His Witness, Her Child

by Ann Voss Peterson

  Returning her gaze to him, she gave a casual shrug of her shoulders as if losing her beloved brew pub mattered about as much as a hangnail. But try as she might, she couldn’t mask the regret in her eyes. “I took a job as a secretary with a local construction company. It was a good job.”

  “But it wasn’t the work you loved,” he finished. She was amazing. In an age when many parents weren’t even willing to give up a little of their time for their children, Jacqueline had given up everything—her career, her home, her life. He thought of the way she’d vacated her house yesterday morning on her way out of state. Seemingly nothing had been disturbed, nothing was out of the ordinary except the empty table that had once been covered with family photos. She’d taken nothing with her but a few changes of clothes, the pictures and her memories. Once again she’d left her life behind to save her daughter.

  And this time it was him and his fight for justice that had caused it.

  He massaged the back of his throbbing neck and dropped his gaze to the plate in front of him. He needed some air. And more than that, he needed some time away from Jacqueline. Because the time when he’d been able to keep objective about this case was long past. And his feelings for her were getting more personal with each moment he spent breathing in her vanilla scent.

  Jacqueline watched Dillon look down at the eggs and cheddar congealing on his plate as if he didn’t have any idea what they were or how they got there. He pushed the plate back and stood. “Detective Mylinski has some files I need to pick up. I’m going to have to leave for a little while.”

  “Leave?” Her heart stuttered. She shot from her chair, standing on shaky legs. “You can’t.”

  Amanda looked up from her plate, her eyes widening.

  Jacqueline took a calming breath and offered her daughter a little smile. “It’s okay, punkin. Mr. Reese just surprised me.”

  When Amanda turned back to her food, Jacqueline moved closer to Dillon and lowered her voice. “You can’t leave. What if—” She broke off, hoping Dillon would get the gist without her putting those frightful words out where Amanda could hear them.

  “No one knows you’re here. You’re safe. And if I’m going to figure out who is behind the leak in the task force, I need those files. I won’t be gone long.”

  Hollowness descended into the pit of her stomach. Long or not, she and Amanda would be alone in this house in the middle of the woods. At one time being free of Dillon was all she wanted. Now the thought filled her with dread.

  “I’ll leave my gun with you.”

  The gun. Jacqueline’s mind recoiled at the thought. She’d never held a gun in her life. Until Dillon had burst into the bedroom in reaction to Amanda’s scream last night, she’d never even seen one except on television or in the movies. She didn’t want to see or touch one now. And she definitely didn’t want one of the hideous things near her child.

  She glanced at Amanda. Her little girl stabbed her fork into the omelette on her plate and twirled, cheddar twisting around the tines like storm clouds around a hurricane’s eye.

  As much as Jacqueline abhorred guns, she would do what she must to protect her daughter. And if arming herself was the only way, she’d strap on a whole arsenal. “I’ve never shot a gun before.”

  Dillon’s eyebrows pulled together in a frown. He lowered his voice to a rough whisper. “Could you pull the trigger? If he was coming at you, could you use it?”

  She didn’t have to glance in Amanda’s direction this time. She raised her chin. “I’ll do whatever I have to.”

  “You can’t hesitate. Even for a second. If you do, he could take it away from you. It would be worse than not having a weapon at all.”

  She swallowed and drew a deep breath, trying to quiet her jangling nerves. “If you teach me how to use it, I’ll use it. I won’t let him hurt my little girl.” Though barely above a whisper, her voice sounded strong and sure and determined, even to her own ears.

  He leveled his black gaze on her and nodded. “Maybe there’s something on television Amanda would like to watch. I’ll be waiting in the living room.”

  It didn’t take long to settle Amanda in front of the Batman cartoon, and soon Jacqueline was standing in the living room, reaching trembling fingers toward the gun in Dillon’s hand.

  “Don’t worry. It won’t go off. I unloaded it.” He flipped open the cylinder to show her. “See? It’s perfectly safe.”

  A bubble of laughter caught in her throat. Hysterical laughter. Panicky laughter. The gun looked perfectly safe. It looked like a shiny new toy. A Lone Ranger cap gun that belonged holstered around a little boy’s waist.

  Bang, bang, you’re dead.

  She shuddered as her fingers touched its cold nickel-plated finish. This gun was no toy. It was hideously real. “Bullets or no, this thing isn’t perfectly safe. Not in my hands, anyway.”

  His low chuckle was warm, reassuring. He moved behind her, his chest brushing her back, his arms circling her in an embrace.

  She soaked in the warmth of his arms, of his body, and struggled to keep her mind on the gun.

  He pressed it into her fist. Covering her hand with his, he molded her palm and fingers around the weapon’s handle. His hands were big and engulfed hers, his skin deliciously rough. “I’ll let you get the feel for it before I show you how to load it.”

  The gun’s leaden weight settled in her hand, straining the muscles in her wrist and arm. She gritted her teeth and tried to hold it steady, but despite her effort, the barrel dipped and bobbed. “It’s heavy. I can hardly lift it.”

  “You’ll need to use two hands.” Dillon found her other hand and positioned it on the gun. “It also helps if you lean against something like a doorjamb or piece of furniture to steady yourself. Here. Lean back against me.”

  She braced herself and leaned back against his broad chest. His warmth seeped into her. His scent swirled through her.

  He snuggled up behind her, fitting his body intimately with hers. “Stand with your feet about shoulder-width apart. This foot slightly back from the other.” He brushed the outside of her thigh.

  A wave of heat spread through her. She bit her bottom lip. Concentrating on the weapon in her hands, she stretched the gun out in front of her and adopted a pose she remembered Angie Dickinson using in the opening of the old television show Police Woman.

  “Good, but keep your left elbow slightly bent or the gun’s recoil will make you unsteady.” He pressed the inside of her elbow with his fingertips, guiding her to the proper position.

  She eyed the barrel of the gun, unmoving now in her outstretched arms. “How do I aim it?”

  “If Swain is coming after you, you won’t have time to aim. Just point at the center of his body and shoot. You’ve got to make every second count. Pretend the door is him.”

  She did as he instructed, pointing at the middle of the front door. She closed her eyes, tensed her shoulders and jerked back on the trigger. A dull click came from the weapon.

  “Let’s try that again,” he said patiently, his breath tickling her cheek. “This time keep your eyes open.”

  She hadn’t even realized she’d closed her eyes. If Swain had been coming at her, it would be all over. “Right. Eyes open.”

  “And try not to tense up.” His warm hands cupped the muscles of her shoulders, gently massaging. “Tensed shoulders make for poor shots. Take a deep breath and let it out while lowering your shoulders. At the end of the exhale, that’s when you fire.”

  “Got it.” She stretched the gun out in front of her.

  “Instead of pulling the trigger, think about squeezing it. Slowly.”

  His voice, so gentle and close to her ear, conjured up images of hands roaming over bare skin…slowly squeezing. She drew in a shaky breath.

  “Now exhale and lower your shoulders.”

  She let the air stream from pursed lips and lowered her shoulders.

  “Now squeeze.” His smoky drawl washed over her, and with it both chills and fire
.

  She squeezed the trigger. The gun clicked.

  She could feel him smile. “That’s my girl.”

  She let his praise wrap around her, soak into her like the heat of his body.

  “So, do you feel safer?”

  His question caught her off guard. Now that she could fire a gun, now that she could defend herself and her daughter, did she feel safer?

  No.

  But it wasn’t the hunk of metal in her fists she had to blame. It was something far more dangerous. The heat of his body, snug against her, the whisper of his breath in her ear.

  It didn’t make sense. He was a man with a personal crusade, a man who lived and breathed justice, a man who, as soon as this case was over, would go on to the next and leave her and Amanda far behind.

  But his touch tempted her to forget all these things. Each sensation was loaded. And the feelings smoldering within her were far from safe.

  Chapter Seven

  Dillon flipped the truck’s sun visor down, adjusted his sunglasses to fight the sun’s glare off the rows of cars in the mall parking lot and leaned back in the seat to wait. And think.

  Damn. This morning’s breakfast with Jacqueline had shaken him down to the leather soles of his Tony Lama boots. He didn’t even have to close his eyes to picture the passion she had for her former life as a brewmaster. Her squint-eyed determination when learning to fire his gun.

  And he would never forget the feel of her body against him. Her softness, her scent. It was scorched into his mind like a brand on a calf’s hide.

  He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. He had to get his mind off Jacqueline and on his case against Swain. It was the only way he could help her, the only way he could ensure her daughter’s safety. He needed justice in this case. Not just for himself, not just for Swain’s victims, but so Jacqueline could take her little girl and return to the life she’d been forced to give up—that he’d forced her to give up. To the happiness she deserved.

  And that was what had brought him to the bustling parking lot of West Towne Mall. The files.

  He checked his watch. Two o’clock. Time to move. He dismounted from the truck. After slipping his key into a magnetic key box, he fastened it under the truck’s trailer hitch and set out across the parking lot.

  He bypassed the mall’s entrance, striding around the building’s periphery instead. His boot heels thunked on the pavement. It felt good to stretch his legs, to draw the frosty air deep into his lungs. At least he was doing something. Taking a step toward finding the snake who had fed Mark’s and Valerie’s whereabouts to Swain.

  It didn’t take long for him to reach the opposite side of the mall. He scanned the parking lot. Sandwiched between a minivan and a sports-utility vehicle, Al Mylinski’s ancient blue Impala caught his eye. Good old Mylinski. Right on time as usual.

  He examined the lot again, this time looking for anyone watching the car. A woman herded her flock of children toward the mall’s entrance. A couple marched toward their car, engrossed in an animated argument. No sign of Swain. Mylinski had either lost him in traffic, or Swain had followed the detective into the mall on his shopping excursion.

  Dillon strode across the parking lot. Reaching the Impala, he ran a hand under the car’s front bumper. His fingers hit a small metal box like the one he’d attached to his truck’s bumper. He detached the box and removed the Impala’s keys, unlocked the door and folded himself behind the wheel. He glanced into the back seat. Two boxes of files perched on the worn vinyl upholstery. Personnel files. Case files. Two paisley-print suitcases peeked out from behind the boxes. And three bags of groceries sat on the floor.

  Everything he needed.

  He slipped the key into the ignition. The car sputtered, then roared to life. He shifted the car into gear and headed back to Jacqueline, Amanda and some answers.

  “WHERE THE HELL WERE YOU?” the voice blared from the phone receiver.

  Buck Swain clenched the phone in his bad hand until the slick red knuckles turned pale. He wasn’t about to tell anyone that he’d spent the morning traipsing through a shopping mall. That he’d been so intent on shadowing the bald detective that he hadn’t realized, until Mylinski climbed into Reese’s pickup, that he’d been had. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to stay by the damned phone like we agreed.”

  Swain ground out his cigarette butt in the overflowing ashtray. “Agreed, my ass,” he mumbled under his breath. He hadn’t agreed to anything. He’d been ordered. “Get to the point. Why’re you calling?”

  “I think I know where the girl is.”

  A jolt of adrenaline shot through Swain’s bloodstream. “Where?”

  “I have one last thing to check out. I’ll know if my hunch is right by tonight.”

  Tonight. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Plucking one from the pack, he tapped the filter on the table before lighting up. He didn’t like killing kids, but he’d get over it. It was a choice between him and her, after all. And he wasn’t going to spend even one day in prison.

  He took a deep drag, filling his lungs with smoke. Hate ate at his gut. Hate for the coward on the other end of the line. A coward who had no problem barking orders from justice’s ivory tower, but would never—could never—pull the trigger or drag a knife across an outstretched throat and feel the shudder as life left a human body.

  No. Murder was too distasteful, too messy for a weasel like this. “Bullet or knife?” he goaded.

  The voice on the other end of the phone hesitated. “Just do it. I don’t want to know how.”

  He could imagine the shudder. He prodded further. “And the mother? How do you want her done?”

  Again the voice hesitated.

  Damn coward.

  “Do whatever you have to do, Swain. I’ll call tonight. Stay by the phone until I do.”

  Swain sneered into the receiver. Do whatever he had to. Exactly what he’d intended to do from the first—what he had to. No matter who got in the way.

  PERCHED ON THE EDGE of the bed, Jacqueline moved her hand over Amanda’s back in time to the soft sigh of her little girl’s breathing. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the shuttered blind on the window, casting a pattern of yellow lines on the navy comforter. For the fifth time in five minutes she eyed the glowing numbers of the alarm clock sitting on the tall chest of drawers. Ten minutes to two.

  Dillon hadn’t been gone long, she told herself. But her stomach tightened anyway. The hour since he’d left Amanda and her alone in the house seemed like forever.

  She dragged her gaze from the clock, pausing on the gun resting next to it. The muted sunlight reflected off the polished silver barrel.

  Shuddering, she looked away from the obscene thing and back at her sleeping daughter. Her arms ached to hold Amanda, to press that precious little body to her breast and never let go. Not until this nightmare was over. She brushed her lips on Amanda’s forehead. Inhaling deeply, she drew her little girl’s scent into her soul. Warm sleep and peanut butter.

  Tears blurred Jacqueline’s vision.

  She’d wanted her daughter to grow up the way she had. She’d wanted her to have a safe childhood. An innocent childhood.

  Not a childhood full of danger. Not innocence marred by murder and guns.

  A sob she couldn’t contain racked her body. She pressed her hand over her mouth, stifling the sound. The last thing she wanted to do was wake Amanda.

  She stood, forced her feet to carry her to the chest of drawers and lifted the gun gingerly by the grip. Slipping out of the room, she left the door open a crack and flicked on the hall light. A shaft of light shone into the room, a beacon if Amanda should wake after darkness fell. After one last glance through a haze of tears at her peacefully sleeping daughter, she made her way down the short hall toward the living room. Once there, she lowered herself into the soft embrace of the couch.

  She set the gun on the cushion next to her and allowed tea
rs to flow silently down her cheeks and drip off her chin. Tears for Mark, for Val, for herself, but mostly for Amanda. For the childhood she’d lost. For the innocence she’d never have again.

  Her eyes burned, her lower lids felt as swollen as if a fist had pummeled them and her body ached with exhaustion. But she couldn’t stop crying.

  Not until the rattle of a car entering the driveway cut the silent room like a hail of gunfire.

  The sound wasn’t the low growl of Dillon’s truck but the high-pitched wheeze of a car on its last legs. Dashing the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand, she grabbed the gun from the cushion beside her and ran to the kitchen window. Parting the blinds ever so slightly, she peered out at the driveway.

  A rust-pocked blue car pulled into the detached garage. A car she’d never seen before. A stranger’s car.

  Her blood turned to ice. She fitted the gun into her hands and rested a trembling finger on the trigger, the grip slippery in her sweaty palm. Holding her breath, she waited for the driver to emerge from the vehicle and approach the house.

  The car door opened.

  Dillon stepped out.

  Her knees swayed. Relief pounded through her head. Slumping against the window frame, she lowered the barrel, pointing it to the floor in front of her.

  Letting the gun dangle in one hand, she ran her fingers through her tangled hair and wiped her tearstained cheeks dry with the other. She didn’t want him to know she’d been crying. Somehow her momentary breakdown was too intimate, too personal to share with anyone.

  When Dillon finally walked in the kitchen door, a large cardboard box in his arms, her breathing had slowed somewhat. His black eyes took in her face and the gun in her shaking hand. Concern widened his eyes. He set the box on a kitchen chair and stepped toward her, so close she could feel his body heat emanating from him in waves. “What happened?”