His Witness, Her Child

by Ann Voss Peterson

  Turning her back on the open stretch of field where Swain lurked, she glanced up the slope to the white-fenced cow yard, to the barn beyond. Only about half a football field. Half a football field and she’d be able to put a cement wall between her little girl and Swain. Half a football field and she’d be able to call for help.

  She spun back to Dillon. A cold tremor started deep in the pit of her stomach. “Come with us. He could shoot you. He could—”

  He grasped her shoulder, his grip firm, reassuring. “I know who I’m dealing with, Jacqueline. This is our best bet. I’ll be right behind you. I promise.”

  She looked into his dark eyes. She had no choice but to believe him. She had to get Amanda to that barn. She had to call for help. “I’ll hold you to that promise.”

  A smile curved the corners of his mouth. “I expected you would.” The smile disappeared. He nodded toward the farm. “The telephone is near the front of the barn.”

  Jacqueline nodded. “I’ll find it.”

  “Just call 911. Tell the operator you’re here with me.” He turned back to the cornfield. His eyes narrowed to slits. “When I say move, I want you to run for the door of that barn as fast as you can.”

  Jacqueline heaved Amanda higher on her hip. “Hold on tight, baby.”

  Amanda tightened her grip. She laid her little head on Jacqueline’s shoulder, her warm breath fanning her neck.

  Dillon positioned the gun in front of him. He rose from the ditch. “Move.”

  Jacqueline straightened to her feet and lunged up the slope to the road. She raced over the road, her boots clattering on the hard pavement.

  A shot from Dillon’s gun split the night. And another.

  She bolted through the ditch on the other side of the road and up the slope. Reaching the white fence, she ducked between the boards.

  She straightened and plunged ahead into the cow yard. Her feet broke through the icy crust on the surface and sank into thick, muddy sludge. She trudged through the sludge. One foot after the other. Cold seeped into her boots, making her feet ache.

  Shots rang in her ears.

  Amanda whimpered.

  “It’s okay, baby. We’re almost there.” She fought on. The mud sucked at her boots and oozed over her ankles.

  Finally she reached the huge sliding door of the barn. She grabbed the steel handle, her gloves snagging on the door’s rough wood. She gave the door a push.

  It didn’t budge.

  “Hold on tight, Amanda. I need both hands to push open this door.”

  Balancing on her hip, her daughter hugged her neck tightly. She let go of Amanda and grasped the handle with both hands. Bracing herself against the stone wall, she shoved the door with all her strength.

  The door runner creaked its protest. Slowly it slid open. One foot. Two feet.

  She slipped into the darkness.

  Oppressive heat and humidity cloaked her like a thick blanket. The sharp odor of cow manure filled her mouth and nostrils and clogged in her throat. Dark shapes surrounded them in the darkness.

  As her eyes adjusted, she could see a row of cow rumps framing both sides of the aisle where she and Amanda stood. The closest were craning their necks to peer at them with big shiny eyes. The low rumble of grinding teeth churned through the barn like the constant buzz from a beehive.

  Amanda gasped. She squeezed Jacqueline’s neck tighter and buried her eyes in the hood of her parka.

  “It’s okay, punkin. Cows like people. They won’t hurt us.” Jacqueline sized up the beasts. Or would they? When it came right down to it, she didn’t know what cows would do. Although she’d lived in Wisconsin much of her life, she hadn’t seen cows up close until now.

  The muffled report of a gunshot infiltrated the barn.

  Jacqueline’s heart lurched.

  She had something a lot more dangerous to be frightened of than cows. She had to find a telephone. And she had to do it now.

  Dillon had said the phone was at the front of the barn. But which end was considered the front? She peered through the shadows on either side of the door. No sign of a phone. It must be on the other end.

  Walking down the center aisle, she strained her eyes to see through the darkness ahead of her. Moonlight glowed through a window up ahead. She focused on the light and walked toward it. Sweat beaded on her forehead and drenched the tendrils of hair framing her face. The cows shifted and stomped in their stanchions.

  Reaching the other end of the barn, she dodged around a snowmobile parked in the middle of the aisle. An old telephone was attached to the wall under the window. She grabbed the grungy receiver off the hook and raised it to her ear.

  No dial tone.

  Dread trickled down her spine. Cradling the receiver in the crook of her neck, she pressed the hook several times. Still nothing.

  The phone was dead.

  The house. Would the phone in the house also be dead? She had to find out. She had to get to the house. She wiped the grime from the windowpane with her gloved fingers and peered out into the night.

  A farm light cast an orange glow over the driveway and yard. No fences stood in her way. Nothing to slow her down. She could easily run across the open space to the house.

  The farmhouse’s hulking shape loomed at the edge of the hill. Dark. Seemingly deserted. Even if the Meinholzes had gone to bed early, the sound of gunfire echoing through the valley surely would have awakened them. The family must not be home.

  Which meant the house was likely locked.

  Defeat landed like a hard kick to her stomach. She would never be able to break in to the house and find a telephone in time. And for all she knew, the phone in the house was dead, too.

  She thought of Dillon hunched down in the ditch, trying to keep Swain at bay until help arrived. But with no phone, help wouldn’t arrive. How long before Dillon would run out of bullets? How long before Swain shot him down?

  She turned away from the window. Stepping back into the barn’s murky darkness, she almost ran into the front runner of the snowmobile.

  The snowmobile.

  She set Amanda on the padded seat and knelt next to the machine. It was newer than the model she’d driven at Mark’s friend’s cabin up north, but the important things were still the same. The accelerator. The steering.

  And the key was in the ignition.

  They just might get out of this yet. They could just hop on the snowmobile and head over the crest of the hill. Away from Swain. Away from danger.

  But first she had to go back and get Dillon.

  She took Amanda’s hand and led her to the corner of the barn. Hollowing out a small cave among old milking equipment and pieces of lawn furniture, she checked for signs of mice and other vermin. Thankfully the Meinholz family kept a clean barn. She nestled Amanda into the protective little shelter. “I want you to stay here and hide, sweetheart. After I go out and pick up Mr. Reese, I’m going to take you for a snowmobile ride.”

  DILLON LIFTED HIS HEAD and peered over the lip of the ditch. The cornfield stretched in front of him, shorn stalks jutting up out of the snow like stubble on a chin. He narrowed his eyes and strained to catch a glimpse of movement. A whisper of sound.

  Somewhere out there Swain bided his time. Or advanced. Or lined up Dillon in his sights. The cold, malevolent feel of his presence seemed to hang in the air like the late-winter chill.

  Hell, Dillon probably wouldn’t even be able to spot Swain until it was too late. After all, Swain was used to crawling on his belly, waiting for a clear shot at the enemy. He’d spent the better part of his life in special forces doing just that.

  And Dillon was no soldier.

  He could only hope Jacqueline had reached the telephone and had made the call. He could only hope that help was on its way. Because there was no telling how long he and the Defender could hold off a professional soldier like Swain.

  Not very damn long, he’d be willing to bet.

  A loud buzzing noise, like a bee on steroids, came from the
direction of the barn. Dillon tore his attention from the cornfield. A dark object streaked across the snow. It skirted the orange glow of the farmyard light and headed straight for the ditch.

  “What the hell?”

  A snowmobile hurtled toward him. A single figure huddled on its seat. Jacqueline.

  She was crazy, risking herself to save him. Plumb crazy.

  And she just might be the bravest damn woman he’d ever met.

  He swung back to the cornfield. If he’d spotted her, so had Swain. He had to keep the sharpshooter off balance. He couldn’t give him time to line her up in his sights. Dillon rose on his knees on the edge of the ditch and fired several rounds into the cornfield.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jacqueline pilot the machine across the road and into the protection of the ditch.

  Dillon scrambled to his feet and fired another round into the cornfield.

  She slowed the snowmobile.

  He mounted while it was still moving, swinging his leg over the seat, settling in behind Jacqueline. He circled one arm around her and fired his gun over his shoulder with the other as they sped back to the barn.

  Once they reached the barn, it didn’t take but a few seconds to pick up Amanda. Then they were off, over the hill. And away from Swain.

  Chapter Ten

  Jacqueline secured the towel over her wet hair in a turban and stepped out of the musty steaminess of the motel’s bathroom. Even though she had scrubbed every inch of her skin, she could still smell the sharp tang of cow manure. It was as if the odor had penetrated her pores and melded with her very being.

  At least once they had abandoned the snowmobile and rented a car they had been able to find a discount store open so she could buy some new clothing for herself and Amanda. Not that the blouses, jeans and boots she’d grabbed were any great shakes. But they were clean. And they carried that new-clothes smell instead of the stench of cow.

  She walked from the bathroom and focused on her little girl still sitting on the multicolored bedspread, still staring blankly at the television screen. Frightened but alive. Funny how her mind could wander to trivial things such as the smell of cow manure after what they’d been through.

  She sat on the bed next to Amanda. Her hand still trembled as she smoothed it over her little girl’s damp-from-the-shower head. She unwrapped her own hair from the towel turban, letting her wet waves fall around her face. An unopened McDonald’s bag perched on the bedside table. Neither she, Amanda, nor Dillon had touched their burgers. After the nightmare they’d survived tonight, she didn’t have to wonder why. Jacqueline couldn’t even imagine eating.

  She had come so close. So close to losing her little girl. So close to losing Dillon. She shuddered with the memory.

  Just a few short hours ago she had been primarily worried about protecting Amanda’s heart. And her own. Worried her little girl would adopt Dillon as a father figure. Worried they both would be devastated when this ordeal was over and he walked out of their lives.

  But Swain had changed all that.

  He’d almost killed Amanda. Almost killed them all. Getting through this alive was the only thing Jacqueline could worry about. Everything else could wait until Swain was in prison and they were safe. Then she would have plenty of time to help heal her little girl’s frayed emotions and broken heart.

  And her own.

  A key rattled in the lock, and even though she knew who was on the other side of the door, she tensed with the sound.

  The door swung open and Dillon strode into the room. He offered her an exasperated look. A wavy lock of black hair slanted over his forehead, matching the ebony of his eyes.

  A tingle stole over Jacqueline’s skin at the sight of him. For a moment she just stared, drinking him in. They were alive and together and every moment, every glance, every breath seemed new and precious and so, so fleeting.

  His eyebrows rose. A smile crooked one corner of his lips. “Hi, there.”

  “Hi.” She couldn’t help but smile. He probably thought she was crazy, staring at him this way. She was. But she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t pull her eyes away.

  He stepped toward her, his gaze skimming over her damp, curling hair and discount-store clothes like a starving man eyeing a Thanksgiving turkey. “You look so clean and fresh and…beautiful.”

  Heat and pleasure flushed through her. It was such a simple statement, and yet it filled her with more pleasure than she’d felt in a long time. She liked the fact that he thought she looked beautiful. She liked it far too much. “Thank you.”

  “I should be the one thanking you.”

  “For what?”

  “Picking me up with the snowmobile. It would have been safer for you and Amanda to take off in the other direction and leave me there.” He shook his head, a spark of humor kindled in his dark eyes. Humor and something that resembled admiration. “That was plumb crazy. You know that, don’t you? Crazy or brave.”

  He was right. It had been crazy. It sure hadn’t been bravery. God knew she certainly wasn’t brave.

  She thought of Dillon firing at Swain from the ditch, holding off the killer while she took Amanda and ran for the barn. By staying in that ditch, Dillon had put his life on the line for Amanda and her. He’d vowed to protect Amanda with his life, and he’d kept that vow. And she was grateful.

  More than grateful.

  She folded her arms over her middle in an attempt to still the tremble in the pit of her stomach. Drawing herself up, she cocked her head and looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “I couldn’t let you fend off Swain single-handedly and take all the glory, now, could I?”

  A short laugh escaped his lips. “I figured it was something like that.” The smile faded from his eyes, replaced by a look so intense it caused a shimmer to dance along her nerves. The heat of his gaze was palpable in the musty air of the motel room. “Whatever it was, thank you.”

  Her pulse beat faster. Her nerves pulled a little tighter. She knew she should thank him back, or toss him a chipper, easy “you’re welcome,” but the words caught in her throat.

  She bit her bottom lip and let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Did you get in touch with Detective Mylinski?”

  He frowned and paced across the room, back to business, the moment between them broken. “Not yet. He’s not home. He’s not downtown. I can’t imagine where he could be. Unless he decided to take a trip to his fishing cabin in the middle of an investigation.” He gave a short laugh as if that was unlikely and slid into a vinyl-upholstered chair near the door.

  Cold foreboding niggled at the back of Jacqueline’s neck. She pushed up from the bed, crossed the room to the table and lowered herself into a chair next to Dillon. “What if something’s happened to him?”

  Dillon’s eyebrows turned down. “Like what?”

  “What if Swain killed him?”

  He dismissed her concern with a wave of his hand. “Swain has no reason to kill Mylinski. Mylinski’s fine. He’s probably just neck-deep in his investigation and hasn’t checked his messages.” He looked down at the contents of his briefcase spread across the table in front of him and began studying a file as if not giving her query a second thought. But she couldn’t help noticing a note of tension in him that hadn’t been there before.

  “Have you found anything in the files?”

  He paused a moment before raising his eyes to hers. “Not a thing.”

  Each folder on the table was labeled with a name. Dex Harrington. Kit Ashner. Britt Alcott. Dale Kearney. The members of the violent crime task force. One of those people had told Swain where he could find Mark. Where he could find Val.

  And tonight, one of them had told him where he could find Amanda.

  She spotted the name on the folder in front of Dillon. “Dex Harrington?” Mindful of Amanda lying on the bed behind her, she lowered her voice. “It was Kit Ashner who came to the house tonight.”

  “But she said she’d been sent by the task force, and
I’m inclined to believe her. I’ve already been through the files I have on Kit. I didn’t find anything to tie her to Swain. Not a damned thing.”

  Jacqueline shook her head. All she knew was that one moment Kit was at Dillon’s door asking where Amanda was, and the next moment Swain was waiting outside. “Just because there isn’t an obvious connection in these files doesn’t mean one doesn’t exist.”

  “You’re right. There may very well be something I don’t know about.”

  “Have you found anything suspicious about Dex Harrington?”

  “Not yet.” He dropped the folder back into his briefcase. “Damn. If only I had the files I loaded into Mylinski’s car back at the house.”

  “What’s in those files?”

  “More court records. Personal history, that sort of thing.”

  “Can Detective Mylinski bring those files to you?”

  “If I could reach him.” He leveled his black gaze on her, the fine lines around his mouth deep with tension. He lowered the volume of his voice even further. “Until I can get in touch with Mylinski, we sit tight and wait.” His words sounded so ominous, so bleak.

  “Wait for who?” Swain? Anxiety and frustration made her skin feel too tight.

  “For Mylinski. He’s likely checking out other leads as we speak. Eventually I will get in touch with him.”

  Unless he was dead. “And while we’re waiting? What do you suggest we do? Twiddle our thumbs?” She caught herself just as her voice began to rise. She knew she was being irrational. Panicky. But somehow she couldn’t help it. She stole a glance at Amanda over her shoulder.

  “While we’re waiting, I’ll go through these files again. Line by line.” His voice was calm, soothing. He leaned toward her and fixed her with an intense gaze. “If there’s a connection to Swain in these files, I’ll find it. I promise.”

  She dragged in a breath and tried to swallow the bitter bile of frustration. “I know.” He was doing his best. If there was anything, anything at all in those files, he would find it.