Читать книгу Protective Instincts - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 12

TWO

If the perp escapes, Chance isn’t going to let me live this down. I’m not going to let myself live it down.

Those were Jackson’s first thoughts as he fired a second shot at the tires of the fleeing vehicle. The tire blew, the Jeep swerving and righting itself as the driver stepped on the gas and raced away.

He wouldn’t get far.

Not in the Jeep.

He might get somewhere on foot. Jackson didn’t know the area well, and he wasn’t sure how far they were from a main thoroughfare. He ran out into the street, watching as the Jeep’s taillights dipped and swerved along the country road. No streetlights to speak of, but Jackson could see a small town in the distance.

If the Jeep was heading in that direction, it should be easy enough to track down. Jackson jogged back to the tree line, flashing his light on the giant oak the Jeep had hit. Bits of bark had sheared off and specks of dark blue paint stuck to the wood. Evidence for the police to collect. Jackson left it alone, careful not to step on tread marks deeply engraved in the muck at the edge of the blacktop. The last thing he needed was to get in deep with the local P.D. The fact that he’d fired his Glock was going to cause problems enough.

Problems that Jackson wanted to handle without any help from Chance.

Not that he didn’t appreciate his older brother’s input and advice, but Chance got a little too involved sometimes. He worried a little too much. Since they’d lost Charity, everyone in the family did.

His cell phone rang, the sound muffled. He followed it to a pile of ice and leaves, dug through the dirty mess and pulled out the phone.

“Hello?”

“Where are you, Jackson?” Chance’s shout cut through the quiet.

“In a church parking lot just outside of a little town called—”

“River Valley,” Chance cut him off. “Where’s the church? Stella said—”

“You two are finally on speaking terms again?” He tried to change the subject, because he wasn’t in the mood for one of his brother’s lectures, and because a police car was pulling into the parking lot. Sirens off, lights on, it moved toward him slowly.

“We’re always on speaking terms when it comes to work. Delivering Samuel Niag to Raina is work. Chasing people through the woods in unfamiliar territory is not.”

“Maybe not,” Jackson responded lightly. No sense in getting into it with Chance. Not when he was pretty certain he was about to get into it with River Valley law enforcement.

The officer got out of the car, face shrouded by the rim of his uniform hat. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he growled.

Jackson obliged, lifting both hands in the air, his brother’s voice still audible.

“You have any weapons on you?” The officer asked, his gaze on Jackson’s shoulder holster and the gun that was visible in it.

“Just my Glock,” he responded.

“You have a permit?”

“In my SUV.”

“Which is where?” The officer stayed neutral, but he was moving in closer, and Jackson could sense the tension in his shoulders and back, the nervous energy that wafted through the darkness.

Jackson rattled off Raina’s address, and the officer nodded. “I’m going to have to take your firearm until your permit can be verified.”

Apparently the officer also had to handcuff Jackson and stick him in the back of the police cruiser while he looked around, because that’s exactly where Jackson found himself. Sitting on a cold leather seat, the smell of urine and vomit filling his nose. He’d been in worse situations, been in a lot more danger, but he still didn’t like it. Not when the guy who’d tried to run him down was making his escape.

He would have been happy to tell the police officer that, but the guy was a few feet away from the cruiser, speaking into his radio as he scanned the parking lot.

An SUV pulled in. Not just any SUV. The brand-new one Jackson had purchased to replace his old Chevy truck. Chance must have called Stella. She got out of the vehicle and stalked to the police officer’s side, her close-cropped hair barely moving in the wind. Used to be, she’d had shoulder-length hair. That was before she and Chance had called it quits. Seconds later, Raina exited the SUV and opened the back door. Samuel slid out, an old wooden crutch under one arm, a giant coat wrapped around his shoulders.

He was tiny for ten, his cheeks gaunt from illness, his jeans hanging loosely, one pant leg rolled up and pinned beneath his stump. Seeing him after so many months had only made Jackson regret leaving him in Kenya more than he had the day he’d flown home. He’d left hundreds of dollars for the young boy’s care, and he’d planned on keeping tabs on Samuel, making sure that he got what he needed to survive and thrive.

Raina had stepped in first, making phone calls from her hospital room, transferring money, doing everything a mother might do for a child stuck in a foreign land. Jackson had heard all about it, had followed the news stories about Raina’s fight to get a medical visa for Samuel, about the offers from medical experts in D.C. who’d promised surgery and state-of-the-art prostheses for the child if he could be brought to the United States.

Raina put a hand under Samuel’s elbow, but the boy shrugged away, determined, it seemed, to make his way across the still-slick parking lot himself. The police officer moved toward them, said a few words that Jackson was really desperate to hear.

Raina nodded, then gestured to the church.

Seconds later, she and Samuel were moving toward the building. She opened the church door, allowed Samuel to walk in front of her. The door closed, and they were gone, lights spilling out from tall windows and splashing across the parking lot.

Jackson wanted to follow. It was impossible to know if the church was empty. If it was always left unlocked, anyone could be inside, sleeping in the sanctuary on a pew, hiding in a restroom until dawn. Lying in wait for a victim.

The cruiser door opened, and Stella peered in, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “I see you’ve found your way into trouble again.”

“I didn’t find it. It found me.” He glanced at the officer standing behind her. The guy seemed more focused on the notebook he was writing in than on the crime scene.

“That’s always your story, Jack.” Stella sighed, grabbing his arm and tugging him from the car. “Hear you lost your Glock.”

“I had it confiscated, and I wouldn’t mind having it back.”

“I wouldn’t mind knowing exactly why you decided to fire it,” the officer responded without looking up. “I found two bullet casings. You forgot to mention that you’d fired shots.”

“You didn’t give me a chance.”

“You’ve got one now.” He finally met Jackson’s eyes. “Want to explain what happened?”

“Someone tried to run me down. I tried to stop him.”

“By putting a bullet in him?”

“By putting a bullet in his tire. Which I managed to do. You should find a late model Jeep with a blown tire somewhere nearby. There’s a photo of it on my cell phone.”

The officer nodded, but didn’t look as though he was any closer to letting Jackson out of handcuffs.

“I don’t suppose that it occurred to you to do what the pastor of this church did when he heard gunfire—call for help?”

“It occurred to me, but I was occupied with trying to keep myself from being crushed by a Jeep.”

That got a smile out of the guy. “Fair enough. I’ll call in an APB on the Jeep, see if we can find it and our guy. Want to show me that photo?”

“Want to get me out of these cuffs?”

“Sure, but don’t get the idea you’re going anywhere. I have some more questions for you.” Jackson nodded his agreement and stood still while the handcuffs were being removed. What he really wanted to do was go into the church and make sure Raina and Samuel were okay.

As he handed the officer his cell phone, he glanced at the building. Its pretty white siding and colorful stained glass gleamed in the darkness. A beautiful little building that had probably been standing for generations, but that didn’t mean it was safe. One thing Jackson had learned in his time in the military and with HEART—the places that should be safest were often the most dangerous of all.

* * *

It had been nearly four years since Raina had last stepped foot in River Valley Community Church. She hadn’t stopped attending because her faith had been shaken after Matt and Joseph died. She hadn’t stopped because her best friend had invited her to a new church in town. One that had lots of young people and plenty of upbeat music and was designed to make people feel good about their lives and their faith.

She’d stopped attending because it had been too hard to keep going.

Too hard to sit in a pew and listen while Pastor William Myer preached. Too hard to listen to his wife play the piano Raina had once played. Too hard to be there and not remember the years she and Matt had served together.

Too hard, and she’d been too weak, too sad, too destroyed by what had happened. Too overwhelmed by her guilt and her inability to forgive God and herself.

She touched the vestibule wall, remembering the way she and Matt had laughed as they’d painted sunny yellow over the mud-brown that had been there since the 1960s. They’d wanted to see the old church shine again, and they had. Matt would say that was a blessing. To Raina it was just another memory that she’d rather forget.

Water ran in the sink, the door to the church’s only bathroom still firmly closed. She wanted to knock and make sure that Samuel was okay, but she didn’t think he’d appreciate it. He hadn’t seemed to want her help, hadn’t wanted to talk. He’d been traveling for thirty-six hours, and he was tired and ill. Stella had said he’d been running a 103-degree fever, and that the wound on his stump was seeping and infected. All those things needed to be dealt with, but first Raina had to get him home.

That’s where she’d wanted to go.

Straight back to the house. But Stella had had to make a call, then she’d asked if there was anything on the other side of the woods. The next thing Raina had known, they’d been heading for the old church.

She touched the wall again, a million memories flooding her mind and her eyes. It had been a while since she’d cried over what she’d lost, and she didn’t plan to cry now, but she couldn’t stop thinking about the dream that had woken her. The hot African sun and the little boy crying for help.

The vestibule door opened, cold fall air drifting in and carrying the scent of wood fires and wet leaves. Her favorite time of year, but it seemed as if she’d missed every moment of every fall for the past four years. As if she’d just drifted through the seasons without even noticing the leaves changing color, the snow dusting the ground, the first tulips of spring.

She turned, letting the cold moist air kiss her cheeks and ruffle her hair. She expected Stella to walk through the open door, but the figure that moved into the vestibule was tall and masculine. Her heart jumped as she met Jackson Miller’s eyes. Even in the midst of her terror, even half-frozen and desperate, she’d known who he was. She’d recognized the sharp angles of his face, the scar that sliced through his eyebrow, the broadness of his shoulders. She’d dreamed about him dozens of times, relived her captivity and her rescue every day for months.

Yes. She’d have known Jackson anywhere, anytime, in any situation.

“Everything okay in here?” he asked, his Southern drawl as warm as sunlight on a summer morning. It had been months since she’d heard it, but she hadn’t forgotten the thick twang, or the way it reminded her of home and safety and freedom.

“Yes.” She looked away from his searching gaze. “I’m just waiting for Samuel.”

“You’ve been waiting a long time.”

“He’s sick and exhausted. Everything takes longer under those circumstances.”

“I guess so.” He knocked on the door. “Hey, Sammy! You about done in there?”

“He doesn’t—” She was going to say speak much English, but Samuel poked his head out of the bathroom, his face and hair wet.

“I am finished.”

“What’d you do, kid? Take a bath?” Jackson stepped into the bathroom and came back out with a handful of paper towels. He dabbed at Samuel’s head and his face, swiped water off the back of his neck, pausing for just a moment at a ridge of scars just below Samuel’s hairline. When the young boy tensed, Jackson moved on, finishing the job with quick, efficient movements that Raina envied.

She could have been the one helping. She probably should have been the one. After all, she’d be Samuel’s caregiver for the next year. She felt awkward, though. As if losing Joseph had caused her to lose every bit of maternal instinct she had.

“Good enough!” Jackson proclaimed with a smile that eased the hardness from his face. “We have to stay here a few more minutes while the police officer collects some evidence. You want to sit down?”

He didn’t wait for Samuel to reply, just scooped him up with his crutch and placed him on a pew at the front of the sanctuary. The young boy looked surprised, but didn’t protest. Maybe he was more used to men than women. Or maybe he just sensed the difference between Jackson and Raina—one was relaxed and open, the other tense and closed in and scared.

She had to get over it.

No one had twisted her arm or begged her to help Samuel. She’d come up with the idea all on her own, because she owed him her life. She hadn’t been able to forget that, hadn’t wanted to. The problem was, she didn’t know how to care for a young boy. Not anymore. She knew it, and Samuel seemed to know it.

That was a shame, because she’d really wanted to hit it off with him, to make him feel comfortable and at home.

What she hadn’t wanted was to think about Joseph every time she looked into Samuel’s face, but she couldn’t seem to help herself. They looked nothing alike, but when she looked into Samuel’s eyes, she was reminded of Joseph. When she touched his arm, she thought of her son.

“You should probably sit down, too,” Jackson said quietly. “You’re looking a little pale.”

“I’m fine.” She met his eyes, felt something in her heart spring to attention. He was as handsome as she’d remembered. As tall. As muscular. He was exactly what she’d have imagined if someone had told her there was a team of people who’d devoted their lives to rescuing the kidnapped, the lost, the wounded from dangerous situations.

“Fine doesn’t mean you’re not going to fall over faster than Grandma Ruth during a summer revival meeting.”

“Your grandmother faints during revival meetings?” she asked, plopping down next to Samuel because her legs were feeling a little weak. She wanted to blame it on fear and stress, but it had more to do with that little ping in her heart when she’d met Jackson’s gaze.

“Only when it’s hot and she hasn’t had enough water.”

“You’re making that up,” she accused, and he smiled, dropping onto the pew beside her.

“Not even a little. The fact is Grandma Ruth has fainted once or twice during revival meetings, and we have to take care to keep her hydrated. The other fact is you look pale as paper, and you really did need to sit down.”

“At least I’m not beaten up and bruised,” she responded, touching a bump that had formed on his cheekbone. His skin felt warm and just a little rough, and she had the absurd urge to linger there.

She let her hand drop away, and he touched the bruise. “Guess I ran into something while I was avoiding the Jeep that tried to run me down.”

“What Jeep?”

“Parked in the church lot.” He watched her steadily as he spoke, his eyes dark blue with thick, long lashes surrounding them. Women would pay to have lashes like that, and they’d probably swoon to see them on Jackson. “You know anyone with a blue Jeep?” he prodded.

“No.”

“That was a quick, decisive response.”

“Because I don’t know anyone who owns a Jeep.”

“Have you ever known anyone who did?”

“Probably, but I can’t think...” Actually, she could think of someone with a blue Jeep. She and Destiny had gone to D.C. for a girls’ weekend, and Destiny had borrowed her boyfriend’s Jeep. “Lucas Raymond has one, but he lives in D.C.”

“Lucas Raymond,” he repeated. “Who’s that?”

“My friend’s boyfriend. I’ve only seen the vehicle once. I think it’s newer.”

“Do you have any reason to believe this guy would—”

“Raymond is a great guy. A psychiatrist. He’s gotten awards for his work at the hospital and in the community.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t have an ax to grind with you.” He stood and stretched, his T-shirt riding up along a firm abdomen.

She looked away, because she felt guilty noticing.

“Say we rule out Raymond,” Jackson continued. “Who would want to hurt you, Raina?”

“No one,” she replied, her mind working frantically, going through faces and names and situations.

“And yet, someone chased you through the woods and fired a shot at you. That same person nearly ran me down. Doesn’t sound like someone who feels all warm and fuzzy when he thinks of you.”

“Maybe he was a vagrant, and I scared him.”

“Maybe.” He didn’t sound as if he believed it, and she wasn’t sure she did, either.

She’d heard something that had woken her from the nightmare.

A child crying? Larry wandering around? An intruder trying to get in the house?

The last made her shudder, and she pulled her coat a little closer. “I think I’d know it if someone had a bone to pick with me.”

“That’s usually the case, but not always. Could be you upset a coworker or said no to a guy who wanted you to say yes.”

She snorted at that, and Jackson frowned. “You’ve been a widow for four years, it’s not that far-fetched an idea.”

“If you got a good look at my social life, you wouldn’t be saying that.”

Samuel yawned loudly and slid down on the pew, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyelids drooping. He looked cold and tired, and she wanted to get him home, tuck him into bed, spend a little time trying to decide how best to proceed with him.

She couldn’t keep being as uncomfortable as she was, couldn’t continue with her stiff and stilted approach.

“Samuel needs some medicine, and he needs some sleep,” she said, taking off her coat and draping it over him.

He opened his eyes, but didn’t smile.

He had the solemn look of someone much older than ten and the scars of a soldier who’d fought too many wars.

“I’ll go talk to Officer Wallace,” Jackson responded. “See if he’s ready to let us leave.”

“He’s going to have to be. Samuel—”

A door slammed, the sound so startling Raina jumped.

Samuel scrambled to his feet, clutching her coat in one hand and the crutch in the other. She grabbed his shoulder, pulled him into the shelter of her arms.

“Is someone else in the church?” Jackson demanded, his gaze on the door that led from the sanctuary into the office wing.

“There shouldn’t be.”

“Which means whoever slammed that door doesn’t belong here. Stay put. I’m going to check things out.”

He strode away, and she wanted to call out and tell him to be careful. The church was cut off from the rest of River Valley, the land a couple of miles outside of town. There’d been a few break-ins during the years Matt had been pastor and several more since then.

She pressed her lips together, held in the words she knew she didn’t need to say. Jackson could take care of himself. She’d seen him in action, knew just how smart and careful he was.”

“I will go, too,” Samuel asserted, pulling away and hopping after Jackson.

She grabbed his arm. “No, Samuel. It’s not safe.”

“There is nothing that is safe,” he responded, and her throat burned with the reality of what he’d survived.

“You have to stay here. Let Jackson and the police take care of this. Here in the U.S., kids don’t take care of adult problems.” It sounded lame, but it was all she could think of.

She thought he might yank away and keep walking, but he handed her the coat. “We will go outside, then.”

“It’s too cold.”

“But in here it is dangerous for you. Outside, it is safe.”

Maybe. Maybe not.

At this point, she didn’t know, and all she could do was stay where she was and hope Jackson or Officer Andrew Wallace would figure out who was in the church or outside of it, who had been in the Jeep.

“It’s safe here, Samuel. Let’s just sit and wait.”

He nodded but perched on the edge of the pew as if he were sure that at any moment, they’d have to run.

She waited beside him, tense, anxious, wanting to pray but unable to find the words that would spiral from her soul to God’s ears.

Her faith, like so many other things in her life, was a shadow of what it had once been.

Her own fault.

After Matt and Joseph died, she’d stopped reading her Bible, stopped praying, stopped believing that God really cared. Somehow, though, He’d still rescued her from almost certain death in Africa.

There had to be a reason for that.

She’d thought it was so that she could help Samuel, but Samuel seemed perfectly capable of helping himself. Sick as he was, hurt as he was, he was ready to face the world and whatever trouble it brought him.

She wished she could say the same for herself, but the best thing she could say, the only thing that she could say, was that she was there, ready to do what God wanted.

If only she knew what that was.