Spider Web (11 page)

“Ange,”
he said. “You hear?”

“Hear what?” In that split second, a dozen scenarios flashed through my mind, none of them good.

“Sniper. This time he get one.”

CHAPTER 6

A
FTER A MOMENT OF STUNNED SILENCE, I SAID, “WHERE? WHO?” Like a splayed deck of cards, my mind scanned the faces of the officers I knew.

“They didn’t say,” D-Daddy said. “But the reporters, they talkin’ from the General Hospital parking lot.”

“I’m going over there.”

“Be careful.”

“I will.”

Before pulling out of the parking lot, I dialed Maggie’s number at the police station. I didn’t want to bother Gabe, but I needed to know the details. I wouldn’t even let myself consider for a second that it might be him. Surely, someone would have called me on my cell phone.

She answered on the first ring. “Chief Ortiz’s office.”

“Maggie, it’s Benni. Who got shot? How bad is it?”

“I can only talk for a second. The phone has been ringing off the hook. It was a patrol officer. Bret Mitchell. It happened over at Laguna Lake. He was answering an anonymous report that some boys were attacking ducks. When he stepped out of his patrol car, he was shot. The shooter got him in the thigh. Detectives are still over there, but so far they’ve not found anything.”

“Officer Mitchell? The name doesn’t sound familiar.”

“Not sure if you’ve met him. Bret’s fairly new. He has dark brown hair, about thirty years old. Came to us from Riverside PD last year. He’s a pitcher on the baseball team.”

“The one who pitched the shutout last summer?”

“Yeah, that’s him.”

“I remember him now.” After the team’s first choice for pitcher sprained his arm the first five minutes of the game, Officer Mitchell pitched a no-hitter in a charity baseball game against the San Celina Fire Department. No one had any idea he was a good ballplayer. The fire chief still ribbed Gabe about it, claiming Officer Mitchell had been a ringer.

“Is he okay?”

“He’ll likely be off the job for a while, but the wound was clean. Everyone’s spooked big time. Word among the officers is whoever is doing this is toying with us. Bret could have been killed. The sniper
chose
to shoot him in the leg.”

“Gabe is at the hospital?”

“Yes, along with half the city, I think.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I sat in my truck a moment trying to decide what to do. There was no doubt that my presence at the hospital would only add to the frenzy, which Gabe definitely didn’t need. Should I call him? Should I go home and wait? Waiting was not my long suit, but I decided it was the wisest course. So I drove home, fed and walked Scout, then sat out on the porch swing wrapped in a wool sweater, waiting for Gabe. The phone rang at ten after seven. It was Dove.

“How’s Gabriel?” she asked.

“I haven’t spoken to him yet, but I talked to Maggie. He’s at the hospital. I didn’t want to get in the way, so I came home. What’s scary is the sniper could have killed Officer Mitchell and didn’t. There’s speculation the sniper is just toying with the police.”

“Oh, honey bun, I’m so sorry. Do you need me to come to town? Garnet and I can be there in a half hour.”

“Thanks, but I’d feel better if you’d all stay out at the ranch. These days, it’s apparently safer.”

“Call me when Gabe comes home. I won’t be able to sleep otherwise.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I went back out on the porch, Scout at my heels, and continued my vigil despite the cold breeze that swayed the tops of the trees.

Gabe finally arrived home around eight thirty. When he stepped out of his car, he walked toward the house as if he carried a two-hundred-pound weight on his back.

I waited for him on the top step. “How is Officer Mitchell?”

“He’ll be fine,” Gabe said, dropping his jacket and briefcase on the swing and pulling me into a hug. “This is bad,
querida
. We don’t have any leads. My officers might as well have a bull’s-eye painted on their chests.”

I hugged him hard, my fingers pressing into his damp shirt. “Let’s go inside. Have you eaten?”

He shook his head no.

I picked up his jacket and briefcase and opened the front door. “Let me heat up some soup.”

While he changed, I called Dove, let her know he was home, then made us a quick dinner of tomato soup sprinkled with shaved Parmesan cheese, and fresh sourdough bread.

“Your detectives really don’t have any leads?” I asked, pushing the plate of bread toward him.

He took a slice and buttered it. “The first one we just chalked up to a random nut trying to harass the police. Troubling, but not planned.” He stopped, stared down at the piece of bread in his hand, a puzzled look on his face. “This second attack leaves little doubt this person is gunning for cops. And we don’t have a clue why.”

I reached across the table and touched the top of his hand, wishing I could say something that would help. But all I could think was—
I wish you weren’t a cop. I wish you did anything else for a living. Anything.

“What is your plan of action?” I asked. If there was one thing I knew about my husband, it was that he battled his fears by being organized, methodical and unemotional. A marine through and through. Semper fi.

His bottom lip tightened under his mustache. I could almost hear his breathing slow down. “Every available detective is assigned to the case. Detective Arnaud is heading the task force since she has a strong background in gang-related crimes. Besides, she headed a similar task force back in Louisiana.”

“You think it might be gangs?” The thought chilled me. We’d had a run-in with a white supremacist group last summer during the Mid-State Fair, but would they have waited six months to retaliate?

“We don’t know who or what it is, so we’re checking out all possibilities. Fortunately, this is a slow time for us in terms of major crimes, so I’m authorizing overtime so that way officers can travel in pairs until we catch this person. I’ve set up a task force. The sheriff’s department and highway patrol are on tactical alert. To make the mayor and the city council happy, I called the FBI. They’re arriving tomorrow. Everyone’s being cooperative . . .”

“As well they should be. So far it’s been San Celina officers, but who knows what is going on in this crazy person’s head?”

He took a small bite of bread. “Maybe the FBI will help with a profile, though I’m not thrilled about them being involved. They tend to take over.”

I arched my eyebrows. Good luck with anyone trying to take over Gabe’s department. He was usually cooperative about help, but he’d never step aside for any other agency.

“I’ll take Scout for his walk,” I said after dinner. “Why don’t you shower and go to bed. Watch something shallow on TV.
America’s Funniest Home Videos
.”

“That’s a stupid program.”

“The dog videos make you laugh.”

He smiled. “Yes, they do.” He yawned, stretched his arms out. “Maybe I’ll just go to sleep.”

“Even a better idea.”

“Stay close to the house. Better yet, take Scout out in the backyard.”

“Okay.”

After Scout’s final constitutional, I hurried back inside the house, my cheeks and nose tingling with cold.

Gabe was in bed reading a magazine. Scout crawled into his dog bed in the corner and collapsed with a deep sigh.

“I hear you, buddy,” Gabe said.

“Now that I have my two guys settled, I’m going to take a shower and hit the sack myself.” I pulled my sweatshirt over my head and peeled off my silk undershirt.

“What’s that?” Gabe’s voice was sharp.

Dang it, I’d forgotten about the bruise. I turned my back to him, tossing my clothes into the basket next to Scout’s bed. “What?”

“Benni, turn around.”

I turned slowly to face him, keeping my hands at my sides. For some some crazy reason, I felt
guilty
. He threw back the down comforter and walked over to me. Though we’d been married five years and I should have been used to his body by now, I couldn’t help admiring his muscled thighs and strong forearms. Though he normally slept commando-style, tonight he wore the jockey shorts that I’d bought him as a joke for Valentine’s Day. They had snarling Marine Corps bulldogs printed on them. The bulldogs looked exactly like the tattoo on his upper back.

“What happened?” He carefully slipped the strap of my bra off my shoulder and brushed his fingertips over the baseball-size bruise above my heart. Just the softest pressure caused me to wince.

I couldn’t meet his eyes. If he wasn’t standing so close, if I couldn’t feel his warm breath on my head, smell his familiar masculine scent—a tantalizing concoction of freshly washed cotton fabric and lemon—if I couldn’t hear the raspy clearing of his throat, I might have been able to make up a story about falling off a ladder at the folk art museum or concoct some fictional accident with a stubborn calf. Heaven knows, my transparent redhead’s skin usually always sprouted a bruise somewhere on my body.

“It’s nothing,” I whispered.

He cupped my chin and raised my head to look at him. The pupils of his eyes were tiny drops of ink. His touch was gentle, but his face seemed angry. He cleared his throat; still the words came out raspy. “Did I do this?”

“You didn’t mean it . . . it was an accident . . . you were half asleep . . . dreaming . . .” I pulled away from his hand and hugged him; pressing my chest against his ribs, willing some of his pain to flow into me so he wouldn’t have to bear it alone. “You didn’t mean to . . .”

“Stop it!” He took me by the shoulders, holding me away from him. When I flinched again, he threw his hands up as if they’d encountered a hot branding iron. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

Feeling suddenly chilled, I hugged myself, digging my nails into my upper arms. “Remember Sunday night when you had that bad dream? I tried to wake you . . . it was probably just stress from . . .”

He moaned and turned away from me, bending over slightly, pressing his balled fists against his temples. “I can’t believe I did that to you . . . Why didn’t you tell me . . . why didn’t you show me?”

“You didn’t mean it, Gabe. You didn’t know it was me. I’m fine.” I touched the small of his back.

He straightened up. In the golden light from our bedroom lamps, I could see his spine flex, the muscles move under his shoulders. His snarling Marine Corps bulldog tattoo leered at me. I wanted to cover its mouth with my hand, my lips. I wanted it to be erased forever.

He turned slowly back to face me, his expression as still and unemotional as I’d imagined he’d been while walking point in-country. He liked walking point, he once told me during a rare moment when he talked about Vietnam. He liked being the first one, he’d said, the one who knew what was happening before anyone else, what was going on in front of him. He wasn’t afraid because at the time he felt like he couldn’t die.

“I was eighteen,” he’d said. “Stupid as a chicken. Besides, I felt like I had nothing to live for anyway.”

His statement, spoken so blithely, had left me mute with sorrow.

“I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight,” he said.

“No, you will not.”

“No argument. It’s the only way to guarantee I won’t hurt you again.”

“Gabe, please . . .”

“Stop!” His voice was harsh and angry. Not at me, I knew. At himself.

At his loss of control. At his weakness . . . or what he perceived as weakness.

I felt hot tears well up, threatening to roll down my cheeks.

“Querida.”
He ran his finger down my jawline. “Please, I don’t want to hurt you . . .”

“You won’t . . .”

He held up his hand. “And I can’t have you to worry about along with everything else.”

“I know.” The words caught in my throat, hurting as they tumbled over the lump of salt.

“Once we catch this sniper, I’ll take care of this.”

How? I wanted to ask, but didn’t.

He stared directly at my bruise. “Right now, you are safer in another room.”

He picked up his reading glasses, unplugged his alarm clock and started downstairs to the guest room.

“No,” I said. “Not the downstairs one. Up here.” We had another room down the hall that I just recently furnished with a bed, nightstand and desk.

He turned to look at me, his expression questioning.

“Look,” I said, pushing my bra strap back up. “When you have one of those dreams, you can’t always come out of it quickly. I have to wake you. I can’t hear you downstairs.”

His expression was impatient and stubborn. “I don’t want you near me when I’m . . . like that. That’s the whole point of me staying in another room.”

I could be just as stubborn. “If you sleep in the downstairs I can’t
hear
you. If you go downstairs, I will too. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I’ll sleep on the floor outside your door.”

“You are being ridiculous.”

“Try to stop me.”

He threw up hands. “Fine, I’ll sleep up here. But if I have a dream, you stay out of the room. Yell at me from the doorway. Throw something at me.”

“Okay,” I lied.

He eyed me suspiciously, guessing that I would disobey his order.