CHAPTER ONE

Rogue County Detective Seth Harding scanned the dark block through a sheet of relentless rain. Minivans, basketball nets, and groomed lawns lined the street.

This was not the normal area for a “shots fired” call.

He slid his unmarked sedan to the curb behind the black-and-white. Two deputies were climbing out of their unit. Red and blue strobe lights swirled on the wet street. Seth glanced up at the two-story house. An old man wearing a coat over his pajamas waited under the protection of the porch roof. At three in the morning, the rest of the neighborhood lay quiet and empty.

Flashlight in hand, Seth opened his car door. The damp November chill slapped him across the face. A cold drop of rainwater invaded the collar of his trench coat and slid down his back.

After a long day and night conducting fruitless interviews of prostitutes in the murder of a local drug dealer no one was going to miss, Seth had been heading home from his office in the county seat of Hannon when the call for backup had come in.

He’d been just forty-five minutes from climbing into a warm bed with his wife, Carly, for the remaining few hours of darkness.

But it was not to be.

A massive storm system hovered over southwestern Oregon, and flooding and heavy downpours were creating havoc. An accident on the interstate had tied up most of the deputies on duty. The next closest available patrol unit had been fifteen minutes away. Also, the responding unit included Seth’s brother-in-law Bruce, a brand-new rookie in the sheriff’s department.

There was no guarantee Carly was still in their bed either. As a county social worker, she was on call. But he hoped she slept undisturbed. The previous month, during a routine home inspection, she’d encountered a domestic violence situation, and a child had died. She hadn’t been sleeping well since, and the incident had left her physically and emotionally drained. Seth wanted her to take some time off. But, as usual, Child Protective Services was short-staffed, and there was no one to cover for her.

Closing the door, Seth turned up his collar against the wet wind and strode toward the trio on the porch. Though the downpour, he recognized Bruce and the intimidating square block of cop that was his Field Training Officer, Senior Deputy Gabe Rogers.

“Where did you hear the gunshots, Mr. Jenkins?” Gabe asked the third man.

“They came from the house across the street.” Mr. Jenkins pointed. “I came out here to watch the storm. My prostate’s the size of a baseball. Haven’t slept through the night in years.”

“Are you positive they were gunshots, not firecrackers or an engine backfiring?” Gabe asked.

The sheriff frowned on his deputies breaking down doors without adequate justification.

Mr. Jenkins leveled Gabe with a disgusted look. “I’ve been hunting longer than you’ve been alive. I know gunshots when I hear them.”

“No disrespect intended, sir.” Gabe held up a hand. “How many shots did you hear?”

“Four,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Nothing since.”

Gabe gestured toward the house across the street. “Did you see anyone run out afterward?”

“No.” Mr. Jenkins shoved his hands into his pockets.

“How many people live in the house?” Gabe asked.

“Two. A man and a woman,” Mr. Jenkins said. “Young. Seen them come and go. Never introduced themselves. No skin off my nose, but a lot of folks don’t like it. Most of the neighbors round here are friendly. We look out for each other.”

“Any other comings and goings?” Seth asked. He’d worked on a drug task force. Possible violence always sent his mind to drug dealers.

“No.” Mr. Jenkins shook his head. “Never seen anyone else go in or out other than the man and woman.”

Odd.

“Thank you, sir.” Gabe nodded to the old man. “We’ll take care of it from here.”

Gabe, Bruce, and Seth stepped off the porch.

“Let me get my gear.” Seth stopped at his vehicle and opened his trunk to pull out his Kevlar vest. He shrugged out of his coat and suit jacket, tossed them into the trunk, and closed the lid.

Donning the vest over his dress shirt, Seth checked his weapon and joined Gabe and Bruce on the sidewalk. The rain soaked his clothes, but Seth did not like his movements limited by a coat.

“Ready?” Gabe asked.

Seth secured the vest’s Velcro straps around his torso. “Ready.”

Rain soaked Seth’s hair and dripped into his eyes. He studied Bruce for a few seconds as they approached the door. His brother-in-law was so fresh, his campaign hat still perched on an academy buzz cut. But Bruce’s eyes were determined. Twenty-four years old, he’d once been a musician, a dreamer, a perpetual teenager. The year before, his serious girlfriend had been murdered, and Bruce had been left for dead. He’d aged a decade since then.

Seth had no doubt that Bruce would be a good cop, but he wasn’t taking any chances with his wife’s baby brother. There was no substitute for experience, and Bruce didn’t have any yet.

Gabe checked his watch. “It’s only been six minutes since the original call. We were two blocks away responding to a prowler report when it came in.”

Was the prowler the shooter? Or was the shooter still inside the house?

Seth brushed water off his forehead. “Let’s do this.”

The three men jogged up the driveway, passed a Ford Explorer with Oregon plates, and approached the front door. Weapons drawn, Gabe and Seth flanked the entry. Gabe motioned Bruce to take up a position as his wingman.

Seth’s skin tingled and his pulse kicked up a notch as he rested his finger just outside his trigger guard and waited.

Gabe pushed the doorbell, but no chime sounded. He knocked on the door. When no one responded, he pounded harder with a fist and yelled, “Police!”

Inside the house, something thudded.

The hair on the back of Seth’s neck lifted. He switched on his flashlight. Gabe looked over his shoulder at Bruce, who nodded.

Gabe reached for the knob. Locked. “Let’s check the back.”

They jogged around the house and took the same positions at the back door. Nine individual panes of glass comprised the top half of the door. Gabe pointed to a missing pane above the knob. Seth shone his flashlight around the doorway. The pane of glass, leaning on the house next to the door, gleamed in the light.

The point of entry.

Gabe turned the doorknob and pushed the door inward.

The silence that greeted them seemed to have its own heartbeat. Seth’s pulse echoed in his ears as they crossed the threshold.

The door opened directly into a kitchen. A card table and two metal folding chairs had been set up in the eating area. Gabe opened a door. Pantry. Empty. They moved through an arched doorway. The living and dining rooms combined in the shape of an L. A stairwell on the far wall led to the second floor.

With his back to the wall, Seth swept the beam of his flashlight around the living room, piercing all the shadowy corners with light. No people. No furniture. Just a big expanse of scuffed hardwood floor.

The absence of furniture made clearing the first floor a quick job. Two jackets hung in the closet near the front door. The men moved from the living room into the dining area, then approached the stairway. In front, Seth took the lead, creeping up the steps with Gabe and Bruce at his back.

On the landing, he moved left, toward an open doorway. Staying behind the doorframe, Seth scanned all but the near corner of the empty bedroom before crossing the entry and pointing his weapon into the blind spot. He checked the closet before exiting into the hall. Gabe and Bruce were emerging from the room across the corridor. Gabe pointed down the hall. One doorway remained.

The sweet scent of fresh blood mingled with human waste reached Seth’s nose. Bowels and bladder often emptied when the body was dead or dying. A soft choking sound emanated from the last bedroom as they worked their way down the hallway. Bruce surged forward, but Gabe snagged him by the shoulder and brought him back.

Seth’s stomach turned with dread, experience telling him to anticipate a gruesome sight. He reached the doorway, angled off for cover, and peered inside. The beam of his flashlight illuminated the room.

The sole piece of furniture was a mattress on the floor. On it lay two bodies.

And blood.

Seemingly liters of it.

Gabe moved left, into the bathroom, and Seth checked the closet before advancing on the victims: one male, one female. The blankets were bunched around the man’s waist, as if he’d sat up suddenly. The woman was on her side. Her arm and torso were draped over the edge of the mattress, onto the floor. She wore a gray T-shirt and sweatpants.

Seth moved toward the right side of the mattress, approaching the female. Bruce headed left. One bullet had struck the male victim high on his bare chest. A vast quantity of blood soaked the sheets under another wound in his neck. His eyes stared up at the ceiling, as if shocked at his own death. Bruce checked the man for a pulse, then shook his head. The rookie’s eyes were grim, his mouth locked in a tight frown.

Seth reached for the woman’s neck. Her head was turned toward him, her eyes closed. As he touched her, they fluttered open, shining with terror and pain.

“She’s alive.” Seth shoved his weapon into its holster and swept the flashlight’s beam down her body. Where was she hit? Blood welled from a wound on her shoulder, but most of the bleeding seemed to be coming from somewhere else. Seth heard Gabe behind him calling for an ambulance.

“Bruce, see if there are any towels in the bathroom,” Seth ordered. Pulling a pair of nitrile gloves from his pocket, he snapped them onto his hands, then rolled her onto her back and lifted the hem of her T-shirt. A bullet had struck her in the abdomen and seemed to have gone right through her. Blood saturated the bedding beneath the wound. “Gabe, try the lights.”

A bulb attached to the ceiling fan turned on, but it was dim and didn’t provide enough light for Seth to see what he was doing.

Bruce returned in seconds with a folded towel, which he handed to Seth.

Seth pressed it over the wound. “What’s your name?”

A gurgling sound came out of her lips, then a hiss of wet, pink-tinged froth. Her body deflated, and her eyes glassed over.

“Damn it.” Seth knelt over her body to begin chest compressions.

Come on. Breathe.

Seth glanced over his shoulder. “Where are those medics?”

“ETA is five minutes,” Gabe said.

She wasn’t going to make it. They all knew it. Her body was slick under Seth’s joined hands, and he could feel the wet warmth of blood soaking into the knees of his trousers. But he continued chest compressions until the paramedics arrived and moved him aside.

He climbed off the mattress and stripped off the bloody gloves. Gabe held out a paper evidence bag, and Seth dropped the gloves into it. The paramedics paused their CPR and broke out the defibrillator.

“We have a pulse,” one medic shouted.

The paramedics hustled to start an IV and load the victim onto a gurney.

Seth eyed the sheer volume of blood left in the space her body had vacated. She’d need a miracle. Seth resisted the press of emotions.

She’d lost too much blood. Her heart had stopped beating for too long.

Turning, he headed for the hall, his stomach queasy, his pulse thudding in a thick and sickening echo between his ears. The stench of the room clogged his nostrils. He needed to get out of there for a few minutes.

“Let’s check the yard,” he said, even though he knew that the shooter was long gone.

“Backup unit arrived,” Gabe said. “They’re driving the neighboring blocks.”

Seth noticed his brother-in-law’s absence. “Where’s Bruce?”

“I sent him out front to start the scene log.” Gabe frowned as he watched the paramedics rushing the female victim out of the room.

And if Seth was gagging at the sights and smells, with his decade of experience in law enforcement, the fact that Bruce hadn’t lost his dinner was a testament to his fortitude.

Seth and Gabe descended the stairs behind the paramedics.

“The medical examiner is on his way,” Gabe said as they went through the front door. The red lights from the ambulance reflected off the wet pavement in a blood-colored swirl.

On the stoop, just under the roof overhang, Bruce recorded the exit of the paramedics and victim on the scene log.

Seth turned his face to the sky and let the rain wash over him. But the scent of fresh rain was no match for the smell of a dead body.

“Here.” Bruce tucked his clipboard under his arm and offered Seth a small bottle of hand sanitizer.

“Thanks.” Seth had been wearing gloves, but blood smeared his wrists, the sleeves of his dress shirt, and his pants. And beyond cleaning his skin, the sharp sting of alcohol cut through the foul odor lodged in his nostrils. He cleaned his hands and rolled up the sleeves of his ruined shirt to hide the worst of the bloodstains.

Leaving Bruce to secure the scene, Gabe and Seth stepped off the porch into the rain. They rounded the house. Seth shone his light on the soggy ground but saw no footprints.

A six-foot-tall wooden fence encircled the yard. Seth lifted the latch and opened the gate. The fence cast a deeper shadow along the perimeter. Seth swept his flashlight along the darkness of the fence line. The yard was clear.

“Look.” Gabe shone his light on the ground. In the wet grass, a few vague footprints led up to the base of the fence.

Seth put a foot on the fence and hoisted himself up enough to look over it. A set of footprints ran through the neighbor’s yard. “Guess we found his escape route.”

A slight scratching sound cut under the soft fall of rain. Shaking the water from his face, Seth turned his right ear toward the noise. “Do you hear that?”

Gabe’s head tilted as he strained to hear. “Yes. It’s coming from the other side of the house.”

They crept through the darkness and turned the corner. Their dual flashlight beams crisscrossed the shadows. There was no gate on this side of the yard. Seth’s light landed on a set of bulkhead doors.

“Basement.” Seth moved forward.

The double doors were metal, rusted, and secured from the outside with a heavy chain and padlock.

Gabe walked to the fence and called over it. “Bruce, get the bolt cutters out of the trunk.”

Two minutes later, Bruce jogged into the backyard, heavy tool in hand.

Bruce cut the padlock and stepped back. Gabe and Seth flanked the entrance, standing clear of the opening, each reaching for a door handle.

The basement yawned black. Something scraped.

“Police!” Gabe called. “Raise your hands and come out of the basement.”

Metal dragged on cement.

Stepping in front of Bruce and Gabe, Seth shone his light into the darkness, illuminating dirt on concrete. He moved forward, leading with his weapon. A narrow flight of wooden stairs led downward. Seth descended quickly and carefully, pivoting and shining his light around the room.

Something moved in the corner behind the furnace.

The shape was small and rounded. A dog?

Seth moved closer.

“What is it?” Gabe called from the steps.

“I don’t know.” Seth kept his distance, moving in an arc to give himself a clear line of sight. What he saw stopped him in his tracks. Dark hair. Huddled shape. A pair of eyes shining in the beam of his flashlight.

No!

But his horrified brain couldn’t reject what was right in front of him.

“It’s a child,” he called back.

A boy? Seth made sure the rest of the cellar was clear, then walked closer. The child withdrew farther behind the furnace, and something rattled. Seth aimed his flashlight on the floor. Chains. The boy was chained to a support column next to the furnace. Crumpled fast-food take-out bags and empty water bottles littered the cement floor.

How long has this poor child been kept here?

Seth turned toward the steps. “Bruce, bring those bolt cutters down here.”

Boots sounded on the steps as Bruce joined Seth in the basement.

“Hey, I’m not going to hurt you.” Seth holstered his weapon and inched closer, trying to get a better look at the boy’s condition. “I’m a policeman. I want to help you.”

The boy looked to be a little younger than Seth’s eight-year-old daughter. Maybe six or seven years of age, he wore a filthy coat, tattered jeans, and sneakers. His hair was dirty, his eyes wild. And every inch Seth slid forward, the terrified child cringed back.

Seth stopped, not wanting to frighten the child any more.

“You don’t want me to touch you. I get it. How about you move over and let my friend Bruce cut that chain off your leg?” he asked in a soothing voice. “No one gets close until you say it’s all right.”

The tiny nod was almost imperceptible. The boy scuttled to the foundation and pressed his back against the cinder blocks. The chain stretched taut between his ankle and the furnace.

Bruce holstered his weapon and removed his hat. Then, talking to the boy in a quiet voice, he eased forward and used the bolt cutters to sever the chain. The links clattered to the concrete. The boy pulled his foot under his body. Looking up at Bruce, he extended his leg again and pointed toward the links wrapped snugly around his ankle.

Bruce duck-walked a few steps forward. He cut the chain from around the boy’s leg. As the links fell away, the child launched himself at Bruce, wrapping his arms and legs around the rookie’s body and nearly knocking him over.

Seth reached for his phone, regretting the need to pull his wife out of bed in the middle of the night and interrupt her sleep yet again. This case would upset her, and she hadn’t yet recovered from last month’s incident. But as much as he wasn’t always thrilled with her job with CPS, which had proved dangerous and distressing in the past, no one would take better care of this traumatized child than Carly. Protecting kids was her superpower.

In the past, Seth had balked every time she’d been called out. Considering his own job, his prior refusal to accept the risks of hers had been hypocritical and unreasonable, and had almost cost him his marriage. He’d come a long way since then, and his marriage was once again on solid footing, but deep inside, his inner Neanderthal still protested any risk to his wife. He’d just learned to keep the caveman on a short leash.

Though, at times, it felt as if he needed a shock collar.

Helping kids was Carly’s calling, and he’d learned to respect both her need and her ability to help those who had no one else.

Bruce dropped the bolt cutters and wrapped his arms around the child. “It’s going to be all right.”

But as Seth watched the boy tremble in Bruce’s arms, he knew that it wouldn’t be all right. Nothing about this situation was remotely all right. Two people who had been keeping a child prisoner in their basement had been shot in their bed execution-style, and the killer was missing.

Seth’s stomach, which had settled since leaving the bedroom, rolled over.

Pressing the cell phone to his ear, he turned away from the child. Over the connection, the phone rang, and Seth knew he was dragging his wife into another heart-wrenching—and potentially deadly—situation.