by Debra Webb
“Why? Why would you do this?” Angry male voice. She knew it, but her mind wouldn’t quite supply a face or name. “Tell me before—”
Gunfire blasted. Once, twice.
She managed to fumble a hand toward her unsnapped holster. Empty. Why was it empty? She could see booted feet move, the back of someone crouching over—she couldn’t remember who lay still now.
Darkness beckoned and she moaned. When the footsteps approached, it took everything she had to open her eyes a slit. The toes of the boots were inches away. He must be looking down at her.
From somewhere, a voice yelled, “Hey! I called 9-1-1.”
Crack. The impact of the bullet bounced her body on the pavement. Pain blossomed like hot red lava.
I’m dead.
Crack.
Chapter One
A hammer pounded Abigail Baker’s head. Again. Again. Wasn’t the nail in yet?
Pain washed her body, but with her eyes still closed, she homed in on the hot points. Shoulder. Middle of her chest beneath her breasts. Spike through her head.
Someone had applied super glue to her eyelids, but she succeeded in prying them open. She stared blankly upward at an unfamiliar ceiling, then rolled her eyes to see to each side. Her head let her know that she really shouldn’t move it.
Curtains surrounded the bed. Abby could just see an IV pole out of the corner of her eye. White, waffle-weave blankets covered her.
Hospital.
The curtain rings rattled and a sturdily built middle-aged woman appeared at the side of her bed. Beaming, she said, “You’re awake! Oh, my. How do you feel, dear?”
Abby worked her bone-dry mouth and finally moaned, “Hurt.”
“You’re with us. Excellent. I need you to wait just a few minutes for the pain relief. The doctor will want to talk to you first.”
A hint of temper increased the force of the hammer blows. Note to self: Don’t get mad. She sank into a near doze, feeling every beat of her heart, conscious of her shallow breaths, floating on the sea of pain.
“Abigail?” A man’s voice.
It was a fraction easier to open her eyes this time.
“I’m told you hurt.”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me where? Or show me?”
She tried to move her mouth.
“Let me give you some ice chips.”
He gently tipped some into her mouth. The cool moisture was nirvana. While she sucked on them, she lifted her right hand, seeing that the IV was in it. She studied it for a minute, then touched her head, her shoulder—feeling a thick dressing—and her breastbone—no padding. Why not, when it hurt, too?
“Good,” he said with obvious satisfaction.
She had to work to focus on his face. He was lean, blond with grey hair at his temples. Lived-in face.
“Why am I here?”
Hazel eyes narrowed a flicker. “Do you remember what happened?”
Impatient, Abby made the mistake of starting to shake her head. Pain exploded, and she groaned.
He was suddenly closer. “There’s a button here you can push when you need pain relief.” He said some more things, but she didn’t listen, because he’d put the button in her hand. She squeezed it, and felt relief flooding from her neck to her fingers and toes. Another squeeze, and her headache receded enough for her to think about what he’d asked—and what she’d asked.
“No.”
“What’s the last thing you do remember?”
That took some concentration. “Laundry. Basement of my building. Someone dumped my clothes and stole the dryer cycle.”
He grinned. “I’d remember that, too.”
“Partner—Neal—worried about something.” After being promoted almost a year ago from patrol to detective in the Major Crimes division of the Kansas City, Missouri, police department, she’d been paired with Neal Walker. His previous partner had just retired. The two of them hit it off, even socializing. Abby and his new wife had become friends. “Wouldn’t say.” She recalled telling him she’d help, his crooked grin. His voice, tenser than usual. Let me make sure I’m not imagining things. He’d dropped her off by her car. And then...
Abby stared into space. And then... There was nothing. Not a single thing. Panic soared and she struggled to sit up.
She and the doctor wrestled briefly. She was so ridiculously weak, he was able to ease her down.
“You need to stay calm,” he said soothingly. “Don’t worry. People often lose their memories of a period surrounding traumatic events. Right now, your body has to deal with the physical injuries. You’ve been in a coma, so it’s not surprising that your brain isn’t entirely booted up yet. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” She didn’t even blink as she stared at him, afraid to sink into that black void. “How long...?”
“You’ve been here for three days. We’re really happy to see you regaining consciousness.”
“What...happened?”
“Your injuries? You were shot twice. Fortunately, you were wearing a Kevlar vest. It didn’t stop the bullet in your shoulder, but the shot to your chest might well have killed you. Instead, you have only severe bruising and a cracked sternum. It also appears that when you fell, you struck your head against the corner of a dumpster. I understand you were found in an alley.”
Dread supplanted the panic. “Neal?”
The doctor took a step back, his expression becoming guarded. “Your partner?”
“Yes.”
“I think I’ll let your Sergeant Donahue tell you about that. He’s been haunting the place.”
She knew. She knew.
She managed to turn her face away.
* * *
HER DOCTOR DIDN’T allow any visitors until the following day, after they’d moved her from intensive care to a room she currently had to herself. She could only imagine how frustrated Donahue was to be thwarted. Given the severity of her head injury and the length of time she’d spent in a coma, Dr. Sanderlin insisted she rest, use pain medication as needed and not worry.
Yes, he actually said that again. After patting her hand. “Don’t worry.”
Abby would have done nothing but worry if she hadn’t felt so rotten. If she didn’t push the little button, her head felt like a rocket right at blastoff, spewing fire. If she did use the stuff, she dozed. Quite honestly, she didn’t feel much better the day after regaining consciousness, but when she was capable of thinking clearly, she chased herself in circles. What could possibly have happened? If Neal was alive, why wouldn’t the doctor have told her so? Or said, Gosh, I don’t know who Neal is?
And why couldn’t she remember?
An orderly had just removed her breakfast tray when she heard a cleared throat and Sergeant Michael Donahue stepped into view. He supervised her unit of detectives, and they all felt lucky. He could be gruff, but never failed to support them against higher-ups or the public when needed. He was smart and capable of compassion, and his detectives very rarely encountered a difficulty he hadn’t already met and overcome in his lengthy career.
He’d turned fifty-four back in February, when they threw him a surprise party. Donahue was still a good-looking man, his gray hair short but not buzz-cut. His wife liked to run her fingers through it, he’d tell them with a hidden smile. He dressed well, his suits appearing custom-made to fit his tall body and bulky shoulders, but within an hour or two at the station, he invariably looked rumpled. Abby had met his wife, Jennifer, who was known to roll her eyes on occasion when she dropped by the station and first set eyes on him.
“Abby,” he said, his face creased with what she took for concern. “You scared us.”
She managed a weak smile.
He pulled a chair close to the bed and lowered himself into it. “Shot twice.”
“So they tell me.”
The lines on his forehead deepened. “The doctor claims you have no memory of what happened.”
“The doctor’s right,” she said huskily. “I have this huge blank.” Her hand rose to touch her temple.
He studied her in silence for longer than she understood. Then he leaned back in the chair and said, “That’s a problem for us. The...scene where you were found is puzzling, to put it mildly. I’ve been hoping you can tell us what occurred.”
She gave her head a very careful shake. “I can’t. All I know is that I was found in an alley.”
“Neal was with you,” Donahue said, “also shot twice. Unlike you, he didn’t survive.”
Yes, she’d known, but the news threw a punch anyway. Abby felt tears burn in her eyes. “How?”
His face hadn’t softened at all. She didn’t see the expected sympathy. Instead, he had the kind of stony expression suspects saw.
“It appears that you shot Neal with your service weapon and he shot you with his. You apparently struck your head on the dumpster as you fell. You need to tell me if you’ve been having issues with him, or if he had a problem with how you handled any investigation.”
“How I handled...?” She gaped at him. “You think we quarreled?”
“How else can you explain the physical evidence?” he said implacably.
“I can’t explain anything! Neal and Laura are—were—my best friends! We never disagreed.”
“Then why would you have shot him?”
“Did you test for gunpowder residue on my hand?”
He hesitated. “We did, and didn’t find any. But the only fingerprints found on your Glock were yours.”
Something was very wrong.
“And Neal’s?”
“The same.”
“There had to have been someone else there,” she said, having trouble believing he’d suspect either of them. “You know both of us.”
“I’ve seen cops go bad before. It stinks, but it happens. If Neal did, I need you to tell me.”
She looked right into his eyes. “I’ll never believe he would.”
His graying eyebrows rose, obviating any need for him to say what she knew he was thinking: Then you have to be the bad apple.
* * *
SEVERAL OF ABBY’S fellow detectives came by to see her. Most of them had apparently gathered here at the hospital after she and Neal were found in that alley, holding vigil for her after they learned he was dead. She was told that Sergeant Donahue had worked the scene himself, along with an experienced detective, Sam Kirk. The CSI team had gathered trace evidence—too much of it. Alleys ranked right up there as the most impossible scenes. Employees from businesses along the block came out regularly to drop garbage into a dumpster or smoke a cigarette, grinding the butt out with a shoe and leaving it where it lay. Homeless people lurked, scrounging in the dumpsters, sleeping behind them, having sex and getting into fights. Cars cut through, passengers or drivers tossing litter out windows. Rats frequented the alley, as did stray cats.
The man who’d heard the gunshots and had the guts to run toward them rather than away would have left his own trace evidence. He claimed to have seen a dark shape standing over her, a man—he thought male—who ran away when he called out.
Sergeant Donahue was clearly not convinced the sole witness hadn’t conjured the sight of a villain to make himself appear more heroic.
Laura Walker never came. Abby called her a week after she’d regained consciousness.
“Laura? This is Abby. I wanted to tell you—” She was talking to dead air. A woman she’d considered a good friend had learned of Sergeant Donahue’s suspicions and immediately bought into them. What other explanation was there?
That was the first time in a very long while that Abby let herself cry—but only after the lights had gone out and she was alone. Better than falling asleep. Nightmares grabbed her the minute she dropped off. They were lurid and felt important. She’d wake gasping with shock and fear, but couldn’t remember any details.
Visits from her coworkers tailed off. They were busy; she understood that. But she wondered if they had any idea how isolated she felt when she trudged up and down the halls of the hospital, trying to regain enough strength to go home. Nurses and orderlies fussed over her, but that was their job. Why hadn’t she made more friends? The kind who would stand by her?
But she knew. She’d never quite fit in, wherever she was. Not as a child, migrating between her grandparents’ farm and a “normal” life with her silent, wounded father. Certainly not in college, where the sense of morality she’d absorbed from the deeply religious Amish part of her family separated her from other students. And then she became a cop, joining a small minority who were women.
Maybe she hadn’t really tried. Was she more comfortable alone? she asked herself, troubled.
Five days after she’d woken from the coma, Dr. Sanderlin told her she was ready to leave the hospital.
“I’ll have a social worker stop by to help you form a plan,” he assured her. “If you live alone...?”
“Yes.”
“You need to have someone around to help you. I’d rather not extend your hospital stay if we can come up with a solution, but I’m not willing to send you off to pass out or fall or have a traumatic flashback where nobody will see. If you don’t have family you can go to, I recommend at least a week in a rehab facility.”
Her father... No. They stayed in touch, but conversations were always stiff, awkward. She hadn’t even let him know yet that she’d been shot. He’d grown up in foster care, and now had no family but her. Her mother’s parents, who’d half raised her, were gone, too, but Aenti Nancy and Onkel Eli would take her in. She knew they would. The Amish were like that. They loved visitors, and they took care of the people they loved. Even people they didn’t love. If their church community included an irascible old woman who was difficult to like, they took care of her anyway, with generosity, humor and no grumbling. She’d heard her grandfather—her grossdaadi—say, “How would we learn to forgive, if the Lord didn’t give us cranky neighbors?” Then he’d grin. “And teenagers.”
Of course, she wasn’t one of them, never had been, really, even though she’d attended Amish schools for weeks or even, once, several months at a time. She dressed “plain” when she was with her Amish family, grew so accustomed to having no television, she’d never watched much even as an adult. Her grandparents might have hoped she’d choose to be baptized to join their faith, but weren’t surprised when she didn’t. Especially after what happened to—
No, the past had nothing to do with the here and now. She needed to focus on her next step. Physical recovery, Abby could already tell, was going to be slow. Plus, even if she bounced out of bed feeling great, going back to the job clearly wasn’t an option until she could explain what had happened that night in the alley.
If she ever could. The doctor had explained that her memory of the missing week might return in its entirety, she might recall pieces of it...or it might never come back.
Her aunt and uncle would take her in without question, pamper her even as they set her to doing chores she could handle. The idea of sitting at the long table in that big farm kitchen, peeling potatoes or rolling out pie dough while the women chattered and the younger children helped to the extent they were able sounded heavenly to Abby right now.
Her smile felt rusty, but real. Heavenly? That might’ve been a pun, but it was also truth.
She’d call and leave a message on the machine in the phone shanty out by the road that passed her family’s farm, and hope Onkel Eli checked it soon so that her arrival wasn’t a complete surprise.
Unfortunately, she didn’t think she was up to the meandering pace, clouds of exhaust and swaying ride of a bus. Now all she needed was to find a ride.
* * *
“LEFT UP AHEAD.” All ten families who lived on
this gravel road were Amish. Abby felt sure Aenti Nancy would have told her if someone had had to sell out. She wrote to Abby weekly, long, chatty missives that always made her feel as if she mattered.
Despite the bands of pain tightening around her head, excitement fizzed inside her. Abby leaned forward until the seat belt put uncomfortable pressure on her shoulder and chest. She hadn’t been here since Thanksgiving, having volunteered to work over the Christmas holidays so that a detective who had children could take the time off. The farm felt like home, more so than her father’s house had since her mother died. Why hadn’t she visited in the spring? It had been nine, no, ten months since she’d made it to see her family here.
Sam Kirk, the detective working her case, had offered to drive her. She’d fully expected him to grill her during the two-hour drive, but had decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Besides, if he could ask the question that would unlock her memories, she’d be as glad as he would.
Sam was in his late thirties or early forties and tended to be quiet, but when he spoke, people listened. He had a presence, she’d long since decided, even though he was lean and not above average height. Abby had always felt shy around him, and hadn’t yet had occasion to work closely with him.
When he’d first picked her up, he drove her to her apartment and helped her pack a duffel bag full of clothes. Without complaint, he also carried a tote bag of books she kept meaning to read out to the car.
Returning, he nodded at her laptop. “You’ll want that.”
“No electricity where I’m going.” Seeing his puzzlement, she had to explain why the Amish refused to be on the grid, linked with people who didn’t share their faith.
He looked stunned. “No TV? But...the Chiefs’ first regular-season game is next weekend.”
She laughed at him, relaxing for the first time.
When he offered to come back to dispose of any foods that would rot while she was away and empty the kitchen trash, Abby handed over her key. If he could figure out her laptop password, he was welcome to browse her emails and files. He’d probably search her apartment, but she didn’t care. She had nothing to hide. In fact...she didn’t have much at all.