Lock, Stock and McCullen (The Heroes of Horseshoe Creek Book 1)

by Rita Herron

  Maybe teens had broken in to use the vacant house for a party—or the person who’d killed her parents had done it when they were searching for the money her mother and father had stolen.

  Embezzlement? Money-laundering?

  Although that marshal hadn’t revealed any specifics about who they’d robbed.

  Maybe it wasn’t true. Her parents—both sets—could have been innocent. Or was that wishful thinking on her part?

  “Rose?”

  She slid from the car. “I’m going in.”

  “Are you sure about this?” Maddox asked as he followed her up to the front door.

  “I’m sure I have to know the truth,” she said, resigned to whatever she might discover. “Whether I’m Hailey Hudgens or Rose Worthington—”

  He gently gripped her arms. “It doesn’t matter what your name is, Rose, nothing can change who you are on the inside.”

  Rose angled her head to look at him, emboldened by his words. “Thank you for saying that, Maddox. But we both know I can’t walk away. Facing the past may be the only thing that will keep me alive.”

  A second passed where he could have challenged her, but he knew she was right, and that realization was reflected in his eyes.

  She turned the doorknob, a cold draft blasting her as she stepped inside. The door screeched as if it hadn’t been oiled in ages, the brown linoleum was worn and bowed from water damage, and a musty odor permeated the air.

  Dust motes floated in the sliver of light seeping through the broken window, the particles dancing like ghosts as the wind swirled them around the vacant room.

  Rose paused to study the worn plaid couch, the ugly green chair with the stuffing hanging out as if an animal had chewed on it, and the mice droppings in the corner. The walls were a dingy, yellowed white and marred with dirt, and the ceiling was dark with water stains.

  She tried to picture herself on that couch with her parents, but the image wouldn’t surface.

  Maddox’s footsteps behind her startled her, and she jumped.

  “I’m sorry, Rose. The place looks deserted, but I want to do a quick walk-through to make sure no one’s inside.”

  She let him move past her, grateful for his presence and praying that some familiar memory would surface from the empty void in her mind.

  She studied the room more intently as he searched the house. Had she watched shows on that television as a child?

  “It’s clear,” Maddox said. “Although I’ll warn you, Rose, the place hasn’t been cleaned since the Hudgenses were shot here. If you don’t want—”

  “Stop trying to change my mind,” she said firmly. Nerves rippled along her spine though, as she considered his statement.

  “I’ll give you a few minutes,” Maddox said in a low voice.

  She murmured her thanks, then crossed the threshold of the door to look into the kitchen. An orange Formica table with four metal chairs occupied one corner, the only furniture in the dingy room. The green walls had faded to a putrid color, the outdated cabinets were coated with grease and dust. The gold stove and refrigerator had to be the originals, and when she opened one of the cabinets, she found canned goods that were outdated by at least a decade.

  She closed her eyes, wracking her brain. Had she and her mother and father eaten homey meals around this table? Had her mother liked to cook? Had she celebrated her birthdays in this house? Woken up to see toys Santa had left? Made sugar cookies with her mother and ridden horsey on her daddy’s back?

  If so, why couldn’t she remember any of it? She didn’t even know if her parents had loved her...

  And if they’d stolen money, as Marshal Norton suggested, what had they done with it?

  * * *

  MADDOX GRIMACED AT the blood stained floor and walls.

  But the detective in him was excited by the possibility. He phoned the marshal.

  Marshal Norton answered on the second ring. “Did Rose remember anything?”

  “Not yet,” Maddox said. “Do you have the original reports from the sheriff who investigated the Hudgenses’ case?”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of forensic evidence was found?”

  “Hang on and let me access the records.” A couple of minutes passed, then he returned to the line. “A partial print from the front door. Blood samples were collected that matched the couple’s.”

  “I’m going to call a team out here and have them process this place again. The original team could have missed something. With the advances in technology, we might be able to identify the fibers and blood and whatever else we find more clearly than they could twenty years ago.”

  “Okay, send me the results.”

  Maddox hung up, phoned Hoberman and explained what he needed.

  “I’ll get my best guys out there now,” Hoberman said.

  * * *

  ROSE LOOKED DOWN at the scarred sink, and for a moment saw the water running. Then a woman’s hands washing tomatoes. Music played softly in the background from a radio in the corner, sweeping her back twenty years.

  But the music was in her head, an old big band tune. For a moment, images surfaced—a man and woman dancing in the kitchen...her parents. Her father leading her mother around the room, her mother’s skirt swirling around her ankles as they swayed back and forth together.

  Tears burned the backs of her eyelids. She couldn’t see their faces well, but she felt the love between them, the peace inside the old house as if it didn’t matter if they had money or nice things.

  As if they couldn’t possibly be guilty of the crime Norton had mentioned.

  But the image faded as quickly as it had come.

  A tremor rippled through her, and she ran her finger along the counter, but a noise outside made her jerk her head up. She glanced through the kitchen window, and saw a tire swing attached to a large tree by a rope.

  Her vision blurred again, another image surfacing from the past. The tire was swinging back and forth, creaking in the wind. A little boy about eight years old with brown hair and freckles gripped the rope, laughing as he tried to make it go faster.

  Wind rustled the leaves on the ground and shook the tree branches. She felt that wind in her hair, on her cheek, and a chill rippled through her. She was outside playing with that little boy. He yelled her name, and she ran over to him and gave him a big push.

  A man’s loud voice yelled at the boy from inside the house, and Rose realized the man was his father. He was inside with her parents.

  A shudder tore through her as the memory floated away, and she rubbed her arms to ward off the chill. Who was the little boy? And the man? Were they neighbors? Friends of her family’s?

  She made her way through the kitchen and veered into the hallway. Instinctively she knew the house had three bedrooms. The one on the right belonged to her parents, the one across had been hers. The back room had been empty.

  In her dream, she’d hidden in the closet—but which one? The closet in her room?

  Her lungs strained for air as she glanced into her childhood bedroom. It seemed familiar...yet fuzzy at the same time. A worn pink spread covered a twin bed. Stuffed animals that had been pecked at by birds were scattered about, the stuffing leaking out. The pink checkered curtains hung askew, faded and stained from time, and rain had seeped through the broken pane.

  A small battered pine dresser stood in the corner, a pink jewelry box on top. Before she even opened it, she knew a tiny ballerina was inside, that she would twirl and dance to “Over the Rainbow.”

  A wave of sadness mushroomed inside her when she lifted the lid and saw the ballerina dancing. Once again time sucked her backward, and she saw a little girl lying on the bed hugging her teddy bear while she whispered secrets in its ear. Then another image of her playing in the costume jewelry her mother had given her, and the paper dolls on the floor.

  The trunk at the foot of the bed held dress-up clothes, things her mother had bought for next to nothing at thrift stores and garage sales.
>
  Rose kneeled at the trunk and opened it, dust swirling upward and floating away to reveal the vintage garments. One day in particular struck a memory—her mother tugging her hand as they ventured into a small antiques shop. Her mother had squealed when she found the trunk, already holding several ball gowns and prom dresses as well as a fake fur hat and beaded purse.

  She had bought the entire trunk and carried it home. Then she’d donned one of the dresses and allowed Rose to put on the other. They’d had a tea party that afternoon with sugar cookies, tea and milk, and pretended they were traveling the world.

  The memory brought tears to her eyes. That moment in time had been so special and sweet. How could she have forgotten it?

  She touched each of the dresses, holding them to her cheek to feel the soft satin and taffeta. Her birth mother had loved her.

  She couldn’t have possibly been a criminal. Could she?

  Determined to uncover the answer, she placed the clothing back inside and closed the trunk, opened the closet door and surveyed the contents.

  A few toddler-sized dresses, a yellow raincoat, rubber boots, a chalkboard, bags of broken crayons and paper so old that it was yellowed. Another box on the floor held socks and pajamas, a bright purple gown, sneakers and a pacifier that must have belonged to her as a baby.

  She found another box filled with onesies and infant sleepers and frowned. Had her mother kept her baby clothes?

  The wind rattled the roof, jarring her from the moment. This closet wasn’t the place where she’d hidden.

  Sucking in a breath for courage, she stepped into the hallway. She peeked into the third bedroom and was stunned to see a crib, complete with a pink baby blanket and doll inside. Pink ruffled curtains, worn and faded with time, draped the window, and a white dresser held a stack of cloth diapers and infant clothes.

  Had those been hers at one time? Although why would her mother have diapers in the house?

  Nerves knotted her shoulders as she stepped back into the hall and opened the closet door. A dark raincoat and two winter coats hung there, an umbrella hanging beside them.

  Other than that, the closet was empty.

  The dreams taunted her. She’d definitely hidden behind clothing, behind what she’d thought were coats.

  Perspiration beaded on her neck as she ducked inside her parents’ bedroom. A double bed was draped in a faded blue spread, the carpet threadbare and stained.

  It took her a moment to realize that those were bloodstains.

  Her parents’ blood.

  This was the room where they’d been shot and...killed.

  The dark spots splattered across the floor and into the hall now registered, and she realized that her parents had been bleeding as the shooter had dragged their bodies outside.

  Why had he taken their bodies? Why hadn’t he left them in the house?

  Because he’d wanted to cover his tracks?

  The wind beat at the house, rattling the windows and seeping through the cracks of the wooden house, launching Rose back in time...

  It was dark outside, dark in the house, dark everywhere. She huddled under her pink blanket, clenching her teddy bear, too afraid to look in the room.

  Monsters were everywhere. She dreamed about them all the time—outside the window, tapping at the glass, wanting to come in. Under the bed and in the closet, and sometimes they hid in the bathroom to sneak up on her at night.

  Mommy said the monsters weren’t real. Daddy told her to be a big girl and to go back to bed. But if she was really quiet, and he was asleep and she tiptoed in their room, Mommy would let her crawl in bed beside her. Mommy would wrap her arms around her and hold her and soothe her with sweet kisses on her cheek and brush her hair back from her face. Mommy smelled good, like flowers and cake batter and sugar cookies.

  But Daddy wasn’t asleep yet, and he and Mommy had been fighting.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, covered her ears and hugged Bitty the Bear so tight she was afraid his insides would squish out. The clock in the hall dinged, and she rocked herself back and forth, waiting it out until the house grew quiet.

  Except the wind kept howling, and she was sure it was a monster waiting on her parents to go to sleep so he could steal her from her bed.

  Clenching Bitty, she peeked from the covers. She didn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. She slid from bed, and ran across the hall. Daddy was still and Mommy was curled on her side facing the wall.

  She ducked down low and snuck into the room, then crawled in bed beside her mommy. Mommy curled her arms around her and stroked her hair and she knew she was safe.

  But a noise woke her. A loud crash.

  Then Mommy shook her. “Hide, Hailey, hurry, run and hide in the closet.”

  She jumped up, her heart racing. She started to scream, but Mommy covered her mouth with her hand, picked her up and swung her from the bed. “Hurry, hide!”

  “Don’t make a sound,” Daddy hissed.

  Her mommy shoved her in the closet and closed the door. She started shaking all over, a sob lodging in her throat.

  She pressed her fist over her mouth to keep from crying. Outside the door, footsteps pounded. Shouting started. Her daddy.

  Then her mother screamed, “Stop!”

  Something shattered on the floor. Other noises. Shouts, furniture being turned over.

  Then a gun blast.

  She buried her head in her hands and screamed into her arms, terrified. What was happening?

  Don’t make a sound, her mommy had said. But where was Mommy now? Were she and Daddy okay?

  Her legs wobbled, but she stooped on her knees and tried to look through the crack in the door, then her mommy screamed again, and the man grabbed her hair, and she saw red...

  Daddy on the bedroom floor, blood everywhere.

  Mommy fighting with someone, a big man...a shot going off, Mommy falling...more red... Red coming from Mommy...

  Rose jerked her eyes open, trembling, a scream ripping from her throat. God help her...had she seen the man’s face?

  She closed her eyes again, willing herself to bring him into focus, but another noise rent the air.

  Another gunshot. But this one wasn’t in her dream.

  It was real. And it had come from outside the house...

  Maddox was out there.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Maddox darted behind a tree, using the trunk as a shield. Dammit. Who the hell was shooting at him?

  The bullet had just grazed his arm, but the shooter fired again, and brush crackled as the man closed in on him.

  He peered around the edge of the tree, searching the thicket as he gripped his own gun at the ready. Rose was inside the house...once the bastard got him out of the way, he’d go after her next.

  Not going to happen.

  He just prayed Rose stayed inside until he could take care of the perp.

  A sliver of light seeped through the dense foliage, and he spotted the silhouette of a man creeping toward him.

  Maddox aimed his gun at the shadow and fired. The man jumped back and fired another round at him. Suddenly the front door opened, and Rose screamed.

  “Maddox!”

  “Get back inside, Rose!” He fired in the direction of the shooter again, determined to protect Rose.

  She ducked back inside and slammed the screen door, and he raced to the next tree, quickly darting behind it for cover. Another bullet pinged off the bark and whizzed by his face.

  Maddox cursed. “Who the hell are you? Why do you want to kill Rose?”

  Only the sound of dry leaves rustling broke the tense silence. Maddox glanced at the house and gauged the distance to the door. He wanted inside to protect Rose.

  But he’d get shot for sure if he dashed out in the open.

  Maybe he could make it around to the back door. Or even a side window.

  He peered around the edge of the tree, but another bullet zoomed an inch from his head and he jumped back. He fired aga
in, but his bullet pinged off a pine.

  Instead of heading toward the house, he dashed through the brush, hoping to circle far enough behind the perp to sneak up on him. He made it past three more trees, then climbed over a small boulder.

  The shiny glint of metal caught his eye, and he lowered himself behind the rock for cover, and fired. A second later, a loud thunk followed.

  Had he killed the jerk?

  His heart hammering, he crept closer, but suddenly the crunch of leaves crackled behind him. He turned a millisecond too late and saw the gun coming down toward him. The butt of the weapon slammed against his temple, and he swayed with the force.

  He fired a shot before he went down and tried to see the man’s face, but he missed the shot, and a blow to his gut made his knees buckle.

  He tasted dirt and clawed for his gun, but it skidded across the ground a foot away from him. The shooter kicked it over by a pile of rocks, then brought his foot down and stomped on Maddox’s hand. Pain ricocheted through his fingers and arm, and he thought he heard the bones in his fingers cracking.

  Dammit. He had to get up. Then he felt the barrel of the gun against the back of his head, and he froze.

  Dear God, if the man shot him, he couldn’t save Rose...

  * * *

  TIME SEEMED TO stand still for Rose.

  Maddox was outside, and someone was shooting at him this time. She couldn’t hide out. She had to save him.

  She searched the room frantically for a weapon, anything to protect herself, but her room and her parents’ room held nothing helpful.

  Outside, another shot fired, then the sound of the door screeching open filled the air. She waited to hear Maddox’s voice, but he didn’t call out.

  Terrified he’d been shot, she ran for her parents’ closet. Maybe there was something she could use as a weapon inside.

  She ducked inside the closet and gripped the umbrella, the hint of mothballs almost making her choke. For a moment, memories launched her back to the night her parents were murdered.

  This was the closet where she’d hidden years ago, where she’d peeked out and seen the man shoot her mother.

  Footsteps shuffled outside the door. She held her breath, praying Maddox had overcome the shooter, but icy terror ripped through her as the man’s voice called her name. “Rose?”