Back to Life

by Linda O. Johnston

  Skye and Tritt entered the picturesque old theater’s velvet-trimmed lobby cautiously, dogs at their sides. Last time she’d been called out to a similar scene, Skye hadn’t had time to grab a K-9 ballistics vest from the station to protect Bella.

  This time, both Bella and Storm wore vests.

  None of the SWAT members was in the lobby. Tritt spoke into his radio. “K-9 units 2 and 9 here. Need instructions. Anyone see the suspect? Over.”

  “Come inside the theater,” said a half-garbled voice Skye didn’t recognize. “We got a weapon here you can use for scenting. Over.”

  A weapon. One the suspect, Marinaro, must have handled. Did that mean he was unarmed now? She prayed that was so.

  But where was he?

  Which officer was down?

  She found out quickly after Tritt and she entered the auditorium from the back, behind the plentiful tiers of seats. It was a lovely old place, complete with crystal chandeliers and carved wooden balconies.

  Nothing as horrible as a shooting should occur here—unless it was fake stuff, onstage.

  Tritt and she hurried down the aisle with their dogs. Shavinsky had been hit in the shoulder. He sat at the edge of the stage. The room had been cleared, and a couple of other SWAT guys were seeing to his wound until the EMTs could get there.

  Where was Trevor?

  And the woman who’d made the original call? “Has anyone found the victim who called 911?” Skye asked.

  “Not yet.” Shavinsky shook his head slowly. His color wasn’t good. Skye hoped the EMTs got to him before the trauma caused any further injury—like a heart attack. “The other guys went to look for her in the dressing rooms behind the stage.”

  That must be where Trevor was. Unless, of course, he followed Marinaro—a possibility that made Skye cringe inside.

  “Curt, why don’t you see if Storm can follow the suspect from the scent on the weapon he was handling? I’ll take Bella to try to find the victim.”

  Tritt agreed, and one of the SWAT guys worked with him, showing him the vicious-looking handgun now in a plastic evidence bag.

  Skye led Bella up stairs at stage right, then behind painted scenery that resembled a meadow till she found a door. Her hand on her weapon, Skye slowly pushed open the door.

  No sounds, and no reaction from Bella indicating that she sensed anyone’s presence.

  The hallway was dimly lit at the floor level, probably what was used when a play was going on. Skye motioned for Bella to stay at her side. She heard nothing, but Bella did. The dog stood at attention and stared down the hall, her pointed ears moving like active antennae.

  “Go,” Skye whispered.

  Bella led her to the farthest door. It was closed. Bringing her gun hand again to firing position, Skye waited a moment, then slowly tried the knob. It didn’t turn, but now Skye, too, heard a muffled sound from inside.

  The suspect?

  After giving hand signals that told Bella to stay, Skye raised her leg and thrust it hard at the door, praying it was as flimsy as it appeared. It opened hard, slamming against the wall at the far side. Half expecting gunshots to fly into the hallway, Skye ducked as she both aimed her weapon and blocked Bella.

  Nothing—except for more muffled noises.

  After looping Bella’s leash around her wrist, her other hand still grasping the Glock, Skye entered.

  Still moving cautiously, she reached for a switch on the wall. In a moment, light flooded the room—revealing a half-clad woman lying there. Something was tied around her mouth. “Officer requests backup,” she said into her radio, describing where she was. “I’ve located the victim.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the woman was draped in towels and was hysterically describing what had happened. Several officers had joined Skye to listen. Her attacker definitely sounded like Marinaro. Her fearful 911 call, which she made before he’d grabbed her, probably saved her life, since he’d had time only to sexually assault her before hearing the flash-bang entry of the SWAT team. He’d worn gloves, a mask and a condom, so she wouldn’t necessarily be able to ID him and DNA evidence might also be inconclusive. He had bound and gagged her, and he’d left the room.

  “Do you know where he’s gone?” Skye asked.

  “No,” wailed the woman. “I think he came in through the tunnel to the parking lot that the actors and stagehands always use. He may have gone back that way.”

  Along with other officers including Ron, Skye headed, with Bella, back into the hall. She determined to take Bella and follow the directions the victim had given for finding the tunnel.

  “Hey, Gollar,” said Ron’s partner, Jim Herman, when they were near that backstage area. “Let’s go at this the other way. Come with me to the parking garage.”

  “Roger.” Ron started after him, then stopped. “Tritt will come with you, okay, Skye?”

  “I’m fine,” she told him. And mostly, she was. But she couldn’t help wondering where Marinaro had gotten to—and whether Trevor had already found him.

  The fact she’d heard no more gunshots was a good thing…wasn’t it?

  Bella pulled on her leash. “Go ahead, girl,” Skye encouraged.

  Bella led her down the way she’d come, from the stage area, as Tritt and Igoa went the other way. But instead of turning right, Bella pulled left, to a jog in the hallway.

  Behind a protrusion in the wall was a door. To the tunnel?

  As cautiously as her training had taught her, Skye again unholstered her weapon and prepared to go through the door.

  Then a volley of gunfire sounded. Some of the shots came from an assault rifle. Trevor’s?

  Skye turned the knob and thrust the door open. She grabbed Bella and pushed her out of the way, bracing her own back against the wall.

  Nothing.

  Except for a low, keening chant inside her head. Someone was injured. Seriously. Who? She wouldn’t know until she reached the scene.

  Not Trevor. It couldn’t be Trevor.

  The hallway was well illuminated by recessed lights in the beige plaster ceiling. Its floor was a pattern of brown and white vinyl squares.

  No one appeared along its length.

  Cautiously, Skye darted along it. When she reached the end, she saw an open doorway to her left. No one was visible, but the doorway appeared to lead into the parking lot.

  Still grasping Bella’s leash, she hurried that way—and heard the radio at her belt crackle. No time to respond. She turned the corner—and there was Trevor. Kneeling on the floor of the parking lot.

  “No!” she cried, rushing to him even as the pounding, the chanting, swelled and engulfed her mind. Bella barked, staying with her.

  “Skye, I missed him, damn it.” Trevor looked up grimly. A middle-aged man in a suit was crumpled on the floor, blood pooling beneath his head. “He shot this civilian—to distract me. He’s not breathing. I’ve started chest compressions and called for the EMTs.” Trevor recommenced the CPR.

  Skye closed her eyes. Her mind filled with the vision of the man on the rainbow bridge. She knelt beside Trevor and reached for the man’s hand. Now she saw herself join the victim, who was shouting in her mind. “No. Not now. My kids! My wife.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Skye whispered. Could she bring him back? No. She couldn’t, and it hurt her. He was too far gone, shot in the back of the head. No way could he survive. Skye quickly steeled herself, swallowed her sorrow. What she could do was to see that he made it over the bridge, to a comfortable eternity.

  “It will be all right. You’ll see.” She held on for another minute, and then the figure on the bridge relaxed, giving in to the inevitable.

  “Thank you,” he said brokenly. “It wasn’t your fault. I’ll be fine. I can feel it.”

  Tears filled Skye’s eyes in her vision—and in reality. She felt them spill over her cheeks, even as she opened them and found Trevor, who was no longer giving CPR, staring at her. His hand was touching the man’s neck as though seeking a pulse, and he looked at her wi
th concern—and curiosity.

  “He’s gone,” Trevor said. “What the hell were you—”

  But before he could say anything else, Skye dove into his arms, which opened reflexively. She held him. Tightly. “It’s so sad,” she cried.

  He drew her to her feet. She looked up to find him still staring…but this time there was more in his gaze. Something heated. Something incredibly suggestive and sensual. She realized how closely their bodies were fitted together.

  They were alive.

  And suddenly, but as if they had been waiting forever for this moment, she strained upward and he complied, covering her mouth in a hot and welcome kiss.

  Chapter 11

  G houlish? Hell, maybe it was, to be standing here in a public parking lot, lip-locked over the newly deceased body of this civilian. But he didn’t stop. No way.

  Her sweet, sweet lips on his, burning them. Burning every inch of him as he pressed against her soft curves and ached for more. It was all he could do not to grind his growing erection against her. But she felt it and pushed toward him, as if she wanted to join him. Be part of him.

  He wanted more. Lots more. No way was he ending this kiss. Not this fast. If only they were alone, someplace private. Someplace where gasoline fumes and oil and mustiness weren’t mixing with the soft, floral scent of her.

  Then he could pull off her uniform. His uniform.

  But they were on duty. This was wrong…for now. Even so, he reveled in the sensations of her mouth, her tongue, against his.

  Ghoulish? This was a celebration of life. His life, for he had almost died a couple of weeks ago. And Skye—had she helped to bring him back? The hell if he knew. She could just have been messing with his mind the way she was now messing with his body and all its sensations.

  “Trevor,” she murmured against his mouth, pulling back a little. Her beautiful blue eyes opened, looking both dazed and shocked at the same time. “We can’t…This isn’t…”

  Bella suddenly barked, and Trevor heard footsteps running in their direction. “Damn,” he muttered. Within seconds, Skye was several feet away and focusing her attention on her noisy dog.

  That gave him time to stick his hands in his pockets and rearrange the fit of his pants that had grown so tight so quickly.

  “Hey, Skye, Trevor, you okay?” Ron Gollar joined them, along with Jim Herman. “I heard the EMTs outside. They’re coming in, if we’re clear.”

  “Yeah, we’re clear,” Trevor growled. “This vic was down before Skye and I got inside, and no sign of the suspect. Best I can judge, we need the coroner, not the medics, but we’ll let them figure that out.”

  “Too bad,” Herman said sadly. The tall African-American clenched his fists like he was ready to punch someone. Trevor had seen the former football star train. He wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of those fists.

  “Tell me about it.” Now that he’d come to his senses, Trevor was pissed. Marinaro had gotten away. Again.

  And he’d let his guard down with Skye. Way down. Sure, she was one sexy lady, but she was a fellow cop, and they were on duty.

  He hazarded a glance toward her, but she wasn’t looking his way. Everything else—her dog, their fellow officers, her gear, the parked cars—seemed to capture her attention, diverting it away from him. To his own amazement, he had to chomp down on a smile. She was embarrassed, when there was no need. No one had seen them. No one knew…but them.

  The EMTs dashed inside the parking lot, lugging their equipment. A woman was the first to kneel on the floor and check the victim’s throat and wrist. “No pulse,” she asserted. Immediately, she began chest compressions, while her partner readied an oxygen mask to put over the victim’s face in case he began breathing. “Nothing,” she soon panted, then started thumping on the man’s chest.

  As the medics worked, Trevor thought about how Skye appeared when he was dying—how she knelt over him, wept and demanded his return to life.

  Didn’t she? He remembered that now—or was it a false memory?

  Then there was that car accident. She had treated the teenage boy the same way. There was something unusual about Skye’s connection to life-and-death situations. Somehow she seemed to participate in them.

  Some people died, like this victim, and Wes Danver.

  Some lived…like Trevor himself.

  Did any of this have to do with Skye? Or was he imagining it?

  “He’s gone,” said one of the EMTs.

  A bunch of fellow cops, including Tritt, had arrived here. As it had been in the theater, onlookers were being kept out.

  “Did you find the suspect, Curt?” Skye sounded anxious.

  “No,” the senior officer said angrily. “Storm tracked him along another underground passageway, into an alley and then stopped. He must have had another vehicle there, or stole one.”

  Like last time. Marinaro must plan his locations carefully. But Trevor knew that now, as did the rest of the ABPD. They would know better how to handle it next time.

  There would be a next time, no doubt about that.

  Now Trevor had even more impetus to reschedule the dinner with Skye. Follow-up and reports would prevent it tonight. But he had more questions than ever. And if they happened to share another kiss—hell, a lot more than kissing—that would be a good thing. His body tightened at the idea.

  Or would she renege now?

  His fellow SWAT officers who’d dashed into the parking lot were starting to disperse. He needed to go with them, but first he headed toward Skye.

  She looked up at him, her expression studiously bland…and her cheeks an adorable pink.

  “Sorry we missed out on dinner tonight,” he said in a low voice. “How’s tomorrow?”

  She looked for an instant as if she was considering telling him where to go. But then she took a deep breath, met his eyes and smiled briefly. “Fine,” she said.

  What the heck was she thinking? Skye wondered that for the rest of the evening, first back at the station as she started her report on what had gone down and then when Bella and she returned home.

  She should have taken advantage of the reprieve and not accepted Trevor’s latest invitation. Hell, she should stay as far away from him as possible.

  Especially after that kiss. While taking her shower, she kept thinking about how their kiss had seared through all of her most vital organs. How she wanted more.

  She had seen him gaze at her when the paramedics worked on that poor victim and could tell he was remembering his own near-death experience, and her presence there.

  But despite all her self-admonishments, she had to admit she looked forward to seeing him tomorrow. It wasn’t sex-driven…well, not entirely. She wanted to help catch that awful suspect, Marinaro, too.

  Edinger was a lot easier to locate than Marinaro. Why shouldn’t he be? A jury had found him not guilty. He must still feel home free—at least till he killed again.

  Trevor planned to stick to him like an extra appendage. Wait him out. Goad him, till he exploded.

  Guys like that always did.

  This time Trevor decided to confront him on his home turf.

  The lights were out in Edinger’s first-floor apartment in this run-down neighborhood where most streetlights were broken—maybe shot out to ensure that sidewalk transactions went down without illumination.

  The fact that Edinger’s place was as dark as the rest of the surroundings didn’t mean he wasn’t around. It was four o’clock in the morning.

  Trevor pulled out a limited-use cell phone he’d bought for this purpose and called Edinger’s home number. It rang three times before he heard the click of someone picking up.

  “Yeah?” came the croaked response. “Who’s this?”

  “Good morning, Eddy,” Trevor said cheerfully. “How about a little guessing game? Who do you think this is?”

  A pause. Then—“Go to hell, you dickhead cop.” Edinger slammed down the phone, which only made Trevor grin all the more.

  He p
ressed the redial button, but this time got a mechanical voice telling him to leave a message. He didn’t—although he figured Eddy got the message anyway.

  Next, he called Eddy’s cell phone number. Again, the guy didn’t pick up. Big surprise. When the voice mail came on, he left a message.

  “Hello, Mr. Edinger,” he said in a hearty voice. “Rise and shine. And if you really want to get a great start to your day, look out your window. See that SUV across the street—the only one around here that isn’t all banged up? If you look real hard, even with no lights on out here, you’ll see it’s occupied. By me.” He did not give his name, of course. “I’ve got an eye on you. Both eyes. I’d suggest you put on your halo and act like a perfect angel. Not even bump into another person, let alone kill one. Otherwise, you’re really going down, Eddy. Oh, and in case anyone asks, the real purpose for this call is because I’m worried about your health, after all you’ve gone through, so I’m watching out for you. Take good care of yourself, and have a great day.”

  Trevor hung up and waited—behind a tree in case Eddy had a long-range weapon and was upset enough to be trigger-happy.

  He grinned a lot more when he saw lights go on in Eddy’s apartment, then go off again. Were the drapes in the front window moving? Yeah. Trevor couldn’t quite make out the shape of who was standing there. Edinger used the curtains to cover him, thought they’d be some protection.

  Trevor waited a little longer, and when Eddy neither came out nor shot at him, he slipped back into his vehicle. He turned the key in his ignition, revving the engine before putting the SUV in gear. He drove a few apartment buildings down before turning around and double-parking in front of Eddy’s apartment.

  He blinked his headlights, tapped his horn three times and then drove off.

  A few hours later, Trevor yawned as he printed his report about yesterday’s events and stretched out as best he could in the chair in his cubicle at the station.