Calculated Vendetta. Jodie Bailey

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       FOUR

      Travis pressed the heels of his hands into the metal of his tailgate and forced his shoulders higher, trying to stretch the tension out of his lower back. It felt as though he’d been sitting in the same spot for days, even though emergency vehicles had crowded into John Winslow’s small clearing. Now, the quiet that had unnerved him earlier was obliterated by voices, radio calls and squawking emergency scanners.

      Paramedics stood near the fire truck, speaking in low tones. On the other side of the vehicles, a small knot of first responders gathered around John’s dog, which had been found in the backyard, drugged but coming around. The brown-and-white Brittany spaniel found herself doted on by every person who had a spare minute.

      She was a bright spot in a dark scene, but she brought an ache to Travis’s chest. The last time he’d had a conversation with John, it had been nearly two years ago, right after John adopted the puppy. Travis hadn’t been in the mood to talk. He’d been at the dog park with a buddy, who was adopting Travis’s dog before he took off on his last deployment. Travis had introduced the two men, suggested the guy’s wife as a veterinarian for John’s new puppy, then stayed out of the rest of the conversation. Now, in spite of the fact they’d had their differences along the way, Travis wished he’d been a little bit friendlier. Life was fragile and the end came out of nowhere. He’d learned the lesson well when a hurricane wiped out his small hometown in the Florida Panhandle. He’d seen it when Neil Aiken was there one minute and gone the next and when Kristin’s brother had been killed in Iraq. Today, life had fled right in front of him once again.

      He grabbed the edge of the tailgate and held tight. Life went too easily, and it couldn’t be restored once it was gone.

      Exactly like last night. It could have been Casey or him, gone in a moment with a muzzle flash.

      Travis dug his teeth into his lower lip. Last night. When the man with a pistol had stolen Casey’s laptop.

      On the running board of a nearby ambulance, Casey sat stiff, her shoulders a straight line as she stared at the fire truck that had led the charge into the clearing. The police had separated them, probably to keep them from tainting one another’s statements, but it was hard to watch her sit silently beside a female EMT who was obviously trying to keep Casey’s mind off the sights inside the house.

      The paramedics who’d arrived first on the scene had confirmed what Travis already knew. John was gone. That one desperate gasped word—bet—had been his last.

      Maybe John had owed someone money. He’d heard of pretty rough things happening when compulsive gamblers ran afoul of the wrong people. Maybe the mugging last night had been because someone had seen John with Casey and thought they could get to him through her.

      Or maybe it was something else. Whatever the meaning, John had been determined to express it to Casey, even as his life ran out.

      Travis couldn’t shake the feel of warm blood from his hands, though after the police had cleared him to do so, he’d scrubbed until his skin was raw and red. His attempts at CPR hadn’t yielded results. From the looks of John’s body, he’d been severely beaten before he died, his face and upper body bearing the evidence of a personal, vindictive anger that would haunt Travis until he drew his own last breath.

      One more to add to the list.

      Desperate for something else to focus on, he glanced again at Casey across the driveway, her gray pallor a pretty strong indicator she wasn’t doing much better than he was.

      He prayed she hadn’t seen what he had—the laptop on the floor near the couch, the screen and keys splashed with John’s blood.

      Travis wasn’t prepared to stake his life on it, but the vinyl protector over the keyboard looked familiar, exactly like the deep purple cover Casey used on her personal laptop. He’d seen it enough times in the past to get familiar with it, while she typed away as he watched sports on more than a few lazy Sunday afternoons.

      He studied her profile, wishing he could explain everything about why those days had died. Coupled with the unlikelihood she’d even listen, his desire to make excuses was futile. He’d ended it. It was over, exactly the way it should be if he was going to move forward with the path God had laid out for him. Besides, there was no reason to start anything now, not when he was about to head out to start selection for the Special Missions Unit that would take him far from here.

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