Читать книгу Falsely Accused - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 13

This was wrong. All of it. The squad car speeding along the winding mountain road, heading away from town and deeper into the Maine wilderness. The blood dripping down her arm and onto the leather seat. The silence of the two deputies who had arrested her.

Deputies?

Special Agent Wren Santino wasn’t sure about that.

Not anymore.

They hadn’t used their police radios. Not to call for medical assistance for her or for the deputy who had been shot. Not to call in a location, call for backup or do as she requested and ask for the FBI Boston Field Office to be contacted.

She might not be an expert on much, but she knew law enforcement protocol, and, after nearly a decade working as a special agent for the FBI, she knew this was going down all wrong.

She shifted in the seat, the scent of leather mixing with the odor of stale vomit and sweat. Blood oozed from the bullet hole in her forearm and snaked around her wrist, sliding under the metal handcuffs. She should be heading to the hospital. Not the town’s small sheriff’s department. And Ryan? The deputy who had been shot? The closest thing to a brother she’d ever had? They should be life-flighting him to a trauma center.

The thought of him as she’d seen him last—lying in a pool of his own blood—made her even more desperate to escape.

She twisted her uninjured wrist, hoping the seeping blood would make it easy to slip her hand out.

But, of course, that wasn’t how cuffs were designed.

She knew that.

The same way she knew that she was in trouble.

She glanced out the back window. Her SUV was a dark smudge against the sepia tones of the forest behind it. She could still see Deputy Ryan Parker’s squad car, parked just behind the SUV, pulled a little crookedly onto a grassy area beside the road.

She shouldn’t have stopped. Not on a road like this. Not at this time of night. He’d have understood if she’d put on her hazards, slowed her pace and continued driving until she’d reached a less lonely stretch of road. That was the advice she gave students in the women’s self-defense classes she taught.

Don’t stop if it feels unsafe.

Any legitimate officer will understand.

Hazards on.

Slow your speed.

Keep going until you reach a more populated area.

She hadn’t followed her own advice. She’d seen the lights, and she’d pulled over. Maybe because she hadn’t expected trouble. Maybe because she was always prepared for it. She hadn’t been carrying her service weapon, but she’d had mace in the pocket of her jacket and a repertoire of self-defense tactics that had served her well in the past.

At thirty-six years old, she knew how to defend herself, and how to guard against danger and trouble.

She hadn’t thought it would come to her on the lonely stretch of highway between town and the farm belonging to her foster mother, Abigail, but she should have been able to extricate herself from it.

She turned her attention to the two men dressed in Hidden Cove Sheriff’s Department uniforms. They looked legit. The jackets. The badges. The shirts and hats that were pulled low over their eyes. Clean-shaven. Caucasian. One with fair skin. One with an olive complexion. The fact that she could see those things meant they weren’t trying to hide their identities. She wanted to believe that was a good thing, but her gut was telling her something different.

No legitimate law enforcement officer left a man lying on the ground bleeding.

“What about Deputy Parker? You can’t just leave him there. He needs medical attention,” she said, trying to engage them in a conversation that went beyond the Miranda rights they’d read her before they’d cuffed her and shoved her in the back of their squad car.

“You probably should have thought about that before you shot him,” the driver said. Mid-to late-twenties. Slim build. A small scar on his jaw. His hair was hidden, but Wren would guess it to be dark to match his tan skin.

“I already told you, I didn’t shoot him. The shots were fired just before you arrived.” Ryan had pulled her over. She’d realized it was him after he’d gotten out of his squad car. He’d told her that he was in trouble and that he needed her help. She’d stepped out of the SUV. Before he could explain more, a shot had been fired, and he’d gone down. She’d reached for his service weapon and had been shot while trying to free it.

Not a kill-shot.

Not like the one that had taken Ryan down.

She swallowed a wave of grief. Like Wren, Ryan had been one of Abigail’s foster kids. A teenager with no future who’d been shuffled through too many placements for too long, he’d arrived at the farm three years after Wren. It had taken a while, but eventually they’d warmed up to one another. By the time she’d left for college, she’d thought of him as her annoying kid brother—still finding trouble, still not settled into the structured life Abigail offered. She had been frustrated with his lack of progress, but she had also been hopeful that he would grow up and mature.

Still, she had been surprised when he’d told her he planned to become a police officer. She’d been even more surprised when he had decided to stay in Hidden Cove. Small-town life wasn’t anything either of them had been used to when they’d arrived. Both had often complained about the constraints of living in a town where everyone knew everyone else’s business. As a teen, Ryan had always been chomping at the bit, ready to break free of the life he had been forced into. The idea of him getting a job with the local police and staying in Hidden Cove hadn’t been on Wren’s radar.

But then, she had never been close to Ryan.

She’d loved him like a brother, but they had been too far apart in age and in personality to be friends. The inner workings of his mind had always been as mysterious to her as hers had been to him.

Now, he was gone, and she was being questioned about his murder as if she were a suspect or the perpetrator.

“I didn’t have anything to do with the shooting. Swab my hands for gun residue, take me in for questioning, but while you’re doing all that, make sure you have someone out there looking for the real perpetrator,” she said, hoping to illicit a response from one of the men.

They remained silent. No further comment on her supposed shooting of a man she considered a brother, no questions asked in the hope of getting answers that could be used against her. The silence in the vehicle was eerie. The space between her and the two officers was unencumbered by mesh or Plexiglas.

This wasn’t like any police cruiser she had ever been in. There were locks and handles on the interior door panels. Easy escape for a criminal who wanted to get away. As far as she had been able to see, there wasn’t a radio or computer attached to the console. Even a low-budget, low-tech police department would have radios in the vehicles.

She shifted forward to get a better look, and the fairer-skinned man lifted a gun and aimed it in her direction.

“Back off,” he said harshly, barely glancing in her direction.

She did. She’d already seen what she wanted to. She had been correct. There was no police radio in the car. No computer system. Nothing tying this vehicle to the sheriff’s department. If these men were imposters, they had to be tied to Ryan’s shooting. If that were the case, they had an agenda that didn’t include taking her to the sheriff’s department and booking her on federal charges. This area of Maine was largely unpopulated, deep forest and stretching across the landscape. It would be easy to get rid of a body here—to hide someone and make it seem as if that person had gone on the run.

What kind of trouble were you in, Ryan? she silently asked. Something big. So big he had been killed because of it, and it looked as if Wren was being set up to be the fall guy. If she didn’t escape, her SUV and Ryan’s squad car would eventually be found. His body would be discovered, and she would be gone—a story people told for years to come. How an FBI agent killed her foster brother and then went on the lam. The police would be searching for her instead of searching for the real killer, but she would never be found. Her body would be buried somewhere deep in the Maine wilderness.

And that was something she couldn’t allow.

Not just because she was innocent and needed to prove it, but because she wanted justice for Ryan. She wanted the person who had shot him to be punished to the full extent of the law. She had gone into law enforcement to make that happen to as many criminals as she could. She had committed herself to that goal, and she had spent more than a decade of her life devoted to it. Everything she was, all that she did, was tied up in her need to see justice served. She had no regrets about that.

Lately, though, she had been tired.

She had returned home after long days of work at the FBI’s Boston field office and asked herself if her devotion to justice was worth the silent and empty apartment, the lack of romantic relationships, the bonds of friendship that had become frayed and worn after years of missed and rescheduled get-togethers. Returning to Hidden Cove to help Abigail had seemed like the perfect opportunity to reassess her life and her goals. Wren had imagined plenty of downtime spent walking the farm or hiking through the woods.

She hadn’t imagined this.

She hadn’t anticipated it.

She was neck-deep in trouble, and she was the only person who could get herself out of it.

She slid sideways on the seat, watching as the vehicle zipped past shadowy trees. She knew this road well and knew exactly where she was. She’d traveled this way hundreds of times as a preteen and teenager. She knew the curves and the hills, the places where it opened up and where it narrowed.

She knew that the next turnoff led down a long dirt driveway to a tired-looking bungalow-style house that overlooked Mystic Creek. She thought the place had been abandoned years ago, but she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t asked Abigail, because she hadn’t wanted her to know that there were still times when she thought about the bungalow and about Titus Anderson. Even after all these years.

She watched as the driver flew past the old white mailbox that marked the Anderson property. They were going too fast for the road, taking curves too quickly, tree branches scraping the sides and roof of the vehicle. If she jumped out now, she could be too badly injured to run.

She waited, her arm still seeping blood, her attention focused.

They traveled another couple of miles, and then the driver braked hard, spinning onto a side road, the car slowing just enough that she was willing to take the chance. Had to take it, because it might be the only one she got.

She opened the door and threw herself out, trying to jump clear of the back wheels. Her shoulder slammed into the thick trunk of a pine tree, needles jabbing her face as she stumbled and tried to regain her balance.

She fell, her forehead glancing off the rough bark, knees sliding across dead leaves and aromatic needles. The screech of brakes spurred her up and on.

Faster.

Faster.

The word chanted through her mind, her pulse matching the frantic rhythm of it. She was making too much noise, giving away her location with every frantic push forward.

She needed to slow down, be quiet, think through her options, because if she didn’t, she’d die. And, in a place like this, it might be years before she was found.

If she ever was.

And maybe that was what this was about. The trouble Ryan was in had led to his murder, and she was slated to be the fall-guy for it. All the perps had to do was get her away from the murder scene, kill her and hide her body where no one would ever find it. With her vehicle left near Ryan’s body, she could be pinned with the crime and called a fugitive from justice. She wasn’t going to let that happen.

She forced herself to stop and listen.

They were behind her, crashing through the thick undergrowth, breaking branches and twigs. They’d have lights. She was certain of that. She didn’t glance back to see if she was right. She turned to her left, walking parallel to the road rather than away from it. Moving deliberately, being careful where she stepped and what she bumped. The moon was high and bright. It had been rising when she’d left the rehabilitation center where Abigail had been staying since she’d broken her hip. Now, it had reached its zenith and was descending. She used it as a guide. East would lead her back to the dirt driveway and Titus’s childhood home. His mother had died when they were in college, overdosing on the drugs that had stolen her away from him years prior to her death. He’d inherited the house, but he’d told her that he never planned to return to it.

They’d still been best friends then.

Now they were strangers, but she knew how to find her way through the woods and to his childhood home. She knew that the back door didn’t lock properly, that there was a rotary phone hanging on the kitchen wall, that an old Chevy truck sat in the garage near the back of the property.

At least, those things had been true when she’d left town eighteen years ago. Maybe they were still true. Maybe she could walk in the back door, grab the phone and dial 911. She knew enough about Titus to know he wouldn’t have let the property go to waste. He would have rented it out or sold it, and he would have made certain the electricity, water and phone were always on. There had been too many times during his childhood when they hadn’t been.

So, the phone would be working.

It had to be.

And the place would either belong to someone else or be a rental property managed by Titus.

Either way, she should be able to find the help she needed.

She hoped.

Staying in the woods, trying to keep a step ahead of her pursuers when she was cuffed and injured would be a death sentence.

She shuddered, her body suddenly cold with shock.

Ryan was dead.

The reality of it seemed to finally be sinking in, and she was sick from it. Her stomach churned, her head pounded, her feet felt numb. She stumbled down a steep slope, falling face-first into a small creek. Cold water filled her mouth and nose, nearly choking her. She refused to cough, afraid her pursuers would hear. She could hear them shoving through the trees, closer than she wanted them to be. They hadn’t been fooled by her change in direction. They were hot on her trail, and if she didn’t do something quickly they’d find her.

She struggled to her feet, slipped and slid up the opposite side of the bank, praying for help, wondering if it would come. She wanted to run, but her legs were heavy, her body shaking with the force of her heartbeat. She had to settle for slow, steady progress. Down a hill and up the other side, the sound of her pursuers echoing through the otherwise silent woods.

From the sound of it, they were racing toward her, sprinting through the early spring foliage.

She needed to run, too, but she could barely manage to walk. A light flashed through the trees. She thought the men had circled around and were setting a trap, but the light remained steady as she ducked behind an ancient oak. Her heart jumped as she realized what she was seeing. Not the beam of a flashlight. A house light. She ran as fast as she dared. Finally breaking free of the forest and sprinting across lush grass. Her harsh breath was the only sound in eerily quiet darkness. The house was a few hundred yards away—a little bungalow that looked like a sweeter, more-cared-for version of the one Titus had once lived in. Manicured yard and whitewashed porch with a swing hanging from its ceiling. The light she’d been aiming for shone from a front window. Another was visible in the attic dormer.

A man cursed, the sound breaking the silence. Seconds later, she heard the soft click of a gun safety. She dove for cover, sliding across grass as the first bullet flew. It slammed into the earth inches away, kicking up bits of rock and damp soil. She managed to roll behind a bush and shimmy a few feet closer to the house, blood oozing in thick warm rivulets down her wrist and seeping into the back of her shirt and the waistband of her jeans.

She kept low as another bullet hit the ground.

She was almost to safety, crawling across the ground on her belly, her toes and knees propelling her forward, her pulse slushing loudly in her ears and blocking every other sound. She had no idea if her pursuers were approaching, no clue whether they’d fled. She knew only her goal: to escape, to survive, to get help for herself and justice for Ryan.

She skirted the front of the house and crawled around the corner, out of the line of fire. She managed to get to her feet again, to run the length of the house and around to the back. The door was there, just like she remembered it. Three steps up. Grab the doorknob. Turn it. That’s all she had to do. She made it up the stairs, managed to turn her back to the door and grab the knob with her cuffed hand.

Only, instead of opening like it had when she was a kid, it remained closed, the lock holding.

She tried again, afraid to knock and give away her location. When it didn’t open, she searched the back porch for a spare key. The beam of a flashlight skipped across the yard near the corner of the house, and she darted down the steps, tried to run to the back of the property.

Too late.

Someone grabbed her shoulder, hard fingers digging into tense muscles. She whirled, sideswiping her attacker’s ankle. He swayed but didn’t fall. She shoved forward, using her body weight against him, trying to knock him to the ground. He muttered something, his grip loosening almost enough for her to break free.

She tried again. This time he stepped sideways, letting her tumble to the ground. She fell hard, the breath knocked from her lungs, her vision blurring. She could have stayed down, but she’d been fighting hard battles most of her life, and all she really knew was how to keep going.

She managed to roll to her back and was struggling to get up when a bullet whizzed past and slammed into a deck railing. Wood splintered, a piece of it digging into her cheek. She had no time to react.

Her attacker was on her, pressing her into the cool grass. All her training flew out of her head. All the years of careful control were gone. In an instant, she was back in time, fighting off the man who had just murdered her mother. She brought her knee up. Or tried. He had her pinned. Legs pressed to legs, chest to chest, his entire body covering hers.

She twisted, the bone in her injured arm snapping. She would have passed out if adrenaline hadn’t been pouring through her. She bucked, trying to throw off his weight.

“Stop!” he growled. “Someone’s shooting at you, and we’re both in the crosshairs. I don’t know what your plans are for tonight, but I’m not planning to die.”

It was the voice rather than the words that stilled her frantic movements. She knew the gritty texture of it, the soft Southern drawl that had never left. Not even a decade after moving to Hidden Cove with his mother.

“Titus?” she managed to say, the name ringing hollowly in her ears.

He tensed, then shifted just enough so she could breathe.

“Wren?” he responded.

He was looking into her face, staring into her eyes like he had dozens of times when they were kids exploring the woods together.

“What’s going—?”

Another bullet slammed into the deck, and his weight pressed into her again. This time, though, she didn’t fight it. She hadn’t been thinking clearly when she’d headed toward his property. If she had she wouldn’t have done it. Bringing danger into someone else’s life wasn’t the way she operated. She didn’t want Titus hurt because of her, and if she could have jumped up and led the gunmen away, she would have.

“You need to get out of here,” she whispered.

“We need to get out of here,” he responded, his lips brushing her ear. “Who is it? What does he want?”

“I don’t know who he is. What he wants is me dead,” she replied.

“How about we don’t let him achieve his goal? Stay down and stay quiet. I’ll see if I can get a visual.” He rolled away, cold air replacing the warmth of his body as he moved.

She wanted to tell him not to go. She wanted to remind him that she was an FBI agent and knew how to take care of herself and her problems, but her thoughts were sluggish. Before the words could form, he was gone, disappearing like a wraith into the darkness.

Wren Santino was the last person Titus would have ever expected to show up at his house. Finding her in his backyard just after midnight on a late winter night? He couldn’t have imagined that if he’d tried.

But she was there.

Pale faced. Bleeding. Handcuffed.

And being shot at.

It had been years since they had last spoken to each other. That had been his fault. It was a fact he had acknowledged each time he had been tempted to reach for the phone to call her or make the trip to Boston to visit. Selfishly, he had wanted absolution and a return of the companionship and friendship he had lost. But, he had known Wren well enough to know that if she wanted to offer any of those things, she would have reached out to him.

She never had.

Until now.

He pulled his handgun from its chest holster as he army crawled in the direction of the gunfire. He knew he had to stop the shooter, but he hated leaving Wren alone. They had been best friends. Buddies. Confidantes. She’d stood as his best man when he’d married Meghan.

He knew her almost as well as he knew himself, and he didn’t trust her to stay where he had left her. Even injured and cuffed, she would try to apprehend the shooter. He glanced back but couldn’t see her through the darkness. He couldn’t hear her, either, and he took that as a good sign.

He slid through the shrubs that butted up against the underside of the deck. He’d been meaning to dig them up. Now he was glad he hadn’t. He waited a few seconds, listening to the sudden silence, watching the darkness beyond the manicured yard.

“Don’t go after them,” Wren whispered, so close he knew she had followed silently.

“Them?” he replied, glancing back and meeting her dark eyes. She was on her stomach, her skin pasty white in the gloom.

“Two men dressed in Hidden Cove deputy uniforms. Both are armed.”

“You’re sure they aren’t actually police?” he asked.

“They shot Ryan. I think he’s dead, but I’m not sure. It’s possible that he can be saved if help arrives soon enough. I’d rather have you call for an ambulance than run into the woods looking for the shooters.”

“Your Ryan?” Titus asked, knowing that it had to be, that there was only one Ryan in town who Wren was affiliated with.

“Yes.” Her voice broke, and he had to resist the urge to hug her the way he would have before he’d ruined everything between them.

“I’ve already called 911. Help should be here soon, but letting them go? That’s not going to work for me.” He’d noticed the blood trail in his front yard as soon as he’d walked outside. He’d thought it might be an animal wounded by a hunter who was shooting out of season and on private property. That had made the most sense to him. He’d been back in Hidden Cove for four years. He’d found more than a couple poachers on his property.

Usually he let them go with a warning.

Tonight, he had been in the mood to press charges.

He had called 911 and then he’d gone out to look for the perpetrator. He hadn’t expected to be shot at, but he had been prepared for almost anything.

“Don’t make yourself a target, Titus,” Wren said. “Ryan has already been shot. I don’t want the same to happen to you.”

“Where is he?”

“Near his cruiser. About five miles outside of town. On Mountain Road. My SUV is there. The police shouldn’t have any trouble finding him.”

The faint sound of sirens drifted on the breeze. “It sounds like help is almost here,” she said.

“Wait for them here. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, crawling away, army-style.

“You’re not going to find the shooters. They’re heading back to their vehicle. There’s no way they’re going to wait around for the police to arrive,” she said, shifting into a sitting position.

“Get down,” he barked, fear making his tone harsher than he’d intended.

“I need to get these cuffs off, and I need to get back to my SUV. My cell phone is there. I want to call the FBI Boston Field Office and get some of my colleagues up here.”

“Wren, get down,” he repeated, crossing the distance between them.

“You don’t have any handcuff keys, do you?” she asked, dark strands of hair sliding across her cheek as she tried to get to her feet.

“I stopped carrying those when I quit the Boston Police Department,” he responded.

“I have some in my SUV.”

“I guess you have a good reason for that?”

“Yeah. You never know when you might need them.” She didn’t smile, but there was some life in her eyes again. “I want these guys. Sitting in cuffs while they escape isn’t helping me get them. You have a car?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let’s go.” She strode toward the two-story garage as if she knew he would only ever park his Jeep there. Because, of course, he did. Jeep in the garage. Coats in the closet. Keys on the hook by the front door. Everything in its place. All of it in order and neat.

She knew that. She knew him. More than most people.

His hang-ups and his habits.

And she had loved him anyway. The way one friend loves another. That had meant the world to him.

It still did.

He followed, making another call to 911 as he unlocked the garage and flicked on the light. He had the keys and his cell phone in his pocket. He unlocked the Jeep, helped Wren into the passenger seat, his hand curved around her biceps.

She’d always been muscular and fit. Now she felt fragile, her tendons and ligaments drawn tight over small bones. He reached for the seat belt.

“Don’t worry about that,” she said.

He shook his head. “Safety first.”

She didn’t argue. He had known she wouldn’t.

He knew her. Just like she knew him.

He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, pulling out of the garage and onto the dirt driveway that led to Mountain Road. They bounced over the deep ruts that he planned to fill when the weather warmed up and then turned onto the paved road that led to town.

She’d said Ryan was there.

Ambushed by the men who’d been trying to kill her.

He was thinking about that, watching the road in front of him more than he was the road behind. He expected to see emergency vehicles speeding toward his place. When he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a car coming up fast behind him, it took him by surprise. No headlights. Just white paint gleaming in the moonlight.

“What’s wrong?” Wren asked, shifting to look out the back window. “That’s them,” she murmured, her voice cold with anger or fear.

“Good. Let’s see if we can lead them to the police.”

“They’ll run us off the road before then.”

Probably, but the closer they were to help when it happened, the better off they’d be. He sped around a curve in the road, the white car closing the gap between them. It tapped his bumper, knocking the Jeep sideways. He straightened, steering the Jeep back onto the road, and tried to accelerate into the next curve as he was rear-ended again.

This time, the force of the impact sent him spinning out of control. The Jeep glanced off a guardrail, bounced back onto the road and then off it, tumbling down into a creek and landing nose down in the soft creek bed.

He didn’t have time to think about damage, to ask if Wren was okay or to make another call to 911. He knew the men in the car were going to come for them.

Come for Wren.

And he was going to make certain they didn’t get her.

He unsnapped his seat belt and jumped out of the vehicle.

“What are you doing?” Wren asked, her hands behind her, unable to do anything to free herself. He reached across the seat and unsnapped her belt.

“I’m going to discourage them from coming down here to find you,” he said, backing out of the Jeep.

“It will be easier and less dangerous to let them come to us,” she replied, scooting across the center console and climbing out.

“Only if you stay out of sight and let me handle it,” he replied.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, they’re after you. If you walk to them, they’re going to get exactly what they’re hoping for.”

“I’m not going to wait here while you fight my battles,” she argued.

“You have no idea whose battle this is. Neither do I. But right now? We’re both in danger. Since I’m currently the only one capable of fighting, I’ll do it for both of us. You can have your turn next time. Get back in the Jeep. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

She raised a dark brow, but did as he asked, sitting in the driver’s seat as he turned toward the road. He pulled his gun from the holster, keeping it ready as he began the steep ascent. He had quit law enforcement a few years after he had found out the truth about Meghan. It wasn’t something he had planned or, even, contemplated. Being a Boston cop had been his life goal. He had achieved it and had enjoyed moving up in ranks, becoming a homicide detective and following the path he had planned for himself.

But, when the opportunity to quit and change careers had presented itself, he hadn’t hesitated. He’d dived in headfirst and prayed it would work out. Four years after he’d returned to Hidden Cove and taken over his old carpentry teacher’s restoration business, he finally felt like he’d found his niche, but he hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be a police officer. He knew how to pursue suspects and apprehend perpetrators. He wasn’t going to allow the men who had run him off the road to escape. There was too much riding on their being apprehended. Justice. The safety of the community.

And, most importantly, Wren’s safety.

It may have been years since they’d last spoken, but he still cared about her, and he wasn’t going to step back and allow her to be hurt by an unknown enemy.

A door slammed, and he stopped, crouching behind thick undergrowth as he waited for the perps to make their move.