Through the Sheriff's Eyes. Janice Kay Johnson
the weight of her eyelids sink. She was always so tired….
This creak was closer. On the stairs, or in the hall. Faith went rigid. There was another whisper of sound—something brushing the wall, perhaps.
Her pulse raced and her blood seemed to roar in her ears. Was it Rory? How had he gotten into the house without her hearing glass break? The front and back doors both had dead-bolt locks now.
One hand crept for the cell phone on her bedside table. Before she could touch it, her eyes made out the deeper shadow within the dark rectangle that was the doorway.
It was too late for the phone. Faith eased her hand back, then shoved it beneath the pillow beside her and found the hard, textured grip of the gun.
I’m not ready for this.
She heard breathing now. Her own, but someone else’s, too. He had stepped inside the bedroom, almost—but not quite—soundlessly. Not Daddy, no thump or scrape of crutches. The shape took form in moonlight. He was only a few steps from her bed.
Something snapped in Faith, and with a scream of terror and rage she lunged for the lamp switch even as she lifted the gun.
In the flood of light, he threw himself forward, his face contorted and a deadly knife lifted to stab.
Faith went cold. As if she were outside her body, she saw her second hand come up to brace the first, her thumb folding just as it ought to.
Rory was almost on top of her when she squeezed the trigger.
CHAPTER THREE
THE RING OF THE PHONE WOKE Ben with all the subtlety of a bucket of cold water dumped over his head. Cursing, he groped on his bedside table for the damn phone.
“Wheeler,” he growled into it.
“Chief, this is Ron Meagher.” One of his young officers, greener than baby peas fresh from the pod. “You said to let you know, day or night, if anything comes in about the Russells.”
“Yes.” He stifled an obscenity and swung his legs to the floor, then turned on the lamp, blinking painfully in the flood of light. “What’s happened?”
“We just had a call from Faith Russell. She says she shot her ex-husband.”
Damn it, damn it, damn it. Ben grabbed the jeans he’d left draped over a chair and yanked them on.
“Is he dead?”
“She seemed to think so. Dispatch said she sounded real cool.”
Cool? Faith? Maybe, but beneath the surface she would be dissolving.
“I’m on my way.” He dropped the phone and tugged yesterday’s T-shirt over his head. Not bothering with socks, he shoved his feet into athletic shoes. Weapon at the small of his back, he snatched his wallet and keys up, then was out the door at a run.
He drove faster than was legal, faster than was safe. The moon was high and silver now, an improvement over the sickly yellow it had been earlier, hanging on the horizon.
Don’t let the son of a bitch be dead, he prayed, with scant hope any prayer from him would be answered. He and God weren’t on cordial terms. He tried anyway. Faith can’t handle it. Shouldn’t have to handle it. Don’t let him be dead.
He didn’t pass a single car on the city streets or the highway. Long before he reached the farm, he saw the multicolored, rotating lights of police cars and ambulance.
He tore into the farmyard, heedless of potholes, and came to a skidding stop behind Faith’s SUV. The scene was nightmarishly similar to the other time he’d been called out here in the middle of the night, when Charlotte had been battered and slashed.
Please, not Faith, he thought. She was so fragile. Strong, too—more than he’d credited her with on first meeting. But gentle, not made for what she’d suffered.
If she’d really killed Rory Hardesty, that would be much worse for her than being hurt would have been.
Burgess was in the kitchen, along with two EMTs.
“Dead?” Ben asked, and got nods all around.
Burgess kept talking. Ben didn’t hear. He walked straight through the dining room to the living room, where he heard voices.
Faith was there, sitting on the sofa beside her father. Meagher, looking about eighteen in his blue uniform, had just asked if she had a license for her gun.
“Yes,” Ben said hoarsely. “She has a license.”
She looked up at him, but not as if she were glad to see him. Not as if she felt anything at all. He had seen eyes like that, too often in his years in law enforcement. Utterly and completely empty, as if tonight she had lost her soul. He wanted nothing so much as to sit down and cradle her in his arms, but he had a feeling that if he did he’d be holding a mannequin, not a living breathing woman.
Her father was watching her, his face drawn. He wasn’t touching her, and Ben suspected she’d rejected his embrace. She sat with her back straight, her hands quiet on her lap, as if she were a guest not quite comfortable in this home but determined to hide it.
Brushing by his young officer, Ben laid his hand against her cheek, marble cool, and took an icy hand in his. He felt his lips pull back in a snarl. “She’s in shock, damn it! Meagher, get her a cup of tea or cocoa or something hot. Now.” He turned and, not seeing an afghan, wrenched the comforter from the hospital bed. Her father reached for it and helped him settle it around her shoulders.
“I told you I’m all right,” Faith said, words belied immediately when a shiver rattled her body.
“Sure you are,” Ben said. He decided he didn’t give a damn how stiff she would be in his embrace. He sat next to her and lifted her onto his lap, tucking the comforter around her.
She began to fight him.
“Don’t,” he said, and tightened his arms.
She struggled for another minute, then subsided when he simply held her close. She shivered again, and her teeth began to chatter. Her father looked on helplessly.
What the hell was Meagher doing? Ben wondered in raw fury. How long did it take to heat water in the microwave?
Waiting, Ben pressed her face into his shoulder and pressed his cheek to her hair. It was damp, he realized, and when he groped under the comforter for her braid he found it to be wet. That wasn’t helping. Cheek against the top of her head, he murmured, “I’m sorry, Faith. God, so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to face this. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
She didn’t say anything, only kept trembling against him, her nose buried in his throat as if she couldn’t resist seeking the warmth of his skin.
Ben looked at her father. “Has anyone called Charlotte?”
He started. “No. I’ll, uh, do that. I was too worried about Faith….”
Who probably needed her sister more than anyone else in the world. At any other time, Ben might not have liked knowing that, even though he had been very careful to avoid offering himself up as her rock. But right now, all he wanted was to give Faith whatever she needed.
Don Russell levered himself to his feet and, with the help of the single crutch that was within arm’s reach, shuffled over to the bedside stand where his phone sat.
Ben could hear his side of the conversation, punctuated with pauses.
“Gray? It’s Don. Hardesty got in the house tonight. No, don’t know. Faith shot him. She’s …” His sidelong survey of his daughter was uneasy. “If Char can come … Okay. Thanks.”
He ended the call and met Ben’s eyes. “They’re on their way,” he said, unnecessarily. Despite a tension between the sisters that Ben had never understood, he sensed that either of