Jan Coffey Suspense Box Set: Three Complete Novel Box Set: Trust Me Once, Twice Burned, Fourth Victim

by Jan Coffey

Without waiting for the man’s response, Mick crossed the lawn to his daughter.

  “Come on inside.”

  Her eyes were still tearing when she looked up. She’d washed off the blood from her hands. “Will she be okay?”

  “I think so.” He took hold of Max’s collar. “But I need to talk to you. Come on.”

  She gave him no argument and went up the stairs ahead of him. In the kitchen, he let go of the dog and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of running shorts from a basket of clean clothes sitting by the laundry room door. When he turned back to Heather, she was sitting on a chair at the kitchen table, hugging her knees to her chest.

  “What happened out there?”

  “I thought she was dead.”

  “Did you see it happen?”

  She buried her head against her knees and shook her head.

  “You went out after she was attacked.”

  She nodded without looking up at him.

  “Léa was scared—for you. She asked if you were okay.” Mick crouched before his daughter. “Did you see anyone else out there?”

  She gave a quick shake of her head. “I…I thought she was dead.”

  “Are you okay, baby?” he asked gently, taking hold of her chin and lifting it until he was looking into her tear-stained face.

  She nodded.

  “I have to go outside to talk to the police and check on Léa. You stay right here and—”

  “I’m coming.” She sprang to her feet.

  Mick looked at his daughter for a moment. There was no point in refusing her. He pulled on a pair of sneakers and, leaving the dog inside, went out the back door with Heather on his heels. More of the neighbors had now gathered in small groups by the street. Every light in every house on the street seemed to be on. Léa had a bandage wrapped around her head, but she was sitting up on the stretcher, talking to a female police officer.

  “And you say she’s not here to stir trouble.”

  Mick turned to face Rich Weir, but Heather went past them, heading straight toward Léa.

  “You seem to be a little confused about who’s the victim here, Chief.”

  The square-faced police chief shot him an annoyed look and took out a pad of paper and a pen. “Do you or your kid have anything to contribute to the report on what happened here or not?”

  “Heather came out after Léa was already down. I heard my daughter calling me and came out after that.”

  “Is that her room?”

  Mick looked up at the window where Rich was pointing. It looked down over the Hardys’ backyard and the carriage house. “That’s the one.”

  “Did she see anyone?”

  “She said she didn’t.”

  The chief put the paper and pen back in his pocket and started walking toward the street. Mick went after him. “What do you have?”

  “Nothing. She slipped and banged her head against the door.” He waved impatiently in the direction of the three police cruisers and the emergency vehicle that were blocking the street. “All this manpower wasted, it seems to me. Next time, just take her to the emergency room, why don’t you? Save us some tax dollars.”

  “I think Léa knows the difference between banging her head and having someone attack her.” He stepped in front of the chief and lowered his voice. “Listen, Rich. Don’t have me lose all my respect for you in one night. You’re brushing this thing off because she’s a Hardy.”

  “What do you want from me, Mick?”

  “Check into it right. Are there footprints? My dog went after something at the back wall when we came out. Did you look for any kind of blunt instrument lying around? Fingerprints? How the hell do I know what you should do? This is your job.” He glared fiercely at the chief. “But how can you honestly think a young woman could walk into her own back yard at two in the morning and injure herself that badly.”

  “Because Hardys are walking time bombs. They’re trouble.” Rich looked away, frustration showing on his face. “You tell me why this woman was camping in her car when she has this big house to sleep in? You can’t. I’m telling you, this goddamn family is flat-out screwed up. For all I know, she probably woke up and thought that carriage house was the goddamn outhouse!”

  He stepped around Mick and then stopped.

  “Next time, don’t bother calling us.”

  ~~~~

  “Emily scratched up her elbow and her knees when she fell off the swing in the playground. There were at least half a dozen other parents there. They saw it happen.” Ted tried hard to control his temper. “I would never intentionally hurt my daughter.”

  The Family Services worker, accompanied by a police officer, wanted the names of the witnesses. Ted gave them everything they were looking for.

  Marilyn had called the police. She’d called Family Services, the hospital, her lawyer—every stinking person she knew—to accuse Ted of abusing their child. Just because he’d put a couple of Band-Aids on Emily’s elbow and knees.

  She was sick. Ted now understood it. Accepted it. And episodes like this made him more determined than ever to take his children away from her.

  Chapter 11

  With every word the woman said, it felt like a gong was being struck and left to vibrate in Léa’s head. She knew she couldn’t take much more of this. The medics were looking on in curious disbelief, but the officer continued to ask her questions.

  “One more time. Why did you say you were sitting in the car?”

  “To cool it. To get away from the fumes of the house. Because I couldn’t sleep.” Léa spoke thinly, tiredly. She peered at the name on the officer’s name tag. “Listen, Robin.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Can you tell me what all these questions about me being in my car have to do with the person who whacked me on the head?”

  “We’re trying to figure that out now, ma’am.” The woman jotted something down on her paper again. “Now you said you saw something run through the backyard and that’s when you came out here. Could you please be more specific about what you saw?”

  “I’ve already explained everything I know to you and to your partner.” Léa closed her eyes and wished the pounding would go away. She just wanted to curl up and go to sleep.

  “Do you remember the approximate shape or size of this ‘thing’?”

  She shook her head.

  “Could it have been a stray cat or a dog?”

  Léa opened her eyes and noticed Heather standing a couple of steps away, near a medic who was no longer hiding his impatience. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “Is it possible that you maybe tripped over this thing—this animal?”

  “Someone hit me on the head.” She turned her attention back to the officer.

  “But there is blood on the latch, ma’am. It looks like you cut your forehead on the old door.”

  “I didn’t trip. I must have hit the door on the way down.”

  “It appears as if you were unconscious for a couple of minutes. How can you be so sure what you remember?”

  “I didn’t imagine the voice. Someone cursed at me from behind. I turned and—”

  “But you are not certain if it was a female or male voice. Maybe it was a chirp of a bird or a dog’s bark. Or an owl—”

  “She is not lying, if that’s what you mean.” Heather’s sharp protest was totally unexpected. The officer and the medics turned to the teenager. “I…I mean…I found her. She was covered with blood. Ask these guys.” She motioned to the medics next to her. “There must be a lump on her head. She was really hurt. You can see she still is.”

  “Now back to this noise you heard,” Robin said to Léa, turning her attention from Heather. “Do you scare easily, Ms. Hardy?”

  “Don’t bother, Officer,” Léa said weakly. “You must have decided what happened before you even got here. I’m done talking to you.” She looked up gratefully at the teenager. Heather looked as upset as Léa felt.

  Taking his cue, one of the medics leaned down and told Léa
that they were taking her to the hospital for some stitches and tests.

  Léa felt herself fading. The police officer went on to ask a few more questions, but Léa paid no attention. She was drained, emotionally and physically. Closing her eyes, she held on to the sides of the stretcher as they wheeled her across the lawn. She couldn’t allow herself to remember how vulnerable she’d been, but the word and the sharp blow kept echoing in her head. Someone had been after her. Someone had intended to scare her. Hurt her. Maybe kill her.

  Léa put a hand to her forehead as the gurney stopped. A steamroller of emotion was crushing the breath out of her. Doubts about what she wanted to do and her ability to do it suddenly washed through her, bleeding her of what little strength she had. She was lost.

  She felt a hand, strong and warm, wrap around her cold and bloodless fingers, and she opened her eyes. Mick.

  “We’re following the ambulance to the hospital. You won’t be alone.”

  Léa couldn’t stop the tears from trickling down.

  “Heather,” she managed to get out. “You need to stay with Heather.”

  “She is coming, too.” He gently brushed the wetness from her face. “Everything will be okay.”

  ~~~~

  Her own soft sobs awakened her.

  Without moving, Patricia Webster opened her eyes and stared up through the darkness at the ceiling.

  Again. That horrible dream again!

  Trembling, she took a tissue from her bedside table. Her face was wet. The tears had dampened the hair at her temples. She patted it dry.

  She glanced at the clock. The red numbers showed it was only 4:12. She turned to where Allan should have been. His side of the bed was empty.

  Patricia sat up, suddenly concerned. The door to the bathroom was open, and the light was off. She stared again at the turned-back sheet and leaned over to touch her husband’s pillow. It was cold and smooth. She wasn’t certain he’d come to bed at all last night.

  She slid off the bed and pulled on a robe. The large house was quiet as she padded barefoot down the hall. By Chris’s closed bedroom door, Patricia paused. She’d gone to bed before he got home last night. Allan had been working on his sermon and promised to stay up and wait for the boy. In a moment of panic, she wondered if something had happened to their son. She pushed the door open and peered in.

  From the dim light coming in from the window, she was relieved to make out the silhouette of Chris’s body sprawled on the bed. It was difficult not to go in—not to touch his hair and pull up the covers. It was impossible to let go.

  Despite the urge, Patricia backed out into the hall and quietly descended the stairs.

  The television set in the family room was off. There were no lights on in Allan’s office. He’d not fallen sleep in his favorite chair reading in preparation for the Sunday service. She didn’t recall hearing the phone ring, and besides, he always let her know when he received an emergency call and had to leave in the middle of the night. But then again, she hadn’t heard Chris coming in, either. Perhaps he had awakened her and she just couldn’t remember.

  In the kitchen, Patricia put the kettle on the stove to boil some water for tea. She didn’t bother to turn on the lights. She welcomed the darkness, the safety of her home, the tranquility of night. Yes, tranquility was an increasingly elusive feeling, of late.

  In his practical way, Allan was always pushing her these days to get involved with some committee or the next. He was forever trying to push her out of the house. The thought occurred to her that men rarely understand what women really need. How could she explain to him that this was what she needed? What made her feel safe. What made her happy. Her house. Her family. Why was that so difficult?

  She made a cup of tea and sat in the large bay window overlooking the yard and the pathway leading down to the river walk.

  She’d been sitting only a minute or two before she saw the figure striding up the path. At first she didn’t recognize him, and a sense of uneasiness gripped her. He was moving quickly, a stout walking stick in his hand. She breathed more easily, as he drew nearer. She made out the glasses, the thatch of gray hair.

  Patricia saw her husband stop by the pile of wood they kept stacked beside the shed. She smiled when he tucked the stick he was carrying behind the pile. Allan did so many curious things lately, it seemed.

  He took a couple of steps toward the house, but then stopped and just looked up at the sky. She’d seen him do this before when something was bothering him. He would just stand there—like he was doing now—and stare up at the sky as if he could see God up there. As if he could really talk to him.

  She took a sip of her tea and then turned on the floor lamp next to the window.

  Allan’s face was flushed when he came through the house.

  “You’re up early.” He peeled off the light windbreaker and smoothed back his hair.

  “And you are staying up too late.” She wrapped her hands around the warm cup of tea.

  “Not really. I dozed off working on my sermon and woke up only a couple of minutes ago. I just thought I’d step out and get some fresh air.”

  “I am worried about you, Allan. Worried about us. About…everything.”

  He gave her a confident smile and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

  “There is nothing to worry about, my love. I have everything under control.”

  ~~~~

  Mick started the car and shook his head.

  “You are not checking into any motel, and you are not driving all the way back to your hotel room in Doylestown, either. Sorry, Léa, but you’ve been outvoted. You’re staying with us.”

  As she leaned her head against the backrest, obviously trying to think of her next argument, Mick reached over her, pulled the seatbelt across, and locked it.

  She sighed audibly. “I am not helpless, you two.”

  There was a snort from the back seat. Mick glanced into the driver’s rear mirror and caught Heather rolling her eyes. Something about the expression—the simple response to this situation—made him smile. It was a glimpse of his old Heather.

  He pulled out of the hospital parking lot. Dawn had somehow shoved the night aside while they’d been waiting inside, and the sun was now showing its face in the east.

  “There is no way I can repay you two for what you’ve already done for me. I mean, there was really no reason for you…well, to hang around all this time. And I just feel so embarrassed to be the cause of all this trouble for you. I could have taken a taxi.”

  “Did they give you any prescriptions for sedatives that we should have filled?” he deadpanned. Despite the crown like bandage on her head, Mick saw the narrow glare he was getting in return. “I know the pharmacist in town. I could call him up and—”

  “You’re not calling anyone on my account at this hour. Besides, I’m supposed to stay awake. In fact, the doctor said I should try to keep talking for the next few hours. So are you sure you don’t want to drop me off at the nearest bus stop?”

  “Did we ever buy Max a muzzle?” Heather’s question was so unexpected that Mick burst out laughing. Glancing in Léa’s direction, he saw the smile tugging at her lips, too.

  “Fine! If you’re going to gang up on me, I’ll be quiet now.”

  Despite her effort to be brave, Léa looked dead tired. And that was on top of being bruised and cut and interrogated and sewn up, all in the span of just a few hours. One of the nurses told Mick that Léa had ended up with eighteen stitches. She was also sporting another goose egg a couple of inches from the blow she’d taken to the hairline. That she could have sustained two injuries from one fall, as Rich Weir wanted to believe, was just too much.

  No, that dog just won’t hunt, Mick thought. He was no detective, but he knew enough about medicine and injuries to figure it was highly unlikely that a simple fall could have done that much damage.

  It was understandable that Léa’s return to Stonybrook would be a little threatening to some people in this town, but th
e police chief’s response was way over the top. Sure, a few people might be afraid that she could open up a can of worms, but until tonight Mick would never have believed that someone would actually go so far as to try to hurt her.

  He glanced out at the park as they drove by it, and his blood ran cold as he remembered Heather in that yard crying her heart out. Alone. Afraid. Needing him while he slept. Some father.

  Mick looked at his daughter in the rear view mirror. Her gaze was riveted on Léa. Tonight and this morning, she’d been more responsive—more engaged—than he’d seen her in a long time. She was genuinely concerned about Léa’s condition in that hospital. He had a feeling she was not done worrying even now.

  Mick couldn’t ignore the gnawing feeling that maybe Heather had seen more than she was admitting. He turned the corner onto Poplar Street and pulled the car in front of his house.

  The police cars were gone. There were no signs of last night’s disturbance anywhere. An empty street and quiet houses. Just an ordinary Sunday morning.

  “You take her in, Dad. I’ll go and get her bag.” Heather opened the car door and jumped out before either of them could say a word.

  “I’m really okay,” Léa said immediately. “There’s just too much I have to do today and—”

  “The only thing you have to do is take it easy and get some rest.”

  “Says you.”

  When he wrapped his hand around her wrist, he could feel her pulse racing. Mick’s gaze was drawn to the smooth skin of her neck, to her parted lips, to the ridiculous-looking bandage on her head. Something welled up inside of him, and he couldn’t figure out how she did it to him, even when she looked like this.

  “Don’t make me get rough with you. You will lie down for a couple of hours. After that, you’ll be in better condition to decide.”

  She smiled, and Mick suddenly found himself fighting the urge to lean over and kiss her. Fighting and losing.

  The sight of Heather on Léa’s porch drew his attention, though, and the thought that he shouldn’t have let her go alone rocketed through him. He watched her push the front door open and walk in. Through the curtainless windows, he could see his daughter walking around.