Right Behind Her (Bree Taggert) Read online

  Something creaked. The hairs on the back of Bree’s neck bristled. “Did you hear that?”

  Adam shrugged. “Probably the wind. It’s an old house.”

  His reasoning was plausible, but Bree’s instincts weren’t happy.

  He fished a key from his pocket and unlocked the door.

  Bree touched his shoulder. “I’ll go first.” She moved in front of her brother. Her hand went to the service weapon on her hip.

  She took a deep breath and went inside.

  The living room was empty. Behind her, Adam shuffled a sneaker. The throw rug had rotted away to a few shreds of fabric. Dirt and leaves gathered along the walls. But Bree no longer saw the abandoned house as it stood today. She was transported back to the very last night she’d been under this roof.

  Adam said something, but his voice was muted by the imagined sound of her parents fighting and the smack of her father striking her mother.

  “Bree?” Adam jostled her arm.

  She shook herself. “Sorry.”

  His gaze turned hesitant as he engaged in some internal debate. Bree said a quick prayer that he’d change his mind and haul her out of there, but she suspected it didn’t matter. The damage was done. She was remembering.

  Everything.

  His jaw went rigid. “Which room was mine?”

  Bree turned to walk down the hallway that led to the bedrooms. She passed the room she’d shared with Erin and stopped in the doorway of the smallest, the nursery, now empty. “This one.”

  Adam followed her into the room. She ran a finger over the grimy wall and uncovered a patch of faded baby-blue paint. “She was excited to be having a boy. I remember watching her paint over the pink.” She pointed to a scuff on the wall. “Your crib was there.”

  Adam pivoted, scanning the room, his face creased with concentration. “I don’t remember anything.”

  For the best.

  Bree turned on her heel and went back into the hall. She halted in another doorway. “This was their room.”

  “Is this where he killed her?” Adam asked from behind her.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you were here,” he protested.

  Bree whirled to face him. Anger heated her face. “I didn’t wait around to watch him do it.”

  “I’m sorry.” Adam looked away.

  Bree breathed. “No. It’s all right. You have a right to know, but I was only eight. My memories have definite blank spots.”

  She glanced back into the room. Despite what she’d told Adam, a clear picture formed in her mind.

  “They were fighting in there,” Bree admitted.

  And that’s the spot where Daddy pinned Mommy to the wall. One big hand curled around her throat. The other held a gun, the muzzle pressed against her forehead. In the warm, humid air, clammy sweat broke out between Bree’s shoulder blades. Her heart thudded against her ribs in a thin, panicky rhythm.

  Don’t make me hurt you. You always make me hurt you.

  Memories assaulted her. Bree grabbing her siblings and taking them under the porch. The winter wind blowing through thin pajamas. Terror shaking their very bones.

  The echo of a gunshot.

  She flinched.

  She moved back down the hallway to the kitchen. She could sense Adam behind her, but she didn’t narrate her recollection for him. How much did he need to know? Did he really want these images in his head? Once they lodged there, they’d remain forever, like a tattoo—or a deep scar.

  “Daddy had a gun,” Bree said. “I took you and Erin out the back door.”

  Even at eight, she’d known they needed to hide. She’d recognized the murderous look in her father’s eyes was different from his usual anger, which had been bad enough. A shudder passed through her bones, shaking her from her athletic shoes to her uniform shirt. The house was empty, but Bree’s hand hovered over her service weapon, as if she could go back in time and save her mother.

  She flexed her fingers and lowered her hand.

  There was no one to save today.

  Adam moved toward the back door. Bree followed him out onto the porch. He’d replaced boards here too. They descended into the weedy yard and turned to face the house.

  Bree pointed to the porch steps. “There was a loose board. I’d hidden under there before.” She didn’t have to elaborate on what—no, who—she’d hidden from. Adam knew, even if he didn’t remember.

  “Then what?” He looked like he was holding his breath.

  Bree shivered hard. It had been cold that night. She felt the icy dirt beneath her bare feet, and the bitter chill seeping through the thin fabric of her pajamas. “A gun went off.”

  The dogs had been barking. One had howled. The sound memory rippled over Bree. Despite the summer warmth, goose bumps rose on the skin of her arms.

  “How long were we under there?” Adam asked.

  “I don’t know. A while.” Long enough to get very cold.

  “What happened next?”

  “I’m not sure.” Bree sensed a blank spot in her recollection. Had her eight-year-old self shut down with shock at that point? She vaguely recalled slamming doors, loud footsteps, and shouting.

  Another gunshot.

  Daddy?

  Did it really matter? She knew enough. Her father had killed her mother and himself. The three siblings had been split up shortly after. Adam and Erin had been raised by their grandmother, while Bree had been sent to live with a cousin in Philadelphia.

  “The sheriff came.” Bree had never set foot on the property again—until today. “He took us to the station and called the family.”

  Adam stared at the house. He looked disappointed.

  “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more,” she said.

  “No. It’s enough.” He reached for her hand. “Thanks for sharing that with me.”

  “You’re welcome.” Bree squeezed his fingers. “What will you do with the place?”

  If it were hers, she would burn the house to the ground. But she doubted Adam would. He seemed to want to maintain the structure as some sort of shrine.

  “I don’t know.” His brow knitted, and his eyes looked lost. But then Adam had seemed disconnected for most of his life. Violence always left marks. Some scars were just less visible than others.

  She turned to her brother. “I’m sorry, Adam. I need to go back to work.” She scrambled for an excuse. “We had a tough call this morning.” That was the truth.

  Adam’s shoulder jerked. “It’s cool. Thanks for coming out here.”

  “We’ll talk about it again, OK?”

  “OK.” Adam nodded, but his eyes were still disappointed. He shoved his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. “You’ll tell me if anything else comes back to you?”

  “I will.” Bree gave him a one-armed hug.

  Adam glanced back at the house. A damp wind stirred the branches overhead. Bree shivered. She glanced over her shoulder. The barn overshadowed the yard. Next to it were the remains of two partially collapsed sheds, their exposed wooden beams bleached like old bones in a desert. Beyond the clearing, an overgrown path led to the area where the dogs had been kept. Bree rubbed the thirty-year-old scar on her shoulder. Her earliest clear memory was of one of those dogs nearly killing her.

  Something banged in the barn.

  “Someone’s in there.” Adam started forward. “I’ve run off trespassers before.”

  “You should have called me.” Bree reached for her gun. “Stay here.”

  But Adam was a Taggert, and they were a stubborn lot, always making choices that were the opposite of their own best interests. He jogged across the weeds at her flank. She reached the side of the barn, put out a hand to stop him, and hissed, “Stay behind me.”

  The door was ajar. Bree peered inside, but all she saw was darkness and dust.

  Leading with her weapon, she eased around the corner just as something crashed into the doorframe a few inches from her face.

  CHAPTER THREE

>   Bree startled as a rock bounced off the barn doorframe and landed in the dirt.

  “Sheriff!” she yelled, then ducked as another rock came sailing toward her. It hit the wood with the force of a line drive. She pulled back behind the barn’s doorframe. She was grateful the projectiles weren’t bullets, but a rock to the head could do plenty of damage.

  Pushing Adam toward the house, she whispered, “Go back inside. Call 911. Tell them I’m here and request backup.”

  “I don’t want to leave you.”

  Bree’s job would be easier if he was safe and out of the way. If he knew that was her reason, Adam would be insulted. So, she lied. “I know, but I need backup.”

  He pulled out his phone and reluctantly retreated across the yard in a running crouch.

  Bree focused on the barn. How many people are inside? Are they armed with anything besides rocks?

  “This is the sheriff,” she called out. “Drop any weapons and come out with your hands on your head.”

  “Fuck you!” a man shouted. Another rock hit the door, rattling the old hinges.

  She heard the barn’s back door slide open. She peered around the doorframe again. A dark-haired man in jeans and a brown T-shirt was running into the woods, a small black backpack clutched in one hand. He weaved between the trees.

  “Stop! Sheriff!” She quickly cleared the empty barn. She sprinted through the back door after him.

  Ahead, he looked over his shoulder. His strides were unsteady, faltering as if he were drunk. Bree turned on the speed. She ran five mornings a week. He might have a head start, but she would catch him in no time.

  The runner glanced back at her over his shoulder. Panic widened his eyes as he tripped over a tree root. He nearly went down, and it took him three steps to recover his speed. Bree almost had him.

  So close.

  She dug into the ground. Her quads burned as she drew closer.

  Just a few more feet.

  She reached out and tried to grab the back of his T-shirt, but her hand clawed empty air.

  Finally, she dived at him, tackling him around the knees. They went down in the overgrown weeds. Bree’s chin bounced off his leg. She tasted dirt and blood, but she hung on.

  “You bitch! Let me go,” he panted between gasps for air.

  Bree’s lungs burned. She shouted only two words: “Sheriff! Stop!”

  He rolled to his back and tried to scramble out of her grasp, kicking hard at her face. Bree turned away. His sneaker glanced off her chin, and pain zinged through her jaw as her teeth slammed together.

  Grabbing ahold of his pant leg, she hauled herself up his body. He wasn’t fighting with any skill. His fists and feet flailed as he lashed out in wild desperation. Bree caught his wrists and pinned them to the ground on each side of his head.

  “Ow! That hurts.” He whimpered, but he stopped fighting.

  “Hold still.” She gasped for air and nearly gagged at the smell of his unwashed body. “Are you going to cooperate?”

  He nodded.

  Bree tentatively shifted her position, moving onto one knee beside him. When he didn’t resist, she rolled him onto his belly and handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Then she shifted him onto his side and sat back on her haunches while they both caught their breath.

  Wind rustled through the branches overhead, and the trickle of water over rocks reminded her there was a stream at the edge of the property. A quick memory surfaced—Bree as a young child walking barefoot in the cool water, smooth rocks underfoot, catching tadpoles and salamanders.

  The man wheezed.

  Bree took one last deep breath and refocused on him. “Are you carrying any weapons? Is there anything sharp that’s going to stick me when I search your pockets?”

  He shook his head. His body had deflated, as if the desire to fight had gone out of him. “Just a pocketknife, but it’s closed.”

  She patted down the pockets of his jeans and tossed the contents onto the ground: cheap cell phone, folding knife, cigarettes, lighter, and wallet. She secured the knife in the leg pocket of her cargo pants.

  “Do you want to sit up?” she asked.

  He nodded and she rolled him over and helped him sit upright.

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  Instead of answering, he glared at her, anger rolling off him in palpable waves. Blood trickled from a split lip. He spit in the weeds beside him.

  Bree opened the wallet and matched the driver’s license photo to his face. His name was Shawn Castillo. She didn’t recognize the street address, but it was in Grey’s Hollow. “What are you doing here, Shawn? This is private property.”

  He clamped his mouth shut.

  Bree sized him up. He was ragged in an unwashed and unshaven way, but his jeans and sneakers were expensive brands. The leather wallet felt pricey too. She checked his birth date on his license. Forty-eight. He looked ten years older.

  “Do you have a vehicle?” she asked.

  No answer.

  “How did you get here?”

  Nothing.

  She tried, “Do you live with someone?”

  His sullen stare didn’t waver.

  Bree gave up. “Well, Shawn. Congratulations. You are under arrest. So far, the charges are trespassing and assaulting an officer, but there might be more by the time the day is finished.”

  His eyes flickered at the word arrest. “I want to call my lawyer.”

  That was fast.

  She raised an eyebrow. “So, this isn’t your first time.”

  He didn’t answer, but the hardened look in his eyes told her he had a record. “You didn’t read me my rights!”

  “I don’t have to read you your rights until I question you. Stop getting your legal advice from TV.” She glanced around. “Where’s your backpack?”

  Shawn lifted his chin. “What backpack?”

  His denial sharpened Bree’s interest. “The black one you were carrying.”

  She scanned the tall weeds and underbrush. He must have dropped it. Must be around here somewhere.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Shawn looked away.

  Adam and two deputies jogged into the clearing. In his late forties, Deputy Oscar was one of Bree’s senior deputies. Juarez was a rookie fresh out of the academy. Oscar was serving as Juarez’s FTO, or field training officer. They would ride together for the first six weeks before Juarez would be turned loose on solo patrol.

  “Watch him,” Bree said to Deputy Oscar. “I’m going to look for his backpack.”

  Adam hurried over to stand next to Bree. His eyes narrowed with concern as he looked her over. “Are you OK?”

  She looked down. Dirt and grass stains streaked her uniform. She plucked a dead leaf from the Randolph County Sheriff’s Department badge on her shoulder. She rubbed a sore spot on her elbow and swept her tongue over a cut in her mouth. “I’m fine. Mostly dirty.”

  “Can I help?” Adam asked.

  “Sure. The more eyes the better.” Bree called out to the rookie, “Juarez, with me.”

  The rookie hustled over.

  “We are looking for a black backpack about this big.” Bree held her hands about a foot apart. “Either he tossed or dropped it while he was running, or it flew out of his hands when I tackled him. If you find it, just call me. Don’t touch it.”

  Juarez nodded. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry. I mean, yes, ma’am.”

  Bree sighed. “Either will do, deputy.”

  “Where do you want to start?” Adam asked.

  Bree turned in a slow circle, studying the clearing she’d chased Shawn into. They stood about a hundred yards behind the barn. Small piles of rotted wood dotted the weedy ground. Her gaze fell on a rusty metal bowl in the tall grass. Near it, an equally rusted chain was half buried in the dirt. Tension coiled in her belly as she realized where she was. “This is where he kept the dogs.” She didn’t need to specify who he was. Adam knew she meant their father.

  Adam glanced around. “How
many did he have?”

  “Six or so most of the time. Some he kept for a long time. Others would come and go.”

  “What kind of dogs were they?” Adam asked.

  A thirty-year-old image appeared in her mind: a half dozen barking dogs chained just far enough apart that they couldn’t reach each other. If they had, they would have torn each other to shreds. She pictured a big brown animal with cropped ears and massive teeth. “I don’t know. He called them hunting dogs, but I don’t remember any retrievers or spaniels.” She shook her head, trying to clear the mental picture. She had work to do.

  She waded into the high grass just beyond the spot where she’d taken Shawn down.

  “Watch out,” Adam said. “This grass is probably loaded with ticks.”

  Bree hesitated, one foot lifted. She hated the little bloodsuckers. She pointed a few feet away and motioned to the rookie and Adam. “Both of you, walk a line parallel to mine. Stay close. Some of this grass is high. We’ll have to be right on top of the backpack to see it. So, go slowly.”

  They spread out and began making their way through the grass. Ten minutes into the hunt, they’d found no sign of the pack, but Bree did find two ticks crawling up her pant leg. She picked them off and flicked them into the woods.

  Something black caught her eye. She walked closer. A small backpack was embedded in a patch of prickly vines. The nylon looked too new to be anything that had been in the woods for long. Pulling on gloves, she lifted a vine and disentangled the strap from its green thorns. “I found it.”

  “I found something too,” Adam said from a few yards away. “But it’s not a backpack.”

  Bree opened the main zipper compartment and found a plastic baggie containing a dozen round white pills. She was no pharmacist, but she’d seen hydrocodone before. The pills would explain why Shawn hadn’t wanted to claim ownership of the pack. She closed the zipper and stood, lifting the bag.

  “Bree? Could you come over here?” Adam was squatting near a shallow runoff ditch. Something in his voice caught her attention. Recent heavy rains had saturated low-lying areas. She walked to his side, the mud sucking at the tread of her running shoes.

  Adam pointed to something long and dirty-white half buried in the mud.