by Paula Graves
John jotted his cell number on the back of the card and handed it to Miranda. “If you have any more questions.”
She took the card and slid it in her pants pocket. “Thanks again for everything.”
She walked out with the sheriff, her gait slow but her spine straight. She didn’t look back. He told himself he never expected her to.
“I’m going to guard the wreckage until the tow truck can get here.” Robertson headed out the door.
John nodded, his gaze still fixed on Miranda. The sheriff opened the passenger door of the cruiser for her, and she settled in the seat, moving gingerly. The aches and pains of the car crash were starting to catch up with her, he realized.
She’d feel like hell warmed over in the morning.
But at least she was still alive. There had been a moment, as he’d approached that crashed cruiser, when he’d been afraid he was about to unbuckle a corpse.
His cell phone rang, loud enough to jangle his nerves. He checked the display. No name or number, just the word unknown across the smartphone’s window.
He answered. “John Blake.”
“You rang?” Alexander Quinn’s voice was low and smooth on the other end of the line.
He had. After calling the Barstow County Sheriff’s Department to ask for backup, he’d put in a call to his boss. Quinn hadn’t answered, so John had left a message for a call back.
“There’s been an incident here,” he said, and briefly outlined the events of the afternoon.
“Any reason to think you were the target instead of the deputy?” Quinn asked.
“I’m not sure,” John admitted. “The deputy doesn’t remember the crash, and I only heard it when it happened. I don’t know how the other vehicle ran her off the road, so I don’t know whether the location of the crash was deliberate or happenstance.”
“The tri-state task force has been rolling up the remainder of the Blue Ridge Infantry over the past few weeks. Lynette Colley’s been talking to the investigators. She’s given them a lot of names and dates they hope to use to bring all the key leaders of the BRI to justice.” Quinn didn’t bother to hide the satisfaction in his voice. Bringing down the Blue Ridge Infantry had been a personal mission for Quinn since he formed The Gates. While the security agency took on plenty of well-paying cases, Quinn always kept some agents working the BRI angle.
John had asked him once why taking down the BRI was so important to him. Quinn’s answer had been simple. “They’re destroying these mountains, one soul at a time.”
“So what you’re saying is, this incident might have nothing at all to do with the bounty the BRI put on my head?”
“It’s not likely that it does.”
“Even with that car idling outside the house?”
“Sounds like the deputy’s the one who has an enemy there in Cold Creek. Any idea why?”
“No,” John admitted, walking across the front room to the side window. He parted the curtains and saw that the snow had settled to a light but steady fall. From here, he could see the wreck of the cruiser and the lanky young deputy standing guard, bundled up against the cold.
Miranda Duncan seemed an unlikely target for murder. Small-town deputy in a place with maybe three hundred residents.
Who would want a woman like that dead?
“Just keep your eyes open,” Quinn said. “We’ve made big progress, but there are still a few members of the BRI and their ragtag crew out there, looking for a win.”
“And getting to me would be a win.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll keep my eyes open,” John answered, his tone flat.
* * *
“YOU SHOULD BE in bed.” Gil Duncan’s voice rumbled from the doorway behind her, drawing Miranda’s attention from the computer screen.
“I’m fine, Dad. Dr. Bennett said the concussion was mild and probably wouldn’t give me any more trouble.” She met her father’s worried gaze and smiled. “I promise. My head isn’t even hurting anymore.”
Not much, anyway. Just a little ache where the doctor had sewn a couple of stitches to close up the head wound.
“What are you working on?” he asked, nodding toward the computer.
“Just some web surfing. Nothing to worry about.”
“Like I’m not going to worry about my daughter rolling her cruiser in a snowstorm.” Gil Duncan sighed, looking as if he’d aged a decade in the past twenty-four hours.
Miranda rose and crossed to where he stood in the doorway, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I really am okay.”
He gave her a swift, fierce hug, a show of affection that he rarely displayed. “Maybe you should get yourself a different career.”
She pulled back to look at him. “Maybe join you at the hardware store?”
“You worked there for years.”
“Which is why I know it’s not for me.” She smiled to soften her words. “You know I love being a deputy.”
“Rebel,” he muttered, but not without affection.
“Go watch your basketball game. I’ll finish up what I’m doing and I’ll join you for the second half.”
She watched her father walk down the narrow hall before she returned to the laptop on her bed.
She was fairly sure the blue sedan parked outside John Blake’s house had been a Ford Taurus. So she’d just run the description through the Texas Department of Motor Vehicles database.
No response yet from the DMV. They’d be looking at a five-county area around Cold Creek, so it was too early to expect an answer yet.
She slumped back against the bed pillows, her gaze wandering around the bedroom that had been hers growing up. The poster of the country band Lonestar taped to the closet door was dog-eared. Softball and junior-rodeo trophies covered the top of her dresser, along with a few blue ribbons from the county fair.
In this room, she felt sixteen again.
Not a good thing.
Sheriff Randall had retrieved her cell phone from the wrecked cruiser and returned it to her at the clinic. It had survived the crash without damage, which was more than she could say for herself. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket now and called the station. The night sergeant, Jack Logan, was manning the desk. “Things still crazy from the storm?” she asked when he answered.
“Duncan, aren’t you supposed to be in bed recuperating?”
“I’m in bed,” she said. “Just a little bored.”
“Well, everything here’s settled down, so it’s not like you’d be any less bored if you were here,” Logan told her in a tone that reminded her of her father. Jack Logan was a thirty-year veteran, winding down his time on the force on the night shift. “Snow’s stopped and the temps should be above freezing by early morning.”
“How about the pileup—how many casualties?”
“No deaths. Fifteen hospitalized but none of the injuries are life threatening. Looks like we dodged a bullet.”
“Some of us literally,” Miranda murmured.
“Ah, hell, Mandy. I wasn’t even thinking.”
“Has my cruiser been towed to Lubbock for examination?”
“Yeah. We got to it by late afternoon.”
Maybe they’d get something from ballistics, Miranda thought.
“They’ve also taped off the area and will do a grid search for more evidence after the snow melts tomorrow,” Logan added.
John Blake would love that, she thought. His privacy had been well and truly invaded today. “Is Robertson still there guarding the crime scene?”
“No. The sheriff figured it was okay to just tape it off and pick up in the morning.”
Miranda frowned, but she supposed the sheriff had a point. The evidence, such as they’d find, was probably in the cruiser anyway. “I’ll let you go, Jack
. Leave the sheriff a note—I’ll be in tomorrow for a debriefing.” She said goodbye and hung up before Logan could protest.
So, the crime scene was sitting there, unprotected, about forty yards from the house rented by a stranger in town.
Hmm.
When she’d first seen John Blake at the hardware store, she almost hadn’t noticed him. He was that kind of guy—aggressively average, at least at first glance.
Up close and in action, however, he was anything but average.
Her uniform pants were hanging over the chair in front of her battered old work desk. She dug in the front pocket, pulling out the card John had given her.
She checked her watch. Nine o’clock. Was it too late to call?
Before she could talk herself out of it, she dialed the number.
John answered on the second ring. “John Blake.”
“It’s Miranda Duncan.”
His tone softened. “Still alive and kicking?”
“So far, so good.”
“The lab guys came and took your cruiser a few hours ago.” She could hear him moving, the faint thud of his footsteps on the hardwood floor.
“So I heard.”
“Any breaks in the case?”
“Not yet.” A draft was seeping into the house through the window over her bed. She pulled up the blanket and snuggled a little deeper into the mattress. “Hopefully we’ll know more after the lab finishes up with the cruiser.”
“I thought they’d have a crime scene crew out here this afternoon, but nobody showed.”
She tried not to feel defensive. “We’re a small force to begin with, we’re temporarily a deputy short and we’re dealing with a snowstorm—”
“Enough said.” John’s footsteps stopped, and she thought she heard the soft swish of fabric.
Suddenly, he uttered a low profanity.
“What?” she asked, her nerves instantly on edge.
“There’s someone wandering around your crime scene,” he said.
Chapter Four
The figure creeping toward the taped-off patch of frosty grass was moving with slow, measured paces. Dressed in what looked like winter camouflage, he blended into the snow-flecked scrub, only his movement giving away his position.
“He’s in camo,” John murmured into the phone, wishing he had his binoculars to get a better look. But he was afraid to leave the window, afraid that if he took his eyes off the creeping intruder, he’d lose sight of him altogether.
“Is he inside the tape?” Over the phone, Miranda’s Texas twang had a raspy touch, reminding him that she’d already suffered through a long, stressful day. Her head was probably one big ache by now, and she had to be bruised and battered from the rollover.
“Not yet.”
“I can get a cruiser over there to look around, but it will take a little while,” Miranda said.
Over the phone, John heard the creak of bedsprings. Was she in bed?
He wondered whether she was a pajamas or a nightgown girl. Or, God help him, was she a woman who slept in the buff? A delicious shiver jolted through him at the vivid image that thought evoked.
He drove his imaginings firmly to the back of his head. “So far, he’s just circling the taped-off area. Maybe he’s just a curious hunter?”
“Is he carrying a rifle?” Miranda asked. He heard the sound of fabric rustling over the phone—was she getting dressed?
“You’re not thinking of driving out here yourself, are you?” he asked.
“That’s my crime scene.” Her tone was full of stubborn determination. “I can get there faster than I can round up a cruiser. I’m closer.”
“That’s crazy—you have a concussion—”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.” She hung up before John could try to talk her out of it.
He tried calling her back, but the call went straight to voice mail. Maybe she was already on the line to her office, rounding up backup.
With a sigh, he shoved his phone in his pocket and turned off the lights in the front room, plunging the house into darkness. Maybe his camo-clad visitor had been waiting for him to go to bed before he made his move.
Ball’s in your court, John thought, grabbing a pair of binoculars before returning to the window. He let his eyes adjust to the change in light until he spotted the intruder again. The man was still circling the yellow crime scene tape, staying outside the perimeter.
He lifted the binoculars to his eyes and focused the lenses on the man in camo. His visitor wore a snow camouflage balaclava covering his mouth, nose and most of his forehead, leaving only a narrow strip of brow, eyes and upper cheeks uncovered. A pair of binoculars hid his eyes from view. He appeared to be using the binoculars to search the ground inside the crime scene tape, sparing him from having to trespass beyond the perimeter.
Suddenly, the man turned his face toward the window, his binoculars seeming to focus directly on John.
John took a step back from the window, but it was too late. The man in camo turned and headed into a clump of bushes north of the house.
John shrugged on his jacket, grabbed a flashlight and took a second to check the magazine of his Ruger before he headed out the door in pursuit.
He’d barely reached the taped crime scene when he heard the sound of a car engine roar to life. A moment later, the taillights of a vehicle stained the night red as a car pulled away from the shoulder of the highway about fifty yards away, heading north. John trekked toward the shoulder of the highway, watching the taillights grow smaller and smaller. About a half mile down the road, the car took a left and disappeared from view, hidden by the overgrown shrubs that lined the crossroad.
John trudged back to the crime scene and flicked on his flashlight, moving the beam over the trampled snow just outside the tape. While there were footprints visible, they were shapeless and free of identifying marks. He searched his memory for details about the man he’d seen wandering about and realized he must have been wearing some sort of boot covers with a soft sole. No wonder he hadn’t worried about tracking through the snow.
He followed the tracks, using his flashlight to illuminate the snow around the crash site. He wasn’t sure what the intruder had been looking for, but he could see nothing of interest. He supposed a crime scene team might be able to glean more, especially once the snow started to melt off the next day.
As he was walking back to the house, he heard the motor of another vehicle. He turned to watch its approach, soon making out the front grill of a large Ford pickup truck. The truck slowed as it neared his house, pulling onto the shoulder in front of him. The headlights dimmed and the interior light came on as the driver cut the engine. John could just make out Miranda Duncan’s tousled auburn hair.
She’d made good time. Great time, actually.
She stopped a few yards away from him, squinting as he lifted the flashlight toward her. “What are you doing out here?”
“The intruder left. I was trying to see where he went, but he had a car waiting.” He aimed the flashlight beam toward the ground, leading her through the snow to where he stood.
She pulled up a foot away, tugging her jacket more tightly around her as a gust of frigid wind blew across the plains, ruffling her hair. “Any idea what sort of car?”
“Too far away to be sure. It seemed to be a sedan, though. Not a truck.”
“Did you see which way he went?”
“He turned left about a half mile up the road.”
She nodded toward the taped-off crime scene. “Did he get inside the perimeter?”
“Not that I saw. He stayed outside the tape, but he was looking around with a pair of binoculars.”
Miranda’s gaze dropped to the pair of binoculars hanging around his neck.
He smiled. “I thought I’d
see what he was trying to see.”
Miranda frowned. “You went to the crime scene? Did you trample over his footprints?”
“He didn’t leave prints.” He told her about the boot covers. “He did seem to be looking for something, though.”
“Like what?”
“I have no idea. I looked around after he left, but I didn’t see a damn thing. I’m hoping maybe tomorrow the crime scene unit will come across something after the snow starts to melt.”
“Tire prints,” she said suddenly, looking up at him. A spark of excitement glittered in her eyes, lighting up her weary face. “Didn’t the crew who came to tow the cruiser make imprints of the tire prints on the road out front? They were supposed to.”
“I think so.” He’d watched them doing something on the road and had assumed they’d been pouring molds of the prints.
“Maybe there are tire prints up the road where you saw that vehicle pull out and head down the highway.”
“The temperature is supposed to be rising overnight. Those tracks—”
“May not be there tomorrow,” she said, already heading for her truck.
He caught her wrist, stopping her forward motion. She looked first at his hand around her wrist, then slowly lifted her gaze to his, her expression bemused.
“You’re supposed to be home in bed, getting rest,” he said. “Not traipsing through the snow in search of tire prints. Besides, isn’t there a unit coming from the station?”
The look of frustration in her eyes was almost comical. “They might obliterate them coming here.”
“Call and warn them.”
“Another vehicle could drive through—”
She wasn’t going to let it go, he saw. “I don’t have any way to make a mold for the tracks, Deputy,” he pointed out. “And neither do you.”
“We could take photographs.”
“Of tire prints in the snow. At night.”
Her mouth pressed to a tight line of annoyance. It was a cute look for her. In fact, his first impression that her features were more interesting than beautiful seemed, if not wrong, at least incomplete. There was an unexpected elegance to her strong bone structure, like the rugged beauty of a mountain peak or a winter-bare tree. A stripped-down sort of beauty that was all substance, all nature’s bounty.