Summary:
Jordan Erichsohn suspects something is rotten about his boss, Judge Crawford. Unfortunately he has nowhere to turn and doubts anyone will believe his claims—least of all the handsome deputy, Pierre Ravelle, who has been assigned to protect the judge, as he's been receiving the threatening letters. The judge has a long reach, and if he finds out Jordan’s turned on him, he might impede Jordan adopting his son, Jeremiah.
When Jordan can no longer stay silent, he gathers his courage and tells Pierre what he knows. To his surprise and relief, Pierre believes him, and Jordan finds an ally… and maybe more. Pierre vows to do what it takes to protect Jordan and Jeremiah and see justice done. He’s willing to fight for the man he’s growing to love and the family he’s starting to think of as his own. But Crawford is a powerful and dangerous enemy, and he’s not above ripping apart everything Jordan and Pierre are trying to build in order to save himself….
Summary:
The heat is growing from the inside, but danger is building on the outside.
Judge Andrew Phillips runs a tight ship in his courtroom. He’s tough, and when he hands down a sentence, he expects to be obeyed. So when a fugitive named Harper escapes and threatens his life, Andrew isn’t keen on twenty-four/seven protection… especially not from Deputy Clay Brown. They have a past, one that could cause problems in their careers.
But with Clay assigned to Andrew and the two of them together every minute, there’s nowhere to hide from their attraction—or from the fact that there’s much more than chemistry blooming between them. As the threat intensifies, Clay knows he’ll do anything it takes to protect the people who are taking their places in his heart: Andrew and his young niece and nephew.
Summary:
When Chris Anducci is moved off jail duty and into the sheriff’s office, he doesn’t expect his first assignment to be protecting a witness against a human trafficking ring. Knowing the new sheriff doesn’t abide screwups, Chris reluctantly agrees to work the case.
Pavle Kasun has spent the last four years of his life at the mercy of others. When an opportunity presented itself, he took it, resulting in his rescue. Now the safe houses he’s placed in are being threatened and he needs protection if he is to have any sort of chance at a life.
Chris opens his home to Pavle, but he doesn’t expect Pavle and his story to get under his skin… and stay there. Soon they discover they have more in common than either of them thought. Slowly Pavle comes out of his shell and Chris finds someone who touches his heart. But as the men looking for Pavle close in, they will stop at nothing to get him out of the way. But even if Chris can keep him safe, he might not be able to protect his heart if Pavle moves back home.
Original Review March 2018:
As Jordan Erichsohn gets closer to the finalizing of the adoption of his son Jeremiah, he finds himself warring over telling someone about his boss, Judge Crawford and the evidence he's uncovered that is none to above board, as he's afraid what that may mean for the adoption. Afterall, the judge's reach is long and final. When Deputy Pierre Ravelle is assigned to protect Judge Crawford after he recieves threatening letters, he finds himself attracted to the judge's assistant but he's leary to mix his personal feelings with his professional life. When Jordan finally works up the courage to clue Pierre in on his suspicions, will the pair be able to uncover the truth and still keep their hearts in tact? Or will the crooked judge have the final say?
When I heard that Andrew Grey was creating a spin-off of his Carlisle Cops series, I was thrilled. The boys in blue from Carlisle always left me with such joy and entertainment. I know that Fire & Flint is the first book in the new series, Carlisle Deputies, but I already know that the author has another winner in print. Some might think after 6 books in the Cops series what more can he tell without just rehashing previous tales? I'll admit there are very few completely original tales out there but that doesn't mean stories are simply being recycled and this is a prime example of that. Personally, 99% of the stories in print are not about the ending but about the journey getting there. You will always have good guys, bad guys, conflict, families, and a hundred other clichés in between the covers but its how the author spins the web that makes or breaks a book for me. Fire & Flint definitely has Andrew Grey's web-spinning touch that makes Jordan and Pierre's story amazingly, dramatically romantic that heightens the reading experience.
Some might think Jordan's son, Jeremiah is written older than he actually is. Perhaps but I do not. Now, I don't have any children but I was an only child in a family with multiple health issues and all the dramas and heartbreak that goes with them and I know that I "grew up" faster than some of my friends in term of behavior so I really didn't find Jeremiah's actions or speech to be out of place or unbelievable considering his circumstances. We all develop differently and I think Jeremiah is a perfect example of that and I actually praise Andrew Grey expressing that through actions and emotions and not with characters stating outright "you are older than your years".
As for Jordan and Pierre, what's not to love about them. There's so much I could say but I don't want to ruin the plot and I think their actions and determination to the right thing says it all. So I will just say this: Fire & Flint is a lovely beginning to this spin-off series, Carlisle Deputies, it has a little bit of everything(well everything but science fiction😉) and I certainly hated to see the last page come. Whether Andrew Grey writes only one more or one hundred I look forward to reading them all.
Fire and Granite #2
Original Review August 2018:
When a transfer leads to escape Harper isn't content with freedom. When Judge Andrew Phillips receives threatening calls and texts, its up to Carlisle Deputy Clay Brown to protect the judge. When all three men meet, will Clay be able to protect the lives of Andrew and the judge's niece and nephew? Will the connection the deputy and the judge form be safe too?
Once again the law enforcement of Carlisle comes to the rescue. Well, rescue might be a bit overdramatic, but they definitely do what they do best: protect, serve, and open their heart. I have to admit that after going up against a dirty judge in Fire and Flint, I was a bit skeptical about having a judge be one of the two main characters. That's not to say I expected all the judges in Carlisle to be dirty but I guess it was just so fresh in my reader's mind that I was leery. I needn't have worried(okay I wasn't worried I knew Andrew Grey would do the judge justice) because Andrew Phillips is definitely the kind of judge you want on the bench.
Speaking of the judge, Andrew is a complex man or at least he appears so at first because he is so "no nonsense" in the courtroom but he isn't quite as strict once he takes off the robes. Don't even get me started on how he is once his young niece and nephew enter the story. There is just something about a man who cares for children that gets me warm and fuzzy all over. Clay has his own family troubles that I won't go into because I don't want to spoil anything but I'll just say this: his deputy training definitely gets put to good use. I wouldn't tag Andrew and Clay's journey as "enemies to lovers" but they certainly don't fit the "friends to lovers" tag either, perhaps "butting-heads to lovers" 😉 Whatever tag you decide fits the duo best, it becomes pretty clear that the attraction they share fits the "Fire" part of the title.
If you are asking whether you need to read Fire and Flint or the author's Carlisle Cops series before Fire and Granite, my answer is probably not. There are mentions to what transpired in Flint but its done so if you haven't read it prior to starting Granite, you won't be lost. Personally though, I have to say I would highly recommend reading this series in order and maybe even Cops first. There is no real ongoing storyline other than being in the same area but the other characters and couples do appear from time to time and for me each new installment just flows better knowing their individual journeys but technically each one is a standalone. Whatever order you read these tales in, I can't recommend doing so enough because they are fun, entertaining, heartbreaking at times but always heartwarming and will put a smile on your face. What more can a reader ask for?
Fire and Agate #3
Original Review January 2019:
Chris Anducci's first assignment once he's moved to the sheriff's department is witness protection in a human trafficking ring. Having spent the last four years in a virtual prison Pavle Kasun saw an opportunity for freedom and took it, now the safe houses he's associated with are being targeted. Can Chris protect Pavle till he testifies? Can they each protect their hearts in the process as well as their lives?
I am going to start out by saying that I think Fire and Agate has been the most heartbreaking story in either Carlisle Deputies or the series it was spinned-off of, Carlisle Cops. We don't see first hand the pain and suffering Pavle lived prior to getting free but we definitely see the lasting effects it had on him and subsequently those around him. Unlike most missing persons, Pavle had no one looking for him so there was no one hurting but him, at least at the time but as so often when the media tires of a case or they move to the "next big breaking news" the pain doesn't stop when the cameras do so even though Pavle had no one waiting there are others effected by his pain. Andrew Grey does an amazing job conveying this and that aspect alone makes this an incredible read but there is so much more to this tale.
Don't get me wrong, yes Agate is heartbreaking but it is also quite possibly the most uplifting and heartwarming entry as well. Just knowing Pavle survived is uplifting enough but what he goes onto accomplish is enough to turn the tears of pain to happy tears, trust me there will be tears😉. You might think I'm giving away an awful lot but really I'm not spoiling anything because we all know Chris and Pavle's story will be a HEA but as so often it is in fiction, its not the end result but the journey getting there that is the meat-and-potatoes of the story. And boy is there a feast waiting for you within the covers of this gem, you do not want to miss one single bite laid on the table.
One final note, if you're wondering about reading Carlisle Deputies(or Carlisle Cops for that matter) in order is necessary, its not as each entry is a separate case with separate members of the communities' law enforcement. However, it is my personal opinion that relationships with secondary characters who were main characters in previous stories flow better in order but it is not a must and you will not be lost one bit.
RATING:
Fire and Flint #1
“RAVELLE, I need to see you,” Sheriff Hunter barked from his office.
Sheriff Lew Hunter had a gruff way about him. It had taken Pierre a long time to understand that it was just how he was and not to take it personally. In short, the sheriff was pretty much an ass to everyone… except the voters, who seemed to love him. They’d elected him to the position three times. Maybe it was because he was really good at his job and the fact that the voters didn’t have to interact with him on a daily basis.
“Now!”
Pierre put aside the information on the prisoner he was getting ready to move from the downtown holding area to the courthouse and stood to walk into Sheriff Hunter’s office. “I’m about to go out on a transport.” He managed to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“I’m putting Stevens on that. I have something else I need you to do.” Hunter’s forehead glistened with sweat. The guy must go through three uniforms a day. The sheriff could soak through a shirt faster than anyone Pierre had ever met, and it was rolling off him today, so someone had really handed him his ass for some reason. And there weren’t many people who could do that. “I got a call from Judge Potter, the head judge at the courthouse. He reported that Crawford is getting threats of some kind, and they’ve been nasty.” Hunter half wheezed and sighed. “So that’s you. Head on over, take a look at what he’s been getting, and provide additional security.” He sounded as thrilled as Pierre felt about this whole thing.
In truth, Judge Crawford had a reputation for being the hanging judge, in a way. His sentences were generally as harsh as he could get away with. From a law enforcement perspective, Pierre couldn’t say he was disappointed. His compatriots worked hard to bring their cases, and making the punishment fit the crime was justice in his opinion.
But this kind of duty was dull, long, and about as exciting as watching grass grow most of the time. Pierre vastly preferred actually doing something rather than standing around at the door to the courtroom or judge’s chambers, watching and doing his best to intimidate everyone who approached.
“If that’s what you need.” He wasn’t going to argue. There was no point in it. Once Sheriff Hunter made up his mind, that was it.
“Good. That’s what I like about you. Smart enough to understand when you don’t have a choice. Now, go on over and make sure Crawford knows you’re there and on the job.” Hunter yanked a couple of tissues out of the box, swiped them over his forehead and then across the back of his neck, and tossed them in the trash.
Pierre left the office, his gun belt squeaking as he moved. He checked in with the desk so they knew where he was and what he was doing before heading out into the muggy summer day, with an almost blinding sun, to walk the block to the courthouse.
The old jail, which was now used as holding cells, had been built of red granite to resemble a Norman castle with two round towers and fake crenellated battlements on the roof. It was impressive and definitely added interest to the area.
Pierre stayed on the shady side of the street with his eyes open, passing other deputies, acknowledging each as he passed, but not stopping to talk. He was on a mission, and judging by the sheriff’s sweaty reaction, he needed to get there fast. Pierre entered the building, showed his badge and pass to his colleagues who were working the metal detectors and security, then walked inside and took the elevator to the upper floor.
When the doors slid open, he strode out and down the white hallway to the last courtroom and into the judge’s office.
“May I help you?” a man about two years younger than Pierre asked. Instantly Pierre was struck by how intense his eyes were and how the waves in his blond, collar-length hair damn near shimmered when he moved. Pierre’s mouth went dry for just a second, and he nearly stammered, but cleared his throat to cover it.
“I’m Deputy Ravelle. I was sent over to provide extra security for Judge Crawford.”
The pinch at the corner of the man’s mouth smoothed out, and he sighed. “Thank God.” The man turned toward the closed door to the judge’s chambers. “We’ve gotten three notes, and they were all sent to the courthouse.” He pulled open a drawer and slid the envelopes over. “I kept everything, including the envelopes, but they have been touched by me, as well as the judge. We didn’t realize what they were until we opened them. We get the occasional crackpot—he’s a judge, so this sort of thing can go along with the territory—but this feels different. These notes are specific, and there’s pointed hatred behind them. This isn’t someone who’s angry at the system, but specifically hates Judge Crawford.”
Pierre took the envelopes, and the man gasped and placed his hand over his mouth.
“Sorry, I’m a little scattered today. I’m Jordan Erichsohn, Judge Crawford’s paralegal and assistant. Sort of the one who tries to keep him organized.” He smiled. “The judge is with someone right now, but he should be done in a few minutes.”
“It’s no problem.” Pierre took a seat and looked over the letters. Just like Jordan had said, they were specific, with vivid descriptions of what the writer wanted to do to Judge Crawford and how he intended to get into his courtroom and rip him apart. They even went as far as to give the room number. They were clearly intended to incite fear, and it seemed to be working, judging by the reactions he’d witnessed.
Pierre knew Judge Crawford by reputation and as part of his professional capacity. Their interactions had always been within the course of his duties and they had never become friendly. Heck, half the time when working with him, Pierre did his job and it seemed Judge Crawford barely knew he existed. He wasn’t at all like Judge Fortier, who had the courtroom next door. Robert was a great guy.
The door to the judge’s chambers opened and Judge Crawford strode out, going directly to Jordan’s desk. They spoke softly, and Jordan inclined his head toward Pierre, who stood and stepped forward.
“He gave you the letters?” Judge Crawford was in his midfifties with white hair, a crisp suit, and patrician features. In short, he was the definition of distinguished, with intelligence lurking behind his dark eyes. “Excellent. You can see why I was concerned.” He motioned to his office, followed Pierre inside, and closed the door before taking a seat behind his large wooden desk. “I won’t be intimidated by anyone, but these letters were rather personal, so I decided to enlist some extra help. My bailiff and staff need to concentrate on their jobs, and I expect you to do yours. Watch, control access to the courtroom, and pay attention.” His gaze grew intense, and Pierre stared right back. He knew this tactic and wasn’t going to back down. Crawford might be a judge, but he was also a person, and one obviously used to getting his own way or forcing others to submit by sheer force of will.
“Do you have any specific enemies?” Pierre asked sternly. “I know a judge with your reputation isn’t going to be winning any popularity contests with those you sentenced, but does anyone come to mind?” He pulled out his notebook, waiting for an answer.
“I have a number of individuals who passed through my courtroom who have been released from prison in the last six months.” Crawford’s expression softened as he handed Pierre the list, which included the names, as well as the crime they were convicted for.
Pierre scanned the names and then pulled out the letters. “These don’t seem to fit. The individual who wrote these is angry, that’s definite, but he or she is very intelligent and articulate. These weren’t written by a street thug or a drug dealer… at least none of the ones I know. These were written by someone educated.” He handed the judge the papers. “The letters say that you should be eliminated and your cancer wiped from the earth. Most people don’t speak or write that way.”
For the first time, Judge Crawford smiled, slightly. “I agree. That’s why I haven’t done anything with that list.”
“I’ll have it checked out, of course, but I doubt our letter writer is here. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Not particularly. Your main task is to let me continue to do my job and to ensure I remain safe. I have private security arranged for my home and commute.”
Pierre nodded, and the judge gave him the information for the firm so Pierre could coordinate with them. He needed to try to find the source of the letters—which was going to be a difficult task, given how very little there was to go on—and to make sure Judge Crawford had the extra security he seemed to think he needed. The building itself was already secured, with all visitors and employees passing through metal detectors and all their bags X-rayed so nothing dangerous got inside. But if someone was intent on causing harm, they didn’t necessarily need a weapon.
“Please work with Jordan. He can give you any information and support you might need.” Judge Crawford turned to the clock on his desk. “I have to be in court in ten minutes.” Any additional information was going to have to come from Jordan, as Judge Crawford’s expression hardened and he turned to his computer. Pierre knew he was dismissed. He left the judge’s chambers and closed the door behind him.
“He’s a peach, isn’t he?” Jordan said in the same tone that he might use to ask about the weather.
The judge’s behavior was just a part of Jordan’s everyday work, it seemed. “Intense” was about the nicest thing Pierre could come up with.
“Judge Crawford isn’t a morning person, and he always needs some time to get ready for court.” Jordan stood and filled a mug from the coffeepot in the corner. He then carried it into the judge’s chambers and returned with an empty mug. “Sometimes I swear he mainlines the stuff.” Jordan rinsed the mug and took his seat once again. “I need to make sure he has everything he requires for his day, and then I can go over anything you want.” He hurried into the office, and Pierre watched him go with pointed interest.
Pierre sat back down. He reminded himself that he was working and had to keep his mind on the task at hand, not let it wander to the delicious paralegal who seemed to check all the boxes for the type of man he preferred: lanky, with great eyes, and a backside that bobbed perfectly with each step and made him feel disappointed when Jordan closed the door behind him.
Pierre took the opportunity to make a call to dispatch to report in and request information on the people the judge had identified. By the time he’d finished relaying the information, Jordan had returned and said it was time for court. He took Pierre to the front of the courtroom, and Pierre stood outside the door, watching as the lawyers and clients filed in, along with interested members of the public. He looked for anything unusual, including people who were more interested in the surroundings than the players in the case at hand. He saw nothing, but kept his eyes open as Judge Crawford called his court to order and started the business of the day.
“HOW WAS the first day?” Jordan asked once court had been adjourned and Pierre had checked on any progress on the information he’d requested. He was told it had been emailed to him, and he checked over the data, finding no surprises. None of the people on the list had anything beyond a high school education, and most of them were easy enough to discount: one was dead, two were now back in prison for one offense or another, and two more were living hours away at either end of the state.
“Uneventful.” He actually stifled a yawn. Pierre would much rather spend his days transporting prisoners or on courthouse security detail. At least he had something to do besides watch people, most of whom were going about their business. “You?”
“Same thing, different day.” Jordan checked the clock at his desk and hurriedly packed up his things. He picked up the phone and said he was leaving for the day. “I put everything for tomorrow on your desk and made a folder for the rest of the week so, if you get a chance, you can work ahead if you’d like.” He listened for a while and hung up. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He looked at his watch and scurried out the door.
Pierre followed his movement with his eyes, flutters of attraction rising in his belly. Damn, Jordan was adorable.
Pierre stayed outside Judge Crawford’s chambers, the area quiet, a clock on the wall ticking away the seconds. He glanced at it every few minutes as he waited. Eventually Judge Crawford came out of the office with his briefcase, and Pierre fell in behind him, watching as they descended in the elevator and went down to the main floor to leave the building. Once Pierre escorted him to his car, the judge got in back and the driver took off. Pierre breathed a small sigh of relief once Judge Crawford was out of his care and no longer his responsibility. Then Pierre turned to walk back to the old jail to check in and enter his report on the letters received.
“So, how was it?” Carson asked with a smirk. “I’m glad I managed to sidestep that little task.” He leaned farther into the locker room as Pierre put his things away and got ready to go home.
“That’s good to know.” He rolled his eyes. Carson was always up for getting out of anything he possibly could. The man loved traffic duty because he could sit in his car all day. If doing nothing were a sport, Carson would be world champion, without a doubt. “It was fine.”
“I ran down the last of those people for you. There isn’t much to go on, and none of them would match what was written in the letters.”
“I agree.” Pierre didn’t usually discuss cases with Carson because the man could provide a complete lack of insight with professional ease. “I don’t know what else to go on for now, so I’ll keep my eyes open, my mouth shut, and the judge alive. Other than that, there isn’t anything I can do right now.” What the hell else could he say?
“Ravelle,” Sheriff Hunter called, this time with less stress than that morning. “Everything go okay with Crawford?”
Pierre shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I guess.”
“We’ll run down what we can on the letters, and you report if any more show up. Hopefully this is someone with a beef, and they’ll wake up and realize they’ve gone too far and just stop.”
Pierre wasn’t so sure of that, but they could hope. Of course, that meant they would never find out who was behind them. But cases of all kinds went unsolved, and as long as Judge Crawford was alive and well, that was what was important.
“Head on home. Crawford is a first-thing guy, so he’ll be in the courthouse early.” Sheriff Hunter left the locker area, and Pierre didn’t need to be told twice. He finished getting ready to go as quickly as he could. His days were going to be long enough.
“You going to go out tonight?” Carson asked. “Some of the guys are going to the Gingerbread House for a few drinks. You should stop by. It will give you a chance to wind down a little bit.”
“I’ll think about it.” Pierre closed his locker and left, wanting to get out to his car before Hunter changed his mind and needed him for something.
He went straight home to his row house on Louther Street. He loved the place. When he’d purchased it two years ago, the late-federal-style house had been in need of a great deal of work. Under ratty carpet, he’d found the original wide-plank floors, which he sanded and refinished to a rich, warm tone. The area under the stairs had been drywalled at some point, and when it had gotten wet from a pipe bursting, he’d had to remove it and discovered cabinets made from old-growth oak that had been covered over. Pierre repaired them, and now they were an integral part of the home and gave it even more charm.
He walked upstairs to his bedroom, with its plain mantel and fireplace. He knew it had been painted many times over the years, and one of these days the white paint and all the layers under it were going to be history so he could expose the burled oak he was sure lay underneath. At least he thought so from the test patches he’d done.
Pierre put his gun and equipment in its place and went to the bathroom to shower. Surrounded by steam and hot water, he let his mind wander, and danged if it didn’t settle on a certain wavy-haired paralegal with intense eyes and lips that reminded him of every sin imaginable. Pierre closed his eyes and let a fantasy unfold for a few minutes before growling under his breath. He definitely needed to get out and let loose. It had been too long since he’d gone to Harrisburg to one of the clubs. Too damn long. Especially if he could get this preoccupied by someone he was working with.
Pierre turned off the water, dried himself, and in the bedroom, pulled out a pair of jeans and a lightweight pastel green shirt that tugged slightly over his chest. He was going to be meeting some of the other deputies, so being blatantly on the make was out of the question. He’d intended to walk so if he drank, he wouldn’t be driving, but one step outside into pea-soup humidity changed his mind. Pierre messaged Carson to tell him he was on his way and to save him a seat, then left the house, heading to where his car was, drove the short distance, and parked in the nearby lot.
The brief walk from the car to the restaurant and bar was enough to leave him sweating. Thank God the air conditioner blew around him as soon as he entered, and Pierre tugged his shirt away from his skin a few times. He loved summer, but this sweltering heat was getting to be too much.
“Hey… we’re back here,” Carson shouted, and Pierre moved through the tables and people milling around toward the restaurant area. He slipped into the booth.
“Hey, Red! Terry!” Pierre called down the long table to where the Carlisle police officer sat with his partner next to him. Those two were an amazing couple and a source of jealousy for Pierre.
When he’d joined the sheriff’s department four years ago, he’d expected the usual bullshit regarding his sexuality. Pierre had gotten some of what he’d expected, but not too much. It had only taken a little while before he’d met a number of the local borough police, and he’d been shocked at the number of gay police officers. Red and his partner, Terry, had been the first he’d met, and then Carter and his partner, Donald. Since then he’d learned that a good percentage of the department was gay. Red had explained that they provided a safe work environment, which attracted some excellent officers.
Terry stood and walked to his end of the table. “I hear you got assigned to one of the judges at the courthouse.” He slipped into the empty seat near Pierre.
“Man, word travels fast,” he said a little loudly. He wasn’t angry, but his law enforcement colleagues gossiped like old biddies.
“Tell me about it,” Terry agreed. “It’s a good thing these guys don’t work for national security.” He grinned and looked up for a second, waving to someone who passed.
Pierre followed his gaze and smiled at the familiar face. “Do you know him?”
“Sure. That’s Jordan. He works at the courthouse. He’s a member at the Y, and I see him and his son coming in a few times a week. Jeremiah is four and he loves the water. I’ve given him a few swimming lessons, and Jordan says he’s signing him up for regular swim class.” Terry waved again, and Jordan came over.
“Hey,” Jordan said with a touch of surprise in his voice.
“You know each other?” Terry asked.
“I work for Judge Crawford now,” Jordan said, “and I’m working with Pierre because of the threats the judge has received.” He turned to Pierre. “You should have said you were coming here.”
“I didn’t know until a little while ago.” Pierre caught the attention of the server and ordered a beer. He turned back to Jordan but didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t interested in talking about work, and they didn’t know each other well enough to talk about other things. Pierre also figured it didn’t help that he found himself staring into Jordan’s eyes, forgetting about most everything else. He blinked a few times to pull himself back to the present. Damn, distraction and near blubbering idiot were quickly becoming the norm for him when he was around Jordan. That was going to make his job even harder. He needed to get over this fast.
“Where’s Jeremiah?” Terry asked, to Pierre’s eternal gratitude.
“He’s with my mom and dad. They asked to take him for a few hours, and I needed a night out that didn’t involve chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, yogurt, and spilled milk.” Jordan grinned. “I’m here with Brad and Ricky. They go to the club too. We’ve been meaning to go out for a while, but with Jeremiah, it hasn’t been possible.” Jordan glanced toward the other table, then turned back to them. “I should get back. But I’ll see you at the club. And Pierre, I’ll see you in the morning.” He flashed a smile that showed a touch of perfect teeth and once again short-circuited Pierre’s brain.
“Earth to Pierre,” Terry said, standing up. “Geez, you are really gone.”
“Sorry.” Pierre blinked and shook his head as Jordan sat down. “So, a kid, huh? Is he married?” Just his luck he’d be perving on a straight guy.
“No. Jordan doesn’t have a husband.” Terry leaned a little closer as if to continue, but then sat back. “Nah. If you want to find out about him, you’re going to have to ask him yourself.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I will tell you that he bats for our team, but other than that, the rest is up to you.” Terry stood as Red motioned. “I need to get back.” Terry returned to his seat as the server brought Pierre’s beer, and he did his best to pay attention to the intense conversation on what the guys thought the Eagles would do this year.
“They’re going to be as mediocre as they have been for the last few years. They didn’t make any large changes, and they expect the stars to align and everything to just fall into place.” Pierre shook his head as the others disagreed with him and continued talking. At least he’d participated a little.
He glanced toward the back of the restaurant, where Jordan sat with his friends. They were talking and each had a beer, but there was no animation in Jordan’s eyes. The others seemed happy to be there, but Jordan checked his watch while making it look like he wasn’t doing it. Then, when he wasn’t talking, he bit his lower lip a little, drank from his glass, and looked at his watch again.
“Something going on over there?” Carson asked. “Man, you’ve been paying attention for shit. Carter was just asking if you wanted some help with these notes.”
Pierre turned back to the table. They regularly worked with the other law enforcement agencies in the county because of jurisdictional issues, and everyone had limited resources of some type. “That would be great, Carter, thanks. The more help we have on this, the better. There isn’t a lot to go on.” He leaned forward so he could see Carter better. “They came through the mail and were postmarked locally, but that’s all—with no return address, of course. They could have been dropped in any box. The one thing I noticed was that the addresses were scrawled on the envelopes like the sender was in a hurry.” He shrugged. “The letters themselves were printed on a computer.”
“Bring them over. I’ve had some good luck figuring out printers and the kinds used.” Carter lifted his beer in a silent salute, and Pierre did the same. It was going to be good to have some help on this one.
The conversation around the table continued on and off for a while. Televisions had been hung in the various corners, and one of them flashed to an image of the president and some breaking news about ties to Russia. That set off discussion about politics, and Pierre immediately tuned out. Ever since the election, he had been doing his best to stay away from anything political. He’d gotten burned out on it so much the previous year that he couldn’t take it any longer.
“Guys. That’s enough, please.” Pierre stood, excusing himself to go to the bathroom.
All the stand-up facilities were taken, so he dipped into a stall to take care of business. Then everyone else and the room grew quiet.
“You’re really going to go?” a high-pitched male voice asked as the door closed.
“Yeah. Mom called and Jeremiah is sick. She said he has a fever and he’s not keeping anything down.”
Pierre immediately recognized that voice. He finished up and flushed, putting himself back together.
“I need to get over there, so can you give me a ride?”
“But….” The other guy sputtered a little, like a tiny motorboat.
“Brad, you brought me here, and I could walk home, but it’s a long way after dark, and you promised to be the designated driver and all that.” The worry in Jordan’s voice rang through loud and clear.
Pierre pulled open the stall door and stepped out to the sink behind where Jordan was washing his hands.
“Hi,” Jordan said as he turned to grab a paper towel from the container.
“Hey.” Pierre smiled and did his best not to look stalkerish. After all, they were in the men’s room. “Everything okay?” he asked as soothingly as he could.
“No. My son, or the boy I’m in the process of adopting, if you want to be technical”—Jordan glared at his friend—“is sick and I need to get to him. My mom has him and she’s worried.” Jordan was bordering on frantic from the look in his eyes. “Sorry, Pierre. I don’t need to dump on you.” He turned back to his friend, who looked as though a stiff breeze would blow him away. “Come on, Brad. You’re taking me home so I can get my car and go to my mother’s.” He put his hands on his hips, eyes blazing, tapping his foot. “I can’t believe I have to ask you.” The worry came out again as some of his confidence slipped away.
“He probably has a cold or something. Your mom raised you and your sisters—she knows what she’s doing.” Brad whined. “We never get to see you anymore, and when we do, you run away.”
Jordan sighed. “I know, but I have to go.”
“I can take you,” Pierre offered suddenly, surprising himself. He wasn’t usually impulsive.
Jordan turned away from his friend. “But you’re here with all your friends and everything. I couldn’t ask you to do that. Brad can take me home.” Dang, he was a little bossy too. That was good to know. At least no one was going to take advantage of Jordan.
“It’s all right. I came here for a beer, and I had part of one a while ago. I don’t drink and drive, and the guys will understand.” Heck, it was unusual if they all stayed the entire evening when they went out. Someone always got a call about something either work- or family-related. It happened, and there was no use getting upset about it. Pierre washed his hands and grabbed a paper towel.
Jordan and Brad left the men’s room without giving him an answer. Pierre figured Brad would break down and provide Jordan with a ride, but when he stepped out, Jordan was alone.
“Are you serious about this?” Jordan turned to where his other friends were talking among themselves, and Brad didn’t seem particularly popular, judging by the mutual scowls.
“Sure. Let me tell the guys I’m going.” Pierre walked back to the table and explained that he was leaving. He gave Carson enough money to cover his drink, motioned toward the front door, and led the way to his car as a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. “I’m right over there.”
Jordan followed him and got in the passenger seat. “I have to admit, this isn’t what I pictured you driving. A big truck definitely, maybe a huge SUV, but not a Focus.”
“It gets great mileage and I mostly use it to go from home and to work. It’s also affordable.” He started the engine and let the air-conditioning lower the temperature inside. He then turned to Jordan, wondering at his quizzical expression. “Are you making fun of me and my car?”
Jordan laughed a little. “Maybe.” The worry returned. “I’m in the condos just off Harrisburg Pike in Middlesex.”
“No problem.” Pierre pulled out and drove north through town, then out and down the Pike. He pulled into the complex of cookie-cutter homes, following Jordan’s directions. He’d never understood why these had been built. It wasn’t as though space was a huge issue, but then, affordable housing was important, and they seemed nice enough and well maintained.
“It’s this one right here,” Jordan directed, and Pierre pulled off to the side to let Jordan out.
“I hope everything is okay.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hurried out and up the drive and let himself in.
Pierre lingered, his fingers fidgeting on the steering wheel. The garage door lifted, and Pierre figured he’d wait until Jordan pulled out. The lights in the dark blue minivan inside flashed and then nothing. Pierre watched a little longer and saw Jordan get out, then tried not to smile as Jordan kicked one of the tires. He could only imagine the curses he emitted.
Pierre lowered his window. “Do you want to get any car seat you need for your son and I can take you to get him?”
Jordan turned, looking at him as though he were crazy and then a gift from God. What Pierre wouldn’t give to be looked at like that all the time. He grew warm just thinking about it, even with the air-conditioning blasting on him.
“Go on. It’s no problem.” Pierre’s only company for the evening was going to be the television anyway.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Go get the seat, and let’s get going so you can check on your son.” He could tell worry was taking over now and Jordan was going to need someone to help him.
Jordan opened the sliding door on the van, grabbed the car seat, closed the van, and then lowered the garage door. He trotted over with a booster and tossed it in back. “Mom is in Mechanicsburg,” Jordan told him, and Pierre pulled out, heading in that direction. “She has a house just off Market Street.”
“All right.” Pierre went as fast as safety would allow. There were limits as to how far he’d push it. Jordan sat in the passenger seat, chewing his nails and abusing his lower lip to the point that Pierre wondered if he was going to chew it off.
Jordan gave good directions, and they pulled up in front of a small saltbox with cream paint and hunter green shutters. Pierre had barely pulled to a stop before Jordan was out and racing up the walk. He went right inside, and Pierre followed more slowly.
He knocked before opening the screen door, as the main door was already halfway open. “Jordan, is everything okay?” He peered inside to where Jordan sat on the edge of the sofa, leaning over a small, pale boy who was definitely not feeling well.
“I don’t know,” Jordan said, feeling the boy’s forehead.
“I took his temperature half an hour ago and it was down,” a woman Pierre presumed was Jordan’s mother said.
Jordan used the ear thermometer to take Jeremiah’s temperature and gasped. “Mom, it’s 103.3.” Jordan lifted Jeremiah into his arms. “I need to get him to the hospital.” Jordan seemed to notice Pierre through his fog of worry, clearly frantic now. “Can you drive us? Mom doesn’t do well after dark, and….”
“Sure. I’ll install the booster seat, and you guys lock up the house and bring him. We’ll go.” He left, heading to his car. Thankfully it didn’t take long to get the seat in place, and Jordan settled Jeremiah into it and climbed in back next to him, with Jordan’s mother taking the passenger seat.
“I’m Gertrude,” she said as he pulled out for the nearest ER.
“Mom, this is Pierre. He and I started working together today. He’s providing some extra security for Judge Crawford because of the letters.”
She humphed. “I’m surprised that man hasn’t had people after him before now.”
“Mom,” Jordan protested.
She rolled her eyes and turned to Pierre. “Are you a policeman?”
“Sheriff’s deputy, ma’am.” He kept the fake Texas accent out of his voice. Now was not the time for jokes. “And we take those threats very seriously.”
“I’m sure you do. But that man is a snake if I ever knew one.” She set her jaw, daring him to contradict her.
“What are you saying? I know he isn’t popular in some circles, but….”
She shook her head. “One hears things, and when Jordan’s father was alive…. He served on the county board for a number of years, as well as held various city and school board positions. He got to meet and knew everyone in the county, and he always said he’d never trust that man as far as he could throw him… and Heinrich always had a bad back. Heinrich never told me why he felt that way, though.”
“Mom, he’s my boss, and we have more important things to talk about than idle gossip.”
As he continued to drive, Pierre checked the mirror and saw Jordan stroking Jeremiah’s forehead. A few minutes later, he pulled into Holy Spirit Hospital and right up to the emergency entrance door. He waited as Jordan got Jeremiah out. Gertrude went with them, and Pierre drove off to find a place to park.
The waiting area was full by the time he returned, and Pierre found Jordan and Gertrude in chairs, with Jeremiah in Jordan’s lap.
“It hurts, Daddy,” Jeremiah said softly, clinging to Jordan with everything his little arms and hands had. “Please make it stop.” Tears ran down his cheeks, and he closed his eyes, curling into a ball. “My tummy, Daddy.”
“I know. As soon as we can see the doctor, he’ll make you feel better,” Jordan soothed as he grew paler and more worried.
Finally, after ten minutes, which Pierre thought a mercifully short period of time, they were called back. Jordan gave the nurse all the information she requested as he laid Jeremiah on the bed and covered him up. Between them, they explained what had happened, and the nurse entered all of it in the computer.
“Jeremiah has had leukemia. It’s in remission, and we believed he was cancer-free. But….”
“Of course. Has his oncologist been called?” she asked.
Jordan gave the name, and she entered that as well. Then she left the room. Pierre wondered if he should go too. He wasn’t really needed.
“It’s going to be all right,” Gertrude said as she settled in the chair next to the bed.
“No more cancer. Please, Daddy, make it no more cancer.” Tears ran down his cheeks.
“Your daddy is going to do his very best for you. I promise,” Pierre said from where he stood at the end of the bed. “So you be brave, and I promise I’ll take you for a ride in a police car and I’ll show you how to make the lights and siren work.” He did his best to try to smile and not let the threatening tears run down his cheeks. Hell and damnation, he saw hurt and pain all the time. Families torn apart by parents going to jail or prison. But this little boy’s pain and knowing this was only the tip of the iceberg, judging by what he was hearing, brought tears to his eyes that he couldn’t stop.
“Promise?” Jeremiah asked.
“Yes. I promise. I’ll take you and your daddy for a ride.” Pierre smiled, and Jeremiah turned to Jordan, who held his hand.
“Please, no cancer, Daddy. I wanna go for a ride in the police car.” He closed his big blue eyes, and Jordan looked even more afraid.
“How long has Jeremiah been with you?”
“Eight months,” Jordan said. “He’d been through so much. His mother is dead, and his father is God knows where. He reportedly took off after Jeremiah was born and hasn’t been seen since. At least that’s what I’m told. Jordan went into the foster care system and was diagnosed shortly afterward. He spent months alone in a children’s hospital, with only the social workers coming to spend time with him.”
“Miss Amy was nice. Miss Kelly was mean,” Jeremiah added, making a yucky face.
“Kelly was the nurse who gave him transfusions and shots. She’s very nice, and they all cared for you a lot. Remember your birthday party?” Jordan asked, and Jeremiah nodded slowly. “They all came and brought you presents.” Jordan stroked Jeremiah’s forehead. “I met him while he was still in the hospital.”
“Jordan had childhood leukemia,” Gertrude explained. “So when he met Jeremiah, he fell in love with him, and then when he found out he needed a family, Jordan petitioned to be his foster parent and is in the process of adopting him.”
“But he’s my daddy,” Jeremiah said, holding Jordan’s hand and staring up at him with open admiration.
“Hello,” a doctor said as he came in. “I understand your tummy hurts.”
Jeremiah nodded. “I throwed up… a lot.”
“I’m Dr. Andy. Can I look you over? I promise no pokey shots for now.” He held up his hands, and Jeremiah nodded his approval. “What did you have to eat?”
“Macaroni and cheese,” Jeremiah answered, then turned to Jordan. “I need to go potty, bad.”
“Do you want me to carry you?” Jordan asked, and Jeremiah threaded his arms around his neck.
“I’ll show you,” Dr. Andy said, and Jordan lifted Jeremiah up and carried him out of the room.
They returned a few minutes later, with Jeremiah still clinging to Jordan. “You were very good.”
“But he wanted to see my poop,” Jeremiah said with astonishment as Jordan settled him in bed.
“Sometimes we learn things,” Dr. Andy said. “Now, you look like you’re feeling a little better.” He took Jeremiah’s temperature again. “It’s down, but he’s still got a fever. I want to run a few tests just to rule out any sort of recurrence, but I think he has a touch of the flu and he might have a problem with dairy. Does he drink a lot of milk?”
“No. He’ll eat ice cream and some cheese, but he says he doesn’t like a lot of it.”
“That’s a good sign. Some kids have issues with cow’s milk. We don’t know what formula he was on as a baby or if his mother was aware, but my suggestion is to eliminate dairy altogether for a while and then test his reactions slowly. Some kids can tolerate some milk, and others none.” Dr. Andy leaned over the bed. “We need to take a little blood. I’m sorry, but we need to know that the yucky cancer is gone. I’ll have the nurse be gentle. I promise.”
“No pokey needles.” Jeremiah pulled his arms to his sides, pushing them underneath to hide them.
“Remember that Mr. Pierre said you could ride in a police car if you were good.” Jordan didn’t scold, and when Jeremiah turned to him, Pierre nodded gently.
“I know you hate needles. I do too. They’re yucky. But they need to make sure there isn’t any cancer,” Pierre told him, reaching into his pocket to pull out his case. “Here, you can hold that for me if you want. But don’t lose it.” He handed Jeremiah his badge, and the boy stared at it, running his fingers over the design.
“Can I be a policeman when I grow up?” Jeremiah asked.
“You can be whatever you want.” Jordan hugged him gently. “I’ve enrolled him in ballet class. The Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet is one of the best in the country, and I want him to learn to move. Even if he doesn’t stick with it, he’ll learn a lot.”
“I wanna dance.” Jeremiah turned to Pierre. “Can I be a dancing policeman?” He giggled.
“Someone is doing better,” the nurse said as she came in. “I’m gonna take a little blood and your temperature again. I promise to be gentle.”
Jeremiah clearly wasn’t happy, but he let her get his blood, holding Pierre’s badge like a talisman. When she was done, she took his temperature and gave him a squirt of medication on his tongue.
“It’s still elevated. We’ll see if the Children’s Tylenol will bring it down. Give it a few minutes.” She left the room, and it wasn’t long before Jeremiah’s eyes drifted closed and he fell asleep.
“Thank goodness. Sleep is best,” Gertrude said.
“Now we just need to wait for the tests.” Jordan continued holding Jeremiah’s hand.
“Is Jeremiah okay… or has he been, I should ask?”
Jordan nodded slowly. “He started getting better right after I brought him home, and he’s been improving really well. Three months ago his tests came back clear, and he’s been getting stronger and healthier by the day.” The worry was plain in Jordan’s eyes. “I don’t want him to go through that again.”
“How is the adoption progressing?”
“Well. There is no one to contest it, and Jeremiah has been in the system long enough that they want a home for him. But we’ve encountered prejudice and roadblocks from people who don’t think a gay man is a fit parent.” Jordan shook his head. “The first time I told the lady at the courthouse that I’d ask Judge Fortier what he thought of that attitude, she backpedaled pretty quickly.” He stroked Jeremiah’s forehead. “We still have a long way to go until the final hearing, but all of the home visits have been stellar.”
“I suppose it can be like walking on eggshells.”
“Yeah. Every step forward means there’s more for me to lose.” Jordan’s features grew gentle as he looked at Jeremiah. “You don’t need to stay. I can call a friend to take me home. It could take some time to get the test results, and….”
“It’s all right.” Pierre took a step back so he’d be out of the way, watching this little family as Jordan rested his head next to Jeremiah’s. A fierce longing washed over him, tugging and pulling at him. This was what he wanted—a family of his own. The love between the two of them was so evident. Jeremiah holding Jordan’s hand in his even in sleep, Jordan stroking Jeremiah’s forehead—it was all so tender, gentle, and loving. He wanted that in his life.
“I’m going to see if I can find some coffee or something. We’re going to be a while and it’s getting late.” Gertrude stood and left the area. Obviously they had both been through this routine many times before.
“Is this what happens when…?” God, he wasn’t even sure how to phrase the question.
“Sometimes. You never know how the disease will manifest itself after remission. For years after I was declared cancer-free, Mom jumped at each sneeze and had me on the way to the hospital for a stubbed toe. It’s part of dealing with all this. You get hypersensitive. That’s why I raced back when Mom called and why she didn’t write this off as just a case of the flu. You’re just extra cautious.” Jordan returned his attention to Jeremiah.
Pierre checked the clock on the wall and then did it again a few minutes later, wondering just how long it would be before they heard anything. This sort of thing had to be nerve-racking for Jordan. It already had Pierre on edge.
Gertrude returned with three cups of coffee and handed them out. It tasted like burned glue, but he sipped it. Gertrude sat back down. “Anything?”
Jordan shook his head. “It’s going to be a while. As busy as they are, things will be backed up, and it’s late, so they aren’t going to have a huge staff here to run tests just in case someone comes in.”
Pierre excused himself and set his coffee on the little stand near the bed. He went out to the desk, mentioned who he was there with, and asked when they would know something. He tried to be charming, and the assistant looked at him as though he had two heads, so he leaned closer, explained who he was, and let some authority slip into his voice. “I asked how long it would be.”
She checked the computer. “The results just came back, and the doctor needs to look at them.”
“Thank you.” Pierre smiled and returned to the room. “They’re waiting for the doctor to check the results.” He picked up his coffee again. Often being a police officer had its perks, and a little vocal authority backed up by something official usually did the trick.
Dr. Andy came in. “He came back with the flu. Jeremiah might also have a milk problem as well. So I’d remove it from his diet and reintroduce it a little at a time to see how he feels.”
Jordan breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
Jeremiah began fussing, and Jordan gave him a small drink of water.
“Give him plenty of fluids and let him rest. I suggest you see his doctor in a day or two if he isn’t better.” Dr. Andy held Jeremiah’s hand. “You were a good patient and you deserve that ride in the police car.” He left the room, and a nurse came in with forms. Jordan lifted Jeremiah into his arms and carried him out of the hospital and to Pierre’s car.
Pierre drove Gertrude home before he took Jeremiah and Jordan to the condo.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” It was late, and Jordan was most likely going to be up most of the night with Jeremiah.
“I have to be.” Jordan waved slightly and then carried Jeremiah inside. His answer seemed strange to Pierre, and he wondered just what Jordan meant. Something seemed very wrong, but there wasn’t a way to ask him about it just yet.
Pierre waited until Jordan was inside and then went home to his place alone, already missing what wasn’t his to begin with.
Fire and Granite #2
“YOU’RE LEAVING already?” Briggs asked with a wry grin.
“Just got back from a transport to jail. Why—you need something?” Clay Brown asked, stopping as he climbed the steps of the sheriff’s station. He checked his watch. It had been a long shift and he was tired already. “I don’t have anything else this afternoon, unless Hunter has something special he wants me for.”
Briggs—a seasoned officer with years on the job that seemed to have etched a low-relief map in his face—shook his head. “I need another man for a transport team.”
“Tell me when,” Clay said without thinking too much about it. He understood they did what was needed to keep the public safe. That was the job, and Clay loved it, even if it meant long hours.
“Ten minutes. I have to get the paperwork finished, and we need to go over the procedures for this guy.” Briggs hurried down the steps toward the parking lot.
Clay went inside and headed to his desk to check his voicemail. He returned his work calls to keep things current. It would be nice if his family would call occasionally, but other than that….
“You about ready?” Briggs asked as he passed. Everyone called him by his last name, and Clay had wondered why until he found out his first name was Wilton. Then he understood. Briggs it was.
Clay headed to the conference room and took a seat. Briggs sat across from him as two other deputies, Smith and Jared, came in as well. That was quite a team for a simple transport.
“What’s the deal?”
“We are transferring Harper Grange to the courthouse today,” Briggs said.
Clay sat up straighter. “Should I be on this team?” he asked with a sigh. “We’re related.”
Briggs leaned across the table. “I’m aware of that. Is it going to be a problem?”
Clay shrugged. Harper was his cousin, the son of his father’s weird brother, Uncle Fester—Fredrick—and sister-in-law, Aunt Marlene. His family rarely had anything to do with that side of the family. Clay’s dad hated Marlene with a deep-seated passion, and he wasn’t too fond of Fredrick either, so even as kids, Clay and Harper hadn’t had much interaction. Other than being his cousin in name, Clay barely knew Harper, but he wanted to be aboveboard.
“I’m not going to have a problem. I probably only know him as well as any other prisoner we’d transport. I just wanted to be up front about it.”
“Good. Now, Grange is high risk and dangerous and he’s unpredictable. If he’s docile, don’t assume anything. Like any prisoner, he can become violent at any second. We’re using one of the SUVs for this transport.”
“Shackles?” Jared asked.
“Yes. Handcuff joined to leg irons. We aren’t taking any chances whatsoever. He’s a huge flight risk, and he’s threated both Judge Phillips and Judge Fortier just in the past week. You probably saw the uproar in the papers about it.”
Clay had. A reporter had arranged to visit under the guise of being a family member, and all hell had broken loose. Clay had to give the reporter credit—he’d used the fact that they had the same last name as an angle. After that debacle, which Clay was glad he’d been far away from, procedures at the jail had been changed and severely tightened.
“There will be no repeat of anything like that if I can help it,” Clay said.
Briggs nodded, relaxing a little. “Good. We’ve done transports every day. Stick to the book, don’t rush, but keep him moving. The biggest exposure is from the jail to the car and the car into the courthouse. I will be staying with him at the courthouse and providing security in the courtroom, along with the bailiff and the courthouse team. Be methodical and don’t take any chances with this guy. Any questions?”
There were none. All of them had done transports like this before and knew the drill. They stood when Briggs did and got busy. Clay was assigned to the second car, which would travel behind the one carrying Harper. That was probably best, as he wasn’t particularly keen to have any interaction with his cousin.
They all supervised and provided a show of strength while Harper was shackled and then walked slowly out to the loading area. Clay hadn’t seen his cousin in person in a few years, but he was menacing as hell. He was huge, broad-shouldered, and had his hair shaved and his head covered with demonic-looking tattoos. Everything about him, from the way he carried himself to his aloof, almost imperious demeanor, was designed to intimidate everyone around him. It wasn’t working on the deputies, who spoke very little as they guided him to the car. Clay breathed a sigh of relief when the SUV door closed with Harper safely inside the inner security cage.
The deputies got in, and Clay and Jared climbed into the second car. They pulled out of the Cumberland County jail complex and onto the road, heading toward town and the courthouse. Clay drove, with Jared manning communications.
“I really hate this guy,” Jared said as they rode.
“He gets to you, huh?” Clay said. “Imagine that”—he pointed forward—“showing up at your family reunion. It’s a real joy, I can tell you that.”
Clay drove at a safe speed, approaching the first intersection, but the lead SUV slowed and pulled to a stop. The road was blocked by an accident.
“I’m calling it in.”
“There are people on the road, and they look injured,” Clay said, though he had no intention of getting out. This was too dangerous for them to…. “Holy shit!”
One of the injured people raced up to the door of the SUV and collapsed against it.
“We need more vehicles out here.”
“I’m already on it.” Jared relayed the situation over the radio and then got out of the car. The others weren’t going to help, not with a prisoner in the car.
“Step away from the vehicle,” Clay said through the car speaker. “We have called for help. Please step away.”
The person continued leaning on the car, and Clay could see what appeared to be blood on the white SUV. Jared raced up, and Clay opened his door. As soon as he did, the bloodied black-haired woman leaning against the car straightened up, brandishing a gun, and shot Jared in the leg. He went down near the side of the road, and the woman turned to the SUV, shooting at the windows.
Clay grabbed the radio, his heart racing. This whole thing had gone to shit faster than he could take a breath. “We need assistance on Claremont Road near Army Heritage Drive. All available units, officer down… I repeat, officer down.” Years of training took over. He grabbed his weapon and crouched low, using the car door as cover in an effort to get a better and safer view of the scene. “Stand down!” Clay yelled, not knowing if the deputies in the other vehicle were alive or not. Smoke poured out of the broken window, and Clay wondered what had been shot into the vehicle.
The woman reached inside and opened the back door. Harper got out of the car as two men approached. They grabbed him, and Clay shot at the fleeing group. He hit one, who whirled but kept going. They climbed into one of the cars involved in the “accident” and sped off.
Clay raced up to where Jared lay on the ground.
“The son of a bitch,” Jared swore when Clay reached him. “I’ll be fine. They got me in the leg and it isn’t too bad. Check on the others.”
The tear gas inside the SUV had dissipated, but Clay’s eyes watered anyway as he got the doors open. Briggs lay on the steering wheel, groaning. Smith was shot in the head, leaning back in the seat, with blood running down his face.
“What the hell happened?” Sheriff Hunter asked as he raced up. Who knew a man that big could move that fast?
“It was an ambush. They were made up like accident victims. One shot Jared and then Smith.” Clay kept his wits even though he wanted to chase after the bastards. “They took off in a light blue Corolla, I’d say 2010 or so, heading south. License PAC376.”
“I’ve already alerted the Carlisle PD. They’re assisting.” Sheriff Hunter called in the information on the car as ambulances arrived.
Clay stayed out of the way of the other officers and emergency personnel, answering questions from every angle, it seemed. He turned to the sheriff as his head caught up to the rest of him. “Have you alerted the state police? He’s most likely heading for the freeway.”
“Already done,” Sheriff Hunter said.
Clay felt like shit. Three of the men with him were injured, and Smith looked like he was in really bad shape as they got him out of the car. Briggs was awake and pissed as hell, jawing away as they loaded him in the ambulance. Briggs, who was in charge of the motor pool, among other things, was probably angrier that they’d messed up his cars than about his own injuries. Jared seemed like he was going to be okay. It was Smith who worried him most. He wasn’t moving as they loaded him in the ambulance, and his was the first to race away.
“I should have wrung that bastard’s neck when we were kids,” Clay swore as Sheriff Hunter approached again. “He was always an asshole.”
He nodded and let the remark go. “Carlisle PD has the car. They found it in the Giant parking lot. It seems they ditched it and stole another,” Sheriff Hunter said. “These guys had this planned, and they were sophisticated.”
“You think they’ll leave the state and keep going?” Clay asked.
“I don’t know.” Hunter turned to him, his expression drawn in a way Clay had never seen before, though he understood and felt the same way. The guys he worked with were like brothers. They had one another’s backs. Clay wondered what else he could have done as guilt started taking root.
Other teams of officers arrived, and Clay let them work the scene and check the accident vehicle, which also turned out to be stolen. Just great. Hopefully it would be covered in prints and they could identify some of the men who had pulled this thing off. Clay leaned against his car and surrendered his weapon when asked so it could be examined. He explained the shots he fired and that he’d injured one suspect.
“He didn’t even seem to feel it,” Clay said absently. “I saw the blood and the hole in his clothes, but he kept moving like it was a mosquito bite. I’m going to guess the guy was hopped up on something, but I sure as hell have no idea what.” He lifted his gaze as a man in a Carlisle police officer’s uniform came over. “Hey, Red. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Carlisle jurisdiction, technically, and Sheriff Hunter thought it best to get some outside help,” Red explained.
“Good.” This was going to rock the sheriff’s department, so having investigators who were a little more removed was probably a good idea. Clay went over what happened so Red could get a statement. “What else can I tell you?” He turned at movement to his left. “Hey, Carter.”
“Sorry about this, Clay.”
“Me too. The bastards had this well planned,” Clay explained.
“I understand Harper Grange is a relative of yours,” Red prompted, and Clay explained how they were related.
“I don’t even think he’d recognize me now. But I certainly know him.” Clay provided all of the family contact information that he was aware of. “I doubt he’ll be stupid enough to contact anyone.”
“Why do you say that?” Carter asked while Red continued making notes.
“Whoever did this went through a lot of effort to get Harper out. There has to be a reason, and whoever they are, they aren’t going to let Harper or anyone else blow all their hard work by making a phone call to Mommy.” Clay knew that for damn sure.
The Carlisle team gathered physical evidence. Clay found he hated being on the other end of the investigation. He was usually the one asking the questions.
“Any word on any of the injuries?” Clay asked Sheriff Hunter once Red and Carter were done with him. “How is Smith?”
“Being prepped for surgery. The best they can tell us is that he’s alive. Briggs is conscious and going to be fine. Jared was damned lucky, with just a deep graze.” A lot of the wind had gone out of Sheriff Hunter’s sails. The man was usually imperturbable. Sure, he yelled and stuff, but things didn’t seem to get to him, deep down, very often. This definitely had. “They’re almost done here, and then we need to get back to the station.” He turned and strode toward his car.
Clay stayed until the wrecker arrived to haul away the second car. He also checked with all the officers to make sure there wasn’t anything they needed before he returned to the station. There would be an investigation for many reasons, one of which was the discharge of his weapon. Granted, that was pretty minor given the overall circumstances.
Once he was free to go, Clay turned the sheriff’s vehicle he’d arrived in around and drove the short distance back to the sheriff’s station next to the jail. He parked and walked inside to a very subdued atmosphere, though a few people approached him with questions.
“I don’t know much more than you do. It happened fast. Jared was trying to help the others when he was hurt.” That was all Clay was going to say at the moment. His legs had been knocked out from under him, but he wasn’t going to spread gossip. “What’s important is that the guys are getting the help they need,” he told Lawson, who had the decency to nod and go back to his desk.
“It will be all right,” Pierre Ravelle said as he came over to Clay’s desk and perched on the corner. “This wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that,” Clay answered quickly—too quickly. He felt like snapping but kept his voice under control.
“Do you?” Pierre crossed his arms over his chest, but his tone was soft and gentle, without accusation. “This is unprecedented in the department, and three of your colleagues were hurt before your eyes. You don’t need to be gruff about it. Everyone here understands.”
“I know. I keep wondering what I could have done to stop it.”
“You thought it was an accident and you were cautious,” Pierre said.
Clay nodded. “I thought the woman was bleeding out against the car. Jared had to have thought the same thing.” He sighed softly. “They were waiting for us. They knew when we were transporting Harper.”
“That probably wasn’t hard to guess. His trial has been in the papers, so they knew we would have to transport him with two cars together. But that doesn’t explain how they knew to be in the exact right spot at the exact right time, other than by the time of his trial. It’s suspect, but they could have had help from inside.”
“I hope not.” This was going to be bad enough, but turning it into a witch hunt inside the department would make things so much worse.
“Me too. But sometimes information is a lot easier to get than any of us would like to think.” Pierre stood. “No brooding or getting it into your head that this is your fault. It isn’t. It’s the assholes who broke out Grange, and we’re going to nail their asses to the wall.”
Clay loved the way Pierre could give a pep talk out of nowhere. Sometimes it was just what he needed.
“Yeah, we are. But in the meantime, Grange is out there once again.” He cringed at that thought. Before he’d been apprehended, Harper had assaulted at least eight people and murdered one more. “He’s smart, and now we know he has a pretty in-depth organization if they can pull this together.” This situation was going to get ugly as hell, especially once the story hit the media.
“No kidding. I thought we had this mini-Manson off the streets.” Pierre patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll get him,” he said, then went back to his desk.
Clay tried to get his head on work, but his thoughts kept wandering to the guys in the hospital.
“Brown,” Sheriff Hunter said as he passed his desk. “Jared is being sent home. Briggs is in a regular room. They have him stitched up and are watching him for a concussion.”
“What about Smith?” Clay asked.
“He’s out of surgery and still unconscious. They say the next couple days will tell the tale, so we wait. I spoke with his wife. She’s with him now. She said all we can do is pray.”
“Thanks.” Clay hated the part where he was helpless to do anything. That really sucked.
“Go on home. Your shift is almost over and you may as well get some rest. There are reporters already gathering out front. I’ll handle them. Don’t make a comment. Just go on home.”
“You got it.” Clay was anxious enough to put this day behind him. He gathered his things, left the station, got into his car, and headed for town and home. He pulled into his small garage and went through the yard to the back door of his town house.
“Hey, Petey,” he greeted, letting the tail-wagging corgi outside. They had a routine: when Clay got home, Petey went outside right away, then ambled back in for his greeting, plenty of scratches, and a treat. “Did you keep all the burglars away?” He handed Petey a rawhide, and the pup raced off to the living room and ducked under the coffee table to devour his treat.
Clay changed his clothes and then went to his office to check his email. He was finishing up when his phone chimed.
You okay? It was from his mother.
Clay called her back. “I’m fine, Mom.” He needed to reassure her. He didn’t want his mother calling him all night because she was scared for him. She tended to be a little dramatic and took things to heart sometimes, especially when it related to her only son.
“I hear your cousin is at it again,” she said immediately. “He’s all over the news, and your aunt has called twenty times, like I had anything to do with raising that son of Satan.” That was his mom. No sympathy from her for anyone. She was a no-nonsense kind of person, and Clay liked that about her. “Of course, I had to be nice to her because her son is a wanted criminal and will probably go to prison for the rest of his life….” She took a breath, and Clay tried to get a word in, but she continued on full steam. “The escape is all over the news. They said that three deputies were hurt, so I had to check to make sure you were okay.” Finally she paused a second.
“I’m okay. I was on the team transporting him. I saw the whole thing. And I can’t go into any details. But I’m fine, and one of the deputies is already home and another is doing well. The third, we don’t know yet. And for heaven’s sake, don’t share any of this with Aunt Marlene. It’s already bad enough.” His mother and his aunt had a weird relationship. They didn’t like each other, but they called each other on a regular basis. He thought it was a “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” sort of thing. Personally, his aunt made him a little crazy, so Clay avoided her as much as possible.
“Well, it’s awful, but I’m glad nothing happened to you. Let me know if I can do anything for the families of the other deputies. Maybe I could bake something and you could take it over to them.”
Clay cringed. His mother loved to bake, but no one ever willingly ate what came out of her kitchen. Her baking could best be described as experimental. The woman believed she could hide ingredients that were supposed to be healthy in what she cooked, but Clay knew there was no way in hell that mushrooms ever belonged in an apple pie.
“Mom, your good wishes are more than enough. We may need to take up a collection for their families because, no matter what, this will be a hardship for them.” And if Smith didn’t make it…. Clay shuddered. Smith had a family and two kids. The thought of them losing their father really twisted Clay’s gut. He knew what that felt like, and no kid should have to go through it. He wiped his eyes and stopped the sniffle that threatened. “Mom, I need to go and make some dinner. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know if anything changes.”
“Okay, honey. I love you.” She ended the call, and Clay set down his phone. Petey had finished his treat and sat at his feet, looking up at him.
“Do you want to help me make dinner?” Of course, Petey’s kind of help was eating anything that fell on the floor. Petey’s tail wagged, brushing back and forth like a doggie dust mop. “You’ll get yours when I have mine. That’s the deal.”
Petey whined at the injustice.
Clay went to the kitchen, got a container of pasta and sauce that he’d made up over the weekend, and popped it into the microwave. He wasn’t in the mood to cook, and an evening on the sofa in front of the television sounded like a good idea. Clay also made up a small salad and dressed it with ranch. He fed Petey and settled in front of the television, eating while watching the news, changing the channel as soon as the escape story came on.
Petey joined him on the sofa, curling up next to him, his head resting on Clay’s leg.
“I know, buddy. You’re just what I needed.” He patted Petey gently on the head and stroked down his back. Petey blinked up at him with his big brown puppy eyes, and Clay was able to let go of some of the stress of his day. Few things were as relaxing as just spending some quiet time with his dog. Petey never yelled at him and didn’t expect much from him. He just loved him without judgment. There hadn’t been many people in his life that Clay could say that about.
Clay’s phone rang, and Petey barked, then growled. He hated the phone, especially when it interrupted back-rub time. Clay checked the number and answered. “Sheriff, what can I do for you?”
“I wanted to call and tell you that Smith is awake and responding to treatment. The bullet didn’t enter his brain, but it did a lot of damage. They still have him on monitors, but I went to see him and his eyes were open and he squeezed my hand. He can’t talk because of tubes and things, but he’s improving. Briggs will go home tomorrow, and Jared’s wife said he’s resting and grumpy.”
“I suppose that’s the best we can hope for,” Clay said, breathing a sigh of relief as he continued petting Petey.
“Yes.” Sheriff Hunter hesitated. Clay figured he’d called for more than just to give him an update on his fellow deputies. He had to give him a chance to say what he wanted to say. “With the department down three deputies for a while, we need…. You know Grange is on the loose, and apparently that isn’t enough for him. Judge Phillips received a call threating his safety about an hour ago.”
Clay groaned, realizing where he was going with this. “Sheriff… I….”
Sheriff Hunter sighed. “I know you and Judge Phillips don’t get along. The man could be a royal pain in the behind to Jesus Christ himself, but he needs protection. We know Grange has threatened Phillips in the past, and he’s done it again. Now he’s on the loose, and God knows where he is right now. We have everyone trying to find this asshole, but until we do, Judge Phillips needs to be kept safe.”
“All right. When is he expecting me?” Clay asked, knowing he had little choice.
“Tomorrow morning at eight in his courtroom. I told him I couldn’t have anyone before then. He went to a hotel for the night and will go directly to court from there. He’s going to need around-the-clock protection, so you’ll need to figure out how to secure his home as well. My suggestion is to make a visible presence. Let anyone watching know that you’re there to try to discourage them from making a play for the judge.”
“All right.” He wasn’t thrilled about doing this, but it was his job, and he could get along with anyone for a few days. God, he hoped it was only that long. “I’ll protect Judge Moody-and-Superior.”
“Great. And for goodness’ sake, don’t let him hear you call him that or he’ll probably hold you in contempt.”
“We’re supposed to tell the truth in court,” Clay retorted, and Sheriff Hunter snorted.
“You’re also not supposed to piss off the judge. Just behave yourself until we catch this guy. I’d really like to not have to transport one of my deputies to jail.” He hung up, and Clay sighed loudly enough that Petey lifted his head.
“I know, boy. I’ve got an awful assignment with a picky judge who thinks he’s God’s gift to everyone. The man is a pain in the ass.”
Petey climbed onto his lap and lay over his legs. Clay petted him gently, and Petey sighed, soaking in the attention.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you while I’m gone. I can’t take you to Mother’s. She’ll keep you on her porch because you get hair on her furniture.”
Petey huffed again, as though he understood and didn’t have any answers either.
Fire and Agate #3
“CHRIS,” BRIGGS said as he stalked into the locker room like a man on a mission. His gaze was hard and his posture as rigid as a two-by-four. Anger and discontent rolled off him in waves, worse than Chris had ever seen in the month since he had moved from jail duty.
Two years of whining, demanding prisoners who thought being in jail was the worst thing to ever happen to them and thought a jail cell should be like a suite at the Hilton. Those were the ones Chris was pretty sure were never going to see the inside of a cell again if they could help it. And then there were the repeat offenders who thought of the jail as home and a chance at three meals a day. God, he had hated every minute of the constant noise of men and women talking, fighting, yammering on about nothing just to make noise so the reality of the shit they were in didn’t close in around them.
“What can I do for you?” Chris smiled as best he could. Briggs had been instrumental in getting him off jail duty and into the sheriff’s office, so he owed the guy.
“It’s not me. His Majesty wants to see you.” Briggs turned, flashing a beam of damn near hatred out the door.
Not that Chris blamed the guy. When Sheriff Hunter had decided to retire, Briggs had stepped in as acting sheriff at Hunter’s request. The entire department had been pretty happy about it. Briggs was well respected and good at his job. But the county board had other ideas. They did some lame-assed search, and lo and behold, they’d found the current sheriff, a political appointee. That had been a month ago, but Briggs still hadn’t gotten over it.
“Thanks.” He checked that his uniform was perfect, because that was what Sheriff Mario Vitalli liked. He was all about how things looked and appeared. It didn’t seem to matter how things got done as long as he looked good—at least that was the general feeling in the locker room. “I’ll go right away.”
Briggs rolled his eyes. “He’s on a call, so give him five minutes.”
Vitalli liked everyone to wait for him, though he never wanted to wait for anyone or anything. Which would be fine if he were good at his job. He wasn’t particularly—at least Chris didn’t think so.
“Okay.” Chris wanted to say something to Briggs. He really thought a lot of him, but everything that came to mind sounded completely lame, so he kept quiet and showed Briggs the respect he thought he deserved.
“Do you want something?” Briggs asked, taking a step closer.
Chris realized he’d sunk into his thoughts and had been looking at nothing in particular. Briggs must have thought he was staring at him. “No.” Chris turned away and closed his locker. “I’ll see you around.” He left the room and headed up to where the big guy had his office.
The door was closed, so Chris sat in the chair outside to wait. Things had changed a lot in a month. Everyone was quiet around the office. The people who worked near the sheriff all spoke in whispers. Sheriff Vitalli didn’t like noise, and to him, talking meant people weren’t working. Which seemed ridiculous to Chris, because for him, talking in a sheriff’s office meant work was getting done and investigations were being discussed and moving forward.
The door opened and Sheriff Vitalli tilted his head outside.
Chris snapped to his feet, went in, and closed the door. “Good morning.”
“Anducci,” Vitalli said, taking his seat behind the desk. Chris couldn’t miss the file that sat there in front of him, and wondered if he was being sent back to the jail. His stomach clenched. He’d worked hard and diligently to get out of there. “I have an assignment for you.” He pushed the file off to the side as though he had made a decision. Chris wondered if it was good or bad.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, hoping to hell he wasn’t on his way back. No matter what, he was going to have to return to his locker for an antacid.
Vitalli shook his head and scoffed. “Everyone seems to think that this office is some kind of protection service.” He sneered.
Chris kept his mouth shut. It was their job to protect the public, which was why they became police officers in the first place. At least why Chris had. Granted, most people would think him idealistic, but so the fuck what.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes,” Chris answered quickly.
“I got a request from a social worker.” Vitalli yanked open a drawer and pulled out a thin file, then tossed it on the desk dramatically. “The cops in Carlisle busted up a whorehouse and found a bunch of aliens working there. In their touchy-feely world, they set about helping them and found they were brought here against their will.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not buying it, but no one asked me my opinion. Anyway, they say they need help for one person they found. It’s a man, not a woman….” The sheriff paused as if he were expecting some sort of agreement to his ignorance and shortsightedness. He didn’t seem to believe that men could be trafficked as well as women, and Chris wasn’t going to agree with him.
“Human trafficking takes many forms,” Chris said, then cleared his throat when the sheriff frowned deeply. “What would you like me to do?”
Vitalli groaned dramatically. “The Social Services folks found these people safe places to live, but one of them has been found out. Apparently he’s preparing to testify against his captors, and now he’s been getting threats. The feds, DA, and Social Services are all asking for protection for this guy, and it’s falling on me to provide it. So….” He picked up the file and thrust it toward Chris. “It’s you.”
“Me?” He took the file and tucked it under his arm. He wasn’t going to read it while standing in front of the sheriff.
“Can we not let this interfere with your shifts?” he groused, then turned back to his empty desk, grabbing the first piece of paper he could find.
“Is there anything else?”
He didn’t think he was going to get an answer, but then the sheriff lifted his gaze. “Don’t screw this up. It’s an easy job, so just do it and be done.” He turned away, back to his papers. Chris took it as a dismissal and left the office, closing the door behind him.
With a sigh of relief, Chris went to his old metal desk at the back of the station and placed the file on the empty surface. He was usually out on patrol or working with one of the other deputies, so he spent very little time there. No pictures or papers littered the space, just a phone and a few files hanging in one of the drawers. It would be so easy for him to pack up and move on. Part of him, some fear deep inside, wondered how long he would get to stay before being sent back to jail duty.
“What did the sheriff want?” Pierre asked as he approached the desk.
“He gave me an assignment,” Chris said, rather pleased.
Pierre smiled. “It looks like you’re going to stay, then.” Pierre had been the first one to welcome him, handing over a fresh coffee on Chris’s first day. “That’s good.”
“Suppose so, as long as I don’t mess it up.” Chris opened the file and scanned through it. There wasn’t much information, just a name and address for the witness, along with information on how to contact the caseworker. “Kasun, Pavle Kasun…,” he said, and nodded.
“Does that mean anything to you?” Pierre asked.
“Not personally. My mother’s family is Serbian, and this has that sound.” He picked up the phone and called the number for the caseworker. It went to voicemail, so he left a message asking her to call back as soon as she was able.
“What did the sheriff tell you?”
“That this Pavle is a witness who was in a safe house until he was found out. I suspect he’s been moved, and they want me to try to help keep him safe until the FBI and DA can talk to him and he can testify against the traffickers.” It shouldn’t be too difficult a job as long as they could keep his location a secret.
“Then do what you can for him.” Pierre glanced at the sheriff’s office, choosing his words carefully. “He doesn’t think too much of others… who are different. Anyone who is different from him.”
“I see.” Chris knew Pierre had a partner, Jordan, who worked at the courthouse, and there were other gay men in the department. Apparently they were worried about this particular sheriff. Sheriff Hunter hadn’t been prejudiced; either that or he hadn’t cared as long as the job got done. Chris supposed that was probably the best kind of person to occupy the office. Someone who looked at accomplishments and results.
“No, you don’t. Be careful, and do this to the best of your ability.” Pierre clapped Chris on the shoulder. “Because this could be your one and only chance with this man. He doesn’t seem to abide anything that makes him look bad in any way.” Pierre held his gaze, and Chris nodded. They were both thinking of Graves, who the new sheriff had already demoted and relegated to patrolling country roads for speeding and crap just because one of his arrests fell through on procedural grounds.
“I know.” Chris had started reviewing the file again when his phone rang. He smiled at Pierre, who left his desk, and Chris answered the call.
“Hello, this is Marie Foster returning your call. Is this in regards to Pavle?” She sounded tired, like she hadn’t slept or had a break in weeks.
“Yes. I was hoping I could meet you and we could discuss what you believe is required, and then I’d like to meet him. I need to assess the situation so I can develop a plan to help keep him safe.”
“Excellent. If you’d like to come to my office on Pitt Street, we can go see him from there.” She gave him the address. “And please don’t come in an official car. We don’t want to draw attention to where he is. This is the third safe house we’ve housed him at, and we keep getting indications that he’s been found. We don’t know how, and I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Then I’ll change into civilian clothes as well before I come see you.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you in about half an hour, then.”
After hanging up, Chris left his desk, picking up the file to take it with him. He returned to the locker area, changed out of his uniform, and let dispatch know that he was going to be out on an assignment from the sheriff. Then he took his own car and drove the five minutes to the office.
The building embodied small and utilitarian at its worst—nothing at all of any personality in the place—and Marie’s office was equally drab and stuck in the eighties. When he entered, she stood to offer her hand. Then he sat in an olive-green office chair that creaked under his weight.
Marie was a big woman with a ready smile and bright, expressive eyes that bristled with intelligence and care. She dressed professionally casual, wearing a dark blue and white blouse with jeans. Her office was as neat and organized as any he’d seen. Two phones rested in holders on her desk, which also held a computer and a few pictures.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on so I can try to help?” Chris asked, needing to get some background.
She nodded. “We discovered the house about three weeks ago, and the Carlisle Police raided the place. They discovered people inside, including two wanted sex offenders, who are still in custody in the county prison, and Pavle, who was cowering in the corner of a closet. It took them an hour to get him to come out. Once they called me, I was able to explain enough to him that he understood those people were there to help him.”
“Did you work with him?”
“Yes. I found him a safe house that was a group home with five other individuals. It was… not good. He cowered when any men came near him and basically stayed in a corner, watching everyone, for days. Either that or he went to his room and hid. I think his poor mind was simply overloaded. Then someone tried to set fire to the home and damaged it enough that everyone had to be relocated. That was hard, but then they reported people watching the next house two days after Pavle moved in.” She swallowed and leaned back in her chair.
“Do you think someone is feeding his captors information?” Chris asked.
“Honestly? Yes,” she said, and he nodded. “We have a system that tracks each person in our safe houses. Pavle has been anonymized, but someone is using the information to try to find him, which is a violation of a number of state and federal laws.” Marie leaned forward, her demeanor turning more serious. “We can’t protect him anymore, and the longer he stays in the safe house, the more he and the others there with him are in danger.” She humphed softly. “At the moment he’s being housed in a home for women because we didn’t want to put him with men right now. And that’s causing some problems for the women, though I think those are dissipating.” She was clearly coming to the end of her resources. “I guess what I’m asking you is if you’d be willing to take Pavle to live with you. That way I can remove him from the system, at least as far as the information about where he’s staying. Get him off the grid for a while.”
That hadn’t been something Chris had thought about doing, and the request surprised him. His instinct was to say no. His own home was his sanctuary, and he liked to keep it that way. Growing up, he’d moved many times—military family. Luckily, when his dad had been close to retirement, he’d been able to get posted to the Carlisle Barracks, near family. Chris’s home here was like his castle because it was the first one he’d had that was his and no one else’s.
“Why don’t you take me to meet him and then we can see what we need to do,” Chris said, purposely vague and noncommittal. Surely Marie couldn’t blame him for not giving an answer until he met Pavle.
“I’ll do that. But there are some things you need to know first.” She floundered, seeming to be trying to figure out where to start. “We haven’t gotten the full story from him about how he got here. There is a language barrier that’s hard for us to breach. He does speak some English, mostly what he taught himself from listening to his captors and the few people he’s been around for the last four years.”
Chris gaped. How in the hell could someone live that way for such a long time? “Oh my God.”
“Yes. We believe he was brought in through New Jersey during the Super Bowl in 2014. Newark is a huge human trafficking point of entry. Anyway, we aren’t sure how long he’s been in Carlisle or how many owners he’s had over the years.”
Her words sent a spike through Chris’s heart. How in the hell could people do that to someone else? Chris had most definitely seen human beings at their lowest, and just when he thought he’d seen it all… wham… it got worse.
“Okay. So he’s been traumatized and most likely gaslighted for years,” he said, and Marie nodded. “So in his mind, this is all his fault, and everything that has happened to him is because of something he did.”
“You got it. Years of fear and guilt conditioning. Those are the greatest weapons they have. Though, deep down, there is some steel in his back. There has to be for him to have survived this long.” She gathered her purse and phone, as well as a spring jacket. The early May weather this year had been up and down. “This is the address.” She handed it to him on a small sheet of notepaper, and Chris memorized it and dropped it into the shredder in the corner of the office. That earned him a smile.
“I’ll meet you there. I’m in the blue Edge,” he explained as he left the office with Marie behind him.
Inside the car, he took a few minutes to breathe. Things like this shouldn’t affect him. He saw bad things every day. But this story got under his skin, and he needed a few minutes to get his professional distance back into place. Once his anger and indignation wore down a little, he pulled out of the lot and drove to the east side of town. He parked on the street and waited for Marie before approaching the house with her.
Marie stopped at the base of the walk. “I know you’re a cop, but try not to walk like one. You’re standing tall and strong. I know in your job you have to project strength, but here that’s not a benefit. Every one of these people have been abused or hurt at the hands of a man, so they are going to be intimidated.”
Chris slumped a little and lowered his gaze slightly. “Better?”
“Try smiling and not being so serious.”
Chris chuckled, and Marie must have approved because she turned, continued forward, and knocked on the door.
The house was deadly silent. Three women sat in chairs, looking up at him as though he were the devil incarnate, fear radiating off each and every one of them. He nodded to each lady and gave them all a small smile.
“This is Deputy Chris,” Marie said.
“What he want?” one of the ladies asked. She had big brown eyes, and her lips curled in a sneer.
“Letty, that’s enough,” Marie said gently, but with a firm undertone. “He’s here to help Pavle.”
A woman bustled into the room, and Marie introduced her as the housemother, Annette.
“His room is down the hall. He rarely leaves it, even to eat,” Annette explained, never raising her voice much above a whisper. “Follow me.” She turned to lead him down the hallway to the last room. Annette knocked, spoke softly, and opened the door.
The curtains were drawn, the room dark, even though it was the middle of the day. A single light burned next to a twin bed that had been made to within an inch of its life, with corners sharp enough to make any drill sergeant proud. The room, however, was empty.
“Pavle, sweetheart. It’s Annette,” she said gently and waited.
Slowly a figure, curled up and small, made an appearance from around the side of the dresser. The first thing Chris noticed were the biggest, brownest eyes he had ever seen, filled with the pain of years of hurt. They blinked, and then Pavle stepped farther into the light. Even standing, he looked half hunched over.
“This is Deputy Chris. He’s here because he’s going to help keep you safe.”
Pavle raised his head slightly, his black hair, long and uneven, falling to the sides of his face.
“Hello,” Chris said, mimicking the soft tone the others had used. “I’m Chris. They told me you needed help, so I’m going to protect you so no one hurts you anymore.” In that moment, he made up his mind to do whatever was needed to help this man, and if that meant moving him into his home to protect him, so be it.
“I’d like it if you went with Deputy Chris. He is a good man and will not hurt you,” Marie explained slowly and gently.
Chris didn’t expect Pavle to believe her or to agree to come. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Chris said, crouching down so he was at the same level as Pavle. “This is your choice.”
“Choice?” Pavle asked in a raspy voice that tore at Chris’s insides, looking at him and then back to Marie.
“Yes. You can choose to stay here or go with Deputy Chris. We want you to be safe, but we aren’t sure how well we can protect you here. If you go with Deputy Chris, he will protect you. Keep you safe.”
“INS?” Pavle asked.
“No. He is good man. Caring. He will help you.” Marie seemed to have infinite patience.
Pavle blinked, standing still, then nodded and walked to Chris. It seemed as though he either didn’t understand or thought he didn’t have a choice, even though he was being given one. Chris held out his hands, palms up, to show that he wasn’t going to hit him. When Pavle looked at him with those huge eyes and the face of an angel, he looked much younger than the twenty-four listed in his file. Maybe that was his previous owner’s fetish. Still, after all he’d been through, Pavle’s handsomeness and light shone through, with soft features and an almost delicate frame.
“I’ll gather his few things,” Annette said.
Marie extended her hand to take Pavle’s gently. He went with her in silence. She led him out of the house, and once they were in the sun, Chris got a better look at him. Pavle was pale, probably from years of being inside. Chris reminded himself to ask Marie about any past injuries. He suspected that Pavle had been treated very badly in the past and he needed to know if he was okay physically.
“Thank you for doing this,” Marie said once she had opened the door to Chris’s car and gotten Pavle settled in the passenger seat. He sat without moving or looking to either side. “You have to keep him safe. He is the main witness against the man who held him for nearly two years. We need to get that man and then trace back to the people who sold Pavle to him. We’re pulling each thread to see what we can unravel.”
“Okay. I will do my best, I promise you.”
“I’ll follow you to your house and help Pavle get settled.”
As Marie got to her car, Pavle reacted for the first time.
“She’s just riding separately. She will be back in a few minutes.”
Chris drove the short distance to his house and pulled into the garage. He didn’t want Pavle to be seen, and yet he also didn’t want him to feel like a prisoner again by being hidden. He got out and waited, hoping Pavle would get out on his own. After a few moments, Pavle opened the door and climbed out of the car. Chris opened the door to the yard and motioned for Pavle to go ahead of him.
Marie came through behind him, and Chris closed the garage doors and joined the two of them in the yard. Pavle looked around, saying nothing. Chris wished he would say something… anything. He was way too quiet, and that worried Chris because he had no idea what he was thinking, and damn it all, those eyes still held buckets of fear.
“It’s okay. This is where you are going to stay.” Marie gently coaxed Pavle toward the house, and he shuffled along, looking at the yard. Hopefully he liked what he saw. Chris had spent too many hours working out stress for the garden to be unappreciated.
Chris opened the back door, went inside, and turned on lights, letting Marie bring Pavle into the kitchen, motioning toward the living room. Maybe this was the biggest mistake of his life. He wasn’t equipped to handle someone as fragile and frightened as Pavle. Chris had no clue what he needed or even how to get through to him.
“I sold?” Pavle finally asked, barely above a whisper.
Chris caught Marie’s gaze, and his heart twisted in his chest. God, this was going to wrench his guts six ways from Sunday.
“No. This is where you are going to live. You are not going to be sold to anyone anymore. Deputy Chris is here to help you and nothing more.” She patted his hand and took Pavle through to the other room.
Chris got three glasses of water and put some cookies on a plate. He needed some sugar if he was going to get through this in one piece.
Marie and Pavle were talking softly on the sofa when Chris handed each of them a glass and offered them cookies. Marie took one, and Pavle stared at the plate as though it were a foreign object. Finally, he took one and ate a small bite before shoving the whole thing in his mouth, chewing and swallowing like he hadn’t eaten in days. Then he drank the entire glass of water.
Chris offered him another, and Pavle took it in disbelief, ate it quickly, and then rested his hands in his lap.
“Why don’t I take you upstairs and show you your room?” Chris offered. He led Pavle and Marie upstairs and into the bright guest room, with cream walls and a deep green coverlet on the bed. The furniture was white and rather plain, but functional. He’d found the set at a secondhand store and painted it himself to clean it up. “You can put your clothes in here,” Chris told Pavle, who shrugged and looked down at what he was wearing.
“I have his things in the car. There isn’t much right now,” Marie explained.
“That’s okay. I can take him to get everything he needs.” Chris needed to do some shopping tomorrow anyway and figured he could take Pavle with him. He would need to disguise Pavle somehow. “I have something he can wear tonight if he needs to, and then we’ll shop tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Marie said with a sigh. “Are you going to be okay?” she asked Pavle, who nodded.
Chris showed her downstairs, while Pavle stayed behind, and got Pavle’s things from her car.
“I’ll stop by whenever I can. He’s going to need care and plenty of help.”
“Of course. Is he seeing a counselor?” Chris asked.
“Yes. But they are having some language issues. I’m working on it. I’d like to find one who understands Serbian so they can talk in his native language, but it’s very difficult in this area. But I’m not giving up. I’ll let you know when his next appointment is.” She left through the back gate, and Chris locked it from the inside and went back into the house. He brought Pavle’s things up to his room and set them on the bed next to him.
“Are you hungry?” Chris asked. When Pavle finally nodded, Chris motioned, and they left the room. He didn’t know what to make for dinner, but decided on pasta. He got Pavle seated in the kitchen and started cooking. It wasn’t fancy, and the sauce was from a jar, but when he put the plate and a glass of water in front of Pavle, the surprised expression and then the way he shoveled the food into his mouth, his arm nearly a blur, told him a great deal about Pavle’s treatment. Chris got his attention and ate slowly. “I’m not going to take your food.”
Pavle nodded and ate a little more leisurely, but his body was rigid the entire time, as if he expected Chris to take away his plate at any moment.
Once Pavle had eaten everything, Chris got him a little more and showed Pavle what he had to drink. Pavle pointed, and Chris poured him some juice. Pavle sniffed the glass and sipped before downing the liquid like it was a huge shot.
“I am not going to take your food or drink. You can have all you want.” He poured Pavle some more grape juice and set it in front of him before clearing the dishes. Pavle stared at the glass like it held some deep meaning and then sighed dramatically and drank it.
Once Chris had cleaned up, he motioned for Pavle to follow him through to the living room. Chris put on the television and sat in the chair. Pavle sat in the other one, alternately watching the television and then him. It was a little unnerving, but Chris sat still and tried to relax, hoping Pavle would do the same.
At bedtime, he turned off the television and led Pavle up the stairs, turning out the lights. “It’s time to go to bed.” He showed Pavle the bathroom and the towels that were his to use. He also found a new toothbrush and some extra toiletries for him, placing them on the bathroom counter. He tried to think of anything he was forgetting. “Is there anything else you need?”
Pavle shook his head and went to his room, and when Chris came in to bring him some pajamas, Pavle stood in the center of the room, naked, his hands behind his back, head bent down.
“RAVELLE, I need to see you,” Sheriff Hunter barked from his office.
Sheriff Lew Hunter had a gruff way about him. It had taken Pierre a long time to understand that it was just how he was and not to take it personally. In short, the sheriff was pretty much an ass to everyone… except the voters, who seemed to love him. They’d elected him to the position three times. Maybe it was because he was really good at his job and the fact that the voters didn’t have to interact with him on a daily basis.
“Now!”
Pierre put aside the information on the prisoner he was getting ready to move from the downtown holding area to the courthouse and stood to walk into Sheriff Hunter’s office. “I’m about to go out on a transport.” He managed to keep the irritation out of his voice.
“I’m putting Stevens on that. I have something else I need you to do.” Hunter’s forehead glistened with sweat. The guy must go through three uniforms a day. The sheriff could soak through a shirt faster than anyone Pierre had ever met, and it was rolling off him today, so someone had really handed him his ass for some reason. And there weren’t many people who could do that. “I got a call from Judge Potter, the head judge at the courthouse. He reported that Crawford is getting threats of some kind, and they’ve been nasty.” Hunter half wheezed and sighed. “So that’s you. Head on over, take a look at what he’s been getting, and provide additional security.” He sounded as thrilled as Pierre felt about this whole thing.
In truth, Judge Crawford had a reputation for being the hanging judge, in a way. His sentences were generally as harsh as he could get away with. From a law enforcement perspective, Pierre couldn’t say he was disappointed. His compatriots worked hard to bring their cases, and making the punishment fit the crime was justice in his opinion.
But this kind of duty was dull, long, and about as exciting as watching grass grow most of the time. Pierre vastly preferred actually doing something rather than standing around at the door to the courtroom or judge’s chambers, watching and doing his best to intimidate everyone who approached.
“If that’s what you need.” He wasn’t going to argue. There was no point in it. Once Sheriff Hunter made up his mind, that was it.
“Good. That’s what I like about you. Smart enough to understand when you don’t have a choice. Now, go on over and make sure Crawford knows you’re there and on the job.” Hunter yanked a couple of tissues out of the box, swiped them over his forehead and then across the back of his neck, and tossed them in the trash.
Pierre left the office, his gun belt squeaking as he moved. He checked in with the desk so they knew where he was and what he was doing before heading out into the muggy summer day, with an almost blinding sun, to walk the block to the courthouse.
The old jail, which was now used as holding cells, had been built of red granite to resemble a Norman castle with two round towers and fake crenellated battlements on the roof. It was impressive and definitely added interest to the area.
Pierre stayed on the shady side of the street with his eyes open, passing other deputies, acknowledging each as he passed, but not stopping to talk. He was on a mission, and judging by the sheriff’s sweaty reaction, he needed to get there fast. Pierre entered the building, showed his badge and pass to his colleagues who were working the metal detectors and security, then walked inside and took the elevator to the upper floor.
When the doors slid open, he strode out and down the white hallway to the last courtroom and into the judge’s office.
“May I help you?” a man about two years younger than Pierre asked. Instantly Pierre was struck by how intense his eyes were and how the waves in his blond, collar-length hair damn near shimmered when he moved. Pierre’s mouth went dry for just a second, and he nearly stammered, but cleared his throat to cover it.
“I’m Deputy Ravelle. I was sent over to provide extra security for Judge Crawford.”
The pinch at the corner of the man’s mouth smoothed out, and he sighed. “Thank God.” The man turned toward the closed door to the judge’s chambers. “We’ve gotten three notes, and they were all sent to the courthouse.” He pulled open a drawer and slid the envelopes over. “I kept everything, including the envelopes, but they have been touched by me, as well as the judge. We didn’t realize what they were until we opened them. We get the occasional crackpot—he’s a judge, so this sort of thing can go along with the territory—but this feels different. These notes are specific, and there’s pointed hatred behind them. This isn’t someone who’s angry at the system, but specifically hates Judge Crawford.”
Pierre took the envelopes, and the man gasped and placed his hand over his mouth.
“Sorry, I’m a little scattered today. I’m Jordan Erichsohn, Judge Crawford’s paralegal and assistant. Sort of the one who tries to keep him organized.” He smiled. “The judge is with someone right now, but he should be done in a few minutes.”
“It’s no problem.” Pierre took a seat and looked over the letters. Just like Jordan had said, they were specific, with vivid descriptions of what the writer wanted to do to Judge Crawford and how he intended to get into his courtroom and rip him apart. They even went as far as to give the room number. They were clearly intended to incite fear, and it seemed to be working, judging by the reactions he’d witnessed.
Pierre knew Judge Crawford by reputation and as part of his professional capacity. Their interactions had always been within the course of his duties and they had never become friendly. Heck, half the time when working with him, Pierre did his job and it seemed Judge Crawford barely knew he existed. He wasn’t at all like Judge Fortier, who had the courtroom next door. Robert was a great guy.
The door to the judge’s chambers opened and Judge Crawford strode out, going directly to Jordan’s desk. They spoke softly, and Jordan inclined his head toward Pierre, who stood and stepped forward.
“He gave you the letters?” Judge Crawford was in his midfifties with white hair, a crisp suit, and patrician features. In short, he was the definition of distinguished, with intelligence lurking behind his dark eyes. “Excellent. You can see why I was concerned.” He motioned to his office, followed Pierre inside, and closed the door before taking a seat behind his large wooden desk. “I won’t be intimidated by anyone, but these letters were rather personal, so I decided to enlist some extra help. My bailiff and staff need to concentrate on their jobs, and I expect you to do yours. Watch, control access to the courtroom, and pay attention.” His gaze grew intense, and Pierre stared right back. He knew this tactic and wasn’t going to back down. Crawford might be a judge, but he was also a person, and one obviously used to getting his own way or forcing others to submit by sheer force of will.
“Do you have any specific enemies?” Pierre asked sternly. “I know a judge with your reputation isn’t going to be winning any popularity contests with those you sentenced, but does anyone come to mind?” He pulled out his notebook, waiting for an answer.
“I have a number of individuals who passed through my courtroom who have been released from prison in the last six months.” Crawford’s expression softened as he handed Pierre the list, which included the names, as well as the crime they were convicted for.
Pierre scanned the names and then pulled out the letters. “These don’t seem to fit. The individual who wrote these is angry, that’s definite, but he or she is very intelligent and articulate. These weren’t written by a street thug or a drug dealer… at least none of the ones I know. These were written by someone educated.” He handed the judge the papers. “The letters say that you should be eliminated and your cancer wiped from the earth. Most people don’t speak or write that way.”
For the first time, Judge Crawford smiled, slightly. “I agree. That’s why I haven’t done anything with that list.”
“I’ll have it checked out, of course, but I doubt our letter writer is here. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“Not particularly. Your main task is to let me continue to do my job and to ensure I remain safe. I have private security arranged for my home and commute.”
Pierre nodded, and the judge gave him the information for the firm so Pierre could coordinate with them. He needed to try to find the source of the letters—which was going to be a difficult task, given how very little there was to go on—and to make sure Judge Crawford had the extra security he seemed to think he needed. The building itself was already secured, with all visitors and employees passing through metal detectors and all their bags X-rayed so nothing dangerous got inside. But if someone was intent on causing harm, they didn’t necessarily need a weapon.
“Please work with Jordan. He can give you any information and support you might need.” Judge Crawford turned to the clock on his desk. “I have to be in court in ten minutes.” Any additional information was going to have to come from Jordan, as Judge Crawford’s expression hardened and he turned to his computer. Pierre knew he was dismissed. He left the judge’s chambers and closed the door behind him.
“He’s a peach, isn’t he?” Jordan said in the same tone that he might use to ask about the weather.
The judge’s behavior was just a part of Jordan’s everyday work, it seemed. “Intense” was about the nicest thing Pierre could come up with.
“Judge Crawford isn’t a morning person, and he always needs some time to get ready for court.” Jordan stood and filled a mug from the coffeepot in the corner. He then carried it into the judge’s chambers and returned with an empty mug. “Sometimes I swear he mainlines the stuff.” Jordan rinsed the mug and took his seat once again. “I need to make sure he has everything he requires for his day, and then I can go over anything you want.” He hurried into the office, and Pierre watched him go with pointed interest.
Pierre sat back down. He reminded himself that he was working and had to keep his mind on the task at hand, not let it wander to the delicious paralegal who seemed to check all the boxes for the type of man he preferred: lanky, with great eyes, and a backside that bobbed perfectly with each step and made him feel disappointed when Jordan closed the door behind him.
Pierre took the opportunity to make a call to dispatch to report in and request information on the people the judge had identified. By the time he’d finished relaying the information, Jordan had returned and said it was time for court. He took Pierre to the front of the courtroom, and Pierre stood outside the door, watching as the lawyers and clients filed in, along with interested members of the public. He looked for anything unusual, including people who were more interested in the surroundings than the players in the case at hand. He saw nothing, but kept his eyes open as Judge Crawford called his court to order and started the business of the day.
“HOW WAS the first day?” Jordan asked once court had been adjourned and Pierre had checked on any progress on the information he’d requested. He was told it had been emailed to him, and he checked over the data, finding no surprises. None of the people on the list had anything beyond a high school education, and most of them were easy enough to discount: one was dead, two were now back in prison for one offense or another, and two more were living hours away at either end of the state.
“Uneventful.” He actually stifled a yawn. Pierre would much rather spend his days transporting prisoners or on courthouse security detail. At least he had something to do besides watch people, most of whom were going about their business. “You?”
“Same thing, different day.” Jordan checked the clock at his desk and hurriedly packed up his things. He picked up the phone and said he was leaving for the day. “I put everything for tomorrow on your desk and made a folder for the rest of the week so, if you get a chance, you can work ahead if you’d like.” He listened for a while and hung up. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He looked at his watch and scurried out the door.
Pierre followed his movement with his eyes, flutters of attraction rising in his belly. Damn, Jordan was adorable.
Pierre stayed outside Judge Crawford’s chambers, the area quiet, a clock on the wall ticking away the seconds. He glanced at it every few minutes as he waited. Eventually Judge Crawford came out of the office with his briefcase, and Pierre fell in behind him, watching as they descended in the elevator and went down to the main floor to leave the building. Once Pierre escorted him to his car, the judge got in back and the driver took off. Pierre breathed a small sigh of relief once Judge Crawford was out of his care and no longer his responsibility. Then Pierre turned to walk back to the old jail to check in and enter his report on the letters received.
“So, how was it?” Carson asked with a smirk. “I’m glad I managed to sidestep that little task.” He leaned farther into the locker room as Pierre put his things away and got ready to go home.
“That’s good to know.” He rolled his eyes. Carson was always up for getting out of anything he possibly could. The man loved traffic duty because he could sit in his car all day. If doing nothing were a sport, Carson would be world champion, without a doubt. “It was fine.”
“I ran down the last of those people for you. There isn’t much to go on, and none of them would match what was written in the letters.”
“I agree.” Pierre didn’t usually discuss cases with Carson because the man could provide a complete lack of insight with professional ease. “I don’t know what else to go on for now, so I’ll keep my eyes open, my mouth shut, and the judge alive. Other than that, there isn’t anything I can do right now.” What the hell else could he say?
“Ravelle,” Sheriff Hunter called, this time with less stress than that morning. “Everything go okay with Crawford?”
Pierre shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I guess.”
“We’ll run down what we can on the letters, and you report if any more show up. Hopefully this is someone with a beef, and they’ll wake up and realize they’ve gone too far and just stop.”
Pierre wasn’t so sure of that, but they could hope. Of course, that meant they would never find out who was behind them. But cases of all kinds went unsolved, and as long as Judge Crawford was alive and well, that was what was important.
“Head on home. Crawford is a first-thing guy, so he’ll be in the courthouse early.” Sheriff Hunter left the locker area, and Pierre didn’t need to be told twice. He finished getting ready to go as quickly as he could. His days were going to be long enough.
“You going to go out tonight?” Carson asked. “Some of the guys are going to the Gingerbread House for a few drinks. You should stop by. It will give you a chance to wind down a little bit.”
“I’ll think about it.” Pierre closed his locker and left, wanting to get out to his car before Hunter changed his mind and needed him for something.
He went straight home to his row house on Louther Street. He loved the place. When he’d purchased it two years ago, the late-federal-style house had been in need of a great deal of work. Under ratty carpet, he’d found the original wide-plank floors, which he sanded and refinished to a rich, warm tone. The area under the stairs had been drywalled at some point, and when it had gotten wet from a pipe bursting, he’d had to remove it and discovered cabinets made from old-growth oak that had been covered over. Pierre repaired them, and now they were an integral part of the home and gave it even more charm.
He walked upstairs to his bedroom, with its plain mantel and fireplace. He knew it had been painted many times over the years, and one of these days the white paint and all the layers under it were going to be history so he could expose the burled oak he was sure lay underneath. At least he thought so from the test patches he’d done.
Pierre put his gun and equipment in its place and went to the bathroom to shower. Surrounded by steam and hot water, he let his mind wander, and danged if it didn’t settle on a certain wavy-haired paralegal with intense eyes and lips that reminded him of every sin imaginable. Pierre closed his eyes and let a fantasy unfold for a few minutes before growling under his breath. He definitely needed to get out and let loose. It had been too long since he’d gone to Harrisburg to one of the clubs. Too damn long. Especially if he could get this preoccupied by someone he was working with.
Pierre turned off the water, dried himself, and in the bedroom, pulled out a pair of jeans and a lightweight pastel green shirt that tugged slightly over his chest. He was going to be meeting some of the other deputies, so being blatantly on the make was out of the question. He’d intended to walk so if he drank, he wouldn’t be driving, but one step outside into pea-soup humidity changed his mind. Pierre messaged Carson to tell him he was on his way and to save him a seat, then left the house, heading to where his car was, drove the short distance, and parked in the nearby lot.
The brief walk from the car to the restaurant and bar was enough to leave him sweating. Thank God the air conditioner blew around him as soon as he entered, and Pierre tugged his shirt away from his skin a few times. He loved summer, but this sweltering heat was getting to be too much.
“Hey… we’re back here,” Carson shouted, and Pierre moved through the tables and people milling around toward the restaurant area. He slipped into the booth.
“Hey, Red! Terry!” Pierre called down the long table to where the Carlisle police officer sat with his partner next to him. Those two were an amazing couple and a source of jealousy for Pierre.
When he’d joined the sheriff’s department four years ago, he’d expected the usual bullshit regarding his sexuality. Pierre had gotten some of what he’d expected, but not too much. It had only taken a little while before he’d met a number of the local borough police, and he’d been shocked at the number of gay police officers. Red and his partner, Terry, had been the first he’d met, and then Carter and his partner, Donald. Since then he’d learned that a good percentage of the department was gay. Red had explained that they provided a safe work environment, which attracted some excellent officers.
Terry stood and walked to his end of the table. “I hear you got assigned to one of the judges at the courthouse.” He slipped into the empty seat near Pierre.
“Man, word travels fast,” he said a little loudly. He wasn’t angry, but his law enforcement colleagues gossiped like old biddies.
“Tell me about it,” Terry agreed. “It’s a good thing these guys don’t work for national security.” He grinned and looked up for a second, waving to someone who passed.
Pierre followed his gaze and smiled at the familiar face. “Do you know him?”
“Sure. That’s Jordan. He works at the courthouse. He’s a member at the Y, and I see him and his son coming in a few times a week. Jeremiah is four and he loves the water. I’ve given him a few swimming lessons, and Jordan says he’s signing him up for regular swim class.” Terry waved again, and Jordan came over.
“Hey,” Jordan said with a touch of surprise in his voice.
“You know each other?” Terry asked.
“I work for Judge Crawford now,” Jordan said, “and I’m working with Pierre because of the threats the judge has received.” He turned to Pierre. “You should have said you were coming here.”
“I didn’t know until a little while ago.” Pierre caught the attention of the server and ordered a beer. He turned back to Jordan but didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t interested in talking about work, and they didn’t know each other well enough to talk about other things. Pierre also figured it didn’t help that he found himself staring into Jordan’s eyes, forgetting about most everything else. He blinked a few times to pull himself back to the present. Damn, distraction and near blubbering idiot were quickly becoming the norm for him when he was around Jordan. That was going to make his job even harder. He needed to get over this fast.
“Where’s Jeremiah?” Terry asked, to Pierre’s eternal gratitude.
“He’s with my mom and dad. They asked to take him for a few hours, and I needed a night out that didn’t involve chicken nuggets, macaroni and cheese, yogurt, and spilled milk.” Jordan grinned. “I’m here with Brad and Ricky. They go to the club too. We’ve been meaning to go out for a while, but with Jeremiah, it hasn’t been possible.” Jordan glanced toward the other table, then turned back to them. “I should get back. But I’ll see you at the club. And Pierre, I’ll see you in the morning.” He flashed a smile that showed a touch of perfect teeth and once again short-circuited Pierre’s brain.
“Earth to Pierre,” Terry said, standing up. “Geez, you are really gone.”
“Sorry.” Pierre blinked and shook his head as Jordan sat down. “So, a kid, huh? Is he married?” Just his luck he’d be perving on a straight guy.
“No. Jordan doesn’t have a husband.” Terry leaned a little closer as if to continue, but then sat back. “Nah. If you want to find out about him, you’re going to have to ask him yourself.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I will tell you that he bats for our team, but other than that, the rest is up to you.” Terry stood as Red motioned. “I need to get back.” Terry returned to his seat as the server brought Pierre’s beer, and he did his best to pay attention to the intense conversation on what the guys thought the Eagles would do this year.
“They’re going to be as mediocre as they have been for the last few years. They didn’t make any large changes, and they expect the stars to align and everything to just fall into place.” Pierre shook his head as the others disagreed with him and continued talking. At least he’d participated a little.
He glanced toward the back of the restaurant, where Jordan sat with his friends. They were talking and each had a beer, but there was no animation in Jordan’s eyes. The others seemed happy to be there, but Jordan checked his watch while making it look like he wasn’t doing it. Then, when he wasn’t talking, he bit his lower lip a little, drank from his glass, and looked at his watch again.
“Something going on over there?” Carson asked. “Man, you’ve been paying attention for shit. Carter was just asking if you wanted some help with these notes.”
Pierre turned back to the table. They regularly worked with the other law enforcement agencies in the county because of jurisdictional issues, and everyone had limited resources of some type. “That would be great, Carter, thanks. The more help we have on this, the better. There isn’t a lot to go on.” He leaned forward so he could see Carter better. “They came through the mail and were postmarked locally, but that’s all—with no return address, of course. They could have been dropped in any box. The one thing I noticed was that the addresses were scrawled on the envelopes like the sender was in a hurry.” He shrugged. “The letters themselves were printed on a computer.”
“Bring them over. I’ve had some good luck figuring out printers and the kinds used.” Carter lifted his beer in a silent salute, and Pierre did the same. It was going to be good to have some help on this one.
The conversation around the table continued on and off for a while. Televisions had been hung in the various corners, and one of them flashed to an image of the president and some breaking news about ties to Russia. That set off discussion about politics, and Pierre immediately tuned out. Ever since the election, he had been doing his best to stay away from anything political. He’d gotten burned out on it so much the previous year that he couldn’t take it any longer.
“Guys. That’s enough, please.” Pierre stood, excusing himself to go to the bathroom.
All the stand-up facilities were taken, so he dipped into a stall to take care of business. Then everyone else and the room grew quiet.
“You’re really going to go?” a high-pitched male voice asked as the door closed.
“Yeah. Mom called and Jeremiah is sick. She said he has a fever and he’s not keeping anything down.”
Pierre immediately recognized that voice. He finished up and flushed, putting himself back together.
“I need to get over there, so can you give me a ride?”
“But….” The other guy sputtered a little, like a tiny motorboat.
“Brad, you brought me here, and I could walk home, but it’s a long way after dark, and you promised to be the designated driver and all that.” The worry in Jordan’s voice rang through loud and clear.
Pierre pulled open the stall door and stepped out to the sink behind where Jordan was washing his hands.
“Hi,” Jordan said as he turned to grab a paper towel from the container.
“Hey.” Pierre smiled and did his best not to look stalkerish. After all, they were in the men’s room. “Everything okay?” he asked as soothingly as he could.
“No. My son, or the boy I’m in the process of adopting, if you want to be technical”—Jordan glared at his friend—“is sick and I need to get to him. My mom has him and she’s worried.” Jordan was bordering on frantic from the look in his eyes. “Sorry, Pierre. I don’t need to dump on you.” He turned back to his friend, who looked as though a stiff breeze would blow him away. “Come on, Brad. You’re taking me home so I can get my car and go to my mother’s.” He put his hands on his hips, eyes blazing, tapping his foot. “I can’t believe I have to ask you.” The worry came out again as some of his confidence slipped away.
“He probably has a cold or something. Your mom raised you and your sisters—she knows what she’s doing.” Brad whined. “We never get to see you anymore, and when we do, you run away.”
Jordan sighed. “I know, but I have to go.”
“I can take you,” Pierre offered suddenly, surprising himself. He wasn’t usually impulsive.
Jordan turned away from his friend. “But you’re here with all your friends and everything. I couldn’t ask you to do that. Brad can take me home.” Dang, he was a little bossy too. That was good to know. At least no one was going to take advantage of Jordan.
“It’s all right. I came here for a beer, and I had part of one a while ago. I don’t drink and drive, and the guys will understand.” Heck, it was unusual if they all stayed the entire evening when they went out. Someone always got a call about something either work- or family-related. It happened, and there was no use getting upset about it. Pierre washed his hands and grabbed a paper towel.
Jordan and Brad left the men’s room without giving him an answer. Pierre figured Brad would break down and provide Jordan with a ride, but when he stepped out, Jordan was alone.
“Are you serious about this?” Jordan turned to where his other friends were talking among themselves, and Brad didn’t seem particularly popular, judging by the mutual scowls.
“Sure. Let me tell the guys I’m going.” Pierre walked back to the table and explained that he was leaving. He gave Carson enough money to cover his drink, motioned toward the front door, and led the way to his car as a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. “I’m right over there.”
Jordan followed him and got in the passenger seat. “I have to admit, this isn’t what I pictured you driving. A big truck definitely, maybe a huge SUV, but not a Focus.”
“It gets great mileage and I mostly use it to go from home and to work. It’s also affordable.” He started the engine and let the air-conditioning lower the temperature inside. He then turned to Jordan, wondering at his quizzical expression. “Are you making fun of me and my car?”
Jordan laughed a little. “Maybe.” The worry returned. “I’m in the condos just off Harrisburg Pike in Middlesex.”
“No problem.” Pierre pulled out and drove north through town, then out and down the Pike. He pulled into the complex of cookie-cutter homes, following Jordan’s directions. He’d never understood why these had been built. It wasn’t as though space was a huge issue, but then, affordable housing was important, and they seemed nice enough and well maintained.
“It’s this one right here,” Jordan directed, and Pierre pulled off to the side to let Jordan out.
“I hope everything is okay.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hurried out and up the drive and let himself in.
Pierre lingered, his fingers fidgeting on the steering wheel. The garage door lifted, and Pierre figured he’d wait until Jordan pulled out. The lights in the dark blue minivan inside flashed and then nothing. Pierre watched a little longer and saw Jordan get out, then tried not to smile as Jordan kicked one of the tires. He could only imagine the curses he emitted.
Pierre lowered his window. “Do you want to get any car seat you need for your son and I can take you to get him?”
Jordan turned, looking at him as though he were crazy and then a gift from God. What Pierre wouldn’t give to be looked at like that all the time. He grew warm just thinking about it, even with the air-conditioning blasting on him.
“Go on. It’s no problem.” Pierre’s only company for the evening was going to be the television anyway.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Go get the seat, and let’s get going so you can check on your son.” He could tell worry was taking over now and Jordan was going to need someone to help him.
Jordan opened the sliding door on the van, grabbed the car seat, closed the van, and then lowered the garage door. He trotted over with a booster and tossed it in back. “Mom is in Mechanicsburg,” Jordan told him, and Pierre pulled out, heading in that direction. “She has a house just off Market Street.”
“All right.” Pierre went as fast as safety would allow. There were limits as to how far he’d push it. Jordan sat in the passenger seat, chewing his nails and abusing his lower lip to the point that Pierre wondered if he was going to chew it off.
Jordan gave good directions, and they pulled up in front of a small saltbox with cream paint and hunter green shutters. Pierre had barely pulled to a stop before Jordan was out and racing up the walk. He went right inside, and Pierre followed more slowly.
He knocked before opening the screen door, as the main door was already halfway open. “Jordan, is everything okay?” He peered inside to where Jordan sat on the edge of the sofa, leaning over a small, pale boy who was definitely not feeling well.
“I don’t know,” Jordan said, feeling the boy’s forehead.
“I took his temperature half an hour ago and it was down,” a woman Pierre presumed was Jordan’s mother said.
Jordan used the ear thermometer to take Jeremiah’s temperature and gasped. “Mom, it’s 103.3.” Jordan lifted Jeremiah into his arms. “I need to get him to the hospital.” Jordan seemed to notice Pierre through his fog of worry, clearly frantic now. “Can you drive us? Mom doesn’t do well after dark, and….”
“Sure. I’ll install the booster seat, and you guys lock up the house and bring him. We’ll go.” He left, heading to his car. Thankfully it didn’t take long to get the seat in place, and Jordan settled Jeremiah into it and climbed in back next to him, with Jordan’s mother taking the passenger seat.
“I’m Gertrude,” she said as he pulled out for the nearest ER.
“Mom, this is Pierre. He and I started working together today. He’s providing some extra security for Judge Crawford because of the letters.”
She humphed. “I’m surprised that man hasn’t had people after him before now.”
“Mom,” Jordan protested.
She rolled her eyes and turned to Pierre. “Are you a policeman?”
“Sheriff’s deputy, ma’am.” He kept the fake Texas accent out of his voice. Now was not the time for jokes. “And we take those threats very seriously.”
“I’m sure you do. But that man is a snake if I ever knew one.” She set her jaw, daring him to contradict her.
“What are you saying? I know he isn’t popular in some circles, but….”
She shook her head. “One hears things, and when Jordan’s father was alive…. He served on the county board for a number of years, as well as held various city and school board positions. He got to meet and knew everyone in the county, and he always said he’d never trust that man as far as he could throw him… and Heinrich always had a bad back. Heinrich never told me why he felt that way, though.”
“Mom, he’s my boss, and we have more important things to talk about than idle gossip.”
As he continued to drive, Pierre checked the mirror and saw Jordan stroking Jeremiah’s forehead. A few minutes later, he pulled into Holy Spirit Hospital and right up to the emergency entrance door. He waited as Jordan got Jeremiah out. Gertrude went with them, and Pierre drove off to find a place to park.
The waiting area was full by the time he returned, and Pierre found Jordan and Gertrude in chairs, with Jeremiah in Jordan’s lap.
“It hurts, Daddy,” Jeremiah said softly, clinging to Jordan with everything his little arms and hands had. “Please make it stop.” Tears ran down his cheeks, and he closed his eyes, curling into a ball. “My tummy, Daddy.”
“I know. As soon as we can see the doctor, he’ll make you feel better,” Jordan soothed as he grew paler and more worried.
Finally, after ten minutes, which Pierre thought a mercifully short period of time, they were called back. Jordan gave the nurse all the information she requested as he laid Jeremiah on the bed and covered him up. Between them, they explained what had happened, and the nurse entered all of it in the computer.
“Jeremiah has had leukemia. It’s in remission, and we believed he was cancer-free. But….”
“Of course. Has his oncologist been called?” she asked.
Jordan gave the name, and she entered that as well. Then she left the room. Pierre wondered if he should go too. He wasn’t really needed.
“It’s going to be all right,” Gertrude said as she settled in the chair next to the bed.
“No more cancer. Please, Daddy, make it no more cancer.” Tears ran down his cheeks.
“Your daddy is going to do his very best for you. I promise,” Pierre said from where he stood at the end of the bed. “So you be brave, and I promise I’ll take you for a ride in a police car and I’ll show you how to make the lights and siren work.” He did his best to try to smile and not let the threatening tears run down his cheeks. Hell and damnation, he saw hurt and pain all the time. Families torn apart by parents going to jail or prison. But this little boy’s pain and knowing this was only the tip of the iceberg, judging by what he was hearing, brought tears to his eyes that he couldn’t stop.
“Promise?” Jeremiah asked.
“Yes. I promise. I’ll take you and your daddy for a ride.” Pierre smiled, and Jeremiah turned to Jordan, who held his hand.
“Please, no cancer, Daddy. I wanna go for a ride in the police car.” He closed his big blue eyes, and Jordan looked even more afraid.
“How long has Jeremiah been with you?”
“Eight months,” Jordan said. “He’d been through so much. His mother is dead, and his father is God knows where. He reportedly took off after Jeremiah was born and hasn’t been seen since. At least that’s what I’m told. Jordan went into the foster care system and was diagnosed shortly afterward. He spent months alone in a children’s hospital, with only the social workers coming to spend time with him.”
“Miss Amy was nice. Miss Kelly was mean,” Jeremiah added, making a yucky face.
“Kelly was the nurse who gave him transfusions and shots. She’s very nice, and they all cared for you a lot. Remember your birthday party?” Jordan asked, and Jeremiah nodded slowly. “They all came and brought you presents.” Jordan stroked Jeremiah’s forehead. “I met him while he was still in the hospital.”
“Jordan had childhood leukemia,” Gertrude explained. “So when he met Jeremiah, he fell in love with him, and then when he found out he needed a family, Jordan petitioned to be his foster parent and is in the process of adopting him.”
“But he’s my daddy,” Jeremiah said, holding Jordan’s hand and staring up at him with open admiration.
“Hello,” a doctor said as he came in. “I understand your tummy hurts.”
Jeremiah nodded. “I throwed up… a lot.”
“I’m Dr. Andy. Can I look you over? I promise no pokey shots for now.” He held up his hands, and Jeremiah nodded his approval. “What did you have to eat?”
“Macaroni and cheese,” Jeremiah answered, then turned to Jordan. “I need to go potty, bad.”
“Do you want me to carry you?” Jordan asked, and Jeremiah threaded his arms around his neck.
“I’ll show you,” Dr. Andy said, and Jordan lifted Jeremiah up and carried him out of the room.
They returned a few minutes later, with Jeremiah still clinging to Jordan. “You were very good.”
“But he wanted to see my poop,” Jeremiah said with astonishment as Jordan settled him in bed.
“Sometimes we learn things,” Dr. Andy said. “Now, you look like you’re feeling a little better.” He took Jeremiah’s temperature again. “It’s down, but he’s still got a fever. I want to run a few tests just to rule out any sort of recurrence, but I think he has a touch of the flu and he might have a problem with dairy. Does he drink a lot of milk?”
“No. He’ll eat ice cream and some cheese, but he says he doesn’t like a lot of it.”
“That’s a good sign. Some kids have issues with cow’s milk. We don’t know what formula he was on as a baby or if his mother was aware, but my suggestion is to eliminate dairy altogether for a while and then test his reactions slowly. Some kids can tolerate some milk, and others none.” Dr. Andy leaned over the bed. “We need to take a little blood. I’m sorry, but we need to know that the yucky cancer is gone. I’ll have the nurse be gentle. I promise.”
“No pokey needles.” Jeremiah pulled his arms to his sides, pushing them underneath to hide them.
“Remember that Mr. Pierre said you could ride in a police car if you were good.” Jordan didn’t scold, and when Jeremiah turned to him, Pierre nodded gently.
“I know you hate needles. I do too. They’re yucky. But they need to make sure there isn’t any cancer,” Pierre told him, reaching into his pocket to pull out his case. “Here, you can hold that for me if you want. But don’t lose it.” He handed Jeremiah his badge, and the boy stared at it, running his fingers over the design.
“Can I be a policeman when I grow up?” Jeremiah asked.
“You can be whatever you want.” Jordan hugged him gently. “I’ve enrolled him in ballet class. The Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet is one of the best in the country, and I want him to learn to move. Even if he doesn’t stick with it, he’ll learn a lot.”
“I wanna dance.” Jeremiah turned to Pierre. “Can I be a dancing policeman?” He giggled.
“Someone is doing better,” the nurse said as she came in. “I’m gonna take a little blood and your temperature again. I promise to be gentle.”
Jeremiah clearly wasn’t happy, but he let her get his blood, holding Pierre’s badge like a talisman. When she was done, she took his temperature and gave him a squirt of medication on his tongue.
“It’s still elevated. We’ll see if the Children’s Tylenol will bring it down. Give it a few minutes.” She left the room, and it wasn’t long before Jeremiah’s eyes drifted closed and he fell asleep.
“Thank goodness. Sleep is best,” Gertrude said.
“Now we just need to wait for the tests.” Jordan continued holding Jeremiah’s hand.
“Is Jeremiah okay… or has he been, I should ask?”
Jordan nodded slowly. “He started getting better right after I brought him home, and he’s been improving really well. Three months ago his tests came back clear, and he’s been getting stronger and healthier by the day.” The worry was plain in Jordan’s eyes. “I don’t want him to go through that again.”
“How is the adoption progressing?”
“Well. There is no one to contest it, and Jeremiah has been in the system long enough that they want a home for him. But we’ve encountered prejudice and roadblocks from people who don’t think a gay man is a fit parent.” Jordan shook his head. “The first time I told the lady at the courthouse that I’d ask Judge Fortier what he thought of that attitude, she backpedaled pretty quickly.” He stroked Jeremiah’s forehead. “We still have a long way to go until the final hearing, but all of the home visits have been stellar.”
“I suppose it can be like walking on eggshells.”
“Yeah. Every step forward means there’s more for me to lose.” Jordan’s features grew gentle as he looked at Jeremiah. “You don’t need to stay. I can call a friend to take me home. It could take some time to get the test results, and….”
“It’s all right.” Pierre took a step back so he’d be out of the way, watching this little family as Jordan rested his head next to Jeremiah’s. A fierce longing washed over him, tugging and pulling at him. This was what he wanted—a family of his own. The love between the two of them was so evident. Jeremiah holding Jordan’s hand in his even in sleep, Jordan stroking Jeremiah’s forehead—it was all so tender, gentle, and loving. He wanted that in his life.
“I’m going to see if I can find some coffee or something. We’re going to be a while and it’s getting late.” Gertrude stood and left the area. Obviously they had both been through this routine many times before.
“Is this what happens when…?” God, he wasn’t even sure how to phrase the question.
“Sometimes. You never know how the disease will manifest itself after remission. For years after I was declared cancer-free, Mom jumped at each sneeze and had me on the way to the hospital for a stubbed toe. It’s part of dealing with all this. You get hypersensitive. That’s why I raced back when Mom called and why she didn’t write this off as just a case of the flu. You’re just extra cautious.” Jordan returned his attention to Jeremiah.
Pierre checked the clock on the wall and then did it again a few minutes later, wondering just how long it would be before they heard anything. This sort of thing had to be nerve-racking for Jordan. It already had Pierre on edge.
Gertrude returned with three cups of coffee and handed them out. It tasted like burned glue, but he sipped it. Gertrude sat back down. “Anything?”
Jordan shook his head. “It’s going to be a while. As busy as they are, things will be backed up, and it’s late, so they aren’t going to have a huge staff here to run tests just in case someone comes in.”
Pierre excused himself and set his coffee on the little stand near the bed. He went out to the desk, mentioned who he was there with, and asked when they would know something. He tried to be charming, and the assistant looked at him as though he had two heads, so he leaned closer, explained who he was, and let some authority slip into his voice. “I asked how long it would be.”
She checked the computer. “The results just came back, and the doctor needs to look at them.”
“Thank you.” Pierre smiled and returned to the room. “They’re waiting for the doctor to check the results.” He picked up his coffee again. Often being a police officer had its perks, and a little vocal authority backed up by something official usually did the trick.
Dr. Andy came in. “He came back with the flu. Jeremiah might also have a milk problem as well. So I’d remove it from his diet and reintroduce it a little at a time to see how he feels.”
Jordan breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”
Jeremiah began fussing, and Jordan gave him a small drink of water.
“Give him plenty of fluids and let him rest. I suggest you see his doctor in a day or two if he isn’t better.” Dr. Andy held Jeremiah’s hand. “You were a good patient and you deserve that ride in the police car.” He left the room, and a nurse came in with forms. Jordan lifted Jeremiah into his arms and carried him out of the hospital and to Pierre’s car.
Pierre drove Gertrude home before he took Jeremiah and Jordan to the condo.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” It was late, and Jordan was most likely going to be up most of the night with Jeremiah.
“I have to be.” Jordan waved slightly and then carried Jeremiah inside. His answer seemed strange to Pierre, and he wondered just what Jordan meant. Something seemed very wrong, but there wasn’t a way to ask him about it just yet.
Pierre waited until Jordan was inside and then went home to his place alone, already missing what wasn’t his to begin with.
Fire and Granite #2
“YOU’RE LEAVING already?” Briggs asked with a wry grin.
“Just got back from a transport to jail. Why—you need something?” Clay Brown asked, stopping as he climbed the steps of the sheriff’s station. He checked his watch. It had been a long shift and he was tired already. “I don’t have anything else this afternoon, unless Hunter has something special he wants me for.”
Briggs—a seasoned officer with years on the job that seemed to have etched a low-relief map in his face—shook his head. “I need another man for a transport team.”
“Tell me when,” Clay said without thinking too much about it. He understood they did what was needed to keep the public safe. That was the job, and Clay loved it, even if it meant long hours.
“Ten minutes. I have to get the paperwork finished, and we need to go over the procedures for this guy.” Briggs hurried down the steps toward the parking lot.
Clay went inside and headed to his desk to check his voicemail. He returned his work calls to keep things current. It would be nice if his family would call occasionally, but other than that….
“You about ready?” Briggs asked as he passed. Everyone called him by his last name, and Clay had wondered why until he found out his first name was Wilton. Then he understood. Briggs it was.
Clay headed to the conference room and took a seat. Briggs sat across from him as two other deputies, Smith and Jared, came in as well. That was quite a team for a simple transport.
“What’s the deal?”
“We are transferring Harper Grange to the courthouse today,” Briggs said.
Clay sat up straighter. “Should I be on this team?” he asked with a sigh. “We’re related.”
Briggs leaned across the table. “I’m aware of that. Is it going to be a problem?”
Clay shrugged. Harper was his cousin, the son of his father’s weird brother, Uncle Fester—Fredrick—and sister-in-law, Aunt Marlene. His family rarely had anything to do with that side of the family. Clay’s dad hated Marlene with a deep-seated passion, and he wasn’t too fond of Fredrick either, so even as kids, Clay and Harper hadn’t had much interaction. Other than being his cousin in name, Clay barely knew Harper, but he wanted to be aboveboard.
“I’m not going to have a problem. I probably only know him as well as any other prisoner we’d transport. I just wanted to be up front about it.”
“Good. Now, Grange is high risk and dangerous and he’s unpredictable. If he’s docile, don’t assume anything. Like any prisoner, he can become violent at any second. We’re using one of the SUVs for this transport.”
“Shackles?” Jared asked.
“Yes. Handcuff joined to leg irons. We aren’t taking any chances whatsoever. He’s a huge flight risk, and he’s threated both Judge Phillips and Judge Fortier just in the past week. You probably saw the uproar in the papers about it.”
Clay had. A reporter had arranged to visit under the guise of being a family member, and all hell had broken loose. Clay had to give the reporter credit—he’d used the fact that they had the same last name as an angle. After that debacle, which Clay was glad he’d been far away from, procedures at the jail had been changed and severely tightened.
“There will be no repeat of anything like that if I can help it,” Clay said.
Briggs nodded, relaxing a little. “Good. We’ve done transports every day. Stick to the book, don’t rush, but keep him moving. The biggest exposure is from the jail to the car and the car into the courthouse. I will be staying with him at the courthouse and providing security in the courtroom, along with the bailiff and the courthouse team. Be methodical and don’t take any chances with this guy. Any questions?”
There were none. All of them had done transports like this before and knew the drill. They stood when Briggs did and got busy. Clay was assigned to the second car, which would travel behind the one carrying Harper. That was probably best, as he wasn’t particularly keen to have any interaction with his cousin.
They all supervised and provided a show of strength while Harper was shackled and then walked slowly out to the loading area. Clay hadn’t seen his cousin in person in a few years, but he was menacing as hell. He was huge, broad-shouldered, and had his hair shaved and his head covered with demonic-looking tattoos. Everything about him, from the way he carried himself to his aloof, almost imperious demeanor, was designed to intimidate everyone around him. It wasn’t working on the deputies, who spoke very little as they guided him to the car. Clay breathed a sigh of relief when the SUV door closed with Harper safely inside the inner security cage.
The deputies got in, and Clay and Jared climbed into the second car. They pulled out of the Cumberland County jail complex and onto the road, heading toward town and the courthouse. Clay drove, with Jared manning communications.
“I really hate this guy,” Jared said as they rode.
“He gets to you, huh?” Clay said. “Imagine that”—he pointed forward—“showing up at your family reunion. It’s a real joy, I can tell you that.”
Clay drove at a safe speed, approaching the first intersection, but the lead SUV slowed and pulled to a stop. The road was blocked by an accident.
“I’m calling it in.”
“There are people on the road, and they look injured,” Clay said, though he had no intention of getting out. This was too dangerous for them to…. “Holy shit!”
One of the injured people raced up to the door of the SUV and collapsed against it.
“We need more vehicles out here.”
“I’m already on it.” Jared relayed the situation over the radio and then got out of the car. The others weren’t going to help, not with a prisoner in the car.
“Step away from the vehicle,” Clay said through the car speaker. “We have called for help. Please step away.”
The person continued leaning on the car, and Clay could see what appeared to be blood on the white SUV. Jared raced up, and Clay opened his door. As soon as he did, the bloodied black-haired woman leaning against the car straightened up, brandishing a gun, and shot Jared in the leg. He went down near the side of the road, and the woman turned to the SUV, shooting at the windows.
Clay grabbed the radio, his heart racing. This whole thing had gone to shit faster than he could take a breath. “We need assistance on Claremont Road near Army Heritage Drive. All available units, officer down… I repeat, officer down.” Years of training took over. He grabbed his weapon and crouched low, using the car door as cover in an effort to get a better and safer view of the scene. “Stand down!” Clay yelled, not knowing if the deputies in the other vehicle were alive or not. Smoke poured out of the broken window, and Clay wondered what had been shot into the vehicle.
The woman reached inside and opened the back door. Harper got out of the car as two men approached. They grabbed him, and Clay shot at the fleeing group. He hit one, who whirled but kept going. They climbed into one of the cars involved in the “accident” and sped off.
Clay raced up to where Jared lay on the ground.
“The son of a bitch,” Jared swore when Clay reached him. “I’ll be fine. They got me in the leg and it isn’t too bad. Check on the others.”
The tear gas inside the SUV had dissipated, but Clay’s eyes watered anyway as he got the doors open. Briggs lay on the steering wheel, groaning. Smith was shot in the head, leaning back in the seat, with blood running down his face.
“What the hell happened?” Sheriff Hunter asked as he raced up. Who knew a man that big could move that fast?
“It was an ambush. They were made up like accident victims. One shot Jared and then Smith.” Clay kept his wits even though he wanted to chase after the bastards. “They took off in a light blue Corolla, I’d say 2010 or so, heading south. License PAC376.”
“I’ve already alerted the Carlisle PD. They’re assisting.” Sheriff Hunter called in the information on the car as ambulances arrived.
Clay stayed out of the way of the other officers and emergency personnel, answering questions from every angle, it seemed. He turned to the sheriff as his head caught up to the rest of him. “Have you alerted the state police? He’s most likely heading for the freeway.”
“Already done,” Sheriff Hunter said.
Clay felt like shit. Three of the men with him were injured, and Smith looked like he was in really bad shape as they got him out of the car. Briggs was awake and pissed as hell, jawing away as they loaded him in the ambulance. Briggs, who was in charge of the motor pool, among other things, was probably angrier that they’d messed up his cars than about his own injuries. Jared seemed like he was going to be okay. It was Smith who worried him most. He wasn’t moving as they loaded him in the ambulance, and his was the first to race away.
“I should have wrung that bastard’s neck when we were kids,” Clay swore as Sheriff Hunter approached again. “He was always an asshole.”
He nodded and let the remark go. “Carlisle PD has the car. They found it in the Giant parking lot. It seems they ditched it and stole another,” Sheriff Hunter said. “These guys had this planned, and they were sophisticated.”
“You think they’ll leave the state and keep going?” Clay asked.
“I don’t know.” Hunter turned to him, his expression drawn in a way Clay had never seen before, though he understood and felt the same way. The guys he worked with were like brothers. They had one another’s backs. Clay wondered what else he could have done as guilt started taking root.
Other teams of officers arrived, and Clay let them work the scene and check the accident vehicle, which also turned out to be stolen. Just great. Hopefully it would be covered in prints and they could identify some of the men who had pulled this thing off. Clay leaned against his car and surrendered his weapon when asked so it could be examined. He explained the shots he fired and that he’d injured one suspect.
“He didn’t even seem to feel it,” Clay said absently. “I saw the blood and the hole in his clothes, but he kept moving like it was a mosquito bite. I’m going to guess the guy was hopped up on something, but I sure as hell have no idea what.” He lifted his gaze as a man in a Carlisle police officer’s uniform came over. “Hey, Red. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Carlisle jurisdiction, technically, and Sheriff Hunter thought it best to get some outside help,” Red explained.
“Good.” This was going to rock the sheriff’s department, so having investigators who were a little more removed was probably a good idea. Clay went over what happened so Red could get a statement. “What else can I tell you?” He turned at movement to his left. “Hey, Carter.”
“Sorry about this, Clay.”
“Me too. The bastards had this well planned,” Clay explained.
“I understand Harper Grange is a relative of yours,” Red prompted, and Clay explained how they were related.
“I don’t even think he’d recognize me now. But I certainly know him.” Clay provided all of the family contact information that he was aware of. “I doubt he’ll be stupid enough to contact anyone.”
“Why do you say that?” Carter asked while Red continued making notes.
“Whoever did this went through a lot of effort to get Harper out. There has to be a reason, and whoever they are, they aren’t going to let Harper or anyone else blow all their hard work by making a phone call to Mommy.” Clay knew that for damn sure.
The Carlisle team gathered physical evidence. Clay found he hated being on the other end of the investigation. He was usually the one asking the questions.
“Any word on any of the injuries?” Clay asked Sheriff Hunter once Red and Carter were done with him. “How is Smith?”
“Being prepped for surgery. The best they can tell us is that he’s alive. Briggs is conscious and going to be fine. Jared was damned lucky, with just a deep graze.” A lot of the wind had gone out of Sheriff Hunter’s sails. The man was usually imperturbable. Sure, he yelled and stuff, but things didn’t seem to get to him, deep down, very often. This definitely had. “They’re almost done here, and then we need to get back to the station.” He turned and strode toward his car.
Clay stayed until the wrecker arrived to haul away the second car. He also checked with all the officers to make sure there wasn’t anything they needed before he returned to the station. There would be an investigation for many reasons, one of which was the discharge of his weapon. Granted, that was pretty minor given the overall circumstances.
Once he was free to go, Clay turned the sheriff’s vehicle he’d arrived in around and drove the short distance back to the sheriff’s station next to the jail. He parked and walked inside to a very subdued atmosphere, though a few people approached him with questions.
“I don’t know much more than you do. It happened fast. Jared was trying to help the others when he was hurt.” That was all Clay was going to say at the moment. His legs had been knocked out from under him, but he wasn’t going to spread gossip. “What’s important is that the guys are getting the help they need,” he told Lawson, who had the decency to nod and go back to his desk.
“It will be all right,” Pierre Ravelle said as he came over to Clay’s desk and perched on the corner. “This wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that,” Clay answered quickly—too quickly. He felt like snapping but kept his voice under control.
“Do you?” Pierre crossed his arms over his chest, but his tone was soft and gentle, without accusation. “This is unprecedented in the department, and three of your colleagues were hurt before your eyes. You don’t need to be gruff about it. Everyone here understands.”
“I know. I keep wondering what I could have done to stop it.”
“You thought it was an accident and you were cautious,” Pierre said.
Clay nodded. “I thought the woman was bleeding out against the car. Jared had to have thought the same thing.” He sighed softly. “They were waiting for us. They knew when we were transporting Harper.”
“That probably wasn’t hard to guess. His trial has been in the papers, so they knew we would have to transport him with two cars together. But that doesn’t explain how they knew to be in the exact right spot at the exact right time, other than by the time of his trial. It’s suspect, but they could have had help from inside.”
“I hope not.” This was going to be bad enough, but turning it into a witch hunt inside the department would make things so much worse.
“Me too. But sometimes information is a lot easier to get than any of us would like to think.” Pierre stood. “No brooding or getting it into your head that this is your fault. It isn’t. It’s the assholes who broke out Grange, and we’re going to nail their asses to the wall.”
Clay loved the way Pierre could give a pep talk out of nowhere. Sometimes it was just what he needed.
“Yeah, we are. But in the meantime, Grange is out there once again.” He cringed at that thought. Before he’d been apprehended, Harper had assaulted at least eight people and murdered one more. “He’s smart, and now we know he has a pretty in-depth organization if they can pull this together.” This situation was going to get ugly as hell, especially once the story hit the media.
“No kidding. I thought we had this mini-Manson off the streets.” Pierre patted him on the shoulder. “We’ll get him,” he said, then went back to his desk.
Clay tried to get his head on work, but his thoughts kept wandering to the guys in the hospital.
“Brown,” Sheriff Hunter said as he passed his desk. “Jared is being sent home. Briggs is in a regular room. They have him stitched up and are watching him for a concussion.”
“What about Smith?” Clay asked.
“He’s out of surgery and still unconscious. They say the next couple days will tell the tale, so we wait. I spoke with his wife. She’s with him now. She said all we can do is pray.”
“Thanks.” Clay hated the part where he was helpless to do anything. That really sucked.
“Go on home. Your shift is almost over and you may as well get some rest. There are reporters already gathering out front. I’ll handle them. Don’t make a comment. Just go on home.”
“You got it.” Clay was anxious enough to put this day behind him. He gathered his things, left the station, got into his car, and headed for town and home. He pulled into his small garage and went through the yard to the back door of his town house.
“Hey, Petey,” he greeted, letting the tail-wagging corgi outside. They had a routine: when Clay got home, Petey went outside right away, then ambled back in for his greeting, plenty of scratches, and a treat. “Did you keep all the burglars away?” He handed Petey a rawhide, and the pup raced off to the living room and ducked under the coffee table to devour his treat.
Clay changed his clothes and then went to his office to check his email. He was finishing up when his phone chimed.
You okay? It was from his mother.
Clay called her back. “I’m fine, Mom.” He needed to reassure her. He didn’t want his mother calling him all night because she was scared for him. She tended to be a little dramatic and took things to heart sometimes, especially when it related to her only son.
“I hear your cousin is at it again,” she said immediately. “He’s all over the news, and your aunt has called twenty times, like I had anything to do with raising that son of Satan.” That was his mom. No sympathy from her for anyone. She was a no-nonsense kind of person, and Clay liked that about her. “Of course, I had to be nice to her because her son is a wanted criminal and will probably go to prison for the rest of his life….” She took a breath, and Clay tried to get a word in, but she continued on full steam. “The escape is all over the news. They said that three deputies were hurt, so I had to check to make sure you were okay.” Finally she paused a second.
“I’m okay. I was on the team transporting him. I saw the whole thing. And I can’t go into any details. But I’m fine, and one of the deputies is already home and another is doing well. The third, we don’t know yet. And for heaven’s sake, don’t share any of this with Aunt Marlene. It’s already bad enough.” His mother and his aunt had a weird relationship. They didn’t like each other, but they called each other on a regular basis. He thought it was a “keep your friends close and your enemies closer” sort of thing. Personally, his aunt made him a little crazy, so Clay avoided her as much as possible.
“Well, it’s awful, but I’m glad nothing happened to you. Let me know if I can do anything for the families of the other deputies. Maybe I could bake something and you could take it over to them.”
Clay cringed. His mother loved to bake, but no one ever willingly ate what came out of her kitchen. Her baking could best be described as experimental. The woman believed she could hide ingredients that were supposed to be healthy in what she cooked, but Clay knew there was no way in hell that mushrooms ever belonged in an apple pie.
“Mom, your good wishes are more than enough. We may need to take up a collection for their families because, no matter what, this will be a hardship for them.” And if Smith didn’t make it…. Clay shuddered. Smith had a family and two kids. The thought of them losing their father really twisted Clay’s gut. He knew what that felt like, and no kid should have to go through it. He wiped his eyes and stopped the sniffle that threatened. “Mom, I need to go and make some dinner. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know if anything changes.”
“Okay, honey. I love you.” She ended the call, and Clay set down his phone. Petey had finished his treat and sat at his feet, looking up at him.
“Do you want to help me make dinner?” Of course, Petey’s kind of help was eating anything that fell on the floor. Petey’s tail wagged, brushing back and forth like a doggie dust mop. “You’ll get yours when I have mine. That’s the deal.”
Petey whined at the injustice.
Clay went to the kitchen, got a container of pasta and sauce that he’d made up over the weekend, and popped it into the microwave. He wasn’t in the mood to cook, and an evening on the sofa in front of the television sounded like a good idea. Clay also made up a small salad and dressed it with ranch. He fed Petey and settled in front of the television, eating while watching the news, changing the channel as soon as the escape story came on.
Petey joined him on the sofa, curling up next to him, his head resting on Clay’s leg.
“I know, buddy. You’re just what I needed.” He patted Petey gently on the head and stroked down his back. Petey blinked up at him with his big brown puppy eyes, and Clay was able to let go of some of the stress of his day. Few things were as relaxing as just spending some quiet time with his dog. Petey never yelled at him and didn’t expect much from him. He just loved him without judgment. There hadn’t been many people in his life that Clay could say that about.
Clay’s phone rang, and Petey barked, then growled. He hated the phone, especially when it interrupted back-rub time. Clay checked the number and answered. “Sheriff, what can I do for you?”
“I wanted to call and tell you that Smith is awake and responding to treatment. The bullet didn’t enter his brain, but it did a lot of damage. They still have him on monitors, but I went to see him and his eyes were open and he squeezed my hand. He can’t talk because of tubes and things, but he’s improving. Briggs will go home tomorrow, and Jared’s wife said he’s resting and grumpy.”
“I suppose that’s the best we can hope for,” Clay said, breathing a sigh of relief as he continued petting Petey.
“Yes.” Sheriff Hunter hesitated. Clay figured he’d called for more than just to give him an update on his fellow deputies. He had to give him a chance to say what he wanted to say. “With the department down three deputies for a while, we need…. You know Grange is on the loose, and apparently that isn’t enough for him. Judge Phillips received a call threating his safety about an hour ago.”
Clay groaned, realizing where he was going with this. “Sheriff… I….”
Sheriff Hunter sighed. “I know you and Judge Phillips don’t get along. The man could be a royal pain in the behind to Jesus Christ himself, but he needs protection. We know Grange has threatened Phillips in the past, and he’s done it again. Now he’s on the loose, and God knows where he is right now. We have everyone trying to find this asshole, but until we do, Judge Phillips needs to be kept safe.”
“All right. When is he expecting me?” Clay asked, knowing he had little choice.
“Tomorrow morning at eight in his courtroom. I told him I couldn’t have anyone before then. He went to a hotel for the night and will go directly to court from there. He’s going to need around-the-clock protection, so you’ll need to figure out how to secure his home as well. My suggestion is to make a visible presence. Let anyone watching know that you’re there to try to discourage them from making a play for the judge.”
“All right.” He wasn’t thrilled about doing this, but it was his job, and he could get along with anyone for a few days. God, he hoped it was only that long. “I’ll protect Judge Moody-and-Superior.”
“Great. And for goodness’ sake, don’t let him hear you call him that or he’ll probably hold you in contempt.”
“We’re supposed to tell the truth in court,” Clay retorted, and Sheriff Hunter snorted.
“You’re also not supposed to piss off the judge. Just behave yourself until we catch this guy. I’d really like to not have to transport one of my deputies to jail.” He hung up, and Clay sighed loudly enough that Petey lifted his head.
“I know, boy. I’ve got an awful assignment with a picky judge who thinks he’s God’s gift to everyone. The man is a pain in the ass.”
Petey climbed onto his lap and lay over his legs. Clay petted him gently, and Petey sighed, soaking in the attention.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you while I’m gone. I can’t take you to Mother’s. She’ll keep you on her porch because you get hair on her furniture.”
Petey huffed again, as though he understood and didn’t have any answers either.
Fire and Agate #3
“CHRIS,” BRIGGS said as he stalked into the locker room like a man on a mission. His gaze was hard and his posture as rigid as a two-by-four. Anger and discontent rolled off him in waves, worse than Chris had ever seen in the month since he had moved from jail duty.
Two years of whining, demanding prisoners who thought being in jail was the worst thing to ever happen to them and thought a jail cell should be like a suite at the Hilton. Those were the ones Chris was pretty sure were never going to see the inside of a cell again if they could help it. And then there were the repeat offenders who thought of the jail as home and a chance at three meals a day. God, he had hated every minute of the constant noise of men and women talking, fighting, yammering on about nothing just to make noise so the reality of the shit they were in didn’t close in around them.
“What can I do for you?” Chris smiled as best he could. Briggs had been instrumental in getting him off jail duty and into the sheriff’s office, so he owed the guy.
“It’s not me. His Majesty wants to see you.” Briggs turned, flashing a beam of damn near hatred out the door.
Not that Chris blamed the guy. When Sheriff Hunter had decided to retire, Briggs had stepped in as acting sheriff at Hunter’s request. The entire department had been pretty happy about it. Briggs was well respected and good at his job. But the county board had other ideas. They did some lame-assed search, and lo and behold, they’d found the current sheriff, a political appointee. That had been a month ago, but Briggs still hadn’t gotten over it.
“Thanks.” He checked that his uniform was perfect, because that was what Sheriff Mario Vitalli liked. He was all about how things looked and appeared. It didn’t seem to matter how things got done as long as he looked good—at least that was the general feeling in the locker room. “I’ll go right away.”
Briggs rolled his eyes. “He’s on a call, so give him five minutes.”
Vitalli liked everyone to wait for him, though he never wanted to wait for anyone or anything. Which would be fine if he were good at his job. He wasn’t particularly—at least Chris didn’t think so.
“Okay.” Chris wanted to say something to Briggs. He really thought a lot of him, but everything that came to mind sounded completely lame, so he kept quiet and showed Briggs the respect he thought he deserved.
“Do you want something?” Briggs asked, taking a step closer.
Chris realized he’d sunk into his thoughts and had been looking at nothing in particular. Briggs must have thought he was staring at him. “No.” Chris turned away and closed his locker. “I’ll see you around.” He left the room and headed up to where the big guy had his office.
The door was closed, so Chris sat in the chair outside to wait. Things had changed a lot in a month. Everyone was quiet around the office. The people who worked near the sheriff all spoke in whispers. Sheriff Vitalli didn’t like noise, and to him, talking meant people weren’t working. Which seemed ridiculous to Chris, because for him, talking in a sheriff’s office meant work was getting done and investigations were being discussed and moving forward.
The door opened and Sheriff Vitalli tilted his head outside.
Chris snapped to his feet, went in, and closed the door. “Good morning.”
“Anducci,” Vitalli said, taking his seat behind the desk. Chris couldn’t miss the file that sat there in front of him, and wondered if he was being sent back to the jail. His stomach clenched. He’d worked hard and diligently to get out of there. “I have an assignment for you.” He pushed the file off to the side as though he had made a decision. Chris wondered if it was good or bad.
“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, hoping to hell he wasn’t on his way back. No matter what, he was going to have to return to his locker for an antacid.
Vitalli shook his head and scoffed. “Everyone seems to think that this office is some kind of protection service.” He sneered.
Chris kept his mouth shut. It was their job to protect the public, which was why they became police officers in the first place. At least why Chris had. Granted, most people would think him idealistic, but so the fuck what.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes,” Chris answered quickly.
“I got a request from a social worker.” Vitalli yanked open a drawer and pulled out a thin file, then tossed it on the desk dramatically. “The cops in Carlisle busted up a whorehouse and found a bunch of aliens working there. In their touchy-feely world, they set about helping them and found they were brought here against their will.” He rolled his eyes. “I’m not buying it, but no one asked me my opinion. Anyway, they say they need help for one person they found. It’s a man, not a woman….” The sheriff paused as if he were expecting some sort of agreement to his ignorance and shortsightedness. He didn’t seem to believe that men could be trafficked as well as women, and Chris wasn’t going to agree with him.
“Human trafficking takes many forms,” Chris said, then cleared his throat when the sheriff frowned deeply. “What would you like me to do?”
Vitalli groaned dramatically. “The Social Services folks found these people safe places to live, but one of them has been found out. Apparently he’s preparing to testify against his captors, and now he’s been getting threats. The feds, DA, and Social Services are all asking for protection for this guy, and it’s falling on me to provide it. So….” He picked up the file and thrust it toward Chris. “It’s you.”
“Me?” He took the file and tucked it under his arm. He wasn’t going to read it while standing in front of the sheriff.
“Can we not let this interfere with your shifts?” he groused, then turned back to his empty desk, grabbing the first piece of paper he could find.
“Is there anything else?”
He didn’t think he was going to get an answer, but then the sheriff lifted his gaze. “Don’t screw this up. It’s an easy job, so just do it and be done.” He turned away, back to his papers. Chris took it as a dismissal and left the office, closing the door behind him.
With a sigh of relief, Chris went to his old metal desk at the back of the station and placed the file on the empty surface. He was usually out on patrol or working with one of the other deputies, so he spent very little time there. No pictures or papers littered the space, just a phone and a few files hanging in one of the drawers. It would be so easy for him to pack up and move on. Part of him, some fear deep inside, wondered how long he would get to stay before being sent back to jail duty.
“What did the sheriff want?” Pierre asked as he approached the desk.
“He gave me an assignment,” Chris said, rather pleased.
Pierre smiled. “It looks like you’re going to stay, then.” Pierre had been the first one to welcome him, handing over a fresh coffee on Chris’s first day. “That’s good.”
“Suppose so, as long as I don’t mess it up.” Chris opened the file and scanned through it. There wasn’t much information, just a name and address for the witness, along with information on how to contact the caseworker. “Kasun, Pavle Kasun…,” he said, and nodded.
“Does that mean anything to you?” Pierre asked.
“Not personally. My mother’s family is Serbian, and this has that sound.” He picked up the phone and called the number for the caseworker. It went to voicemail, so he left a message asking her to call back as soon as she was able.
“What did the sheriff tell you?”
“That this Pavle is a witness who was in a safe house until he was found out. I suspect he’s been moved, and they want me to try to help keep him safe until the FBI and DA can talk to him and he can testify against the traffickers.” It shouldn’t be too difficult a job as long as they could keep his location a secret.
“Then do what you can for him.” Pierre glanced at the sheriff’s office, choosing his words carefully. “He doesn’t think too much of others… who are different. Anyone who is different from him.”
“I see.” Chris knew Pierre had a partner, Jordan, who worked at the courthouse, and there were other gay men in the department. Apparently they were worried about this particular sheriff. Sheriff Hunter hadn’t been prejudiced; either that or he hadn’t cared as long as the job got done. Chris supposed that was probably the best kind of person to occupy the office. Someone who looked at accomplishments and results.
“No, you don’t. Be careful, and do this to the best of your ability.” Pierre clapped Chris on the shoulder. “Because this could be your one and only chance with this man. He doesn’t seem to abide anything that makes him look bad in any way.” Pierre held his gaze, and Chris nodded. They were both thinking of Graves, who the new sheriff had already demoted and relegated to patrolling country roads for speeding and crap just because one of his arrests fell through on procedural grounds.
“I know.” Chris had started reviewing the file again when his phone rang. He smiled at Pierre, who left his desk, and Chris answered the call.
“Hello, this is Marie Foster returning your call. Is this in regards to Pavle?” She sounded tired, like she hadn’t slept or had a break in weeks.
“Yes. I was hoping I could meet you and we could discuss what you believe is required, and then I’d like to meet him. I need to assess the situation so I can develop a plan to help keep him safe.”
“Excellent. If you’d like to come to my office on Pitt Street, we can go see him from there.” She gave him the address. “And please don’t come in an official car. We don’t want to draw attention to where he is. This is the third safe house we’ve housed him at, and we keep getting indications that he’s been found. We don’t know how, and I don’t want to take any chances.”
“Then I’ll change into civilian clothes as well before I come see you.”
“Thank you. I’ll see you in about half an hour, then.”
After hanging up, Chris left his desk, picking up the file to take it with him. He returned to the locker area, changed out of his uniform, and let dispatch know that he was going to be out on an assignment from the sheriff. Then he took his own car and drove the five minutes to the office.
The building embodied small and utilitarian at its worst—nothing at all of any personality in the place—and Marie’s office was equally drab and stuck in the eighties. When he entered, she stood to offer her hand. Then he sat in an olive-green office chair that creaked under his weight.
Marie was a big woman with a ready smile and bright, expressive eyes that bristled with intelligence and care. She dressed professionally casual, wearing a dark blue and white blouse with jeans. Her office was as neat and organized as any he’d seen. Two phones rested in holders on her desk, which also held a computer and a few pictures.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on so I can try to help?” Chris asked, needing to get some background.
She nodded. “We discovered the house about three weeks ago, and the Carlisle Police raided the place. They discovered people inside, including two wanted sex offenders, who are still in custody in the county prison, and Pavle, who was cowering in the corner of a closet. It took them an hour to get him to come out. Once they called me, I was able to explain enough to him that he understood those people were there to help him.”
“Did you work with him?”
“Yes. I found him a safe house that was a group home with five other individuals. It was… not good. He cowered when any men came near him and basically stayed in a corner, watching everyone, for days. Either that or he went to his room and hid. I think his poor mind was simply overloaded. Then someone tried to set fire to the home and damaged it enough that everyone had to be relocated. That was hard, but then they reported people watching the next house two days after Pavle moved in.” She swallowed and leaned back in her chair.
“Do you think someone is feeding his captors information?” Chris asked.
“Honestly? Yes,” she said, and he nodded. “We have a system that tracks each person in our safe houses. Pavle has been anonymized, but someone is using the information to try to find him, which is a violation of a number of state and federal laws.” Marie leaned forward, her demeanor turning more serious. “We can’t protect him anymore, and the longer he stays in the safe house, the more he and the others there with him are in danger.” She humphed softly. “At the moment he’s being housed in a home for women because we didn’t want to put him with men right now. And that’s causing some problems for the women, though I think those are dissipating.” She was clearly coming to the end of her resources. “I guess what I’m asking you is if you’d be willing to take Pavle to live with you. That way I can remove him from the system, at least as far as the information about where he’s staying. Get him off the grid for a while.”
That hadn’t been something Chris had thought about doing, and the request surprised him. His instinct was to say no. His own home was his sanctuary, and he liked to keep it that way. Growing up, he’d moved many times—military family. Luckily, when his dad had been close to retirement, he’d been able to get posted to the Carlisle Barracks, near family. Chris’s home here was like his castle because it was the first one he’d had that was his and no one else’s.
“Why don’t you take me to meet him and then we can see what we need to do,” Chris said, purposely vague and noncommittal. Surely Marie couldn’t blame him for not giving an answer until he met Pavle.
“I’ll do that. But there are some things you need to know first.” She floundered, seeming to be trying to figure out where to start. “We haven’t gotten the full story from him about how he got here. There is a language barrier that’s hard for us to breach. He does speak some English, mostly what he taught himself from listening to his captors and the few people he’s been around for the last four years.”
Chris gaped. How in the hell could someone live that way for such a long time? “Oh my God.”
“Yes. We believe he was brought in through New Jersey during the Super Bowl in 2014. Newark is a huge human trafficking point of entry. Anyway, we aren’t sure how long he’s been in Carlisle or how many owners he’s had over the years.”
Her words sent a spike through Chris’s heart. How in the hell could people do that to someone else? Chris had most definitely seen human beings at their lowest, and just when he thought he’d seen it all… wham… it got worse.
“Okay. So he’s been traumatized and most likely gaslighted for years,” he said, and Marie nodded. “So in his mind, this is all his fault, and everything that has happened to him is because of something he did.”
“You got it. Years of fear and guilt conditioning. Those are the greatest weapons they have. Though, deep down, there is some steel in his back. There has to be for him to have survived this long.” She gathered her purse and phone, as well as a spring jacket. The early May weather this year had been up and down. “This is the address.” She handed it to him on a small sheet of notepaper, and Chris memorized it and dropped it into the shredder in the corner of the office. That earned him a smile.
“I’ll meet you there. I’m in the blue Edge,” he explained as he left the office with Marie behind him.
Inside the car, he took a few minutes to breathe. Things like this shouldn’t affect him. He saw bad things every day. But this story got under his skin, and he needed a few minutes to get his professional distance back into place. Once his anger and indignation wore down a little, he pulled out of the lot and drove to the east side of town. He parked on the street and waited for Marie before approaching the house with her.
Marie stopped at the base of the walk. “I know you’re a cop, but try not to walk like one. You’re standing tall and strong. I know in your job you have to project strength, but here that’s not a benefit. Every one of these people have been abused or hurt at the hands of a man, so they are going to be intimidated.”
Chris slumped a little and lowered his gaze slightly. “Better?”
“Try smiling and not being so serious.”
Chris chuckled, and Marie must have approved because she turned, continued forward, and knocked on the door.
The house was deadly silent. Three women sat in chairs, looking up at him as though he were the devil incarnate, fear radiating off each and every one of them. He nodded to each lady and gave them all a small smile.
“This is Deputy Chris,” Marie said.
“What he want?” one of the ladies asked. She had big brown eyes, and her lips curled in a sneer.
“Letty, that’s enough,” Marie said gently, but with a firm undertone. “He’s here to help Pavle.”
A woman bustled into the room, and Marie introduced her as the housemother, Annette.
“His room is down the hall. He rarely leaves it, even to eat,” Annette explained, never raising her voice much above a whisper. “Follow me.” She turned to lead him down the hallway to the last room. Annette knocked, spoke softly, and opened the door.
The curtains were drawn, the room dark, even though it was the middle of the day. A single light burned next to a twin bed that had been made to within an inch of its life, with corners sharp enough to make any drill sergeant proud. The room, however, was empty.
“Pavle, sweetheart. It’s Annette,” she said gently and waited.
Slowly a figure, curled up and small, made an appearance from around the side of the dresser. The first thing Chris noticed were the biggest, brownest eyes he had ever seen, filled with the pain of years of hurt. They blinked, and then Pavle stepped farther into the light. Even standing, he looked half hunched over.
“This is Deputy Chris. He’s here because he’s going to help keep you safe.”
Pavle raised his head slightly, his black hair, long and uneven, falling to the sides of his face.
“Hello,” Chris said, mimicking the soft tone the others had used. “I’m Chris. They told me you needed help, so I’m going to protect you so no one hurts you anymore.” In that moment, he made up his mind to do whatever was needed to help this man, and if that meant moving him into his home to protect him, so be it.
“I’d like it if you went with Deputy Chris. He is a good man and will not hurt you,” Marie explained slowly and gently.
Chris didn’t expect Pavle to believe her or to agree to come. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” Chris said, crouching down so he was at the same level as Pavle. “This is your choice.”
“Choice?” Pavle asked in a raspy voice that tore at Chris’s insides, looking at him and then back to Marie.
“Yes. You can choose to stay here or go with Deputy Chris. We want you to be safe, but we aren’t sure how well we can protect you here. If you go with Deputy Chris, he will protect you. Keep you safe.”
“INS?” Pavle asked.
“No. He is good man. Caring. He will help you.” Marie seemed to have infinite patience.
Pavle blinked, standing still, then nodded and walked to Chris. It seemed as though he either didn’t understand or thought he didn’t have a choice, even though he was being given one. Chris held out his hands, palms up, to show that he wasn’t going to hit him. When Pavle looked at him with those huge eyes and the face of an angel, he looked much younger than the twenty-four listed in his file. Maybe that was his previous owner’s fetish. Still, after all he’d been through, Pavle’s handsomeness and light shone through, with soft features and an almost delicate frame.
“I’ll gather his few things,” Annette said.
Marie extended her hand to take Pavle’s gently. He went with her in silence. She led him out of the house, and once they were in the sun, Chris got a better look at him. Pavle was pale, probably from years of being inside. Chris reminded himself to ask Marie about any past injuries. He suspected that Pavle had been treated very badly in the past and he needed to know if he was okay physically.
“Thank you for doing this,” Marie said once she had opened the door to Chris’s car and gotten Pavle settled in the passenger seat. He sat without moving or looking to either side. “You have to keep him safe. He is the main witness against the man who held him for nearly two years. We need to get that man and then trace back to the people who sold Pavle to him. We’re pulling each thread to see what we can unravel.”
“Okay. I will do my best, I promise you.”
“I’ll follow you to your house and help Pavle get settled.”
As Marie got to her car, Pavle reacted for the first time.
“She’s just riding separately. She will be back in a few minutes.”
Chris drove the short distance to his house and pulled into the garage. He didn’t want Pavle to be seen, and yet he also didn’t want him to feel like a prisoner again by being hidden. He got out and waited, hoping Pavle would get out on his own. After a few moments, Pavle opened the door and climbed out of the car. Chris opened the door to the yard and motioned for Pavle to go ahead of him.
Marie came through behind him, and Chris closed the garage doors and joined the two of them in the yard. Pavle looked around, saying nothing. Chris wished he would say something… anything. He was way too quiet, and that worried Chris because he had no idea what he was thinking, and damn it all, those eyes still held buckets of fear.
“It’s okay. This is where you are going to stay.” Marie gently coaxed Pavle toward the house, and he shuffled along, looking at the yard. Hopefully he liked what he saw. Chris had spent too many hours working out stress for the garden to be unappreciated.
Chris opened the back door, went inside, and turned on lights, letting Marie bring Pavle into the kitchen, motioning toward the living room. Maybe this was the biggest mistake of his life. He wasn’t equipped to handle someone as fragile and frightened as Pavle. Chris had no clue what he needed or even how to get through to him.
“I sold?” Pavle finally asked, barely above a whisper.
Chris caught Marie’s gaze, and his heart twisted in his chest. God, this was going to wrench his guts six ways from Sunday.
“No. This is where you are going to live. You are not going to be sold to anyone anymore. Deputy Chris is here to help you and nothing more.” She patted his hand and took Pavle through to the other room.
Chris got three glasses of water and put some cookies on a plate. He needed some sugar if he was going to get through this in one piece.
Marie and Pavle were talking softly on the sofa when Chris handed each of them a glass and offered them cookies. Marie took one, and Pavle stared at the plate as though it were a foreign object. Finally, he took one and ate a small bite before shoving the whole thing in his mouth, chewing and swallowing like he hadn’t eaten in days. Then he drank the entire glass of water.
Chris offered him another, and Pavle took it in disbelief, ate it quickly, and then rested his hands in his lap.
“Why don’t I take you upstairs and show you your room?” Chris offered. He led Pavle and Marie upstairs and into the bright guest room, with cream walls and a deep green coverlet on the bed. The furniture was white and rather plain, but functional. He’d found the set at a secondhand store and painted it himself to clean it up. “You can put your clothes in here,” Chris told Pavle, who shrugged and looked down at what he was wearing.
“I have his things in the car. There isn’t much right now,” Marie explained.
“That’s okay. I can take him to get everything he needs.” Chris needed to do some shopping tomorrow anyway and figured he could take Pavle with him. He would need to disguise Pavle somehow. “I have something he can wear tonight if he needs to, and then we’ll shop tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Marie said with a sigh. “Are you going to be okay?” she asked Pavle, who nodded.
Chris showed her downstairs, while Pavle stayed behind, and got Pavle’s things from her car.
“I’ll stop by whenever I can. He’s going to need care and plenty of help.”
“Of course. Is he seeing a counselor?” Chris asked.
“Yes. But they are having some language issues. I’m working on it. I’d like to find one who understands Serbian so they can talk in his native language, but it’s very difficult in this area. But I’m not giving up. I’ll let you know when his next appointment is.” She left through the back gate, and Chris locked it from the inside and went back into the house. He brought Pavle’s things up to his room and set them on the bed next to him.
“Are you hungry?” Chris asked. When Pavle finally nodded, Chris motioned, and they left the room. He didn’t know what to make for dinner, but decided on pasta. He got Pavle seated in the kitchen and started cooking. It wasn’t fancy, and the sauce was from a jar, but when he put the plate and a glass of water in front of Pavle, the surprised expression and then the way he shoveled the food into his mouth, his arm nearly a blur, told him a great deal about Pavle’s treatment. Chris got his attention and ate slowly. “I’m not going to take your food.”
Pavle nodded and ate a little more leisurely, but his body was rigid the entire time, as if he expected Chris to take away his plate at any moment.
Once Pavle had eaten everything, Chris got him a little more and showed Pavle what he had to drink. Pavle pointed, and Chris poured him some juice. Pavle sniffed the glass and sipped before downing the liquid like it was a huge shot.
“I am not going to take your food or drink. You can have all you want.” He poured Pavle some more grape juice and set it in front of him before clearing the dishes. Pavle stared at the glass like it held some deep meaning and then sighed dramatically and drank it.
Once Chris had cleaned up, he motioned for Pavle to follow him through to the living room. Chris put on the television and sat in the chair. Pavle sat in the other one, alternately watching the television and then him. It was a little unnerving, but Chris sat still and tried to relax, hoping Pavle would do the same.
At bedtime, he turned off the television and led Pavle up the stairs, turning out the lights. “It’s time to go to bed.” He showed Pavle the bathroom and the towels that were his to use. He also found a new toothbrush and some extra toiletries for him, placing them on the bathroom counter. He tried to think of anything he was forgetting. “Is there anything else you need?”
Pavle shook his head and went to his room, and when Chris came in to bring him some pajamas, Pavle stood in the center of the room, naked, his hands behind his back, head bent down.
Saturday Series Spotlight: Carlisle Cops
Andrew grew up in western Michigan with a father who loved to tell stories and a mother who loved to read them. Since then he has lived throughout the country and traveled throughout the world. He has a master’s degree from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and now writes full time.
Andrew’s hobbies include collecting antiques, gardening, and leaving his dirty dishes anywhere but in the sink (particularly when writing) He considers himself blessed with an accepting family, fantastic friends, and the world’s most supportive and loving partner. Andrew currently lives in beautiful, historic Carlisle, Pennsylvania.
EMAIL: andrewgrey@comcast.net
Fire and Flint #1
KOBO / iTUNES / GOOGLE PLAY
Fire and Granite #2
Fire and Agate #3
Carlisle Deputies Series
AMAZON US / AMAZON UK / B&N
KOBO / iTUNES / iTUNES AUDIO
AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY
DREAMSPINNER / GOODREADS TBR
Carlisle Cops Series
AMAZON US / AMAZON UK / B&N
KOBO / iTUNES / iTUNES AUDIO
AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY
DREAMSPINNER / GOODREADS TBR
AMAZON US / AMAZON UK / B&N
KOBO / iTUNES / iTUNES AUDIO
AUDIBLE / GOOGLE PLAY
DREAMSPINNER / GOODREADS TBR
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