Page 16 of The Last Straw

“I love you, too,” Ray said and disconnected.

Millie laid the phone down, then looked up at the cuckoo clock on the kitchen wall, ticking away precious time. She tried not to think of what horrors Rachel might be enduring, willing herself not to even think that Rachel might already be dead.

Unaware of the ensuing drama regarding Rachel Dean’s disappearance, Charlie worked late into the night, running background checks on Barrett Taylor, and on all of the people he could find names for who were connected to The Righteous organization. From what he could tell, a preacher named Jeremiah Raver was at the head of it.

Taylor was just the hit man—an ex-con who’d done time in Florida, and in Alabama, although his current place of residence was listed in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He’d been arrested for armed robbery, breaking and entering, possession of stolen property, car theft and drug possession. This murder attempt was new, or at least something he’d never been caught doing before.

Charlie guessed Wyrick probably had all of this and more, and had dirt on the entire organization, but she had a tendency to keep her troubles to herself, and he wanted to know what she was facing now—not after it all fell in on top of her again.

He finally went to bed, satisfied with what he’d learned, and wisely did not bring it up again at breakfast the next morning.

By the time he and Wyrick left for work, he was better informed about the whole organization and how they worked, but Taylor mentioned there were others coming for her, too, and he didn’t know what they looked like. He couldn’t do anything about that, but he wanted to make sure Barrett Taylor didn’t bond out of jail. So he called in a favor from a friend in the Dallas PD. The phone rang twice, and then the call picked up on the third ring.

“Lieutenant Wagner.”

“Tony, this is Charlie Dodge.”

“Hey, Charlie. Good to hear from you... I think. What’s going on? Everything okay with Wyrick? I was told there was an attempted break-in at your office yesterday evening, and she was involved.”

“That’s why I’m calling, and yes, she’s okay. No thanks to me because I was in court waiting to testify,” Charlie said. “The man who attacked Wyrick is a convicted felon named Barrett Taylor. He has an ugly little rap sheet, and broke a couple of laws for himself just driving across state lines to come after her. When she opened the door to go home for the evening, he was in the hall waiting for her. He kicked it in, punched her and knocked her down, and was reaching for his gun when she Tasered him. Even after she had him cuffed he kept threatening her, telling her there were others coming after her, too, and I need to make sure he is charged with everything you can make stick to him. He belongs to a cult called the Church of The Righteous, and it appears they’re out to get her. I’m not letting that happen again.”

“I appreciate your concern. I’ll make sure no balls are dropped when he’s formally charged.”

“Thanks, Tony. I really appreciate it,” Charlie said and disconnected.

He glanced up in the rearview mirror, but Wyrick was nowhere in sight. He’d lost track of her while he was talking, but they were headed to the same place, and he would bet money she’d beat him there.

By the time he got to the office, Wyrick was already in work mode.

“No bear claws. You have apple fritters, and a butt load of messages,” she said as he walked in.

He grinned. “I like apple fritters.”

“I know that,” she said.

“Are there any pressing issues?” Charlie asked.

“Not unless you decide to take the bullshit case, which is the message on top.”

Charlie frowned. “Well, hell. If the day is starting with bullshit, then I’m gonna need two apple fritters to even begin,” he said and kept walking.

Wyrick hid a grin. She loved it when Charlie got all pissy, as long as it wasn’t with her.

Rachel Dean woke with a gasp, and then moaned.

“This has to be a bad dream. This can’t really be happening to me. Why can’t I wake up?”

Just the sound of her own voice settled the moment of panic, and then she slowly unwrapped herself from the blanket.

But when she tried to stand, she was so sore she could barely move. She finally got to her feet, but it hurt to walk. When she began checking her body, and saw the bruising and the cuts, the pain began to make sense.

She went straight to the toilet, then washed her hands at the sink before refilling her water bottle from the tap. Her throat was burning where he’d cut her, and she feared it would get infected, but without a mirror to see, all she could do was wash it again.

As always, she went straight to the door and tried to open it, but it was still locked. She went through the same routine, beating on the door, screaming for help until hearing the panic in her own voice made it worse, so she crawled back onto the mattress and rolled herself up in the blanket.

She was cold, hungry and at the same time sick to her stomach with fear. She thought of Millie, afraid she’d never see her again—and thought of her job, and how hard she’d worked to get to where she was, only to know she was losing it all. The sadness she felt was undercoated with a growing rage.

Why was God letting this happen?

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