Forever After (2 page)

“When you flashed your lights and hit the siren, the kid panicked and tromped on the gas,” Heath continued icily. “When you followed in pursuit, the kid drove even faster, trying to get away. Bingo. The first thing you knew, he lost control of his vehicle in a sharp curve and went over the edge.”

Keeping his expression carefully blank, Moore finally met Heath’s gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The hell you don’t,” Heath shot back. “How many times have I cautioned you not to engage in a high-speed chase when you suspect a kid’s been drinking? If you try to pull him over and he speeds up, it’s obvious that he’s not going to stop, no matter what you do. At that point, the only safe thing to do is back off so he’ll slow down. What can you possibly gain by chasing him? If he’s intoxicated,
his driving skills are impaired, and the faster he goes, the more risk there is that he’ll have an accident, injuring himself and possibly other people.”

Angry color flagged Moore’s cheeks. “I told you I wasn’t anywhere near here! You calling me a liar?”

Heath wanted to call him a worse name than that. “Jenny Rose gave me the tag number you called in a few minutes before the estimated time that the accident occurred. It’s a perfect match.”

“So? Since when is it against your rules to check out a license plate? A couple of hours earlier, I saw the truck down by the river. No one was inside, and there was no one around. That seemed suspicious, so I jotted down the tag number to check it out later.”

“Why later? Why not right then?”

“I was too busy.”

“Doing what?”

“It was my lunch break.”

Heath sighed. This was going nowhere fast. Judging by the deadpan look in Moore’s eyes, he doubted the deputy was going to admit that he’d tried to pull the teenagers over and then given chase. And there was no way Heath could actually prove it. Sadly enough, even if he did, Moore’s ass would be covered. Going by the book, a lawman should have pursued the teenagers. They’d been breaking the law nine ways to hell, not to mention that the one boy had been driving drunk.

Major problem. On this particular issue, Heath’s law enforcement tactics parted company with the “book.” And he wanted his deputies to follow suit.

The boys in that truck would have faced a list of charges nearly as long as Heath’s arm. They also could have been expelled from school for truancy at the midnight hour before their graduations, and after all that, they still would have had to face their angry parents whose disciplinary measures, according to the statistics, were usually unreasonably harsh, especially when meted out by a frustrated
father who lost his temper and didn’t realize his own strength.

Who could blame anyone for running to avoid facing all of that? With so much at stake, most kids panicked. Heath had learned that the hard way. When you mixed in a little alcohol with that panic, you came up with teenagers whose thought processes were so muddled, they might do almost anything.

The long and short of it was that Heath didn’t want kids to be afraid when they saw him coming. At least they didn’t run from him, which gave him a chance to get them enrolled in educational programs that strongly discouraged teenage alcohol and drug abuse.

Once you zipped a kid into a body bag, there were no second chances. It was the end, period. This afternoon was a good example of that.

“Get out of here before I do something I may regret,” Heath told Moore softly. “Go help them search the brush.”

Moore shifted to plant his feet more widely apart. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but Heath didn’t miss the fact that the younger man was clenching and unclenching his fists. Maybe it was bad of him, but he almost wished the cocky little bastard would throw a punch. Beating the snot out of him wouldn’t bring those boys back, but Heath figured it might make him feel a little better.

In the distance, he heard automobiles approaching.
The news hounds
. Damn, he’d forgotten all about them. Roving reporters generally monitored the police channels and showed up en masse at the scene of a serious automobile accident. Most times, Heath briefed himself before giving an official statement. There was no time for that today.

At the sound of squealing brakes and tires skidding on gravel, Moore glanced over his shoulder. His expression was strained when he turned back to meet Heath’s gaze. “If you so much as hint that I was chasing those kids when they went over, I’ll make your life a living hell,” he grated out. “I’m not taking the heat for this.”

Heath had never wanted to hit someone so badly in all
his life. He had a sneaking hunch that Moore had engaged in that high-speed chase hoping he could run those boys off the road, arrest all of them, and come out looking like a hero. But the plan had backfired. Two star football players from Wynema High were dead. If the news media learned the truth, they might tout Moore as a hero. Considering the popularity of the kids, though, it could easily go the other way, with Moore being dubbed a hard-nosed fanatic who chased drunk teenagers over cliffs. That would destroy any hope he’d ever have of being elected to public office.

A lovely thought, that.

The thud of running feet and the muted clanking of camera equipment acted as a prod to get Moore moving. With a final glare at Heath, the deputy took off, clearly not wishing to be caught in the limelight. Heath shared the sentiment. This was a hell of a mess, and the guy who had to hang back to do clean up was going to take some hard hits.

The reporters descended upon Heath like a colony of hungry ants on a bread crumb. Cameras flashed, making black spots dance before his eyes, and when he opened his mouth to say something, a woman shoved a microphone at him so forcefully, she damned near swabbed his tonsils.

Questions pelted him like scatter spray.

“Sheriff Masters, what were the names of the boys who were killed?” the woman with the mike demanded.

A man elbowed her aside. “At what speed was the pickup traveling when it went over, Sheriff? Can you tell us what time the accident happened?”

From somewhere at the back of the crowd, a feminine voice cried, “Have all the bodies been recovered yet?”

A man cut in with, “What were your feelings when you learned this was a wreck involving intoxicated teenagers, Sheriff? Do you see this as an indication that your present policies might need revamping?”

A woman waved a piece of paper to get his attention. “I just came from interviewing a group of angry parents who have started circulating a petition to have you recalled from office, Sheriff Masters. They claim that over the weekend,
you and your deputies broke up several drinking parties and detained the youngsters involved until they were sober enough to drive. You made no arrests, which would seem to indicate that you condone such behavior. You also failed to notifying the parents of their children’s whereabouts. Can you explain why? Those parents were worried sick about their kids, and they’re justifiably outraged that the sheriff’s department had so little regard for their feelings.”

Feeling like a dart board at which all players were throwing projectiles at once, Heath held up his hands to ward off more questions. “Please, ladies and gentleman, I can only address one query at a time. I’ll try to answer all your questions, I assure you.”

As the group of reporters fell silent, Heath scanned their faces. Male or female, they all eyed him with glassy-eyed intensity, recorders running, cameras snapping. The boys lying nearby in body bags were nothing but statistics to them.

“I’ll take the last question first,” Heath said. “Tax cuts have decreased our county budgets, forcing the sheriff’s department to trim expenses. We’re presently operating with fifteen fewer deputies than we were two years ago. As we approach the end the school year, high school seniors are celebrating their upcoming graduations, and it’s estimated that over seventy-five percent of those who attend parties consume alcohol. In the town of Wynema Falls alone, there are over three thousand kids who’ll be walking under the arches the first of June.

“Last weekend, I and my deputies crashed five drinking parties, at which there were over three hundred kids collectively. We have no room in our jail for that many teenagers, nor did we have sufficient manpower or vehicles to transport so many back to town. Our only option was to detain them until they could safely drive home. As for notifying the parents, it would have taken hours to make over three hundred phone calls, and that’s not to mention the time we would have spent beforehand, trying to get frightened, closemouthed kids to give us their names.

“Quite frankly, I don’t have the manpower for an undertaking like that, and as your sheriff, I have to prioritize, concentrating my department’s efforts where we can best serve the public. It seems to me that keeping our teenagers safe has to be a top priority.”

Another newsman, accompanied by a plump cameraman, elbowed his way through the crowd to stand at center front. Heath recognized him instantly as Bill Krusie, a popular roving reporter for KTYX, a local television station. Heath wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him.

Twenty years ago, Heath and Bill had been in the same graduating class at Wynema High, both of them eighteen and eager to grab the world by its tail. All through high school, they’d played on the same football team, been members of the Ski Club, and had frequently chummed around together, going to parties and out on double dates.

Their friendship had endured until four years ago when Heath had had the misfortune of having to arrest Bill for drunk driving. The arrest had resulted in Bill’s enduring immeasurable public humiliation, becoming less popular with television viewers, losing his job at another broadcasting station, and being sued for divorce by his wife of seventeen years. Although Bill had subsequently been forced by judicial decree to go through rehab, had later become a dedicated member of AA, and now had his drinking problem firmly in hand, he still resented Heath for having been instrumental in destroying his life.

Of all the reporters Heath knew, Bill Krusie had always been the most ethical. But even Bill had his weaknesses, and his bitterness toward Heath was one of them. Bill simply couldn’t reconcile the fact that the sheriff who now ran a zero-tolerance county and had tossed him in the hoosegow for driving under the influence had once been his high school drinking buddy. In Bill’s mind, Heath’s law enforcement policies smacked of hypocrisy, and when an opportunity presented itself, he couldn’t seem to resist taking shots at Heath’s character.

This situation today was going to provide Bill Krusie with plenty of ammunition.

Heath felt like
an accident victim in vertical traction with so many plastic bags hanging from his arms. How women did it, he’d never know, corralling kids, packing babies in car carriers, yet still managing to handle their groceries.

After closing the drop-down door of his white Bronco and rolling up the window, he headed for the back door of his sprawling farmhouse. In the distance, the Cascade Mountains looked almost purple, their rounded peaks rising like mounds of meringue-capped blueberries above the rolling green foothills. Wind swept down the draws and gullies to whisper softly in the stands of towering pines that bordered his forty-acre parcel of ranch land.

He hauled in a deep breath, soothed by the sound of cattle lowing in the fields.
Home
. After the day he’d had, the mingled scents of evergreen, sage, sun-washed grass, and alfalfa worked on his senses like an intoxicant.

Laden with new leaves, the big oak in the front yard swayed gently in the breeze, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow over the green composition roof. As Heath walked past the wrap-around veranda, he tried not to notice the chipped white enamel on the porch railing or the ankle-high weeds that peppered the lawn.

As he stepped onto the back porch, he heard the chickens out by the pole barn raising enough ruckus to wake the dead in two counties. When he turned to look, he saw red
hens scattering in all directions, his dog Goliath in hot pursuit. It looked as if someone had emptied a gunnysack of red feathers downwind of a turbine.

“Goliath! Damn it all, stop that!”

The Rottweiler, unable to hear over the cacophony, never broke stride, the mahogany markings on his feet and legs a blur as he darted in first one direction, then another. With a piercing whistle, Heath finally brought the commotion to a halt.

His black coat glistening in the sunlight, Goliath swung around, his nearly tailless rump wagging with excitement, his stout, muscular body tensed. The expression on the canine’s face was anything but contrite as he loped toward the porch.

“You know better than that,” Heath scolded as the dog drew closer. “What am I gonna do with you?”

Perpetually wet with drool, Goliath’s chin sported a goatee of rust-red feathers.
Hell
. Another of his hens had a bare patch on her ass.

“Keep it up, buddy, and there’ll be no more omelets. Traumatized hens don’t lay for shit.”

Tongue lolling, the dog flopped down on the grass next to the steps, his soulful brown eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction.

Trying to look stern, Heath found himself smothering a smile instead. The dog had never actually hurt one of the chickens, after all. He just craved the excitement of the chase, and deep down, Heath couldn’t really blame him. Since his accident nine months ago, the former canine deputy had been forced to take early retirement. Causing a brouhaha by chasing the chickens was about the only thrill left to him.

Heath shook his head, his gaze resting thoughtfully on the Rottweiler. Goliath had saved his hide more times than he could count, and he wanted the dog’s golden years to be happy. Instead, the poor animal was going stir crazy.

“I took you with me to the department yesterday and
the day before that. What more can I do, Goliath? You tell me.”

The dog gazed up at him with imploring brown eyes.

“With that hip implant, you can’t cut it in law enforcement anymore. It’s just that simple. If going back to work is what you’re angling for, it ain’t gonna happen, partner.”

Even as Heath spoke, Goliath cocked one ear forward, an unfocused expression entering his eyes. On the warm evening breeze, Heath caught the distant sound of a child’s voice. Since there was only one house nearby, he knew it must be his new neighbor lady’s kid, a tiny, tow-headed girl he’d glimpsed in passing.

Goliath whined and pushed up on his haunches. Heath sighed, knowing the Rottweiler would give both hind legs and what remained of his tail to go down there and play. If there was anything Goliath loved more than law enforcement work, it was kids.

“Will you promise to mind your manners and not wear out your welcome?”

Goliath squirmed with anticipation.

“
Grrr-rruff!
” the dog barked in reply.

Heath juggled grocery bags to glance at his watch. “Only for an hour. You got it? Have your mangy ass home by seven, or I’ll plant a number twelve up it crosswise.”

Before Heath could say more, the dog sprang into a run, the red-brown marking on his rump little more than a flash as he disappeared around the corner of the house.

As he unlocked the door, Heath tried not to think of his vow to avoid his new neighbors. Zeke Guntrum, the old fart who owned the property next door, was a lousy landlord and had let the house fall into disrepair. Rusty pipes, faulty wiring, rotten floors. Everyone who leased the damned place regretted it, and Heath was invariably called upon to play Mr. Fix-It. Always in the middle of the night, of course. Plumbing seldom went haywire at a decent hour. The only way to get along with his neighbors, he’d finally decided, was to stay the hell away from them.

As he stepped into the kitchen, the smell of garlic, an
unpleasant reminder of the French bread he’d cremated last night, blasted him in the face. He set the bags on the butcher-block counter, then sorted through the jumble to find the six pack of Red Dog. He plucked out a long-necked bottle, twisted off the cap, and flipped it at the trash can. Visions of a long, lazy evening in front of the television flashed through his mind.

Chugging beer, he drew off his brown Stetson and tossed it, Frisbee style, at the coat tree. The hat missed the hook, spiraled downward, and plopped crown-first on the yellow linoleum. Heath stared. He hadn’t missed that hook in over six months. But, then, he hadn’t had this bad of a day in a spell, either.

As he retrieved his hat and reshaped the crown, he assured himself that things were bound to pick up. He’d unplug the phone and bury his pager under the sofa cushion. Once he’d had supper and tended to the livestock, absolutely nothing would pry him out of his recliner.

Minutes later, Heath was reading the directions to make macaroni and cheese, his idea of haute cuisine, when the phone rang. He swore under his breath, wanting to kick himself for forgetting to unplug the damned thing.
Ignore it
.

Whistling softly, he stepped to the refrigerator to get the milk and margarine. Persistent, the phone kept jangling. He whistled louder. He was officially off duty. His deputies could handle any emergencies. With a grunt of satisfaction, he snagged another swallow of beer before reaching into an oak cupboard for a pan.

The phone continued to ring.

What was it about a ringing telephone that drove him so crazy? He had no wife, no kids, and no siblings. Just a father he hadn’t seen in nineteen years and telephoned on rare occasion. Chances were good that it was someone from the department or, worse yet, a reporter. Tonight, all he wanted was some peace and quiet. He didn’t want to hear about recall petitions. He didn’t want to be interviewed about his work with teenagers. Why couldn’t the world just
back off for a few hours and leave him alone?

With a sigh of self-disgust, he leaned across the pile of unpacked grocery bags to grab the receiver. “Yo!”

“Sheriff Masters?”

The voice was female, shrill, and laced with hysteria. In the background, Heath heard the faint sound of a child screaming. “Yes?”

“This is—oh, dear, God, you have to get over here. Quick!”

Heath frequently got weird phone calls, and they often began just this way, with an anonymous someone at the other end of the line making very little sense.

“Just calm down, ma’am.”
Domestic violence. Some drunken bastard beating on his kid, no doubt
. “Before I can help you, I need your name and address.”

“Please, you have to get over here, fast!” she cried. “He’s gone crazy. I think he’s—oh, my God!—I think he’s going to kill her! Hurry, please, hurry!”

Before Heath could ask any more questions, the line went dead.

Weird phone calls went with a sheriff’s territory, but this one took the prize. No name, no address? He wasn’t a mind reader. He hung up the phone.
Damn
. Another goat roper with an attitude, tanked up on cheap whiskey. Why women stayed with bastards like that, Heath would never know. Especially when kids were involved.
I think he’s going to kill her!

Why hadn’t she given him her name? At least then he might have been able to locate her. The thought of some little girl getting the snot beat out of her by some two-hundred-pound jerk made Heath feel sick. He had to get caller ID on his line.

Staring at the macaroni box, he tried to concentrate on the instructions.
Please, you have to get over here, fast!
It was as if she expected him to know where she was.

A prickly sensation ran up his neck.
Goliath
. Had the dog caused some kind of trouble down at the neighbors’?

Heath threw open the back door and moved out onto the
porch. Sure enough, he heard the distant sound of a dog barking. Not even taking time to grab his hat, he broke into a run. He could hear the uproar long before he reached the neighboring farmhouse. It sounded as if all hell had broken loose, a kid caterwauling, a woman screaming, and Goliath barking. What the Sam Hill?

He vaulted over the tumbledown fence that divided his neighbor’s patchy lawn from the adjoining cow pasture, then circled the house, skidding to a halt about fifteen feet shy of a dilapidated woodshed. A child, dressed in pink pants and a smudged white T-shirt, stood splayed against the outbuilding, strands of her blond hair caught on the rough planks. Her eyes were so wide with fright they resembled china-blue supper plates.

Fangs bared and frothing at the jowls, Goliath lunged back and forth between the child and a young woman Heath guessed to be her mother, a slightly built brunette in loosely fitting blue jeans and an oversized white shirt.

“Stay back!” he ordered.

At the sound of his voice, the woman spun around, her pinched face so pale that her dark brown eyes looked almost as large as her daughter’s. “Oh, thank God! Help us! Do something, please, before he hurts her!”

Heath jerked his gaze back to his dog. If ever there had been an animal he would trust with a child, Goliath was it. Yet now the Rottweiler seemed to have gone berserk, barking and snarling and snapping at the air. Even more alarming, Heath’s presence didn’t seem to be calming him down.

Heath snapped his fingers. “Goliath, heel!”

At the command, the Rottweiler whirled toward Heath, his usually friendly brown eyes glinting a demonic red. For an awful instant, Heath was afraid the dog might not obey him.
Impossible
. Goliath was an extensively trained animal who’d been drilled, even as a pup, to respond instantly to commands.

What in the hell was wrong with him? Heath’s gaze shot to the terrified child.

“Goliath,
heel
!” He slapped his thigh for emphasis.

The Rottweiler finally acquiesced, massive head lowered, legs stiff, his movements reluctant and abject. The second the dog got within reach, Heath grabbed his collar.

“Sammy!”

With a strangled cry, the woman bolted forward to gather her child into her arms. For a second, she simply hugged her, one of those shaky, desperate, breath-robbing hugs that conveyed relief beyond measure. Then she whirled to confront Heath, her pale, delicately molded face twisting with anger, her body quaking.

“You get that
vicious
, out of control dog
off
my property!”

The blaze in her eyes told Heath she was infused by the rush of adrenaline that often followed a bad scare. He’d experienced it a few times himself, a trembling rage that quickly petered out and gave way to watery legs.

“Ma’am, I’m really sorry about—”

“I don’t want to hear it! Just get that monster out of here!”

Talk about starting off on the wrong foot with someone. And wasn’t that a shame? Heath would have happily fixed this gal’s plumbing late at night—or anything else that went haywire in the ramshackle old house she was renting.

Fragile build. Pixyish features. Creamy skin. Large caramel brown eyes. A full, vulnerable mouth the delicate pink of barely ripened strawberries. Her hair fell in a thick, silken tangle around her shoulders, the sable tendrils curling over her white shirt like glistening ribbons of chocolate on vanilla ice cream.

She hugged her daughter more tightly, cupping a tremulous hand over the crown of the child’s blond head. “It’s all right, sweetkins,” she whispered. “It’s all right.” The child began to wail more shrilly. In a louder voice, the woman cried, “Please! Don’t just stand there gaping at us! Can’t you see she’s terrified of your dog?”

Heath could see that, yes. Children who were afraid of
dogs didn’t mix well with Rottweilers. Goliath must have scared the poor little thing half to death.

“I really am sorry about this,” he tried again. “But, please, understand, Goliath would never hurt your little girl. He adores kids.”

The woman retreated a step. “He almost
attacked
me!”

“I assure you he wouldn’t have.”

“He wouldn’t even let me get close to her! Every time I tried, he lunged at me!”

“Only because he sensed that the child was afraid. You heard her screaming, right? And came running outside?”

“Yes,” she admitted, her voice quivering.

“I figured as much. He
is
only a dog, you know, not an Einstein. The little girl was scared, Goliath was trying to protect her from whatever was frightening her, and you came charging out of the house. In his mind, you were the only thing around that could have been posing a threat.”

“There’s no excuse for that kind of behavior! You’re as crazy as your dog is!”

Heath guessed she might be right. She looked furious enough to chew nails and spit out screws. Her finely sculpted face was as pale as milk except for the splashes of angry pink on her cheeks, and her huge brown eyes blazed at him. Yet here he stood, trying to reason with her. Explaining his dog’s behavior would be better left for later.