The Legend of Smuggler's Cave. Пола Грейвс
root vegetables filled the other. She used the flashlight app on her cell phone to illuminate the narrow path between shelves and bins, but she still managed to stumble into the shelves near the stairs. With a muttered curse, she barely caught a jar of tomatoes as it started to topple off the shelf above.
Setting it right, she shined the cell-phone light up the stairs. The door to the cabin was closed. She crept up the stairs and tried the doorknob. Locked, as expected. She eased her keys from her pocket and inserted the right one. The doorknob turned smoothly, and she carefully slipped into the hallway, shutting off the phone light.
She went very still, just listening. There was no sound at all, she realized. Not even the hum of the refrigerator or the whir of heated air blowing from the wall heater nearby.
The power must be out. Had someone cut it?
Glad for the rubber soles of her work shoes, she went silently into the living room and took a quick scan of the situation. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the low light, allowing her to see that the living room was a mess. Sofa cushions had been pulled from the sofa and ripped open, the stuffing lying all over everything. The intruders may have spared her jars of fruits and vegetables this time, but most of the contents of her refrigerator lay scattered across the floor and counters of the tiny kitchen, going to ruin.
She stepped back into the hallway, her heart pounding with equal parts adrenaline and dread.
Please, God, let Logan and Jenny be okay. Please, please, please....
The door to her own bedroom was closest. That was where Jenny slept when Briar was working a night shift, as she’d done during her stint as a dispatcher, and as she’d be doing for the first few months on the job as a police officer. But when Briar tried to push the door open, something was blocking it. She peered through the narrow space between the door and the frame and saw a pale white hand outstretched.
Jenny!
A noise in the next room down made her freeze. That was Logan’s room.
Someone was moving within.
She reached through the narrow crack in the door and touched her fingertips to Jenny’s wrist. Relief rattled through her when she found a strong, steady pulse.
Pulling back, she pushed to her feet and fell back on her police-academy training, so recently finished. She led with her pistol, moving as quietly and quickly as she could. The thumping sound she’d heard earlier repeated. A drawer closing, she recognized.
She touched the door and found that it wasn’t latched. It swung open slowly and silently—thank God she’d oiled the hinges recently. It used to creak like crazy.
A tall dark-clad figure stood silhouetted by the faint moonlight coming through Logan’s window. He had his back to her, allowing her to spare a quick glance toward the bed to reassure herself that Logan was still there, his face turned toward his pillow and his little chest rising slowly and steadily.
“Freeze—police!”
The dark silhouette whirled not toward her but toward Logan’s bed.
She couldn’t fire at him, not with her son so close, so she shoved the gun in her jacket pocket and ran, hitting the intruder solidly. They both bounced off the bed and hit the floor.
“Mama!” Logan’s soft, frightened wail tore at Briar’s heart, but she couldn’t let go of the man punching and kicking at her in an attempt to escape.
He eluded her grasp and started toward the door. She scrambled up after him, tackling him as he darted into the hall.
Suddenly, strong, cruel fingers bit into her arm at the same time she was yanked back by her hair, allowing the man she’d brought down to scurry out of reach.
She grabbed the Glock from her jacket and twisted around, shoving the barrel at her captor. “Let me go!”
He dropped her with a hard shove, slamming her back into the floor. Her head hit the hardwood with a jarring thud, and for a second the whole world seemed to explode into colorful confetti.
Then her vision cleared, and she swung the Glock in a semicircle, looking for any sign of the intruders.
The front door was open, barely visible from her position on the hallway floor. She pushed to her feet, wincing at the pain in her shoulder, and edged her way into the living room.
She took a quick peek outside. There was no sound of a motor, but she thought she made out the rustle of leaves in the woods just beyond her property. Even with a three-quarter moon in the sky, she couldn’t detect any movement in the gloom of the woods, just the fading rustles of the two intruders running away.
She shoved the door closed and engaged the lock, her heart pounding and her head aching.
“Mama!” Logan’s wail drew her back to the hallway. Pocketing her weapon, she pulled out her cell phone and turned on the flashlight app, shining it into the darkness.
Logan stood in the middle of the hall, his blue T-shirt riding up his little round belly and his pajama pants sagging to reveal his big-boy underwear.
She ran and scooped him up, pressing her face against his little chest, breathing in the beautiful smell of sleepy little boy. “Mama’s right here,” she assured him, patting his back in soothing circles.
Mama’s got you.
* * *
HE SHOULD HAVE known Doyle Massey would be at the hospital. The Bitterwood chief of police seemed to show up everywhere Dalton Hale went these days, like a particularly hard-to-kill weed in a flower garden. And, as luck would have it, tonight the sister was there, as well, her auburn hair, green eyes and prominent cheekbones a persistent, visible reminder of what a mess his own life had become in the last month.
Dalton had finally reached the point, however, where the sight of Doyle and Dana Massey didn’t send him into a seething rage. At least, not on the outside. He was still boiling a little inside, but he set that emotion aside and entered the Maryville Mercy Hospital waiting room with his head high and his own green eyes clear and focused.
He bumped gazes with Laney Hanvey, who sat next to Massey. She was about to marry the chief, which had strained their formerly collegial relationship, but she was still the friendliest face in the room. She murmured something to her fiancé and crossed the room to meet him.
“Is something wrong?” she asked quietly.
He realized she didn’t know he was there for the same reason she was. “Not on my end of things. I’m here to talk to the victim.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Jenny Franklin is still undergoing tests.”
“I meant the widow. The Blackwood woman.” He realized, as Laney’s expression darkened, that he sounded cold and officious. Not the sort of man he’d ever been, not before now. He’d been the prosecutor who went the extra mile, tried to get to know the people for whom he sought justice. He still received Christmas cards from people he’d helped. He never used to call people things like victim or the widow.
He was doing a lot of things now that he’d never done before.
“Her name is Briar,” Laney said quietly. “Do you have to do this tonight?”
“Was she injured?”
“Just roughed up a little. Didn’t even let the paramedics check her.”
Dalton looked past Laney until his gaze snagged on the dark-haired woman sitting with a small boy sleeping in her arms. She sat apart from the others, though most of them threw concerned glances toward her now and then.
“That’s her, isn’t it?” He nodded toward the woman with the child.
Laney followed his gaze. “Yes. You know the police already have her statement, right? She’s a cop herself. She was thorough.”
That was news to him, actually. “I thought she was a dispatcher.”
“She