by Dana Mentink
Bucks gave her a sardonic salute, eased into his driver’s seat and pulled away.
She stared after them. Both officers clearly did not want a reporter poking around, but that wasn’t anything new. They could throw up all the roadblocks they wanted. There was a story here, bigger than the failing businesses in Desert Valley, and she was going to find out what it was, with or without police cooperation. Sure, she’d write the business piece, but it wouldn’t hurt to keep her ears open for something more significant. Instincts prickling, she got back into her car and drove the rest of the way to Desert Valley.
* * *
James turned onto the narrow paved road, allowing his breathing to return to normal. So she was a reporter. So what? He’d met plenty of them recently. Only natural that journalists would start flocking around where there was a potential for a juicy story. Reporters. They were all the same, vultures who reworked the facts to suit their fancy, like the one who’d smeared his brother in the papers, condemning him in the public eye for a rape he didn’t commit. He realized his jaw was clenched as usual whenever he thought about his brother. Take a breath.
Madison was doing her job, and he was going to do his. Deep down in his gut, he knew the real reason he was upset was that he’d been enjoying her company, chatting easily about cooking and canines, while something had been poking at him. Her red hair and easy smile reminded him of his teen crush, Paige, a girl who had fractured his family, a viper he had let into the nest. That was a long time ago.
A movement in the shadows beside the road made him tense. James’s pulse ticked up. Was it the dog they’d been searching for? Marco, the police K-9 German shepherd puppy, had gone missing from the training yard the night Veronica Earnshaw was murdered. How in the world could a puppy stay lost for so long? A few weeks ago, a witness had reported seeing someone on a bicycle pick up what looked like a small dog and ride off with it. But it was dark, and the witness couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman on the bike or even if the little dog was definitely the missing puppy—easy to spot with a circular mark on his head. A ground squirrel raced out from behind some bushes and dashed across the street. Not Marco.
He continued up the road, passing a row of small houses on his way into town. He was surprised when Charlie Greer raced down his driveway, arms flailing, white hair mussed.
“Someone’s busted into my yard,” Charlie said, his plaid shirt stained with axle grease. “Gone now, though.”
James got out, Hawk following.
The baying of several dogs caught Hawk’s attention, and he lumbered over to the fenced front yard, adding his own noise to the mix, tail wagging. James smiled as Hawk shoved his big nose through the fence to greet the dogs, including a German shepherd puppy named Stormy that Charlie had acquired recently.
“How’s your new dog getting along?”
Charlie’s face softened, and he looked years younger. “Swimmingly, but that ain’t what I wanted to tell you.”
James dutifully followed Charlie to his backyard, which was surrounded by a sturdy wooden fence.
“Found it just now when I got home.” The bolt on the gate had been cut through, and someone had entered the yard. The back door to the house was still shut up tight. There was no sign the intruder had gone any farther. James tensed. What would induce someone to break into Charlie’s backyard? The man lived modestly, fixing cars when he could to supplement his Social Security benefits. There was not much on the premises that could be fenced or sold. “Why didn’t the dogs raise a ruckus?”
“Probably did,” Charlie said. “I was out buying some spark plugs. Musta just happened because the dogs were milling around, and most of ’em hadn’t gotten out yet through the busted gate. I put ’em in the side yard, and then I saw you.”
James nodded. “I’ll take a look in the woods. Stay here.”
He called to Hawk and let the dog sniff around where the person must have been standing to cut the bolt. Hawk nosed eagerly, electrified to be starting off on a possible search. With no scent item to track, it would be up to the dog to catch any odor particles left in the air or soil. Unlikely that he’d find anything, but Hawk was always eager to try.
He clipped Hawk to a fifteen-foot lead, and they took off into the thick canopy of pines. Hawk stuck to a narrow trail that bisected the woods, paralleling a dry creek bed. They hiked for about ten minutes. James was ready to call off the search when suddenly, the dog stiffened, let loose with an ear-splitting howl and plunged ahead. James put a hand on his gun and followed, fending off the slap of low branches. He couldn’t imagine that anyone would be hiding in these woods, but he’d learned one thing in the long hours of training with Hawk and the deceased Veronica Earnshaw: trust the dog. With noses that could detect scent a thousand times better than humans, bloodhounds were master trackers. Truly, Hawk was a nose with a dog attached.
Hawk let out another spine-jarring howl.
James saw the heavy branch being swung at his head a second before it hit him. He was able to raise an arm to fend off the blow, but it sent him off balance, and he fell hard on his back. There was a sound of running feet. Hawk darted after the fleeing figure for a few yards, then turned and raced back at his fallen handler’s command. James heard a car engine, his hopes for a capture vanishing.
Hawk shoved his wrinkled jowls close and slurped a fat pink tongue over James’s forehead.
James sat up. Hawk continued to lick him until he waved him off.
“All right, you big lug. I’m okay. I just fell. That’s all.” He got to his feet, brushing pine needles from his uniform pants.
As he and Hawk trekked back to Greer’s place, he wondered who would be brazen enough to break into his yard in broad daylight.
The striking reporter’s words came back to him.
What is going on in this town?
Two
Madison continued to fume as she squeezed her car into a curbside space along the main street. On her way here she’d stopped at the K-9 training center just to get a visual in her mind of where the grisly Earnshaw shooting had taken place. Twenty minutes was all she allowed herself. The center was larger than she’d pictured, a white stucco building with two outdoor training yards and no dogs in sight. What had she expected to find? She wasn’t sure. Stick to the story you’re supposed to be writing, Mads. Get that done first, and then see what else you can unearth.
In the early hours, the sidewalks were empty, most of the businesses not yet open. It was so different from the bustle of urban life. She was still adjusting to the slow pace of Tuckerville, and Desert Valley was even smaller. Growing up with a father who loved cities, the bigger the better, they’d lived everywhere from San Francisco to Austin until they’d settled in Arizona. It was in sun-bleached Phoenix that her Uncle Ray, a reporter who’d spent fourteen years looking for them, finally tracked them down, delivering the truth in a scorching revelation. Her father was a murderer and a child abductor.
The ever-present tension in her stomach kicked up a notch. Madison Coles had no one now, except Kate. The thought of her sister and the tender closeness they no longer shared cut at her.
Why couldn’t Kate understand that the truth had set them free? But Kate had never accepted the loss of their father. His incarceration was the beginning of a very long, troubled path that saw her sister bounce from one disastrous relationship to another until finally she’d hit rock bottom two months ago and called Madison. Two months of ups and downs, but Madison was filled with hope that they might finally be rebuilding some small hope of a relationship. One positive sign? The note from her sister on the kitchen table that morning next to the neatly remade sofa bed where Kate had slept.
Got a waitressing job in DV! Tell you more later.
A job was a start—a great start—and though she wouldn’t admit it, she’d kept the scrawled message because of the little
heart her sister had drawn there. Thank you, God, Madison breathed.
As she cruised downtown Desert Valley, Madison was not sure which restaurant had hired Kate. Not that there were many choices. There was the Cactus Café, a sandwich outfit and a new hot-dog shop that promised to open soon. No sushi place or Korean barbecue, unfortunately.
Stepping from the car, she decided to do some research for the story she’d been assigned while she tried to locate her sister. It was time to start interviewing the local business owners. At the other end of the street, she saw a police car pull to the curb. James Harrison stepped out, long, lean legs, powerful shoulders, a serious expression on his face and Hawk by his side. She might have assumed James always looked serious, but she’d seen his smile and the sparkle in those incredible eyes before he heard what her profession was. Don’t bother dreaming about those eyes, she chided herself.
He obviously had some megachip on his shoulder about reporters. Fine. When she was occupied in her extracurricular snooping, she’d go around him, find sources other than the handsome Harrison and his sarcastic colleague Ken Bucks. She about-faced and headed in the other direction to keep her distance.
Her stroll took her past the Brides and Belles bridal salon. All that white lace and beadwork on the display dresses made her queasy. Marriage was packaged up in pretty bows and baubles, but her parents’ marriage had been a living torment that ended in murder.
He beat her, Uncle Ray had told them. Your father terrorized your mother until it escalated to murder. The death of his sister left Ray with a burning need to deliver justice and save his nieces from growing up with a killer.
A killer. The gentle, smiling father who smelled of aftershave and was devoted to his girls. Daddy to them, murderer of their mother. The incongruity made her dizzy, and ten years of trying to understand it hadn’t made it any more comprehensible.
It was a half hour before opening time, but she spotted two cars in the lot behind the store: a battered pickup and a new black sedan.
Madison swallowed and tapped on the glass front door of the shop. Inside, a small lady with blond hair pulled into a tight bun jerked her head up from a display case to look at Madison. The blonde shook her head. “Not open,” she mouthed.
“I just want to talk to you for a minute,” Madison tried.
The lady shook her head firmly. “Not open. Come back later.”
“But...”
The woman turned away and disappeared into the back of the shop.
“Could this place be any less welcoming?” she grumbled. “Maybe the Cactus Café will have one kindly soul who will talk to me.” Her route took her by the side door of the bridal salon, which was ajar. Angry words floated out.
“No excuses,” a low voice rumbled.
She could not hear the reply, but the tone was tense, high-pitched. Madison inched up, poised to knock on the door and offer help if necessary.
“...tell you again.” She did not hear the rest except for the name Tony. Careful to step quietly, she edged closer, hand on her phone, ready to call the police.
“Please...” came a woman’s voice.
Fear echoed in her tone and rolled through Madison. Fear. How Madison hated the emotion. Hearing it made her wonder what her mother had felt just before she’d been strangled, with the hideous knowledge that she was helpless at the hands of someone she’d trusted, loved.
Madison heard the sound of ripping cloth. It was too much. She could not stand there one more second and allow the woman inside to be harmed.
She darted through the door, emerging into the back room of the salon. Racks of plastic-covered dresses blocked her view. The floor creaked loudly under her feet. Should she call the police? But they already thought she was a trouble-maker, and no one had exactly invited her into the salon. Nonetheless, she kept her hand on her phone keypad.
Heart hammering, she pushed past the dresses, the plastic crinkling under her touch.
The shop owner’s eyes were round with fear, hands clasped to her mouth.
“Are you okay?” Madison asked, stepping through the dresses.
The woman didn’t answer. Her gaze shifted slightly. Madison saw the shadow of movement in her peripheral vision. She turned and got a glimpse of a man, an impression only of a bald scalp, the swing of an arm, a rush of air.
Then something exploded against the side of her head. Sparks of pain charged through her body. Her vision blurred, narrowed, and she crumpled to the floor.
She heard the woman scream as she slid into darkness.
* * *
James was getting into his car to head back to the station. His radio crackled, something about a break-in at the bridal salon. He was about to respond when a black sedan shot past him at a speed approaching fifty miles an hour. Had the car come from the salon parking lot?
James turned on the siren and gunned the engine, taking off in pursuit and praying no pedestrians were in the path of the crazed driver. Hawk sat up, rigid, and bayed so loud James’s ears rang.
“Quiet,” he called. They took the bend out of town, the sedan shimmying and bucking as if the driver was not fully in control. James tried to catch the license-plate number, but it was covered in mud. As he turned a corner, he rolled past a tiny grocery store. Out in front was a truck half in the road, the deliveryman loading a dolly full of vegetable crates.
With a last-minute correction, the sedan jerked past, barely missing the deliveryman, who fell over, heads of lettuce tumbling everywhere. The sedan plowed into the side of the truck, sending bits of metal and glass flying. James leaped out and drew his revolver.
“Put your hands where I can see them,” he shouted.
There was a momentary pause before the driver slammed into Reverse and backed straight toward James. There was no choice except to leap up onto the front of his police car. The sedan smacked the bumper, sending James to his knees and upsetting his aim before the driver put the vehicle into Drive and shot away down the road. James scrambled off of his cruiser, Hawk barking madly in the backseat.
The deliveryman sat on the sidewalk, dazed. James longed to continue the chase, but he could not leave the man there without help. He radioed his position and ran to the victim.
The deliveryman stood on his own, brushing debris from his hair. “What in the world just happened?”
James did a quick medical assessment, and the man assured him he was uninjured. He got back behind the wheel, hastily checked on Hawk and drove a few hundred yards but realized he’d lost the guy. His radio chattered.
Not just a break-in at the salon. Someone had been attacked. Frances, the quiet single-mom shop owner? He fought the sick feeling in his gut as he wrenched the car around and hurtled to the salon. He was the first officer to arrive on scene. He hastily secured Hawk to a pole outside, shaded by a crooked awning. “Sorry, Hawk, but you’re not suited for this type of situation, Gotta secure things first.” Hand on his gun, he raced to the back door, which stood ajar.
Listening, he picked up on soft crying. That made him move even faster, pushing through the back hallway and emerging against a rack of hanging dresses. Frances knelt on the floor, tears streaming down her face.
Frances gasped. “I think she’s dead.”
A woman lay on the floor, facedown, spectacular red hair fanned out around her, in a puddle of blood. His heart thunked as he recognized Madison Coles.
Nerves pounding, he radioed for an ambulance and was alerted that one was already on the way, dispatched from the neighboring county. As gently as he could manage, he lifted the hair away from her cheek and slid his fingers along her neck to check for a pulse. The gentle flicker of a heartbeat sent a wave of relief through him. Not daring to move her, he stayed there, monitoring her pulse, waiting for help to arrive.
“She’s alive,” he told Frances. “What happened?”<
br />
“I don’t know. She knocked on the front door, but I told her we were closed. I must have left the back door unlocked. When I went to look for some invoices in the back, she was lying here, like that.”
James saw a small but solid plaster bust that must have been used to display bridal headpieces lying on the floor next to Madison. Blood stained the bottom edge. It would make a lousy scent article for Hawk, he thought automatically, since it had no doubt been handled by multiple people.
“So you didn’t see the attacker?”
She shook her head.
He put a hand on Madison’s back to reassure himself that she was still breathing. Fury boiled in his blood. Who would do this? “Did you hear anything? Voices? Talking? A car outside?”
“No,” Frances said. “Nothing.”
He pressed for more detail, but she was unable to provide anything. She was probably in shock. “Was there anything stolen?”
“No. The cash register was untouched.”
“And you didn’t notice anyone come in? What were you doing?”
“Paying some bills in the office.”
“What about noise? You must have heard the back door open.”
“I was playing music.”
He heard no music. Surely she would have seen something. But why would she lie? No, it had to be the shock. He did his best to make Madison comfortable until sirens announced the arrival of more cops.
He heard a soft moan and bent close, mouth to her ear. “It’s okay. We’re getting you to a hospital.” He brushed aside the silky hair that had fallen over her cheek, amazed at the heavy weight of it. Her skin was fair, like porcelain, slightly freckled, her lashes the same rusty hue as her hair. She moved a hand as if to brace herself on the tiled floor. Her slender wrist seemed impossibly fragile.
“Stay still,” he said.
“He...” she whispered, then stopped.
“Who was it? Did you see him?”
Her lips moved again, but no sound came out. He did not want to press as her face was deadly pale. Lord, keep her breathing. Such a violent blow might easily have caused irreparable damage or death. “Stay with me, Madison. Okay? You’re going to make it through this.”
