Undercover Protector. Cassie Miles

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СКАЧАТЬ know you. You’re Lionel Callahan’s granddaughter.” The checkout clerk at the Bridgeport Mini-Mart peeped over her half glasses. “It’s Annie, right?”

      “That’s right.” Though she recognized the round face and tiny pug nose of the gray-haired woman, Annie had to read the name tag pinned above the breast pocket of the orange smock. “Edna.”

      “So, Annie. How long have you been back in town?”

      “A couple of days.”

      “What did you do to your arm?”

      Annie glanced down at the adjustable cast. She’d been lucky to escape from the parking-lot assault with only a hairline fracture and a mild concussion. The bruising was worse than the break.

      “It’s nothing,” she said. News traveled quickly in a small town like Bridgeport, and Annie preferred not to spread this story. It was more than a little embarrassing for a cop to get mugged. “Could you sack my groceries in this canvas pouch? Then I can carry the handle over my left arm.”

      “Sure thing,” Edna said. “And how’s Lionel doing?”

      “As well as can be expected after a stroke.”

      She wasn’t happy with her grandpa’s progress. Though he seemed to be resting comfortably, his attitude bordered on depression. He wouldn’t talk on the telephone, wouldn’t get out of bed and refused to see visitors because he didn’t want people to see him at less than one hundred percent.

      Her grandpa had always been an important man in this town. He was the former high-school football coach, and he’d served for two decades as the municipal judge—an elected part-time position for handling minor violations, like breaking curfew or failure to pay parking tickets. Everybody in Bridgeport respected Lionel Callahan, and he didn’t want his status to change.

      “Poor Lionel,” Edna said as she slipped a bag of Hershey’s Kisses into the pouch. “I’ll drop by tomorrow with some of my special homemade chicken soup.”

      “That’s not really necessary,” Annie said. The freezer was already crammed full of casseroles from friends and well-wishers. They had enough frozen pasta to feed Italy.

      “Tell me, Annie.” Edna’s button nose twitched, sniffing out fresh gossip. “Are you married yet?”

      “Not yet.” Annie forced a smile.

      “A career woman, huh? I heard you were a policewoman. Ever kill anybody?”

      “No.” Other people seemed to think her life was one big action-adventure movie.

      “But I’ll bet you’ve shot somebody.”

      “No again.” Annie shoved a loaf of bread on top of her other groceries, slung the canvas pouch over her shoulder and headed for the door. “See you around, Edna.”

      At the corner she turned. It was four blocks from the mini-mart back to her grandpa’s house on Myrtlewood Lane.

      Had she ever killed anybody? What a question! Her job was mostly paperwork and common sense. She seldom unholstered her gun and had never purposefully intended to shoot another human being—with the notable exception of the man who’d assaulted her in the parking lot four days ago. If she’d reached her gun in time, she would have fired. That incident, however, was more about self-preservation than policework. Or was it?

      For a couple of weeks she’d been on the receiving end of some very strange harassment. Some unknown person had been leaving cheap porcelain figurines where she’d be sure to find them. It started with a skunk on her desk at work. Then there was a ballet dancer on the hood of her car. In the hall outside her apartment she’d found a chipmunk with a chipped ear.

      These odd gifts, unaccompanied by a note or any type of explanation, didn’t make sense. At the time she hadn’t thought they were meant as threats.

      She rounded the corner onto Myrtlewood Lane, enjoying the comfort of wearing khaki walking shorts and a red T-shirt, instead of a police uniform with a utility belt that weighed thirteen pounds. Her long straight blond hair was free from the regulation ponytail or bun that went with her uniform. In spite of the slight residual headache from her concussion, she felt good.

      Here at home, the air always smelled fresher. The red-and-gold sky before dusk shone with more brilliance. Her ears resonated with normally unheard sounds, like the whirr of a hummingbird’s wings.

      Though Bridgeport lay only fifteen miles from the coast on the Yaquina River, it was nothing like the bustling touristy seaside towns. Instead, the profound stillness—so different from the city—gave an illusion of security, as if they were sheltered by the old-growth forests that Bridgeport, being a logging town, had done its best to destroy.

      The screech of brakes interrupted her reverie, and she watched a dusty beat-up black pickup park at the curb. The guy who climbed out from behind the steering wheel stared directly at her. Was he somebody she knew? Or was he a threat?

      Warily Annie halted as he came toward her. He wore work boots, worn jeans and a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and frayed—a typical logger outfit. He was solidly built, probably six feet tall and two hundred pounds. “You’re Annie.”

      “That’s right.” She couldn’t place him, and hoped this was an innocent encounter. Forcing a smile, she said, “I’m sorry. I don’t remember your name.”

      “On account of we never met.” Up close there was no other word for him but ugly. Limp strands of yellow hair dangled across his narrow forehead. His mouth twitched. The scent of fruit-flavored chewing gum mingled with the acrid smell of his sweat. “Ain’t this a pretty sunset. I always missed the sunsets when I was in prison.”

      Prison? A shudder went through her. This meeting felt horribly familiar to the one in the parking lot. He’d come out of nowhere. She was carrying groceries. “Wh-who are you?”

      “You’re a cop, right?”

      She nodded, not wanting to speak because he’d hear the tremble in her voice. What was the matter with her? She wasn’t usually so easily spooked.

      “Some ex-cons don’t cotton to lady cops. But me?” He thumped his chest and chewed his gum faster. “I like a woman in uniform.”

      Was he the assailant? Had he followed her to Bridgeport? She tried to picture him in a black poncho and baseball cap. Her mind flashed back to that chilly rainy night. She saw the baseball bat. Her arm twitched with remembered agony. Icy fear crept up and ambushed her.

      Her ears drummed with the remembered sounds of pelting rain and thunder. Darkness danced behind her eyelids. She wanted to run. Her grandpa’s house was less than fifty yards away. But her muscles froze, and she was unable to move.

      “The name is Drew Bateman,” he said.

      She blurted, “What do you want?”

      “I’m just hanging around.” He stared so hard that his head came forward like a snake. “But I ain’t going away. Every time you look around, I’ll be there. Tell your grandpa.”

      Was he threatening her grandpa? Oh, God. She had to pull herself together. For Lionel’s sake, СКАЧАТЬ