Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) (21 page)

Stella.

Freddie’s quick turn on Mac had also taught him that the loyalty between them only went one way, and was therefore, null and void. Freddie hadn’t been there for Mac as a teen, he’d used him. Whatever bond had existed between Mac and Rafe was just as twisted. After all, Mac owed his time in rehab to Rafe.

“No. I’m not running. I’ll have to deal with the gang. I should have done it years ago, but it was easier to go fight drugs in a different country than face a hard decision at home.” But no more. Freddie’s operation was going down.

He turned onto the paved road. The car rocked in a gust of wind, and the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge.

Stella turned and peered behind them. “I see headlights.”

Real terror streaked up Mac’s spine. He couldn’t let Freddie and his crew get their hands on Stella. She was a cop, and they’d know it in seconds. He pressed harder on the gas pedal, but off-road, the Honda couldn’t outpace one of the gang’s monster SUVs, especially not in this storm.

Stella squinted through the windshield. “I don’t know how you can see the road.”

He could see well enough to know that water was rising under the car.

“The road is flooding. We need to find higher ground.” His gaze went to the rearview mirror. “I can’t see if that’s one of Freddie’s SUVs behind us, but I can’t take the chance.” He glanced at her. “If they catch us, we’re dead.”

A bridge loomed ahead. On the other side, the road inclined, but water covered the surface. Could they make it? He glanced in the side mirror. The headlights were closer. They had to try. Mac gunned the engine.

The car was halfway across the bridge when the vehicle began to drift sideways.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“Hold on!” The wheel was loose in Mac’s hands. He held his breath. The tires of the Honda gripped the road again, and the car chugged onto the road on the other side. Behind them, water washed over the bridge.

Stella pressed a hand to the center of her chest. “That was close.”

“We made it.” Mac checked the rearview mirror. The river undulated behind them like a fat greedy snake. “There’s no way Freddie’s men got across. I think we’re safe.”

For now.

Mac checked his phone. Still no cell reception. Grant and Hannah had to be warned, and Mac would have to deal with Freddie.

Stella bent forward and put her head between her knees.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Sometimes an adrenaline crash makes me throw up. You might need to pull over. Thankfully, I usually wait until after a high stress situation is over to get sick.” Stella’s voice was tight.

“Better than during,” Mac said. “Seriously, you were great. You really saved my butt back there. You can watch my six anytime.”

She pressed a hand to her mouth. “Even if I throw up afterward?”

“Breathe through it. You’ll be all right.” Mac reached over and rubbed her back. She needed a distraction. “I’ve hurled a time or two. Have I ever told you about my childhood?”

She shook her head. “Not much.”

“The Colonel put us through training exercises.” Mac slowed the car now that the bridge was behind them. “We learned hand-to-hand, how to handle weapons, and advanced survival training.”

Stella’s next breath was a slow, audible inhalation through her nose. She blew the air out through her clenched teeth.

He opened the dashboard vents, directed the air toward her face, and continued, “There was this one time when we practiced water rescue drills.”

As he told the story, the memory was so clear, he could feel the cold of the water on his skin, the weight of his wet clothes dragging him down . . .

He barely heard his father’s speech. Treading water in jeans, boots, and a backpack took all his concentration. When he tried to look up at the Colonel, the spotlight shining off the back of the house caught him in the eyes.

The Colonel’s super-light wheelchair rolled past. “Time.”

Mac swam for the edge of the pool. Grant hauled him out as easily as if he were a puppy that had fallen in.

“Well done,” the Colonel said. “Catch your breath, Mac.”

Mac’s shoulder muscles quivered under his wet T-shirt as he took his place in line. As the youngest of the Barrett siblings, he was the last to participate in every drill.

The Colonel spun his chair to the edge. Except for the spotlight, the water rippled dark in the September night. The pool was a standard thirty-six-by-eighteen backyard size, built long before the Colonel’s injury, when backyard parties were part of summer vacation. Now the pool was used for conditioning and for the Colonel’s aquatic physical therapy sessions. In the winter, he used an indoor hydrotherapy.

Mac shivered. Hannah stood next to him, and he could hear her teeth chattering. At the end of the week, the pool would be closed for the winter. The weather had just turned, and though the water remained in the seventies, the air was much cooler.

“Next up, rescue drills. Grant, you’re first. Lee, you’re timekeeper.” Before any of the four kids could blink, the Colonel tossed a stopwatch to Lee then used his jacked arms and shoulders to push himself from the chair over the edge. His body hit the water like a bag of powdered cement. From the waist down, his body was sheer deadweight. Instead of attempting to keep himself afloat, the Colonel hugged his torso, expelled the air from his lungs with a trail of bubbles, and let himself sink.

Grant jumped in the water before their father hit the bottom. Using brute strength, he hauled him up with little difficulty. They broke the surface and gasped for air. Grant towed the Colonel to the side.

“Hannah, you’re up,” the Colonel said. “Push me back out to the middle, Grant.”

No. The Colonel couldn’t expect Mac to do this drill. That was insane.

Hannah took her turn. No fear crossed her face, only a little disappointment when her time was seconds slower than Grant’s. Lee, whose swimming was significantly better than his wilderness survival skills, managed to beat Hannah, something that didn’t happen very often. Lee’s arms trembled as he guided the Colonel to the edge.

Mac’s entire frame shook; his muscles went slack with exhaustion and terror. His heart flailed in his chest. Grant and Lee were both well over six feet tall. Even Hannah, at fourteen, had reached five-ten. But at twelve, Mac hadn’t experienced his promised growth spurt yet. He was short and scrawny, and the Colonel, even after his legs had atrophied, was still a large man. With a full meal in his belly and pockets full of rocks, Mac might be half his father’s weight.

How could he possibly pull the Colonel from the water before he drowned? How could he not? Grant moved toward the water, ready to assist.

The Colonel raised a hand. “Stand back. Mac can do this. Lee, out of the water. Get some towels.

Mac swallowed. The cold air vanished as fear heated his body. Clammy sweat broke out under his arms.

“Ready?” Holding his head up with one arm on the side of the pool, complete confidence shone from the Colonel’s eyes. “Remember, being smart is just as important as being strong. Stay calm and think. Panic is your worst enemy, especially in the water. Panic will get you killed.”

Mesmerized by the piercing blue of his father’s eyes, Mac nodded.

The Colonel pushed away from the edge and began to sink.

Mac jumped into the water, the cold not even registering on his skin. He dove to intercept the Colonel before he hit bottom. Water closed over his head and filled his ears, deafening him. He grabbed the back of his father’s shirt and pulled, kicking with his feet and paddling with his free hand. But they didn’t move. Mac couldn’t propel them both toward the surface. His lungs burned. His brain scrambled. His mouth opened, emitting a stream of air and filling with water.

He couldn’t do it. They were both going to drown. He was a split second away from letting go and summoning Grant when his father tugged on his arm. His eyes were open and still full of confidence, even though his lungs must have been screaming. Mac’s were. The Colonel pointed toward the shallow end of the pool.

And Mac understood. Renewed purpose lent him strength.

He planted his boots on the concrete bottom and walked up the incline, using the muscles of his legs to pull his father behind him. The entire incident took less than ninety seconds, but Mac felt as if he’d aged ten years when their heads broke the surface. The cold air that filled his lungs felt like a thousand needle pricks. Lightheaded, Mac rolled the Colonel onto his back and pulled him toward the steps. Grant and Lee waded into the water and helped lift the Colonel out onto the concrete. They wrapped him in a blanket. Hannah grabbed Mac’s hand and guided him up the steps. She wrapped a thick towel around his shoulders and patted him on the back, her best effort at comforting him.

Numb and weak-legged with relief, Mac sank onto the patio. The adrenaline that had fueled the rescue drill left him high and dry. Nausea flooded him. He scrambled for the flowerbed and hurled pool water into the shrubs.

“I knew you could do it,” the Colonel said. “There’s no shame in puking after you get the job done.” The Colonel laughed and reached over to slap him on the shoulder.

“My father was a crazy bastard,” Mac said.

He could still picture the Colonel’s face, his raw determination, his complete confidence in Mac. As a kid he didn’t realize what was happening, how the Colonel had been manipulating his emotions. But now Mac understood how the Colonel had lead his troops. His sheer force of will had been contagious, and just as his soldiers had followed his orders in battle without question, his children had followed his lead into insanity.

But he’d taught Mac a few things about determination and faith.

“No kidding,” Stella agreed.

“The next day he shoved us into a pool, blindfolded and with our hands bound.”

“What?” Stella stared at him. “That’s crazy.”

“It was OK. We lived. He taught us not to panic.”

“Sounds like your father took his water drills seriously.”

“The Colonel took everything seriously.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Two hours later, Stella climbed out of the car in front of her house. Local flooding had forced them to take a long detour. Her still-damp clothes clung to her body. She couldn’t wait to shower and change. “We can lock the rifle in the trunk.”

“Without cleaning it?” Mac’s tone disapproved.

“You’re right. I’m sure there’s moisture in the barrel.”

The storm had passed, and the yard smelled wet and fresh. Still carrying the rifle, Mac followed her up the walk. “Big house.”

“After my dad was killed, Mom couldn’t wait to get us all out of the city.” She led him toward the front door. “She was tired of being crammed in a tiny house with four kids.” And her husband’s memory.

“I couldn’t live in the city,” Mac said. “Too many people. Not enough trees. It always feels like it’s short on oxygen.”

The door wasn’t locked. She opened it and walked into the empty kitchen. Stella scanned the family room. Where was everyone? “My mother did everything she could to get us out of the city and away from the police force. She didn’t want any more Danes in law enforcement.”

“Since you’re a cop, I assume that didn’t work out for her.”

“Not at all. My brother is NYPD SWAT. My sister, Peyton, is a forensic psychiatrist. She’s been working in California for the past couple of years. Morgan lives here with her kids. She was an assistant prosecutor in Albany before her husband died in Iraq.”

“What does she do now?”

“Not much, if you don’t count arts-and-crafts projects with the girls. “The first year after John’s death was awful. Morgan quit her job and moved in here with her girls. But lately, the local district attorney has been cozying up to her. He wants her to work for him.” Stella hoped Morgan was ready to work or date again, or take up a hobby—anything to get her out of the house.

“Morgan is the one you asked to pick up Gianna?”

“Yes.” Knowing she wouldn’t get to the dialysis center in time, Stella had called her sister as soon as her phone had picked up service. Gianna would never get into a cop car, so she couldn’t send a uniformed officer, but the girl had met Morgan a couple of times when Stella had brought her back to the house for dinner. Gianna would go to the station with Morgan.

“Is that you, Stella?” Grandpa’s voice came from the back of the house. “I have the kids outside. They’ve been cooped up too much with all this rain.”

She went onto the deck, motioning Mac to follow. Snoozer’s high-pitched, raspy bark sounded from the yard. A deck spanned the rear of the house. Below it, a long expanse of Ireland-green lawn sloped toward the water. A hundred feet away, the current rushed high and swift from the heavy rains. Just on the other side of the deck, Morgan’s three girls and Snoozer chased bubbles. A picket fence surrounded the play area, keeping the kids and dog away from the water.

Stella shielded her eyes. The girls ran in circles, oblivious to their arrival.

Grandpa leaned on the railing and gave Mac a careful dose of scrutiny. Grandpa was critical of any male in Stella’s presence, but considering she hadn’t come home the night before, his attention would be dialed to high.

“Grandpa, this is Mac Barrett.” She gestured between them. “Mac, Art Dane.”

Mac held out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Dane.”

“Call me Art.” Grandpa angled his body to keep the kids and Mac all in his line of sight. He took supervision of Morgan’s little girls very seriously. His gaze darted to Stella. His lips pursed with concern. “You’re all right?”

“Fine. Just wet,” Stella said. “I’m going inside to shower and change.”

“Give me your handgun. I’ll clean it and your rifle while you shower.” Mac held out his hand, and Stella handed him her weapon.

“I’ll make sure he does it right.” Grandpa crossed his arms over his chest.

She smiled at him. “Be nice. No interrogating.”

Grandpa smiled back, but she could see his teeth as he turned to Mac. “What is Mac short for?”

“I’ll be right back. I promise.” Stella hurried to her room. Grandpa looked sweet and innocent, but she knew better. Once a cop, always a cop. The same went for being a grandfather.

She stripped down and showered. Twisting a towel around her hair, she stepped into a clean pair of black slacks and a white button-down. She glanced in the full-length mirror on the back of her closet door. Maybe she should pick a different colored blouse. She looked like a waiter or a
Men in Black
extra.

Who cares?
This was work, not a date. She didn’t have to impress him.

But she wanted to.

Gah.

This was why she didn’t date much. There was too much effort required when involved with a member of the opposite sex, energy she could funnel more productively into her career, which balanced on a precarious brink. Had she let her emotions rule this case? God knew she didn’t have much control where Mac was concerned. Maybe her impulsiveness had spilled over.

A vision of Dena Miller’s body flashed into her head. Then Missy’s. Her duty was to them, not Horner.

“So who’s the hottie out back with Grandpa?” Morgan stood in the hall. A red power suit hugged her tall frame. Totally put together, from her nude pumps to her pearl necklace, her older sister always made Stella feel like the tomboy she’d been in grammar school. While Morgan had jumped rope and practiced her cheers, Stella had played kickball in the street.

“Mac Barrett. I’m sort of working with him.” Stella shook her hair out. “Did you get Gianna to the station?”

“No. She wasn’t at the dialysis center when I got there.” Morgan leaned on the doorframe.

Alarmed, Stella froze. “She’s always there.”

“I was there early and I waited outside until fifteen minutes after you said she’d be done. I went inside. The waiting area was empty, and the nurse behind the counter refused to talk to me.”

“Damn it.” Stella moved faster now, maneuvering around Morgan and speeding to the bathroom. She coiled her damp hair in front of the mirror. “She was hesitant last night when I asked her. I should have known she’d be skittish.”

“You could hardly plan for a flood. Let me do that.” Morgan took over the bun-making. They were polar opposites. Morgan, with her refined silks and polished locks, had always known how to wear a scarf and which earrings complemented each outfit, while Stella was far happier in jeans.

“I’ll swing by her apartment on my way to the station.” Stella reached for her toothbrush.

Morgan did some twisty thing and pinned it into place.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing fancy. A simple chignon.” Morgan tucked a lock into place. “It’s no harder than that same old bun you wear every day.”

“I’m a detective, not a cover model. No one, including me, cares how my hair looks, only that it’s neat and out of my way.”

Morgan’s exhale was filled with disgust. “But honey, that man is really hot.”

“I’ve been working with him for days. He knows what I look like.” After last night, he knew every inch of her.

Morgan sighed. “You’re hopeless.”

“You’re bossy.” Stella echoed their childhood.

“I’m the older sister. I’m supposed to be bossy.” Morgan flashed a quick grin.

Since her husband died, Morgan’s smiles were rare.

“How was the job interview?” Stella waited for an answer. Swigging some mouthwash, Stella studied her sister in the mirror.

“This is Saturday. It wasn’t an interview. It was lunch.” Morgan shrugged.

Stella spit in the sink. “With a guy who wants to hire you. You’re not exactly dressed for running errands.”

“It was a nice restaurant.” Morgan said, but her voice lacked conviction. “And I’m not even sure I want the job. He kept talking about his win of the Simmons case.”

“The news anchor who killed a family of six while he was under the influence?” Stella remembered the case. Simmons had been a local celebrity. The accident had closed down the highway that led into Scarlet Falls for half a day. She’d been off duty, but two of the responding officers had taken several weeks off afterward. Four small children had been in the car. Simmons had battled addiction for years.

“I guess he finally lost the fight.” Morgan sighed, moving from behind Stella to stand next to her. “I don’t know if I can handle cases like that anymore, Stella. That’s why I left the DA’s office in Albany.”

“Putting Simmons away might prevent more senseless deaths.” Stella rubbed her sister’s shoulder.

“But it won’t bring that family back to life.” Grief filled Morgan’s eyes.

“No it won’t.” Stella caught her sister’s eye in the mirror, hating the doubt and sadness she saw there. “Addicts don’t just hurt themselves.”

Morgan’s smile was sad but she swallowed. “Now that I’ve played Debbie Downer, let’s go see your hottie.”

Stella stopped in her bedroom and put on a thin blazer to conceal her weapon.

Morgan lifted the hem. “Your gun is wearing a hole in the fabric. My seamstress can reinforce the inside panel of your blazers so that won’t happen.”

Leave it to Morgan to think of her clothing.

They walked down the hall to the family room. They could see Mac and Grandpa cleaning guns on the patio table.

“Holy hell. He looks even better up close.” Morgan sucked in a breath and leaned close to Stella. “I assume that is what kept you out all night.”

“Yes.”

“What’s your relationship with the hunk?”

“I don’t know,” Stella said.

“Well if you don’t want him . . .” Despite her teasing, the interest in Morgan’s eyes was mild. She wasn’t even ready for a job yet, let alone a man.

“Dibs.” Stella played along. Her sister wasn’t anywhere near ready to date, but humor was a big step forward. When she’d first moved back home, she’d spent too many nights sitting on the deck alone in the dark, crying.

“That’s what I thought.” Morgan steered Stella out onto the deck. Then her sister went down the steps to the yard to hug her girls.

At the table, Mac was reassembling her AR-15 with practiced movements.

“You should see how fast he fieldstrips a weapon.” Grandpa tossed the gun oil into the cleaning kit. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

Mac wiped the exterior of the gun with a clean rag. “My father was an army colonel. Other families had family game night. We fieldstripped weapons.” He handed her the rifle. “Ready?”

“Yes, thank you.” Stella took it. “Do you want me to clean your wound? Your shirt was soaked.”

“It’s fine,” Mac said. “What does the rest of your day look like?”

“I need to stop at Gianna’s on the way to the station.” Stella picked up her clean Glock from the table and put it in her holster. “I have to call the ME.” She took out her phone and called. Frank wasn’t available. Instead of leaving a message, Stella chose to be connected with his secretary, who told her that Dena’s autopsy was finished. She ended the call. “I have to go to the medical examiner’s office.”

“Do you want me to find Gianna?” Mac offered.

“Would you?”

“Sure.”

“Do you want to borrow my car?” Stella asked.

“No. I don’t want it recognized. I can take my bike.”

“What if it rains again?”

“I’ll survive.” Mac was definitely a survivor.

“He can borrow my car.” Grandpa offered Mac a set of keys. “You might not mind a motorcycle in the rain, but that sick girl would.”

Mac took the keys. “Thank you.”

Morgan came back up the steps. “Stella, is this yours?”

Stella’s gaze dropped to her sister’s hands. The pale blue scarf sent fear rippling cold across her skin. “Where did you get that?”

He knew where she lived. He’d been to her home.

Near her family.

Morgan held it out. “The girls found it outside tied to a tree.”

“What’s wrong?” Grandpa stepped forward, his eyes sharpening.

Stella lowered her voice. “We’ve held back this fact from the media, but both dead women wore pale blue scarves.”

“No.” Morgan’s gaze darted between the scarf and her girls.

“I’m getting my gun,” Grandpa said.

Panic bloomed hot in Stella’s chest as she took the scarf and held it by the corner. She reached for her phone to call the chief and Brody. “It looks like you’re going to get that surveillance camera.”

Fighting the urge to stay and protect her family, Stella drove to the ME’s office. She’d left forensics at her house, but they wouldn’t be there long. The scarf had been left outside so it was unlikely that fingerprints, tracks, or trace evidence had survived the storm. The chief had sent a patrol car to sit in the driveway. Still, Stella didn’t want to leave, but she knew the only way to neutralize the threat was to find the killer.

She wavered between terror and fury. How dare this creep violate her home, threaten her family. She wasn’t going to rest until she’d stopped him.

She went inside the ME’s office. At the secretary’s direction, she headed for the locker room. She checked her phone for messages even though she knew it was too soon for Mac to have found Gianna. Shoving her purse into a locker, she donned a protective gown, booties, and face shield and pushed through the doors into the autopsy suite.

Dena Miller was on the table, her nude body icy white against the stainless steel. Large ugly stitches across her torso said Frank had been busy.