The lines on his forehead deepening, Travis turned toward the house and eased his shoulder in front of Casey as though he were taking point on a patrol, his head swiveling from side to side, watching every avenue as they walked the small path to the front door, where the house almost seemed to hold its breath.
Casey wanted to shove him out of the way, but the quiet hung heavier as they drew closer to the door, and the breeze tweaked her imagination, brushing fingers along her neck. She fought a shudder and eased behind Travis, willing to let him take the lead.
The front door stood inside a recessed stoop, the sun’s angle cloaking the entry in shadows.
Shadows could be hiding anything, including a man wearing a hoodie and brandishing a pistol. Last night’s fear layered over reality, making the warm afternoon instantly sinister. Casey’s feet ached to run to the truck and gun the engine until she was on the road, leaving behind only a trail of dirt and pine needles to show she’d been there. Her muscles twitched, fear plucking the strings.
She’d do it, too, tuck tail and shelter in the truck until Travis gave her the all clear, if running didn’t mean Travis and John could have a good laugh at her expense. No way would she let that happen.
At the front door, Casey reached around Travis, desperate for a way to remind herself this was broad daylight in the country, not a dark parking lot in town. She rapped her knuckles hard against the wood.
The door swung open with the force of the blow.
Travis stepped aside, shoving Casey squarely behind him. “I knew something was wrong.” The muttered words were low but impossible to miss, pumping even more fear into her system.
Fear that had to be misplaced. She was jumpy, wired from having a gun aimed at her. This was silly, the stuff of bad television movies. Real life didn’t play out in crime scenes and bloodshed. “Nothing’s wrong.” She tried to shove ahead of him, swallowing a bout of anxiety, but he stood firm, his shoulder blocking her way.
“Stay behind me.” The command in his tone worked, and Travis eased to the side of the door, keeping Casey tucked close to him. He swung the door open with a flat palm. “Winslow? You in there? It’s Casey Jordan and Travis Heath.”
No sound came from the house.
Casey’s skin crawled. From all her interviews with John over the past couple of years, she knew his past experiences had bred a man who would never leave his home unsecured. “What do we do?”
“We go in.” Travis shielded her as he crossed the threshold.
This was a dumb idea. What if John was on the phone? Or he’d overslept? “Travis...”
He ignored her.
The front entry opened into the living area, where a large leather sectional curved around the sunken living room. Narrow floor-to-ceiling windows lined the far wall, the heavy curtains drawn, casting the room in dark shadows. The sole light from the front door fell across the center of the floor.
Casey stayed close to Travis, willing her sight to adjust to the dim interior after the daylight outside. She felt along the wall, hoping they weren’t making a huge, embarrassing mistake.
Something like the smell of old pennies tickled her nose, familiar and frightening.
Only one thing smelled like that.
Travis hesitated. He must have caught it, as well. His hand swept along the wall and connected with a switch that flooded the room with light.
On the far left side of the living room, John sat in a kitchen chair, hands lashed behind him, chin hanging to his chest, blood covering the green T-shirt and jeans he’d worn last night and puddling on the floor at his feet.
Casey gasped and stumbled backward, Travis’s hold on her hand the only thing that kept her from going down. It was all the borrowed strength she needed. Stomach still roiling, she dug up every reserve she had as Travis’s fingers tightened around hers and pulled her forward.
He released her hand and dropped to his knees beside John, searching for a pulse. “He’s alive. Barely. Get in the truck, lock yourself in and call 911.”
“But...” She’d trained for moments like this, but living a situation where death hung so close was something she wasn’t prepared for. She’d been on a large forward operating base during her deployments, not on the front lines, and had seen the wounded from a distance. This much blood, this much pain... Death hovered so close it sucked in all the available air.
With a strangled gasp, John lifted his head and fixed panicked eyes on Casey. His face bore dark bruises, lips swollen and bloodied. His jaw worked, and he made a sound she couldn’t understand, a word that simply wouldn’t compute past the roaring in her ears.
The brief moment of contact jolted through Casey before John’s eyes dulled and he slumped forward, his breath shuddering before it stopped.
Travis pressed the heels of his hands into the metal of his tailgate and forced his shoulders higher, trying to stretch the tension out of his lower back. It felt as though he’d been sitting in the same spot for days, even though emergency vehicles had crowded into John Winslow’s small clearing. Now, the quiet that had unnerved him earlier was obliterated by voices, radio calls and squawking emergency scanners.
Paramedics stood near the fire truck, speaking in low tones. On the other side of the vehicles, a small knot of first responders gathered around John’s dog, which had been found in the backyard, drugged but coming around. The brown-and-white Brittany spaniel found herself doted on by every person who had a spare minute.
She was a bright spot in a dark scene, but she brought an ache to Travis’s chest. The last time he’d had a conversation with John, it had been nearly two years ago, right after John adopted the puppy. Travis hadn’t been in the mood to talk. He’d been at the dog park with a buddy, who was adopting Travis’s dog before he took off on his last deployment. Travis had introduced the two men, suggested the guy’s wife as a veterinarian for John’s new puppy, then stayed out of the rest of the conversation. Now, in spite of the fact they’d had their differences along the way, Travis wished he’d been a little bit friendlier. Life was fragile and the end came out of nowhere. He’d learned the lesson well when a hurricane wiped out his small hometown in the Florida Panhandle. He’d seen it when Neil Aiken was there one minute and gone the next and when Kristin’s brother had been killed in Iraq. Today, life had fled right in front of him once again.
He grabbed the edge of the tailgate and held tight. Life went too easily, and it couldn’t be restored once it was gone.
Exactly like last night. It could have been Casey or him, gone in a moment with a muzzle flash.
Travis dug his teeth into his lower lip. Last night. When the man with a pistol had stolen Casey’s laptop.
On the running board of a nearby ambulance, Casey sat stiff, her shoulders a straight line as she stared at the fire truck that had led the charge into the clearing. The police had separated them, probably to keep them from tainting one another’s statements, but it was hard to watch her sit silently beside a female EMT who was obviously trying to keep Casey’s mind off the sights inside the house.
The paramedics who’d arrived first on the scene had confirmed what Travis already knew. John was gone. That one desperate gasped word—bet—had been his last.
Maybe John had owed someone money. He’d heard of pretty rough things happening when compulsive gamblers ran afoul of the wrong people. Maybe the mugging last night had been because someone had seen John with Casey and thought they could get to him through her.
Or maybe it was something else. Whatever the meaning, John had been determined to express it to Casey, even as his life ran out.