On His Watch

by Susanne Matthews

  The man Leroy had called “Boss” cursed. “Of course we have the right man, you moron. We were told to kill everyone in the house. Since she’s not here . . . The safe is in the den behind the family portrait. Rather fitting, don’t you think? Go and get what we came for.”

  Fading footsteps indicated the two men had left. Thinking herself alone, Nikki released the breath she’d been holding and moaned softly. Sudden pain in her hand forced her eyes open, and she yelped. The man’s boot crushed the fingers of her left hand beneath it.

  “Not dead yet, I see. Too bad. This might hurt a bit, sweetheart, but orders are orders.”

  The pain in her hand eased slightly as he moved his foot and knelt down beside her. His lips twisted into a cruel smile. Nikki looked directly into the man’s eyes—gray eyes, cold and dead like a shark’s. He lifted what she was sure was a broken hand and tried to remove her diamond ring from her swollen finger. Excruciating pain filled her, and she saw black.

  When she opened her eyes again, she was lying on her right side, staring at a finger on the floor inches from her face. Its manicured nail seemed strangely familiar. Numbness warred with cold and pain. Why was she still conscious, why wasn’t she dead—dead like her husband, her son, and her unborn baby? The man still knelt beside her.

  “Still not dead? I admire a woman with stamina. The owner of this pretty little bauble wants it back. I’ll admit the bastard had taste. You’re certainly worth dying for. How about a last kiss, pretty one? A little blood doesn’t bother me.”

  He bent forward and took her mouth in a cruel, punishing kiss, biting her lip, forcing his tongue inside, and her stomach roiled, filling her mouth with bile.

  “Son of a bitch!” he cried, pulling away from her and spitting the offending liquid onto her face where it mixed with Danny’s blood and her tears. “You’ll pay for that!”

  With her right hand trapped under the weight of her body, she instinctively rolled herself into the fetal position, but the heavy boots found their targets—her abdomen, her chest, and her face. Agony filled her and one powerful blow flipped her onto her left side. Amid the sound of sirens in the distance, the world finally went black.

  Chapter Two

  “Run, damn it, run!” Jason Spark shouted at the Oakland Raider receiver racing down the field. “Yes!” He jumped up as the football player slammed the ball into the turf after scoring a touchdown. “It’s about time.” With eleven minutes left in the second quarter, the game was tied.

  He drained his can of beer just as a commercial came on the screen and headed into the kitchen to nuke a bag of popcorn. Commercials were great—just long enough to replenish the snacks and not miss any of the action.

  He was on his way out of the kitchen when his cell phone rang. Damn! He checked this watch—9:15—who the hell would call when the game was tied? Why couldn’t they wait for halftime? He pulled the phone out of his pocket, checked the number, and sighed. Maybe he should let it go. He wasn’t on duty tonight. His brother, Rick, would be back in a couple of hours to resume his role as sheriff of Larosa. Yeah, but I did agree to cover for him, even if this isn’t my gig. He answered the call, before it could go to voicemail.

  “Yeah, Molly, what’s up?”

  “Sorry to bother you, Jason. Is Rick back yet?”

  “Nope. I don’t expect him back until after midnight. The man’s on his way home from his honeymoon; let’s not take him away from his bride their first night back.” He chuckled. “What have you got?”

  “I need someone to check out a 911 call. No one’s talking, but according to the operator, someone’s getting tortured over there. She’s probably exaggerating, but the line’s still open. We’ve got an address.”

  “Probably nothing but a butt dial while some kid’s watching a slasher movie.” Butt dials were a pain and happened far too often. In the five months he’d been in Larosa, he’d seen Rick deal with a dozen or more.

  Jason sighed. “I’m assuming you called me because Buck was busy, not to ruin my night off?”

  “Now, Jason, would I do that?” She laughed. “Buck’s over at the Purple Grape dealing with a bar fight. Pete’s still on vacation, and Lisa’s on dinner break. You know how cranky she gets if she doesn’t eat.”

  He laughed good-naturedly. Lisa might be able to wrestle a grizzly in that mood, and he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of her tongue-lashings if he interrupted her meal. He’d made that mistake once.

  “You guys need to convince Rick to hire a part-time deputy. Okay. What’s the address? If I don’t get the phone turned off, it’ll tie up the line all night.”

  “Sixty-five Vintner Drive. That’s at the far end of town near the lake. It’s Dr. Hart’s home, just a couple of blocks away from the new clinic.”

  “I know where the clinic is. I’ve been there a few times. This shouldn’t take too long. Tell the operator someone’s on the way to check it out.”

  “Thanks, Jason. I appreciate it. You watching the game? I heard the first one in tonight’s doubleheader was a good one.”

  “I am. I saw some of it at the diner. There’s no way the Patriots should’ve lost that one.”

  She laughed. “Hope your team wins this time.”

  “I hope so too, I’ve got twenty riding on it. I’ll call in when I get the phone turned off. Talk to you later.”

  Jason put the can of beer back in the fridge and set the bowl of popcorn on the kitchen table, grabbing a handful out of the bowl and shoving it into his mouth. He went into the den, watched the rerun of a quarterback sack, and checked the ticker. Six minutes to half-time and the game was still tied. He turned off the television. With a little luck he’d get this straightened out quickly and be back in time for the second half.

  He went into the guest room and grabbed his shoulder holster and gun off the dresser where he’d dropped them earlier. Probably didn’t need to be armed to answer a butt dial, but it was always better to follow protocol—something he’d learned the hard way. He slipped the holster in place and went into the bathroom. He took out the bottle of mouthwash and rinsed his mouth. Wouldn’t do to have beer breath even if he wasn’t actually on duty. He’d visited the clinic and had seen the doctor a few times since coming to Larosa to recuperate from his injuries. While he was a good physician, the man seemed to get uptight about little things. He’d sure been pissed at the man flirting with his wife the last time he’d been there. No point in giving him something to bitch about.

  He reached for Rick’s brown jacket on the coat tree and changed his mind, snatching up his own navy jacket instead. As he recalled, Doc Hart had a son who played little league. The boy wasn’t on the team Rick coached, but Jason had seen him play. Maybe an FBI jacket would scare the bejesus out of the kid, and he’d be more careful next time. Locking the door on his way out, he crossed to the police car, unlocked it, and put the key in the ignition. The engine roared to life.

  The late summer night was cooler than usual for this time of year. He’d expect this kind of weather back east. Where were those warm California nights he remembered from his youth? The sky was cloudy. It would rain soon—his shoulder ached as it usually did in this kind of weather, a permanent reminder to always play by the rules. It’d take about ten minutes to get to the Hart house. He’d go in, get the phone turned off, and get out. If he were lucky he’d get back within a half hour. Jason backed down the driveway.

  The streets of Larosa were quiet—nothing much ever happened in the small town, and it was why his brother liked it here. Hell, this place didn’t even have a regular Saturday night drunk to lock up. He stopped for a red light and saw Ed’s Convenience Store across the street. Might as well pick up another six-pack while I’m out.

  He pulled into the small parking lot and got out of the car. The convenience store was deserted. The teenaged boy behind the counter nodded at him.

  “Hey, man. I didn’t know you were a Fed. Cool.”

  “Yeah. It has its moments.”


  Jason walked over to the cooler and grabbed the brand of beer he preferred and returned to the checkout counter.

  “Anything else?” the clerk asked, ringing up the sale.

  “Give me a pack of spearmint gum, too.”

  Jason paid for his purchases and returned to the squad car. He put the beer in the trunk and opened the pack of gum, slipping two pieces into his mouth. He looked at his watch—9:35.

  Crap! At this rate, he’d miss the kickoff. He got into the vehicle, drove out of the parking lot, and flipped on the siren, allowing its shrill scream to pierce the night.

  Five minutes later, he pulled up in front of the brick and clapboard two-story house and turned off the siren. The garage door was open, and a late model BMW was parked inside next to a small minivan. The outside porch light was on, as were those on the main level and the one in the room upstairs. Jason took the steps to the veranda two at a time. He admired the porch swing hanging from the ceiling. Rick should have one of these. He’d talk to Junior down at the lumber store and see if he could buy him one as a wedding present. He’d have to think about moving on soon—either going back to work or retiring and starting a new career. His six-month sick leave was almost up. The last thing newlyweds needed was a crusty, unemployed bachelor invading their privacy.

  The lush baskets of flowers beside the doors bespoke a green thumb. The place was neat and tidy—well cared for, as his mother would have said. Even the kids’ bikes were standing straight in their rack. Kids well trained or is it Mom? From what he remembered of the doctor, the man was fastidious and would insist on everything just so. He’d never been in such an orderly medical clinic in his life. Even the magazines had been lined up and stacked according to date.

  The doorbell rang loudly, easily heard through the open living room windows. Jason frowned. The sheer curtains blew into the room. It was windy and cool out. Why hadn’t they shut the windows? If they’d gone for a walk, they’d have locked up the house. Larosa might be safe, but people still had to be careful. The hair on the nape of his neck stood on end.

  Something was wrong here—something was very wrong. He went down the steps and walked over to the garage. He didn’t notice anyone in either car but, through force of habit, he walked over to check them. The minivan was closest, and it was empty and locked. He moved over to the silver BMW and cursed, choking on the wad of gum he swallowed in his surprise.

  Through the open window, he saw the doctor lying in a pool of blood in the backseat. Jason didn’t have to touch the body to know he was dead. The man’s throat had been slit from one side to the other, almost deep enough to decapitate him, his face contorted in pain, his mouth taped shut. Every one of the man’s fingers had been cut off.

  “Son of a bitch!” He pulled out his gun.

  Why hadn’t he moved his ass? Why had he assumed it was nothing? Hadn’t he learned not to jump to conclusions? Rick was wrong. He wasn’t ready to get back to work; hell, he might never be, and now he’d have this on his conscience, too. Jason stared at the blood on the doorknob of the door leading into the house and reached for his cell phone.

  The time display read 9:45. Whatever he found in there was his fault, his alone. He continued to stare at the door, knowing he’d have to go inside, terrified of what he was sure he’d see. He listened to the call ring. When he heard Molly’s voice, he cut her off.

  “Molly, get Buck over here and try to get hold of Pete. We need everybody on the job now. Have Lisa stay on patrol, but don’t let her come anywhere near the place. Get the state troopers on the line and have them send a forensic team here as well as backup. Call the coroner. We’ve got a massacre on our hands.”

  “Oh, God! The phone line’s still open, Jason. What do you want me to tell the 911 operator?”

  “Tell her to stay on the line. I’ll end the call as soon as I can find the phone, but we’ll need that tape—all of it.”

  Jason reached into the inside pocket of his jacket, relieved to find a new pair of the extra-large purple latex gloves he used at crime scenes. Pulling them out of their small plastic wrapper, he tugged them on. He swallowed awkwardly and opened the kitchen door, trying as hard as he could not to disturb the blood on the handle. He didn’t want to contaminate the scene, but he had to get inside. It was even worse than he’d expected. His experienced investigator’s eyes took in the shocking scene, reminding him vividly of the photos of the Manson family murders.

  The strong west wind blew the green and yellow checked curtains inward and had no doubt knocked over the crystal vase shattered on the floor next to the counter. Red roses lay trapped within the broken glass. Two of the kitchen drawers stood open as if someone had been searching for something. On the kitchen wall, written in what was probably the victims’ blood, he read, il peccato di padre. He knew it wasn’t Spanish, although his high school Spanish was more than a little rusty. It might be Italian, but he had no idea what it meant; padre was often used for father. Was it a line from a prayer? Somehow, he didn’t think so.

  The doctor’s son lay on his back on the floor in front of the open refrigerator, surrounded by broken glass, blood, orange juice, and red rose petals. The boy’s throat had been cut like his father’s; his eyes were open, staring into nothingness. Poor kid. He probably hadn’t suffered, but what a waste. If I’d moved faster, would the boy still be alive? From the amount of blood on the floor and soaking into his superhero pajamas, it looked as if the child bled out quickly. At least his hands hadn’t been mutilated. Thank God for that.

  Jason looked down at the floor. Dozens of bloody footprints crisscrossed the light gray ceramic tiles. He tried not to step on any of them, tried to stay out of the pooling blood, but it was hopeless. The forensic techs would have to have his boots. He walked around the table, and his heart all but stopped. For a second, he was caught in a vicious nightmare, reliving a scene that had haunted him for the last twelve years. He shook his head. This time, the woman’s hair wasn’t black. He pushed the memory back where it belonged. He didn’t want to believe the disfigured, bloodied creature on the floor was the doctor’s wife, but the few strands of red hair not caked in blood gave her away. She lay on her left side, curled in the fetal position, her right hand inside her pajama top pocket. It looked as if she’d been used as a kickboxing dummy. Stuff like this didn’t happen here.

  A finger lay in the blood near what was left of her face. Like an automaton, he moved to the fridge, opened the freezer, and grabbed the ice cube tray. He dumped the ice into the empty fruit bowl on the table, gently picked up the severed digit, and placed it on the ice, the way he’d been told to do in his first aid course. It dawned on him it wouldn’t matter to a dead woman if he’d preserved her finger. They wouldn’t reattach it before they buried her.

  He placed the bowl on the table and turned back to the body, vaguely aware of the sweat running down the side of his face and his back. The strong coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils. He noted a slight glow flickering through the blue silk of her right pocket. A cell phone? The call he’d thought had been an accident might have been the last thing she’d done before dying. Her right hand was still inside the pocket, as if she’d tried to hide the phone’s light.

  Why hadn’t she tried to protect her head? He should wait for the coroner, but he had to make sure this was the phone he was searching for. He reached into the pocket doing his best not to disturb the body. Her top slipped open, revealing her belly. She’d been pregnant. She’d tried to shield the child. Horror filled him and tears ran down his cheeks.

  My God, this is my fault, too—an innocent child.

  His stomach roiled. He ran to the sink and vomited. The similarity to the Tate-Bianca murders chilled him. What the hell was this? Some sick copycat replaying one of California’s most gruesome murders?

  God almighty! What kind of animals did this?

  In more than fifteen years of police work, he’d never seen anything like it. Tears ran down his cheeks. He turned back to the body, reac
hing once more for the cell phone, and his hand halted its movement when he heard her faint moan.

  Jesus! She’s still alive!

  He stared at her battered and bloody face. Most of the damage seemed to be on her left side. She was looking at him. Tears pooled in her right eye and trickled down her blood-splattered cheek. He didn’t dare touch her. Who knew what kind of injuries she’d sustained.

  I’ll find whoever did this if it’s the last thing I ever do.

  His gaze never left hers as he pulled his own phone out of his pocket and speed dialed the station. Molly answered on the first ring.

  “Where the hell’s Buck? Sorry for yelling, Molly, but I need backup now. Get an air ambulance here and some EMT’s. Mrs. Hart’s alive, but she’s in bad shape. Let the 911 operator know the scene is secure and have her sever the call from that end. Make sure you tell her to send a copy of the tape of the call to the Larosa Sheriff’s Department as soon as she can. Thanks.” He ended the call and spoke to the victim. “Help will be here soon.”

  He removed his jacket to cover her. She must be cold. People who’ve lost this much blood go into shock, and people in shock are cold, right?

  He thought he’d seen it all when he’d first joined the bureau and had worked that serial rape case in L.A. twelve years ago with the BAU—the Behavioral Analysis Unit seemed to get called in on the goriest cases. None of his bureau training nor any of the cases he’d been on before or after could have prepared him for this. Hell, a tour of duty in the worst place on Earth wouldn’t do it. Sure, he’d watched training videos of brutal home invasions, had seen slasher movies with all the blood and gore Hollywood could manufacture, but it wasn’t the same as walking in on the aftermath of a bloodbath like this. Nothing equipped you to deal with the emotional turmoil this inflicted, especially when dragging your ass might have been responsible for a lot of it.

  The sound of a siren and the squeal of brakes filled the air. Footsteps pounded up the veranda.