While Others Sleep

Driven by concern, Campbell stepped outside to a sky opening to a torrential rain. A barrage of icy droplets pricked her face and clear vision was impossible, but she knew the approaching car was a compact, and that it was traveling fast. And it was almost upon her.

Her memory was working better than her vision, and she reached a hand out into the driveway. Yet no sooner did she step out onto the walkway than she realized the driver didn’t intend to slow down. Worse yet, she heard the car accelerate.

It was going too fast to miss her and far too fast to make the necessary ninety-degree left turn out onto the drive.

Campbell flung herself backward. Although she struck hard against the booth’s rough stone exterior, she kept her eyes open and focused her attention to try to catch a closer look at the maniac speeding by.

The car was a Grand Am. The driver was—

“Maida?” Campbell gasped. “Maida, stop!”

Ignoring the pain in her back, Campbell launched herself after the car. Brakes squealed and the rear end swung wildly through that first impossible turn. She got close enough to slam her hand on the trunk, but either Maida Livingstone didn’t hear her, or the sound had the opposite effect and frightened her.

After several stumbling strides, Campbell gave up and stared in horror as the car accelerated again. The elderly widow was racing toward the next hairpin turn.

NO SANCTUARY

FINAL STAND

DEAD END

LOST

MORE THAN YOU KNOW

COME SUNDOWN

While Others Sleep

Helen R. Myers

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

A special salute to Texas Bluegrass singer Terri Hendrix, who inspired many of the characters in this book with her song about night wolves, those individuals who either suffer from insomnia, work, or otherwise maneuver through life while others sleep. Also thanks to the Longview Police Department and Longview Board of Education for their strong public access commitment.

To the Hide-Away-Lake Book Club and residents who asked that I feature a character who has experienced my own too-close encounters with lightning—I hope this adds insight. Your lovely development was, indeed, the inspiration for Maple Trails, even though I had to relocate it. But I will always cherish your graciousness and hospitality.

Finally, ongoing appreciation to my editor Valerie Gray and always to my agent Ethan Ellenberg. Couldn’t have done this without your wisdom, support and humor.

Violence can only be concealed by a lie, and the lie can only be maintained by violence.

—Alexander Solzhenitsyn

Nobel Prize lecture, 1973

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

1

Maple Trails, a gated retirement community

Longview, Texas

11:30 p.m.

A lightning-fractured sky, followed by the quick crack of thunder, gave clear warning that the approaching storms weren’t only accelerating across Texas, but intensifying. Precipitation would be welcome in this section of the piney woods where residents continued to miss out on replenishing rains due to another El Niño in the Pacific. To the most grateful, the storm would serve as a lullaby.

To Campbell Cody, it felt like a combination of mockery and curse. Standing with her hands on her hips as the overly warm February wind tugged at her hair and khaki uniform, she had to wonder—would tonight be the night she got deep-fried? Like the answer of answers, the next bolt shot into the earth with the precise and deadly trajectory of a smart bomb achieving a direct hit on her nerves, elevating her tension to a level she had experienced all too often in the last fourteen months. She turned her back on the intimidating scene, but the damage was done. Dark memories, rife with immutable images flashed before her—scenes from another night filled with fury: a domestic disturbance turned Code 30, followed by a torment-filled wait in Emergency and, days later, a funeral. She could almost hear the condemning voices of the bitter and the bereaved within the gusting wind.

Another crack of thunder snapped her back to the present. It came as fast as it took Internal Affairs to convince her that her career with the Longview Police Department was over.

Uneasy as she was with what was about to befall the area, Campbell had anticipated trouble hours ago. Company policy required all staff to review the latest weather report and the local news, and to make notes on significant alerts coming over the police radio scanner before reporting to their posts. These procedures were twice as strict for the daughter of Yancy Cody, owner of Cody Security, Inc. The company might only be a regional name in the expanding and increasingly complicated world of corporate and private protection, but they were a growing one thanks to a solid reputation—another reason why she could not succumb to old vulnerabilities tonight. But neither could she rid herself of concern over what could become a worst-case scenario.

Two air masses were colliding over the Lone Star State tonight, resulting in a system that was powerful enough to evolve into one of those freak, heart-of-winter storms that sent eighteen-wheelers flipping, splintered houses, and ripped apart lives. It was no time for man or beast to be outdoors, and while, technically, she could avoid that, the stone-and-glass gatehouse marking the entrance to the private and exclusive retirement community of Maple Trails could be just as dangerous. Come what may, it was Campbell’s post until her twelve-hour shift ended at six the next morning, and there was no use wishing she could have avoided working tonight.

Her father had always been as selective in scheduling staff as he was in hiring new employees, and that practice was all the more evident at this exclusive community just outside the eastern perimeter of Longview’s city limits. Maple Trails had been the firm’s first sizable client, and personnel were not arbitrarily switched from one location to another. In addition, no one worked at a Cody-protected site who didn’t know it as well as their own home. Unfortunately, that could catch them in a bind. Morton “Munch” Robbins, who should have had Campbell’s shift tonight, had split open his thigh earlier in the day while testing his newly repaired chain saw, and Doug Sutton, their backup, had developed pneumonia. She would not be relieved until tomorrow, even though this was her fourth twelve-hour shift without a break. Company guidelines prohibited staff working without adequate rest, but Campbell refused to complain. Her father had just come through his own health scare and needed support, not whining.

“Another week, ten days tops, and we’ll be back to normal,” Yancy had assured her six hours ago as she’d prepared for work. “The background checks on the new applicants are coming in as clean as I expected, and we should be ready to start training by Friday.”

She wasn’t the only staff member who hoped he was right. These were challenging times for security firms, and investigating the people who were issued badges, carried guns and had access to private homes and the most privileged areas in corporations needed to be screened with increased care.

The next sky-to-ground flash had Campbell ducking deeper into her fluorescent-yellow rain gear, but there was no escaping the high-pitched crack that left the earth shuddering. Pushed by the wind, she stumbled to the gatehouse and reached for the hand radio.

“Gate to Patrol One, over.” She released the speaker key.

“Patrol One” came the static-filled reply. “Seen any flying cattle yet? Over.”

Campbell appreciated Ike Crenshaw’s attempt at humor. The widower and grandfather of five was often her partner on these shifts, and since the movie Twister, he’d been referring to that cow scene whenever this region came under a storm alert.

“Not yet, and the likelihood of having a shot of tequila anytime soon is nil, so I guess spotting Day-Glo pink pigs with wings is out, too. Listen, Ike, you’d better go ahead and pull into the recreation center to get some solid shelter. The lightning has become downright ugly. Over.”

“You’re the one out on the ledge. Over.”

Built on a slight bluff, the entrance to the Trails, as it was sometimes called, did seem precarious, especially as the driveway cut a serpentine path through the terraced ground, which, after four hairpin turns, spilled onto Highway 259. Highway 259—or 59 as it was known farther south—was frequently used as a reliable alternate route for drug traffickers using Houston as a hub.

The gatehouse was built of the same stone as the semicircular walls that flanked it. On each side, the walls bore the distinct three-foot-high brass nameplates of the beautifully designed community.

When weather conditions grew treacherous, those on duty were instructed to dive into the deepest corner of the booth, tuck under the built-in desks and cover up with a blanket from the first aid closet for protection from breaking glass and other flying debris. However, Campbell was one of the few people in Tornado Alley who didn’t live in fear of them. She had her own particular dread.

“I’m about to retreat into my hole,” she told him. “But I’ll sit this out better if I know you aren’t parked under some ancient old tree or playing Good Samaritan by chasing hyper pets at the risk of your own safety. Over.”

“No way I can do that—not with the arthritis this storm is aggravating. You know where to find me, then. I’ll holler as soon as the worst is past.” The radio cracked as another flash streaked across the sky. “Now, get off this thing. Over’n out.”

Reassured about her partner, Campbell headed for the first aid closet to get a blanket, but paused again at the sound of an engine. It was coming from inside the development. They didn’t monitor exiting traffic—guests could leave at will. Should it be a resident with a medical emergency, they were to call here for assistance. But with so many senior citizens in residence there were always extenuating circumstances.

Driven by concern, Campbell stepped outside to a sky opening to a torrential rain. A barrage of icy droplets pricked her face, and clear vision was impossible, but she knew the approaching car was a compact and that it was traveling fast. It was almost upon her.

Her memory was working better than her vision, and she reached a hand out into the driveway. She knew of several elderly residents who drove this type of vehicle and it concerned her to think of one in particular venturing out in these conditions. Yet, no sooner did she step down onto the asphalt than she realized the driver didn’t intend to slow down; worse yet, she heard the car accelerate.

It was going too fast to miss her. Far too fast to make the necessary ninety-degree left turn onto the road.

Campbell flung herself backward. Although she struck hard against the booth’s rough stone exterior, she kept her eyes open and focused her attention to try to catch a closer look at the maniac speeding by.

The car was a Grand Am. The driver was—

“Maida?” Campbell gasped. “Maida, stop!”

Ignoring the pain in her back, Campbell launched herself after the car. Brakes squealed and the rear end swung wildly through that first impossible turn. She got close enough to slam her hand on the trunk, but either Maida Livingstone didn’t hear that or the sound had the opposite effect and frightened her.

After several stumbling strides, she gave up and stared in horror as the car accelerated again. The elderly widow was racing toward the next hairpin turn.

“No!” she yelled. Convinced her friend had gone mad, she ran after her, frantically waving her arms. “Mai—”

A deafening crack and a flash of blue-white light to her left locked the cry in her throat. Simultaneously, some instinct ordered, “Drop!” But with a demon’s speed, lightening shot through a pine.

Determined and merciless, the skeletal finger gripped her hand. Robbed of her remaining strength and control, of her very breath, Campbell collapsed onto the flooding road.

The devilish light vanished, leaving punishing rain…and the depressing image of the Grand Am reaching the main highway.

2

Southeast Longview Texas

1:02 a.m.

While driving north on Highway 259, lightning struck close, close enough for Jackson Blade to turn his head away. If he hadn’t, he might have missed the white car parked to his right at the back of the darkened restaurant.

Even though the deadly bolt went to ground as close as a block away, he instantly lost interest in the storm. He squinted through the rain-splattered passenger window of his El Camino for a better view of the compact car, with its front end almost kissing the Dumpster, but he saw something that had him braking fully and lowering the passenger window.

The vehicle was a Grand Am and it was blocked from behind by two patrol cars. Driving rain and activity made it impossible to see whoever was in the front seat, but his experience told him this wasn’t a routine license check or a Lovers’ Lane scare.

He turned the vintage Chevy into the next driveway. The sloped ingress led him up to a house-turned-office where he quickly inspected the privacy fence running between the properties. There would be no easy view from this vantage point, but there were several breaks in the fence. If he was willing to risk getting struck by lightning, and ruining his signature leather jacket, he might be able to answer some nagging questions without being spotted.

Pushing aside his disgust at having lost the vehicle he’d been following through the city, Blade parked and made his way to the closest set of broken slats. What he saw chilled him as much as the rain sluicing under the neckline of his clothes.

Whether the car below was the one belonging to the person he’d been keeping an eye on these last weeks or not, there was serious trouble below, serious enough for the EMTs to have arrived at the scene. One medic hurried up front to the driver. In the break between moving bodies, Blade saw blond hair, enough of it to determine the victim was female. His concern deepened.

Right model car…the hair matched, too.

Accepting that he needed to get down there if he was to get answers, he eased through a wider section of broken fence and leaped off the slick grass and red clay to the asphalt. He lingered in that crouched position in the deeper shadows provided by the storage shed, hoping to recognize one of the cops. It would be less problematic—not to mention dangerous—to have a semifriendly present. Then a third patrol car pulled in behind the others.

Damn, Jackson thought. His identity was about to be compromised beyond what he was willing to risk. Whatever he could learn here wouldn’t offset the dangers of being seen by someone he didn’t know—or didn’t trust. But as he started to retreat, one of the officers spotted him.

Blade almost swore out loud. She would have to be one of the rookies.

“You—freeze! Up slowly. Show me your hands.”

Tight-lipped, he did as directed. The pounding rain had him shrinking deeper into his jacket and muted the intentional heel-dragging of his well-worn Tony Lama boots. He knew what he looked like under normal conditions, and the weather and harsh light only made that worse, especially to an inexperienced cop. If he couldn’t get away, he wanted to attract the attention of her partner. In the meantime, he hoped the rookie didn’t panic.

“Hands!”

To his relief the female officer’s second warning caught the attention of someone else. Though Blade’s primary focus stayed on her and the .9 mm she gripped between her hands, he risked a glance toward the middle-aged man, who’d been slipping on his rain gear.

“You going to just stand there with your mouth open and let her shoot me, Parsons?” he drawled to the squinting cop.

As he peered at him, Phil Parson’s expression turned into a sneer. “I should,” he finally replied. “Might get a citation for enforcing the mayor’s ‘clean up the city’ program.”

“Your daughter seems to like what she sees.” Blade allowed a benign smile. Inside, however, he seethed. The asshole knew dressing like an assistant D.A. or rookie FBI agent could get him killed. Maybe his reply was a low blow and an outright lie—he only knew Parson’s daughter from the photo he’d seen on Phil’s locker door—but if the cop wanted to trade insults, Blade would have the last word. His work, his survival depended on it.

Not surprisingly, veins protruded at each side of the older cop’s eyes, spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. “Fuck you, Blade. My girl hasn’t been within miles of you. As soon as we got her out of that—that joint and into rehab, she became her old self again. She’s off of everything and I’ll kick any SOB who says otherwise.”

“Relax. I heard she’s one of the lucky ones.”

The cop’s cheeks puffed as he collected himself. He cast his confused partner a quick look as though wishing he could somehow retract his outburst from her memory. “Damn fool,” he grumbled at Blade. “What did you say that for, then?”

“Wanted your attention. I’m in a hurry.”

“You got it.”

Blade nodded at the car behind the two officers. “What’s wrong with her?” At this point he could definitely tell the driver was female and that she was lying back against the headrest.

Ignoring his partner’s continued stare, the broad-faced man shook his head. “Belly shot. And I suspect you know she’s small.”

“If she’s who I think she is,” Blade replied.

“Doesn’t look good. The EMTs just said they can’t risk waiting to stabilize her here.”

The technicians were, in fact, already removing her from the vehicle and making quick work of loading her into the ambulance. Although he’d seen scenes like this many times—too many—Blade kept his face blank, his tone flat. “Has she said anything?”

“Nah. Nothing sensible, anyway.”

“Come on, Phil, before I have to worry about a bullet in the back as well as the front.”

“Just what is going on here?” the female officer demanded.

Another close flash of lightning, followed by a loud peal of thunder, had Sergeant Parsons cringing. In the next moment, he snapped, “Put that thing away before somebody gets hurt.” To Blade he said, “It sounded like she mumbled something, but it could have been a moan. So what’s up with her? She something to you? We haven’t spotted a purse yet. Our check on the plates identifies the owner as Raymond Holms. Car could be stolen for all we know.”

Blade nodded, though he didn’t offer what he knew about the matter. He simply replied, “I’ve just seen her here and there.”

“And?”

New sirens were sounding in the north. He couldn’t tell if they were heading this way, but it was a good bet. “Who called this in?”

The female officer stepped forward. “I did. We were at the traffic light and I saw a dog sniffing around the car. The dog was on its hind legs and leaning into the window. I guess he smelled the blood. I’m Cathy Miles. I just started this week.” She took a step forward as though about to extend her hand.

“Give him your phone number while you’re at it,” Parsons muttered.

The rookie’s tentative smile vanished. “I—I’ll go see if they need—” Swallowing hard, she beat a fast retreat.

“Smooth,” Blade murmured.

Parsons waved away the criticism. “Hey. I’m sick of being given all the females to train. I feel like some kind of one-man feminist nursery school.”

“Ever think it’s because somebody thinks you’re a good teacher, or are you determined to be pissed because she’s cute and you can’t do anything about it?” Having seen and heard enough, Blade was ready to retreat himself. “Who’re they sending to take the case?”

“Snow.”

Always tenacious, Detective Gordon Snow took his time. Everyone else’s, too, but Blade would vote for the Snowman’s brand of caution any day. “I’m going to the hospital.”

“I’ll let him know that’s where he can find you.”

“Uh-uh. You forget I was here.” Blade pointed a finger over his shoulder. “Make that clear to your partner, too—and that if our paths cross again she never uses my name if anyone else is around. If there’s something Snow needs to hear, I’ll make sure he gets the information. You know how I operate, Phil.”

Despite the initial tension between them, he suspected Phil Parsons would oblige. The guy was a good cop, even if he was an old-school redneck when it came to women. Parsons would remember that Blade’s role in the world of night wolves required extreme caution.

The storm was moving east and Blade made it to Good Shepherd Medical Center in five minutes. Parking his two-tone gray 1982 El Camino between two larger trucks, as far away from the tall security lights as possible, he sprinted to catch up with the ambulance. He could see the EMTs wheeling the victim through the automatic glass doors of Emergency.

Only an arm’s reach from the entry himself, he collided with another person. He heard a surprised, pained gasp, and then a woman fell hard onto the concrete, immediately curling into a tight fetal position. Blade’s religious workouts kept him extremely fit, but she wasn’t exactly Tinkerbell. When they’d collided they’d been shoulder to shoulder, and while she was slim, his impression of her was of toned muscle, too.

A split second later it registered with him that she wore a uniform. He squinted in the harsh light to read the patch on her sleeve. Cody Security. His lips twisted. Just what he needed—appeasing a wannabe.

Impatient to get inside, Blade extended his hand. “Come on, I’ll help you up.” Meanwhile, his attention had returned to the EMTs. He wanted to make sure he knew where they were going.

“Back off.”

The harsh warning, accompanied by a sting as his hand was slapped away, jerked his attention back to the security guard. She might be a mess—as soaked as he was and blue from the cold—but she had a great head of hair. No amount of rain could diminish the toffee-gold in that long plait. His gaze lingered for a second too long.