by Rita Herron
The man holding her gripped her tighter and pulled her near the door. Dex fired again, and the man shoved her into the stall. He spun around to fire at Dex, but Melissa jumped him from behind.
He tried to shove her off, but she jabbed at his eyes. More gunfire in the barn. She prayed Dex was all right. Meanwhile she had to fight for her life.
The man tried to pry her hands from his face. She struggled to stay on his back, but he was strong and threw her to the floor. Her head hit the back of the stall, and the world spun. But she spied a cabinet with medical supplies in the corner and scrambled toward it.
The man lunged toward her. She grabbed a hypodermic just before the man reached for her neck.
She gripped the hypodermic and jabbed upward, driving it into his belly as his hands closed around her throat.
He squeezed her neck, choking her. She kicked out and pushed at his arms, determined to free herself, but he dug his meaty paws into her throat again, cutting off the air to her windpipe.
She clawed at him, but his hold tightened and a dizzy spell overcame her. Her vision blurred, then everything went black, and her hands fell limp to her side.
She fought to remain conscious, but the darkness was sucking her in, pulling her into an endless tunnel where she kept falling and spinning. As hard as she tried, she couldn’t grab hold of anything to hang on to.
* * *
DEX INCHED FORWARD, plastering himself against the barn wall to avoid another bullet. Dammit. One man was down. He thought he’d hit the second, but the bastard hadn’t given up.
And where the hell was Melissa? In that stall on the end by the door? Sweat beaded on his skin. He couldn’t see her, and he didn’t like it.
Another shot. Anger propelled him forward. He aimed his gun at the stall where the shooter had taken refuge, firing bullets through the slats. A grunt echoed from the inside, and he raced to cross the distance, firing another round as he glanced inside.
The man was finally down. Blood soaked his shirt and spattered the wall and floor. He darted inside, grabbed the man’s gun, then checked his pulse.
Dead.
Now, he had to get to Melissa.
He loaded another magazine into his weapon, then slowly crept toward her. It was too quiet ahead. Had the man managed to drag Melissa outside?
Fear made him hurry, and he checked left and right, maneuvering closer. A noise echoed from the stall, and he jerked around in front of it, his gun aimed.
The bastard who’d attacked Melissa lay on the floor, unmoving. So did Melissa. She looked pale and limp, a hypodermic on the floor beside her open hand.
Dear God, she had to be all right.
He raced into the stall, quickly dropped down beside the man and checked him for a pulse. Low but thready. He was alive but didn’t appear to be stirring.
Keeping one eye on the bastard, he rushed to Melissa, knelt and pressed two fingers to her neck. Precious seconds passed. Finally a pulse.
He muttered another prayer, then gently brushed his hand against her cheek.
“Melissa, come back to me.”
Slowly, her chest rose and fell.
Heart hammering, he brushed her cheek again. “Talk to me, darlin’.”
A flutter of her eyelids. Her breath quickened, and she emitted a soft gasp.
He slid one hand below her head to raise her to an incline position, murmuring soft words of comfort. Yet the handprints on her neck made him want to curse and kill the man on the floor beside her.
“It’s all right, I’m here,” he murmured softly.
Her eyelids slowly opened, then closed. She lifted one hand and reached for his arm. He wrapped his arm around her, holding her and rocking her back and forth while she slowly regained consciousness.
A siren wailed outside.
She blinked again, her voice raspy as she whispered his name.
“I’m here, darlin’.” He held her close, his chest aching as he waited on the ambulance to arrive.
Melissa could have died today. And yesterday. Who was the bastard on the floor and the dead man in the stall?
They had to be working for someone, but whom?
Someone who knew he and Melissa were asking questions? Someone who didn’t want them to find answers...
* * *
MELISSA SLOWLY RETURNED to reality. Her head was throbbing from where she’d hit it against the wall, and her throat felt raw.
But she was in Dex’s arms, and that felt right.
The last thing she remembered was gasping for air and wondering if Dex had been shot.
She blinked, struggling to clear her vision. Dex’s handsome face slowly slipped into view. His strong jaw rough with a constant five o’clock shadow. His dark serious eyes.
“Melissa, that hypodermic? Did he inject you?”
She shook her head. “No, I jabbed it in his chest.” She gulped. “Did I kill him?”
Dex shook his head, then glanced at the cabinet of medical supplies. “That was probably a tranquilizer that the vet used.” He cupped her face between his hands. “But if you had killed him, it would have been all right. He tried to kill you.”
“What about the other shooters?” Melissa asked.
Dex’s jaw tightened. “Both dead.”
The sound of the siren wailing drew closer. Dex heaved a breath.
Melissa clutched Dex’s arm as he helped her stand. Her legs felt weak, and she was trembling, but the fresh air revived her as they stepped from the barn. She clung to him as they made their way across the space between the barn and main clinic, where she sat down on a bench.
A police car raced up and screeched to a stop, gravel spewing. An ambulance roared up on its tail. Detective Lamar unfolded his legs from the front of the police cruiser.
Two medics exited the ambulance and jogged toward them. Dex waved them over to her. The detective scowled at her and then at Dex.
“What the hell is going on with you?” Detective Lamar growled. “Everywhere you go, bodies are piling up.”
Dex muttered an apology. “I drove out to talk to the vet and found him dead. Then three men came out of nowhere and jumped us.”
“Where are they now?” Detective Lamar asked.
Dex shifted, removed his Stetson, raked a hand through his hair, then settled his hat back on his head. He had a habit of doing that when he was stalling. “In the barn. Two dead. Melissa fought off the other and managed to inject him with some drug. I think it was probably a tranquilizer.”
Dex gestured toward the stall holding the unconscious man.
“Get him first,” Detective Lamar ordered. “And I want to talk to him as soon as he regains consciousness.” The detective wiped sweat from his brow. “Now I need to see Dr. Huckleberry.”
Dex pressed a hand to the detective’s chest. “Wait, it’s dangerous, Lamar. Let me coach that bull into another stall before you go in.”
The medic began to examine Melissa as Dex led the detective and the second medic deeper into the barn.
When the female medic was satisfied that Melissa’s breathing was normal and there didn’t appear to be permanent damage to her throat, she joined the others to assist with the injured man.
Melissa traced her fingers over the bruising on her neck, grateful she’d survived. A slight wind picked up, stirring the hot summer air, and she coughed as she inhaled dust.
Her eye caught sight of something red sticking out from the corner of the doorway. She stood and went to see what it was.
She stooped down to pull at it. It was a red bandanna. She tugged it from the splintered wood where it had caught and examined it.
It looked exactly like the bandanna Jim Smith had been carrying.
* * *
IT TOOK DEX finessing and time to steer the bull into the neighboring stall so Lamar could examine the vet.
While he handled the animal, Lamar examined the two dead shooters.
Dex joined him just as Lamar was digging through the pocket of the first dead man. Blood stained his body, clothes, the wall and floor.
Lamar snapped pictures of the man, the bullet holes and bullet casings in the wall and stall, along with the 9mm weapon still clutched in the dead man’s hand, then examined the second man.
“So what do you think happened with the doc?” Lamar asked Dex.
Dex chewed over theories. “These men killed Huckleberry, then put him in the stall with the bull to make it appear accidental.” Dex explained about his conversation with Bill regarding Bill’s friend Harry as he showed him to Huckleberry’s body.
“I think you’re grasping at straws trying to connect Huckleberry’s death to the missing homeless men. Huckleberry worked with prize bulls and a breeding expert. These men could have planned to steal drugs, or maybe they thought he kept some of the bull’s seed here.”
That was feasible.
“Did you touch anything?” Lamar asked.
Dex shook his head. “I used work gloves to rope the bull and move him.” As much for his own protection as to keep his prints off the place.
The bull was still stomping and butting his head against the wood slats next door. Lamar startled, a dark scowl growing on his face as he photographed the bloody scene, then stepped inside.
“I don’t see bullet casings like I found with the other two dead men,” Lamar said as he examined the barn walls. “Considering the fact these men were armed, it seems logical that would be their murder weapon of choice.”
“So you think I’m wrong?” Dex asked.
“Too soon to say. But it’s possible Huckleberry got trapped with the bull and the animal killed him.”
Dex didn’t believe for a minute that Huckleberry’s death was an accident. “What about the shooters?”
Lamar grunted. “Like I said, maybe they were thieves.” He scrutinized the stall again. “I suppose one of them could have drugged the vet, then threw him in here with the bull. I’ll make sure the ME runs a tox screen.”
Drugging Huckleberry and then putting him in the stall made sense. If Dex hadn’t shown up, the men might have gotten away with their plan, too.
Lamar crossed the stall, then squatted down beside the vet. The man lay on his side, clothes torn, body mauled. Lamar looked at his chest, then rolled him to his side to examine his back. He was looking for gunshot wounds, cause of death.
“No bullet wounds. He’s not in full rigor, either, so he hasn’t been dead long.”
The female medic appeared behind them. “The medical examiner and crime scene techs are here. We’re ready to transport the surviving man to the hospital.”
“How is he?” Lamar asked.
“Vitals are stable, but he’s still unconscious.” She angled her head. “No ID on him. Do you know who he is or if he has family?”
Dex shook his head.
“We’ll run both men’s prints and DNA.” Voices echoed from the front of the barn, then the medical examiner walked toward them, followed by two crime techs.
Dex leaned against the stable door, anxious to learn the identity of Melissa’s attacker. When he regained consciousness, maybe he’d talk.
“I’m going to check on Melissa.”
Lamar cleared his throat. “You two need to stick around for a few more minutes. I have to take her statement.”
Dex nodded and went to see Melissa. She was still sitting on that bench, looking lost and shaken as she watched the ambulance pull away. But when she saw him, she lifted her chin, the fight returning to her eyes.
“You okay?” he asked as he approached her.
“Yeah. Do you know who those men were?”
“Not yet.” He noticed the red bandanna in her hands. “Where did that come from?”
An odd look flashed across her face, and she stuffed it in her pocket. “It’s nothing.”
Dex narrowed his eyes. Why did he sense she was hiding something?
Voices from the barn and then footsteps brought their conversation to a halt. Lamar strode toward them, talking in a hushed tone to the ME.
“I’ll let you know the results of the autopsy as soon as I finish,” the ME told Lamar.
Lamar thanked him, then stopped in front of him and Melissa. “Ms. Gentry, I need you to tell me what happened here today.”
Melissa looked wary, but explained about Bill’s concerns over Harry. “Bill thinks that someone hurt Harry because of some cash Harry had.”
“How much are you talking?” Lamar asked.
“He didn’t say,” Melissa said. “Harry was also secretive about how he earned it. He left for the post office to mail the money to his daughter, but she never received it. Bill thought someone in a black sedan was following Harry when he left the shelter.”
“What makes you think that Harry has something to do with Dr. Huckleberry?”
“We found a card with his name on it in Harry’s things,” Dex said.
Lamar made a low sound in his throat. “Everywhere you two go, people are dying, Ms. Gentry. If you don’t stop poking around, you’re going to get killed.” He paused, his expression grave. “Now, go home and let me handle this investigation.”
Dex didn’t comment. But Lamar knew Dex wouldn’t back down because of danger.
“What about the homeless men, about Harry?” Melissa asked. “Are you going to investigate what happened to them?”
Lamar crossed his arms. “As a matter of fact, I have been doing that. I believe your friend Jim Smith is responsible, and McTruitt was onto him. That’s why Smith killed McTruitt and ran.”
Chapter Nine
Melissa stiffened, the fact that she’d found that bandanna and kept it taunting her. She should show it to Detective Lamar. But it really meant nothing. It might not even belong to Jim Smith.
Lamar seemed so certain Smith was a bad guy. What if she was wrong about him, too? What if he had been running from the law?
“What makes you think Jim is killing homeless men when he was one of them?” she asked.
Lamar scratched his chin. “I can’t share details of an ongoing investigation. But let’s just say that I found evidence McTruitt had gathered that points in that direction.”
“Why would Smith kill the homeless?” Dex asked.
Lamar slanted him an irritated look. “Like I said, I can’t share details yet. But I do believe he had you fooled, Ms. Gentry.”
Melissa’s chest squeezed as she remembered the protective glint in Jim’s eyes when he’d ordered McTruitt to let her go.
“If McTruitt was following the law and thought Smith was dangerous, then why did he pull a gun on me?” Melissa asked.
“I don’t know the answer to that,” Lamar said. “Except that he wanted to get Smith out of the shelter and that was the fastest way to do it.”
“I just don’t think Jim’s a cold-blooded killer,” Melissa said.
Lamar’s look softened. “I’m sorry, Ms. Gentry, but you’re wrong. At this point, he’s considered a wanted felon, so if you’re withholding information or know where he is, you can be charged with conspiracy to commit murder.”
Melissa’s eyes widened.
“Lamar, ease up,” Dex said in a gruff tone. “Melissa spent time with Smith, so maybe she has insight we don’t.”
Lamar raised a bushy brow. “Listen, Dex, you and I both know that people can be deceptive. Con men are experts at choosing personality types that will buy into their acts.” He tilted his head toward Melissa. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You seem like a caring, trusting woman. Unfortunately, that’s exactly the type con artists prey on.”
Melissa twisted her hands together. The detective was right.
Self-doubt assailed her. She’d attended workshops on the topic and had be
en taught to not let down her guard. She had been educated in signs to watch for to protect herself and the others who sought help at the shelter.
Had she been wearing blinders around Jim Smith?
* * *
TENSION STRETCHED BETWEEN Dex and Melissa as he drove back toward her house. He sensed she was struggling with Lamar’s allegations against Smith, so he stopped for an early dinner at a pizza joint a few blocks from Melissa’s.
They agreed on a half-veggie, half-meat-lover’s pie. He ordered a beer and Melissa joined him. She’d never been the fussy type, and enjoyed a cold one with him on occasion.
Melissa’s silence worried him. But they both needed time to assimilate the conversation with Lamar. Questions nagged at him. If Smith was killing the homeless men, what was his motive?
Had he persuaded them to do something illegal for him, then killed them to keep them quiet?
And how did it relate to the vet and his death?
Lamar had suggested greed for bull sperm or prize bulls might have gotten Huckleberry killed. Stealing those and reselling could bring big money—a motive.
If Smith killed McTruitt because the PI was onto whatever scheme he was running, was Smith working with the shooters today?
His father’s face flashed back. He’d been living in a shelter. Could his death have been something other than a DUI accident?
Or was he straining for an explanation that didn’t exist because he didn’t want to believe his father had been drinking and driving?
Melissa pushed her plate away. “Dex, are you okay?”
He gave her a wry smile. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
Melissa gazed down into her drink. “I’m just trying to make sense of everything.”
“So am I,” Dex admitted. “I keep trying to connect my father’s death to all of this because of the shelters.” He set his hat on the chair beside him and raked a hand through his shaggy hair. “I saw the empty liquor bottle on the seat beside him. The ME confirmed that his blood alcohol content was off the charts, that he probably passed out and lost control, then his truck nosedived into the creek.”