Buch lesen: «Undercover Protector»

Chapter One

“I know you. You’re Lionel Callahan’s granddaughter.” The checkout clerk at the Bridgeport Mini-Mart peeped over her half glasses. “It’s Annie, right?”

“That’s right.” Though she recognized the round face and tiny pug nose of the gray-haired woman, Annie had to read the name tag pinned above the breast pocket of the orange smock. “Edna.”

“So, Annie. How long have you been back in town?”

“A couple of days.”

“What did you do to your arm?”

Annie glanced down at the adjustable cast. She’d been lucky to escape from the parking-lot assault with only a hairline fracture and a mild concussion. The bruising was worse than the break.

“It’s nothing,” she said. News traveled quickly in a small town like Bridgeport, and Annie preferred not to spread this story. It was more than a little embarrassing for a cop to get mugged. “Could you sack my groceries in this canvas pouch? Then I can carry the handle over my left arm.”

“Sure thing,” Edna said. “And how’s Lionel doing?”

“As well as can be expected after a stroke.”

She wasn’t happy with her grandpa’s progress. Though he seemed to be resting comfortably, his attitude bordered on depression. He wouldn’t talk on the telephone, wouldn’t get out of bed and refused to see visitors because he didn’t want people to see him at less than one hundred percent.

Her grandpa had always been an important man in this town. He was the former high-school football coach, and he’d served for two decades as the municipal judge—an elected part-time position for handling minor violations, like breaking curfew or failure to pay parking tickets. Everybody in Bridgeport respected Lionel Callahan, and he didn’t want his status to change.

“Poor Lionel,” Edna said as she slipped a bag of Hershey’s Kisses into the pouch. “I’ll drop by tomorrow with some of my special homemade chicken soup.”

“That’s not really necessary,” Annie said. The freezer was already crammed full of casseroles from friends and well-wishers. They had enough frozen pasta to feed Italy.

“Tell me, Annie.” Edna’s button nose twitched, sniffing out fresh gossip. “Are you married yet?”

“Not yet.” Annie forced a smile.

“A career woman, huh? I heard you were a policewoman. Ever kill anybody?”

“No.” Other people seemed to think her life was one big action-adventure movie.

“But I’ll bet you’ve shot somebody.”

“No again.” Annie shoved a loaf of bread on top of her other groceries, slung the canvas pouch over her shoulder and headed for the door. “See you around, Edna.”

At the corner she turned. It was four blocks from the mini-mart back to her grandpa’s house on Myrtlewood Lane.

Had she ever killed anybody? What a question! Her job was mostly paperwork and common sense. She seldom unholstered her gun and had never purposefully intended to shoot another human being—with the notable exception of the man who’d assaulted her in the parking lot four days ago. If she’d reached her gun in time, she would have fired. That incident, however, was more about self-preservation than policework. Or was it?

For a couple of weeks she’d been on the receiving end of some very strange harassment. Some unknown person had been leaving cheap porcelain figurines where she’d be sure to find them. It started with a skunk on her desk at work. Then there was a ballet dancer on the hood of her car. In the hall outside her apartment she’d found a chipmunk with a chipped ear.

These odd gifts, unaccompanied by a note or any type of explanation, didn’t make sense. At the time she hadn’t thought they were meant as threats.

She rounded the corner onto Myrtlewood Lane, enjoying the comfort of wearing khaki walking shorts and a red T-shirt, instead of a police uniform with a utility belt that weighed thirteen pounds. Her long straight blond hair was free from the regulation ponytail or bun that went with her uniform. In spite of the slight residual headache from her concussion, she felt good.

Here at home, the air always smelled fresher. The red-and-gold sky before dusk shone with more brilliance. Her ears resonated with normally unheard sounds, like the whirr of a hummingbird’s wings.

Though Bridgeport lay only fifteen miles from the coast on the Yaquina River, it was nothing like the bustling touristy seaside towns. Instead, the profound stillness—so different from the city—gave an illusion of security, as if they were sheltered by the old-growth forests that Bridgeport, being a logging town, had done its best to destroy.

The screech of brakes interrupted her reverie, and she watched a dusty beat-up black pickup park at the curb. The guy who climbed out from behind the steering wheel stared directly at her. Was he somebody she knew? Or was he a threat?

Warily Annie halted as he came toward her. He wore work boots, worn jeans and a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and frayed—a typical logger outfit. He was solidly built, probably six feet tall and two hundred pounds. “You’re Annie.”

“That’s right.” She couldn’t place him, and hoped this was an innocent encounter. Forcing a smile, she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.”

“On account of we never met.” Up close there was no other word for him but ugly. Limp strands of yellow hair dangled across his narrow forehead. His mouth twitched. The scent of fruit-flavored chewing gum mingled with the acrid smell of his sweat. “Ain’t this a pretty sunset. I always missed the sunsets when I was in prison.”

Prison? A shudder went through her. This meeting felt horribly familiar to the one in the parking lot. He’d come out of nowhere. She was carrying groceries. “Wh-who are you?”

“You’re a cop, right?”

She nodded, not wanting to speak because he’d hear the tremble in her voice. What was the matter with her? She wasn’t usually so easily spooked.

“Some ex-cons don’t cotton to lady cops. But me?” He thumped his chest and chewed his gum faster. “I like a woman in uniform.”

Was he the assailant? Had he followed her to Bridgeport? She tried to picture him in a black poncho and baseball cap. Her mind flashed back to that chilly rainy night. She saw the baseball bat. Her arm twitched with remembered agony. Icy fear crept up and ambushed her.

Her ears drummed with the remembered sounds of pelting rain and thunder. Darkness danced behind her eyelids. She wanted to run. Her grandpa’s house was less than fifty yards away. But her muscles froze, and she was unable to move.

“The name is Drew Bateman,” he said.

She blurted, “What do you want?”

“I’m just hanging around.” He stared so hard that his head came forward like a snake. “But I ain’t going away. Every time you look around, I’ll be there. Tell your grandpa.”

Was he threatening her grandpa? Oh, God. She had to pull herself together. For Lionel’s sake, she had to be strong.

Bateman continued, “Me and Lionel go way back. Every time I came up for parole, they checked with Lionel Callahan, the municipal judge. He never once spoke up for me.”

Her eyes darted. There was no one else on the street. It was dinner hour. Everyone must be inside around the table, saying grace, unaware of the danger. If she screamed—

“Your grandpa kept me in jail.”

He took a step toward her. She’d been caught unprepared. Again. Helpless. Again. “Stay away from me.”

“I won’t touch you. I’m no fool. I won’t get busted for assault and go back to jail like your grandpa wants.”

“Leave him out of this!”

She heard the door slam and glanced toward the sound. From her grandpa’s house, a dark handsome man emerged. Even before he was near enough for her to clearly see his features, she recognized his stride. She would never forget the way he moved.

His thick black hair glistened in the last glow of sunlight. His dark tan contrasted the white of his button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular forearms.

“Michael.” His name choked in her throat. She was blinded by a brilliant flash of memory. He was her first love, her deepest love. Michael. She never thought she’d see him again. Against her will, a smile cut through her fear. He was still strong and unbelievably handsome. Michael Slade. Eleven years ago he had broken her heart.

He approached quickly. His jaw was set, hard as stone. His dark eyes stared past her at Bateman. Hatred simmered between the two men. A harsh tension charged the atmosphere with the impending danger of a lit fuse.

Michael said, “Move along, Bateman.”

“I got a right to be here. It’s a public sidewalk. I’m not breaking any laws.”

“You’re loitering.”

Michael hadn’t even looked at Annie, hadn’t acknowledged her presence in any way. His behavior seemed rude. He could’ve patted her shoulder or at least given her a nod. It was as if she didn’t even exist. Anger cut sharply through Annie’s fear. Damn you, Michael Slade.

“Loitering is bull,” Bateman said, snapping his chewing gum. “You ain’t got nothing on me.”

“You were harassing this lady.”

This lady? Was that her only significance to him? After all these years, after the way he’d left her without a word, she deserved name recognition at the very least. “This lady can take care of herself.”

“I’m not talking to you, Annie.”

“Obviously.”

“I’ll handle this.”

A moment ago she’d been frightened, ready to scream and run away. Now, Michael, whom she hadn’t seen or heard from in years, had come to her rescue and she was absolutely furious. Irrational? Maybe, but Annie didn’t care. Stiffly she said, “When I need your help, Michael Slade, I’ll ask for it.”

Bateman hooted. “She doesn’t like you.”

“You shut up,” Michael snarled.

“Make me. If you throw the first punch, I can fight back. It’s self-defense. Annie is a witness.”

“Not for long,” she said. “Much as I’d love to stick around and watch this spitting contest, I’ve got things to do.”

She pushed past Michael and proceeded down the sidewalk toward her grandpa’s house. Though she wasn’t scared anymore, this emotional roller-coaster ride unnerved her. Slightly disoriented and dizzy, she had to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other.

At the wide veranda that wrapped around her grandpa’s two-story wood-frame house, she climbed the three steps, went inside and slammed the screen door behind her. Why was Michael here? Her grandpa must have invited him.

But Michael had vanished without a trace. If her grandpa had known how to contact Michael, why hadn’t he told Annie? She didn’t like secrets, and she hated lies.

“Lionel,” she yelled as she passed the old oak staircase leading up to her grandpa’s bedroom, “you’ve got some explaining to do.”

Down the hall in the kitchen she dropped the canvas pouch on the table. Bracing herself against the countertop, she exhaled in a whoosh. The terrifying flashback had been erased from her mind, but she was still trembling. The pent-up fury of eleven years shivered through her. How could Michael ignore her? How could he be so indifferent?

He was the first man she’d ever loved and the last person she ever wanted to see again. Raising her left palm to her face, she felt the hot flush of her cheek.

Even after all these years, he had the power to spark her emotions. He had faded safely into her past, an unsolved mystery who she would never see again except in dreams. Now, he was here in the flesh. His unexpected return was nearly as puzzling as his disappearance. Eleven long years ago, she’d trusted him with her first fragile love, and he’d betrayed her. Oh, Michael, why did you leave me?

She glanced toward the hallway leading to the front door, pulling herself back to the present. Why hadn’t he yet returned to the house? Her policewoman’s instincts kicked in. She really hoped he hadn’t been fool enough to get into a fistfight with Bateman. Though she didn’t want to care about Michael, she’d hate herself if he got hurt and she did nothing to stop it.

Her gun was all the way upstairs in her bedroom, and her injured arm was too weak to aim and fire, but Bateman didn’t know that. Just showing her Glock automatic ought to be enough to chase him away.

She dashed down the hallway toward the staircase. Before ascending, she looked out and saw Michael step onto the veranda. Equal parts of anger and relief flooded through her.

He grinned at her through the screen door. “May I come in?”

Though she wouldn’t have thought it possible, he was even handsomer now than when he was a teenager. The years had chiseled away any hint of youthful softness, leaving well-honed strong masculine features. He looked hard, dangerous and amazingly sexy. “Give me one good reason why I should open this door.”

“Because I want to talk to you.”

If she invited him inside, the old wounds would rip open, exposing her heart to more devastating hurt. “We have nothing to say.”

“Fine.” He gave a quick nod. “I’ll wait out here until you’ve spoken to Lionel.”

“What does he have to do with this?”

“Ask him.”

“Damn it, I’m asking you.” She had a million questions for him. Why did you leave me? Why did you shred my heart like a paper valentine? Unprepared to talk about his long ago betrayal and her pain, Annie decided to leave the past untouched. It was ages ago, and she didn’t know the man Michael had become. “Why are you here? Did Lionel invite you?”

“May I come in?” he repeated.

“Why should I trust you? You might be as dangerous as that creep out on the street.”

“Will you open the door?”

“Fine.” She shoved open the screen door. Immediately she realized that she’d used too much force. The door was going to smash into Michael and probably break his perfect straight nose. She made a frantic grab for the handle.

Michael stepped aside as the door hurtled past. He caught the edge and entered the foyer.

Suddenly they were standing less than a foot apart—near enough to touch. When she looked up into his coffee-brown eyes, she catapulted back in time, remembering his caresses, his strength, his warmth. He was the first man she’d ever really kissed. That long hot tantalizing kiss had transformed her from a sixteen-year-old tomboy into a woman. The memory of sweetly awakening passion spun through her like a cyclone, lifting her off the ground into clear blue skies.

Michael cleared his throat. “How have you been?”

“Fine.” She thudded back to earth. Both feet on the ground, she hardened herself, sealed off her emotions. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he affected her. He’d get nothing else from her. Nothing. Coldly, she asked, “And you? Are you well?”

“I’m okay.”

“How nice.”

“I guess so.” Michael’s smile felt rigid as a death mask. He hated the stiff formality of their conversation. “It’s good to see you again, Annie.”

“I’m surprised you even recognize me.”

He could never forget her. His gaze lingered on her. She was the most naturally beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her lips were full and pink, untouched by lipstick. Light freckles sprinkled across the bridge of her nose. She didn’t need makeup to highlight blue eyes that shone with honesty and, at the moment, hostility.

He’d always thought she was incredible. In all the years they’d been apart, he’d never stopped wondering about Annie, about the budding love he’d sacrificed. Regret burned within him. He still carried a battered photo of a sixteen-year-old Annie in his wallet. “I’ve missed you.”

“You’re the one who disappeared.” Briskly she walked away from him, heading into the front parlor, where she turned on a brass table lamp. Apparently, she wasn’t going to bring up the past.

Following her, he was amazed by how little the room had changed. The claw-foot brown velvet sofa was in the same place. The same framed photographs hung on the wall. The only difference was an air of neglect. The walls needed a fresh coat of paint, and the hardwood floors could use a buffing. When Annie yanked the drapes closed, a cloud of dust escaped.

“The old place is looking a little…”

“Shabby?” she snapped. “You’ll have to pardon the mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”

“I didn’t mean to insult you.”

On the opposite side of the room, she turned to face him. “You’re right, Michael. Lionel hasn’t been keeping up with repairs. But I’m going to be here for a month, and I’ll get everything shipshape again.”

He wanted to help. He’d always liked this pleasant old house on Myrtlewood Lane. For the first seventeen years of his life he’d ached to live in an orderly neighborhood like this one—a safe haven where nobody drank too much or yelled all the time.

“It’s been eleven years,” Annie said as she came toward him. “I believe this is the first time you’ve come home.”

“Bridgeport was never my home. I just lived here.”

She stopped a few feet away from him. Her eyes narrowed as she demanded. “Who is Drew Bateman? What does he have to do with my grandpa?”

“What did he say to you?”

“Don’t answer my question with another question. You knew him right away. Who is he?”

“Somebody who used to live around here.”

“A logger?”

“I don’t think he ever worked at the mills.” Bateman had probably never worked at all. His profession was criminal.

Curtly she nodded encouragement. “What’s with the chewing gum?”

“He has a bit of a sweet tooth.”

“That’s good to know.” In spite of her visible anger, she eased into an interrogation mode. Like a good cop she used the slight information she’d garnered to push him toward more revelations. “And why was Bateman in prison?”

“Aggravated assault on a police officer. He shot a cop.” Though Michael didn’t want to scare her, she needed to understand that Bateman was a serious criminal, not just a small-town bully. “Annie, I think Lionel should be a part of this conversation.”

“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to upset him.”

“He has a right to know.”

When Michael had arrived at the house half an hour ago, he’d been shocked by Lionel’s frail emaciated appearance—so different from the gruff invulnerable man who’d coached him in football and taught him the meaning of honor that went deeper than sportsmanship. It hadn’t taken long for Michael to realize that Lionel’s willpower and dignity were still there, stronger than ever. A lesser man would’ve given up and died. Lionel was alert enough to know he needed help, wise enough to call on Michael.

Michael turned to Annie and said, “You can’t treat your grandpa like a helpless invalid.”

“Excuse me.” Her voice turned hard and brittle. “You know nothing about what’s gone on here. You’ve been gone for eleven years, Michael. Why now? Why are you here?”

“Because your grandpa needs me.”

“Are you telling me what Lionel needs? Are you suggesting that you know how to take care of my grandpa?”

“I guess I am.” Giving orders came naturally to him, and he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with women. He probably needed to be more careful about how he phrased things. “Let’s go see Lionel.”