Haunted (A Bishop/SCU Novel Book 15) (22 page)

“You two got this?” he said to the others, nodding toward the apparently still frozen and now blank-eyed Sonny Lenox.

“We’re good,” Trinity said. “Take her out of here.”

“Don’t waste time,” DeMarco told her. “There’s other darkness here besides what he was, hiding for now. You don’t want to be here when it all comes out to play.”

DeMarco didn’t hesitate a moment longer. He lifted Hollis into his arms, cradling her slight body easily, and got her out of there.

Deacon said to Trinity, “We’ve got this?”

“Yeah.” She holstered her weapon, then walked over to the still man and carefully pried the dead man’s switch from his hand. Holding it, she stepped behind him, and in no more than a couple of minutes was unfastening the explosive-laden vest from him and stepping into the dining room to lay it carefully on the table.

“Wait, the switch—”

“It’s okay,” Trinity told him calmly. “I worked the bomb squad in Atlanta. The only thing remotely fancy about his bomb was the dead man’s switch, and they’re actually pretty easy. It’s safe now. Though I won’t feel entirely comfortable until it’s all dismantled and out of here, if Reese was right about that other dark energy.”

She glanced toward the ceiling, and her face tightened as she watched the blood still dripping. Another friend dead. From Hollis’s reaction and all the blood . . . A friend butchered.

I’m sorry, Toby. I should have kept you safe.

Deacon, unaware of her thoughts, was still warily eyeing Sonny Lenox. “What about him?”

“The only thing holding him up,” she said, “is me.” She turned her head, looked at Sonny Lenox—and he dropped like a stone to the wide plank floor.

“He’s dead?”

“Arguable whether he’s been alive, at least for a long time. But, yes, he’s dead. And this time there’s no EMS squad and trauma unit nearby to put his body on life support.” She looked down at Lenox with a singular lack of remorse in her eyes. “This time, both Sonny Lenox and Samuel are dead for the last time.”

—

IT WAS COLD
outside, and a few flakes of snow were beginning to drift downward. DeMarco carried Hollis to their SUV. Instead of placing her in the front, he opened the back door and set her carefully on the seat so that she faced him as he stood in the open door.

“Hollis?”

Her gaze was looking past him, through him, miles away. And her eyes were still dark.

“Hollis, look at me.”

Nothing changed. DeMarco reached out, surrounding her face with his hands. He felt her flinch back, as if she would have pulled away, but his hands were large, and though he made sure she wouldn’t feel trapped, he also held her steadily.

Something flickered in her eyes, and she went still again.

DeMarco hesitated, then said quietly, “Now you know. Now you know how bad it had to be before your mind felt the need to build walls, a shield. Because you’ve got one, Hollis. But it’s not for you to hide inside. It’s not for you to use to shut out the people who care about you. It’s only . . . to give you a private, safe place to be. Sometimes.”

Again, something flickered in her dark, dark eyes.

“He tried to hurt you, and he did. But you won, Hollis. He’s dead and you’re alive. You won.”

“You . . . don’t understand,” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said. “I do. I understand that you’ve survived more horror and agony than any human being should ever have to bear. I wish I could take away the pain, at least. But, Hollis, everything that’s happened to you has made you the woman you are today, right now. The bad as well as the good. You know that.”

“I know . . . I didn’t want to remember. I didn’t want to think about the monster who took my eyes. But when I saw her—her face. When I saw her eyes were gone, I
remembered.
” She drew a sudden, deep breath, and her eyes began to lighten.

And fill with tears.

DeMarco didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer and pulled her into his arms. She was stiff for just a moment, resisting. And then her new walls . . . slowly came down, and her arms went around him.

And for the first time, Hollis Templeton cried for everything she had lost.

And everything she had gained.

“What I want to know,” Deacon asked some time later as they all gathered in the conference room of the sheriff’s department, “is when the parsonage stopped being red. Because it was red when we went in, and white when we came out.”

“My guess would be that when Samuel finally died—really died this time—the red vanished,” Hollis said, sounding tired but steady. “It was his bubble of energy we were in.”

“Not another dimension?” Trinity asked.

“I don’t think so. No way to be sure, of course, but I think he used some of his own energy, combined it with the weird natural energy up there, and . . . built himself a home. He was enough in control of it to open a door and let us in.”

“That wasn’t you?” Trinity asked.

“No. He’d already figured out he couldn’t get to me outside his bubble, but he believed he could once he got me inside. Especially after I saw . . . her.”

DeMarco’s arms tightened around her. He was actually sitting on a big, slate-topped desk that had been shoved into one corner of the conference room, and Hollis stood between his knees, leaning back against him.

She looked very comfortable.

“Maybe he thought the shock would do it,” she continued steadily. “Seeing another woman dead the way I was supposed to have died years ago. Seeing what he did to her. But that didn’t make me vulnerable to him. If anything, it made me stronger.”

“I think we all saw evidence of that,” Trinity said, her tone a little dry.

“You were the surprise,” Deacon said to her. “A born telekinetic?”

“Umm. Runs in the family.”

Somewhat indignant, he said, “And you didn’t think we needed to know that?”

Smiling faintly but unapologetic, Trinity said, “It’s always been an ace up my sleeve. I use it sparingly, to say the least.”

Hollis looked at her. “Is that why Bishop hasn’t recruited you?”

“I’ve tried, believe me.” He came into the conference room along with Miranda, and it probably spoke volumes that no one was surprised to see him.

Mildly, Trinity said, “I like small-town life. Especially when there isn’t a resurrected maniac killer murdering my friends.”

Hollis looked at Miranda and asked, “Where are the others?”

“Tying up loose ends in the mountains. We found the last two girls before she could kill them.”

“Ruth?” DeMarco guessed. “She was always his most devoted follower. I always thought she’d probably kill for him if he asked.”

“I gather she was supposed to kill the last two while he was busy here in Sociable,” Miranda replied. “To keep most of the heat off him here as long as possible. He’d killed the others, but not even Samuel could be two places at once. He needed to be here. He also needed those girls dead. What he didn’t count on was that Ruth was convinced she could persuade the girls to become followers of Samuel.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” DeMarco said. “Though I do wonder . . . Did she recognize him despite his shiny new body or because he went looking for her and proved himself?”

“The latter,” Bishop said. “She was still in North Carolina, so easy to find. And apparently all he had to do was touch her to cause her to remember everything.”

“Yeah, that was his thing,” DeMarco said with clear distaste.

Miranda was looking at Hollis steadily. “You aren’t okay,” she said.

“No,” Hollis agreed, “but I will be. Now.” DeMarco’s arms tightened around her, and Hollis smiled at Miranda. “I’ll be fine.”

“About damned time,” Miranda responded solemnly.

“Yeah, now you can spend your time and energy worrying about some of the others. I’m sure there’s enough to occupy your time.”

“True enough.”

“What I want to know,” Deacon said, his voice a bit louder than, perhaps, he intended, “is what about Braden?”

Trinity looked at him, brows rising. “What about him?”

“Oh, come on. If he’s an ordinary dog, I’m—I’m—” Apparently, he couldn’t think of anything weird enough, and settled for a glare.

“Ask Bishop,” Trinity suggested.

The SCU unit chief smiled faintly, the expression making his very handsome but scarred face look more dangerous than amused. “You figured that out, huh?” he asked Trinity.

“I know you’re all kinds of subtle and Machiavellian,” she told him gravely, “but a strange, beautifully trained, and eerily prescient dog shows up on my front porch just when I’m thinking about getting another one—something I had recently said to you—and I’m not supposed to guess he’s here because of you?”

“He’s here because of you,” Bishop said firmly.

Deacon scowled at him. “What’d you do, ask him where he wanted to live?”

“Yeah,” Bishop said.

Deacon blinked. “Didn’t know you were telepathic with animals.”

“Neither did I. Until I crossed paths with Braden.”

Miranda spoke up then to say, “An old friend contacted me. He’s a sheriff in a small Tennessee town. Braden turned up a stray, Alex recognized there was something . . . unusual . . . about him, and figured he should probably be with us.”

“Why isn’t he?” Deacon asked.

“I told you,” Bishop said. “He wanted to live in a small town, and he wanted to be a sheriff’s dog. Alex already has three; Braden is the sort who prefers to be an only dog. I thought of Trinity and her desire to get another dog and—”

Braden got out of his chair, walked across the conference table—neatly avoiding numerous files—and sat down, offering Bishop a paw.

Bishop accepted it. “And he did something like this. Clearly, he’s happy here.”

Braden’s tail swept across the polished surface of the table, sending a file skidding toward the edge. Nobody minded.

“I’m not a telepath,” Trinity reminded him.

“Actually, you’re a latent telepath,” Bishop told her. “And your energy signature is the closest to Callie Davis’s I’ve ever come across. Since she can communicate with animals, dogs in particular, it only made sense to me that you might be able to as well. With time and practice.”

She eyed him. “Like Braden, I prefer small-town life. Don’t think you’re going to rope either one of us into joining the team.”

“It never crossed my mind.”

Trinity made a rude noise, but all she said was, “Well, for Braden and for all the other help, I’m more than grateful. I have friends to bury and a town to soothe, but I know it could have been a hell of a lot worse than it was.

“Look, I know you all must be exhausted—and we’ve got a storm about to hit. You could try to make it to the air strip, but I have my doubts about that, and these roads are really mean when they’re slippery. So why don’t you all stay at the hotel for the duration. I’m sure you could use a few days off. Rest, good food, interesting people.”

Her gaze returned to Bishop. “And we can talk a little more about just how much you really know about Braden.”

Before Bishop could respond, the black dog sitting on the conference table did, startling them with two sharp barks.

“Two barks for
yes
?” Trinity asked politely.

Braden barked twice more.

Deacon stared at him. “I’m trying to think of a
no
question. One bark for
no
, Braden. Can we make it to the air strip before the storm hits?”

Braden barked.

Once.

“You’re sure?”

Two barks.

To Bishop, Trinity said, “We
really
need to talk about him.”

Braden barked. Twice.

Please indulge me as I take a few pages to speak to you about my second vocation in this life: animal rescue, in particular dogs and cats. And about the inspiration for one of the main characters in
Haunted
.

The canine character of Braden in this story is based on a real shelter dog with that name and likeness who was handed a few lousy breaks in life—and then was granted a second chance.

No one can know, really, why Braden ended up where he did at a young age, not a puppy but barely an adult (most dogs in this country never live to see their third birthday). Sometimes a stray is brought in, with absolutely no one able to provide information on the animal. Quite often, dogs and cats are “surrendered” by owners; sometimes an owner-surrendered dog comes with a story, but more often than not, background information is at best incomplete, and human reasoning for the abandonment is, to some, inconceivable because we view our pets as lifelong companions.

But sometimes a reason is provided, and it rarely has anything to do with the dog’s temperament or behavior. A gift puppy grew up and wasn’t “cute” anymore. There was a divorce. Someone went off to school. There was a marriage. Someone new came into a relationship with their own better-loved dog or medical issues, such as allergies, that made having a dog in the house a problem. There was a new baby. There was a move. A change of job. There was something that made the poor dog an inconvenience. And the bewildered, frightened dog is ripped from, probably, the only home he’s ever known and abandoned by those he trusted, surrendered to a shelter or pound, often guiltily and with totally unrealistic “hopes” that he will somehow land in a better home instead of being euthanized, which is far, far more likely to be his fate today in twenty-first-century America.

Especially if he’s a dog like Braden.

Braden had three strikes against him. He was a mix most commonly recognized and referred to as a pit bull, or pit bull terrier, the most misunderstood and mistreated dog “breed” in this country; he was black, the coat color most overlooked in shelter dogs
and
cats by potential adopters; and he was abandoned at a small, high-kill, county-run rural facility too often forced to kill healthy, adoptable animals simply for lack of room and funds.

His chances of making it out of that stressful, frightening, lonely place alive were virtually nil.

But this particular shelter had and still has a highly active group of volunteers (Clifford’s Army Rescue Extravaganza—CARE—in Shelby, NC; Facebook.com/Cliffords.Army) who work hard to see to it that as many dogs and cats as possible are rescued, or at least have a better shot. They take attractive photos of each animal and offer its story and information about its personality as observed by them. They work with rescues to help, sometimes providing temporary fosters until a rescue can make arrangements within its own group.

As part of a growing network of animal advocates and rescue groups using social media such as Facebook and Twitter, CARE posted Braden’s picture and information online so that people all across the area and, indeed, the country, who would never walk into that facility, could see him and read his story. They urged friends, family, and other advocates to spread the word, share Braden and his story, and help whenever possible by pledging funds or donating to fund-raising accounts to help cash-strapped rescue organizations with the financial resources necessary to save him from certain death—to have him vetted, neutered, and living safely with a foster or the rescue until his Forever Home could be found.

In Braden’s case, as with some other lucky shelter dogs and cats, a sponsor stepped forward with the offer to fully fund Braden’s rescue. The sponsor committed to covering all costs associated with his rescue, from the fee to “pull” him from the shelter to vetting and, if necessary, boarding costs until he could be placed or fostered. Even with that guarantee, it doesn’t always end happily with a successful rescue; some shelters simply lack the resources to keep dogs and cats very long, and most rescues are overwhelmed by the sheer volume of abandoned dogs and cats in both cities and rural areas. And there are never enough fosters stepping up to provide temporary homes for these pets while permanent homes for them are sought.

Braden was very lucky. He was rescued by Sassy Paws Angel Rescue out of Denver, North Carolina. (For more information on this rescue, contact them at Facebook.com/Sassypawsangelrescue or Sassypawsangelrescue.com or [email protected].)

He was literally on death row, as dogs and cats are on death row at “shelters” across the country every single day. And without the tireless efforts of countless people who care about those shelter animals, Braden would have been led or dragged on that last walk to his execution—and still in many “shelters”, today, that means a cruel and terrifying slow death in a gas chamber.

And there is nothing in the least humane about that. (Want to help stop this madness? Check out the American Humane site for the facts on euthanasia, or Google it. Go to Facebook.com/TakeAction.BanAnimalGasChambers, or Google your own state to find out what the law is and what you can do to protest and help change inhumane practices; sometimes just signing a petition or sending an e-mail to one of your representatives in state or federal government can make a difference.)

As I said, Braden was one of the lucky ones, and because I’ve seen too many dogs like Braden become tragic statistics, I felt I had to speak out in a positive way about both pit bulls as a “breed” (I have one myself) and shelter rescues (which all three of my dogs are), and to encourage responsible pet ownership. If you check out the pages on my website (KayHooper.com) devoted to my pets, you’ll see several reminders and pleas to have your pets spayed and neutered and to adopt from rescues and shelters rather than buying from pet stores (which supports the horrific business of puppy mills unless you’re
certain
the store offers only rescue animals for adoption, not purchase). You’ll see on my personal Facebook page (Facebook.com/kay.hooper.5) that I advocate and network continually for shelter animals from facilities both local and across the country. (My author Facebook page can be found at Facebook.com/BishopPage if you prefer to have information only about my books and writing career and news of upcoming projects.)

You should know that in all the decades I’ve been writing, this is the first time I have asked my publisher for these extra few pages to advocate for a cause I feel deeply about; the first time I’ve sent photos of a dog (provided by Sassy Paws; thank you, ladies!) to my publisher and asked that he be included in the cover design.

The dog Braden in
Haunted
is the character he needed to be in this story, as all my characters are who they need to be. The shelter rescue Braden, who passed a temperament test with flying colors and, as I write this, is living happily with his foster while the rescue searches for his Forever Home, is as most shelter dogs tend to be—a nice dog and a grateful one.

He is, in the words of his foster, a “precious soul.” He loves to hug, cuddle, and give kisses (common pit bull traits), and plays happily with his foster’s family members, especially shepherd mix Sissy and puppies. He loves puppies. He loves just about everyone he meets. He also loves being with his humans, observing all intently with great interest, and dearly loves his food. And his treats.

Braden is still young, still learning, and off to a very promising second chance in life.

Because Braden is safe. A group of people, most of them strangers to each other, cared enough to work on his behalf, and because of that, Braden has a happy life in store for him.

And doesn’t every dog and cat deserve that?

Copyright © 2014 by Sassy Paws Angel Rescue