by Geri Krotow
“You think you’re saving me from being raped?”
“Don’t say that, Daisy!” The pistol was aimed at her again and Zora prepared to hit the floor and take Edith out at the knees. She’d prefer to wait for backup. One of the trained SWAT officers could get a solid lock on Edith through the front window, she was certain.
It depended on when Edith decided she was done talking and wanted to start shooting.
Edith resumed pacing the room, her words rambling, a continuous stream of consciousness, the raving of a madwoman.
“I won’t let him get you. I wouldn’t have before, either, you know. I would have saved you from it then, too.”
“You would have killed me when I was a little girl?”
As Edith paced in front of her Christmas tree, Zora’s mind flashed back to the young woman Edith had been before the True Believers, before the cult’s teachings had brought her already disturbed mind to its breaking point. They’d had some sweet Christmases in front of a tiny tree with few ornaments, with the basket of rich foods delivered by local churches and community food pantries. Plus the restaurant where Edith worked had always given them a half dozen cinnamon rolls, a luxury they hadn’t been able to produce in their small apartment with its almost antique kitchen.
“We had some good Christmases before—we can have more.” Maybe a positive appeal would work better with Edith.
Edith stopped in her tracks and looked from Zora to the tree. The lights sparkled on and off, the lively twinkling a contrast to the flat expression on Edith’s face.
“Oh, no. No more Christmas for us, Daisy.”
Edith’s arms lowered and her bottom lip quivered.
“Put the gun down, Mother, and come here.” Zora was prepared to tackle Edith if she didn’t comply, but thankfully her counseling instincts proved correct. Edith dropped the gun onto the floor.
Where it misfired.
Edith screamed and Zora jumped over the sofa and tackled her, but she needn’t have bothered. Edith had put her hands over her head, curled into a fetal position and started chanting.
“We are all going to a better place, we are all going to a better place.”
* * *
The sound of the gunshot hit Bryce’s headset as he drove straight up Zora’s driveway and slammed to a stop in front of her porch steps.
“Gunshot. We have a gunshot.” The emergency operator narrated back everything she heard, for which he’d been grateful.
Until now.
He and Rio bolted for the front door, weapons drawn.
“Do you hear anything else?” Rio asked.
“Just chanting of some sort. Do you hear it, Detective?”
“Tell me what you hear.”
“She’s saying, ‘We are all going to a better place.’”
“Don’t listen to it.” Rio ripped Bryce’s earpiece out and grasped his shoulder.
Bryce nodded. No words were needed.
Their job was clear, and his training took over.
He crept to the front window and looked carefully inside. The tree sparkled in the corner next to the empty fireplace. One lamp was lit on an end table next to the large overstuffed sofa. No one was in sight. He stood up farther.
Just beyond the sofa, he made out a familiar silhouette. Zora’s head. She appeared to be rocking back and forth. The band of dread around his chest lessened but didn’t completely release.
He ran up to Rio, who was peering through the side windows of the front door.
Rio’s eyes met his.
“Your woman’s safe, Bryce.”
Bryce looked through the frosted windows, too, and saw why Rio’s voice was so quiet, why he hadn’t broken the door down once he saw the scene before them.
Zora sat, yoga-style, with Edith in her lap, her arms around her biological mother as she rocked her.
* * *
The knock at the door didn’t even startle Edith, who seemed to have retreated into the safe space she’d created in her mind.
“Come in.” Zora had left the door unlocked, suspecting Edith’s arrival meant trouble.
Bryce was on his knees next to her, his arm around her, his face in front of hers. “Are you okay?”
“Yes. We’re going to need EMTs. She’s had a psychotic break, I think. I’m not a psychiatrist, but...” She didn’t have to say any more. One look at the woman’s hunched form, her glazed eyes and her barely moving lips was enough for a layperson to know she wasn’t in reality.
“On the way.”
Zora wept in relief as she accepted that she was okay, that Edith wasn’t going to hurt anyone, that she was safe. They were all safe.
Bryce had made it.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” It was clear her safety was all Bryce cared about.
“I’m fine. Can you do me a favor and let Butternut out of the mudroom? She’s not very happy.”
“Why don’t I stay here with Edith and you go let her out? She’s not going to want anyone but you.”
She regarded the most compassionate man she’d ever known. “I can’t leave her like this.”
“Then, Butternut can wait on the back porch a little longer. We all will.” Bryce lowered himself behind her and pulled her against his chest, reaching his arms around to include Edith.
“You’re not alone, Zora.” His kiss on her temple allowed her to finally relax and release the tension she’d felt since the moment Edith had aimed her weapon at Butternut.
She looked around, taking in Rio’s steady gaze on them as he stood waiting for the EMTs and backup patrols at her front door. She noticed the disarray of her shoes and boots that had been knocked off her shoe rack near the doorway. An angry deep scratch on her hardwood floor reminded her of the gunshot.
“Her weapon misfired into the floor.”
“Nothing that can’t be repaired.” His voice was low and more comforting than an angel’s touch.
“No.” She snuggled farther into him, Edith still murmuring her endless chants.
“I think I hear the sirens. Not much longer.”
“Is it midnight yet?”
His arm came up and he held his watch in front of her eyes.
“What does it say?”
“Merry Christmas.” She turned as far as she could and he met her the rest of the way, his kiss the best way he knew to tell her she wasn’t alone.
* * *
For the third time in less than two weeks, SVPD’s forensic team swept through Zora’s home. She was relieved when they pried the bullet from the hardwood; she didn’t want any physical reminders of her mother’s breakdown in the house. As for her memories, they would eventually heal.
With Bryce at her side.
When all the emergency responders had finally left, they sat together on her sofa and watched the Christmas-tree lights as night turned into dawn.
“I got a text last night.” She rubbed his chest.
“Hmm.”
“Not ‘hmm.’ More like ‘yummy.’”
“What do you mean?”
“It seems that the Silver Valley Fire Department has opened its kitchen to the entire Silver Valley Community Church and is offering a free pancake breakfast later this morning. After we have an abbreviated service, also in the fire hall.”
“You’re not the pastor anymore. You don’t have to go.”
“Not as Colleen Hammermill, but I can go as myself. Claudia told me to say I was working with SVPD as a civilian volunteer. A shaky explanation, I know, but we’re going to say I was using my psychology background to help find the killer. Since you’ve never been anyone but yourself, you can come, too. What do you say?”
“I say you’re unstoppable. First, I’d like to start Christmas with a new tradition of our own. There’s one specific activity I’d like to engage in under the Christmas tree with you.”
She was exhilarated by the way he said it. As though...
“Stop thinking, Zora. Stay here, today, with me. Just for this morning.”
“And after that?”
“We’ll talk about it next Christmas.”
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from
KILLER SEASON by Lara Lacombe.
Don’t miss the next thrilling installment
in the SILVER VALLEY P.D. miniseries,
coming in early 2016!
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Killer Season
by Lara Lacombe
Chapter 1
Nate Gallagher leaned forward with a sigh, squinting to peer through the foggy glass of the refrigerated case in search of caffeine. It was late, and he still had a few hours to go before he could sleep.
He opened the door, reached in and pulled out a bottle, reading the label with some suspicion. All day energy! it proclaimed, the neon-green letters garishly bright against the black background. Might as well try it, he decided, tucking the bottle under his arm. He didn’t think he could gag down any more coffee—he’d drunk so much of the stuff over the past week, he was in real danger of turning into a coffee bean.
He glanced at the register as he made his way over to the hot-food station. Fiona, the night-shift clerk, had given him the usual smile and wave when he’d walked in, but now she had her nose stuck in a textbook. Every time he came in here, it seemed she was always studying.
“Sociology,” she’d replied with a smile, after he had asked her about it one night. “I’m in the master’s degree program at the University of Houston. I want to go into education after I graduate.”
Nate didn’t know much about sociology, but she looked like his fantasy version of a professor, with her sleek auburn hair, wide brown eyes and generous mouth. He could picture her in a tight-fitting business suit that hugged her curves, standing in front of a classroom wearing sky-high heels. Even her usual uniform of jeans and a T-shirt made him take notice, and there had been many times he’d wanted to pull her against him, press those amazing curves against his chest and bury his nose in her hair. He wasn’t sure what she smelled like—he’d never gotten that close—but he’d passed many pleasant moments daydreaming about it. Warm vanilla. Roses. Clean citrus. He didn’t really have a preference, but he hoped to find out, one way or another.
Not for the first time, he wondered about her story. She had to be smart to be in graduate school. But why was she working here? It wasn’t the most intellectually demanding job, and it couldn’t pay very well. There had to be some other reason why she’d taken the job.
He hoped she was due to graduate soon—the graveyard shift at a convenience store was no place for a woman like her. Although he tried to come by a few times a week, he’d be relieved when she completed her degree and would have to quit. Part of him would miss seeing her, but it would be one less worry on his mind.
He stopped at the display of hot foods, surveying his choices with a growing sense of resignation. Nachos or a hot dog? Neither option was particularly appealing, but he had to eat something. Breakfast had been a long time ago, and his stomach was threatening to quit if he didn’t eat soon.
Nate fumbled with the tongs as he attempted to fish a hot dog out of the warmer, trying to pick one that didn’t look quite so desiccated. He’d suffer through this junk tonight, but tomorrow he was going to try to start eating better. He experienced a momentary pang of longing for his mother’s home cooking, but she was so angry with him for missing Thanksgiving that she was more likely to smack him with a pan than fix him something to eat.
It wasn’t that he wanted to be away from his family, but being a detective meant he had to make certain sacrifices, choices that weren’t always popular. His dad seemed to understand that, but his mother? She took it as a personal affront every time he missed a family gathering. Because a big city like Houston had its fair share of crime, he wound up missing more family events than he attended.
“Again?” she’d said, when he’d called last week to tell her he couldn’t make it for Thanksgiving. “What have we done, that you would choose your work over your family? That’s not how I raised you. Never mind. Stay there and work. That’s fine.”
Nate wasn’t stupid. He knew that when she said “fine” in a tone of voice that made it sound like she was talking around a mouthful of soap, things were anything but.
Still, he never argued with her. It wouldn’t do any good. She would never understand his job, and, truth be told, he didn’t want her to. Bad enough he had to live with the images of the dead, the murder victims who haunted his dreams and drove him to keep working, keep searching, trying to find their killers and bring them to justice. Humans were capable of so many atrocities, and he hoped his family never had to see that ugly side of life.
He squirted ketchup onto the stale, dry bun with a mental sigh, deliberately pushing thoughts of his mother and his job out of his mind. He was already exhausted, and thinking about her lectures did nothing for his mood. Hopefully, she would wait to scold him in private at Christmas, so his sister, Molly, wouldn’t have to hear it. She didn’t like it when they argued—she had Down syndrome and was very sensitive about picking up emotions.
The thought of Molly made him smile. Twenty-one yellow roses would arrive at the house tomorrow, part of his birthday gift to her. They were her favorite flower, and he was unabashedly proud of himself for having thought to send them. Normally, he made a quick phone call between bouts of paperwork, but her twenty-first birthday was a milestone, something to celebrate. The special gesture had cost him a pretty penny, but she was worth it. And hopefully the flowers would help ease the sting of his absence at the Thanksgiving table. He knew she missed him and didn’t always understand why he couldn’t be there. But, unlike their mother, at least she didn’t punish him for it.
Wiping stray ketchup from his fingers, Nate picked up his dinner and drink, then turned to head over to the register. As he rounded the corner, he clipped the edge of the counter, and the bottle, slick with condensation, slid from his fingers. It hit the tile with a dull thud and skittered across the floor, coming to rest under a display of potato chips.
“Damn,” he muttered. He debated leaving the bottle where it was and grabbing another, but a quick glance at the front counter changed his mind. If he left it, Fiona would have to pick it up before going home, and he didn’t want her to have to crawl around on the dirty floor to fish it out from under the metal rack. He carefully set the hot dog on the food counter, crossing his fingers that it wouldn’t tip over off the wrapper. He’d seen some pretty nasty things in his line of work, but he refused to eat food that had come into contact with the convenience store counter.
Resigned to his fate, he dropped to his knees and bent over, peering under the display in search of the wayward bottle.
* * *
Fiona heard the telltale thud of a plastic bottle hitting the floor and looked up with a wince. From the sound of things, Hot Guy was going to need a new drink, if he didn’t want to wind up wearing his soda. Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad, though, she thought. I could help him clean up. She indulged in a brief fantasy of wiping the sticky liquid off his stubbled cheeks, those impossibly broad shoulders and his flat stomach. Touching the customers wasn’t exactly in her job description but, for him, she’d make an exception.
He’d been coming in a few times a week for the past several months. Never at the same time of night, but regularly enough that she’d begun to expect him and even look forward to his visits
. She had no idea what he did for a living, but he always looked tired, as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. But despite the dark circles under his eyes and what seemed to be a permanent five-o’clock shadow, he was a handsome man. His deep green eyes seemed to take in everything at once, and even though he rarely met her gaze directly, she had the feeling he always knew where she was and what she was doing.
Being around him made her nervous. Not in a weird or uncomfortable way—it’s just that he was almost too handsome to be real. She couldn’t help staring when he was in the store, watching the way he moved with a subconscious grace up and down the aisles. She’d perfected the art of spying on him while appearing to study her textbook. He’d asked her about it once, the deep rumble of his voice vibrating through her and making her toes curl. She’d stammered out a reply. He’d given her a smile and a nod, and he hadn’t spoken to her since.
Maybe I can get him to talk again tonight. She stuck a stray bit of paper in the book to hold her place, then hopped off the stool. As the only employee on duty, she should offer to help him retrieve his bottle. Although she mopped the floor every night, it was still wrong to make a customer crawl around on it.
She rounded the corner and froze, sucking in a breath at the sight that greeted her. Hot Guy was on all fours, his perfect butt in the air while he dug underneath the chip display. She felt her cheeks heat and knew she should look away, but she couldn’t stop staring. Are those custom-made jeans? They had to be, the way they molded to him and fit like a second skin. His shirt rode up on his back, revealing a thin stripe of golden skin and a hint of fabric. Boxers or briefs? she mused.
She cocked her head to the side, enjoying the view with a silent sigh of appreciation. She really should help him, but seeing as he was already on the ground, there was no sense in both of them getting dirty. Better for her to stand here and...supervise. Yeah, that’s what she was doing. She wasn’t gawking like a sex-starved woman. She was supervising.