The Sheriff of Shelter Valley

Greg continued to scan the surrounding area, but there was no sign of the new beige Impala. Not on the highway—patrols had been notified across the state—nor in the form of glinting metal underneath the scarred cacti and other desert landscaping that had witnessed hideous brutalities over the years. In the places it was thickest, a hijacked car or two, even an occasional dead body, could easily slide beneath it undetected.

Patrol cars and an ambulance ahead signaled the location of the victim. Pulling his unmarked car off the road and close to the group of emergency personnel, Greg got out. The immediate parting of the crowd always surprised him; he hadn’t been the sheriff of Shelter Valley long enough to get used to it.

As he approached the victim, he noticed that she was shaking and in shock. And sweating, too. The young woman, her brown hair in a ponytail, leaned against one of the standard-issue cars from his division. One of the paramedics shook his head as Greg caught his eye. Apparently she’d refused medical attention.

“Angela, I’m Sheriff Richards,” he said gently when her gaze, following those of his deputies, landed on him.

“We’ve got her full report.” Deputy Burt Culver stepped up to Greg. “We just finished.” Burt, only a few years older than Greg, had been with the Kachina County Sheriff’s Department when Greg had first worked there as a junior deputy. Other than a short stint with Detention Services—at the one and only jail in Kachina County’s jurisdiction—Burt had been content to work his way up in Operations, concentrating mostly on criminal investigations. He was one of the best.

Culver had never expressed much interest in administration, had never run for Sheriff, but Greg was hoping to talk him into accepting a promotion to Captain over Operations. No one else would be as good.

Greg glanced down at the report. “This is a number where we can reach you during the day?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” the young woman replied, her voice as shaky as her hands. “And at night, as well. I’m a student at the University of Arizona. I live at home with my parents.”

“The car was theirs?” Greg asked her. Chevy Impalas weren’t cheap. Certainly not the usual knock-around college vehicle. She would probably have been perfectly safe in one of those. These hijackers didn’t go for low-end cars.

“No, sir, it’s mine. I also work as a dance instructor in Tucson.”

Greg looked over the pages Burt had handed him, confident that everything was complete. That he wasn’t needed here, at the scene of the crime. Still, he thumbed through the report.

Two men had done the actual hijacking. Young, in their late teens or early twenties. One Caucasian. A blonde. The other had darker skin, brown eyes and black hair. They’d both been wearing wallet chains, faded jeans—in the one-hundred and ten degree heat—ripped tank T-shirts, medallions. The blonde—the driver—had a tattoo on his left biceps and he’d been wearing dirty white tennis shoes. They’d had her radio blaring.

“Neither of them spoke to you?”

The young woman shook her head, the movement almost spastic. Other than a couple of bruises, she’d escaped physically unharmed. But she’d probably carry mental scars for the rest of her life. Greg stared into the distance for a moment, focusing his concentration. He was the sheriff now. Personal feelings were irrelevant.

The carjackers of ten years ago had been silent, as well. No accents to give any clue that might imply one social group or school over another.

“I just remembered something,” the girl said, her brown eyes almost luminescent as she struggled against tears and sunshine to look up at him. “Just after they pushed me…over the seat…one of them said something…about this ‘counting double.’ They turned the radio on at the same time and I was so scared… I could be wrong….” She shook her head, eyes clouded as she frowned up at him. “Maybe I’m not remembering anything at all.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like the paramedics to take a look at you?” Greg asked.

She shook her head again. “I’m fine…just a little sore…” She attempted a smile. “I called my parents.” Her words suddenly came in a rush. “They’re on their way to get me.”

Nodding, Greg handed the report back to a sweating Culver. “See that I have a copy of this on my desk ASAP,” he said, then added, “Wait here until her folks arrive. I want them to be able to get the assurances they’ll undoubtedly need from the man in charge, not from a junior officer.”

“Got it, Chief.”

Unsettled, dissatisfied, glad only that Culver was in charge, Greg gave the young woman his own card with the invitation to call if she needed anything now or in the future, and headed back to his car.

He could keep trying to pretend that this case wasn’t personal, but either way, he was going to get these guys. There was simply no other choice. With every carjacking that went unsolved, there was a greater chance that another would follow.

That was the professional reason he wasn’t going to rest until the perpetrators were caught.

And the personal one…

His father’s death had to be avenged.

He entered Shelter Valley city limits an hour later and drove slowly through town, glancing as he always did, at the statue of the town’s founder, Samuel Montford, that had appeared while he’d been away.

There was no reason for Greg to stop by Little Spirits Day Care. Bonnie, founder and owner of the only childcare facility in Shelter Valley—and Greg’s only sibling—would be busy with all the “little spirits” in her care, doing the myriad things an administrator at a day care did.

He pulled up at Little Spirits, anyway. It was Friday. After a week of day care, maybe Katie, his three-year-old niece, needed to be sprung.

Even if she didn’t, Bonnie would pretend she did. Bonnie understood.

Sometimes Greg just needed a dose of innocence and warmth, sweetness and love, to counteract the rest of his world.

“Dispatch to 11:15…” The words came just as Greg was swinging shut the driver’s door. With an inner groan, he caught the door, sank onto the seat again and listened.

Two minutes later, he was back on the road. There was a warrant out for Bob Mather’s arrest. As far as Greg knew, the man he’d graduated from high school with hadn’t been in Shelter Valley for more than five years, but his parents’ place was listed as his last known address.

Which meant Greg had to pay the sweet-natured older couple yet another unpleasant visit, when he should’ve been watching ice cream drip down Katie’s dimpled chin.

This was not a good day.

TOILETS WEREN’T HER SPECIALTY. But Beth made the white porcelain bowl, the fifth she’d faced that day, shine, anyway. A job is only worth doing if it’s done right.

Beth squirted a little glass cleaner on the chrome piping and handle to make them glisten, then wiped efficiently, satisfied when she saw an elongated version of what she supposed was her chin in the spotless flush handle. She ignored the pull she felt as the quote ran through her mind again. A job is only worth doing if it’s done right.

How did she know that? Had someone said it to her? Many times? Her mother or father, perhaps? A boss?

There was no point traveling in that direction. The blankness in her mind was not going to supply the answer. And Beth didn’t dare look anywhere else.

But she made a mental note to write the thought down in her notebook when she got home that night. Because these obscure recollections were her only link with a reality she couldn’t find, she was cataloguing everything she remembered—any hint that returned to her from a past she couldn’t access.

And making up new rules to live by, as well. Creating herself.

Bucket full of cleaning supplies in hand, Beth blew at the strand of hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail. Only one more bathroom to go, and Beth’s Basins could chalk up another good day’s work. She still had to vacuum the Mathers’ carpets and water mop the ceramic tile in the kitchen and baths, but those jobs weren’t particularly noteworthy. Beth measured the progress of her day by bathrooms.

The doorbell rang in the front of the house. Stopping only to rinse her hands in the sink she had yet to clean, Beth wiped her palms along the legs of her overall shorts and hurried to the door. The Mathers had told her they were expecting a package, and she didn’t want to disappoint them by failing to get to the door in time.

The man waiting outside was uniformed in brown, but he wasn’t the UPS deliveryman she’d been expecting.

“Sheriff?” Between the hammering of her heart and the fear in her throat, she barely got the word out. His face was grim.

Ryan! He has to be okay! They can’t take him! Have they found me out? What do they know that I don’t? The thoughts buzzed loudly, making her dizzy.

“Beth!”

She almost relaxed a notch when Greg Richard’s stern expression softened.

“I didn’t know the Mathers were one of your clients.”

“Just this month,” she said. He hadn’t known she was working there. So he hadn’t come after her.

Thank God.