An Eye for Danger Read online

  But like one of my nightmares, I couldn't run hard enough, far enough to avoid the coming explosion, so that I, too, would be engulfed in flames; lungs singed, flesh seared to bone, bone charred to ash. Ash to dust. Just like Luke.

  I wiped my eyes, clearing my mind. Hesitating wasn't an option.

  Max galloped ahead, leading the charge now that we were in full retreat. I fought to keep up with him. After several minutes of pure sprinting, however, my body couldn't keep pace, though my mind was racing a thousand directions at once. I fought the desire to quit, to give in to the shadows at my heels.

  Reaching the plateau of an open field, I slowed and glanced over my shoulder. No thugs. At least none that I could see in the predawn light or beyond the fog. I stood well beyond my tree, well beyond the acme of fear. Fear of the men, fear of the past. Fear of myself.

  A feeling other than panic filled me. I felt... exhilarated.

  God, I must be mad.

  My panting beat against the air in white gusts, my muscles trembling endlessly with adrenaline. Thunder roiled through my guts and I spat, emptying my mouth of the remaining tastes of fear. I hadn't passed out, hadn't retched, and my eyesight was sharper, focused. In fact, all my senses felt heightened. To the point of wanting to claw my own skin, if I didn't keep moving.

  Max barked a string of warnings. I yanked out my earbuds, despite having stopped the music ages ago, and whipped around to find a line of men running onto the misty field, their dark clothing and low posture raising my hackles.

  I darted north, Max running in stride.

  "Hey, you. Blondie," called a wiry man ditching the line to take after us. "Stop."

  Another glance over my shoulder to assess the threat: uniform, brimmed hat. Badge?

  My feet slowed, my eyes refocused. Uniforms fanned the clearing, moving in synch as they searched the grass and brush. Cops, everywhere. My heart pounded harder.

  I hate cops.

  Max lunged against my grip as the officer approached, stepping close enough his nametag coming into view: M. Petosa.

  "We're emptying the park, Ma'am. You'll need to come with me." Though a tall man who couldn't be more than 40, Officer Petosa stooped like a tired daisy. He wore a grim smile for a man supposed to make me feel safe, and he looked more irritated than afraid of my tyrant dog. "What the..." Petosa's leathery cheeks tightened as his pinprick eyes reviewed Max head to paw.

  I followed his sightline down Max's skinny blond legs now freckled crimson. The sticky red fluid slid between my fingers, smelled coppery. Blood. Quickly, my fingers felt down Max's calves, pulled open his paw pads, checked every inch of each ankle, ruing which glass shard or rock I'd missed during my panicked, careless run.

  "Ma'am," said Petosa in his crackled smoker's voice, reaching for my arm till Max snapped at him. And fortunately missed. "Ma'am!"

  "Let me see where he's hurt first."

  "That ain't from your dog, lady." Petosa motioned to my new sneakers, white ankle socks, fresh-shaved calves—all splattered the same crimson color.

  I gulped air. If not Max's blood, or mine, then... That's when I remembered the puddle we'd splashed through in order to avoid Bear Man.

  As I scrubbed my blood-stained fingers on the wet grass, I watched the cops beat the bushes with bully sticks and melt into the woods. Of course, this was a manhunt.

  I stared at the blood coloring in the lines of my hands. My stomach tumbled all over again.

  "I think you'd better show me where you've been," said Petosa.

  My arm reflexively thrust in the direction of the thugs. Whatever I'd witnessed, whatever I'd avoided had been much bigger than just losing Max.

  With a jarring whistle, Petosa drew his colleagues into the chase. Together, we jogged toward Great Hill, his men taking lead, me sketching details of the thugs, Petosa explaining the arson spree, Max bounding for joy as we returned to the fray.

  "Sounds crazy," I said, as we came to a stop at the bottom of Great Hill, "but they both looked like longshoremen, not arsonists."

  "All three dressed in the same clothes, but only one had a weapon." He cocked his brow, implying my eyewitness account was unreliable.

  "Just two men. The bear—I mean the first man—had the weapon." I held my hands a foot apart. "A pipe about this size. The second guy jumped him for it."

  "Sounds like a suppressed firearm," he said to himself as he turned away, and I knew he meant a silencer.

  Max panted at my side, and I bent to huddle with him. Recalling how Sam had grabbed the weapon drove a burning deep into my spine where a bullet could have pierced. He'd saved my life. Or tried to end it. I'd never know which for sure.

  Maybe the blood was his, considering his posture, not to mention his losing streak. But there'd been so much blood, enough to create a puddle. Even a healthy man would be passed out or dead from that much blood loss.

  Setting his mouth to his shoulder radio, Petosa called off a series of numbered codes, but all I registered was "description matching suspects, believed armed, officers in pursuit heading up the east side of Great Hill," and I felt redeemed. "Wait here," Petosa ordered as I moved to follow his lead. "I don't need a chaperone, lady, and you're safer staying as far away from these scumbags as possible."

  Ignoring my retort, he jogged up the hill, one hand holding a bully stick from slapping his long lean leg, the other drawing his weapon. Standard police Glock, I noted, not sure I preferred being left behind, unarmed.

  Max barked after Petosa, like he wanted to tag along, so I hugged him tighter. We were alive, despite my nervous system short circuiting. But a life of dodging bullets told me my luck would run out. Eventually. Luke had called me a danger junky, which wasn't the same as calling me brave. A job requirement, I'd explained to deaf ears, and so went our endless arguments till I resigned my assignment and unpacked my bags permanently.

  Sirens wailed in the distance, a piercing, chilling sound that railed against my nerves. I'd banish that sound from the earth, if I could.

  Max's bark spun me on my heel. He whined before I, too, sensed thunder underfoot. Across the lawn a mounted officer galloped his bay steed, hooves spraying up grass, head pumping the air. A spectacle of muscle and sinew and pure strength racing into battle that took my breath away.

  Crossing the field in a sprint behind the horse came yet another man. But the guy resembled neither cop nor thug. He looked more like my stockbroker. Under a camel overcoat he wore a gray suit and a red tie. Salt-and-pepper hair made him appear mature at a distance, while his buttery-tan dress shoes looked like he'd slip headlong in the wet grass like a kid.

  He turned toward me and Max, as the horse and rider continued toward the hill, gaining the incline with short, weighted strides before racing out of view.

  The man's head-on approach tempted me to release Max's collar. After a morning of repeat heart attacks, I had little tolerance for anyone charging us.

  "That a tracking dog?" he yelled from a couple of car-lengths away.

  "No, but he'll bite if you keep running at me."

  The man slowed, setting wide palms in the air. A tiny notepad fell open in his right hand.

  A reporter, just my luck.

  As he lowered his arms, a badge over his breast pocket caught the light and winked at me. "You can't be here, Miss. You could be contaminating my crime scene."

  So, not a reporter. A cop. Even luckier.

  I waved a hand toward my blood-freckled legs. "I believe I'm wearing your crime scene."

  He closed the distance to inspect my running shoes, my legs, my hips. My dog. His face soured. "And so you are."

  He stood nearly as tall as the first thug, maybe six-four, but exhibited finer posture and definitely a cleaner shave. Polished. Long horizontal cheekbones underscored dark circles, which in turn highlighted crisp blue eyes that flashed upon my review of him. He was a striking man, in looks and authority, and he damn well knew it.

  "I'm Detective McCarthy," he said, starting to offer a hand but withdrawing when Max balked. "We're securing the park, so I'll need you, and your dog, to exit with one of my officers."

  "You can blame your officer for dragging me back here in the first place." I crossed my arms, incredulous that he wouldn't want to take a statement from me when I was clearly dripping with material witness evidence. "Why would I want to get closer to the danger?"

  "I don't know, Miss. You tell me." The corners of his mouth curved, charming me out of my smart-ass comeback.

  Then a voice mumbled McCarthy's name and he snatched a radio unit from his hip, spreading his stance wider and opening the jacket of his Armani suit as he bellowed orders at invisible underlings.

  "And find those dogs," he said, glancing at Max. "K9 Unit's dragging their asses again."

  I waited out his dominance routine, not wanting him to believe he could bully me in kind. Sure, I could've given Petosa directions, stayed behind the wall of cops—I could've stayed home for that matter. Nowhere felt safer than behind those four walls, and the last thing I needed was to land in the middle of another investigation. But the detective didn't have to rub my nose in it.

  Home seemed miles away now. Still my blood pumped. I could run a marathon from all the excitement, yet my stomach twisted and my nerves started splintering. If I'd made it past my safety zone, I could damn well survive one arrogant cop, I convinced myself.

  Bending, I stretched my muscles to expunge my anxieties, relax my breathing, ease my heart rate.

  And came face to face with blood canvassing my legs. Embedded in my fingernails. The stain of death everywhere. The rancid scent of burning flesh filled my nostrils. I squeezed my eyes shut and a blinding light flashed through my mind, the thrust of a searing backdraft slammed my chest. Sirens wailed in my ears, fumes f
rom the smoldering car seats choked my lungs. The night my fiancé exploded into flames came roaring back to life.

  The air thinned, my balance waned. My hand slapped onto the ground to keep me from landing face-first. The fallout I'd expected at Great Hill finally caught up with me. And rammed like a freight train. "It's not real," I repeated in a whisper. Still adrenaline surged hotter than coffee through my veins.

  Experience told me I couldn't halt the spinning or shed the consuming desperation to flee. Pure, engrossing panic. Not real, damn it. My mouth watered, and I wanted desperately to expel breakfast, so I fought to fix my eyes on something solid. Like the detective's buttery shoes.

  "You mean the blonde with chocolate eyes, athletic build, bitchy dog?" said the detective. "She's standing right in front of—whoa."

  I stood too fast and grabbed for dead air. My head spun off its axis, turning me sideways. I was slipping, slipping...

  Please, God, don't let me pass out in front of the detective.

  McCarthy held my arms. "Lean into me, I've got you." He urged me to sit, and I relented, my knees buckling easily as he lowered me to the ground. "Take a couple deep breaths. That's good. Let's get your name."

  "Julie," I whispered, blinking to stop the park from blurring further. "Julie Larson."

  "Get an officer over here," he yelled over his shoulder to men I couldn't see. The detective crouched beside me, his hand between my shoulder blades. "Just breathe, Julie. Are you on any medications, any drugs?"

  "No. For God's sake, no." But maybe I'd rethink those antidepressants. "Just a little winded."

  Blood pulsed down my arms and legs, and I swallowed the coffee remnants seeping into my mouth. Little did the detective know the sight of his shoes reminded me I wanted to throw up, a gift that probably wouldn't match his fashion sense, so I aimed my sights on the horizon, where a billowing blue windbreaker hurried across the lawn.

  "How about family, someone I can call for you."

  "No. Nobody," I said, lowering my gaze.

  When the young man neared, I could see a toolbox twice his width squeezed under his stick arm and that his NYPD baseball cap was too big for his shaved, bony skull. An infant's cough could knock him over.

  The detective spoke in cooling tones now that he had an audience. "Officer Houston will stay with you. He'll collect a little evidence, and then he'll find an officer to drive you to the station for a full interview. You okay without me?"

  "I'm sure I'll manage." I must have looked shocked at Detective McCarthy's concern, but what I wanted was for him to remove his hand from my elbow.

  "You just seem a little shaky. Wouldn't want you to think I was abandoning you."

  "I said I'm fine, Detective."

  "Like the lady said." With a nod, he released me to Houston's care, blocking the sun as he rose. "This is Houston's first field assignment, so please be patient. And please, call me Stone." He offered one of those arrogant two-finger salutes before he jogged up the hill.

  Immediately I regretted my gruff manners. Attentive, authoritative, safe. Handsome. Only an idiot of a single, heterosexual woman would bark at such a man.

  Houston turned his back to me, revealing the gold CSU letters on his windbreaker as he crouched over the wide jaws of his toolbox. Crime Scene Unit, I assumed. Keeping his distance, he stared sheepishly at Max, who'd splayed on the lawn, panting and wagging his tail so it swept over the short, icy grass.

  "He's not going to bite you," I said.

  "I'm more of a cat person," Houston whispered, as if Max would attack him over the slight. He eyed Max while he quietly shook out a clear-plastic bag, the kind I used for last-night's lasagna leftovers. "Your shoes first, if that's okay with him."

  A sharp whistle came from above. Stone waved from the crest of the hill and spoke into his brick, his voice coming over Houston's radio a microsecond later. "Forget collection, Houston. Send her up. ASAP."

  Houston sighed at his open toolbox, like he was missing a chance to play with toys.

  "Duty calls." I smiled at him, eager to escape his shrinking violet persona, and headed up the hill, calling Max to my side.

  At the top of Great Hill, I choked back the nagging tension to run home and kept moving toward the crime scene. If I could help capture the thugs, perhaps no one else would get hurt. And that was a sacrifice, if not a repayment, worth making.

  I found Stone hunkered above the puddle, pivoting his head as he followed the trail of muddy prints—the echoes of my feet and Max's paws trailing blood—then turning his head to view the nearby mound of leaves. He mumbled to Petosa something about Goliath, and I laughed to myself to think of Bear Man's latest moniker.

  After several minutes of his silent pondering, Stone turned and nodded to me, clearly aware I'd been waiting. "I need you to show us what you saw, Miss Larson. If you'll step this way. Secure the dog, please." He looked me over, a mix of pleasure and criticism showing in his face. "I assume you have a leash."

  Biting my lip, I shrugged. He shook his head and glanced to Petosa, clearly annoyed but hopefully too preoccupied with his crime scene to write me a fat ticket. From his pocket he pulled blue booties, the kind they use in hospitals and Army medic tents that weren't already soaked in blood.

  "Can't have you contaminating my scene any further." He came to my side and bent to slip them over my shoes as the half-dozen other cops watched.

  Max growled, and I snapped my finger to shush him.

  "Or your dog," added Stone with a wary eye on Max.

  "You can try putting booties on him, if you like." I smirked when Stone gave me a double-take. Go ahead, I dare you.

  "We could try the handcuffs," he replied.

  I kept my lips sealed and lifted my foot. My balance wavered, however, and I grabbed the detective's shoulder. A grin teased his lips, so I withdrew my hand. "Let's just get this over with, shall we," I grumbled.

  "Like the lady said." He rose within inches of my face, and I could smell his breath mint. "But let me know if it gets to be too much. You've seen a lot for one day. For a civilian."

  "I'm not going to pieces on you, Detective." I swallowed hard. I'd run with bigger, tougher boys than cocky detectives.

  As I reached for Max's collar, he bolted toward the mound of leaves. "Max, stop."

  "Secure the damn dog," yelled Stone, as I lunged after Max.

  By the time I reached him, he'd latched onto a solid object in the leaf pile, growling and twisting like it was a pull-toy, so Petosa was shy to inject his bare fingers to grab Max's collar.

  "Drop it," I snapped and withdrew Max before Petosa landed a heel-kick to his ribs.

  "You oughta muzzle that thing," said Petosa.

  My mouth opened to give Petosa, uniform or not, a big slice of Larson pie. That's when I saw the hairy arm Max had flung by the sleeve, causing the attached body to shake free of its leafy cloak. The man's skin was cement gray. I knew first-hand that color, had printed photos of such bodies, won awards for them, for God's sake. I could only assume the man's identity: Tony, the third guy the thugs had argued over. The man whose blood had painted my legs.

  My stomach quivered and I backed away. And bumped right into a brick wall. Stone's chest.

  "Didn't want you to see that." Stone's large hands braced my shoulders and slowly turned me from the scene. He walked me a few steps away, Max trailing us, Stone's arm protectively curled over my shoulders. "We can stop, if you need to rest."

  "No, I'm good. I'm ready," I said, tightening onto Max's collar. Damn it, I'd seen bodies before. Whole bodies, parts of bodies, pieces I could barely discern to be human. I could handle a simple murder scene, and without a damn panic attack, or fainting spell, or reckless dog.

  "Clear the scene," Stone yelled, and I jumped at the sharpness of his tone.

  His men hustled out of his way like nervous children. Their footsteps sounded like drums, their rustling of leaves like cymbals. I tried to clear my mind and squeezed my fingers, which already felt fat and numb with the after-effects of panic.

  Pointing to Petosa, Stone said, "He's your stand-in for the gunman. I'll play the second suspect."

  Gunman. As in Goliath. As in Bear Man. Whom I'd stood inches from and survived.

  "Show time," Stone said with a clap of his hands that snapped me to attention.

  I inhaled slowly, quieted my mind, and gave Max signals to sit and stay far from the body and even farther from the cops: finger up, palm out. Piece of cake.