Capitol K-9 Unit Christmas
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Shirlee McCoy
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The house looked exactly the way Virginia Johnson remembered itâa hulking Victorian with a wraparound porch and gingerbread trim. The once-lush lawn had died, the wrought iron fence that separated the yard from the sidewalk was leaning inward, but the ancient oak still stood at the right corner of the property, a tire swing hanging listlessly from its branches.
Even with dead grass and darkened windows, the property was impressive, the beautiful details of the house highlighted by bright winter sun. Most people would have been thrilled to inherit a place like this.
Virginia was horrified.
She walked up the driveway, her throat tight with a hundred memories that sheâd rather forget, her hand clamped around the key that had come in the mail three weeks ago. It had been in a package with a letter from a lawyer whoâd been trying to reach her for two months, a check for more money than she knew what to do with and the deed to the house.
She hadnât wanted any of it.
Sheâd torn up the check, tossed the deed and the key in the trash. Would have gone on with her life and pretended her grandmother-in-law, Laurel, hadnât left her everything the Johnson family owned. Except that kids were nosy, and Virginiaâs job as assistant housemother at All Our Kids Foster Home meant that she lived and worked with children all the time.
Most days, she loved her job. The day little Tommy Benson had taken the letter, torn-up check, key and deed out of the trashcan and delivered them to Virginiaâs boss, Cassie McCord, Virginia found herself wishing that she worked in a tiny little cubicle in a sales department somewhere. Because Cassie wasnât one to let things go. She couldnât understand why Virginia would let a beautiful home rot.
If you donât want it, why not sell it? sheâd asked. You havenât had any time off in three years. Take a couple of weeks off, contact an auction house. Have them auction what you donât want to keep, then you can put the house on the market. Imagine what you could do with the money, how many kids you could help.
The last part had been the catalyst that had changed Virginiaâs mind. She could do a lot with the money from the estate. She could open another foster home. She could help hundreds of children.
And maybe...just maybe...going back to the place where sheâd nearly died, the place where every one of her dreams had turned into a nightmare, would help her conquer the anxiety and fear that seemed to have taken over her life.
If it didnât kill her first.
She shivered, the late November air cutting through her coat and chilling her to the bone. Her legs felt stiff as she walked up the porch steps. It had been eight years since sheâd seen the property, but it hadnât changed much. The door was still brick red, the porch and railing crisp white. The flowered welcome mat had been replaced by a plain black one. If she lifted it, would she see bloodstains on the porch boards?
She gagged at the thought, her hand shaking as she shoved the key in the lock. The door swung open before she could turn the knob, and she jumped back, startled, afraid.
Of what? her rational self whispered. Heâs not here. Wonât ever be here again.
She stepped inside, closed the door behind her, stood there in the foyer the way she had the very first time sheâd seen the property. Kevin had been beside her, proud of what he had to offer the woman heâd said he loved.
She gagged again, the scent of blood filling her nose. Only there was no blood. Not on the foyer floor. Not on the cream-colored walls. Someone had washed things down, painted them over, hidden the horror that had happened in a house that should have been filled with love.
âJust get it over with,â she muttered, forcing herself to walk down the long hall and into the kitchen. Sheâd start her itemized list there.
The house had been in the Johnson family for five generations. It was filled to the brim with things that had been passed down from one family member to the next. The line had ended with Kevinâs death. There were probably cousins of cousins somewhere, and Virginia wished her grandmother-in-law had found one of them to hand the property and the money over to. Instead, Laurel had passed the property on to Virginia. A guilt offering? It didnât matter. All Virginia wanted to do was get rid of it as quickly as possible.
A floorboard above her head creaked, and she froze, her hand on an old pitcher and bowl set that dated back to the nineteenth century.
âThe house settling,â she said aloud, the words echoing hollowly in the quiet room.
She knew the old house well, had lived in it for two long years. It creaked. It groaned. It protested its age loudly. Especially in the winter. She knew it, but she was still terrified, her hand shaking as she set the pitcher down.
The floor creaked again, and every fear that haunted her dreams, every terror that woke her from sound sleep, filled her mind. She inhaled. Exhaled. Told herself that she had nothing to be afraid of.
Another board creaked. It sounded like someone walking through the upstairs hallway, heading toward the servantsâ stairs. The stairs that led straight down into the kitchen.
The door to the stairwell was closed, the old crystal doorknob glinting in the overhead light. She cocked her head to the side and listened to what sounded like the landing at the top of the stairs groaning. Her imagination. It had to be.
She opened the door, because she was tired of always being afraid, always jumping at shadows, always panicking. The stairwell was narrow and dark, the air musty. She glanced up, expecting to see the other door, the one that led into the upstairs hallway.
A man stood on the landing. Tall. Gaunt. Hazel eyes and light brown hair.
âKevin,â she breathed, because he looked so much like her husband had that her heart nearly stopped.
He blinked, smiled a smile that made her skin crawl.
âGinny,â he murmured, and that was all she needed to hear.
She ran to the back door and fumbled with the bolt, sure she heard his footsteps on the stairs, his feet padding on the tile behind her.
She didnât look. Couldnât look.
The bolt slid free, and she yanked the door open, sprinted outside.
âGinny!â the man called, as she jumped off the porch stairs and raced toward the back edge of the property. âIs this the way you treat a man who gave you everything?â
She screamed, the sound ripping from her throat, screaming again as footsteps pounded behind her.
She made it to the hedge that separated the Johnson property from the one behind it and plunged through winter-dry foliage, branches snagging her hair, ripping at her skin.
Was he behind her? His hand reaching to drag her back?
Impossible! Kevin had died eight years ago!
But someone was there, someone was following.
She shoved through the remainder of the hedge, ran into the open, and he was there. Standing in front of her, his broad form backlit by sunlight, his face hidden in shadows.
She pivoted away, screaming again and again.
He snagged her coat, pulled her backward, and she knew that every nightmare sheâd ever had, every horrible memory sheâd tried to forget had finally come for her.
* * *
The woman was hysterical. No doubt about that. Terrified, too. The last thing Capitol K-9 police officer John Forrester wanted to do was scare her more, but he couldnât let her go. She was obviously running from something or someone, and he didnât want her to run right back into whatever danger sheâd fled.
âCalm down,â he said, tugging her back another step. âIâm not going to hurt you.â
She whirled around, took a swing at his head, her fist just missing his nose.
Beside him his K-9 partner, Samson, growled.
That seemed to get her attention.
She froze, her eyes wide as her gaze dropped to the German shepherd. Samson had subsided, his dark eyes locked on Virginia, his muscles relaxed. Obviously, he didnât see the woman as too much of a threat.
âHeâs not going to hurt you, either,â John assured the woman.
She didnât look convinced, but she wasnât screaming any longer.
âThat wasnât you in the house,â she said as if that made perfect sense.
âWhat house?â he asked, eyeing the hedge sheâd just torn through. The property on the other side of it had been empty for longer than John had been renting the Hendersonsâ garage apartment. According to his landlords, the elderly woman who owned the house had moved to an assisted-living facility over a year ago.
âLaurelâs,â the woman said, her hand trembling as she tucked a strand of light brown hair behind her ear. She looked vaguely familiar, her soft blue eyes sparking a memory that he couldnât quite catch hold of.
âLaurel is your friend?â he prodded, anxious to figure out what was going on and get back to his day off.
âMy husbandâs grandmother. She left me the house, so I guess itâs actually mine,â she corrected herself.
âAnd you think someone was in there?â
âSomeone was in there. I saw him.â
âYour husband maybe?â
âMy husband,â she said, every word brittle and sharp, âis dead.â
âIâm sorry.â
She didnât respond, just fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a cell phone. âI need to call the police.â
âI can check things out for you,â he offered, because he was there, and because if someone was in the house, the guy would be gone long before the police arrived.
âI donât think that would be safe,â she said, worrying her lower lip, her finger hovering over the 9 on her phone. âHe could have a weapon orââ
âIâm a police officer,â he interrupted. âI work for Capitol K-9.â
She looked up, her gaze sharp. âThen you know Gavin McCord.â
The comment brought back the memory heâd been searching for. Captain Gavin McCordâs wedding. His bride and her entourage of foster kids, the quiet woman whoâd been with them. He hadnât paid all that much attention to her. Sheâd been pretty enough, her hair swept into some elaborate style, her dress understated, her shoes sturdy. Nothing showy about her. They might have been introduced. He couldnât remember. Heâd been too busy thinking about getting food from the buffet.
âYouâre Cassieâs friend,â he said, pulling Samsonâs lead from his pocket and attaching it to the shepherdâs collar.
âYes. Virginia Johnson. Cassie and I work together at All Our Kids.â She glanced at the hedge again, tucking another stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her nervous energy made him antsy. He didnât much like sitting idle when he could be doing something, and right at that moment, he and Samson could be searching for whomever sheâd seen.
âTell you what, Virginia,â he said. âGo ahead and call the police while I look around. If thereâs someone in the house, weâre giving him way too much time to get away.â
âI hope he does get away,â she muttered.
âYou want him coming back?â he asked, and she flinched.
âNo, but I donât want you killed, either, Officerââ
âJohn Forrester. Stay here. Iâll be back soon.â
âIâm not waiting out here by myself,â she said, moving in behind him as he made his way to the shrubs.
âThen wait at my place.â He shoved the keys into her hands, pointing her toward the external staircase that led to his second-floor garage apartment.
âButââ
âFind!â he said, commanding Samson to move forward.
The Shepherd took off, lunging through the shrubs and out into a pristine yard, nose to the ground, body relaxed. He was trained in apprehension and protection. He knew how to track a suspect, corner him and disarm him if necessary.
He was also good at sensing danger, at knowing when someone was around who didnât belong. Right now, he was focused on a scent trail. Probably Virginiaâs.
John followed as Samson beelined across the lawn and headed straight toward the large Victorian. The Shepherd bounded up the porch stairs, and stopped at a door. Cracked open, a little wedge of light visible beyond, it looked as if it opened into a kitchen.
âHold!â he commanded and Samson settled onto his haunches, eyes trained on the door.
John nudged it open, peering into an empty kitchen.
âFind,â he commanded, and Samson trotted into the room.
The house lay silent, the air thick with something that made the hair on the back of Johnâs neck stand on end. Heâd been in enough dangerous situations to know when he was walking into trouble. He could feel it like a cold breeze brushing against his skin.
Samson sensed it, too. His scruff bristled, his body language changing. No longer relaxed, he sniffed the air and moved toward a doorway to their left. Beyond it, a staircase wound its way to the second floor.
Samson charged up, his well-muscled body moving silently. John moved with him. In sync with the Shepherdâs loping gait, muscles tense, every nerve alert, he jogged onto the second-floor landing and into a wide hallway. Seven doors. All closed. Another staircase that led downstairs.
Samson growled, the deep low warning seeming to echo through the hallway.
âPolice!â John shouted. âCome on out or Iâll send my dog to find you.â
There was a flurry of movement below. Fabric rustling, footsteps pounding.
Samson barked, yanking at the lead, tugging John into a full-out run.
A door creaked open as they raced downstairs and into a large foyer.
The front door?
Samson veered away from it, pulling John through the foyer into an old-fashioned parlor.
Cold air filled the room, swirling in from an open door that emptied onto a wraparound porch.
âFind!â John commanded, and Samson raced through the open doorway and out into the crisp winter day, his well-muscled body tense with anticipation.
Someone had been in the house. There was no doubt about that. What he was doing there was something John had every intention of finding out.
He ran down porch steps, Samson bounding in front of him. No hesitation. The dog had the scent, and heâd follow it until they found their quarry. Once he did, the guy was going to be very sorry heâd picked that house.
