Untamed: Duty Bound Book 3 (4 page)

On her way to the medical clinic, Hannah caught sight of the RCMP pickup truck. The number 1036 was written in navy blue on the white tailgate.
Brent’s truck…former truck.

That new constable she’d met a week earlier would be the one using it since Reed had the new SUV and Cooper drove the cruiser.

With his angular face and piercing brown eyes, Stone had inspired confidence. When Hannah had dropped the letter, he’d acted like he cared.
I should have known better.

The truck was parked behind The Polar Skin, the stripper bar in which Brent had spent his last night in town before taking off with a dancer named Foxy.

Stone is just like Brent. Another pathetic loser.
She should have investigated the threats on her own after receiving the second note instead of hoping someone would take her seriously.
From now on, I’m done waiting.
And once she found the culprit, she would deal with him…or them.

Sitting in his car seat, Rory stared at her with glassy eyes through the rearview mirror. Not to upset him, she kept her anger at bay, even managing a bittersweet smile. “We’re almost there, Munchkin.”

She parked behind the clinic, then scooped Rory from his seat. His head rested against her shoulder and his arms hung loose down his side.

A dozen people were in the waiting room. Hannah didn’t have an appointment. She’d hoped the receptionist would squeeze her in instead of sending her to the hospital an hour away where she’d have to wait at emergency for hours on end.

“He’s had a high fever since yesterday, and I can’t bring it down.”

The receptionist, a kind and compassionate woman in her fifties, touched Rory’s forehead and frowned. “Come with me, Hannah.” She ushered them into the last room at the end of a short hallway. “Fred will see you next.”

***

It was ten o’clock in the morning. Patrons had already gathered around the dancing poles, ready for the first show.

Shift workers.
The new mining project farther north paid their employees too much money. If they kept migrating here, the detachment would need to grow to accommodate the wave of crime and disturbance bound to follow in their wake.

Avery elbowed his way backstage only to encounter a wall of flesh, bones, and muscles.

“Step aside, Brutus.” Bouncers had never intimidated him. When they wore no nametags, Avery nicknamed them Brutus, regardless of their size, age, or race. “I need to have a friendly chat with one of the girls—and she’s not worth a broken bone.”

At about the same height, but some fifty pounds heavier, the dark skinned bouncer gauged him. A crooked nose and a scar above his left eye added an element of danger to his stance.

They made eye contact.

Brutus—or whatever your name is—don’t make me add another battle scar to your face.

Without uttering sound, the mean-looking bouncer took a step sideways.

“Thank you.”

In the last room, two girls in various stages of undress fumbled with their hair and makeup. Avery had waited all week for Foxy’s return. When he saw her name advertised on the opaque window while on patrol, he decided to pay her a visit.

“Which one of you is Foxy?” His money was on the brunette with short, curly hair, but when she hurriedly left the room, he was reminded why he didn’t gamble.

“What do you want, big guy?” The fake blonde looked at him through the mirror as she applied a thick coat of pink lipstick, as pink as the lacy push-up bra and undies promoting her generous attributes. She smacked her lips together, then turned toward him. “A private show?”

Not even for free.
“Remember Corporal Abbott?”

She flapped dark eyelashes over maroon eyes, the color of her lenses clashing with her make-up. “Who?”

“Corporal Brent Abbott.” A sigh he refrained from exhaling bloated inside his chest. “You told a detective two weeks ago that you gave Abbott a lap dance back in November.”

“Oh yeah…” Sweat beaded in the cleft of her breasts. “He’s the cop who gave me his badge.”

Officers don’t give their badges. They guard them as preciously as their guns.
“Tell me about that evening again.”

Swaying her hips, she walked toward him in high heel stilettos, stopping inches away.

“Already told the rude detective everything, big guy.” She trailed a long, pink fingernail down the front of his uniform. “Why don’t you go ask him?”

Her breath smelled of onion and tobacco.

He grabbed her wandering hand by the wrist. “Would you rather I arrest you for solicitation?”

Defiance burned in her eyes. She pulled her hand away and took a step back. “Abbott sat in a dark booth in the back corner. Alone. He put five hundred dollars on the table and asked for a private dance.”

Abbott couldn’t have afforded a five hundred dollar lap dance, not on a corporal’s pay, not when he had to provide for his family…not unless he had other revenues. “For that price, it must have been one heck of a dance, Foxy.”

“He liked it all right.” A sly smile crossed her face, showing perfect white teeth. “I could feel it.”

Music rose in the hallway and overflowed in the room, forcing Avery to raise his voice. “What happened next?”

“At the end of my night shift, he invited me for a drink. It must have been around two…two-thirty. I met him in the parking lot. He was waiting by his RCMP truck.” Her gaze lost focus. “I’ve been arrested before and tossed into the backseat, but it was kind of exciting to be in the front seat. Much more comfortable.”

The front seat of the truck I’ve been driving all week?
Once Avery got home, he’d wash the image with a Red Eye. “He paid you to have sex with him in the truck?”

“No!” The shrill objection rang like a fingernail scratching a blackboard. “Sex was free. I’m not a hooker.”

“Sure you’re not.” Overpriced dance and free sex amounted to the same thing, but he wasn’t here to arrest her. “Was he in uniform?”

“He had a pair of jeans, a coat, and a hat with a cap in front. I didn’t know he was a cop until he dragged me inside the truck and showed me his badge. He laughed when I told him he looked tough and mean on the picture. After he drove past Clayton’s garage and parked behind the abandoned gas station, we emptied a couple bottles of rum and then things got hot and sweaty. Best sex he had in years he said, and he gave me his badge as a token of appreciation. Said he wouldn’t need it where he was going.”

A dirty officer might show his badge to coerce a girl into submission, but by her own admission, Foxy had been a willing participant. Abbott’s behavior didn’t add up, unless he wanted to prove who he was.

“You said he looked mean on the picture. Did he look better in person?”

She reached for a short leather skirt and shrugged. “It was dark. With his cap down, I couldn’t see his face very well—not that I was looking at his face. He had the biggest billystick I’d played with in a long time.”

While the analogy was insulting, it wasn’t as disturbing as learning that the stripper hadn’t positively identified Abbott.

“What happened once the fun was over?”

“Nothing. I went home. Alone.” She snapped the black skirt around her waist. “When I showed the badge to that detective, he kept it, like I’d stolen it or something.”

“Foxy, you’re next,” a male voice yelled from somewhere outside the room.

“I gotta go.” As she passed by him, she brushed a hip against his thigh. “You’re welcome to stay and watch.”

***

Hannah’s son lay quietly on the examination table.

“Fever is high.” As he briefly palpated Rory’s neck, Fred kept his head tilted toward her so she could read his lips. “Lymph nodes are swollen.”

The man with whom she shared most of her life retrieved a tongue depressor from a clear jar and an otoscope from the wall. “Are you going to open your mouth for me, Rory?”

Her little boy’s mouth gaped open. It was obvious he’d heard the command, but it didn’t explain why he refused to verbally communicate with anyone. When Fred pushed the flat stick on his tongue, Rory grimaced.

“Good boy.” Fred discarded the tongue depressor in the garbage can and returned the otoscope to its hook. “Red, swollen tonsils with white patches. Hannah, has he complained about his throat being sore?”

“Not a word.” If her little boy was in pain, he suffered in silence. It broke her heart that she couldn’t breach the walls he’d built around himself. “But he won’t eat or drink.”

“It looks like strep throat, and I’m not going to wait for a lab test to confirm it. Do you prefer pills or liquid?”

“Pills.” Rory didn’t like the taste of the liquid. To feed him pills was less messy down his chin than liquid, and he got the full dose.

Her brother scribbled a prescription on his pad, then gave it to her. “Four times a day for the next five days. If by the end of the week, he hasn’t improved, or if he’s getting worse, you bring him back, okay?”

She nodded.

“Hannah?” He touched her forearm, stopping her in her tracks as she readied to pick up her son. “It’s been three months since he stopped speaking. It’s time Rory sees a psychologist.”

Knowing he was right didn’t make the recommendation any easier to swallow. “I need to get home. Could we discuss it next time?”

Fred smiled, but the bittersweet smile didn’t alleviate the concerns from his kind face. “Sure. And don’t forget to finish the prescription, even if he’s feeling better.”

“I won’t. Thanks.” When Hannah exited the clinic, she looked toward the parking lot behind the stripper bar. The RCMP truck was gone.

Needing the prescription right away, Hannah stopped at the drugstore. While the pharmacist filled it, she crossed the street.

Rory in her arms, she entered Sister Tessa High School where Madison, one of her rare friends, taught English from grade seven to twelve.

The secretary at the office raised a brow when Hannah paused in front of her desk. “Yes?”

“Madison left a package for me.”

“This is a school, Ms. Parker, not a delivery company.” Baring her displeasure in every crease of her face, the secretary tossed a thick brown envelope marked
H. Parker
to the corner of her desk.

Upon seeing the size of the envelope, a rush of anticipation built inside Hannah’s body, washing the rude comment over her head.

Chapter Seven

“Hello, boys. The usual?”

Baldy, the old bartender with a skull as shiny as the full moon, had called them boys the first night they’d sneaked into the club with faked IDs on Vic’s sixteenth birthday. Twelve years later, he still called them boys.

“Sure.” Matt pulled a twenty from his pocket and placed it on the counter. On the dance floor, a fat girl hugged a pole. The performance pumped no blood below his belt. “The sign says Foxy is back. Is she on tonight?”

Vic elbowed him in the ribs. “I’ll be in the dark booth. Bring my drink. I’ll order a girl.”

“I’m not paying for a girl,” Matt mumbled through gritted teeth. He and Vic went back as long as he could remember. In grade one, they’d colluded together to paint the hood of Mrs. Vanthrop’s car an ugly green, and from then on, they’d stayed buddies.
If only Vic wasn’t always broke.

“Foxy will be on at eleven.” Baldy placed a beer and a scotch on the counter before pocketing the bill. “She’s backstage getting ready. Stone’s visit this morning sure put her in a great mood.”

“Stone? You don’t mean the new constable, do you?” When Baldy nodded, Matt’s heart rate accelerated. He grabbed the glasses a touch too sharply, tipping Vic’s scotch. Amber droplets pearled on the spotless counter. “What did he want?”

“He wanted to know about the night Abbott gave Foxy his badge.” The bartender reached behind the counter. With the rag he produced, he wiped the spill. “She said Stone was real nice and real interested.”

The renewed interest in Abbott’s death didn’t bode well. “What did she tell him?”

“I’m guessing the same thing she told that detective a few weeks back. From what I heard, Stone was sweet on her. You know how the girl likes the attention.”

A tattooed man seated at the end of the counter gestured for a drink, and Baldy moved on to serve him.

The patrons, many of them on the payroll of Vic’s uncle, showed no attention to Matt’s wandering toward the back of the club where his friend waited. Stretched on the bench, one steel-toe boot on the table, Vic ogled a dancer with giant bouncing boobies.

“We have a problem.” Matt slid the glass of scotch across the table, missing Vic’s knee by an inch, and then sat on the other bench with his beer.

“Don’t worry about the dummy.” Scarred by acne, his friend’s face contorted in a predatory leer. “I’ll scare the shit out of her tonight. By tomorrow, she’ll be history.”

Abbott’s reputation had been destroyed, and thanks to the alcohol based concoction Vic had shot into his veins, he was declared intoxicated and his death ruled accidental. The dead RCMP officer no longer posed a threat. The Parker woman, and now Foxy, were another story.

“I’m not talking about the dimwit.” Leaning forward, Matt rubbed his goatee. “The new constable paid Foxy a visit this morning. He asked about Abbott.”

“Stone? He’s a drunk with one foot out the door.” Vic took a swig of his drink then swiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Reed complained about him during the curling game. The guy was probably just trying to impress Foxy with his questions.”

“Maybe…” The reasons behind Stone’s behavior didn’t matter as much as the results his chitchat with Foxy might unintentionally yield. “But we can’t take the risk that she talks to anyone—ever again.”

Dubiously rolling his eyes, his friend nevertheless acquiesced with a small nod of the head. “Want me to take care of the blabbermouth?”

Between the two of them, Vic had always been the one with a knack for accidents.

“You do that. I’ll scare the stupid one.”

***

After the first note, Hannah had begun making copies of the threats before showing them to the law officers. She hadn’t noticed the distinctive capital
P
and
B
until comparing the last note to the two previous ones.