“Halt,” he ordered. “Police!”
“Officer Andrews?” The dispatcher’s voice came again. “An officer possibly down!” she cried out, quickly calling out the address.
The man kept running. Liam shot into the air—but the fleeing felon never even slowed. Damn it. The man had a getaway vehicle or another driver waiting that was parked nearby and out of sight. Warm dampness spread down his left leg, and he noted the scent of blood. Liam pushed down the injury aftereffects; he’d deal with that later. For now, he needed to seek cover in case his pursuer took another shot. He struggled to his feet, wincing as his left leg crumpled at the slightest weight. The twenty feet to the barn felt like a mile as he limped to shelter. From a distance, an engine came to life. Through the barn slats, he witnessed low, narrow beams of light heading in the opposite direction of the main road. His shooter was escaping in a four-wheeler.
“Officer Andrews?”
He raised the walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Here,” he responded breathily, surprised at the effort required to speak. Now the danger had passed, his adrenaline bottomed out and pain registered through his former numbing shock. He stretched his leg, wincing at the stabbing agony. The vortex of pain was localized about three inches above his left knee on the outer side. Luckily for him, the bullet hadn’t landed a smidge farther right and shattered his kneecap. But that didn’t mean he was by any means grateful for the burning bullet now lodged under his skin.
A siren sounded. It felt odd to realize it was his own signal that help would shortly arrive. Usually, he was the man responding to other people’s emergencies. Grimacing, he again stood and painstakingly made his way out of the barn, fighting back a sudden wave of nausea and dizziness.
He recognized Sam as his fellow officer exited the cruiser and ran toward him. His fellow officer. Running to help him despite any threats of danger. What would Sam and the others think if they knew the real reason he was in Baysville? Would they view him as a traitor?
And what if that bullet had been meant as more than a mere warning—if the shooter had aimed at his heart?
Chapter Seven
Harper threw her car keys on the counter and picked up a note from Kimber. The cleaning crew she had recommended would arrive tomorrow morning. At least that was something. Today’s library research had been a bust. Surprisingly little had been written on Presley’s death.
She headed upstairs, sipping a glass of wine. On her bed, she hit the remote button to turn on the TV and rubbed her eyes, still bleary from viewing internet articles and microfiche documents. Lethargy set in and the dark abyss of sleep beckoned. And yet, her mind resisted the vulnerability of sleep.
Something about this house was all wrong. She could deny it all she liked during the day with her rational brain, but here, alone at night, fear insinuated itself like a chilling fog rolling over her in waves. Here, her childhood home held no charm or happiness. No comforting memories of love. No cheery reminiscences to indulge in. Instead, it contained pain and loss and sorrow. Even more, the house oozed a sentient, living vibe, as though the very walls were listening to her every breath. Watching her every move. Possessing an unknown menace that could pounce upon her at any moment.
Just as it had done to Presley.
All wrong, all wrong... The warning refrain echoed through her. But her weary body accepted the peace and promise of rest. Just a few minutes to recharge. What could it hurt?
Skreek.
Worry clawed at the back of her sleeping mind, a frantic warning that all was not right.
Skreek. Skreek.
An explosion of noise erupted close by, and she awoke in a flash of panic. There was no disorientation or gradual floating back to consciousness. One second she’d been dead to the world, lost in a cocoon of oblivion, and then the next second she sat straight up, clutching a pillow. The small TV set on the dresser gave off an artificial glow that cast deep shadows in the bedroom. A reporter’s monotone voice sounded over video footage of a riot somewhere in a country far away. Maybe the noise had merely been gunfire from the TV news broadcast.
She willed her mind to accept the rational explanation. What else could it have possibly been? Yet her heart rate barely slowed its frantic pace.
The sound came again. Bam bam bam bam bam... A dozen mini bombs detonating in rapid succession, followed closely by loud rolling swishes—as though a bag of marbles had been upended onto the hardwood floor.
What the hell? Her heart pounded as though trying to break free of her rib cage.
Heavy breathing pervaded the air. A menacing pant—slow, deep, deliberate.
She couldn’t move. Arms and legs stiffened into paralysis. There was only the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
A cackle broke out, witchy and guttural.
Her tongue lay thick and heavy in her dry mouth; she couldn’t have answered even if she’d wanted to.
This couldn’t be happening. She glanced at the nearly empty glass of wine on the nightstand. The alcohol, perhaps? But no, it had never affected her this way before.
The breathy voice chuckled with a tinny echo. It held no familiarity to her ears. A whimper escaped past her numb lips, and she scooted backward, her spine pressed into the wooden headboard.
The eternal scratching started up, like a mischief of mice. “Go away,” she cried, flinging a book against the wall.
Don’t you love me, Harper? You’re my sister. My baby sister.
She should run, get the hell out of the house and never come back. Unexpected silence descended, and she tensed, waiting for the next round. Because it always came back. Every. Damn. Time.
The tinkling of shattered glass erupted, followed by a sniveling, as though a person was crying.
There was a knock—a sharp rap that sounded loud enough to splinter wood. Harper clamped her hands over her ears.
“Get out of here! You aren’t real. You can’t be.” She was officially losing her mind now, talking to a make-believe person in her head.
All sound ceased, but the threat lingered in the darkness. A promise. A harbinger of doom. It would come back again one night. Harper was sure of it.
She’d come home to get answers. And if the answer was that she was crazy, then she’d have to accept that and get counseling. Harper waited, hardly daring to breathe, in case the noises returned.
They didn’t. Not this time. Maybe it had been her imagination, after all. Maybe she was oversensitive to normal sounds old houses made.
She turned up the volume on the TV and downed what was left in her wineglass. There’d be no more sleep tonight. For a distraction, she changed the channel to watch the late-night news. It held little interest—until the announcement that a local police officer had been shot.
Harper gasped and leaned forward at the video of EMTs pushing a stretcher into an ambulance. The injured officer was strapped down, but she caught a glimpse of sandy-colored hair.
Liam.
Her heart pinched at the brief glimpse of his pale face. How badly was he hurt? What if... She couldn’t bear to think of it. Liam would recover. He’d been conscious as the camera had panned over his body. A good sign.
Liam hadn’t been in Baysville too long, and she knew for a fact that his relationship with Bryce was strained. The other times she’d observed him with his fellow cops, it seemed as though there was a reserve in their interactions.
Her instinct was to rush down to the hospital, to be a friend.
The least she could do was pay him a visit and offer to sit with him until family or a friend arrived. She’d rather be in a bleak hospital room all night than tossing and turning in bed.
Decision made, Harper strode to the mirror and ran a hand through her tousled hair. With only a moment’s hesitation, she left her bedroom and went to the bathroom, splashing her face with cold water. She reached for the towel, but her hand grasped air.
What the hell? Had it dropped on the floor? Mystified, she glanced around and then shrugged. Must have thrown it in the wash and forgotten to replace it with a clean one. Ablutions completed, Harper flipped on all the lights as she made her way downstairs.
* * *
STARK LIGHTS, UNFAMILIAR voices and an antiseptic chill in the air sent goose bumps down his arms. Liam narrowed his eyes and caught sight of a man in white, a stethoscope dangling from his neck. That’s right—he was in the hospital. Evidently, he’d lost consciousness for a bit. A blessing considering the pain radiating like a heat wave from his left leg.
“We’ve removed the bullet,” a doctor assured him, leaning over the hospital bed. “You’re going to be fine. Might be a bit sore for a few days, though. Best if you stay off your feet. We’re going to give you a numbing shot and send you home with a prescription for pain pills.”
The sharp jab of a needle punctured the wound’s tender flesh, immediately followed by a blessed cooling. A nurse wheeled him out of recovery and to a temporary room for a couple more hours of observation. No sooner had he transferred from the wheelchair to a cot than Bryce entered the room, deep worry lines etched in his broad forehead.
“Damn, Andrews,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. “Looks like you had a close call tonight.”
“Not really.”
“Looks that way to me. I talked to my men who arrived at the scene and got your statement.”
The nurse interrupted, pointing to the metal drawer beside the cot. “Your clothes are in there. Let me know if you need help getting into them. Once you’re dressed, we’ll see about sending you home. Although, like the doctor told you, it would be best if you remained overnight.”
“Thanks, but I insist on being discharged. I can manage on my own,” he assured her before turning to Bryce. “If the shooter had meant to kill me, he had ample opportunity. This shot was a warning.”
Skepticism flashed across his features. “A warning? About what?”
“Don’t know yet.” Liam scooted off the bed, placing all his weight on his right leg and testing the left. Even with the numbing shot, it tingled. He sat back down and withdrew a plastic bag of bloody clothing from the nightstand. No way he was putting those on.
Bryce lifted the bag he held in his hands. “Take this. A new uniform. Figured the old one would be shredded.”
“Thanks, man. I’ll take my badge off my old shirt and throw the old uniform in the trash.”
“Let’s get back to what you said about the shooting being a warning,” Bryce said. “You probably just caught a robber unawares. Plain bad luck.”
“Doubt that old house had anything worth stealing. Couple that with the anonymous phone tip, and I’d say that shooter was waiting on me.”
“The dispatcher traced the call, but—”
“Let me guess. It was to a throwaway phone.” Liam untied his hospital gown and donned the new uniform shirt.
His boss nodded as he buttoned his shirt. “Even more reason to suspect it was a warning.” Bryce scraped his face with a broad palm. “Not a very good warning if you don’t know what it is you’re supposed to be warned away from. You got any ideas?”
Did he ever. But Bryce was the last person he’d confide in. Liam observed him closely as he cautiously pulled up the new uniform pants, careful to avoid touching the bandaged wound, taking his time as he adjusted to the twinges of pain. His boss looked like hell, as though he’d been too long without sleep and stressed to the max. Had Bryce discovered what his newest employee was up to? Had his cover been blown? “Not a clue,” Liam deadpanned. “What about you? You got any theories?”
“Can’t help wondering if it somehow relates to Harper Catlett. Trouble seems to follow that family.”
“Why? Because her sister died in an accidental fire?”
Bryce winced but doggedly continued with his theory. “The minute she returns to town and starts asking questions, look what happens. She drew you in with her claims about a possible stalker and now this. We’ve never had an officer shot in Baysville before.”
“Coincidence,” Liam insisted. If he played it smart, he’d let Bryce continue with his delusion. Keeping his boss focused on the wrong path could only help Liam preserve his cover. But he hated Harper being wrongfully suspected of anything to do with tonight’s incident.
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Why are you suddenly turning on Harper, linking her to this? You made it clear from the start that you believed her fear was all in her head. That her sister’s death was an accident and anything strange happening in the house was only her imagination.”
“Call it intuition.”
“You don’t believe in coincidences? Well, I don’t believe in intuition.” With that, Liam zipped his pants and then sat on the bed as he slipped into his old, muddied uniform shoes, hiding his pain as he bent to pull them on.
Bryce quirked a brow. “You’ve never had a gut feeling on the job?”
“Sure. But what people often call a gut feeling is actually based on fact. Like last night, I had a feeling something was wrong when I was merely picking up on environmental clues that I too quickly discounted—the isolated location, the anonymous call, the subconscious awareness that somebody was watching me.”
“Semantics. You’re quibbling, Andrews. Harper’s bad news. I tried to warn you.”
Liam shrugged. Either Bryce was too dense to understand his illogical distrust, or—worst-case scenario—Bryce had found out about the undercover investigation and was taking aggressive measures to scare him off track. Either way, Liam had never quit an assignment, and he wasn’t about to start now. Whatever it took, he’d get to the bottom of the vagrant murders and discover if the Baysville PD were involved in some sort of cover-up.
“Can I give you a lift home?” Bryce asked.
“If it’s not too much trouble, then—”
They both turned at the sound of a light knock on the semiclosed door. “May I come in?”
A bolt of warmth shot through his gut at the familiar voice. Before he could answer, Harper’s head peeked around the door.
Bryce sighed and strode across the room. “I suspect you’d rather ride home with Harper than me. Take as much time off as you need to recover, Andrews,” he called over his shoulder. He nodded at Harper and quickly exited the room.
Harper strolled over, her red hair practically ablaze under the merciless fluorescent lights. He wanted nothing more than to brush his face against its sweet warmth and run his hands through the silken fire. After his abrupt rejection the previous night, Liam couldn’t have been more startled at her appearance. Or more grateful.
“I heard what happened on the news. Hope you don’t mind me dropping in.” Her eyes slowly scanned his body from head to toe. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just a flesh wound. They’ve already dug out the bullet and stitched me up.”
Her lips trembled. She reached out a hand as though to touch him, then thought better of it and dropped it down by her side. “Bryce said you could use a ride home?”
Damn, he hated not being able to drive himself. Being dependent on anyone made him nuts. “Looks that way. But if you’d rather not, I’ll call a cab or an Uber.”
“At this time of night? Not happening in this town.”
“Right.”
They regarded one another awkwardly. As for himself, Liam recalled lying in the marsh, bleeding, in pain and waiting for backup—and all he could think about was Harper.
“When this is over,” he began slowly, “if you’re still in town, then maybe...” His voice trailed off.
“Maybe,” she breathed. Harper ran her fingers lightly down his face, and he closed his eyes, marveling at the soft caress that made his entire body heat. His whole adult life he’d been an outsider, always on the outskirts of intimacy and true
friendship. Because of his undercover work, everyone was either a suspect or not to be trusted in keeping his secret.
But Harper felt like home after a long trip. When this case was over...
“Excuse me. Looks like you’re ready to check out,” a nurse said, entering the room.
Harper dropped her hand and stepped away. The nurse practically winked. “Let’s get your paperwork in order and you can go home.”
Home with Harper. Suddenly, the night didn’t seem all bad.
Chapter Eight
She hurried into the hallway, eager to pull her car around front to the hospital’s main entrance. Liam should be signed out and waiting by then. The two nurses on night duty didn’t even glance up from their charts as she walked by. On each side of her, most of the patient room doors were ajar. Machines beeped and hummed, emitting an industrial green glow punctuated by the flashing of red buttons. People lay quiet, attached to IVs and tubes. Thank goodness Liam hadn’t been severely injured and facing a prolonged stay.
Her sneakers scrunched on the polished linoleum and echoed through the labyrinth of hallways, a stick-slip squeak of rubber.
Another set of rubber-soled shoes chirped from behind. She stopped and swiftly turned, hoping it wasn’t a nurse unexpectedly canceling Liam’s discharge orders.
The hall stood empty, save for an open patient door that swayed slightly, as though recently entered. Her throat tightened. Probably just a nurse dispensing medication. Harper continued to the elevators and punched the ground-floor button, quickly getting on when it arrived almost immediately. As it lowered, she exhaled a sigh, glad to be on her way. She exited and made her way through the now-empty lobby.
Squeak, squeak.
The mystery person was back. He must have taken the stairs when she’d opted for the elevator. Discreetly, Harper slightly turned her head, but she only caught a glimpse of a tall person in a white coat as he whisked by a coffee kiosk. Absolutely no reason for the sensation of spiders skittering down her spine. She frowned, noting the absence of blue-uniformed cops hanging around the entrance door. They’d probably all migrated to the ER section, where any action would be taking place.
Unmasking the Shadow Man Page 7