In an instant, she altered her life drastically.
She’d covered over a hundred miles that night. That’s when Cate knew she was a survivor.
“Mom? The story?” Danny nudged the book toward her.
“Sorry.” She kissed the top of his head and hugged him close.
No, she thought. She was more than surviving. She was living the dream she’d wanted for herself. She had Danny, her pretty house and wonderful friends who loved her. Indian Lake was no accident in her life. It was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and she cherished every moment.
TRENT MADE A fresh pot of coffee and delivered a cup to Ned Quigley, the dispatcher, just as a 911 call came in. With only a skeleton crew on duty, Trent waited until Ned had written down the particulars.
“What is it?” Trent asked, sipping his coffee and thinking that one of these days he had to learn how to make decent coffee. It couldn’t be all that tough, could it?
“Home invasion. Wife’s on the phone. Appleton is a block away.” Ned patched through to the cop on duty and gave him the address. Then Ned sent two more patrols as backup. He looked at Trent.
“Where is it?” Trent asked.
“By the skating rink.”
That was only half a mile from Cate’s address. Trent knew Le Grande was too smart to draw attention to himself on the same night as a shootout with cops. So where would Le Grande have gone after the bust? To Chicago where the CPD practically had him in their sights? The guy had to know that all of Indian Lake PD was on alert for him. Most of the drug dealers coming into small towns across the Illinois border tended to underestimate local law enforcement. They thought they were dealing with hicks and idiots. Granted, the citizenry might not be as astute about drugs and dealers as Chicagoans, but the police investigators were savvy and well-informed. What men like Le Grande didn’t know was that because the number of active cases with a small-town force was much less than in a city, the investigators had time to spend on each one until it was solved.
Trent listened as Ned gave instructions to the patrol cop. Trent’s neck hairs prickled. An intruder, Ned had said.
What if Le Grande had discovered Cate’s—or Susan’s or whatever her name was—existence here in Indian Lake just as he had? Would he go to her? There was a possibility that Trent had shot him. Winged him, maybe. If Le Grande knew about Cate, he might have gone to her for help. Even if she was resistant, Le Grande might think he could get money from her. Steal a car or coerce her to drive him out of town.
Then there was the question of Cate-Susan herself. Was she a cover for Le Grande? Part of his gang? Had she scoped the town for him, pretending to be someone she wasn’t?
There was no criminal record on her or any reason for Trent to suspect that she was dealing drugs. She had a kid, after all. Not that a kid would stop an addict mother from using or dealing.
She didn’t strike him as anything but a model citizen.
But she’d been married to Le Grande.
If Le Grande went to her and needed help, would she do it?
As usual when new information on a case came to light, it posed a myriad of new questions. Trent knew exactly what to do.
Investigate.
Following Richard’s advice, Trent would keep this new info quiet. There were too many leaks in any organization. “The chief at home tonight?”
“Should be. You need him?”
“Nah. Just curious. I didn’t finish my report.”
“Slacker,” Ned joked.
“I’m going out for a sandwich. You want anything?” Trent took out his car keys.
“No, but thanks,” Ned replied as another call came in.
Trent decided to call the chief from his car and fill him in about Cate.
He exited the station and went to his unmarked car. As he climbed in, he had the eerie feeling that Le Grande was close. Trent had looked the man straight in the face. It was the blink of an eye, but they’d exchanged that look—the one between foes—the hunter and the prey. In Le Grande’s case, his look communicated the steely belief that he, Le Grande, was the hunter and Trent was the prey.
He’s here. He never left, Trent thought as he turned the key. The engine roared. He smiled. Two years ago, Trent had bought a high-performance Mercedes-Benz engine at a Chicago junkyard. Being an amateur wrencher, he installed the engine into his unmarked car—at his own expense. He’d had some help from Kenny at Indian Lake Service Garage, but he’d gotten the job done. When the day came that he was in pursuit of a drug dealer in a Porsche, Trent would be well-equipped for the task.
Trent patted his shoulder holster as was his habit every time he left the station. He’d cleaned his gun and filled the magazine at the station after the shoot-out. If, by any chance, he came up against Le Grande, Trent didn’t want to be short. He checked to make sure his cell phone was on, the dispatch radio was tuned into the station and he checked to make certain he had a full tank of gas.
Still, he felt very unprepared.
* * *
TRENT HAD PUNCHED Cate’s address into his GPS. He drove up the street and parked three houses away. There were few cars on the street. The houses were all bungalow types, Craftsman style, built in the 1930s and well maintained. They were over a third of a mile from Indian Lake, and the residents took great pride in ownership. The hedges were clipped, the weeds pulled and late-summer flowers and lush potato vines filled planters and window boxes. It was the kind of area Trent would have liked to live—if a normal life could ever be his.
He turned off his lights and got out. It was dark, with only a quarter moon. Good night for intruders. It was the kind of night that someone like Le Grande would prefer to skulk around an ex-wife’s house. Or, if Cate was a willing participant in Le Grande’s schemes, an evening the neighbors probably wouldn’t notice him coming or going.
The lights in Cate’s house were on. She was up. Probably the kid, too.
Trent turned to the right and saw the drive led to the detached single-car garage. Her car.
If the car was gone, then he had to find out if she was part of Le Grande’s gang or if he’d threatened her. Trent was walking a fine line by coming here tonight.
Protocol stated he should knock on the door and conduct a proper investigation. Regulations demanded he show his badge, offer his card.
But protocol didn’t consider that Le Grande could be hiding in that garage at this very minute, armed with his 9 mm gun. Ready to blow Trent away and think nothing of it.
Trent crept closer, taking out his gun. He picked up sounds—the scurry of a small animal over the garden mulch; the chirping of a cricket near the garage door. He felt the breeze as it slipped around the house, chilling the night.
A night-light burned in a socket near the entry door. Not only was it a smart idea so she could easily see to lock and unlock the door, but it also illuminated the car.
“Not here,” he whispered to himself and instantly spun toward the house. “But are you closer? Inside?”