by Nora Roberts
“Someone’s coming.”
“I got that. No, don’t turn on the light. If it’s somebody up to mischief, it’s better if they don’t know we know.”
“I don’t recognize this car,” she said, as she turned to the monitor.
“I do. Shit.” His sigh was more fatigued than annoyed. “It’s Doyle Parsins, so that would be Justin Blake and his pal Chad Cartwright and Doyle. Let me get my pants on. I’ll take care of it.”
“There are only two people in the car.”
Brooks jerked on his pants, grabbed his shirt, shrugging into it as he walked back to study the monitor. “Either Chad got some sense and stayed home, or they dropped him off to circle around the back. Since I don’t credit them with that many smarts, I’d say Chad skipped the party.”
Firmly, Brooks laid a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not about you, Abigail. Relax.”
“I don’t relax when someone sneaks onto my property at two in the morning. It’s not reasonable to expect me to relax.”
“Good point.” He took her arms, but loosely, rubbing his way up and down them. “I’m just saying they’re looking to cause me some grief. Not you. Most likely creeping up here—see there, they’re pulling off some ways from the house. Planning on slashing my tires, maybe spray painting some obscenities on my car. Figuring I’ll get a rude surprise come morning. Jesus, high as hot-air balloons, the both of them.”
“If they’re under the influence of drugs, they’re unlikely to be rational.”
“Rational isn’t Justin’s default position, straight or high.”
And coming here like this told Brooks he was escalating, as Tybal had been.
Watching them, he took the time to button his shirt. “Go on and call nine-one-one. Ash is on call tonight. You just give him the situation. I’ll go out and see to it.”
He pulled on boots in case he had to chase them down, strapped on his weapon.
“You and Bert stay inside.”
“I don’t need or want to be protected from a pair of delinquents.”
“Abigail, I’m the one with the badge.” His tone brooked no argument. “And I’m the one they’re here to screw with. No point getting them riled up toward you. Call it in, and wait for me.”
He went downstairs in the backwash of her outdoor security lights, taking his time. The bust would be clearer, stick harder, if he walked out on them doing something, or about to, rather than just creeping around, muffling the snorting giggles of the drunk and/or high.
Abigail would get her view of justice now, he thought, as the pair of them would spend the time until their trial in jail.
He watched them through the window, and as he’d anticipated, they crouched beside his cruiser. Justin opened a bag, tossed a spray can to Doyle.
He let them get started. The cruiser would need a paint job, but the evidence would be unarguable.
Then he stepped to the front door, dealt with the locks, and walked out.
“You boys lost?”
Doyle dropped the can and fell back on his ass.
“Sorry to interrupt your field trip, but I believe the half-wit pair of you are trespassing. We’ll add vandalism to that, and seeing as you’ve just vandalized police property, it’s a tough one for you. And I’m just betting I’m going to find controlled substances and/or alcohol in your possession and in your bloodstream. To sum up, boys? You’re royally fucked.”
Brooks shook his head when Doyle tried to scramble to his feet. “You run, Doyle, I’ll add on fleeing and resisting. I know where you live, you idiot, so stay down, stay put. Justin, you’re going to want to let me see your hands.”
“You want to see my hands?”
Justin punched the knife he held into the rear tire, then surged to his feet. “Gonna let the air out of you next, asshole.”
“Let me get this straight. You’ve got a knife. I’ve got a gun. See this?” Brooks drew it almost casually. “And I’m the asshole? Justin, you are deeply, deeply stupid. Now, toss that knife down, then take a look at your marginally brighter friend. See how he’s facedown with his hands linked behind his head? Do that.”
In the security lights, Brooks noted Justin’s pupils were the size of pinpricks.
“You’re not going to shoot me. You haven’t got the stomach for it.”
“I think he does.” With her favored Glock in her hand, Abigail stepped out from the side of the house. “But if he doesn’t shoot you, I will.”
“Hiding behind a woman now, Gleason?”
Brooks shifted, just a little. Not only to block Abigail if Justin was stupid enough to come for them with the knife, but because he wasn’t sure, at all, she wouldn’t shoot the moron.
“Do I look like I’m hiding?”
“I’d like to shoot him,” Abigail said, conversationally. “He’s trespassing, and he’s armed, so I believe I’m within my rights. I could shoot him in the leg. I’m a very good shot, as you know.”
“Abigail.” Torn between amusement and concern, Brooks stepped forward. “Drop that knife now, Justin, before this gets ugly.”
“You’re not putting me in jail.”
“How many ways can you be wrong tonight?” Brooks wondered.
Justin lunged forward.
“Don’t shoot him, for Christ’s sake,” Brooks shouted. He blocked the knife hand with his left arm, swung up his right elbow and jabbed it into Justin’s nose. He heard the satisfying crunch an instant before blood spurted. As the knife dropped, he simply gripped Justin by the collar, propelled him forward so he stumbled to his knees.
Out of patience, he shoved Justin down on his face, put a boot on his neck. “Abigail, do me a favor and go up and get my cuffs, will you?”
“I have them.”
Brooks lifted his brows when she pulled them out of her back pocket. “You’re a planner. Toss them over.”
He caught them, knelt down to yank Justin’s arms behind his back. “Doyle, you keep still now, or Ms. Lowery might shoot you in the leg.”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t know he was going to do that, I swear. We were just going to mess around with the cruiser. I swear to God.”
“Keep quiet, Doyle, you’re too stupid to talk.” Brooks glanced up as he heard the siren. “Jesus, what’s he doing coming in hot?”
“I saw the knife when I was relating the situation. Your deputy became very concerned.”
“All right. Hell. Justin, you just came at a cop with a knife. That’s assault with a deadly on a police officer. The prosecutor might even bump that to attempted murder when we add in the trash talk. You’re done, boy, and it didn’t have to go like this. You’re under arrest for trespassing, vandalism, defacing police property and assault with a deadly weapon on a police officer. You have the right to remain silent.”
“You broke my fucking nose. I’ll kill you for that.”
“Do yourself a favor, take that right to silence to heart.” He finished the Miranda as he spotted the lights from Ash’s cruiser zipping down the road. “Doyle? Where’s Chad Cartwright?”
“He wouldn’t come. Said he was in enough trouble, and his daddy’s likely to kick his ass he gets in more.”
“A glimmer of sanity.” He got to his feet as Ash slammed out of his car.
“Chief! You all right? Jesus. You’re bleeding.”
“What? Where? Shit.” Brooks looked down, hissed in disgust. “That’s Justin’s nose blood. God damn it, I liked this shirt.”
“You should soak it in cold water and salt.”
Both Brooks and his deputy looked over to where Abigail stood, the dog at full alert at her side.
“Ma’am,” Ash said.
Sirens screamed out again.
“What the hell, Ash?”
“It’ll be Boyd. When Ms. Lowery reported she saw a knife, and only had a visual on two when this bunch usually runs in three, I thought I should call Boyd in for backup. Are you sure he didn’t cut you?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. He was stupid enough to try, s
o he’s charged with assault on a police officer. I guess you and Boyd can take the pair of them in. I’ll be along shortly.”
“All right, Chief. Sorry for the trouble, Ms. Lowery.”
“You didn’t cause it, Deputy Hyderman.”
Brooks stepped over to her. “Why don’t you take Bert and go on inside? I’ll be in in just a couple minutes.”
“Yes.” She signaled to the dog and went back the way she’d come.
In the kitchen, she rewarded Bert with one of his favorite cookies, then put on coffee. She considered a moment, then opened a container to put human cookies on a plate.
Somehow it seemed like the right thing to do. She sat at the table and watched Brooks and the others on the monitor. The boy he’d called Doyle cried a little, but she found she couldn’t feel any sympathy. Justin remained sullen, snarling like a bad dog, in her opinion, sneering out of eyes she expected would be swollen and bruised from the broken nose shortly.
Once the prisoners were secured in the back of the first deputy’s cruiser, Brooks spoke to his men for another moment, then said something that made them laugh.
Breaking the tension, she deduced. Yes, that would be a sign of a good leader. She started to rise and go unlock the front door, but saw Brooks head toward the back as she had. Instead she walked over and poured his coffee, adding the sugar as he liked it.
He stepped in, saw the plate. “Cookies?”
“I thought you might want something.”
“I might. I’ve got to go in and deal with this.”
“Yes, of course.”
He picked up his coffee, took a cookie. “I don’t have to ask if you’re all right. Steady as a rock, right on through it.”
“He’s a stupid, violent boy, but we were never in any real danger. You might have been cut, which would’ve been upsetting. Was he right?”
“Who, and about what?”
“Justin Blake, when he said you wouldn’t shoot him.”
Biting into the cookie, Brooks leaned back in that easy way he had. “Mostly. If I’d had to, yeah, but I didn’t have to. Better all around. Would you have shot him?”
“Yes.” She didn’t hesitate. “I’d wondered if I could or would, as he’s young and stupid, but yes. If he’d cut you, I would have. But you have excellent reflexes, and he telegraphed his move, and was slow due, I suspect, to drugs or alcohol. You weren’t afraid.”
“You gave me a moment, initially. I told you to stay inside.”
“And I told you I didn’t need or want to be protected. It’s my property, and I was armed.”
“As always.” He took another bite of the cookie.
“Added to that, though nothing registered on the monitor, I wanted to be sure there wasn’t a third who might have flanked you.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You should soak that shirt before the stain sets.”
“I’ve got a spare at the station. Abigail, I’m going to need for you to give a statement. You can come in, or I can send one of my men to take it here.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. I couldn’t give you the statement under the circumstances.”
“No.”
“I think I’d prefer to go in. I could do it now.”
“Morning’s fine.”
“If I came in now, it would be done. I’d rather it be done. I’ll change and drive in now.”
“I can wait for you.”
“That’s all right. You should go now, do what you need to do.”
“Yeah. The way you handled this makes me think you’ve handled trouble before. I’m hoping you’ll trust me enough to tell me about that someday soon.”
Wanting the link, she curled her fingers around his wrists for a moment. “If I could tell anyone, it would be you.”
“Okay, then.” He set the coffee down, took her face in his hands and kissed her. “Thanks for the backup. And the cookie.”
“You’re welcome.”
THIRTY MINUTES BEHIND BROOKS, Abigail walked into the station. The older deputy—Boyd Fitzwater, she remembered—immediately got up from his desk and came around to meet her.
“Ms. Lowery, we sure appreciate you coming in like this. The chief’s in his office, talking to the prosecutor and all. I’m going to take your statement.”
“Yes.”
“You want some coffee, something cold?”
“No, thank you.”
“We can sit down right here. Should be quiet. Ash is back with the paramedic we called in to treat the Blake boy’s nose.” He smiled when he said it. “It’s busted good.”
“I’m sure a broken nose is preferable to a bullet. I believe Chief Gleason would have been justified in firing his weapon when Justin lunged toward him with the knife.”
“I’m not going to argue. But if we could start this from the beginning. I’m going to record it so we get it all straight. I’ll be taking notes, too. All right with you?”
“Of course.”
“All righty, then.” Boyd switched on a tape recorder, read off the date, the time, the names of all involved. “Ms. Lowery, why don’t you just tell me what happened tonight?”
“At two-oh-seven a.m., my perimeter alarm signaled a breach.”
She spoke clearly, precisely.
“As Chief Gleason had indicated, Justin Blake most usually traveled with two individuals. I wanted to be certain there wasn’t indeed a third man who might have circled around. My alarms didn’t register, but I felt it best to be certain. After I spoke with Deputy Hyderman on the phone, I took my dog and went out the back of the house. My dog showed no sign of detecting anyone in that area, so I continued around to the front, where I saw Chief Gleason and the two trespassers. One, identified as Doyle Parsins, was already on the ground, and Justin Blake continued to crouch by the left-rear tire of Chief Gleason’s police cruiser.”
“Did you hear anybody say anything?”
“Oh, yes, quite clearly. It was a quiet night. Chief Gleason said to Justin, ‘You’re going to want to show me your hands.’ I should add that at this time, Chief Gleason’s weapon was secured in his holster. Justin responded, ‘You want to see my hands?’ and drove the knife he held in his right hand into the left-rear tire.”
She continued, giving Boyd a word-for-word, move-by-move statement. Boyd interrupted once or twice to clarify.
“That’s really detailed.”
“I have an eidetic memory—you might call it photographic,” she added, though it always irked her to explain with that inaccuracy.
“That’s really helpful, Ms. Lowery.”
“I hope so. He would have killed Brooks if he could have.”
Though he reached over to turn off the tape recorder, Boyd lifted his hand from it, sat back. “Ma’am?”
“Justin Blake. He would have stabbed Chief Gleason, and he would have killed him if he could have. His intent was very clear, as was his anger and, I think, his fear. It’s what he knows, you see? To hurt or eliminate what gets in his way, what interferes. There are people who simply believe their own wants and wishes are above everything and everyone else.”
She’d seen murder, she thought. The boy didn’t remind her of the cold, mechanical Korotkii. He lacked that efficiency and dispassion. But he’d made her think of Ilya, of the hot rage on Ilya’s face when he’d cursed and kicked his dead cousin.
“He might not have killed or caused serious physical harm before tonight. I think if he had, he wouldn’t have been so inept at this attempt. But if it hadn’t been this, tonight, it would have been someone else, another night, someone without Chief Gleason’s resources, reflexes and equanimity. There would have been more to clean up than a broken nose.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry. It was upsetting. More than I realized. My opinion isn’t relevant. If that’s all you need, I’d like to go home.”
