Shield of Refuge (2 page)

T
he woman who had hit him jumped out of her van and ran toward his police cruiser. He smelled fumes, turned and saw gasoline flowing toward him.

Hanging upside down from the seatbelt, Garrett Matthews looked out the window to see a woman's legs in black tights and black suede fashion boots. She kicked the shards of glass aside with her boots, then dropped to the ground, a black-and-turquoise patterned dress floating over her knees.

“You've got to get out. There's gas gushing out all over,” she said frantically.

He glanced at her, disoriented, then pressed the button on the mike. “Dispatch, Officer four-six-three involved in two-car rollover accident at intersection of—” he glanced around “—where are we?” he said to the woman.

“Just get out of there!” she yelled. “I'm still on with 911, they're sending help.” She took a deep breath and coughed from the fumes. “Come on, we need to get you out.”

He turned the key to off and removed it, handing it to the woman for safekeeping. She looked at it oddly, furrowing her brows.

What was he thinking?

Tugging on the seat belt strapping him upside down, Garrett struggled with the buckle to release. “It's jammed.” He reached for the glove box, hoping to find an emergency kit. It was out of his reach. His knife was in his belt, securely trapped under the seat belt. “I need something sharp.”

“Just a minute.” She ran to the van and returned with a ten-inch serrated knife. The woman was gorgeous. She dropped to her knees and reached inside, directing the knife to the gray strap stretched across his chest.

His eyes opened wide and suddenly the fog lifted from his mind. “Aren't you in enough trouble without threatening an officer? Give me that.”

“What?” She backed away. “I'm trying to save your life. I don't mean to panic you, but gas is spilling—the car may blow up.”

“The car's not going to blow up,” he insisted. “May I borrow your knife?” She hesitated, then handed it to him. He took the handle, and with a sawing motion he cut through the mesh strap and fell to the ground, landing on his head. “Why are you carrying a knife around in your car?”

“I'm a cake decorator. It's in my delivery kit. Come on, you have to get out.”

He twisted his wide shoulders, shoving the objects that had scattered across the roof out of the way while reaching for the window opening. He looked up to her huge blue eyes as he tried to find something to push against. “I don't suppose this door will open, will it? When I pull on the latch, you pull on the door.”

The woman found a place with no glass and tugged as he pushed. “I don't think so. Do you want me to try the other side?”

“No, I'll get out somehow.”

“Let me get the glass out of the way so you don't cut yourself.” She kicked at the tiny pellets of glass with her boot.

“Don't bother,” he growled, then, realizing she was right—he just needed to get out. If they had to pull glass from his back, so be it. The fumes were making him sick. He waved her aside and used his legs to push himself out the narrow window, all the time trying to ignore the Marilyn Monroe look-alike waiting for him.

“Come on!” She tapped her boot, holding the billowy skirt of her dress against her legs as he pulled his ticket can from the cruiser and collected a few more belongings. She pulled on his arm as he stumbled to his feet and picked up his ticket can. “Are you okay? Maybe you should sit down.”

With a healthy tan and shimmering brownish-blond tendrils of hair softening the dramatic high cheekbones and narrow nose, she was gorgeous. How could he be angry with that look of concern in her brilliant blue eyes?

He shrugged, sending a pain down his arm. He needed to ignore the niggling reminder that he should have slowed down at each intersection. Much as he wanted to blame her, and her alone, he couldn't. He needed to get on with his job. He looked around, assessing the situation, then started to radio in their location.

“I'm so sorry. I wanted to find that car and get the license plate number….”

He took his hand off the mike. “You're the reporting party? You're Amber?”

She looked terrified, but nodded.

He reached for his notepad and pen in his chest pocket, realizing too late that they'd fallen out when he turned over in the SUV. “They didn't give your last name.” He opened the lid of the clipboard and pulled out a ticket and pen.

“Amber Scott,” she said softly. She backed away. “I was afraid to try to stop him. I could've at least yelled…I should have backed my van into him, but I just had it painted….” She looked at it and shook her head. “Lot of good that did—look at it now.”

Paintings of bright-colored balloons and streamers were crumpled and smooshed all over the front fender of the minivan. “It's just a machine. It can be repaired.” His head started spinning. His shoulder burned. “You did the right thing not getting involved. If you had tried to intervene there may have been two women apprehended. Only thing you shouldn't have done was follow him. How're you doing? Are you hurt?”

“No, I'm fine.”

He gave her another once-over, concurring with her assessment. She looked mighty fine. He forced himself to process the accident as if he weren't a victim. If he focused on the scene, maybe he wouldn't hurt so bad. “We'll let the paramedics check you out just as a precaution.” He looked at his police cruiser and shook his head. So much for his perfect record.

“They really don't need to do that. I'm so sorry about the accident. Are you okay?”

“I'm sure it's nothing serious,” he said, hoping that saying it would make it so. “So what kind of car was it?”

“What kind of car?” Amber stared at him and shrugged. “I don't know. It looked like a police car except it was white and didn't have the logo and police stripes.”

“A Crown Vic?”

“A what?”

“Crown Victoria…that's the model of car used by the police around here. Huge boat, like your grandparents probably drove back in the seventies.”

“Sure,” she said with a blank stare.

He took hold of her arm and pulled her away from the overturned vehicle as she rattled off details he wasn't going to be able to remember, let alone make any sense of.

“A woman was forced into the backseat.”

“A four-door sedan, then,” he said, stopping just inches from her.

“Yeah,” she said. “I was trying to help, but…” She backed away from him and crossed her arms across her chest. “They're still looking for the car, right?” Sirens came to a stop as more officers arrived, surrounding them.

“Oh, no, I hit a cop,” she mumbled. She paced frantically, hugging her arms to her body.

“That's just dawning on you?” He could almost feel her pain. She stared at him, her blue eyes framed with long lashes.

“Well, no…but…I think it's just sinking in. Really sinking in, I mean.” She had a sick look on her face. “I'm so sorry. I was trying to find the car. It looked like he killed her.”

“You didn't tell that to dispatch.”

She stopped pacing. “Didn't I?” she asked, looking him in the eye. She sidestepped away from the two officers who were headed their way.

“You okay?” each officer echoed as they approached.

Amber didn't respond.

“Yeah, we're doing okay,” Garrett answered. Despite his claim, the officers radioed for an ambulance and tow trucks, then dispersed to assess the damage.

He turned back to Ms. Scott, staggering slightly. “So what makes you think he killed her?” he asked, trying to keep his balance. He couldn't believe this had happened. What rotten timing. He had been in perfect health when he'd applied to the federal agencies. Becoming a fed had always been his dream. Now that he had a year of street patrol experience under his belt and his master's degree, he'd been sure he'd get a call. Until now. Perfect health, perfect record—all gone in an instant.

“The woman was fighting against him, then she just went limp. Like she'd just dropped dead. There was no noise, nothing.”

Garrett studied the woman who'd run into him, trying to ignore her brilliant blue eyes—eyes that couldn't tell a lie if she tried. He'd bet his life on it. “Did you see anything else? Blood? A knife? A gun?” He didn't want to embarrass her by pointing out that a body went limp when someone fainted, too. Feeling a little light-headed himself, Garrett felt himself sway.

Before the woman could answer, Lieutenant Chavez ordered him to sit down. “An ambulance is on the way, Matthews.” As Garrett looked for a place to collapse, the lieutenant addressed the woman who'd ruined his record. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, I'm fine,” she insisted, pushing past the lieutenant and the other officer and closer to Garrett. “I didn't see any blood. I was looking through the tinted glass, so it was too dark, and…” She paused. “I couldn't see whether it was a knife, or gun, but I didn't hear a gunshot.”

“This is our RP, Lieutenant. Amber Scott. She was following the suspect…” The flashing lights of the squad cars were making him sick. “Could you ask them to turn off the flashers?”

While another officer went to give the order, Amber started explaining why she'd been following.

“Did you find the girl? The car?” she asked before she explained, again, what she had witnessed.

Lieutenant Chavez brushed her concerns aside, suggesting she needed to calm down and wait for the ambulance to arrive. “We'll handle…”

She lifted her hand to her hip. “You're not listening to me,” Amber insisted, clearly annoyed with technicalities of anything but the crime. “She was trying to scream and he covered her mouth with his hand, then suddenly she went limp.” Another officer approached and tried to lead her away. “But what about the girl? The car? Why are you all here, and not looking for her?”

“Don't worry, Ms….” Garrett said, trying to ignore the dizziness. He glanced at his fellow officer.

Lieutenant Chavez shone his flashlight in Garrett's face. “Garrett? You okay?”

He didn't answer.

Amber turned and looked at him. She pressed her key fob, opening the sliding door of her van behind her. “Here,” she said. “Sit down while you wait for the ambulance. Just watch out for the cake box.” She rearranged things, then slid the box to the back of the van. “Oh, no, the shower. I'm going to be late. I need to make a phone call.”

“I'm afraid you're going to be more than late, Ms. Scott. Make your call,” Lieutenant Chavez said, then looked at him. “Sit down, Garrett.”

He was in no condition to ignore an order. He sat in the doorway and took a deep breath, inhaling the sweet, nauseating aroma of a bakery mixed with gas fumes.

God, don't let this be serious.
He fought off the nausea, eyeing the interesting mess inside—plastic umbrellas, a gift bag with satin spaghetti straps dangling from the front seat, and a small box of what he hoped had nothing to do with the rest of her assortment. He had to be seeing things.

She must have seen his reaction to the contents, as she reached past him and tucked the flimsy fabric into a gift bag and apologized for the mess. “I was making deliveries on the way to a friend's wedding shower…when I saw the officer…”

“Officer? What kind of officer?” Chavez asked as he approached.

“Police,” she whispered, looking more terrified by the minute. “It was a police costume, I think. The more I've thought about it, I don't think it was real. The fabric was too thin and blew when she ripped it from his pants. It wasn't made as well as yours.” She stole a glance at Garrett's shirt. “Are you wearing a bulletproof vest?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, I noticed that the policeman's shirt, the impersonator policeman…” she stammered, “his was too baggy, but it didn't register until now. It's probably because you all wear bulletproof vests, right?”

If Garrett hadn't felt like throwing up, he'd have laughed.

“Yeah, what else did you notice?” the lieutenant asked, skepticism dripping from each word.

“He covered her mouth with his hand. I've never seen any real officer doing that….” She looked nervously from Chavez back to Garrett. “Especially with a bare hand. I mean, some drug addict could bite you, right?” Her fear-filled eyes met Garrett's again as a state patrol officer arrived and introduced himself.

Garrett wondered if she'd be half as gorgeous if he hadn't hit his head. While a couple officers were cleaning up the gasoline with kitty litter, the others were simply staring at Amber Scott. Apparently her good looks weren't his imagination. Her blond hair was pulled back into a clip and looked like she'd knocked the clip askew in the accident.

He glanced back at the shower gift and cake as the state patrolman walked around the van, inspecting the scene with a raised eyebrow. “Interesting cargo, Ms. Scott,” the patrolman said, vocalizing Garrett's thoughts. He pulled his ticket book from the metal clipboard. “May I have your license and registration, please?”