The Hero's Son

Just as her fingers slid from the pipe, Brant grabbed her other wrist, gave a mighty heave, and pulled her to safety. Valerie scrambled over the edge of the building and collapsed, panting from exertion and terror.

“Come on,” Brant said, tugging her to her feet. “It’s not a good idea for us to stay out here in the open.”

“I don’t hear any gunshots,” Valerie said weakly, allowing herself to be pulled up and along the roof toward the opposite side. “Maybe he gave up and left.”

“Maybe,” Brant said, but he didn’t sound too confident. “There should be a fire escape around here somewhere. Let’s find it before he does.”

“Who’s ‘he’?”

There was a slight hesitation before Brant said, “I was hoping you could tell me.”

“You’re the cop. I’m just a reporter.” A very frightened reporter.

“You don’t have any idea who might want you dead?”

“I’ve already told you what I think,” Valerie said. Brant located the fire escape and started over the side of the building, but her words stopped him. A break in the clouds allowed enough moonlight to filter through so that she could see his face. His eyes.

She shivered.

“I can assure you it wasn’t my father chasing you over that roof. He can hardly walk across a room without a cane these days.”

“Yes, but as I pointed out yesterday,” Valerie replied, trying to ignore the coldness in his dark gaze, “he wouldn’t have to do it himself, would he? Your father must have a lot of contacts, on both sides of the law.”

She could sense his anger in the darkness. It was almost a tangible thing, and yet there was another emotion that was perhaps even stronger. Valerie would almost have named it doubt—or even fear—if she didn’t know better. “We obviously aren’t going to come to any agreement on this subject tonight, so why don’t we concentrate on getting out of here in one piece? Agreed?”

Valerie took a deep breath. “Agreed.”

He extended his hand. “Come on, then.”

Reluctantly, she reached out and took his hand. At the very moment her fingers touched his, a clap of thunder rolled across the heavens as the storm neared downtown. Valerie jumped back, as if she’d been burned.

“It was just thunder,” Brant said, obviously mistaking her reaction for fear.

“I—I’m glad it wasn’t a gunshot,” Valerie muttered. She ignored Brant’s offer of help and grabbed the ladder, stepping cautiously onto the first rung. The metal stair was fastened directly into the brick wall and looked as old as the building itself. Valerie fervently hoped the fasteners would hold. It had probably been years since the ladder had taken any weight.

The metal creaked and moaned as they descended. Valerie was very aware of Brant, going down the steps in front of her. If he looked up, he would have an unobstructed view of her legs. For some reason, the thought made shivers run up and down her spine.

When they neared the ground, Brant jumped from the ladder, then placed his hands around her waist and lifted her down, holding her for a fraction longer than was necessary. Valerie turned in his arms and looked up at him.

A flash of lightning illuminated his face briefly, so that Valerie could see the distinct angles and planes of his features, the tiny cleft in his chin, the darkness of his eyes. She’d seen that face in her nightmares for more than thirty years, but it had never frightened her more than it did at this moment.

She had the wildest notion that he was going to try and kiss her, and wondered what she would do if he did. Push him away? She wanted to believe that she would, but at the moment, that didn’t seem a likely prospect. Not with her heart pounding away inside her. Not with her skin tingling in awareness where he touched her.

“We shouldn’t be here like this,” he said softly. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I know.” Her teeth chattered in spite of the heat. He wasn’t talking about the gunman, and they both knew it. But he took her arm anyway, and pulled her into the deeper shadows of the building. As quietly as they could, they made their way around to the street.

“Where do you think Harry is?” Valerie whispered.

Brant shrugged. “Harry Blackman can take care of himself. Right now, we have to get you out of here.”

“How do you know Harry?” she asked in surprise.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he said dryly. “But another time. Come on.”

He pulled her out of the shadows, and they ran across the street to the parking lot. Valerie dug her keys out of her purse and used the remote to unlock her car. Brant opened the door for her, and she slid in.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked in alarm.

“Not yet.” When she hesitated he said, “Get out of here. Hurry.”

“But—”

“Go.” He slammed the door and stepped back. Valerie started the engine and peeled out of the parking lot. In her rearview mirror, she saw Brant run across the street, heading back to the warehouse.

Was he searching for the gunman? she wondered. Or meeting an accomplice?

BRANT DREW HIS GUN and entered the building through the front door. He paused at the foot of the stairs, listening for sounds of the intruder, but all he heard was the dull hum of the air-conditioning system. He started up, watching the shadowy corners and crevices above him. When he got to the fifth floor, he pushed open the stairwell door and peered out into the deserted hallway.

As he stood listening, faint sounds came to him from the end of the corridor. Shuffling papers. A voice muttering an oath. Brant stepped cautiously out of the stairwell and made his way down the hall to the open door of Harry Blackman’s office.

Blackman stood behind his desk, cursing a blue streak as he flung files around the office helter-skelter. A small trickle of blood oozed down the side of his face unnoticed.

For a moment, Brant went unnoticed, too. Then Blackman looked up and saw his gun.

“Well, hell,” he said and sat down heavily in his chair. “Who are you?”

“Police officer,” Brant replied, flashing his badge.

“Who the hell called the cops?” Blackman demanded. “The chick? Where is she?”

“Safe, for the moment. And no one called me,” Brant said. “I was in the area and heard shots.”

Blackman gave him a skeptical look. “No cop is ever in this area unless he has extracurricular business to attend to.” His gaze narrowed. “Wait a minute. Wait just a damned minute. I know you.”

“Sergeant Brant Colter. Memphis Police Department.”

“Colter. I knew it.” A string of expletives burst from Blackman’s mouth. He looked at Brant in disgust. “You wouldn’t happen to be Raymond Colter’s boy, would you?”

“Nephew.” Brant put away his gun and walked into the office, stopping just short of Blackman’s desk, which was littered with papers and files.

Blackman sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “That’s right,” he mused. “Raymond’s boy is some kind of hotshot D.A. or something. I read about him in the paper the other day. Said he’s running for Congress. Who would have thought a little snot-nosed brat like him would have ever amounted to a hill of beans? But then, that kid had the makings of a politician, even back when I worked for Raymond. Always real devious-like. Always snooping around in other people’s business.”

If Blackman expected Brant to come to his cousin’s defense, he was in for a big surprise. “Looks like you took a pretty mean hit,” he said grimly. “Mind telling me what happened here?”

“You know as much as I do,” Blackman growled. “You heard the shots. Someone fired into my window. I went after him, he coldcocked me and got away. End of story. At least until I get my hands on the slimy little bas—”

“Did you get a look at him?”