RaeAnne Thayne Hope's Crossings Series Volume One: Blackberry Summer\Woodrose Mountain\Sweet Laurel Falls (6 page)

He would have stayed to talk longer but the two of them were interrupted by Mayor Beaumont, who greeted Monte with a polite if dismissive smile and then proceeded to corner Riley for the next ten minutes about the progress of the investigation into what for him condensed to only the most pressing issue, the desecration of his daughter's wedding gown.

“You've got to find the buggers and fast,” the mayor finally said, his tone implacable. “Gennie and my wife are out for blood. We all better hope they're not the first ones who find whoever did this or you just might have a murder investigation on your hands.”

He took the words to heart. Finally the mayor was distracted by one of the city council members approaching and Riley took blatant advantage of the chance to escape with a wave for the men.

His progress through the crowd was slow and laborious. He supposed that was another one of those curse-and-blessing things about returning to his hometown. Everybody wanted to talk to him, to relive old times, to catch up on the years and distance between them. Add
to that the unaccustomed excitement of the day with four—count 'em four—robberies in town, and everyone gathered at the elementary school for the pageant seemed to want to put in his or her two cents.

Wearing the title of chief on his badge in a small town wasn't much different than being an undercover cop whose entire goal had been blending in. The only difference was instead of hanging with drug dealers and pimps, here he was required to be polite, to make conversation, to play the public relations game, something that didn't sit completely comfortably inside his skin.

He did have one uneasy moment when he encountered J. D. Nyman, one of his officers who had also applied for the position of police chief. The man had made no secret that he thought Riley wasn't qualified for the job, which made for some awkward staff meetings.

“Officer Nyman,” he said. “Any word from the crime lab on those fingerprints?”

“No,” the other man said with blunt rudeness and turned his back to talk to someone else.

Riley almost called him on it, but then decided this wasn't the venue, so he headed out of the gymnasium to the hallway, where he almost literally bumped into Claire Bradford at the coatrack, pulling a charcoal wool coat from a hanger.

She looked tired, he thought. The big blue eyes he used to dream about were smudged with shadows and tiny lines of exhaustion radiated from her mouth. She smiled. “Hello, Chief McKnight.”

Her warmth was refreshing, especially after Nyman's rudeness. “Looks like you finally ditched the good doctor.”

He gently tugged her coat away to help her into it. Her mouth tightened, at him or at the doctor, he didn't know. “Holly was tired, so they made an early night of it,” she answered.

She had always been enamored with Jeff Bradford. He hated the guy for that, alone, especially because from the moment Jeff had noticed her, too, Claire had seemed completely smitten.

Even early on, she had talked about living in one of the town's historic old brick houses, settling down and raising a family here in Hope's Crossing.

Things hadn't quite worked out as she planned and Riley knew a moment's sadness for unrealized dreams. If anyone deserved the life she wanted, Claire Tatum Bradford would have topped his personal list. She'd been through hell as a kid and ought to be first in line for a happy ending.

Was she completely devastated that Bradford had moved on? Riley didn't want to think so. He had been fourteen when his own mother disintegrated for a while after his old man walked out. He could still remember the nights he would wake up to her sobbing in the living room as they all tried to make sense of James McKnight's sudden abandonment of his wife and six children.

Another problem he should have anticipated about moving home. Things he hadn't thought about in years—and didn't want to waste another moment of
his life dwelling on—had a way of pushing themselves to the front of his brain. He quickly turned his attention to Claire's son.

“Great show.” He shook Owen's hand with solemn gravity. “Your speech was my favorite of the whole pageant.”

The boy flashed a grin at him. “Thanks. I'm super glad it's over.”

“Me, too.” A kid with flaming red hair and freckles who had played a highly unlikely FDR in the pageant grinned at him and Riley couldn't resist smiling back.

“This is Jordie. We're driving him home,” Owen announced. “His mom and dad couldn't come see the play 'cause they're both pukin' sick.”

His sister rolled her eyes. “Do you have to be so disgusting all the time?”

He shoved his finger in his mouth and made a retching sound until his mother gave him a stern look.

“Carrie and Don have the flu, poor things. I offered to drive Jordan to and from the pageant for them.”

That was just like her, always taking care of everybody else. Apparently that hadn't changed. “Well, be careful driving out there. Looks like the snow's finally started. I forgot how lovely spring can be in the Rockies.”

“I have four-wheel drive,” she said.

“Four-wheel drive won't do diddly-squat if you hit a patch of black ice,” he said, but before she could answer, his cell phone buzzed with the urgent ringtone from Dispatch.

“Hang on, Claire. Sorry, I've got to take this.”

She shrugged and finished shepherding the boys into their jackets and gloves while he stepped away to answer.

“Yeah, Chief.” Tammy, the night dispatcher spoke rapidly, her words a jumble. “I just got a call from Harry Lange out on Silver Strike Road reporting a possible burglary in progress at one of the vacation homes near his place. He says the owners were just in town from California last weekend and told him they wouldn't be back until June but he's seeing lights inside that shouldn't be there. He thinks it's kids. And get this, Harry also reported they might be driving a dark-colored extended-cab pickup truck, just like our suspect vehicle from the robberies.”

“Did he get a plate?”

“No. He said he couldn't see it from his angle in the dark and didn't want to move in too close. What should I do? Jess is in the middle of a domestic disturbance over at the Claimjumper Condos and Marty is taking care of a fender bender out on Highland Road. Do you want me to divert one of them or call the sheriff's department for backup?”

“I can be there faster than anybody else. Have the sheriff send a couple deputies for backup just in case.”

“Right, Chief.”

He was already heading out the door, his adrenaline pumping at a possible break in the case, when he remembered Claire and the kids.

“Sorry,” he said over his shoulder. “I've got an emergency.”

He wasn't sure whose eyes were wider, hers or the kids.

“Are you going to catch whoever stole my mom's computer?” Owen asked.

“I intend to,” he vowed.

He gave one last apologetic smile to Claire, then raced out the door. Less than a minute later, he pulled out of the elementary school parking lot as fast as he dared and turned toward the canyon road that hugged the mountainside east of Silver Strike Reservoir.

As he had told Claire, the snow that had been threatening all day had begun to fall, plump fluffy flakes that might look like something off a postcard but played hell with road conditions. Welcome to April in the Rockies.

At least there was little traffic in either direction up the canyon. He was still about two miles from Harry Lange's place when his dispatcher's voice crackled through his radio. “Chief, be advised, suspects are believed to have left the premises of the vacation cabin and are now on Silver Strike Road, heading back toward town.”

Which meant they would be coming right at him. He might have missed catching them in the act, but he could still possibly nail them with stolen items from the vacation cabin and then link them to the Main Street break-ins.

“Ten-four, Tammy.”

He wheeled his department SUV around, grateful
for all the years he'd driven the mountain back roads and byways around town. This was the only road out of Silver Strike canyon, which dead-ended at the ski resort. The suspects would have to pass him eventually on their way back to town.

He pulled into a turnoff shielded from view from the road by a large pine, then shut off his headlights and killed the engine, lurking in wait for them in the cold.

Normally he hated waiting for anything. His natural impatience, he figured, a consequence of being the youngest of six and the only boy in a house with only two small bathrooms. Seemed like he'd spent half his youth waiting for somebody to finish blow-drying hair or soaking for hours in a bathtub or writing a novel or whatever the hell they did in there.

This was a different sort of wait, just moments before he expected to apprehend a suspect, and he never minded the anticipation.

The suspects in question didn't give him much time to savor the hunt. Only maybe a minute passed before he heard the rumble of a powerful engine in the cold night, then a dark extended-cab pickup passed him, fast enough that he could nail them for speeding if he couldn't find any other obvious evidence of criminal wrongdoing.

He waited until they took the next curve before he pulled in behind them. He eased closer and despite the snow that seemed to have picked up in the fifteen minutes since he left the school, he had a clear view
of the vehicle, a late-model three-quarter-ton Dodge Ram with a lift kit and a roll bar.

He called in the license plate, still following at a sedate pace.

“Affirmative, Chief. That vehicle is registered to…um, Mayor Beaumont.”

Oh, crap. Riley considered his options. He'd just left the mayor and Mrs. Beaumont at the Spring Fling, so neither could obviously be behind the wheel. What if their pickup had been stolen?

“Don't the Beaumonts have a teenage son?” he asked on a hunch.

“Yeah. Charlie. Seventeen or so, and a wild one, from what my girls say.”

Charlie, you are in some serious trouble.
He was close enough now that he could nail the little punk. He hit his flashing lights and accelerated.

For a moment, he thought it would be easy. After a few seconds, the pickup truck started to slow to around twenty-five miles per hour and Riley tried to focus on driving in the snowy conditions instead of the excitement pounding through him.

The truck didn't immediately stop, but Riley assumed Charlie Beaumont was looking for a good place to pull over on this fairly narrow road, with the mountains to their right and the reservoir a dark and sullen void across the oncoming lane to the left.

After perhaps two minutes at the slower pace, suddenly the pickup shot forward, fishtailing on the now icy road.

Shit. The idiot was a runner. And under these conditions, too.

He accelerated to keep pace while he picked up his radio again. “Suspect is fleeing. Unit in pursuit. Requesting backup. How far away is the sheriff's deputy?”

A male voice he didn't recognize answered. “Just approaching Silver Strike Canyon, Chief.”

“Set up a roadblock at the mouth of the canyon. Don't let anybody in or out.”

As soon as he spoke, he spied headlights heading toward them in the other direction from town and his insides clenched. Too damn late. Somebody was already coming this way. Possibly more than one vehicle.

As much as he wanted to catch the little punk who had run roughshod over his town—no matter how powerful his father might be—Riley had to consider the safety of pursuit when innocent civilians might be in danger. He had to stop the chase before someone was hurt. He would just have to keep his fingers crossed that the sheriff's deputies could set up the roadblock at the mouth of the canyon in time. Even if the kid slipped through, he knew where to find Charlie Beaumont.

Riley eased back and turned off his flashing lights to let the kid know he was curtailing pursuit, but the driver of the pickup, probably juiced up on adrenaline and heaven knows what else, didn't seem to care. The vehicle was still moving dangerously fast, especially on a curvy canyon road in the dark with those big fat snowflakes falling steadily.

After that, everything happened in a blur. At the next curve, Charlie swung too wide, too fast, and veered into the other lane—directly in the path of the oncoming vehicle.

Riley saw headlights flashing crazily as that driver veered to the shoulder to avoid a head-on collision. He held his breath, hoping the other driver would be able to maintain control. For a second, he thought the other vehicle would make it safely back onto the roadway, but he didn't even have time to offer up a prayer before the vehicle somehow found a gap in the guardrails along the reservoir and a moment later the headlights soared over the side.

“Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh,
shit!
”

Riley hit the brakes and felt the patrol SUV's tires slither to gain traction. He turned into the skid and fought to regain control…and as he did, he vaguely registered the headlights of Charlie Beaumont's pickup were nowhere in sight. How had he escaped so quickly?

He picked up the mic and yelled for the sheriff's deputy to hold the roadblock and for the dispatcher to send emergency vehicles, that he had a vehicle possibly in the water. Without waiting to answer questions, he grabbed his waterproof flashlight and a crowbar from the trunk, then raced to the edge of the slope.

Snow stung his face, but he barely noticed as he scanned below into the dark water. Finally his flashlight picked up the shape of the vehicle about twenty feet from shore. It hadn't rolled, a good sign, but it was
leaning nose-down toward the driver's side, submerged in water up the bottom of the windshield.

Riley made his way down the snow-covered slope as quickly as he dared, sliding a little as he went. He was nearly to the bottom when he heard a voice from above, barely discernible over the wind.

“What can I do?” a man called from the road. “Need me to call for help?”