known where to find Michael all this time?
Drew Bateman—Eleven years in prison gave him time to plot the ultimate revenge.
Derek Engstrom—The Bridgeport police chief has more to solve than local crimes.
Jake Stillwell—The richest man in town is going broke—what might he do to save himself?
Bobby Janowski—The former bully is now a cop, with the law standing behind him.
Marie Cartier—She touched many lives in Bridgeport before her untimely death.
To Jerry and Jean, Oregonians.
Contents
Prologue
The gusting spring rain shimmered in her headlights and reflected off the slick asphalt in the parking lot outside the gray three-story apartment building where Annie Callahan lived. She swerved into the only available space, at the far end, then cut the engine and turned off the lights. The wet heavy darkness descended like the final curtain of a very long play.
But there would be no applause. Annie’s only performance was everyday common-sense living. She peered through the windshield, wishing there had been a closer parking space. She’d be drenched before she reached the front vestibule.
“Might as well get it over with.” She shoved open the car door and stepped outside. Long strands of blond hair escaped her ponytail and were plastered to her cheeks by the wind. Shivering, she splashed through little puddles on her way to the trunk. It had been a long day.
After she’d completed her regular eight-hour shift on the Salem police force, she’d visited her grandpa at the hospital, where he was recovering from a stroke. In just a few days Grandpa Callahan would be Annie’s full-time job. She’d taken a month’s leave of absence so she could move back home to Bridgeport and take care of him. He was the only family she had left.
Faraway lightning cracked the black skies as she popped the trunk and grabbed a paper sack of toiletries, which she balanced on her hip next to the holster on her police utility belt. There hadn’t been time to change out of her uniform. The sopping wet navy blue fabric clung to her arms and legs. If her captain could see her now, she’d get a serious reprimand. Where’s your slicker, Callahan? She’d forgotten it. This morning had been cloudless and sunny, and she hadn’t been thinking about rainwear. Just because this was Oregon didn’t mean it had to rain every single day. No excuses, Callahan. You’re a cop. You’re supposed to be prepared for anything.
Muttering to herself, she slammed the trunk and turned.
A dark solid form loomed in front of her. The rain splattered on his black poncho and dripped off the bill of his baseball cap. The streetlights outlined his powerful shoulders. He was at least as tall as Annie, and her height in shoes was six feet.
When he took a step in her direction, her instincts warned her that his intentions might not be friendly. She would’ve felt a whole lot safer if she could reach her gun, but the shopping bag was in the way and her piece was holstered. Warning herself not to overreact, she asked, “Can I help you?”
“You’re late tonight, Annie.” He knew her. He’d been waiting for her. His ominous whisper confirmed her sense of danger. “Very late.”
His arm raised. He’d been hiding a baseball bat under the poncho. He gripped the handle with both hands as if he was stepping up to the plate. “This is nothing personal.”
Her self-defense training at the police academy should have prepared her to face him, but she’d been caught unawares. She’d never expected to be accosted in her own parking lot. That kind of thing happened to other women. Annie wasn’t a victim. She was a cop. “Hey!” she shouted at him. “Back off!”
The tip of his bat quivered. He lifted his chin and she saw the face under the cap. His features were distorted by a nylon stocking pulled over his head.
He took a swing. She dodged. The bat slammed against the left rear fender of her car with a sharp metallic crunch.
She dropped the sack. Plastic bottles of shampoo, conditioner and lotion bounced and scattered across the asphalt. Annie went for her gun.
Before she could aim, the assailant struck again. His bat connected with her right forearm. Pain flashed through her like the strike of a lightning bolt. She dropped the Glock automatic and protectively pulled her injured arm close to her torso. This shouldn’t be happening. She was supposed to be prepared for anything.
Again he raised the bat and she whirled away from him. She wanted to fight back, but she couldn’t get close enough to grapple with him. She was injured, unarmed, helpless. Her only defense was to run. She hurled herself into the downpour.
The hardwood bat swished past her shoulder, missing her by centimeters.
She looked back and saw him take another one-handed swat.
The bat struck a glancing blow to her skull and at the same time she heard a shout. “What’s going on over there?”
“Help me!” Her scream intensified the pain inside her head. Oh God, it hurt. She couldn’t think. Her brain was numb. The lights in the parking lot blurred
