Rising Heat (89 page)

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I began to cry. I felt alone, abandoned, and forgotten. What was Hawk doing at this moment? Sleeping? Worrying about me? A noise that escaped my throat took me by surprise. A guttural growl, an impatient moan. Had I totally been played? I didn’t think so, but how well did I know Hawk?

So he had a reputation as a bad boy. Come to think of it, I hadn’t even asked him about his solve rate, hadn’t even asked him, Detective Cutter, or even Westin how many cases he had investigated and how they turned out. I didn’t want to start doubting Hawk, but at the moment, I was frustrated, angry, and scared. What was I supposed to think anyway? How could he have allowed himself to be thrown in jail when he knew I was in danger? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got.

“Damn you, Hawk!” I muttered, slamming one of my hands down on the steering wheel. And then the tears came — again. I couldn’t stop them. All the fears, the insecurity, the grief, and my guilt overwhelmed me. I laid down on the bench seat and literally cried myself to sleep.

*

When I woke, I didn’t know where I was. Alarm. My heart immediately started pounding, but then I realized I was inside my truck. I laid still and assessed. It was barely light outside. I felt stiff and achy as I slowly sat up, gazing around.

The ducks in the pond were busily bobbing on the surface of the water, occasionally dipping their heads below the surface in search of food. In the distance, I heard the call of geese, and a minute later, they flew over the pond, circled once, and then one by one began to land, wings outspread, honking, their webbed feet extended in front of them, acting like breaks as they landed on the surface of the water. For a second, I smiled. Then the memory of what happened last evening hit me like a ton of bricks.

I’d felt so pleased that I had gotten some work done yesterday. So pleased I’d made that damn coffee. Filled that damned thermos and walked my damned self out to his car. I’d acted as if I didn’t have a damn care in the world.

I shuddered, thinking about the officer. His neck. The blood. I shook my head, trying to force the image away.

To the east, the first inklings of sunrise colored the sky in glorious color; orange sherbet, bubblegum pink, a deeper blue-purple down close to the horizon. I wanted to appreciate the beauty, to escape in it, if only for a few seconds.

And then I remembered more. Hawk had been arrested. I had been angry, scared, and on my way to a motel. I never called Detective Westin to let him know where I was. Then again, he hadn’t called me either. Neither had Detective Cutter. Thanks for nothing, I thought. I could be lying dead in a ditch somewhere for all they knew.

Stop it! I didn’t need to wallow in self-pity. I didn’t need to feel sorry for myself. I needed to—

I froze, my gaze fastening on something tucked under my windshield wiper. The one on my side of the truck. I knew it hadn’t been there last night. I blinked, wiped the sleep from my eyes, and sat up a little straighter. What was that? It looked like an oversized playing card. I could hardly make out the colors and the shape of objects on the card, which had been strategically placed so that I could see the face of it.

A surge of nausea surged upward, caught in my throat, but when I realized what it was, I couldn’t stop. I quickly fumbled for the door lock, opened my door, and leaned outside. I retched. My stomach heaved, but nothing but bile rose in my throat. My mouth tasted sour. I stared at the card again, then belatedly looked around. I didn’t see any sign of a human being. Just the ducks and the geese in the pond, sometimes quacking softly, greeting the day and each other.

I quickly stepped out of the truck and snatched the card from beneath the windshield wiper, not even caring that I was touching it with my bare fingers. He wouldn’t have left any fingerprints behind. I knew that now. I held the object in my trembling hand, staring down at it in abject horror.

A tarot card.

In the wan sunlight, I saw the full yellow circle in the middle of the card. Little symbols on the yellow circle reminded me of the markings on a compass. At the bottom of the card was imprinted ‘Wheel of Fortune’ in an old, medieval-looking font. I had no idea what it meant, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t like it.

I did know one thing… the stalker had found me. How, I didn’t know. Maybe he followed me from the house. Maybe he’d seen my truck at the police station and followed me here. He could have killed me last night, right there next to the pond. It’d been foolish of me to come to the park, to fall asleep here, in the dark, away from more populated areas. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. The last thing I remember was crying.

What to do? Where to go? I was frozen, stunned with the realization that the killer had stood a mere foot or two away from me. How long had he watched me sleep from outside my truck, with me totally unaware? Just the idea of it sent a shiver and a bone deep chill through me.

Why hadn’t he killed me? Was he having too much fun playing with me and my emotions? Turning me inside out? Turning my life upside down?

I suddenly realized what I was doing. I was sitting frozen in my truck, an easy target for the killer if he decided to attack me. I had no weapon, nothing with which to defend myself. Idiot.

Stupidity seemed to be the new theme of my life.

I quickly started the truck and pulled away from the curb. The sound of my engine and the squeal of my tires startled the ducks in the pond. Several skittered away from the shore and a few geese took flight, one careening dangerously close to the front of my truck. I stepped on the brakes, nearly slammed my head into my steering wheel, and then, heart pounding, continued along the path that eventually wound its way around the park and out onto the highway.

Despite the early hour, quite a few cars were on the road. I grasped the steering wheel tightly, my fingers white. I would go to the police station, wait there for either of the detectives to show up. I glanced down at the tarot card on the passenger side of my bench seat. What did that card mean? Wheel of Fortune. What was the killer trying to tell me?

In less than ten minutes, I was back at the station. Maybe I should’ve taken Detective Westin’s suggestions and remained at the station last night. Doing what? Curling up in a chair in the waiting room, being watched or talked about? I shook my head. No way.

Before leaving my truck, I glanced around. Shift change apparently. Cops leaving the station, others going in. A couple paused beside a patrol car, talking, and then split up to head to their own cruisers. I noticed they all wore narrow black bands around their silver badges. It didn’t take long for news of the death of a police officer to make the rounds.

A couple of officers glanced toward my truck and I nearly shrank back. Did they know? Did they know that Officer Richardson had been parked at the end of
my
driveway? That it was
my
fault that he’d been murdered?

Suddenly, I wasn’t quite so sure about going back into the police station. I knew that none of them would voice a vocal accusation, but there was no way they wouldn’t be thinking it. No, it wasn’t my fault that there was a stalker after me, or at least I didn’t think it was. Nevertheless, he had been guarding my house, my property, me.

All because I’d wanted to get some work done. I felt horrible. The responsibility of his death weighed heavily on my soul. Common sense told me that it wasn’t my fault that the police officer had died, that it was the fault of the killer, but I couldn’t quite convince myself of my own innocence.

My heart heavy, I waited in my truck for another ten minutes or so, until most of the police cruisers had exited the parking lot to begin their daily patrols.

With another glance around, I stepped out of my truck and then belatedly reached inside to grab the tarot card. I had no idea whether Detectives Westin or Cutter would be in, but I was prepared to wait. After all, what else did I have to do?

Work? At the moment, work was the farthest thing from my mind.

I entered the police station, saw an officer standing behind the front desk. He wore a narrow black elastic band around his badge like the others. My mouth grew dry. I didn’t recognize him, but I felt as if I was carrying around a placard:
It’s her! It’s her fault!

He glanced up. “Can I help you?”

I nodded and cleared my throat. I knew I probably looked terrible. My hair all over the place. My face still showing the effects of crying myself into an exhausted sleep. My wrinkled clothing. I desperately needed to brush my teeth.

“Are either Detective Westin or Cutter in their office yet?” He nodded. “May I see them please?”

“And your name?”

Oh God. “Tracy Whitcomb.” His expression didn’t change, but he stared at me for a moment, and then one eyebrow lifted slightly as if he’d just made the connection. I lowered my gaze, shifted my feet, and then looked back up at him.

“Just a moment,” he said. He quickly stepped from the front desk toward the detectives’ office door, leaned inside, whispered something, and then gestured toward me.

I moved toward the swinging gate that separated the lobby from the front desk. I stepped down the short hallway, pausing in front of the door that opened to their office. The police officer stepped back and allowed me to enter. I sensed him moving back to the front desk as both Detectives Cutter and Westin stared at me.

Both of them eyed me from tip to toe and back again. I held the tarot card in my hand. I stepped toward Detective Cutter’s desk and placed the card face up on it. He looked at the card, up at me, and then back to the card.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“You tell me.” All of a sudden, I was angry again. The emotion came out of nowhere. One second I was calm, the next my heart was pounding, my palms sweaty, and my emotions shaky. “It’s a tarot card.” He stared at me. I knew what he wanted to know. “It was on my windshield this morning.”

He glanced down at the card and then at me again. “You handled it.”

I shrugged. “I don’t think it matters. He’s not stupid enough to leave a fingerprint.”

Cutter glanced at Westin and then back at me.

“Where’ve you been all night?”

I didn’t even bother sitting down in the chair by their desks. “I fell asleep at the park.”

“You told me you were going to a motel—”

“I change my mind!” I snapped at Westin. “And does it really make any difference where I go?” I pointed at the card, directing my frustration at both of them. “He seems to find me no matter where I go, doesn’t he?”

“Tracy, I wanted to talk to you last night,” Cutter began. “I had some questions for you.” He glanced at his partner. “I told Westin to keep you here until I arrived—”

He sighed, rubbing his hands over his stubbled cheeks. It was obvious to me that he hadn’t gotten much sleep last night. In fact, even Westin looked a bit rumpled.

“Which park, Tracy?” Westin asked.

“The river bottom,” I replied. “The one with the pond. And no, I didn’t see anything. I fell asleep in my truck. While I was sleeping, he tucked that under my windshield wiper.”

Again, Cutter glanced at Westin and then back at me.

“We should check your truck for a tracking device—”

“Hawk already did that,” I said. Just saying his name caused a surge of pain. I had refused to think about him this morning. The instant my thoughts headed in his direction, I forced myself to focus on anything else, such as driving to the police station and giving the detectives this new piece of worthless evidence. I felt defeated, worn-out, and most of all, tired of hiding.

I’m sorry about Officer Richardson,” I said. “I didn’t mean for that to happen—”

“That’s not your fault,” Cutter said. “That was the killer’s fault, not yours.”

“Thanks for trying to make me feel better, but it’s not working.” I inhaled deeply. “I only came by to give you the tarot card.”

Cutter frowned, glanced at Westin, and then turned back to me. “What’s going on? What are you thinking?”

“Thinking?” I offered a sarcastic laugh. “Actually, I’m trying not to.”

“Look, I need to get an official statement from you about what happened yesterday—”

I shook my head. “What happened yesterday? What happened yesterday was that one of your police officers was murdered on my property. What happened yesterday was that I realized—”

I heard the sound of voices coming from outside the detectives’ office. I recognized one of them. Hawk. My heart skipped a beat, then dropped to the pit of my stomach. I didn’t want to see him. I wanted to run and hide, but at the same time…

And then he was there, standing in the doorway. My eyes widened in surprise when I got a good look at him. He was bruised and battered. All at once, I felt a surge of every imaginable emotion: relief, anger, impatience, frustration, and then, on top of it all, an ache in my heart that I couldn’t even define. I stared at him, first in surprise, then in growing anger.

“Tracy, are you all right?”

“No, I’m not all right!” I growled. “Do you know what happened yesterday? At my house?”

“Yes, Cutter told me—”

“And where were you, Hawk? Where were you?” I demanded. He took a step into the office and I took a step back, nearly bumping into Westin’s desk. “You didn’t come, Hawk. You didn’t answer your phone. You said you’d be there, but you weren’t.”

My voice shook with fury and with pain. My brief surge of relief and then dismay when I saw the cut on the bridge of his nose, his split lip, and the brief flash of sympathy I’d felt was gone. In its place was nothing but a low, burning anger.

“Let me explain,” he began, glancing to Cutter.

“An explanation? Don’t bother,” I said. I was surprised by how calm I sounded. “Westin already told me. You were in a bar fight. Thanks a lot, Hawk. While Officer Richardson was getting his throat slashed at the end of my driveway and I was running from my house, trying to find you, to call you, you were… where? Drinking in a bar? Fighting? Getting arrested and thrown in jail?”

I tried to push past him, but he stepped in front of the doorway, blocking me. I glared up at him. “Get out of my way, Hawk,” I gritted out.