Peek-A-Boo Protector

by Rita Herron

  Coupled with the fact that she was a tough girl from a foster home and that she could outshoot most men in town, she intimidated the hell out of them, too.

  But he actually admired her guts and her skill.

  His mind ticked over the possibilities of who might want to harm her. Leonard had just been released today and now Sam was in trouble—could the two be connected?

  Adrenaline shot through him, and he pressed the gas and sped up. If the son of a bitch had hurt her, he’d be back in the pen tonight. And this time no technicality would get him off.

  His heart rate kicked up as he rounded the curve and turned onto Pine Bluff, then raced around the winding road, fighting the curves at breakneck speed. He swung onto the gravel drive leading up the ridge to her cabin on two wheels, bracing himself mentally and physically for what he might find.

  He approached the cabin and screeched to a stop, then he grabbed his gun and jumped from the vehicle, scanning the periphery for an intruder, and for Sam. If the fool woman had any sense, she’d have waited outside. But he didn’t see an intruder or Sam anywhere.

  It figured she’d try to handle things on her own.

  He saw a dark green sedan with a dent in the front fender, then noticed the plates were Fulton County and frowned. Why would an intruder have parked in front of the house?

  A coyote’s wail rent the night, trees rustled in the wind, and an owl hooted. The chill of the night engulfed him, warning him trouble was at hand. Too close by to ignore.

  He inched forward, searching the porch, the windows, the doorways for signs of movement, and sounds of an intruder.

  When he pushed the front door open, he saw the blood splattered on the kitchen floor, and his chest clenched.

  He hoped to hell that wasn’t Sam’s blood.

  Gun at the ready, he crept toward the kitchen but it appeared empty, although the blood trail led out the back door. It looked as if the intruder might have gone into the woods. God, he might have Sam with him.

  Then a sound disturbed the quiet. He hesitated, tensed, listening.

  A crying baby? He hadn’t seen Sam around much; surely she hadn’t had a baby without his knowing.

  He pivoted to search for the child and realized the cry had come from upstairs. He slowly moved toward the staircase, but glanced in the dining room first just to make sure it was empty. Satisfied the downstairs was clear, he tiptoed up the steps, pausing to listen. If the intruder had Sam up there, he wanted to catch him off guard.

  But just as he turned the corner of the staircase, a shadow moved in front of him. He reacted instantly and raised the gun. “Police, freeze.”

  A strangled yelp made him pause, then an object swung down. He jumped back to dodge the blow, and the object connected with the floor.

  What the hell?

  He flipped on the light aiming his gun at the source, then Sam screamed.

  His heart hammered. “Sam! For God’s sake, I could have shot you.”

  She pulled back, her eyes huge in her pale face. “John?”

  He heaved a breath, trying to control his raging temper. She could have killed him with that damn bat.

  “Did you see anyone?” she whispered shakily.

  Feeling like a heel for yelling at her, he reached out and stroked her arms. Her dark curly hair was tousled, her cheeks flushed, and fear glimmered in her vibrant brown eyes. “No. It looks like the intruder went out the back door.”

  “There was blood,” she whispered. “Someone’s blood….”

  He pulled her up against him, surprised at how soft she felt when she was such an athlete, was so well-toned. “I know, but it’s all right,” he murmured. “I’m here now.”

  She allowed him to soothe her for a brief second, then Sam suddenly pulled away as if she realized she’d let down her guard and shown a weakness by letting him touch her.

  He stiffened. What was wrong with him? He had a job to do, and this was Samantha Corley, Miss Cool and Independent.

  Although he had to admit that he’d liked the way she felt up against him.

  “I’M SORRY, I WAS JUST SHAKEN for a moment.” Sam blushed and squared her shoulders, chastising herself for acting so wimpy. But the thought that the little baby might have been in danger frightened her.

  “Don’t sweat it,” he said. “Let’s go sit down and you can tell me what happened.”

  She nodded, but the little girl whimpered from the bedroom again, and she whirled around. “Let me get the baby.”

  “Baby?” his gruff voice echoed behind her as he followed her into her bedroom.

  He paused at the doorway as if uncomfortable entering her private room, then cleared his throat and walked on in, following her to the closet.

  She opened the door, then knelt and scooped up the whimpering child in her arms. “Shh, sweetheart, it’s all right. I’ll take care of you.”

  “Good grief, Sam, what’s going on? You have a baby in the closet?”

  She wrapped the blanket snugly around the child and patted her back as she turned to him. “Whoever was here, the mother maybe, left her in my room.”

  Shock strained his features for a brief second, then she saw the wheels turning in his mind. “I see.”

  She swallowed, cradling the infant to her chest, then gestured toward the diaper bag as the little girl began to fuss. “Can you grab that and bring it downstairs? She might be hungry. I’ll give her a bottle.”

  He gave a clipped nod, then yanked the frilly pink bag up with one hand as if it were a snake, and she almost laughed.

  She started toward the stairs, but John reached out a hand to stop her. “Let me go first just in case the intruder decided to return.”

  Her chest tightened, but she nodded. He braced his gun again as they descended the steps, his gaze scanning the foyer and rooms, but the house appeared to be empty.

  She headed to the kitchen, but again he stopped her. “That room is a crime scene now, Sam. You can’t go inside.”

  She bit her lip and jiggled the baby up and down. “But the baby needs to be fed.”

  He shifted, looking uncomfortable, then glanced into the kitchen, which adjoined the den. “All right. Sit down in the den and tell me what to do. We can’t touch the blood or door. I want a crime unit to process the kitchen for forensics.”

  She nodded, took two steps and settled in the rocking chair, cradling the baby to her and rocking her.

  “Let me call for backup first.” He phoned the station. “I need a crime scene unit out at Samantha Corley’s house along with officers to search the woods.” He hesitated and glanced at Sam. “And bring the bloodhounds. We might be looking for a body.”

  A shudder coursed through her as he disconnected the call. Then he turned to her with a helpless expression as he searched the diaper bag and pulled out a plastic bottle. “No ID or wallet inside. What do I do with the bottle?”

  She bit back a laugh. “See if there’s formula in the bag.”

  He dug inside the bag and removed a can, then frowned.

  “It’s simple, John,” Sam said. “Just open the can, fill the bottle, then heat a pan of water and sit the bottle in it to warm.”

  John frowned. “Why don’t you just use the microwave?”

  She looked at him as if he was an idiot. “Because it might get too hot and the formula would burn the baby’s throat.”

  “Oh.”

  How would he know? With a grim expression, he reached inside the cabinet, removed a saucepan, filled it and turned on the burner. “How long does it heat?”

  “A minute or two. You can test it on your arm.”

  Again, he frowned, then filled the bottle and set it inside the pan. While it heated, he went to his squad car and returned a moment later with a camera and crime kit.

  The water had started to boil, so he removed the bottle and brought it over to her. “You check it. I don’t know what it’s supposed to be like.”

  She smiled, took the bottle, then shook out a drop of milk on h
er arm. “Perfect.”

  The baby began to fuss and latched on to the bottle, and she watched as John photographed the kitchen, the overturned chair, the broken glass on the floor, the blood.

  Odd that he seemed far more comfortable working a crime scene than he did with a baby.

  He gestured toward the door. “That looks like a woman’s earring.”

  Sam narrowed her eyes and saw the moon-shaped silver earring, and emotions welled in her throat. “Yes, it does. She must have lost it in the struggle.”

  The baby curled her fingers on the edge of the bottle and Sam stroked her soft, fine blond hair. “The mother must have come to me with the baby because she needed help.”

  “And whoever was after her followed her,” he said in a gruff tone.

  Sam glanced at the stream of dark red blood, her insides churning. Had the intruder killed the little girl’s mother? Or could she still be alive?

  Chapter Two

  A half hour later, sirens screeched up the mountainside, vehicles careening to a stop outside Sam’s house. John met them, then gestured to the patrol officers, Wilkins and Fritz, who climbed out with the bloodhounds.

  “There’s evidence of a struggle in the kitchen. Blood,” he said specifically. “It appears that the intruder dragged a woman’s body into the woods.” He paused. “Be careful. This guy might be armed.”

  Both men nodded, then headed around back and set off into the dense, dark woods with flashlights, the bloodhounds immediately picking up the scent.

  “CSI Turner and Akers,” a heavyset young guy said, flashing his ID. “Where do you want us?”

  “The front door was jimmied, so check for prints there. The kitchen appears to be the main crime scene so process it thoroughly.” He flicked a thumb toward Akers. “Follow me around back.” Turner began with the front door, while Akers walked behind him. They studied the back porch, then the grass beneath the steps.

  John knelt down, brushing dry crushed leaves aside. “Look, there are boot prints. They’re big, most likely a male’s, and might belong to our perp.”

  “I’ll do a plaster cast of a print,” Akers said. “And search for forensics out here.”

  “Thanks. I’ll check the car and run the plates, then it needs to be processed, as well.” John glanced at the woods one more time, hoping his guys found something. Preferably the woman alive.

  The perp couldn’t have gotten too far, not on foot. Unless he had a car hidden down the road. Of course, once he reached the creek, they might lose his trail.

  John strode back to the driveway, then called in the license. Five minutes later, he learned the car was registered to a man named Harry Finch from Atlanta.

  Hmm, then who was the woman driving the car? His wife?

  He pulled on gloves and shined his flashlight inside the sedan. A fast-food wrapper lay on the floor, a soda can in the cup holder, chewing gum wrappers in the ashtray. He snapped a photo of them, then opened the car door and examined the seats and floor. Pollen dotted the windshield, a long blond stray hair was on the dash, a fiber of some kind had caught in the console, and a baby sock the little girl must have kicked off lay on the seat.

  He searched the interior but didn’t find a purse or wallet. Slipping around to the passenger side, he opened the glove compartment and searched the contents. No wallet or ID, but he found the registration, verifying the car belonged to Finch.

  At least that was something to go on.

  He bagged the soda can and wrapper, used tweezers to pick up the hair and fiber and bagged them as well as the infant’s sock.

  Surely the woman had a suitcase of some kind. He popped the trunk and found a small overnight bag stowed inside, so he pulled it out and rummaged through it. A pair of jeans, a lime-green T-shirt, underwear—very frilly underwear—a pair of lime-green flip-flops, toiletries, a pair of boxers and tank shirt for sleeping with the words Hot Stuff on the seat of the boxers.

  Not much in the way of clothes—maybe she hadn’t planned on staying long.

  Or she’d left wherever she was so quickly that she hadn’t had time to pack. In fact, the pj’s, T-shirt, jeans all looked new and cheap as if she’d just picked them up at a discount store.

  Still, he found no ID inside. What in the hell had she done with it?

  Ditched it so she couldn’t be traced?

  Of course. She knew someone was after her, so she’d gotten rid of her ID, used cash. And run here to Sam.

  He cursed, his throat working to swallow. And now that the damn perp knew where Sam was, she might be in danger, as well.

  He carried the evidence he’d collected to Turner, who was finishing up with the front door. “Take this and process it, and one of you go over the car once you finish with the kitchen. I want the car impounded, as well.”

  Turner nodded. “I was heading inside now.”

  “Follow me.” John led the way, and Turner went into the kitchen to process it. Sam was still sitting in the rocking chair. The sight of her cuddling the child, looking so protective and loving and—feminine—stirred something deep inside him, and reminded him of a time when he’d thought his girlfriend was pregnant. When he’d been foolish enough to think a woman mattered more than his career.

  Never again.

  “Shh, sweetie,” Sam whispered. “I know you want your mama, but it’s going to be all right.”

  John’s chest tightened. He hoped to hell she was right.

  But judging from the sight of all that blood, the baby’s mother might not be coming back at all.

  SAM GLANCED AT JOHN, and her shoulders bunched with nerves. He looked grim and angry, more brooding than she’d ever seen. “Did you find anything?”

  John shrugged. “CSI is looking. But there was no ID or purse in the car.”

  She frowned, but then smiled down at the baby as she sucked greedily on the bottle. “Her name is Emmie,” she said softly.

  “How do you know?” John asked.

  She folded the edge of the pink blanket back, and he read the embroidered lettering. Peek-a-boo, Emmie.

  At least we know her first name,” he said. “Maybe I missed something in the diaper bag.”

  Emmie drained the bottle, and Sam lifted her to her shoulder, then patted her back. John retrieved the diaper bag, and she watched as he unloaded the contents—diapers, two fuzzy pink sleepers, a plastic duck, rattle, set of plastic keys, three cans of formula, baby wipes, shampoo, lotion and baby socks.

  Just enough things to last a night or two, until Sam could get to the store.

  “No, nothing,” he said. “Not even a credit card or checkbook.” With his gloved hand, he removed a small wad of cash that was tucked inside the diaper bag lining.

  “She was on the run,” Sam said quietly, her heart aching for the baby girl. “Probably from the baby’s father or an abusive man.”

  John frowned. “We don’t know that yet. Hell, she might have kidnapped the kid and was running from the law.”

  “I haven’t heard any Amber Alerts recently, have you?” Sam asked.

  “No, but we don’t know how long she’s been traveling. I’ll check the databases and see if a baby girl has been reported missing lately. How old do you think she is?”

  The baby burped, and Sam smiled. “About two or three months. She’s just starting to hold her head up.”

  “I’ll take your word on it,” he said. “I found registration on the car. It belonged to a man named Harry Finch from Atlanta. Do you recognize the name?”

  Sam shook her head. “No.”

  “You want to tell me what happened before I arrived.”

  Her stomach knotted as the past few hours flashed back. Her expression must have revealed her anxiety, because he stepped closer and pressed a hand to her arm. “Sam, are you all right?”

  She exhaled and gathered her courage. “Yes. I was just thinking about earlier. Before I got home…”

  “What happened?”

  “I saw Leonard Cultrain today,” she admit
ted. “He’s trying to get visitation rights to see his son, and the boy’s grandparents, his wife’s folks, are fighting it.”

  His brown eyes turned darker as he narrowed them. “Let me guess. He threatened you?”

  She shrugged. “He said I’d be sorry I messed with him.”

  “Dammit, Sam, you can’t go antagonizing that man.”

  “I wasn’t,” she said, instantly on edge. “But I have a job to do, and that means protecting his son from him. Little Joey knows Leonard strangled his mother, and is terrified of his father, and so are the grandparents. Joey saw his dad beat his mother more times than I can count.”

  John hissed. “I know. I took the calls myself.” But the patrol officer who’d found Cultrain drunk in his truck the night of the murder had neglected to read the man his rights before arresting him.

  Sam gulped back her fear. “Do you think Leonard came here looking for me? That he might have been hiding out and when this woman came in, he mistook her for me?”

  John studied her for a long moment, his expression guarded. “I don’t know. Judging from the fact that there’s no ID in the car, it’s more likely that the woman was in trouble. But you can damn well count on the fact that I’m going to pay Cultrain a visit.”

  “Shh,” she said. “There are delicate ears around.”

  He arched a brow and leaned over her, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Since when did you develop delicate ears, Sam?”

  She tensed at how close he was. She could see his beard stubble, smell his masculine scent, feel his breath on her cheek. Of course, he wouldn’t think she was delicate.

  Or pretty, either.

  She gestured toward the baby. “I was talking about Emmie.”

  His eyes twinkled, then he pulled back and his frown returned. “Oh.”

  “Thank you, John,” Sam said, banishing any fantasies she might harbor about John Wise, and shifting the baby to look into her big eyes. “I can’t stand to think that this woman might have been hurt because of me.”

  “I’ll get to the bottom of it,” John said. “Meanwhile, what are you going to do with the baby? Put her in foster care?”