Back to Life

by Linda O. Johnston

  As Hayley stood, the waitress came over with their bill and they split it three ways.

  “See you both soon,” Skye said. “Let’s go, Bella.”

  As she drove along the boulevard lined with restaurants filled with patrons, she saw a sporty car speed by under the streetlights and start weaving in and out of the slow traffic.

  She wasn’t on duty, nor was she a patrol cop. Even so, she radioed the dispatcher. Just then she heard the sound of a horrible collision.

  “Oh, no,” Skye whispered. Her services would be needed this night, and not simply as a cop. She told the dispatcher to send emergency help and then parked along a red-painted curb, pulled out the ID she always kept with her and stuck it on the dashboard.

  “Come on, Bella.” She grabbed her dog’s leash. As they ran down the crowded street, she heard the screams of horror and pain.

  The faint, distant chanting inside her head told her that someone was mortally hurt.

  The EMTs, who included Kara, arrived five minutes after Skye helped extract the injured from the piles of twisted rubble. The driver of the speeding car was unconscious. Possibly dying. So was the passenger in the other car.

  Skye was furious, but the driver was a teenager. Too young to die. And as she touched his bloody arm to read him and determine whether or not to help him, she sensed he’d been speeding for a reason.

  Kara glanced toward Skye as she hurried toward the other severely injured person. Moments later the pounding in Skye’s head started again, followed by the familiar chanting of female voices. It grew stronger. She closed her eyes and saw a vision of the rainbow bridge. She was not on it this time, but Kara was there helping a beaming senior citizen to her destiny.

  It had not been very long since Skye had saved Trevor Owens. The boy on the ground in front of her was almost as severely injured. Should she save him? It was time to decide.

  She grasped his arm tighter. He opened his eyes, stared blankly and whispered unevenly, “Mom…Hospital…Is she okay?”

  That was it. His reason for speeding. That poor family. He would die in moments if she did nothing. And so: It’s not your time yet, she told him silently. You will live.

  As one of the EMTs bent over the young man, Skye suddenly felt a familiar exhaustion from saving his life by imparting to him a small part of her own life force. She also felt an impulse to return home to her family in Minnesota. There, she wouldn’t be faced with these wearing, heartrending decisions so often. So inevitably.

  “Don’t even think about going home,” Kara said firmly as if hearing Skye’s thoughts. That wasn’t one of their abilities…but they knew each other very well. “We do lots of good here. We save lives. You saved one tonight.”

  Trevor was across the street, watching from the shadows.

  He had just left Edinger when he heard Skye’s first call over the radio. Though off duty, he’d decided to see if he could help.

  He’d arrived after the accident, around the same time as the EMTs who aided the injured. He had parked and rushed over, only to realize there was nothing for him to do but observe.

  He was reminded somehow of the day he was shot—of waking briefly to see Skye bending over him.

  Was the woman a masochist, intentionally putting herself in situations where people were injured, maybe dying?

  Well, hell. She was a cop. Of course she’d be around murder and mayhem.

  But still, there was something else he sensed about her and the way she acted around people who were injured. Something related to how she had somehow gotten beneath his skin?

  Okay, maybe he just had a stick up his behind because he wasn’t the only one hurt that she felt sorry for. Jerk, he told himself. But he wasn’t convinced that was all.

  He would find out more about her, and the odd stuff that kept yanking at him. Maybe not tomorrow, at dinner with her.

  But he definitely would find out.

  Chapter 9

  T revor arrived at the station the next morning before the early shift’s roll call. He didn’t want conversation till he’d had a cup of coffee, so he ran up the back steps to the second floor. There, in the blessedly empty kitchen, he punched buttons on a machine that brewed the hard stuff, full of caffeine. Grabbing his full ABPD mug, Trevor headed to the SWAT team office and sat at a worn wooden desk, booting up a computer. Fortunately, he was the only one there, although at least one other computer was on.

  He had slept well the night before—but he’d have slept a lot better if he fully understood what he’d seen at that damned accident site.

  He looked up Eddy Edinger’s file. Trevor had the guy’s home and work addresses, but hadn’t found out if he had family around Angeles Beach. The computer file indicated he had a sister in nearby L.A. That might be useful. He printed the page.

  “Hey, Owens. You’re here early.” It was Sergeant Carl Shavinsky, who’d been with SWAT since the beginning of time—or at least the creation of the ABPD SWAT team. Like Trevor, he was dressed for training. What was left of his hair was a graying stubble, and all the skin on his face, from beneath his eyes to under his chin, seemed to sag.

  “Yeah. I couldn’t wait to get back out there for another session of sweating and taking orders from you.”

  Shavinsky laughed. Then he turned serious. “You heard the latest about Marinaro?”

  “The son of a bitch is dead?”

  “Don’t I wish?” Shavinsky took a seat behind the desk where the computer was already on. Despite the sagging of his face, his body was one of the fittest on the team, and that was saying something with this bunch. “No, the detectives following the latest anonymous leads came up with something yesterday, but it wasn’t Marinaro, not directly.”

  “What was it indirectly?” Shavinsky had Trevor’s attention.

  “Looked like he might have been through his home after the last time our guys checked it out. There’d been messages on his answering machine that had been erased. He could have done it by pressing in codes from someplace else, but it doesn’t matter. The detectives listened to them first and have been checking out the callers.”

  And maybe a K-9 sniffer should check out Marinaro’s humble abode, to try to confirm whether those calls were listened to from away or from home. But a could a trained dog determine how recently the person leaving a scent had been there, or communicate it? No matter. It was still a possible excuse to get Skye Rydell involved.

  “Great. See you at roll call,” he said to Shavinsky. He’d had an idea who to talk to about capturing Skye’s attention.

  He headed for the crowded bull pen where patrol officers gathered and horsed around before roll call.

  Trevor strode in as if this were his usual hangout. “Got a minute?” he said quietly to Gollar.

  The short-haired rookie regarded him warily with chilly blue eyes. “Maybe. What’s up?”

  Trevor was about half a foot taller and had to bend a little so only Gollar could hear what he was about to say. “I need to talk to you about Rydell.”

  If Gollar had looked mistrustful before, now he appeared as suspicious as a prosecutor with a lying witness on the stand.

  “I’ve asked her to work with me on finding Marinaro, and I need your input on how to talk to her without having her tell me exactly where to put my unofficial investigative ideas.”

  Gollar’s expression softened. “Talking to Skye isn’t hard,” he began softly. “But getting her to go along with you is another matter.” Then, seeing that others around them were watching, he said, “Hey, I need some coffee. Wanna join me?”

  “Let’s do it,” Trevor said.

  Skye hadn’t slept well. Thoughts of yesterday’s accident victims intertwined with uneasy dreams about her upcoming dinner with Trevor. She didn’t always recall her dreams, but these had been vivid, filled with clever repartee and hot, sexy innuendoes that she would never, ever say in real life.

  In any event, she’d been groggy on awakening and was running late. She made it to roll call j
ust in time. Fortunately, there were still a couple of seats left among her unit members.

  “Decided to get some beauty sleep?” razzed Manny Igoa over the roar of voices, a grin splitting his long face. He sat tall in his folding chair as his dog, Rusty, sniffed a greeting to Bella.

  “Not me, but you might try it someday,” Skye teased back. She gave him a once-over and frowned as if dismayed by what she saw.

  Beyond Igoa, Tritt laughed. “She’s got you there, Manny.” His K-9 partner, Storm, joined the other two on the floor beside the row of seats in the quickly filling room.

  Her human cohorts had moved over, giving Skye the end seat. That put her nearest the dogs, so she held Bella’s leash taut while keeping close watch on the others. She faced the open door when Ron walked in, neatly dressed in his navy ABPD uniform. There was a seat in front of her and she motioned to him to go there, but he seemed engrossed in conversation with someone behind him who hadn’t yet rounded the corner. Someone taller.

  Trevor Owens appeared in the doorway. To her knowledge, Ron and Trevor never conversed before, except, maybe, the way fellow officers generally acknowledged each other. But Ron wasn’t SWAT, so he wasn’t of interest to Trevor.

  Or so she’d assumed.

  Both nodded a greeting toward her. As they passed, Ron smiled, gave Bella a pat, and then moved on with Trevor, toward the back of the room.

  Pretending to fuss with Bella’s leash, Skye drew in her breath. What did Ron and Trevor have in common? And what were they talking about?

  Trevor was almost amused at Ron Gollar’s subdued excitement about getting to sit with the SWAT guys.

  Oh, he hid it—or at least tried to. Trevor introduced the fit but naively fresh-faced cop to the other guys, though he probably knew most, if not all, the team members.

  “Guys, you know Ron, don’t you?” As always, they were poking fun at half the other cops in the room—and preparing gibes for the rest.

  “Yeah, Gollar and I have met,” Carl Shavinsky acknowledged, and gave a snide grin that lifted some of his many skin folds. “He carried some equipment out when I loaded the van the other day.”

  “Nice stuff,” Ron said.

  Just then Captain Boyd Franks appeared at the podium.

  “The chief looks pissed,” Ron said.

  “Sure does,” Trevor agreed. While pretending to focus his entire attention on the chief, whose scowl deepened as he thumbed through the pages he had brought to the podium, Trevor looked sidelong toward the person on the end seat in the fifth row.

  Of course he had noticed Skye the instant he’d walked into the room. Although he had pretended not to see the distractingly gorgeous K-9 officer, he had noted her curious and somewhat displeased glare as he and her buddy Gollar walked toward the back of the room.

  She seemed to be having a hell of a good time, animatedly talking to her fellow K-9 officers. She turned sideways a lot, giving Trevor a good view of her luscious profile.

  “Okay, everyone.” Captain Franks’s creaky but loud voice reverberated as he spoke into the microphone. “Before we begin our morning’s official agenda, I want to mention to you again the department’s concern about how Edinger got off on a technicality. We’re still working on scheduling a mandatory class on Fourth Amendment rights and what constitutes an illegal search and seizure, but until we do, I want to give all of you some reminders.”

  Fourth Amendment rights. What about victims’ rights? Trevor wondered. And not just in this case, but in the other similar, unsolved cases that were probably also Edinger’s handiwork. With the scumbag of a suspect on the loose, innocent citizens were placed in unnecessary danger.

  Trevor would attend the mandatory class, of course. Give lip service to Fourth Amendment rights, getting warrants when needed, whatever.

  But he’d do so while handling the situation himself.

  His own way.

  Chapter 10

  A fter roll call, Skye wanted to work off her frustration and so was glad when Curt Tritt decided they all needed a major K-9 training session.

  She led Bella outside to where the other dogs were already lined up with their handlers. Ken Vesco and Bandit had arrived after an early-morning veterinary checkup. Now the two were leading the training maneuvers, with other officers working their dogs accordingly. They mostly had different specialties. Bandit’s was to scent out drugs and contraband, Rusty’s was crowd control and Bella’s and Storm’s was to track suspects at crime scenes. Fortunately, the ABPD’s brass believed in versatility, so they all trained in areas besides their primary ones.

  Today’s exercises consisted of working with the dogs on the attack command. Each took turns assaulting its trainer’s arms, which were covered in bulky protective gear.

  Igoa started the exercise. After his shepherd wrestled him to the ground, it was her turn. “Attack, Bella!” she commanded.

  Bella did so magnificently, wrestling a struggling yet cooperative Skye onto the grass, stepping on her to hold her down and placing her muzzle gently against her neck. In a situation where a real suspect was being subdued, Bella would bare her teeth and growl.

  “Relax,” Skye commanded.

  She put Bella through another exercise. When done, she glanced toward the doorway into the station—and there stood Trevor, watching. Skye felt a frisson of pleasure, glad they’d done things so well while being observed.

  But after nodding at her, he disappeared back inside, which left her feeling confused and ill at ease.

  Trevor had paperwork to do before heading to the firing range for practice. He still felt stiff and wanted to be sure his marksmanship wasn’t affected.

  But as he walked through the halls toward the SWAT office, all he could think about was Skye. He was drawn to the smooth, graceful way she moved, her loving firmness with her K-9 partner and her empathy about Edinger’s release and the department’s inability to locate Marinaro. He would use it to appeal to her, to make sure she agreed to use her dog to locate Marinaro. But that would be later.

  It was only midmorning. He had hours before his one-on-one with Skye. Well, one-on-two, since she’d bring Bella.

  But, as it turned out, dinner with Skye and Bella wasn’t in the cards that night.

  When he returned to the station late in the afternoon after a stint at the off-site firing range, he got a call on his radio. “All SWAT officers,” boomed Shavinsky’s voice. “Call out to a possible crime scene. A 911 came in from a female, age unknown, who claimed someone’s stalking her.” His tone grew gruffer, as if he spoke through clenched teeth. “Sounds like a possible episode with our buddy Marinaro, guys. Let’s get him.”

  Hell. Trevor’d had every intention of working on Marinaro’s case that night—his way. The thought that the SOB might have harmed another woman made him clench his fists.

  He would bring the guy down…. If not tonight, via official means, then by using whatever it took.

  No way would this creep continue his murderous rampage.

  Skye shuddered as she stood outside the charming beaux arts–style theater where Marinaro was supposedly holed up with his latest victim, a young woman who had managed to call 911.

  Was she still alive? No one had heard from her again.

  She was an actress affiliated with the thespian group that put on plays in this historic theater. That’s what some of her friends and coworkers who’d shown up to gawk had said. They were now kept back beyond the crime scene tape. Skye remained with Bella, who whined as she obediently continued to sit on the sidewalk.

  Skye remained alert, ready to give Bella the command to search for a suspect the moment she herself received orders to move.

  For now, it was up to SWAT yet again. They were preparing for their dynamic entry. Hopefully, they would not be too late to save the woman.

  The nearby street was filled with black-and-whites, their occupants squatting behind them in case shots were fired. The big, boxy SWAT van was right up front. The crime scene perimeter stretched w
ay beyond the block, with officers holding back the crowd. The sound of police and media helicopters filled the air. So did excited shouts.

  The SWAT team members were all geared up, clad in their protective clothing, assault rifles and semiautomatics at the ready.

  What would happen if this suspect once again opened fire?

  What if someone on the SWAT team was hit?

  If Trevor was hit again?

  Could she save a victim more than once?

  “I don’t even want to think about it,” she whispered to Bella.

  “You okay, Skye?” Ron was suddenly at her side. He, too, had been called out to this site, assigned to work crowd control. Of all the people here, only he would have a sense of what she was going through.

  Not all of it, though. He couldn’t possibly know how scared she was for Trevor’s sake, how she feared she would be unable to help him if things went bad.

  “This waiting’s getting to me,” was all she admitted.

  It appeared Ron felt the same way. He looked pasty against the deep blue of his uniform. “We need a win against the bad guys here,” he said firmly.

  And then—flash! Bang! The door to the theater was battered down. The SWAT team burst in.

  No sound of shots fired. Thank heavens!

  Maybe this was a false alarm.

  And then…the syncopated banging of gunshots resonated from somewhere inside. Oh, Lord, were any SWAT guys down? Skye had no sense of anyone hit. No chanting filled her head.

  More shots…Loud. Assault weapons fired. “Officer down!” came the shout over the radio.

  No additional gunfire. Time for her to go in with Bella. Track the suspect. Act by instinct. Once more, she could not wait for official orders.

  But which officer was down?

  This time, Skye wasn’t alone. She had her gun drawn as Bella and she cautiously entered the premises with Curt Tritt and Storm.

  What would they find inside?

  The good thing was that she still heard no chanting in her mind. No telling how badly injured the downed officer was, but for this moment, at least, he wasn’t dead. Or even close to dying.