbow and helping her stand. Thank God her feet stayed beneath her and she remained upright. Scott stopped moving like a small hurricane and turned to look at her dead-on, locking his gaze with hers. At the look in his eyes, her voice finally came back, croaky but there. “Scott? What happened?”

  His gaze never left hers. “Charlie. Shane’s going to be okay.”

  What? “Of course I know he’s going to be okay. It’s just a sprained shoulder.”

  Scott’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You didn’t know about his apartment? It was nearly burned out yesterday. The best guess is arson. He went there this morning to meet Mason and check things out, but Mason must have left. Scranton attacked Shane.”

  That time, her legs gave up the fight.

  21

  Shane

  Shane pulled the ice pack his neighbor had given him off his head, grimacing at the stiffness in his arm as he lowered his hand. He hated being unable to use either arm while holding it there, and it was about time he gave the ice a break anyway. He didn’t think he’d been hit badly enough to do any real damage, but it was hard to tell when his head was slowly going numb.

  He passed the cold pack to his neighbor, who put it on the floor outside her apartment door and turned back to Shane, fussing over him. He smiled. “I’m alright, Mrs. J, but thank you.” A sweet older lady, Irene Johnson always had a smile for Shane, even when he was getting home at the crack of dawn after shift. Also, apparently, when he knocked on her door out of nowhere with a head injury.

  She’d sat on the stairs with him, despite his protests that he’d be fine and she should go back to her apartment where she could use a chair. She’d waved him aside when he’d tried to feel the back of his head, telling him to sit back and let Auntie Irene take care of it. Despite the worry that still lingered, Shane had sat back and let her do her thing. Scott was with Charlie for now, but after his phone call, they were both bound to show up at any second. Until they did, he’d let Mrs. J poke at his head and try to ply him with cups of tea.

  He’d drunk half the cup after reassuring Mrs. J that he was really a paramedic and knew whether or not he should drink anything after being whacked in the head. Shane was nearly bowled over again as Charlie flew in the door to the apartment lobby and threw herself into his arms. His good arm automatically came around her, holding her tightly against him, and she buried her head in his shoulder. Shane sent a look over her shoulder at Scott—a clear male What the hell, Man?

  “Herman Langley isn’t Herman Langley,” Scott said by way of greeting, and Charlie’s hold tightened around him.

  “It’s my fault,” she said, half-hiccupping in Shane’s ear. She pulled away and moved behind him, taking over Mrs. J’s fussing, rather than look him in the eye.

  “Charlie?” He twisted, trying to catch her gaze, and the look in her eyes when he finally did almost broke his heart.

  “I should have known who he was,” she said, her voice catching. “I should have recognized him.” She told Shane the story, in small, halting parts, Scott trying to fill in any blanks when she’d stop and seem to stare into the distance. As each part fell out of her, Shane’s emotions pitched and weaved—confusion, anger, guilt, and then back to anger. He’d had the man—right there! The man who’d nearly killed Charlie years before, and who had been torturing her now, had been standing right in front of him, and all Shane had managed to do was fall over.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” Scott said. “Any more than any of this is Charlie’s.” He pinned her with a sharp gaze, and Shane felt a surge of thanks toward the man. Shane could tell her that himself a thousand times, and she would never have believed him. Perhaps coming from Scott, a friend they both trusted and a cop, Charlie would actually take it on board.

  “But why now?” she asked. “Why is he here, and attacking Shane of all things? His beef should be with me.”

  A thought slammed into Shane’s mind—one that made him see red and want to throw up all at once. “Charlie, you said you stopped him from killing Mary?”

  She tilted her head, eyes down a little but still watching him. “Yes. We circled each other for what seemed like hours. Probably wasn’t, but at the time it felt like if I let my guard down for one second, then he would have killed me, too.”

  “And you suspect he killed others?”

  At that, anger of her own flared in her eyes. For once, he was damn grateful to see it. It meant Charlie would fight this—fight the bastard if she ever had to. Shane would die before he let Langley get his hands on her, but he was grateful to know she’d be kicking and screaming if it came to it. Especially with the thought he now couldn’t get out of his head.

  “What if he’s here to finish the job?”

  Shane looked over at Charlie. She was still sitting on Mrs. J’s sofa. Still deep in thought, looking over at him every now and then, concern and worry evident in her eyes. Shit. She’d obviously taken what had happened to him to heart, blaming herself. That made him angry all over again. If Scott was right, if it really was this Scranton bastard, then absolutely none of this was on her. He shifted the ice pack, scowling, and then forced his face to relax again when an alarmed look came over Charlie’s face and she stood to make her way over to him. “I’m fine,” he said to her, waving a hand back toward the couch. “Sit.” Shane forced a smile. “I’m just cranky.”

  His attempt at humor fell flat, Charlie unsurprisingly not in the mood. “He could have killed you!”

  Now that bothered Shane, more than he was going to admit in front of Charlie. Not that Scranton had come after him. He could handle himself, even with one arm almost literally tied behind his back. He held back a snort at the thought.

  Charlie would have his head if she knew what he was thinking. She was no pushover, could scare you into confessing what you’d done to Matt’s lunch, or any knowledge of Jeremy’s latest prank, even if it was going to land you in hot water, too. Out on calls, he’d seen her face off angry junkies or pissed off businessmen with the same care and compassion she gave their most elderly or vulnerable patients. He frowned. When it came down to it, though, she was half his size. Small and slim, Charlie wouldn’t stand a chance if Scranton had wrapped his hands around her neck instead of Shane’s. If it hadn’t been for the heavy flashlight she’d been holding when he’d attacked her down at the hill . . . he didn’t want to think about what might have happened then.

  But why had she been able to escape? For that matter, why was he still alive, sitting here to worry about her? True, he’d managed to inflict some damage on the bastard, but if Scranton had really wanted to kill him, Shane would have been toast. He dropped the ice pack and flexed his shoulder, unable to suppress the wince as it rotated. He’d probably set the healing back a couple of days by struggling with Scranton. It had kept him alive . . .

  But it shouldn’t have.

  And that was the problem his brain kept coming back to. Had Langley, Scranton—whoever he was—attacked both of them unarmed? Whichever way he looked at it, even with Charlie’s size, it was an incredibly risky thing to do. Had Scranton had a knife, or even a gun, shoved in a pocket or the waistband of his pants? He could have watched them both, known that they didn’t carry anything, but still. Shane’s eyes hardened as his mind reached the only conclusion.

  Scranton hadn’t wanted to kill them.

  The bastard was playing, toying with them. But then what the hell was his end goal?

  His train of thought was interrupted by Scott. Shane owed him big time. He’d treated Charlie with tact and compassion when they’d found out Scranton’s
identity. He hadn’t pushed her or made her feel guilty for not recognizing the guy. Even now, he kept a close eye on both of them while pacing back and forth outside Mrs. J’s apartment. Shane didn’t need his sympathy, but he was happy Charlie had someone else who knew the whole story to keep an eye out for her. Now, Scott stepped inside the apartment, not looking any happier than when he and Charlie had first arrived. “Jesse’s on his way over,” Scott said. “He got a hit back on Scranton’s DNA.”

  Okay. That was good news, wasn’t it? Shane opened his mouth to ask when Scott caught his gaze. Scott’s wandered to Charlie for just over a second and then he gave a tiny shake of his head. Shane’s jaw snapped shut and he clenched it so tightly his molars complained. What the hell was Charlie going to have to face now?

  He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Less than five minutes after he’d called Scott’s cell, Jesse arrived at the apartment in person. Shane stood, moving over to sit next to Charlie on the couch. He half expected her to lean in and examine his head wound again. This time, he’d sit still and let her. She could do with the distraction. But instead, she barely moved, sitting upright and still and staring at Jesse.

  “Was it him?” she asked. “Was Daryl Scranton the one who attacked Shane?”

  Jesse sat down opposite them in the chair Shane had just vacated while Scott moved back to the doorway, taking up his sentry position again. This time he wasn’t on his phone. His body was turned ever so slightly toward them, and Shane had a feeling Scott was listening in to every word. Charlie didn’t even seem to notice the shift. Her gaze was locked on Jesse, her hands gripping her knees as she still sat ramrod straight on the couch. She was waiting for Jesse’s reply, Shane realized, and the fact Jesse was taking his time delivering it scared him more than he wanted to admit.

  “I can’t tell you that for sure,” Jesse said. “It takes time to process DNA. A couple of days for the tests, and then there’s the paperwork and then any backup at the lab.”