Falling to Pieces (10 page)

M
AYBE HE’D FALLEN ASLEEP.

Or maybe it wasn’t him at all.

She couldn’t tell from where she stood. She’d have to walk into the office.

Callie attempted to swallow, but found her throat was too dry. Her hand was also still wrapped around her neck. She pressed her palm against her heart, took three deep breaths to slow her heart rate, then reached into her purse.

With one hand she still held her cell phone. Flipping it open, she keyed in the numbers nine, one, one, then positioned her thumb over the call button. With her other hand, she hunted through her purse, found and clutched her tactical flashlight. The thirty thousand candle power might not succeed in blinding someone in a fully lighted room, but then again it might.

On top of that, it was solid polymer construction—she’d bought it after taking a self-defense class. If anyone waited in there for her, she stood a good chance of being able to clobber him or her with it.

Heart thrumming in rhythm to the noise of the press, she moved toward Stakehorn’s office. Her sandals echoed against
the linoleum floor, seeming to out-shout even the noise of the machine behind her.

As she inched closer, she noticed brown liquid on the floor—splattered from the corner of the desk and across the nearest stack of papers. Puddled on the floor.

Could he have fallen asleep and knocked over his coffee?

Callie reached up to brace herself against the doorframe before entering the room. When she saw the hand in front of her, shaking and garish in the fluorescent lights, she almost didn’t recognize it as her own—then she saw her grandmother’s wedding band that she wore on her index finger.

Why was she so shaken? For all she knew, he was merely passed out. Except her old training kicked in when she forced her gaze back toward the man at the desk.

Her heart rate thundered in her ears now.

Above it she heard her own breath gasp, even as her eyes took in the awkward tilt of Stakehorn’s head across his arm, the lifelessness of his open eyes, the stillness of his body.

Her phone clattered to the floor.

Her flashlight slipped from her fingers.

Callie clasped both hands across her mouth in an effort to stifle her scream.

Then she realized no one would hear her.

Would they?

Twirling around she nearly slipped in the coffee on the floor. It had been coffee hadn’t it?

Suddenly she needed out of the room, needed out of the office and back in her car.

Walking as quickly as she could, but not running, she hurried back through the press room.

It wouldn’t do any good to run and fall. Every teenage horror movie she’d ever seen replayed through her mind—the woman alone at night, a dead body found, the murderer lurking in the shadows.

Except there weren’t any shadows, and it hadn’t been a murder.

Had it?

Perhaps he’d had a heart attack.

Under the harshness of the fluorescent lights, Stakehorn’s cold, lifeless form had looked so old—older than she’d remembered.

As she rushed back through the press room, the same lights glared down on her, revealing cracks in the linoleum, a piece of trash thrown in the corner, her hand reaching to push the door open.

Then she was flying back down the alley, back through the darkness, back toward the street.

A cat hissed, but Callie never slowed.

She turned the corner of the building and practically threw herself at the door of the little blue car.

Fumbling in her purse for her car keys, she hit the alarm instead of the unlock button. Its blare split the quietness of the night.

After the third try she managed to quiet the alarm and unlock the rental. Collapsing into the driver’s seat, she slammed the door shut, hit the lock key, buckled her seat belt, and sat staring at the front door of the
Shipshewana Gazette.

How long had she been in there? Ten minutes?

Ten minutes since she’d parked here, determined to prove to Stakehorn that she was right.

Now he was dead.

Her hands began to shake at the thought. She grasped the wheel to still them.

She needed to think clearly.

A dead man she barely knew was sprawled across his desk.

She’d spoken with him barely an hour ago. How was it possible that he was dead?

She needed to call someone, call the police.

Grabbing her purse, she began pawing through it, looking for her cell phone.

“Where is it? Where did I put it? I tried to call him from the front door. Then I had my thumb on the button as I walked toward—”

She dropped her purse onto the seat, suddenly realizing where her phone was.

It was in Stakehorn’s office, on the floor, near his body.

She was not going back in there after her phone.

Okay. So she needed to drive to the police station.

Where was the police station?

Shipshewana was a small town. The police station couldn’t be that hard to find. She’d drive around and look for it.

She retrieved her keys from the floorboard where they’d fallen, tried three times to put them in the ignition, but found her hand was shaking too badly to make the connection.

Finally she settled for clutching the wheel and resting her forehead against it.

The coolness settled her, helped her to even out her breathing, slowed her heart rate—until she heard the tap at her window.

This time she made no attempt to stifle the scream as she tried to leap across the car away from the window. Of course the seat belt held her in place, which only increased her panic as she fought it.

Her system had absorbed too much shock in the last half hour. The scream she released expressed the horror she’d felt since spying Stakehorn’s hand stretched out across the stack of papers.

The man standing beside her car backed up two steps, flipped the flashlight to on, and spoke in an authoritative, no-nonsense voice. “Ma’am. Shipshewana Police Department. I’m going to need you to step out of the car.”

Her terror momentarily fled, and she nearly collapsed with relief. She couldn’t see his face because the flashlight blinded her, but she could make out the dark blue of a uniform and what looked like an officer’s belt. She held one hand up to shield her eyes, and with the other, fumbled with the door handle.

“You’ll need to unlock the door before exiting the vehicle.”

If he was amused by her bumbling, his voice didn’t show it.

Using the remote control, she unlocked the car, released her seat belt, opened the door, and stepped out. “Thank goodness you’re here!” she began. Then she saw the expression on the officer’s face.

He might have been called ruggedly handsome by some, except for the complete lack of expression. Blue eyes the color of ice took in everything, assessed her, pinned her where she was beside the car. Six feet tall and muscular, he wasn’t your cartoon donut-cop. Hair the color of wheat was cut military length.

“A disturbance was reported a few minutes ago.” He spoke in a clipped tone, waiting for her to explain.

“A disturbance?” Callie looked around in disbelief. Could something else have happened while she was in the newspaper office?

“Some sort of loud noise. Apparently it was related to a new model Ford, license number—”

“It was my car—my rental car. I couldn’t get it unlocked, and I hit the alarm by mistake. Listen to me, Sir—

“Officer. My name is Officer Gavin.”

“Officer Gavin. Forget about the noise.” Callie pulled in a deep breath of night air, hugged her arms tightly around her body. “Stakehorn’s in there, at his desk, and he’s dead.”

Gavin’s hand went immediately to his firearm. “Say again.”

“He’s dead.” Callie’s voice rose and she hugged her ribs tighter. “He’s at his desk, his coffee spilled everywhere, the press still spewing papers all over the floor.”

Her legs started shaking and she wondered if she’d fall apart there by the car, crumble onto the asphalt.

“Ma’am, I need you to turn around and put your hands up on your car.” Gavin’s expression hadn’t changed, but if anything the look in his eyes had hardened.

“Excuse me?”

“Do what I said, please.”

“You must be kidding. I just told you there’s a dead man inside and you’re going to frisk me?”

“Ma’am, I’m going to
ask
you one more time.”

Callie tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a groan. She followed his directions, turning and placing her hands against the top of her car. At least the coolness of the car’s metal provided something solid for her to lean against. It didn’t stop her legs from shaking, but it brought back some sense of reality.

Would he check her for weapons? The thought was so ludicrous it made her want to laugh.

Instead he stayed where he was and spoke into his radio. “This is Gavin. I need backup at Main and Fourth. We have a possible deceased person.”

Someone cackled back with numbers that Callie couldn’t comprehend. The night had taken on a surreal quality.

They stood for what seemed like ten minutes as the silence of the evening once again surrounded them.

She thought he might ask her more questions, but he didn’t.

She hoped he might at least tell her she could sit down, but no.

Gavin was not a knight in shining armor. He wasn’t even a compassionate officer.

Well if there was one thing she’d learned in the last two years, it was to not expect compassion.

Her thoughts were spiraling toward despair when they were interrupted by the sound of a siren and a patrol car driving down Main. Instead of pulling in beside them, it created a sort of blockade behind her rental. Once parked, the officer turned off his siren, but kept his emergency lights on—sending a warning into the night.

Good thing she couldn’t get away—since she was so dangerous. She wanted to shout at them now. She wanted to throw a tantrum and holler, “Go check out the dead guy in the office!”

Then she heard footsteps, and a softer, older voice. “What do we have here, Gavin?”

“Followed up on a noise complaint. Found Miss Harper.”

Callie jumped at her name. She hadn’t given it to him, but then how many rental cars would there be in Shipshewana?

“She claims Stakehorn is dead inside the shop.”

The newer officer sighed heavily, his breathing blending with the sounds of the night. His voice was still calm, measured, but it took on something of an edge. “Is there a reason you’re treating Miss Harper like a suspect instead of a witness?”

“I was following procedures, sir.”

“You’re not in the military any longer, Gavin. We are a small town, and we adapt to the situation we’re presented with. In this case we seem to have one frightened young shop owner.” The voice drew closer, then the officer put a tentative hand on her shoulder.

Callie turned slowly around and looked into gentle brown eyes, framed with white eyebrows, and a face lined with wrinkles.

“Miss Harper, I’m Officer Taylor, senior officer of the Shipshewana Police Department. Why don’t you come over and have a seat in my cruiser. No doubt you’ve had quite a shock this evening.”

Unable to speak, nearly melting with relief, Callie nodded and followed him to the second police vehicle. Taylor opened the door to the back passenger seat, and she sat down, collapsed actually—her feet still dangling outside the car. No need growing too comfortable. Gavin might decide to shut the door and lock her inside.

Speaking of Gavin, she glanced up and saw that she was once again facing him. The man’s expression hadn’t changed. He remained completely unreadable.

Perhaps it was the shock or the old fatigue rising in her, but Callie had to fight an urge to stick her tongue out at him. Following procedures, indeed.

“Now, tell us exactly what you saw, Miss Harper.” Taylor stood gazing down at her, a sympathetic look on his face.

“I had called Stakehorn earlier. He told me to stop by. I was supposed to show him … something.” Callie realized suddenly that the DVD was still in her purse. She thought of mentioning it, but Gavin interrupted her.

“How did you even get inside?” He crossed his arms and raised his right eyebrow. So his face did have the ability to move. Interesting. “The front door is always locked after Caldwell leaves.”

“The front door was locked.” She’d been directing her comments to Taylor, but now she spoke to Gavin. He didn’t even blink. “I saw the light on in the back, and I tried to call, but there was no answer.”

She looked down at her hands, noticed they were still shaking and tucked them under her armpits, hugging her arms around herself. It felt like a childish pose, but comforting somehow. “I saw the delivery sign, directing people around the back.”

“You went down the side alley?” Gavin asked. “In the dark?”

“I’m from Houston, Officer Gavin. A dark alley in Shipshewana isn’t exactly frightening.” Callie remembered the rat she’d encountered on her trip down, and the screeching cat on her flight back, and nearly smiled at her own bluff.

“So what did you find at the back of the building?” Taylor pulled her back to the matter at hand.

“The back door was unlocked. I thought perhaps Stakehorn had forgotten about our meeting, so I walked inside. That’s when I found him.”

“And you’re sure he’s dead?” Taylor reached out, touched her shoulder.

Callie nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. He’s at his desk.”

Taylor stood straighter, hitched his service belt up over his
protruding stomach. “I’ll stay with Miss Harper. You go check it out. If he is dead, we’ll need to call it in to county.”

“He’s dead all right, Officer Taylor.” Callie’s voice took on more strength. She didn’t like being treated like a dim wit. She knew a dead body when she saw one.

“I’m not doubting what you think you saw.” His tone wasn’t patronizing. “We don’t want to wake up Black if we don’t have to.”

Gavin strode off around the corner of the building, and Taylor stepped a few feet away from the patrol car, speaking into his radio.

Within five minutes, Gavin returned.

He reported to Taylor, glancing back over at Callie several times as he spoke.