Tennessee Takedown. Lena Diaz

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      Chapter Three

      Dillon wrestled the steering wheel to keep his Jeep on the road. The last time he’d seen a storm this bad, the bridge over Little River washed out, stranding an entire Cub Scout troop on Cooper’s Bluff, the mile-long, uninhabited island smack-dab in the middle of the river. Thankfully the mayor had learned his lesson from that fiasco. This time he’d paid attention to the weather reports and Cooper’s Bluff had been evacuated earlier this afternoon, the bridge closed until the weather broke. Since the storm wasn’t expected to ease until tomorrow morning, the entire police department was on standby for storm-related emergencies.

      Which was why Dillon was out in the middle of the blasted thing.

      This was a hell of a way to spend his evening after facing off with a crazed shooter earlier today and spending the next hour listening to his boss’s tirade about chain of command and following orders. Dillon had been on the verge of telling his boss to take a hike and walking out when Thornton received his first call from the weather station, warning him the storm was going to be worse than originally thought. Thornton had immediately called for all hands on deck. Everyone had to be ready to go if and when a call for help came in.

      Dillon would have rather stayed at the station and worked on the workplace-shooting investigation. But he had a four-wheel drive with a winch, which meant he was in high demand to help stranded motorists escape rapidly rising water on some of the more isolated, two-lane roads. He’d spent the past six hours pulling half a dozen vehicles out of swollen ditches. Now his shoulders and back ached and all he wanted to do was pop the top on an ice-cold beer, lie down in his recliner and sleep.

      The squawk of his cell phone had him clenching the steering wheel even harder. He ignored the first ring, irrationally hoping whoever was calling would call someone else instead, preferably someone who hadn’t been working solid since sunup and was bone weary.

      But when the phone rang again, his shoulders slumped and he answered, “Gray.”

      “Detective Gray, this is Nancy, nine-one-one operator. I have Lauren Wilkes on the line. She specifically asked to speak to you. Something about her friend possibly being in trouble. Should I patch her through?”

      Dillon let out a long sigh. That cold beer would have to wait a little bit longer. “Go ahead, Nancy. Thanks.”

      “Pleasure.”

      The line clicked twice.

      “Miss Wilkes, Detective Gray is on the line,” the operator said. “Go ahead with your emergency.”

      “Emergency? Well, ah, yes. Thank you.” The young woman’s voice sounded nervous. “Detective Gray? Are you there?”

      “I’m here. How can I help you?”

      “I feel a little silly. I’m not sure anything is really wrong, but after what happened this morning I’m kind of nervous. I mean, there’s the storm and all and maybe phones do that sometimes but I remember she told me your name and so when—”

      “Miss Wilkes,” Dillon interrupted. “Take a breath.”

      “What? Oh, yes. Okay.”

      “Tell me why you called.” He pulled the Jeep to the side of the road. It was too dangerous trying to talk on the phone and fight the wheel in this wind and rain.

      “It’s my friend. I was talking to her and the phone went dead. I tried calling her back, over and over, but the call doesn’t go through. I was wondering if you could check on her. I’m, ah, not close by, so it’s not like I can hop in the car and go over there.”

      Dillon thumped his forehead on the steering wheel. “Ma’am, if the Smoky Mountains were by the ocean I’d call the storm we’re in right now a hurricane. Storms this bad always knock landlines down.”

      “Oh, well, it’s not a landline. It’s her cell phone. Do storms knock those out, too?”

      He straightened in his seat. “Not usually, no. I suppose something could have happened to a cell tower.” Although he couldn’t remember that ever happening around here before. He grabbed the notebook and pen lying in the console. “What’s your friend’s name and address? I’ll do a wellness check for you.”

      “Oh, would you, please? That would be awesome. And if you’ll call me back and let me know she’s okay, I’d really appreciate it. I mean, we’ve been friends forever. I kind of get worried—”

      “Ma’am, the name and address?”

      “Oh, right. Sorry. She’s renting a house at 1010 Little River Road. Her name is Ashley Parrish.”

      Dillon stiffened. Every cell in his body went on alert. Cell phone towers could go out, he supposed, but it was a hell of a coincidence for that to happen to the woman who’d survived a workplace shooting just this morning. He tossed the notebook and pen in the console and whipped the Jeep back onto the road.

      “Tell me everything that happened,” he said, fighting to keep the vehicle straight as he jostled the phone and headed back toward Little River Road. Ashley’s house was only five minutes away. “Don’t leave anything out.”

      In the rough weather, it took six minutes instead of the normal five to reach the right road, and another two minutes to reach the long, winding driveway that led to Ashley’s house.

      A few inches of water covered most of the gravel, but his four-wheel drive clung to the road like a billy goat. He parked next to the front porch steps, figuring he’d save himself some soggy boots by avoiding the puddles in the yard.

      He shook the raindrops from the last outing into the storm off his ball cap, shoved it on his head and threw the car door open. He slammed it shut behind him and jogged up the steps. Lights were on inside. He rapped on the front door. A few seconds later he rapped again, and rang the doorbell.