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Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One
Officer Brynn Sawyer was definitely out of uniform. At the rate her friends were getting married, she contemplated with a wry chuckle, a bridesmaid’s dress was beginning to feel like her backup wardrobe.
Recalling Jodie Nathan and Jeff Davidson’s wedding earlier that day, she couldn’t help smiling as she drove her SUV down the dark, winding road toward the valley highway. Hours ago, she and a few hundred other guests had given the happy couple a great send-off for their Bermuda honeymoon.
After most of the others had departed the festivities at Archer Farm, Brynn had remained behind to help the staff and clients clean up at the juvenile rehabilitation center that the groom had founded. The teenage boys, most of whom she knew well, both through personal encounters and from memorizing their rap sheets, had had other ideas. Refusing her offers of assistance, they had settled her in a deep chair in front of the great room fireplace, slipped a hassock under her high-heel-clad feet and placed a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. Then, insisting they were used to grunt work, they’d ordered her not to muss her pretty dress. In less than a year, Jeff Davidson and his staff of former Marines had worked miracles with their sixteen at-risk boys.
Contemplating Jeff and Jodie’s well-earned happiness, Brynn drove slowly through the darkness. The only illumination on the narrow road was the high beams, and the only interior light came from the faint glow from the control panel. She briefly fingered a fold of her dress before taking hold of the wheel again. The full-length gown was pretty, as the teens had said, a delicate leaf-green silk, perfect for the first day of spring and new beginnings, and to complement the midnight-blue of her eyes.
“You’re next,” Jodie had declared after Brynn caught the bridal bouquet of apple blossoms, paper-whites and fragrant ivory roses. “Remember the rule of threes. It was Merrilee last year, now me. You’ll be married, too, before you know it.”
Brynn had shaken her head and laughed. At thirty, she had no special man in her life, and certainly not one likely to propose. Steady dating, much less marriage, was the furthest thing from her mind. Although she definitely enjoyed men’s company—most of her fellow officers were male—she didn’t need a man to make her feel complete. She loved her job as a Pleasant Valley police officer and aspired to fill her father’s shoes as chief of police someday when he retired. And the people of the valley were her extended family. What woman could want more?
A blast of frigid wind shook the vehicle. Switching on the windshield wipers, she peered through the first flurries of blowing snow, glad she’d donned her department-issue, down-filled parka over her lightweight dress and changed her high-heeled sandals for waterproof boots before she’d left Archer Farm. The early spring snowstorm had timed its arrival just right—after Jodie’s wedding and reception had ended, thank goodness.
Reassured by the heavy-duty tires and four-wheel drive of her SUV, Brynn eased onto the highway that led through the valley, filled with small farms, to town. If she drove carefully, she’d have no trouble reaching home before heavy snow, which practically never fell in South Carolina, made the roads impassable.
To her right in the darkness, the Piedmont River, already swollen with melting winter snows from the surrounding mountains, paralleled the highway. Her car topped a ridge, and, on her left, lights flickered through the trees in front of Grant and Merrilee Nathan’s home.
Merrilee, along with Jodie’s fifteen-year-old daughter Brittany, had also been bridesmaids at this afternoon’s wedding, and Grant and Merrilee had headed home hours ago. Brittany had left soon after to stay with her grandparents for the honeymoon’s duration. Brynn had been the last guest to depart.
Valley Road was deserted, and she uttered a prayer of gratitude that the snow was falling so late. By morning, when the locals went about their business, the snowplows would have cleared the accumulated white stuff and made the roads safe and her job easier.
No sooner had those thoughts formed than the blinding glare of headlights filled her rearview mirror. A vehicle was approaching rapidly from behind. Definitely too fast for existing conditions. The speeding car bore down on her, swung into the opposite lane and blasted past, leaving Brynn’s SUV vibrating in its vortex.
“Idiot,” she muttered under her breath. “He’s going to kill himself and someone else if he doesn’t slow down.”
Keeping her eyes on the road, she reached to the floor of the passenger seat for her portable warning light, popped it onto the dash, and turned on it and her siren. Flooring the accelerator, she took off after the speeder. For now, the falling snow formed only slush on the asphalt, but with temperatures dropping like a rock in a pond, dangerous ice would soon coat the roads, a recipe for disaster.
Brynn grabbed her police radio from the seat beside her and keyed the mike. “This is Officer Sawyer. I’m on Valley Road in pursuit of a silver Jaguar, South Carolina plates.” She rattled off the tag number.
“10-4,” answered the steady voice of Todd Leland, the night dispatcher. “I’m running the plates now. Do you need backup?”
“10-4.” Especially if Todd had a hit on those tags. “Sawyer out.” Brynn dropped her radio and gripped the wheel. Ahead, heeding her signals, the Jaguar’s driver slowed, pulled to the side of the road, and stopped.
Adrenaline pumping, Brynn parked behind him and switched off her siren. Traffic stops were generally routine, but one going bad was always a possibility. A fleeing felon with nothing to lose wouldn’t hesitate to kill a cop to make his escape. She retrieved her off-duty gun from the glove compartment, shoved it into the pocket of her parka and keyed the mike again.
“Anything on those plates yet?”
“It’s coming through now, registered to a Randall Benedict on Valley Road. No report of the vehicle being stolen. No outstanding warrants on Benedict. Your backup’s on the way.”
“10-4.” According to Todd’s report, the driver was merely stupid, not criminal, but from a cop’s point of view, she could never have too much backup. Especially on a deserted road so late at night.
Hiking her long silk skirt above her boots, Brynn slid from the car and used her Maglite to guide her steps to the idling Jaguar. At her approach, the driver’s window slid down with an electronic whir.
The driver started to speak. “I have a—”
“I’ll do the talking. This is a state highway, not a NASCAR track,” Brynn said in the authoritative manner she reserved for lawbreakers, especially those displaying such an obvious lack of common sense. “And the road’s icing up. You have a death wish?”
“No.” The driver seemed distracted, oblivious to the seriousness of his offense. “I need to—”
“Turn off your engine,” Brynn ordered, “and place your hands on the wheel where I can see them.”
She shined her flashlight in the driver’s face. The man in his midthirties squinted in the brightness, but not before the pupils of his eyes, the color of dark melting chocolate, contracted in the light. She instantly noted the rugged angle of his unshaven jaw, the aristocratic nose, baby-fine
