Hunted in Conard County Read online

  Until she realized that almost no one was out and about. She hadn’t lived here that long, but she knew Sundays were usually busy at this hour with people coming from and going to church. She even walked past Maude’s and the place looked emptier than usual.

  It didn’t require her cop sense to know that something major had happened. Before she completed her walk, she found out what it was.

  And older man, leaning on a cane, was walking toward her, and said, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” she answered.

  “You might want to get along home,” he said, stopping.

  “What’s wrong? And where is everyone?”

  “Most are at the church. There’ll be a lot of praying today. Sandra Carney, one of the teachers from the high school, got raped last night. I hear it was bad. Cops been out searching since she managed to dial 911 early this morning, and they’re still at it.”

  “Nasty,” she said. Her response was the calm, controlled one of a police officer, but inside she began to churn. She’d seen too many rapes and she’d never become deadened. Even toward the end of her police career she sometimes wept when she was alone.

  “That’s what I’m hearing. I got nothing to fear out here, but you’re young and pretty. Most folks are holding their kids close and finding comfort in the Lord. Praying for Sandra, too. Anyway, who knows what kind of monster is running around out there. You get home and look after yourself, okay?”

  “I’ll do that. Thank you.”

  “We gotta look after each other, missy. Otherwise, what’s the point of being here?”

  She liked his attitude and took his advice. Not because she was frightened, but because his concern deserved her attention. That didn’t keep her from going on high alert, however. She scanned every yard she passed, and for the first time began to notice there was a larger number of cops out than usual. Massive sweep, she decided. Probably looking for any kind of potential evidence anywhere. She wondered how many people had been questioned in the vicinity of the rape.

  She shook her head, reminding herself she was no longer in law enforcement. Not her place to intrude.

  But she felt a sudden burst of rage that she couldn’t help. Damn, that jackass with a gun had stolen everything that mattered from her.

  As soon as she realized she was in danger of a self-pity party, she forced the rage down. She could still walk, she could still talk, she could still have most of a life. Too many people could no longer say that.

  She’d been lucky. She needed to keep reminding herself of that. Damn lucky.

  Get out of the pit, she warned herself, unaware that she was no longer walking, but marching back toward the apartment house. Shoulders squared, back stiffened, her strides a steady cadence.

  God, she thought, the rape must have been horrific to have people flocking to church and staying off the streets. Her heart went out to the victim.

  * * *

  That had been a freaking mistake, Ivan thought as he attended church that morning, following his normal routine. He’d picked the wrong victim.

  He didn’t know this town well enough yet. He’d come here two years ago to attend the community college because the heat had started to move a little too close to home in Gillette. It hadn’t reached him, but his one rape there had begun to draw attention in his general vicinity. So he’d gone off to college, promising himself he’d never do that again.

  He hadn’t counted on compulsion. He’d had some control of it when he first arrived here, and not until his fourth semester had it gained control of him.

  But no one had even looked his direction. He’d learned how to cover himself, he decided. What’s more, rape on a college campus, even a small one, didn’t seem to be as big a deal. Why, he couldn’t have said. The two women had simply gone home. Their stories had passed by word of mouth, but no official complaint had been made.

  Of course, he hadn’t hurt them. They’d probably felt it was just better to get away. This one was different.

  And this time he’d been an idiot because he’d picked a well-loved teacher. How was he supposed to know that? He had a certain physical type in mind and didn’t care who or what they were.

  This one, however...

  The church service went on a whole lot longer than usual, and Ivan had to stifle a strong urge to get away. Other than the routine readings and prayers, the homily had been all about Sandra Carney, painting a picture of a dedicated teacher who was loved by her students and everyone else who knew her.

  And then the damn praying for her recovery had begun. Ivan mouthed the appropriate responses but didn’t feel them at all. He’d never felt anything in church, but he went every Sunday, anyway. It always helped to be known as a God-fearing man who took his faith seriously.

  In truth, he had none. The fires of hell had never worried him, and he didn’t believe in heaven, either. He believed in luck and believed a person made the most of their own. What he couldn’t accept was a deity reaching down into personal lives.

  But he stood there, anyway, making a show of giving a damn, all the while telling himself that if this teacher had just stayed out of his way, she’d have been fine.

  How she was supposed to stay out of his way, he didn’t bother to consider. She’d been like a plum ripe for plucking.

  Not his fault.

  Finally the endless service terminated, followed by the part he enjoyed best: coffee, doughnuts and cakes. There was usually more cheer, and Ivan liked to socialize, but this morning the conversation and voices were subdued. Eventually he couldn’t stand that anymore, either. He bought a pie from the bake sale and headed back to his own hidey-hole. At least away from all those mealymouthed people so he could savor last night’s victory.

  It would be especially sweet with a piece of mincemeat pie.

  * * *

  Stu called and began to apologize but Kerri cut him off. “I heard what happened. Listen, I’m in a cooking mood so why don’t you just come over for dinner? Unless you’re still busy.”

  “I’ve kind of been ordered to rest up. We’ve been going since around 5:00 a.m. But I’d like dinner if it won’t put you out.”

  He was on his way over, after a shower and change, and her heart lifted a little. Meeting that nice gentleman on the street had reminded her of how much she enjoyed running into people and having casual conversations. When she hadn’t been riding patrol, but had walked the streets in her uniform, she’d met some great people.

  She often thought cops spent too much time in their cars and not enough getting to know people by spending time in their neighborhoods. She understood that the cars were more efficient in terms of time, especially response time, but she didn’t like being the “stranger in blue.”

  Community policing had her hearty approval.

  Glancing at the time on the DVR beneath her small TV, she decided she had better get started. She couldn’t invite someone to dinner and then offer them nothing.

  At least she didn’t have to thaw anything. Earlier she’d made eggplant parmesan, a favorite of hers, planning to cut it up into several portions for the week. Now, instead of doing that, she’d pop the entire baking dish into the oven to heat up and melt the cheese.

  Stu showed up about an hour later smelling of soap and shampoo. He wore a navy blue long-sleeved shirt, jeans and cowboy boots and looked so tired that she didn’t even ask, she just went to make coffee.

  “How bad was it?” she asked over her shoulder as she started scooping coffee.

  “I didn’t have to see it, thank God, but Gage said it was brutal.”

  “The sheriff?”

  “The same.” He slid onto a bar stool facing her and rubbed his eyes. “Thanks so much for dinner. Going to the diner would have been an invitation for an inquisition, and I’m in no mood to cook tonight.”

  “It’s not my favorite thing, but n
ecessity and all that. I hope you like eggplant parmesan.”

  “Very much.” He smiled slightly. “That’s ambitious.”

  “That’s easier. One more step than making a lasagna, but easier, anyway.” She reached for two mugs and placed them beside the coffee maker as it dripped its way to completion. “I ran into a nice old man when I was out walking who wanted me to get home and be safe. Is that the feeling that’s running around? I didn’t see many people on the street but he said they were all in church.”

  “Pretty much everyone,” he agreed. “The victim was a popular schoolteacher. People who didn’t know her as that probably remember her from when she was a child here. Born and bred as they say.”

  “It’s such a damn shame.” She stood staring at the coffee as it dripped, trying to squash memories of similar cases when she was a cop. Apparently, some memories would keep regurgitating for the rest of her life. “Rape is an awful thing.”

  She looked over her shoulder at him. “If you’d rather go crash on the couch, the coffee will wait.”

  “A decent cup of coffee is what I need right now. Crashing can come later. I’m really sorry we didn’t make it to the appliance place like I promised.”

  “If I don’t understand, who would? No apologies. So what did you do all day?” She watched him rub his eyes, clearly weary.

  “Command and control.”

  “What?” She wasn’t sure what he meant.

  “Gage wanted me to use my experience to organize the search for the perp or some evidence. We’d have been happy with either one. We didn’t find anything.”

  “And the victim?”

  “At last word she isn’t able to talk very much. Serious concussion.”

  “God!” She closed her eyes a moment, then started pouring coffee. She carried a mug to the bar for him. “Black?”

  “Black. Thanks.” He lifted it and drank as if it weren’t scalding hot.

  She leaned against the counter, thinking of that poor woman, hoping she’d have no aftereffects from the concussion. The rape was horrible enough and would resound through the rest of her life, but a concussion, as well?

  Unconsciously, her hand strayed to the groove in the side of her head where the bullet had left its mark. She’d been trying to break herself of that gesture for months now, but still sometimes slipped and touched her scar.

  Then, catching herself, she turned to the oven to preheat it. “Really, Stu, you should try to crash out.”

  “And leave my hostess listening to me snore? I don’t think so.”

  He said it humorously and drew a laugh from her. “Okay, okay, suffer however you choose.”

  “I’m not suffering. I’m enjoying a great view through bleary eyes.”

  “They’d have to be bleary to think this is a great view. Guess what I enjoyed yesterday morning? I never even thought to mention it while we were out.”

  “What’s that?” He sipped more coffee, then no doubt finding it cool enough, he drained the mug.

  “More?” She grabbed the coffeepot and poured him a refill. “What I discovered was dawn on my balcony. It’s a tiny balcony, but I couldn’t have asked for a better view. I sat out there for the longest time wrapped in my blanket and soaked it in. I gotta say, for some reason the sky seems bigger here.”

  “That’s Montana’s turf. You must have heard of Big Sky Country.”

  She grinned. “I certainly have. But it seems to apply here, too. I wonder why. I mean, I used to go out and look over the Gulf of Mexico. That’s a pretty big expanse. Something is different here.”

  “I noticed when I first arrived here, but I couldn’t guess why it is.”

  She came around the bar and took the stool beside him. “I wish there was something I could do, Stu. I hate sitting on my hands.”

  He twisted his head to look at her. “You have a job.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean.”

  He shook his head slowly and looked down into his mug. “I know.”

  But what else could he say? She hoped she hadn’t made him feel pressed but it was true. She wished she could do anything to help catch the perp. She’d dealt with these crimes as a cop, and they awoke strong instincts in her. But the case, like all cases under investigation, had to be kept close to the vest. Like it or not, leaking information could give warning to the criminal.

  She turned her cup slowly in her hands, not especially interested in the coffee, thinking about her situation. The need to be useful was strong in her. It always had been. But in this case there seemed to be nothing she could do.

  Unless, perhaps, she wanted to get out more and start making acquaintances among the local people. Really work at it, something she’d been avoiding because of her seizures.

  She honestly didn’t want to have to tell everyone she met to ignore it when she blinked out. Or explain it all. That was one of the reasons she hadn’t troubled to try to build a social circle.

  But if she had one, she might hear things. Things people weren’t always willing to share with the police because they were unsure, or worried about revealing something that might make someone else angry with them. Just routine, everyday stuff that could sometimes wind up being useful. Cops rarely had casual conversations while in uniform, or with people who didn’t know them well.

  Maybe she could do that. But the thought of putting herself out there made her nervous and caused her heart to race a bit. Man, was she becoming agoraphobic because of this?

  This had to stop. Now. Before she grew a new disability.

  Stu had fallen silent, either because he was exhausted or because he couldn’t discuss the topic she’d brought up. He didn’t seem like the kind of man who’d have a problem being blunt, however.

  So she decided to save him by changing the subject. “What would you suggest is the best way to start making myself a social circle? I’m apt to become an agoraphobe at this rate.”

  She saw his lips curve upward.

  “What about your colleagues?”

  With a start, she realized he was right. She’d been avoiding most contact with them, hadn’t given a single one of them a chance to get to know her, or her them for that matter.

  “Man, do I feel stupid,” she said.

  “You’re not stupid. Don’t say things like that.”

  “But you’re so right. I’ve been avoiding that, and as soon as you said it I realized how I’d made all my friends back in Florida. At work, or in my immediate neighborhood where I ran into people at the time.”

  He swiveled his stool until he faced her. “I’ve been enjoying getting to know you, and I’m sure a lot of other people would, as well.”

  She hesitated, unlike her because she always used to just say things straight out, but she had changed since her shooting. Maybe that was another problem from it? But this wasn’t the time to ponder that. “I just don’t want to have to keep explaining my epilepsy.”

  “Then don’t. If it happens with them, explain afterward. Word’ll get around and you won’t have to explain to very many. No one is perfect in this world. Why should you have to be?”

  Good question. Developing an interest in her coffee at last, she began to drink it.

  “Listen,” he said. “I’m really sorry about shopping for the washer and dryer. I figured we could find something today and have it delivered tomorrow. But now I don’t know how tied up I’ll be for a few days.”

  “I understand, Stu. I walked in your shoes not so long ago. It’s hell on the social life.”

  He laughed at that. “Yeah, it can be.” Then he shook his head. “You know what’s killing me?”

  “What?” She leaned a bit toward him, listening intently.

  “That some creep is out there right now probably savoring the memory of what he did last night.”

  That jolted her. She knew exactly what h
e meant and had been trying not to think about it. Her insistent need to do something to help arose partly from that, not just the damage done to a woman last night. “I’ve talked with them. Rapists, I mean. They’re beyond disgusting. One big power trip. They don’t give a damn about the damage they’ve caused, only that they can find a way to blame her. Or wiggle out from under. So many of them get away with it, too, because too many women don’t want to testify.”

  He put his mug down and propped his hand on his thigh, almost as he might have if placing it on his hip. “I get that they don’t want to face the guy again.”

  “I think it’s a lot more than that. Unless a department has a very sympathetic victims unit, they’re often scared off before they get anywhere near court. Questions get asked that should never get asked, questions that insinuate bad things about the victim. Guess who too often winds up feeling as if they’re on trial? It’s gotten better, I understand, but it’s often still not great.”

  His frown had deepened, but he nodded as he continued to listen to her.

  “You know,” she went on, “I understand why you can’t bring a defendant’s prior bad acts into a trial. Just because he has an arrest record for a small amount of marijuana doesn’t mean he was selling the stuff on the street corner. Only the facts in evidence. Don’t allow the jury to think he’s just a bad actor unless you can prove it.”

  “Right.”

  “So why don’t they give the victim of a rape the same deference? Why should it matter if she hasn’t been living like a nun for twenty years?”

  He shook his head. “I know what you mean. It’s gotten better, though, hasn’t it? I know I never let the police under my command question a victim that way. I can’t speak for what might have happened if there was a trial.”

  “It can be awful. I’ve had to testify. I was supposed to go right back on duty, but occasionally I hung around. Not pretty. Anyway, most of the cases get dismissed because the woman’s frightened, or doesn’t want to be publicly dragged through a gutter, or simply can’t bear to face the creep again. Then there are the plea bargains because the evidence isn’t quite strong enough.”