Buch lesen: «Truth And Consequences»

Many thanks to my fellow writers in this series—

Terri Reed, Lynette Eason, Shirlee McCoy, Dana Mentink

and Valerie Hansen. I loved working with all of you.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

ONE

“Next stop, Desert Valley, Arizona.”

David Evans took a deep breath and got up to exit the passenger train, glad to finally be at his destination. Now if he could locate the woman he’d come here to see.

There were only two other people left in this car. Two men wearing baseball caps and dark shades. They’d kept to themselves most of the trip from Los Angeles, and so had David. There was something about these two.

They grabbed their carry-on duffels and rushed out of their seats so fast they stumbled upon the car attendant coming up the aisle. Startled, one of them dropped his tattered black bag, causing it to rip open.

Several colorful bundles covered in shrink-wrap crashed onto the floor. Everything after that happened so fast—David’s blood pressure spiked, and he felt himself slipping back into the arid mountains of Afghanistan.

The attendant’s surprise turned to realization, his gaze moving from the two men to the packages spilling from the duffel.

“Keep moving, old man,” one of the men told the attendant. “Don’t you have someplace else to be?”

The attendant stared at the bag. “No, can’t do that. I’m afraid I’ll have to report this immediately.”

“Wrong answer.” One of them pulled a knife on the frightened older attendant, stabbing him in the stomach. The attendant went down on his knees, shock and fear evident in his wide-eyed stare.

David saw the whole thing from his seat a few feet up the aisle. While the two argued about leaving without the packages they’d dropped, David hurried to help the injured man.

But one of the men pulled out a gun and pointed it at David, his expression hard-edged while his trigger finger twitched. “Get out of here. Now.”

David glanced up at the man holding a gun on him and then down at the bleeding man lying on the floor of the passenger train. “I’m not leaving. I’m a medic, and this man needs help.”

He braced himself and knelt down beside the attendant, fully expecting to be shot. Which was kind of ironic since he’d just returned from Afghanistan. He’d managed to survive the front lines, and now he might be killed while trying to honor the promise he’d made to a dying soldier.

Before the standoff could continue, voices outside caused the gunman’s friend to whirl in a nervous dance. “I didn’t agree to this,” he said in a growling whisper, his oversize red baseball cap covering most of his face. “Man, if you shoot him, the DEA and every cop around here will be on us. We need to leave.”

The man holding the gun glanced around, the sweat of panic radiating off him like hot steam. Then he spouted off to his short but wise buddy, his words as brittle as desert sand. “Get all that up and let’s go. Now!”

He kept the gun on David while his nervous helper shoved the packages back inside the gaping duffel. “You better keep traveling, mister, if you want to live.” Then he pointed to the moaning attendant. “I’ll finish off both of you if either of you talks.”

David held his breath and stayed on his knees near the injured attendant while the two men rushed off the train, baseball caps pulled low over their faces and sunglasses hiding their eyes. But the minute he saw them heading for a black SUV in the small parking lot near the square Tudor-style train station, he pulled out his cell and called 911. Straining to see, he memorized only part of the license plate and quickly glanced at what looked like some sort of Aztec emblem centered over the plates.

“I’m a medic,” he told the shocked older man after giving the dispatcher the needed information. “I’m going to help you, okay?” He checked the man’s vitals and found a weak pulse.

The pale-faced man nodded, his expression full of fright, his pupils dilating as he went into shock. “He stabbed me.”

“I saw,” David said. Taking off the button-up shirt over his old T-shirt, he quickly used it to stanch the blood oozing from the gash in the man’s abdomen. “Lie still while I examine you. Help should be on the way.”

The man moaned and closed his eyes. “My wife is gonna be so mad.”

David sank down beside the man, hoping to keep him talking. “Hey, buddy, what’s your name?”

“Herman,” the man said. “Herman Gallagher.” Then he grabbed David’s arm. “You need to report this to our conductor, too. Drugs. I think they had drugs in those bags.”

David did as he asked, and soon the conductor and several attendants were moving up and down the aisles.

David put up a hand to hold them away and kept talking to the man after handing his phone to a young assistant, who stayed on the line with 911. When he heard sirens, he breathed a sigh of relief. Though he was concerned because of Mr. Gallagher’s age and still disoriented himself, he’d seen much worse than this in the heat of battle. But right now, he was struggling to fight his own flashbacks.

This trip had sure ended with a bang.

And he hadn’t even stepped off the train to his final destination.

He’d come here searching for a woman he didn’t really know, except in his imagination. But a promise was a promise. He wasn’t leaving Desert Valley without finding her.

When he looked up a few minutes later to see a pretty female officer with long blond hair coming toward him, a sleek tan-and-white canine pulling on a leash in front of her, David thought he surely must be dreaming. Either that or his flashbacks were taking a new turn.

He knew that face. Had seen it in his dreams many times over.

While he sat on the cold train floor holding a bloody shirt to a man who was about to pass out, he looked up and into the vivid blue eyes of the woman he’d traveled here to find. The woman who’d colored his dreams during the brutality of war and made him wish he could finally settle down. Thinking of the worn picture in his pocket that her brother, Lucas, had given him right before he died, David couldn’t believe this was really happening.

Whitney Godwin was coming to his aid.

* * *

Whitney took one look at the two men on the train floor and went into action. Turning to her partner, a white-and-tan pointer appropriately named Hunter, she commanded, “Stay.”

Hunter whimpered, his shiny nose sniffing the air, his dark eyes lifting to her in a definite alert. Did the big dog sense something else around here? Hunter was trained in drug detection, so it was possible. They’d both recently finished an intense twelve-week session in town, so Whitney knew they were up to the task. Yet her heart beat with a burst of adrenaline that shouted, This is the real deal.

She took a good look at the injured train attendant and the man helping him. They’d both have to be questioned and cleared. “We’ll get to our search later, Hunter.”

Turning from Hunter, she spoke into the radio attached to her shoulder. “James, need that bus, stat. We have one injured and one who doesn’t look so hot.” Then she added, “We need to clear the train, too. Hunter’s a little antsy.”

“Bus is en route. ETA three minutes,” James Harrison, fellow rookie, responded. “I’ll take Hawk and have a look around, question some of the bystanders. Ellen’s on the way. She and Carly can help with a sweep.”

Ellen Foxcroft was also a rookie, and her golden retriever, Carly, was trained in tracking. Her mother, the formidable Marian Foxcroft, who’d always been supportive of the K9 training program in Desert Valley, had recently made an offer to Chief Jones that he couldn’t ignore. They’d all been asked to stay here after graduation from the training course to help investigate the high-profile murder of their master trainer, Veronica Earnshaw.

Marian had offered to underwrite their salaries since she wanted Veronica’s murder solved right away. Not to mention, she wanted the two suspicious deaths of two former rookies to be declared accidents once and for all. Marian didn’t like any black marks on the Desert Valley Police Department’s record. But someone seemed to have a beef with Marian, too, since she’d been found unconscious in her home a few weeks ago and was still in a coma at the Canyon County Regional Medical Center located twenty miles west of Desert Valley. Ellen had requested round-the-clock security for her mother’s room. They were all on high alert.

“Roger that,” Whitney responded to James. While the rookies were still in Desert Valley, they took whatever calls they could to gain experience. James’s dog, Hawk, a bloodhound trained in crime scene investigations, would sniff out any evidence. And she’d get Hunter on that, too. “I’ll stay with the eyewitness.”

Then she turned to the railroad employees and urged them to keep away the anxious passengers craning their necks to see what had happened. Her fellow officers would conduct interviews with the few passengers waiting to return to the train. Maybe they, or some of the passengers about to board for the first time, had seen something.

Whitney leaned over the two men. “Hey, I’m Officer Whitney Godwin with the Desert Valley K9 Unit.” For now. Just until she could get through this murder investigation and, she hoped, move back to Tucson. Centering her gaze on the young, good-looking one, she asked, “Can you tell me what happened here?”

He nodded and blinked as if refocusing, his hand splayed across a bloody shirt covering the other man’s wound. “Two men came up the aisle, heading for the exit.” He pointed to his left, indicating the third coach seat from the door. “They had two big duffels, and they ran smack into Mr. Gallagher here.” He stopped and sucked in a breath. “A bag ripped open and packages fell everywhere. All different colors but about the same size. Pretty obvious that they were carrying drugs.”

Whitney nodded and took notes. No wonder Hunter was champing at the bit. Drugs? “Okay. What happened after that?”

“One of them stabbed Mr. Gallagher.” He motioned to the injured man. “That same one saw me moving up the aisle and pulled a gun on me, but when they heard voices outside, the other man talked him out of shooting me. They grabbed their duffels and left. I watched them get into a dark SUV in the parking lot.”

He checked the injured man’s pulse and talked to him in soothing, reassuring tones. “Hang on, Mr. Gallagher. Help is coming.”

Whitney went over her notes to make sure she had everything, his soothing voice calming her, too. He had a distinctive accent, a Southern drawl. “Did they pull a gun on the victim?”

“No. He surprised them. The man stabbed him, probably to keep anyone from hearing. But I saw the whole thing, so he pulled the gun on me.” David shook his head. “I guess they thought everyone had exited already, and we both surprised them.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Mr. Gallagher said in a weak voice. “He threatened this young man if he talked. Threatened me, too, but I’m not scared of any criminal. Drug runners are getting mighty bold these days.”

“Got it,” Whitney said, glancing at the man aiding the victim. Obviously he hadn’t taken that threat seriously, either. “And again, where were you, sir, when this took place?”

He looked up at her with deep brown eyes that were now clear and sure. “The last seat on the right, near the door to the next car. I...I’m an army medic. I mean, I’m a former army medic.”

“Army medic?” That brought a heavy pain to Whitney’s heart. Her brother had been a sergeant in the army. But he’d been killed almost a year ago. Before she could figure out how to tell him about all the changes in her life.

I made it, Lucas. She had so much she wanted to tell her big brother, such as that she’d passed through her second stint of training without a hitch and that she had an amazing responsibility in her life, her baby daughter, Shelby, but now it was too late.

At least her brother had accepted her choice of careers before he’d died. Wishing he could have seen her graduate after her second attempt to finish the rigorous twelve-week K9 training here in Desert Valley, Whitney pushed aside the too-sad thoughts of her brother and got back to her job.

“Okay, that’s good. You’re both doing great. The paramedics should be here any minute.”

Already she could hear another dog barking. Probably one of her fellow rookies coming to help out. They were all stuck here on the big investigation into the murder of Veronica Earnshaw and the suspicious deaths of the two rookies.

Whitney didn’t have time right now to think about those deaths, even though she’d been personally involved with one of the victims.

For now this stabbing had to be her top priority. She needed to get the details right or she’d hear an earful from Chief Jones. The chief had her on his radar since she’d gone to him with a theory regarding one of those deaths, a theory he’d found hard to believe. If she messed this up, he might think she wasn’t qualified for the job.

The medic seemed calmer now, so she hoped she could trust his eyewitness details to be accurate. He seemed capable and sure, even if he was a bit disoriented.

Then, because she wanted to know, and needed to know for her report, she asked, “What’s your name?”

“David Evans.” He waited as if he expected her to say something else, his brown eyes bright with anticipation.

Whitney wrote his name in her notes. They’d run a background check on him. “You’re passing through?”

With what looked like relief in his eyes, he shook his head. “No. I’m here to stay for a while. Maybe.”

Surprised, Whitney added that to her notes. “Welcome to Desert Valley.”

He gave her a tight smile. “Thanks. Is it always like this?”

Whitney shook her head. “No. More like routine traffic stops and bar brawls. But...we do get some drug runners through here now and then.” She glanced back at her anxious partner. Hunter wanted to get on the move. “Did you happen to see the license plate on the SUV?”

He squinted, blinked. “I...I think. But only partly. The numbers one and five and...and several letters that might be some sort of vanity plate. I can’t remember the name, but there was a symbol over the plate—on the back of the SUV. I didn’t get the details, but it was small. I got a quick glance.”

“Maybe it’ll come back to you,” Whitney said, observing his clipped chestnut-brown hair. He seemed to be in good shape other than the shock that must have hit him right after he’d witnessed all of this. But he wore a mantle of weariness, too. He looked world-weary and rugged, almost haggard. And tired.

She jotted down what he’d said. “Can you describe the two men?”

“I’m not sure of their race, but both had dark hair, and they were kind of disguised and wearing baseball caps—one was red. The guy who stabbed Mr. Gallagher and pointed a gun at me—he had a thick beard and longer hair, and he wore a black hat. He was tall. The other one was shorter. They had on sunglasses.” He gave her their estimated heights and weights. “And...they both had the same kind of dark bag. Old and worn and full of what looked like birthday gifts or some kind of shipment, but it had to be drugs.”

“We’ll do a thorough check of the train,” she said, never doubting he was correct. Mr. Gallagher was right. This was happening a lot lately.

When Whitney heard sirens, she breathed easier. The heat inside the train was stifling even though it was early spring. She wouldn’t go home until she and Hunter had sniffed and searched this entire train and talked to the other employees and questioned the few passengers who waited to board. She was relieved that help for this injured man was on the way.

“You did a good job,” she told David. “Now you can relax and let my friends take over.”

But Mr. Brown Eyes grabbed her arm. “I’m pretty sure those two will try something else. Drug couriers are ruthless, pretty packages aside.”

Whitney nodded, suspecting the same thing. “My partner, Hunter, will alert if any drugs have been transported, and we’ll put out a BOLO on the suspects.”

When they heard the paramedics coming onto the train, David turned to Mr. Gallagher. “The posse’s here, sir. You’ll be in good hands. I know you’re in pain, but I think you’ll be fine. The wound isn’t as deep as it feels and thankfully, from what I can tell, the knife didn’t hit any major organs.” He glanced at Whitney. “I’ll give them the rundown on his vitals.”

“Thank you, son,” the older man said. “You’re a hero.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” David replied, wearing an embarrassed expression, his face coloring.

Mr. Gallagher nodded. “And thank you for serving our country.”

David’s eyes met Whitney’s, a pain etched there in the dark irises. “Yes, sir.”

Whitney got the feeling that he wanted to say something else. Maybe the newcomer knew more about all of this than he was willing to divulge right now.