Hope Harbor
Page 30
He shifted from one foot to the other, the leather of his belt squeaking as he rested one hand on his gun. “I don’t know. But they’re doing everything they can to contain the fire so they can get inside.”
“You mean she’s still in the house!” Hysteria raised the pitch of her voice.
“They aren’t certain of that. Give me a minute.”
Before she could respond, he jogged toward his car—putting as much distance between him and her questions as possible.
Because he didn’t have the answers . . . or because he didn’t want to deliver more bad news?
Please, God, let it be the former!
The instant the cruiser moved aside, she jerked her wheel to the right and accelerated down the woods-rimmed road. The glow grew brighter as she approached, and fingers of fire stabbed the night sky above parched leaves not yet willing to relinquish their tenuous hold on life.
Her lungs locked.
This was bad.
Really bad.
Though she tried to prepare for the worst, her first full look at Ginny’s small, two-story clapboard farmhouse across a field of shriveled cornstalks destroyed the fragile hold she had on her composure.
The whole structure was engulfed in flames.
No, no, no, no, no!
Another uniformed officer appeared in her headlights, waving her to the shoulder before she could turn into her sister’s driveway.
Swerving to the right, she bumped onto the uneven ground, then flung open her door and scrambled from the car. Despite the crisp chill of the late fall evening, the air was hot.
Too hot.
“Ma’am?”
She tore her gaze away from the fire to focus on the officer. Flashes of light darted across the woman’s face, giving her a macabre appearance.
“Why don’t you wait over there?” She gestured toward an ambulance parked halfway up Ginny’s driveway, off to the side. The paramedics were standing idle and silent at the rear door, watching the blaze.
Waiting for a victim to treat.
Meaning no one had yet rescued Ginny.
Unless . . .
Was it possible she wasn’t here? Maybe she had been called in to work for an emergency.
Please!
Christy squinted toward the garage at the rear of the house . . . and her stomach bottomed out.
The door was open—and Ginny’s car was inside.
Her sister was here.
But where?
Lifting her head, she homed in on Ginny’s second-floor bedroom. The window was cracked open, as usual. Even on the coldest nights, her sister liked fresh air. There was no movement from inside, but maybe . . .
She grabbed the woman’s arm and pointed. “That’s my sister’s bedroom! She might be in bed. Can’t you get a ladder up there and—”
“Clear the collapse zone. Now!”
At the sudden, barked order, the firefighters who’d been struggling to quench the hungry flames dropped their hoses and scattered.
Seconds later, a shudder rippled through the house. The siding buckled. Then, spewing sparks high into the black sky, the second floor collapsed into the raging inferno below like an ancient Viking funeral pyre.
Christy stared in horror at the consuming flames, the world around her receding.
No!
This wasn’t happening.
It couldn’t be.
But the roar of the voracious blaze and the surge of scorching heat against her face mocked her denial, searing the ghastly truth across her mind.
No one could survive a fire like this.
Ginny was dead.
Despite the waves of heat rolling off the collapsed house, a numbing cold gripped her heart. Shudders rolled through her body. Blackness nipped at the edges of her consciousness.
And somewhere in the distance, screams ripped through the air.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Christy squeezed her eyes shut and wedged her hands against her ears, trying to shut them out.
But she couldn’t.
Because they were her own.
— Two Months Later —
“You settling in okay?”
At the question, Lance McGregor swiveled in his desk chair. Mark Sanders stood on the threshold of the cubicle, holding two disposable cups of coffee. His new FBI colleague held one out.
“Thanks.” Lance leaned forward and took it. “Still adjusting to St. Louis in the winter. When does the January thaw hit?”
“Don’t hold your breath. I was referring to the job.”
Lance took a sip of his brew and gestured to the warren of cubicles in the center of the St. Louis FBI office. “This bull pen arrangement will take some getting used to. Ditto for the suit and tie.”
“You’ll get there.”
“I appreciate the encouragement—especially in light of the source.” When Mark responded only with a raised eyebrow, Lance tipped his chair back and grinned. “As a former member of the Bureau’s Hostage Rescue Team and the current leader of this office’s SWAT team, you probably prefer to be in field dress chasing bad guys too.”
“You’ve done some homework.”
“I like to know the players.”
“A skill that would have served you well as a Delta Force operator.”
Touché.
“I see you’ve been checking me out too.”
“SOP for new agents—especially ones fresh out of the academy. For the record, you came out rosy instead of green.”
“Nice to know.”
Mark took a sip of his own java. “If you’re interested in the SWAT team, let me know. It’s an ancillary duty, so don’t expect any perks for volunteering, but we can always use members with your background. The Delta Force operators I’ve met were the kind of guys I’d want watching backs when lives are on the line.”
Despite Lance’s valiant attempt to hold on to his grin, it slipped a hair. “Thanks. But my first priority is to get the lay of the land.”
“Makes sense.” Though Mark’s words were agreeable, the slight thinning of his eyes told Lance the man had picked up on his sudden discomfort. “If you want to consider it down the road, the door’s open.” Raising his cup in salute, he strolled off.
Lance waited until he disappeared, then pivoted back to his desk, mouth flattening. His new colleague’s offer was flattering, but the SWAT team wasn’t in his future. Sure, he’d handle trouble if any came his way as a special agent. But he was done seeking it out. Done having to watch people’s backs 24/7. Done trying to be Superman.
Because even Superman had his Achilles’ heel—and if you played the odds long enough, you were bound to lose. Mistakes happened.
And sometimes they were deadly.
A bead of sweat popped out on his forehead, and he scrubbed it away. Enough. He was past this. History couldn’t be rewritten. It was over. Finished. He’d made his peace with that and moved on.
But if that was true, why had a simple invitation to join the SWAT team twisted his gut and short-circuited his lungs?
Blowing out a breath, he raked his fingers through his hair. This was not a complication he needed three days into his new career as a special agent.
The phone on his desk rang, and he grabbed for it, checking the digital display. A call from the receptionist might not provide much of a distraction, but it would do a better job redirecting his thoughts than attending sleep-inducing meetings or reviewing eye-glazing case files—his lot since reporting for duty.
“Hi, Sharon. What’s up?”
“Do you have anything urgent on your desk?”
“Not unless reviewing old 302s qualifies.”
A chuckle came over the line. “I figured Steve would give you a pile of evidentiary interviews to read. I think it’s his version of hazing for the new agents in the reactive squad. Kind of an endurance contest.”
“If it is, I’m failing.”
“Maybe I can rescue you. You ready fo
r a real case?”
“More than.”
“Don’t be too anxious. I might be handing you a fruitcake.”
“Better a fruitcake than files. What have you got?”
“I have no idea. She won’t tell me. Won’t give me her name, either. Just said she needs to talk to an agent.”
“Okay. Go ahead and transfer her.”
“I jotted down her number from caller ID in case you need it. The fourth digit is a nine.”
Meaning there was a strong chance she was calling from a pay phone.
“Thanks.”
“Good luck.” The line clicked. “Ma’am, I’m putting you through to Agent McGregor.” Another click as Sharon exited the call.
Lance leaned back in his chair. “This is Agent McGregor. Who am I speaking with?”
Silence.
“Ma’am?”
A beat of silence passed. Two. Three. He heard an indrawn breath. “A situation has come up that merits FBI involvement—but I can’t discuss it by phone.”
Still no name.
“Would you like to come to our office?”
“No! That would be too dangerous.” She sounded agitated. Scared, even. But she was lucid. That was a plus. “I’d like to set up a meeting on neutral territory. I want it to look like friends getting together, in case anyone’s watching.”
He tapped the tip of his pen against the tablet in front of him. Paranoia—or valid caution? Too soon to tell. “Can you give me a clue what this is about?”
More silence.
He waited her out.
“I think it . . . it could be kidnapping.”
He sat up straighter. “Have you called the police?”
“I can’t do that. Please . . . I’ll explain when I see you. Besides, this would fall under FBI jurisdiction.”
“Is a child involved?”
“No.”
He doodled a series of concentric circles on the blank sheet of paper in front of him. The woman was articulate, and she sounded intelligent. Yes, she could be a nut—but the mere mention of kidnapping warranted further investigation.
“All right. Where would you like us to meet you?”
“Us?” He could hear the frown in her voice.
“I’d like to bring another agent along.” That was the usual protocol in a situation this filled with unknowns.
“No. Just you.”
The tension in her words told him she was getting ready to hang up. Better to agree to her terms than lose her. He could always call for support if he needed it.
“Okay. Where?”
“I was thinking a Panera. They’re busy, and the noise level should give us some privacy. But please wear casual clothes. A suit would draw too much attention.”
The lady had thought this through.
He put a dot in the middle of his circles to complete the bull’s-eye. “Which one?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Brentwood.” The central corridor was a reasonable choice. Besides, it was the only Panera he’d visited to date. Why not make this easy on himself?
“Fine. I get off work at five. I’m available after that.”
He’d have to bail on dinner with Mac, but his older sibling would understand. Police detectives didn’t keep regular hours, either.
“Let’s make it seven. I need to go home and change first. How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll be wearing jeans and a dark green sweater. I have longish auburn hair.”
“Got it.”
“I’ll see you at seven.”
The instant the line went dead, he punched in Sharon’s extension and got the source number. A quick check of the crisscross directory confirmed what he’d suspected—the call had come from a pay phone.
The woman wasn’t taking any chances.
A ping of adrenaline prickled his nerve endings. At least his first case was intriguing.
And even if the meeting led nowhere, a clandestine rendezvous was a whole lot more exciting than reading old case files.
Author’s Note
Welcome to Hope Harbor, a charming fictional town on the spectacular Oregon coast.
For many years, I’ve wanted to set a book . . . or two . . . or more in this beautiful part of the country. So in the fall of 2013, I booked a flight, sought out some charming B&Bs, and set off to explore. I was convinced this scenic area would provide the perfect locale for the town I’d already named Hope Harbor.
I’m happy to report that the trip exceeded all my expectations. In Florence, I found charming storefronts and to-die-for cinnamon rolls. In Bandon, I learned about seagull romance. In Cape Perpetua, I got up close and personal with amazing starfish. In Brookings, I watched the sun set in a secluded cove with a silver-white harbor seal for company. And everywhere I went, I savored the endless sandy beaches and sea stacks.
When I got home, I took all those bits and pieces of real-life coastal Oregon and created Hope Harbor. I hope you enjoy visiting this delightful town as much as I enjoyed writing about it.
As always, many people played a role in the creation of this book. My special thanks to:
Oregon cranberry grower Daryl Robison (owner of family-farm Pacific Bogs for many years), who helped me fine-tune all the details about my fictional Harbor Point Cranberries operation. Thank you, Daryl, for answering my numerous questions so thoroughly and promptly.
The amazing team at Revell. In this crazy world called publishing, I couldn’t ask for a better partner.
All the readers who make it possible for me to bring to life the characters who ask me to tell their stories. I give thanks for you every day.
My parents, James and Dorothy Hannon, who have always been—and continue to be—an enthusiastic cheering section.
And finally, my husband Tom. Thank you for your encouragement and understanding—and for all you do to create an environment that allows me to meet my page count day after day.
Irene Hannon is a bestselling, award-winning author who took the publishing world by storm at the tender age of ten with a sparkling piece of fiction that received national attention.
Okay . . . maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. But she was one of the honorees in a complete-the-story contest conducted by a national children’s magazine. And she likes to think of that as her “official” fiction-writing debut!
Since then, she has written more than forty-five contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels. Irene has twice won the RITA award—the “Oscar” of romantic fiction—from Romance Writers of America, and her books have also been honored with a National Readers’ Choice award, three HOLT medallions, a Daphne du Maurier award, a Retailers’ Choice award, a Booksellers’ Best award, and two Reviewers’ Choice awards from RT Book Reviews magazine. In addition, she is a two-time Christy award finalist.
Irene, who holds a BA in psychology and an MA in journalism, juggled two careers for many years until she gave up her executive corporate communications position with a Fortune 500 company to write full-time. She is happy to say she has no regrets! As she points out, leaving behind the rush-hour commute, corporate politics, and a relentless BlackBerry that never slept was no sacrifice.
A trained vocalist, Irene has sung the leading role in numerous community theater productions and is also a soloist at her church.
When not otherwise occupied, she and her husband enjoy traveling, Saturday mornings at their favorite coffee shop, and spending time with family. They make their home in Missouri.
To learn more about Irene and her books, visit www.irenehannon.com. She is also active on Facebook and Twitter.
Books by Irene Hannon
HEROES OF QUANTICO
Against All Odds
An Eye for an Eye
In Harm’s Way
GUARDIANS OF JUSTICE
Fatal Judgment
Deadly Pursuit
Lethal Legacy
PRIVATE JUSTICE
Vanished
Trapped
Deceived
MEN OF VALOR
Buried Secrets
That Certain Summer
One Perfect Spring
Hope Harbor
www.IreneHannon.com