Читать книгу: «A Place To Call Home»

Chapter 1

“Goddamn it, Hanna, you aren’t listening to me.”

Detective Judd Hanna of the Tulsa Police Department gave his captain a look that would have quelled a lesser man. Roger Shaw threw up his hands in defeat.

“And don’t give me one of those ‘spare me’ looks, either. This is serious.”

Judd let his gaze shift from his captain’s face to a spot just over his shoulder, and then the window beyond. There was a window washer halfway up the building across the street. Judd wondered absently why a man would choose such a dangerous occupation.

Shaw saw Judd’s focus shift. He turned, following Judd’s gaze, saw the man on the scaffolding across the street, and then strode to the windows and deftly dropped the shades. When he turned, Judd was heading for the door.

“I’m not through with you,” Shaw snapped. “Get back here now, and that’s an order.”

Judd sighed. Short of mutiny, which he was considering, disobeying an out-and-out order was beyond him. He turned, wishing that this feeling of helplessness would just go away. He felt aimless…almost out of control. And of all things, Judd Hanna had to be in control. It was the only way he could function.

“What…sir?”

Shaw took a deep breath and then popped a mint in his mouth to keep from cursing again. He’d lost his temper more in the last ten minutes than he had all month. God only knew what his blood pressure was doing right now. He shuddered and pushed the thought from his mind.

“Look, Hanna. I’m serious. This is Vice. We do things here as a team. You can’t keep playing cowboy every time we go out on a raid. Use your radio. Call for backup. Depend on your partner. That’s why he’s there.”

Judd’s eyes narrowed. “My partner is dead,” he said shortly.

Shaw shoved an angry hand through what was left of his thinning hair. Even though Judd had been assigned a new partner over a month ago, he had yet to acknowledge his presence.

“I know it was rough losing Myers the way we did. We all liked Dan. But life goes on. David Sanger is your partner now, and you will, by God, treat him as such.”

Judd didn’t blink and wouldn’t answer. None of them knew the guilt Judd carried. Three days away from retirement, Dan Myers had taken a bullet meant for Judd. Instead of a retirement party, they’d attended Dan’s funeral. Judd hadn’t slept the night through since.

Shaw glared at the implacable expression on Hanna’s face. Never in his life had he wanted to shake anyone as badly as he did right now. And yet looking at him, Shaw knew that was the last thing a sane man would do. At three inches over six feet, and with an attitude that wouldn’t quit, Judd Hanna was a man you didn’t want to piss off. Shaw sighed, then tried a different approach.

“Hanna, you know as well as I do that the rules are in place for everyone’s safety. Not just yours. I don’t want to attend another funeral, namely yours.”

Judd muttered something that, to Shaw, sounded suspiciously like, who the hell cares.

“That does it!” Shaw snapped. “Turn in your badge and your service revolver. I’m placing you on medical leave until you get your head screwed on straight.”

Finally, Shaw had Judd’s attention. “You can’t!” Judd argued. “We’re too close to finding Dan’s killer.”

Shaw pointed a finger in Judd’s face. “That’s what I mean,” he shouted. “Dan Myers’s case belongs to Homicide. We’re Vice.”

Judd swallowed as panic started to intercede. He couldn’t let go just like that. Why couldn’t Shaw understand?

“Look, Captain, Dan was my partner. He took a bullet meant for—”

Shaw shook his head. “You heard me. As of this minute, you’re on leave…with pay, of course. You will report to Dr. Wilson at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, and every morning thereafter until he pronounces you fit for duty again.”

The department shrink? Judd’s nostrils flared.

“Like hell.”

Shaw leaned across his desk, glaring into Hanna’s face.

“Hell it may be,” he snapped. “But you don’t come back until Wilson says it’s okay.”

Judd straightened. Just the notion of letting go of the devils he lived with was impossible to consider. He tossed his shield on the desk, then laid his revolver down beside it. Without saying a word, he headed for the door.

“Hanna—”

He stopped but didn’t turn around, leaving Shaw to say what must be said to the back of his head.

“Nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”

Judd slammed the door behind him. It was all the comment he was capable of making.

Shaw grabbed the phone and punched in a series of numbers, frowning as he waited for an answer.

“Dr. Wilson…it’s me, Shaw. I’ve just put Judd Hanna on medical leave. He’s due in your office at nine in the morning. Yes, he’s borderline now. I don’t know what’s wrong, but I want it stopped before I lose him, too.”

He hung up, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. It hadn’t been easy being tough on Hanna. He liked the man, even admired him. And losing a partner of fifteen years would have been difficult for anyone. At least now things were on the right track.

But for Judd, everything was off balance. For the first time since he took the oath of office, he had nowhere to go but his apartment. He hesitated on the street outside the station house, then headed for the bar down the street. His apartment wasn’t home. It was just where he slept, and it was far too early to go to bed.

The bar was cool and fairly quiet. The afternoon crowd had yet to arrive. Judd slid onto a stool and combed his fingers through his hair in frustration. How in hell had his life gotten so mixed up?

“What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

“Bourbon,” Judd muttered.

The bartender slid a bowl of pretzels his way and then went to pour the drink. Judd pushed the bowl aside. He didn’t need to eat. He needed to forget.

“Here you go, buddy,” the bartender said.

Judd grabbed the shot glass and lifted it to his lips, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror over the bar. But something happened between recognition and focus. Instead of seeing the man that he was, he saw the boy that he’d been. His belly knotted and his heart suddenly ached as he let himself remember.

The pink slip in Joe Hanna’s back pocket rode his conscience like a hot poker. Overwhelmed at being fired from another dead-end job, he’d spent the last four hours, and what was left of his money, drowning his sorrows at the local bar. The only thing he had left was a constant, burning rage at the disappointments life had dealt him, and the burden of a ten-year old son he had never wanted.

As he started up the walk to his house, it occurred to him that the house was dark. He squinted against the glare of streetlights and cursed. That damned kid. If he wasn’t home from school, he would tan his hide.

It never occurred to Joe that more than seven hours had passed since his son, Judd, would have come home from school, or that he’d come home to a house with no food. Joe felt no guilt for his lack of concern. He kept a roof over their heads, which was more than his daddy had done for him.

He stumbled as he started up the steps, falling forward and then catching himself on his hands and knees just before his face hit the porch. A sharp pain pierced the palm of his right hand. He got up swearing and staggered into the house, turning on the lights, room by room.

“Boy! Where the hell are you?”

No one answered. Joe cursed again as he stumbled to the kitchen sink. He looked down at his hand. It was bleeding. He wiped it on the front of his shirt, then reached for the cabinet. The second shelf down from the top was where he kept his liquor. He needed a drink, but there was nothing there.

He slammed the door shut with a bang. “Goddamn it, Judd Hanna! You answer me, boy! What did you do with my whiskey?”

Again, the rooms echoed from the sound of Joe’s voice. Rage grew. His belly burned and his head was swimming. In a minute, he was going to lie down, but not before he got his hands on that damned kid.

Joe started through the rooms, shouting Judd’s name. Doors slammed. A lamp tumbled to the floor and shattered into pieces, and still no sign of the boy. He was furious. The shame of being fired, coupled with the frustrations of his life in general, had boiled into a rage. He staggered back into the kitchen, swaying where he stood and staring around the house in disbelief.

It took a while for him to realize that the door leading down to the basement was slightly ajar. A cold smile broke the anger on his face. Seconds later, he stood at the landing, shouting Judd’s name into the darkness below.

The basement walls were damp with condensation, the odors a choking blend of dust and mold. Something scurried in the darkness beneath ten-year-old Judd Hanna’s feet and he stifled a gasp. Yet the fear of the unknown was far less sinister to him than the man standing at the landing of the stairs.

“Judd…Judd, boy, I know you’re down there. Answer me, damn it.”

Judd held his breath, afraid to swallow for fear he’d be heard.

When his father started down the steps, every muscle in Judd’s body went tense.

No, no, no…God, don’t let him find me.

“Answer me, you sorry little bastard. I know you’re down there,” Joe growled.

Judd squeezed his eyes shut and shrank a little farther against the wall. If he couldn’t see his father, then his father couldn’t see him. It was a game he’d played in his mind for more years than he cared to count. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t.

“What did you do with my whiskey, boy? Answer me, you hear? Don’t make me come down there and get you.”

Judd gritted his teeth, struggling against the need to cry. It had been years since he’d given his father the satisfaction of knowing he could be hurt.

Joe cursed beneath his breath and reached for the light switch. But nothing happened. He cursed even louder, unaware that Judd had taken the bulb out in hopes he wouldn’t be found. But to Judd’s dismay, his father started down the steps, fumbling his way through the dark and cursing with every breath.

Judd slid silently to the floor and doubled over on himself, trying to become invisible. His eyes were closed, his breathing almost nonexistent.

“I know you’re here,” Joe whispered.

Judd’s heart was pounding and the bitter taste of fear was in his mouth.

Please God, if you’re out there…take me away. Take me away.

“You can’t hide from me. Come out now and take your punishment like a man.”

Bile rose in the back of Judd’s throat. Please, God, please. Not again. Not again. Don’t let him—

“Gotcha!” Joe said.

When the hand closed around the back of Judd’s neck, he knew it was over. He did not go willingly. Fighting against the pain of his father’s grasp, he struggled to pull free. If he could get to the stairs, he could get away. He would be safe after that. His father was bound to pass out soon. He always passed out. Those were the only times Judd ever knew peace.

Joe backhanded his son, wincing when one of Judd’s teeth accidentally cut the back of his knuckle.

“Don’t you bite me, you little bastard,” Joe snarled.

Judd’s mouth was already swelling as he tried to break free of his father’s grasp.

“I didn’t mean to, Daddy, I swear.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Joe snapped, and backhanded him again. “Why didn’t you answer me when I called you? And what the hell did you do with my whiskey?”

Reeling from the force of the blows, Judd couldn’t think, let alone answer. All he could do was duck and hold up his hands, trying to dodge his father’s fists.

It was futile.

Joe was too far gone in his rage to think about what he was doing. In his mind, he was striking out at the man who had fired him and the bartender who’d refused him a last drink. He saw the woman who had laughed at him as he stumbled out of the bar, and himself in a cycle of self-destruction with no way out.

He hated what he saw.

It was the painful jolt of flesh against flesh that finally sank through his senses. Slowly, he became aware that the skin on his hand was stinging. He paused, his arm raised above his head, and looked at the boy who was his son. The child’s face was covered in blood. Joe shuddered, his stomach suddenly roiling as the adrenaline rush started to crash. He needed to lie down.

“Now, then,” he muttered as he staggered back against the wall. “Let that be a lesson to you.”

He expected Judd to run. When he didn’t move, Joe shrugged, then turned, grabbing at the stair rail to steady himself. From the faint light spilling out from the stairwell above, he could see that Judd hadn’t moved. In fact, the boy’s silent demeanor was starting to get to him.

“It’s your own fault,” he mumbled.

Judd’s only response was a slow, careful breath. He would die before he let Joe Hanna know that he hurt.

Joe watched a thick drop of blood gathering at the corner of Judd’s nose. He began to get nervous. Tomorrow was a school day. If Judd went to school in this condition, someone might decide to butt into their business. And at this point in Joe’s life, he had too much to lose to let that happen.

Joe’s wife was dead, worn out by the years of living with the man who had been her husband. And while her death had left him with the burden of raising their son all alone, there had been a benefit to the loss that Joe hadn’t expected. Until Judd reached the age of eighteen, he received a monthly social security check on his mother’s behalf. And, as Judd’s legal guardian, the check came to Joe. It kept a roof over their heads and beer in his belly.

Yet even in the state he was in, Joe had sense enough to realize that if he lost custody of his son, he would lose access to the money. He couldn’t let that happen. So, instead of apologizing to his son, he angrily pointed a finger in Judd’s face.

“Don’t think you’re gonna go running to those damned teachers you’re so fond of and tattle on me,” Joe snarled. “They won’t help you. You know why? ’Cause you’re white trash, boy, and people don’t give a damn about white trash.”

Judd’s hands curled into fists. A red haze was spreading between himself and his father, and he couldn’t think past the heat in his belly. The urge to hit was overwhelming. The urge to wipe that look off his father’s face forever was even stronger.

Joe snorted. The kid was a loser. He wouldn’t even speak up for himself.

“I’m tired. I’m going to bed now.”

Then he started up the stairs. Halfway up, Judd’s voice came out of the silence.

“Daddy.”

Joe turned, blinking owlishly into the darkness below. Judd was only a vague outline in the shadows.

“What?”

“When you go to bed…say your prayers.”

Joe frowned. “What the hell did you say that for?”

“When you sleep, I will kill you.”

Joe’s lips slackened. The statement was so ludicrous he couldn’t think of what to say. But when Judd stepped into the light spilling down from the kitchen above, Joe took an instinctive step back. The hate on his son’s face was too real.

He tried to laugh. Judd was just a kid. A ten-year-old kid. But the laughter wouldn’t come. Suddenly, he found himself stumbling up the steps and into the light of the kitchen, his heart pounding, his belly lurching. He swayed where he stood, aware that he was only moments from passing out.

When you sleep, I will kill you.

The words still echoed in his head. Suddenly the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs sent him into a panic. Within seconds, he was staggering down the porch steps and running through the bushes of their backyard.

A cat scrambled out of a garbage can, hissing and spitting as Joe stumbled into the alley. The commotion set the neighbor’s dog to barking. Joe’s blood ran cold. If Judd wanted to, he could find him by the noise trail alone.

Joe paused and looked back. Something moved in the shadows. His heart skipped a beat. He turned and ran and never looked back, passing out some time later beneath some trees in the city park.

When he woke the next morning, his only concern was that he’d outrun his fate. Days after, when the Kentucky authorities came and took Judd away, Joe couldn’t bring himself to feel anything but relief.

And Judd Hanna didn’t care that his father was out of his life. In his mind, he’d been alone for years. His last refuge had been God, and that night under the stairs, even God had deserted him.

A loud sound outside the bar startled Judd’s reverie. He blinked several times as his thoughts refocused. Once more, he found himself staring at the man in the mirror, and at the glass of whiskey only inches away from his lips. He shuddered. Damn. He wasn’t far from the man he’d learned to hate.

At that moment, something inside of him snapped. He set the drink down without tasting it, tossed some money on the bar, and headed for the street. His captain had been right. He was taking chances with his life, only he didn’t know why, but one fact remained that he couldn’t ignore. If he wanted to live, it had to stop now.

He walked the streets for hours, weighing his options. His rent was paid until the first of the year and his utility bills were deducted directly from his bank account. He had no one to answer to but himself, and no intentions of spilling his guts to a shrink. In Judd Hanna’s mind, that left him only one option, and he was going to take it before it was too late.

Captain Roger Shaw’s satisfaction in dealing with Hanna’s problem was short-lived. At nine-thirty the next morning, a call from the department shrink verified the fact that Judd Hanna was a no-show.

Furious, he called Judd’s apartment and got a disconnect message on the phone. He stared at the receiver in disbelief, then dialed again, certain that he’d made a mistake. Again, the prerecorded message came on, saying that the number he had dialed was no longer in service. By six o’clock that evening, it was obvious that Judd Hanna was gone.

Late August, Call City, Wyoming

Judd Hanna glanced at the map on the seat beside him and then shrugged his shoulders, trying to alleviate some of the tension in his neck. It was the driving. Driving always made him tense. He looked at his watch. It was almost five o’clock. Even though it was a few hours away from nightfall, an early night sounded good. Maybe tonight he would be able to sleep. Maybe tonight the dreams wouldn’t come. God, he hoped so. He was tired. So tired.

As he topped a steep hill, he saw movement in the pasture beyond and slowed down to look. It only took a moment for the unfolding scene to register. A little girl of no more than two years old was toddling through the grass. Beyond her, and more than one hundred yards away, was a young woman, running at full stride, with her mouth open in a scream he couldn’t hear. To their right, and converging between them and gaining speed with every lope, was a huge black bull. It was obvious to Judd that the baby was the intended target, and that the mother would never reach her in time.

Without thinking, he stomped the accelerator to the floor. Tires spun on pavement, leaving behind the scent of burning rubber. He bounced across the shallow ditch and then straight through the five-strand barbed wire fence, leaving a tangle of mangled wire and broken fence posts behind him as he went. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as he focused on the dwindling space between the baby and the bull.

Today was laundry day. Two-year old Rachel Franklin loved the days that her mother, Charlotte, pulled all the clothes from the clothes hamper to separate for wash. Charlotte—Charlie to her family—loved her baby more than life, but there were days, like today, when she could have done without her help. She’d already separated the colored clothes twice, each time pulling her red T-shirt from the whites. Rachel did love that red T-shirt, but Charlie didn’t think her brother, Wade, would be too fond of pink underwear, especially since he was Call City’s chief of police.

“Rachel, give Mommy the shirt,” Charlie said.

Rachel picked the red T-shirt from the pile and gave it to Charlie. The smile on her face was so precious that Charlie dropped the clothes she was carrying and picked her daughter up instead, nuzzling her nose against the baby-soft skin beneath Rachel’s ear.

Rachel cackled and squealed with delight, then threw her arms around Charlie’s neck.

“My mommy,” Rachel said, and squeezed as tight as she could.

Charlie returned the hug. “My Rachel,” she said, her throat tight with emotion.

The child was her life. The only good thing to come from loving Pete Tucker, their neighbor’s son. He’d played loose with Charlie’s feelings, then skipped out on her when she was two months pregnant to chase his dreams on the rodeo circuit. A month before Rachel was born, he’d crawled on a bull that, in a matter of seconds, had put an end to Pete Tucker’s dreams.

Charlie had grieved, but only for the loss of Rachel’s father. Charlie’s love for Pete Tucker had died the day he left her to bear the burden of their affair all alone.

“Want down,” Rachel muttered.

Charlie sighed as she put her baby back on her feet. Her daughter’s independence was inevitable, but she couldn’t help the spear of regret. She tousled Rachel’s curls.

“You go play in your room, baby girl. Mommy is going to put these clothes in the washer. Get them all clean for Uncle Wade.”

“Unca Wade?”

“Yes, these are for Uncle Wade.”

Rachel toddled off, satisfied with her mother’s explanation. Next to her mother, Wade Franklin was her favorite person.

Charlie picked up the pile of clothes, careful not to include the red shirt, and headed for the utility room off the kitchen. A couple of minutes later it dawned on her that the house was entirely too quiet and she started back through the rooms in search of Rachel.

“Rachel, where are you?” Charlie called.

She got no answer.

“Rachel, answer Mommy, where are you?”

This time the silence hit hard. Trying not to panic, she retraced her steps, searching in all of Rachel’s nooks and crannies, certain she would find her in one of her favorite places.

It wasn’t until she’d made the second trip through the house that she noticed the screen door in the living room was slightly ajar. She dashed out on the porch, telling herself to stay calm.

“Rachel, where are you?”

The silence that came afterward was unnerving. She wasted another precious minute running around the house and calling Rachel’s name, certain she’d find her playing in the sandbox under the trees in the backyard. But she wasn’t there, either.

Now she was beginning to panic. It wasn’t until she turned around that she noticed Everett Tucker’s black bull was in their pasture again. This wasn’t the first time it had happened, and her brother, Wade, had warned Everett more than once to fix his fence. She stood for a moment, staring at the bull’s curious stance. His head was up, his body almost motionless in the way animals are when they sense something trespassing on their territory. And then it hit her.

“Oh, God…oh, no,” Charlie moaned, and started to run, just as the bull began to charge.

She ran without focus, searching the pasture with a frantic gaze, all the while praying against hope that she was wrong. Then she saw Rachel, toddling through the grass with a handful of flowers. She bolted across the cattle guard, running as she’d never run before, and screaming aloud Rachel’s name.

She didn’t feel the heat of the sun upon her face. She didn’t even hear the sound of her own screams. All she could do was focus on Rachel’s curly head and remember how soft her baby’s curls were against her face, and how sweet they smelled after a shampoo.

The bull’s angry bellow shattered the air and Charlie screamed again, trying to divert his attention. It didn’t happen, and it occurred to her then that she would watch her daughter die. As fast as she was running, the bull was still gaining on Rachel, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.

Then out of nowhere, a black Jeep suddenly appeared in the pasture, flying across the ground at breakneck speed. Before she could absorb the implications, she stumbled and fell. The next thing she knew, she was flat on her face. Dirt was in her eyes, and her leg was afire with an unbearable pain. And yet as quickly as she fell, she was struggling to her feet and rubbing at her eyes, desperate to see. Had Rachel died while she was facedown in the dirt?

Through a blur of tears, she looked up to see the Jeep come to a sudden halt only a foot or so from where Rachel was standing. The door opened. She saw a man lean out and yank Rachel inside only seconds before bull and Jeep collided. The heavy thud of bending metal was like music to her ears. She dropped her head and took deep, calming breaths. Nothing mattered any longer. Rachel was safe.

Judd was numb. The rush of adrenaline that had gotten him this far was receding as swiftly as it had come, leaving him weak and shaken. The baby in his arms looked as startled as he’d been moments earlier when he’d seen the scene unfolding. The bull had already done a job on the passenger side of his Jeep and was now butting against the radiator as hard as he could. Judd sighed, watching the steam spewing up from under the hood. No telling what was busted, but it really didn’t matter. For now, the child was safe.

He began running his hands over the little girl’s body, desperate to assure himself that she had come to no harm. He’d yanked her pretty hard when he’d picked her up, but there hadn’t been time for gentle introductions. When he was satisfied that she was all right, he glanced at the bull, who had taken an angry stance a distance away.

So far, so good, Judd thought, and looked around for the woman he’d seen running earlier. Then he saw her on her knees a distance away. It was obvious from the expression on her face that she was in pain.

Beyond the Jeep, the bull began pawing the earth, sending showers of dust into the air. Every now and then, the air would shift from the force of an angry bellow.