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  THE BOND UNBROKEN

  by

  Diana Grayson

  © copyright by Diana Young, October 2003

  Cover Art by Eliza Black

  ISBN 1-58608-416-x

  New Concepts Publishing

  Lake Park, GA 31636

  www.newconceptspublishing.com

  Abilene, Kansas, June 23, 2002

  Prologue

  "We the jury, find the defendant, Richard Westfield . . . not guilty."

  The jury foreman's words were met with an immediate, almost deafening silence before pandemonium broke out in the packed court room.

  Police detective, Katlin McKinnen, could feel the blood pounding in her temples as she struggled to control her fury. "And another rapist goes free," she hissed under her breath. Despite her anger, a detached part of her brain observed the scene, cataloging and assigning to memory the smallest detail and reaction among the spectators.

  The room was divided into two diametrically opposed factions. On the left side of the room, behind the defense attorney and the defendant, sat the family and friends of the accused. Emotions ran high; from satisfied smiles, snickers, and snide remarks from Rick's buddies, to the smug arrogance of his father who was at the moment patting his son on the back with one hand as he shook the hand of the high priced defense attorney with the other. Richard Westfield Sr. was a man whose money and power had somehow influenced his son's acquittal.

  The only discordant note to the victorious side of the room was the mother of the accused. She sat stiffly in her seat, the epitome of class, style, and elegance, dressed in the latest designer fashion, every hair in place. Despite what should be a joyous outcome, her eyes were downcast, fixed on the white lace handkerchief she was twisting into a tight coil in her lap. A single tear rolled slowly down one pale cheek. Katlin knew the woman had to be relieved her son wouldn't be going to prison, but she could only imagine the pain and shame a mother must feel knowing her only child is a rapist. There wasn't a shred of doubt in Katlin's mind that Susan Westfield was aware of both her son's and her husband's less than honorable activities.

  Glancing toward the right side of the courtroom, Katlin saw that the reactions to the verdict were much like her own. Emotions ran from stunned disbelief to verbal protests of outrage.

  Her eyes were irresistibly drawn to the girl seated directly behind the prosecuting attorney. Sharon Hall, the young girl who had shown such strength and courage during the trial, until the verdict had been read. Katlin had been watching her as the jury foreman rose to his feet and cleared his throat before speaking. Sharon's shoulders had been squared, her back was straight, and her head was held high. Now she appeared to have withered, as if the reservoir of strength she'd drawn from had been depleted, and she had closed in upon herself. Her head was now bowed, as if when Richard Westfield had been declared innocent, the victim had been judged guilty.

  Sharon lifted her head, turned in her seat, and scanned the courtroom until her eyes fixed upon Katlin. Dull and lifeless, her tear filled blue eyes held such a wealth of mute despair mingled with accusation that Katlin felt the impact hit her like a slap in the face.

  Unable to withstand Sharon's reproachful gaze, Katlin's eyes dropped to the car keys clutched so tightly in her hand they left painful indentations in her palm. To say she'd only been doing her job sounded trite and woefully inadequate under the circumstances. There was nothing she could say, nothing she could do, to change the unjust verdict.

  What caused Katlin's stomach muscles to coil into painful knots was the knowledge that she had convinced Sharon Hall to press charges against Westfield by playing upon the girl's strong sense of compassion, compassion for the other victims sure to suffer the same experience at Westfield's hands unless someone had the courage to stop him. Abilene's ace detective, Katlin McKinnen, had a job to do. She'd been determined to stop Rick Westfield. To accomplish that goal she had put a gentle, trusting girl through the ordeal of a sensational rape trial. And for what purpose? Rick Westfield was free to rape again. And rape again he would. He believed he could do anything he damn well pleased without being forced to suffer the consequences of his actions. Thanks to the publicity resulting from the rape trial which was a travesty, a sick joke on what passed itself off as a justice system, Katlin couldn't imagine any woman being willing to press charges against him in the future.

  Wondering how they could live with what they had done, Katlin's eyes went to the jury box situated to the right, near the front of the court room. There was no way she could excuse the jury's participation in the farce she had been instrumental in setting into motion. Twelve jurors, five women and seven men who made up a careful selection which had included a mix of social and economic backgrounds. It didn't take brilliant deductive reasoning to recognize how "proud" they were of the verdict they had handed down. They wore shame faced expressions with eyes downcast, painfully reluctant to look in Sharon Hall's direction.

  They knew he was guilty! Every man and woman seated within that jurors' box knew that no matter how they attempted to justify their actions, they had let a vicious rapist walk away scot free. How Westfield managed to get to the jury, they'd probably never know, but get to them he had.

  Ignoring the sound of the judge's gavel smacking against wood in his effort to bring order to his court, Katlin reached for her handbag, rose to her feet, and walked stiffly to the closed double doors at the rear of the room. The court bailiff assigned to prevent anyone from entering, or leaving, stepped into Katlin's path. Without hesitation, she shot him an ice cold glare and felt no small measure of satisfaction when she saw him flinch in response then swallow.

  "Detective McKinnen," was his only comment as he reluctantly stepped aside and opened the door wide enough for her to slip through.

  Just before she stepped through the doors, Katlin glanced over her shoulder to find Rick Westfield watching her exit. As she met and held his gaze in her unblinking stare, the lips of the fair haired, blue eyed son of Abilene's most influential family, curved into a calculating smirk before he pursed his lips together in a mockery of a kiss for her benefit.

  In order to make her escape from the Dickenson County Court House, Katlin had been forced to run the gauntlet of cameras, microphones, and by-line hungry reporters who reminded her of a school of piranha in a feeding frenzy.

  At last reaching the relative privacy of her Jeep Cherokee parked in the lot across the street, Katlin rubbed the back of her neck in an attempt to ease some of her tension. She wondered how she could feel utterly heartsick and so furiously angry that she could castrate the worthless bastard at the same time?

  Her mind went back to Rick's mother. During the course of her investigation, it had been necessary to question the woman, and Katlin had driven away from the palatial Westfield estate, feeling sick to her stomach. Susan Westfield had everything money could buy, but she was also a miserably unhappy woman. All the expensive makeup in the world, applied with an expertly experienced hand, could not totally conceal the bruises from Katlin who was just as experienced at recognizing the signs of emotional and physical abuse. Mrs. Richard Westfield VI had done nothing, neither by word nor action, which would betray her son or her husband, but the abject despair and defeat in the woman's eyes told a different story.

  What was she doing? What did she think she could accomplish? Katlin worked with battered women in the local shelter who more often than not returned to their abuser. She'd worked with rape victims who refused to press charges. Who could blame them? The trial was as traumatic as the actual rape. What the hell was the point? The system wasn't working.

  "Pull yourself together, McKinnen," she told herself sternly.

  Katlin leaned her head back against the headres
t, closed her eyes, and began taking deep, cleansing breaths. As a child studying the Martial Arts, one of the first lessons she'd learned, and unfortunately often forgot, is the mind out of control is like a cattle stampede which leaves a wake of destruction in its path. Stilling the incessant chatter of her thoughts, Katlin mentally controlled her out of control emotions by visualizing them as the stampeding cattle now corralled and grazing contentedly. She then focused her mind on her physical responses. Her heart rate, which was moments ago racing due to the adrenaline rush caused by her anger, was beginning to slow to a normal rate as she brought her body, mind, and emotions together into one controlled unit.

  Reaching up, she tilted the rear view mirror downward so she could inspect her appearance and with a groan of disgust pulled her makeup bag from her purse. She put eye drops into each eye to eliminate the tell-tale effects of her sleepless nights, used foundation to blend away the traces of dark circles, and a little blush to add color to her pale cheeks. By the time she was finished there were no visible signs to betray that this case, nor the anonymous threats she'd been receiving as a result, were getting to her.

  It was the woman most people believed her to be who leaned forward, inserted the key in the ignition, and started the engine. Mask firmly in place, she was once again the woman who many of the men in the department called "The Ice Princess" behind her back. Katlin had some serious thinking to do about her life; past, present, and future. Then she had some decisions to make.

  * * * *

  As the service revolver and leather case containing the badge of the Abilene Police Department slid toward him across the scarred, wooden surface of his desk, Police Chief Ben Thompson didn't know whether to feel surprised or disappointed, sad or angry. He reached out and stopped the progress of the unwanted objects before they toppled off the desk into his lap, then looked up at the expressionless mask of Katlin McKinnen's features. She was furious, her anger tightly leashed beneath the face she put on for the benefit of others. Her actions alone told him all he needed to know. What he didn't know was, what he was going to do about it.

  "What’s the meaning of this, Katlin?" he asked almost cautiously.

  "How I answer that question depends on whether I'm talking to my superior or to my Uncle Ben," Katlin responded, meeting his inquiring gaze head on.

  How did he answer that? As her superior he had no option but to refuse her unspoken resignation. Katlin was not only the best detective in the department, she was also the most honest, loyal, and dedicated. The department couldn't afford to lose her. As her uncle he wanted her off the force so she would be a less likely target for whatever retaliation Westfield might attempt. Although he'd never voiced his suspicions, Ben believed he had already lost his best friend, Katlin's father, because Brian had been digging into Westfield's influence within the department. He didn't want to lose his niece to them as well.

  "Damn it, Katie," Ben snapped in frustration, then reached down to extract a bottle and two glasses from his bottom desk drawer.

  Katlin glanced at the drinks he was pouring then arched an inquiring eyebrow in his direction. "Drinking on duty?"

  "Sometimes duty can be a bitter pill to swallow, and it requires something stout to wash it down," he answered as he pushed one of the glasses across the desk toward her. "Sit down," he instructed, nodding his head toward one of the worn vinyl chairs on the other side of his desk. "You’re upset about the verdict, and you have every right to be. It's bull shit. But, I did warn you it was a possibility when you requested the case."

  "You and practically every other man in the department," Katlin shot back as she picked up her glass and lowered herself into the chair that was so old it creaked and groaned in protest despite her slight one hundred and five pounds. AI don't care who he is. He's guilty, and there is no way I was going to back down. Someone has to stand up against the Westfields and all they represent."

  "Exactly," Ben agreed, glancing pointedly toward her badge and revolver before meeting her eyes. "It would take more than losing a case against a slime ball like Westfield to induce the Katlin McKinnen I know to hand in her badge. You're not a quitter, Katie."

  He was right, and Katlin didn't deny it. She just didn't know how to explain what she was going through so he would understand. Stalling for time, she took a sip of the drink in her hand and gasped as the fiery liquid burned a path down her throat to settle like a molten rock in the pit of her stomach.

  "It isn't just this case," Katlin began hesitantly, once she was able to speak. "Although it might have been the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. The job is doing something to me, Ben. Something in here," she said, putting her free hand to her heart for emphasis. "And it scares the hell out of me. I don't want to become like my father, like one of those cops who are so detached they're no longer able to care or feel."

  Once started, the words now seemed to flow, almost as if she were thinking out loud. "If I'm honest, I have to ask myself if I joined the force for myself, or did I do it hoping to win my father's approval, his acceptance . . . his love? And we both know how well I succeeded there." There was no bitterness in her voice, just a trace of weariness from stating a sad yet obvious fact. AI always had to work harder than everyone else, to be the best at everything I did, just to prove myself worthy of his love. It was never enough."

  Ben didn't say anything, he merely listened, taking the occasional sip of his drink. Ben knew Katlin so well, the real Katlin beneath the tough controlled exterior, the one few people were able to get close to. He'd been pacing the waiting room floor with her father the day she was born, and he'd been more of a father to her than her own had ever been. He would never forget the first time he had held her in his arms and looked into those remarkable green eyes of hers. Most newborns' eyes don't quite focus, yet baby Katlin's eyes had focused on his, they'd appeared to look deep into his soul, and he had felt an immediate connection with her. As much as he loved his two sons, his niece had been the daughter of his heart and one of the joys of his life.

  Ben noted that her eyes had taken on a glassy sheen, but there were no tears. He could vividly remember the last time he had seen Katlin cry. It was the day Brian McKinnen coldly informed his five year old daughter that her mother was dead.

  On that fateful day, Kathleen had dropped Katie off at their house while she kept an appointment with her obstetrician. Already a week past her due date, the doctor had been considering inducing labor. Three hours later, a grief stricken Brian had arrived with the news.

  In an effort to outrun the police, a drunk driver sped through a red light and crashed into the driver's side of Kathleen's car, killing her and her unborn child instantly. Brian's long awaited son. What made a tragic situation truly horrendous was Brian had been driving the police car in pursuit of the drunk driver.

  It was understandable that Brian had been suffering from shock and was numb with grief when he broke the news. What Ben found unforgivable was the way in which he did it.

  A heartbroken Katie had thrown herself into her Aunt Karen's arms, sobbing inconsolably. Brian had then taken her firmly by the shoulders and turned her to face him. "That is enough, young lady," Brian ordered in a cold hard voice. "My wife is dead. My son is dead. The last thing I need to deal with right now is a crying little sissy." Ben and his wife had been shocked into immobility by Brian's senseless cruelty toward his daughter. "Only babies cry," Brian hissed as he proceed to shake her. Both Ben and Karen reacted in the same instant. Karen dropped to her knees in front of Katie and attempted to pull the little girl into her arms. Ben grabbed Brian by the collar with one hand, his other hand clenched into a fist ready to slug his brother in law. He didn't know how he managed to restrain himself. Maybe he should have hit him that day, if he had, it might have shocked some sense into Brian. Maybe if he had things would have turned out differently for Katlin.

  Then Katlin had done something which to this very day the mere memory still had the power to bring a lump to his throat. She st
epped away from her aunt, squared her fragile little shoulders, and looked up at Brian with glassy, tear free eyes. Her little chin quivered as she spoke softly to her father with a dignity and resolve that should never be experienced by a five year old child.

  "I'm not a baby, Daddy. I'm a big girl."

  On that day, something had been born inside his Katie girl, or something had died. Ben was never sure which description fit best. He had seen that glassy sheen in her eyes, that dignity and resolve many times over the years, but he had never seen her shed another tear.

  Ben didn't doubt that Brian loved his daughter, in his own way, but when Kathleen McKinnen died, taking the son he'd always dreamed of with her, Brian had shut down emotionally and shut out his daughter in the process. He'd become so immersed in grief over the loss of the woman he considered to be the best part of who he was, so consumed by guilt over the part he had played in the tragedy, he might as well have been in the car with Kathleen that day. The heart of the laughing, affectionate, husband, father, and friend had shriveled up and died years before he ever drew his last breath. Ben always suspected the older Katlin got, and the more she began to grow into the picture image of her mother, the more painful Brian found it to be around his daughter.

  Ben didn't know how long he had been lost in his thoughts, but he was a little startled by the sound of Katlin's voice.

  "Somewhere along the way, I've lost me. What's really pathetic is that I've spent my entire life trying to be my father's son. Now that he's gone, I feel lost. I've never taken the time to find out who Katlin McKinnen, the woman, really is." Katlin paused and looked at Ben as if she expected him to have some profound words of wisdom to offer her.

  If it was that type of wisdom she needed, Ben knew her old karate teacher, Master LuChen Sing, would have been far more equipped to supply the answers. As for himself, his words of wisdom were blocked by the lump in his throat. She was in a very real personal crisis, and there was nothing he could do to help her.