A woman in matching gear appeared opposite him in the light. “Are you okay, ma’am?”
“No,” Lyndy cried, overcome by the rush of assurance, safety and salvation, even as her baby screamed in hysterics. “We’re not all right.” Hot tears poured over her stinging cheeks as her knees buckled and her limbs began to shake.
* * *
THE HOSPITAL WAS bright and loud. Everything smelled of bleach, burnt coffee and bandages. People rushed in every direction, not appearing to see anything but what was directly before them. Maybe that was how they survived a career submerged in horrific and abounding tragedies.
Lyndy paced the overpolished floor beside the bed where her baby was poked and prodded by a nurse, doctor and what seemed like a half-dozen medical trainees. She’d been given a cursory evaluation and released from further care, allowed to oversee what was happening to Gus. Lyndy had a few scrapes and bruises on her knees and shins from falling, some light bruising across her mouth and neck from being manhandled, but nothing serious. Nothing lasting. It was Gus she was worried about. What if he had brain damage or shaken baby syndrome from all the jostling and jolting? What if she’d broken his tiny fingers, hands or arms during one of her falls, or damaged his hearing with her screams?
It was lucky she hadn’t escaped a madman only to get her baby mowed down by a giant truck when she ran stupidly into the street outside the park.
Ambulance, she reminded herself. The vehicle had been an ambulance, and it had probably saved both their lives.
“Mrs. Wells?” A middle-aged man with a lab coat and stethoscope approached, hand extended.
Lyndy wrapped her arms more tightly around her middle. “Ms.,” she corrected. She wasn’t married. She thought everyone in their little community knew that by now. Half had probably attended Sam’s funeral, or maybe it had only seemed that way. “How is he?” she asked, forcing the tougher thoughts away.
The man cleared his throat and dropped his hand back to his side. “I’m Dr. Mustav, and your little man is going to be just fine. I’ve given him a very thorough evaluation, and he appears to be completely unscathed. Thanks, no doubt, to his mother’s quick thinking. Whatever you did out there, you saved his life. Both of your lives, really. I’m sure you’re eager to get home, so I’ll leave you to it.” He raised his hand again slightly before letting it drop once more, and exited with a small nod.
Lyndy blinked back the tears. Gus was fine. He was fine. A deep rush of breath coursed through her, strong enough to knock her off balance.
“Ma’am?” A smiling nurse in teddy bear scrubs bopped cheerfully into view. “Gus is fast asleep now, but he’s good to go whenever you’re ready. I just need you to read over these discharge papers and sign before you leave.” She handed Lyndy a clipboard with a stack of white pages and a pen. “Take as long as you need.”
Lyndy dropped the clipboard onto the table and went to stroke her son’s soft brown hair. His round cheeks were pink with color and his little button mouth worked in tiny circles, probably enjoying an imaginary bottle. A tear fell onto his forehead and he winced. Lyndy dried her eyes and his head quickly, then stroked his back gently until his mouth began to work on the bottle once more.
Suddenly, the weight of the night settled over her and pressed heavily on her soul. She backed into the uncomfortable bedside recliner, pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her trembling arms around them and sobbed as quietly as possible against the dirty fabric of her pant legs.
She woke to the sound of her name. Her sore and tired eyes peeled open with considerable effort. Her feet had returned to the floor and her arms hung east and west across the arms of the chair.
“Ms. Wells?” An older gentleman in a suit and trench coat stood before her. His white hair and round glasses made him look like he belonged behind a library table or in a boardroom. The detective’s shield on his coat said otherwise. “I’m Detective Harry Owens. How are you feeling?”
Her gaze jumped to the sleeping baby in the crib at her side. His chest rose and fell with strong, steady breaths.
“Okay,” she said on instinct. “Better,” she corrected.
“Good.” He handed her a business card. “I’ve been assigned to your case, and I’d like to talk to you sometime. Are you feeling up to it?”
“No,” she blurted. In fact, she doubted she’d ever feel up to reliving the horrors of her night. “Gus and I are free to go,” she said, recalling the doctor and nurse’s promise, “and it’s been a terrible night, so we’re going to go.” The stack of papers caught her eye. She couldn’t take Gus without at least signing the release papers. Could she? What would they do? Chase her down?
A noose tightened on her throat as the memory of being chased returned like a battering ram. She touched careful fingers to the tender skin where she could still feel the man’s arm pressing down on her windpipe. Her cheeks flushed hot, and she concentrated on not passing out. Maybe she could stay long enough to sign the papers. Something else came to mind. “My car,” she said. If she did run, where would she go? To a bus stop? Not without any money. She’d locked her purse in her glove box. “The ambulance brought us here.”
“I can take you to your car,” Detective Owens suggested. “We can talk on the way, or I can drive you home, if you’d prefer. You can give me your keys, and I’ll bring the car to you later.”
Her teeth began to chatter. “I dropped my keys in the lot.”.
“Look, Ms. Wells,” Detective Owens began, dragging another chair next to hers. He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and he looked at her as if he truly cared. “I’m going to be honest with you about something that I don’t think you’re ready to hear right now, but truthfully, I don’t know when a great time to tell you would be. So here it is. You fit the profile that federal officials have associated with a serial killer circling our community. Police departments in three neighboring counties are working with the FBI on similar cases, and they think your attack tonight is one that needs looking into. Unfortunately, they can’t be sure, so I can’t offer you much in the way of police protection other than some additional patrols of your street.” He shifted his feet beneath the chair and locked his ankles, then folded his hands on his lap. “If you asked me for my advice, or if you were my daughter, I’d suggest you buy a gun and get to the range, but you don’t look like my daughter, and you didn’t ask for my advice, so I’ll tell you this instead. There’s a private protection firm in Lexington made up of former military men, good ones, honorable and smart ones. You could hire one of them to look after you until this thing gets sorted out, if you’re interested. I understand their fees are fair, and they’ve been known to work pro bono where the need requires it. I’d say this situation fits the bill. They can probably get someone out here tonight. I’ve heard nothing but good things about them, and I don’t make recommendations lightly. Ms. Wells? Can you hear me?”
Lyndy tried to nod her head, but it didn’t move. “Serial killer?” she choked the words through a suddenly dry mouth, the syllables falling like stones from a sticky, swollen tongue.
Detective Owens didn’t answer. He pulled a cell phone from the inside pocket of his coat and dialed before pressing it to his cheek.
She felt her attacker’s hands on her. Felt his breath on her skin. The heat of him against her back. A serial killer? Bile rose in her throat, and her grip on the chair arms turned white.
“Ms. Wells?” The detective was on his feet. His phone was gone, and his coat was buttoned. “Come on, now.” He outstretched a hand. “My wife’s on her way. I think you might feel better with a woman along for the ride tonight. She’s an angel, my Gracie. While we wait for her, you can finish those papers and we’ll take you to get your car.”
* * *
LYNDY PULLED INTO her driveway an hour later, and Detective Owens walked her inside. Her keys had been under her car, kicked slightly behind her wheel, her
car still unlocked. Detective Owens made a loop through her home and waited on the porch before leaving while she locked up again. He’d assured her a member of the Fortress Defense team he’d told her about was on the way. Cade Lance, a former marine and honorably discharged vet. She triple-checked the locks and put on some coffee, then sat on the couch, watching through the front window for signs of trouble or her hired protector. She didn’t even know what it cost to have a bodyguard, only that she couldn’t afford not to have him, and Mr. Owens had set it all up while she’d been emotionally catatonic. Hopefully he’d been right about the sliding pay scale.
A flash of headlights opened her eyes. She hadn’t realized that she’d closed them. A silhouette climbed down from the driver’s side of a very tall, very black pickup truck outside her front window. A flutter of concern rocked through her as doubt over his identity crossed her mind: she hoped this was the man from Fortress Defense and not the man from the park. How did Detective Owens say he knew these guys? Were they buddies of his? All retired military? The beast of a truck looked nothing like Detective Owens’s sensible sedan, and the lean silhouette moving forward with strong, confident swagger certainly didn’t resemble the stout father figure who’d watched over her and Gus tonight.
The man took another step, and the motion sensor for her porch light switched on.
“Whoa,” she whispered, rising to her knees on the couch for a better look through her front window. She drank in the broad shoulders and narrow hips of the unexpected cowboy with sincere appreciation. A large black Stetson cast long shadows over eyes that sent a chill skittering down her spine. Not a turn-and-run chill like the others she’d had tonight. This was the kind of tingle that made her insides flush hot, especially after she caught a glimpse of his square jaw and tight blue jeans.
The cowboy walked the length of her porch in both directions before returning to her front door and knocking.
Lyndy approached the door on unsteady legs and peeked through the small window before grabbing the knob.
His cool blue eyes met hers instantly, pale and fathomless in the thin porch light. “Ms. Wells. I’m Cade Lance, Fortress Defense. Detective Harry Owens called me.”
Lyndy turned the knob, enjoying the veil of heat sliding across her skin at the sound of his slow Southern drawl, and then opened the door to meet her new personal protector.
Copyright © 2020 by Julie Anne Lindsey
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ISBN-13: 9781488067655
The Line of Duty
Copyright © 2020 by Natascha Jaffa
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
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The Line of Duty Page 18