Send Me a Hero

by Rita Herron

  Send Me a Hero

  by Rita Herron

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Darkness hung in Veronica’s bedroom like a cold black cloud. She awoke with a start, her heart pounding. The light she kept burning in the bathroom had gone out—or had someone turned it off? She froze, momentarily paralyzed with fear. Someone was in her apartment. She could feel his presence.

  Her chest constricted so tightly she couldn’t breathe. She strained to hear, praying she was just imagining the intruder, but a creaking sound echoed through the eerie quiet. Footsteps padded across the carpet. Terror rippled through her as she frantically scanned the room. A whisper of someone’s breath penetrated the silence. As her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, she spotted a shadow silhouetted against the far wall near the door, but it disappeared so quickly she wasn’t sure it had really been there.

  Was she having another nightmare? The shadow moved, appearing ominous in the dimness of the room. The silver glint of a knife flickered in a ray of moonlight trickling through the venetian blinds. A chill slithered up her spine. Someone stood, hovering in the doorway, staring at her. And she had no place to run. Trembling, she scooted back on the bed and reached for the phone.

  Just as her fingers closed around the handset, the dark shadow lunged over her bed and straddled her. The phone fell off the hook. The sound of the dial tone rang through the room. She flung her hands at the man and kicked wildly, but his heavy weight settled against her body, pressing her into the mattress. He snapped her hands above her head in one fluid motion. The scent of cheap cologne and stale tobacco wafted around her, turning her stomach sour. His hot breath scorched her neck, and she tried to scream, but he pressed a pillow firmly over her face, muffling the sound. The heat of his sweating body seeped into hers. Something sharp pricked her upper arm. Then her hands were free and the point of the knife jabbed into the soft skin at the base of her throat. She was too petrified to cry out.

  Determination and anger replaced her fear. She would not just lie here and let someone kill her.

  Shoving with all her might, she bucked upward, twisting sideways in an attempt to dislodge him. Then she swung her fists wildly and slammed against his body, managing to knock the pillow away. She grabbed his arm and wrestled for the knife. The blade sliced into her wrist, but she barely noticed the pain as she fought for her life. With one last desperate effort, she managed to knee him, causing him to fall to the floor. The knife dropped onto her bed. She grabbed it and lunged for the man as he reached for her again. A loud groan escaped him, and she thought she’d stabbed him. He jerked backward and stumbled against the wall, then knocked over her lamp with a loud crash, shattering it into tiny pieces.

  Gasping for air, she stared in horror at the blood-covered knife in her hands. Blood seeped from her arm and trickled onto her bedclothes. Her gaze swept the room again for her attacker. Had she mortally wounded him?

  Panic raced through her. She needed to run. To scream. But her limbs felt like lead pillars, and her vocal cords had snapped shut. The man’s heavy breathing rattled through the room. The stink of death permeated the air like the last burning embers of a fire. Veronica tried to shout for help, but the wretched sound she made came out as a whisper.

  Her attacker groaned. Staggered. Collapsed against the plush carpeting in the doorway. Veronica’s breath came out in shaky distorted pants. She grabbed the phone from the floor and pressed the button down for the dial tone, then punched 911. Dizzy with fear, she closed her eyes in an attempt to regain her balance. This time the police would have to believe her. They couldn’t laugh her away as a paranoid, helpless woman like the last time she’d called. After all, an unconscious—perhaps dead—man lay sprawled on her bedroom floor. That was all the evidence they would need.

  Another wave of dizziness assaulted her. Veronica fought the nausea, fought the exhaustion, but lost. Clutching the phone in one hand, she closed her eyes and mumbled for help, but the light slowly faded around her and she drifted into a sea of darkness.

  DETECTIVE NATHAN DAWSON heard the police call come in over the radio dispatch, quickly dropped his soggy hamburger into its paper wrappings and picked up the receiver. “Dawson and Ford here.”

  “Ten-thirty. Intruder. Possible homicide. Caller is in the vicinity of Green and Washburn.”

  “We’re in the area,” Nathan said. “Specifics?”

  “Address—apartment J-5, Bainbridge Apartment complex. Report came in from a woman,” the dispatch officer said. “Not sure if the perp is still in the apartment.”

  Nathan glanced at his partner. Ford arched his bushy eyebrow and continued to chow down on his thick hamburger, using his tongue to lick the mustard dribbling down his pointed chin. The man was disgusting. Nathan already sensed tension between them. He wasn’t sure why, but Ford had made it clear he didn’t want a partner—especially him. He had to admit the feeling was mutual.

  “Got a name?” Nathan asked.

  “Not yet. Running the address through the computer now,” the dispatch officer said.

  “Caller still on the line?” Nathan had already turned the car around and was heading in the direction of the complex.

  The officer on the other end sighed. “No. I’ve already radioed the paramedics. She sounded out of it, like she might have been on drugs. Only thing she said was, ‘Help me, I think I’ve killed someone.’ Then she must have passed out or…”

  The officer didn’t have to finish the sentence. Nathan knew what the or meant. She might be hurt, she might be dead. Or the whole thing might be nothing. As a policeman, he never knew what he was going to walk in on. Always be prepared—it was the motto a policeman lived by—either that or die. “We’ll be there in five. Over.” Nathan flipped on the police siren and headed down Main Street, passing idle motorists and slipping through traffic with practiced ease.

  Ford shook his head in disgust. “Can’t even finish a damn hamburger without some ruckus going on at that apartment complex. Fourth call we’ve had this week.”

  “I’m surprised. Seems like a classy place.”

  Ford spoke through a mouthful of food. “Some nutcase has been calling in. Hope to hell this ain’t her. Might have us a repeated homicide caller.”

  Nathan kept his eyes trained on the road ignoring Ford’s blasé attitude. He hoped Ford proved to be a responsible partner; he was cautious about who he trusted to cover his back. A blue-and-white pulled up just as he swerved into the parking lot. His hand automatically checked his gun as he climbed out. “Check the exterior of the complex,” he told the uniformed officers.

  The man-woman team nodded. Each apartment had its own outside door and private entrance. Nathan and Ford moved silently to the one marked J-5.

  The apartment was dark, the door unlocked. Ford maneuvered the flashlight inside the doorway and rolled it around the room, sweeping it with a dim stream of light. Weapon ready, Nathan slowly entered the apartment, his ears pricked, his gaze penetrating the darkness and scanning the den. Sofa, chairs, entertainment center, fairly empty room. Ford checked the small white kitchen, gave him a nod, and Nathan checked the outer bath. Small, but neat. Even in the dim light he could tell the front living area hadn’t been disturbed.

  A slight moan rumbled f
rom the back. He and Ford exchanged glances and crept to the door. Nathan eased it open, his .38 poised. Tiny rays of moonlight sliced the darkness, and he spotted a figure lying in the rumpled bed. Broken glass lay shattered on the floor. Pillows and magazines were scattered around, a pair of black heels tossed in separate directions. Another groan pierced the air. Nathan moved closer to the figure.

  “If there was an intruder, he’s not here,” Ford said.

  Nathan stood beside the bed, quickly assessing the situation. The woman groaned as if she was frightened or in pain. Drops of blood were splattered all over the bedclothes and she held a bloody knife clutched in one hand. Blood oozed from an open wound in her right wrist, and a tiny droplet lingered on her throat. “Get me some towels from the bathroom,” he ordered Ford.

  First he had to remove the weapon, in case she woke up and tried to use it on him. He replaced his gun in its holster, slipped the knife from her fingers, jerked a plastic bag from his pocket and dropped it inside. Ford tossed some towels his way. Nathan slowly lowered himself beside the woman and wrapped one around her wrist tightly, then pressed another on top to stop the bleeding.

  “She gonna make it?” Ford asked, walking around the room.

  “Yeah. But she’s lost some blood.” Nathan noted the pale color of her creamy skin against her long dark hair and his heart thudded. “Miss, miss, can you hear me?” he asked, gently shaking her.

  “She’s a looker, ain’t she?” Ford moved up beside him.

  Nathan glared at his partner. “Hit the lights and bring the team in to start looking for traceables.” Ford leered at him but left the room.

  The woman’s dark eyelashes fluttered, and her soft pink lips quivered as she tried to speak. She had a small frame, almost lost in the blood-splattered white cotton gown, high cheekbones, and dainty fingers that were well manicured but devoid of nail polish. He quickly inventoried her body to see if there were other wounds. Her skin was flawless, her legs long and slender. There didn’t appear to be any other cuts, except a point where it looked like the knife had pricked the skin at the base of her throat. Bruises marked her other wrist and slender thighs.

  He heard the wail of the siren and breathed a sigh of relief. The paramedics would arrive soon. She was much too beautiful to die.

  “I KILLED HIM, NO…NO,” Veronica mumbled. She kicked at the tangled bedcovers in an attempt to escape the horrible nightmare.

  A hand gripped her arm, and she threw up her other hand in defense and screamed. Thank God the sound came out. Maybe this time someone would hear her before he killed her.

  “Miss, it’s okay. I’m Detective Nathan Dawson, Oakland County Police Department.”

  Veronica drew back and clenched the sheet to her chest. Trembling, she forced herself to open her eyes, expecting to see the shadow from her nightmare.

  The man sitting beside her flashed his badge. “Can you tell me your name?”

  Veronica nodded numbly. “Veronica…Miller.”

  The detective offered a smile. “Lie back and relax, Ms. Miller. Then tell me exactly what happened.”

  Still disoriented, Veronica stared at the handsome detective as he propped a pillow behind her back. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but the badge seemed real. She felt unsteady and confused, and so weak she thought she might faint. How had this man gotten into her apartment?

  “The paramedics will be here any second. I have to keep pressure on your wrist wound.”

  Dazed, Veronica glanced down and saw the bloodstained towel he’d wrapped around her arm. The horror and reality of what had happened seeped in, and she trembled.

  “It’s okay, now. We’re going to take care of you.” The man’s deep, husky voice soothed her nerves. A calmness enveloped her. Finally someone was going to listen to her.

  “You told the 911 operator that you’d killed somebody.” The detective stretched one long leg out in front of him.

  “What?” Veronica swallowed. She didn’t remember making the phone call. She especially didn’t remember admitting to murder.

  She started to push her tangled hair away from her face, but realized her fingers were covered in a red sticky substance. Blood. Her stomach roiled. Visions of the attack flashed through her mind. The detective wiped her palms with a towel, then pressed a clean cloth to the cut on her arm.

  Veronica bit her lip. This couldn’t be happening—not again.

  “Once again, miss, you said you killed someone.” Detective Dawson gave her a concerned look. “Can you tell me exactly what happened? Was someone in your apartment?”

  Veronica glanced around the room, searching for the shadow of the body she’d seen collapse on her floor. Nothing. “I don’t understand. He was right there.” She pointed to the floor beside the venetian blinds. Blue lights swirled and flashed outside her window. An approaching siren wailed loudly. Her stomach turned again.

  “He put a pillow on my face. He tried to smother me. I couldn’t breathe.” She pressed her hand to her throat, gasping for air as she relived the horror of the attack. “I fought him, knocked the knife out of his hand. But the room was dark, so dark, and I tried to call for help, but I felt dizzy.”

  “You’re okay now, Ms. Miller,” the deep voice said softly. “Try to relax. Take a deep breath.”

  Veronica’s gaze swept the room. Panic crawled through her. It hadn’t been a dream. She hadn’t imagined the stranger in her apartment. But where was his body? “He attacked me. He was going to kill me. What happened to him?”

  Pieces of her shattered lamp littered the floor, pillows had been tossed around the room, her makeup and perfume bottles were overturned on her dresser. Her breathing came out in sharp pants. “I…where is he?” She searched the detective’s face but saw nothing except questions in his troubled expression.

  “That’s what I need you to tell me, miss. You were alone when we got here. You’d passed out. The phone was off the hook and the door was unlocked.”

  “No,” Veronica said vehemently. “I always lock my door. Always. And the windows, too.”

  Detective Dawson nodded. Another man entered the room, taking big, lumbering steps toward Veronica. His rough appearance and chilly expression made Veronica shiver.

  “This is Detective Ford,” Dawson said.

  The man scrubbed his hand over his bristly red beard. “Dawson, we didn’t find anyone here. Dead or alive.” He stared at Veronica. Wariness settled over her. She’d dealt with skepticism all her life. This man didn’t believe her. His glowering look said everything. Coming back to her hometown had been a mistake. Her grandmother had always told her to stay away, but her grandmother’s death had prompted the return of her childhood nightmares, and she’d felt compelled to come back.

  Ford must have recognized her name from when she’d called in before. He probably thought she was a psychotic, paranoid woman. Veronica forced back a sob and searched her mind for an explanation, aware Dawson was studying her. “There has to be a body. He fell. He collapsed right in front of me.” But then she’d collapsed, too. Her head still ached. And why was her mind so foggy? She felt as if she’d been asleep for days.

  The two detectives exchanged looks. “No sign of forced entry,” Ford said. “No footprints outside the window.”

  “The knife you had, was it yours?” Detective Dawson asked.

  Veronica nodded. “It…it looks like one from my kitchen.”

  “Dust everything,” Dawson said. “And have Handley canvass the adjacent apartments—see if they saw or heard anything.”

  “Will do.” Ford cast Veronica another smug look and headed toward a uniformed policeman standing in the doorway.

  “Check the carpet for hair fibers, too,” Dawson said.

  “I’m on it,” Ford said, smirking at him.

  Dawson raked a hand through his sandy, unkempt hair. Veronica rocked herself back and forth, striving for calm.

  “Can you give us a description of the intruder?” Dawson’s voice sounded deep and husky, and
Veronica’s anxiety mellowed slightly.

  “I didn’t see his face. He was just…big.” She tugged the sheet tighter around herself, and suddenly realized she wasn’t wearing anything but a skimpy cotton gown. And it had drops of blood all over it.

  “Think, Ms. Miller. You might have seen something that could help us. Did he have a limp? A scar? Did he say anything?”

  Veronica shook her head, realizing how little she really had seen. She noticed the strong chiseled jaw, the small cleft in Detective Dawson’s chin, the bronze tones of his skin. She forced herself to try to remember details about the other man. “He had on a mask or something. Maybe a stocking. And he wasn’t quite as tall as you.”

  Detective Dawson scribbled in his small notepad.

  “And he smelled…”

  “Smelled like what?” Dawson asked.

  Veronica closed her eyes. “Like sweat and some kind of cologne.”

  “Did you recognize the cologne?”

  Veronica shook her head. “I don’t think so. But there was something else.” Her mind was still foggy, and the more she tried to remember, the more her head ached. “I can’t remember.”

  Dawson nodded. “It may come back to you. If you remember anything, today or tomorrow or anytime, let me know.”

  “I will,” Veronica said, tightening her fingers around the sheet.

  Ford came back in, a scowl on his face. He’d obviously heard her comment. He lumbered over and planted one beefy leg on her cream-colored ottoman. “The neighbors say they didn’t hear anything unusual,” Ford said. “Are you sure you weren’t entertaining and things just…well, got a little out of hand?” Ford raised his eyebrows suggestively.

  Fury churned through Veronica. “How dare you insinuate such a thing. I thought you were supposed to be a policeman—here to help protect the citizens.” She squared her shoulders and tried to sit up as she leveled a cold look at Ford, but fell exhausted back against the sheets. She was unaware the movement caused the bedding to fall to her waist until she caught the nicer detective staring at her and realized she’d exposed her gown. A blush crept up her neck and she reached for the blanket.