Capitol K-9 Unit Christmas
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Shirlee McCoy
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The house looked exactly the way Virginia Johnson remembered itāa 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 sheād 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 whoād 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 hadnāt wanted any of it.
Sheād 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, hadnāt left her everything the Johnson family owned. Except that kids were nosy, and Virginiaās 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 Virginiaās boss, Cassie McCord, Virginia found herself wishing that she worked in a tiny little cubicle in a sales department somewhere. Because Cassie wasnāt one to let things go. She couldnāt understand why Virginia would let a beautiful home rot.
If you donāt want it, why not sell it? sheād asked. You havenāt had any time off in three years. Take a couple of weeks off, contact an auction house. Have them auction what you donāt 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 Virginiaās 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 sheād 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 didnāt 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 sheād seen the property, but it hadnāt 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. Heās not here. Wonāt 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 sheād seen the property. Kevin had been beside her, proud of what he had to offer the woman heād 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.
āJust get it over with,ā she muttered, forcing herself to walk down the long hall and into the kitchen. Sheād 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 Kevinās 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 didnāt 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.
āThe house settling,ā 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 servantsā 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.
āKevin,ā 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.
āGinny,ā 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 didnāt look. Couldnāt look.
The bolt slid free, and she yanked the door open, sprinted outside.
āGinny!ā the man called, as she jumped off the porch stairs and raced toward the back edge of the property. āIs this the way you treat a man who gave you everything?ā
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 sheād ever had, every horrible memory sheād 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 couldnāt let her go. She was obviously running from something or someone, and he didnāt want her to run right back into whatever danger sheād fled.
āCalm down,ā he said, tugging her back another step. āIām not going to hurt you.ā
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 didnāt see the woman as too much of a threat.
āHeās not going to hurt you, either,ā John assured the woman.
She didnāt look convinced, but she wasnāt screaming any longer.
āThat wasnāt you in the house,ā she said as if that made perfect sense.
āWhat house?ā he asked, eyeing the hedge sheād just torn through. The property on the other side of it had been empty for longer than John had been renting the Hendersonsā garage apartment. According to his landlords, the elderly woman who owned the house had moved to an assisted-living facility over a year ago.
āLaurelās,ā 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 couldnāt quite catch hold of.
āLaurel is your friend?ā he prodded, anxious to figure out what was going on and get back to his day off.
āMy husbandās grandmother. She left me the house, so I guess itās actually mine,ā she corrected herself.
āAnd you think someone was in there?ā
āSomeone was in there. I saw him.ā
āYour husband maybe?ā
āMy husband,ā she said, every word brittle and sharp, āis dead.ā
āIām sorry.ā
She didnāt respond, just fumbled in her pocket and pulled out a cell phone. āI need to call the police.ā
āI can check things out for you,ā he offered, because he was there, and because if someone was in the house, the guy would be gone long before the police arrived.
āI donāt think that would be safe,ā she said, worrying her lower lip, her finger hovering over the 9 on her phone. āHe could have a weapon orāā
āIām a police officer,ā he interrupted. āI work for Capitol K-9.ā
She looked up, her gaze sharp. āThen you know Gavin McCord.ā
The comment brought back the memory heād been searching for. Captain Gavin McCordās wedding. His bride and her entourage of foster kids, the quiet woman whoād been with them. He hadnāt paid all that much attention to her. Sheād 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 couldnāt remember. Heād been too busy thinking about getting food from the buffet.
āYouāre Cassieās friend,ā he said, pulling Samsonās lead from his pocket and attaching it to the shepherdās collar.
āYes. Virginia Johnson. Cassie and I work together at All Our Kids.ā She glanced at the hedge again, tucking another stray strand of hair behind her ear. Her nervous energy made him antsy. He didnāt much like sitting idle when he could be doing something, and right at that moment, he and Samson could be searching for whomever sheād seen.
āTell you what, Virginia,ā he said. āGo ahead and call the police while I look around. If thereās someone in the house, weāre giving him way too much time to get away.ā
āI hope he does get away,ā she muttered.
āYou want him coming back?ā he asked, and she flinched.
āNo, but I donāt want you killed, either, Officerāā
āJohn Forrester. Stay here. Iāll be back soon.ā
āIām not waiting out here by myself,ā she said, moving in behind him as he made his way to the shrubs.
āThen wait at my place.ā He shoved the keys into her hands, pointing her toward the external staircase that led to his second-floor garage apartment.
āButāā
āFind!ā 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 didnāt belong. Right now, he was focused on a scent trail. Probably Virginiaās.
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.
āHold!ā he commanded and Samson settled onto his haunches, eyes trained on the door.
John nudged it open, peering into an empty kitchen.
āFind,ā 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 Johnās neck stand on end. Heād 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 Shepherdās 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.
āPolice!ā John shouted. āCome on out or Iāll send my dog to find you.ā
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.
āFind!ā 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 heād follow it until they found their quarry. Once he did, the guy was going to be very sorry heād picked that house.
