Standoff, page 3
“So, you think you’ll like being on the law enforcement side?” he asked. “As opposed to what you do now?”
“I’ve always wanted to be on the law enforcement side.”
“Like your daddy?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’m sure you know he didn’t want me to switch. My mom, either.”
“No.” Surprise laced Gary’s words. “He never said a word . . . seemed awful proud when you finished your training in Georgia.”
Glynco, Georgia, had one of the finest law enforcement training centers in the nation, and when she graduated at the top of the class, her dad had come around. Not her mom, though. Car lights streaked past them on the Trace.
“I’d say he was doing a bit more than fifty,” Gary said. He pulled onto the road with his lights flashing. “Radio in that we’re in pursuit of a speeding vehicle.”
The stop turned out to be nothing more than a businessman hurrying home to Jackson. Gary ticketed him and issued him a warning to slow down. “You hit a deer going that fast and your car is history. Maybe you too.”
Once they were back in the Interceptor, she radioed her dad and frowned when he didn’t answer. Maybe he was meeting with the person who interrupted her ride along. A few minutes later, she tried him again with no result, and then she took out her cell phone. He’d insisted she put a family finder app on her phone. A smile tugged at her lips. That worked both ways.
“He’s at Emerald Mound,” she said. Unease rippled through her.
“That’s twenty minutes away,” Gary said. “Why don’t we head that way?”
7
Large drops of rain pelted Luke as he jogged to his Jeep and drove away from the ruins, taking the southern loop that passed by Alcorn State University. One of the vehicles had taken the same route while the other had gone in the opposite direction to Port Gibson. He’d been too far back to tell which was which. He took a small black phone from his glove compartment, and a quick check showed he had no reception.
Luke drove the dark and lonely road, the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers for company as he occasionally got a glimpse of headlights ahead of him. He ran out of the rain as he passed the university, and he checked the phone again. Three bars showed, along with a missed call. John Danvers. He pulled over and opened his call log. A call and a voice mail from John showed on the screen. He never called unless it was an emergency. Luke checked the time. Before he’d arrived at the ruins. He played the message.
“Got a tip there’s a big drug transfer going down at Emerald Mound at midnight, and thought you’d want to be there for the takedown. Think I know who the runner is.”
John’s terse voice sent a chill through Luke. When they’d talked earlier in the day, John hadn’t mentioned any tip, but it didn’t mean one of his sources hadn’t come through. Luke rubbed his hand over his forehead. He had a bad feeling about this.
Emerald Mound was twenty minutes from his current location, and it was thirty minutes past the rendezvous time. Luke tamped down the panic that squeezed his chest and shifted the Jeep into drive and gunned the motor.
Using the same burner John had called, Luke tried reaching him as he raced to the Trace. No answer. Once on the Trace, he pushed his Jeep beyond the speed limit, praying that deer stayed out of his path or that he didn’t miss a curve and wrap the SUV around a tree. He slowed at the turnoff for Emerald Mound and minutes later drove past the circle drive that served as a parking lot for the ancient Indian mound. He pulled off the road and climbed out.
Luke didn’t see John. His truck sat alone in the parking lot, angled in toward the split-rail fence at the base of the mound. The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Why weren’t the security lights on? The area was quiet. Too quiet.
“John?” His voice cracked the silence. No answer. Luke slipped the Glock from his waistband.
With his heart hammering in his ears, he hesitated at the edge of the circle drive. The truck appeared empty, and it looked like the driver’s door stood open. Luke jumped when a radio broke the silence.
“John, you at Emerald Mound?”
There were two rangers under John that Luke had yet to meet. This had to be either Clayton Bradshaw or Gary Franklin. He cocked his ear for John’s answer, and again only heard silence. Either John had walked up to the top of the mounds or . . . Luke didn’t want to think about the other option. His unease mounted, and he dashed to the pickup.
The truck was empty all right, because John Danvers’s body lay in the shadows with a bullet hole in his chest, his handheld radio a few feet from him. He didn’t have to press his finger to his friend’s neck to know he was dead, but Luke did anyway. No pulse. The reality drilled down into his heart and he wanted to pound the hood of John’s truck. Like that would bring him back.
“John, do you copy? We’re eight minutes out from your location.”
Get it together. As much as he wanted to examine the crime scene, he had to leave before law enforcement arrived or he’d blow his cover. That wouldn’t help anyone. Photos would have to be his eyes on the ground, and as much as he hated doing it, Luke took out his phone and snapped pictures of the crime scene. Later he could pore over them, maybe glean something.
He ran to his SUV and pulled away from Emerald Mound, the too-bright lights of an oncoming car almost blinding him. When he reached the Trace, he raced past it to Highway 61.
Luke drove hard, but he couldn’t outrun the picture of John’s body on the ground. When he reached Fayette, he pulled into a service station and replayed John’s phone message. A drug transfer. Had Boudreaux’s men he’d met with tonight killed him? No, the timeline was all wrong. Didn’t mean Boudreaux hadn’t ordered it, though.
Luke had done the right thing, leaving. Keeping his cover and infiltrating Boudreaux’s organization was the only way he could bring down the drug traffic on the Trace, and if the drug kingpin was responsible for John’s death, Luke would nail him.
Still, the sense he’d deserted John ate at him. It didn’t matter that his friend was beyond help or that it was what he would expect Luke to do. Memories of times with John bombarded him, and he dropped his head into his hands. Sorrow clouded his brain.
How was he going to face Brooke?
He parked his car in the shadows of Emerald Mound. He’d almost plowed into the car he’d met on the road. That would have taken some explaining.
Had the driver found Danvers’s body? The thought dogged him as he hurried to find the knife he’d missed ten miles from the mounds when he’d checked his pocket for antacids. No. If whoever was in the vehicle had discovered John’s body, he would have called 911 and then waited around for help to arrive.
Once he reached the pickup, he used the flashlight on his phone to search for the knife. His relief was palpable when he caught a glimpse of the bone handle near the front tire. He scooped the knife up and slipped it into his pocket.
His head jerked up at the distant wail of a siren, and he raced back to his car. For once, luck was with him.
8
Gary had turned on the siren a few miles back. Brooke kept telling herself there was no reason for anything to be wrong. So why didn’t her dad answer?
She leaned forward in her seat as car lights crossed the Trace then disappeared.
Gary slowed as he turned off the Trace onto Highway 553, and then he veered onto Emerald Mound Road and slowed even more when a pothole jarred the SUV. They rounded the curve, and her dad’s pickup came into view, almost stopping her heart.
Gary pulled the Ford Interceptor in behind it. He turned to Brooke, and she read the same dread in his face that clenched her stomach in a knot.
“You stay here,” he said.
“No.” She was not staying put. “You may need backup.”
His shoulders sagged before he nodded once. “But stay behind me.”
She pulled her gun as they climbed out of the SUV. Brooke scanned the area behind them as she followed a few steps behind Gary. He caught his breath, and she whirled around as he knelt beside her dad.
Time slowed as she took in the scene. Her dad lay stretched out on the ground. Gary stood, blocking her way as she tried to push past him.
“No,” he said, grabbing her by the shoulders. “He’s gone.”
“You can’t know that.” She struggled to break loose from his hold. “We have to do something! Do CPR until an ambulance can get here.”
He shook her lightly. “Listen to me, Brooke. He doesn’t have a heartbeat. And the bullet wound . . . no one could survive that kind of trauma.”
“I need to see him.” She wrenched away from Gary and knelt beside her dad.
“Don’t touch anything,” Gary warned.
Blood drained from her face, leaving her light-headed. The skin around her mouth tingled. Gary was right. Her dad was beyond help.
Brooke clenched her jaw. Whoever had done this would pay.
9
Suicide.
It’d been four days since Brooke first heard that word, and now it looped through her mind in time with the wipers that scraped her dry windshield. She’d run out of a shower a few miles back, but turning off the wipers just now occurred to her.
Brooke flipped the wipers off, wishing she could turn off the images in her head from Sunday night as easily. It was bad enough that her dad had died, but for the coroner to rule it a suicide was almost more than she could bear.
Her headlights caught the mile marker on the side of the road along with several grazing deer. Twelve more miles to Natchez. She’d chosen the Trace instead of Highway 61 to drive back after she dropped off her mother and sister at the Jackson airport. This third group of deer made her question that decision, but she was almost home now.
Meghan, whose pregnancy had her hormones on a roller coaster, had huddled in the backseat, alternating between tears and total silence. To fill the void, her mom had talked nonstop about everything but their father’s death, from the arrival of her granddaughter to the gallery showing of her artwork the next month. The solitude of the Trace had seemed appealing, but in reality, the drive had been too quiet with too much time to think.
She couldn’t grasp the fact that she’d never hug her dad again. Or ask his advice or confide in him. He’d always been there for her. It wasn’t the same with her mother. While her mother loved Brooke, Vivian Danvers had never coddled her. Still, Brooke could’ve used her mother’s support right now.
Be fair. Her mom probably would have stayed in Natchez, but Meghan was coping even worse with their dad’s death than Brooke and had asked their mom to return home with her. Mom had agreed but had deemed the eight-hour drive to Knoxville after the funeral too much for Meghan. At seven months, Meghan was still able to fly, so Mom had sent her son-in-law ahead in their car and was flying there with her younger daughter.
It had surprised Brooke how everyone’s leaving had left a void in her heart. Her mother’s words from years ago rang in her ears. Buck up! You have to be strong. If she’d heard those sentiments once growing up, she’d heard them a thousand times. But how could she be strong in the face of her father’s death? Especially now that it had been ruled a suicide.
In her opinion it was a rush to judgment, a way to get his death off the books. Anyone who knew her father knew he would never commit suicide. She’d told the coroner, but he wouldn’t budge, saying there was no evidence anyone else was present, he’d been shot with his own gun that had no fingerprints on it except his, and he had gunpowder residue on his hands.
There had to be another answer. Brooke pressed her lips together. She would find proof her dad hadn’t taken his own life, if it was the last thing she ever did.
Fifteen minutes later, Brooke exited the Trace and drove the short distance to her parents’ home, where she pulled into the drive and stared at the house she grew up in. Just hours before, it had bulged at the seams with family and friends after her father’s funeral. And now it sat dark. Forbidding.
She frowned. Why hadn’t she left a light burning? Not that there was much danger in this section of Natchez. She simply hated going into a dark house.
Brooke climbed out of her Ford Escape, and with a glance next door, paused. Her neighbor, Daisy Fereday, was in rehab after knee surgery. What was a car doing in her drive? Then she noticed lights shining in the windows, and she tapped her head. What was she thinking? It could only be one person. Daisy’s grandson, Luke Fereday.
Brooke didn’t know why she was surprised. Luke had come to the funeral, so of course he would be staying next door. She strode to the front door, remembering too late that she could have pulled around to the new garage addition in the back and no one would know she was home. She just wasn’t up to company tonight.
At the front door, she looked up at the porch light. She distinctly remembered her mother telling her she would turn it on. Maybe in getting them all out the door and into Brooke’s SUV, she’d forgotten. Brooke used her smartphone flashlight and inserted her key into the lock. Once inside, she closed the door behind her and flipped on a light switch.
Everything looked okay, and she breathed easier. The faint scent of cherry pipe tobacco drew her toward her dad’s office. It’d been his man cave. Maybe she’d just sit in his chair for a few minutes. She opened the door to his darkened office. Light from the hallway spilled into the room, revealing chaos.
“No!”
She couldn’t believe what she saw. His office looked as though a tornado had plowed through it. Automatically she reached for her gun, but it was hanging on her bedpost.
In the split second Brooke turned to leave, she sensed a presence, and suddenly, a bright light blinded her. She threw up her hand to block it even as the faint impression of a man’s silhouette formed.
He shoved her hard and she grabbed for his hand, pulling him forward, barely registering he wore gloves. He took her down with him. They crashed into a chair before hitting the floor. Brooke grabbed for his face and eyes, feeling the rough texture of a ski mask.
She caught a glint of metal before pain slammed through her head. Stars flashed and black edged into her brain, but she held on, fighting to stay conscious. He was not getting away.
He punched her in the upper part of her stomach, sending a spasm through her diaphragm. She couldn’t breathe and couldn’t move other than to clutch her midsection. Her assailant jumped up and ran for the hallway. She grabbed for his leg, catching air. Another spasm hit and Brooke doubled over, barely aware of the doorbell buzzing.
She tried to call for help, but all she could do was gasp for air. The doorbell rang again. Grabbing the chair that had broken their fall, she pulled up. Still holding her stomach, she staggered to the front door and jerked it open.
“Brooke!” Luke’s eyes widened. “What—?”
“A man—”
“Where?” Luke rushed past her.
She pointed toward the back of the house. “Dad’s office . . . he ran . . . the kitchen.”
Luke stooped and pulled a small gun from an ankle holster, then edged toward the back of the house.
“No! Let him go.” She didn’t want to get Luke killed.
He ignored her and whipped around the corner. A minute later he returned from the kitchen, his weapon nowhere in sight. Maybe she’d just imagined it.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Getting better. He knocked the wind out of me.” She would physically recover, but actual combat with an intruder was so different than the training at Glynco. Brooke was already rehearsing what she should have done differently.
“Can you identify your assailant?”
She shook her head. “He flashed a light in my eyes, blinding me, but I saw enough to know it was a man. He wore a ski mask . . . and gloves.”
Luke scanned the living room. “Looks like nothing was bothered in here.”
“He was in Dad’s office.” The spasms had eased, and she hurried to the study with Luke trailing her. What she found pierced her to the core. Files were scattered and pictures that had been on the wall lay in pieces on the floor. She swallowed the lump in her throat and picked up an award her dad had won for training excellence. He’d been so proud to be part of the training program for new graduates of the law enforcement academy.
A camera clicked. Luke was taking photos with his phone. “What are you doing? Why are you taking pictures?”
“I, ah, had a robbery once and regretted not doing this. I’ll send them to you.”
Brooke pressed her lips together. “Why are you even here?” she asked. Until the funeral it’d been years since she’d last seen Luke. Why was he showing up now all concerned when he hadn’t even bothered to tell her good-bye all those years ago?
10
Red crept into Luke’s face. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” He nodded toward her phone. “Don’t you think you should call the police?”
Brooke brushed aside the questions she wanted to ask him and took out her phone and dialed 911.
Soon sirens punctuated the night as vehicles piled into her drive. Crime scene techs arrived, and even Pete Nelson, the police chief, showed up. She gave her statement to him while the techs processed the house, photographing every room.
She and Luke remained outside on the wraparound porch, standing at first, then when Brooke realized it’d be a while, she sat in the wooden swing her dad had hung. Bamboo blades from an overhead fan stirred the air but did little to dispel the humidity or the mosquitos that feasted on her skin.
Even though she’d encouraged Luke to go home, he’d stuck with her and was settled in the matching rocker with his eyes closed, his head moving slightly. It was like he listened to music she couldn’t hear.
He’d surprised her at the funeral earlier this afternoon. Not because he came, but because of how different he looked. Last time she saw him, he’d looked like a woolly bear. Since his eyes were closed, she took a good look at him. He’d shed the black beard and long hair, and she didn’t know how much weight he’d lost, but he’d regained the chiseled jawline and defined cheekbones she remembered from fourteen years ago. The serpentine gold chain around his neck and the black silk shirt puzzled her though. Back then he’d been more of a jeans and T-shirt guy.
