by Laura Scott
Gunfire boomed and broke through nature’s noises. Colt paused and firmly but gently grabbed her forearm.
“It’s Sunny Wilkerson. He shoots targets on his huntin’ land every weekend. It’ll go all day today and after church tomorrow. I don’t know how Grandma stood all that shooting.”
Colt relaxed, and they eased into a leisurely pace as the dogs ran ahead.
“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to your grandma’s funeral. I couldn’t get away. She was always good to me.”
“It’s okay.” She’d never expected him to come, but she couldn’t deny searching for him in the lines of people paying their respects. “I understand you’re a busy man.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. “We have all of Mississippi and more cold cases to evaluate than you can fathom. I wish we could get to all of them, solve all of them, but we simply can’t. We’re only four people.” He shrugged.
“I imagine you see some fascinating cases.”
“I do. And I imagine you want to hear all about them, Christi Cold.”
She laughed. “What? It’s clever.”
“Oh, okay,” he noted with a heavy dose of sarcasm.
“Okay, maybe not. But it sufficed.” Until now. Now everyone would find out.
As they hiked into the woods, the dogs explored, and he shared several interesting cases, without revealing identities, and how he and his team had closed them—or were unable to. Those were the ones he said kept him awake at night. His whispered tenor tone captured her attention and kept her engaged, like spreading honey on a hot biscuit or listening to lapping waves on the beach at sunrise. “You ever consider doing a podcast? You have the voice for it.”
“No. But I admit, I enjoy yours. I suspected you might be someone in law enforcement. You have the gut instinct, Georgia. For real.” He nudged her with his shoulder and smiled. “You missed your calling.”
“I don’t think so.”
They walked in comfortable silence.
Conducting pretend investigations from the security of her own home was a far cry from jumping into the throes of danger daily, like Colt. His career path proved her decision—though excruciating as it was—to break things off with him before college had been the right thing to do. She couldn’t imagine the levels of anxiety she would reach knowing each day could be his last day.
Football alone had sent her into vomiting fits on Friday nights before games during football season. Her nerves would start jittering on Sunday nights and gradually develop and increase from worry to stomachaches to shortness of breath and irritability until by game time she was in the bathroom unable to function over everything that could possibly go wrong for Colt.
Life was unpredictable. Her parents, Jared and Dandy were all proof of that. And if sudden disaster didn’t strike, there was always disease waiting to claim a loved one—like Grandma.
What if Colt gets injured and snaps his neck or spinal cord? What if he ends up in a coma? Or killed?
Grandma called her a worrywart and reminded her it was only a game, but Georgia had seen Remember the Titans. The same tragic accident that took the QB in the movie could reach out and take Colt as well. Turned out he never had more than a sprained ankle, but the possibility that it could have become reality was still seared into Georgia’s mind.
When he told her that he made the college team at Mississippi State, she came unglued and had a choice to make. Stay with him, go to State and be sick and unable to function, or end things for her own peace of mind, even if it stomped on her heart. Georgia had crushed them both. Colt hadn’t understood, and he’d argued, but Georgia had done the best thing for each of them. She’d had no way to make him understand how she’d felt, because he’d been right—it made no sense to worry herself sick. But she had anyway. He hadn’t deserved to be saddled with her disturbing thoughts, and she’d needed the mental health.
Now, she understood her issues as a teenager. She wasn’t dramatic or simply a worrywart. She had been suffering from severe anxiety.
Now that he was a law enforcer, it upped the ante. Just because he worked on cases that had gone cold didn’t mean killers went cold. She was a testament to that. There would be no emotional ties to Colt. Never again.
“So, what will you and your team do?” She glanced at her cell phone for the time. The rest of the MBI team should be arriving shortly.
“We’ll go over the past investigation, see where the case stalled and pick up from there. Talk to old witnesses and suspects. Run new tests on trace evidence. We’ll speak with the coach and athletic recruiters at Ole Magnolia if it leads there. If someone was illegally offering Jared a sweet deal to come play, we’ll find it. Coach Joe Jackson has been at Ole Magnolia for twenty-five years.”
“Yeah. Wins mean coaches keep their jobs, unless another university offers more money. Guess no one offered more money.” She shrugged.
“We’ll call the NCAA and see if an investigator ever looked into Ole Magnolia around that time frame. They’ll likely put an investigator on it now with the new information.”
The National Collegiate Athletic Association had many investigators who regulated athletics across college sports, determining if colleges participated in prohibited behavior. Celebrities had just recently gone to jail for paying large sums of money to have their children enrolled in some of the best Ivy League schools—some on athletic scholarships.
“How can I help?” There had to be something she could offer the investigation besides Dandy’s notes.
“Since the sheriff’s department can’t supply any manpower on this case or protection detail, it’s just us four. You can help by allowing one of us to be with you at all times.”
“Even in the ladies’ room?” Sarcasm came naturally and helped her to cope with the severity of the problem.
“I have two female agents, so yeah. Even there.” He gave her a take-that expression, but humor danced in his eyes as clear as mountain water streams.
“Whatever. Fine. But I meant helping in the investigation.”
“I can’t deny you’re good at speculation.” He checked his watch. “Let’s get back to the house. The team will be here any minute.”
“Wyatt! Doc! Come! Let’s go home and get a sweet potato.” The dogs sprinted toward her, barking their approval of their favorite dehydrated treat.
As they emerged from the tree line, a crack sounded.
Tree bark splintered above Georgia’s head.
“Get down!” Colt boomed and dived on top of her.
* * *
Colt calculated the risk of running back to the house, which was about a mile from here, or hauling it deeper into the woods. The sniper likely had a scope, which made them toast in open range. His only option was taking Georgia into the forest for cover.
“This way,” he urged and pointed her into the woods, shielding her from behind. The dogs kept pace, aware something wasn’t right. The blue merle whimpered and stuck close to Georgia. Colt used the widest trees as covering, but another bullet slammed into the trunk about four inches from Georgia’s shoulder.
They were dealing with an experienced shooter. His heart pounded, but he kept a cool head as his training kicked into high gear. Nothing mattered more than Georgia’s protection. He yanked her behind a massive oak tree.
“Do you know what’s on the other side of the woods? A road, a clearing?” he asked.
“We’re on Sunny Wilkerson’s land. The woods will lead to his cabin on the hill.”
Sunny was their best option. “Stay low.” Crouching, he hovered over Georgia as he used the trees as shields while maneuvering them farther into the woods. Leaves crunched underfoot, twigs snapped and the dogs barked, which would easily give away their position.
Suddenly, Georgia froze. Sweat poured down her pasty-white cheeks. “I—I can’t.”
“Can’t what?” Was
she sick? What was happening?
Her breathing became shallow. “I’m—I’m having a panic attack.”
A panic attack. Well, she was being targeted for murder. “It’s not uncommon.”
She shook her head, but her gasps for air became faster and shallower. She could pass out. That would be the almost worst-case scenario here.
“No. I suffer from anxiety with panic disorder. It’s common to me.”
Oh.
“And I’m also being shot at, so there’s that, too. I can’t breathe.”
She hadn’t lost her dry wit. The diagnosis was new. The dogs’ continued yapping resounded through the entire forest, and Georgia was about to pass out, and he was trying to keep them alive. Lord, I need some help here. “Okay, listen to my voice. Breathe in. Deeply.”
She obeyed.
“Look in my eyes. Breathe.” He tried to keep his voice calm and steady, but time wasn’t on their side. Another crack of gunfire sounded, but nothing hit directly. The shooter was targeting them blindly, which meant they were far enough away to dodge him. But he must know they were choosing to push through the dense trees to the other side. The question now was could they beat him across to safety?
She continued gazing into his eyes and breathing. Nothing romantic about this. Her breath began to even out, but she wasn’t literally out of the woods yet.
“We have to act now. Can you make it?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He clasped her hand. “’Cause you don’t really have a choice.” He yanked her alongside him and they hauled it about two miles, jumping logs, weaving between trees and pushing through brush until they came to the edge of the clearing. Colt had worked up a sweat, and his heart rate was up. Georgia had braved it like a champ and kept up with him as she regulated her breathing. He thanked God for the help.
In the distance, Sunny Wilkerson’s cabin beckoned them like a lighthouse guiding a ship to invulnerable shores.
He checked his cell phone. Finally, some reception. He called unit team member Rhett Wallace. He picked up on the first ring.
“We heard shots! What’s going on, Chief?”
“They were meant for us. Everyone’s okay, though. There’s a property on the east side of the woods about two miles down. A Sunny Wilkerson. We’re about to make a break for it. I’m gonna give you five minutes to head this guy off in case he’s following us.” It had been quiet for the past few minutes, but that didn’t mean the shooter had given up.
“Okay. Be careful. We’re leaving now.” He hung up.
“Five minutes and then we make a run for it.”
Georgia nodded. “I’m really sorry for bringing you into this.”
She had no reason to apologize. “You should be thanking me. Not apologizing. You’d be dead right now if I hadn’t gotten involved.”
“Not the words you use to talk a panicking woman off the ledge of anxiety, Colton.” She continued her deep breathing. The dogs remained at her heels, waiting for a command. Now they decided to be quiet.
In five, they bounded out of the forest into the clearing and straight for the SUV full of his team members awaiting them.
A hulking man in camouflage burst through his front door onto the porch, a rifle in hand. “What’s going on here, Georgia?” He squinted and came closer. “Colt McCoy? Harlan’s boy?”
“Yessir,” he automatically replied as his father’s name roiled his stomach. “It’s me.” He wrung out of the timid schoolboy days and retrieved his creds, showing them to Sunny. For being in his late fifties, the man was still built like the defensive lineman he’d been in high school and college. “You hear any gunshots?”
“Just my own.” His scowl swept over Georgia and the team members in the SUV. “I asked what’s going on.”
The tricolor growled and barked at Sunny. Georgia quieted him.
“Someone tried to use us as targets for shooting practice. Sure you didn’t hear any shots?” Even his team had heard them.
“If I said I didn’t, then I didn’t.”
If he was shooting as well and had worn earmuffs, then it was possible. Slight, but possible. “This is the cold case unit with the Mississippi Bureau of Investigation. We’re reopening Jared Toledo’s case.”
Sunny’s scowl deepened. “Why would you do that?”
“New information came to light. You wouldn’t know anything about Jared being approached by either an athletic recruiter or booster, like yourself, to make it worthwhile for him to play quarterback at Ole Magnolia, would you?”
“Boy, don’t think for one second you can come onto my property and implicate me in wrongdoing. I love my alma mater, but I’m not a briber. Get on outta here.”
Boy.
The word flew all over Colt. The way his father spoke to him, especially when he was drunk.
Boy, where do you think you’ve been? Boy, you ain’t worth a lick. Boy, you’re the reason your mama left. Boy. Boy. Boy.
He swallowed the bitterness rising on his tongue and replaced it with practiced cool composure as he pocketed his credentials. “Mr. Wilkerson, I think it’s clear I am far from a boy. I’m here on official business, so you can address me as Investigator, Officer or even Colt. We’ll go for now, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be back with more questions if necessary. And be extra cautious since you’re hard of hearing. Someone’s out in the woods with a rifle, and he’s a pretty good shot.”
“Well, if he was aiming for ya, then I’d decline to agree.” He spun on his heel and slammed his door shut.
“Well, he’s colorful,” Rhett Wallace responded as he unfolded from the driver’s seat. As big as Mr. Wilkerson and full of dry wit, Rhett was not only a skilled agent but a good friend. He’d be the clear choice in leading this team when Colt left the unit. Not because he was the only other man, but because he was a stickler for the rules, levelheaded and objective. Poppy was a hardnose and often tactless, and Mae tended to be stubbornly biased at times. “You two all right?” He held out his hand and introduced himself to Georgia.
“I think we’re okay.” Colt escorted a shaking Georgia to the SUV and opened the door for her and the pooches.
Inside, Mae Vogel met her with a friendly grin. Mae was often underestimated due to her girlish features and petite stature, but it worked to her advantage often, as she was fierce when necessary. “I’m Mae. Nice to meet you.”
Georgia climbed inside while Colt approached the passenger side. Poppy Holliday ambled out and tossed him a look of indifference. Muscular and tall for a woman, with chin-length black hair, she exuded the words back off, and she meant it. “Guess it wouldn’t matter if I’d have called shotgun, which I did,” she remarked and hopped in beside Mae.
Colt took the ribbing and Poppy’s former seat up front with Rhett.
“I contacted the district attorney after you gave us the information last night,” Mae said, “and she’s willing to prosecute the case if we find new evidence that leads to a viable suspect. And considering you’ve been the bull’s-eye for the last twenty minutes or so, I’ll venture to guess our suspect is alive and knows there’s evidence out there to convict.” She frowned and pulled a strand of blond hair that had been tucked into the seat belt strap. While her tone was sharp, her pitch sounded fairylike.
“Also,” Poppy added, “I talked with the sheriff, and the full case file, investigative reports, photographs, forensics, autopsy reports and video/audio recordings of those interviewed are available to us now. They’re at the station.”
“Good. The quicker we get to work, the quicker we can catch this idiot.” Georgia had experienced a pretty hefty panic attack back there. The faster he could help her stay safe, the better her situation. He glanced at her in the visor mirror. She stared out the window, absently rubbing her dog and lightly chewing on her bottom lip. He’d have to research anxiety and panic di
sorder. He’d had some brief training for the job. Victims, witnesses and even perpetrators needed to be talked down occasionally.
But he wanted to know more.
“For now, let’s get the files from the station and work at Georgia’s. It’s been a big day, and I think that’s the wisest decision.” Georgia had been attacked twice now on her own property, but she might, oddly enough, still feel safer in her own space, where she had some semblance of control.
“We’ll drop you guys and then go get the file boxes,” Rhett said.
Inside Georgia’s, she went straight to the kitchen and began making coffee. Yep. Doing what she could control. From the moment she stepped inside, she stopped the lip gnawing. But did she not realize that she had zero control? None of them did at the moment. The killer could strike at any second. He’d keep that to himself and let her continue doing what eased her anxiousness.
Colt sidled up next to her as she put a kettle on for tea, too. “I know this is a lot. You’re well within your rights to be afraid and nervous, and I want to help you. Could you tell me more about your condition? Help me understand. Find a way to work around it.”
“My condition. Right.” She pursed her lips.
He inwardly cringed at his terrible choice of words. But it was a condition, wasn’t it? “I don’t mean to sound insensitive.”
“I know.” She turned the burner to high for the tea as the coffeepot gurgled and the room began to smell like strong caffeine. “But there is no working around it, Colt. I can’t control it. I can only cope using the skills I’ve been given and heavy doses of prayer. It’s about working with it and through it, not around it.”
“How long have you suffered with this?”
She leaned on the counter. “Twelve is when I remember it beginning.”
Her parents had been killed in a three-car accident on the interstate. She’d talked about them often but never about anxiety.
“Started out not wanting to get in a car or wanting people I love to get in one. But I was twelve, so what I wanted didn’t happen. It escalated to other worries. Worry about the world in general. I hated when Grandma watched the news at night. I never slept well after hearing it.”