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
