says there’s a warrant on me,” the girl shouted, “but I’ve never done anything illegal—ever! And he won’t even check my ID—and he hasn’t read my Miranda rights—he’s a fake and—”
“Shut up!” The cop glanced over his shoulder at her, then back at Jon. He seemed to be rattled as he turned to fully face Jon. “I told you to get that stupid mutt outta here!”
“I would have to move to get the dog,” Jon explained. “You told me to freeze.”
Suddenly the cop released his hold on the girl and reached for his holster, removing his revolver. “Now! I mean it—or else!”
“Come here, Ralph,” Jon said with authority. His tail between his legs, Ralph slowly approached, and Jon scooped him up. The little dog’s body was tense, as if on high alert, as if something were still very wrong.
“Now get outta here!” The cop brandished his weapon.
“Unarmed here,” Jon held up one hand, holding Ralph with the other.
The cop cursed, and pointed the weapon at him.
Before he could stop him, Ralph sprang from Jon’s arms and returned to barking. The frightened woman, free from the cop’s grasp now, watched Jon with a tear-streaked face. He knew he needed to do something—but what? His training and experience as an attorney suggested he should attempt to talk him down.
“I can see something is wrong,” Jon suggested in a calm but firm tone, “but maybe we can discuss this in a civilized manner.” He considered informing the cop that he was an attorney. He could express interest in this woman’s rights, offer to be her legal representation. “I’d like to suggest—”
“I already told you what to do—get your stupid mutt and get outta here!” Despite his angry tone, the cop looked uncertain. He was clearly caught off guard by this uncomfortable triangle—a woman behind him, Jon about thirty feet in the opposite direction and a little dog barking several feet away.
“I warned you!” The cop aimed his gun at Ralph.
“Stop!” Jon lunged for the dog as a loud bang sliced the air. Ralph let out a yelp, collapsing to the ground. The woman screamed, and Jon, frozen in place, felt his adrenaline boiling. His eyes fixed on the cop, he weighed the situation. This cop, if he was one, was definitely crooked. But he was also armed. And dangerous.
The cop looked flustered and agitated—as if trying to make up his mind. Probably deciding which one of them to shoot next. In that same split second, Jon knew without a doubt that this cop was either an imposter or dirty. He looked at the woman and made his decision. “Run!” he yelled at her.
As the cop turned to the girl, Jon sprang at him. Making a huge leap, he blindsided the distracted man. Although the cop was much stouter, Jon’s momentum knocked him flat onto the graveled road, making the revolver fly from his hand.
But the woman was still standing there!
“Run for your life!” Jon yelled at her. He could tell he’d knocked the wind out of the startled cop, but every second was precious. “Run!” he shouted. But instead of fleeing, she sprinted straight toward them and snatched up Ralph. Then she turned and, like a shot, she flew up the side of the dune.
The red-faced cop cursed angrily when he regained his breath. “You’re a dead man!” he growled as he swung a fist at Jon. As Jon dodged the blow, he noticed the service revolver just a few feet away and reached for it. At the same moment, the cop went for it, too, and both men scrambled in the sand and gravel, fighting for the weapon. The cop swung another massive fist, and as Jon dodged he was able to solidly kick the revolver, sending it spinning into the nearby brush. As the cop leaped for his gun, Jon sprinted up the side of the tall dune.
Just seconds from the beach grass on top, Jon heard the first shot. Kicking it into high gear, he raced for the top just as several shots cracked in quick succession. As he dove for the cover of the grass, he felt a searing jolt on the outer side of his right thigh. He’d been hit. Ducking down, he crawled on all fours, using the tall grass to conceal himself as a couple more shots flew past. He knew that, despite the pain in his thigh, he had to keep moving. Fast!
Crouching low, Jon crawled to the other side of the dune, then continued to run. He had no doubt the cop was following—or that he wanted him dead. Because dead men don’t talk. Jon’s only hope was that, despite his throbbing leg, he could outrun the overweight man. If he was a real cop, which seemed unlikely. And if he was a real cop, he wouldn’t be one for long. Because Jon intended to turn the jerk in, as soon as he got the chance. That is if the cop didn’t kill him first.
As Jon pressed on through the dunes, he prayed that the woman had taken his nonverbal hint and headed north. Cabins, including his parents’ place, were in that direction. And even though most of the vacation cabins sat vacant this time of the year, there was a better chance of her finding help up there. In the meantime, he was determined to lead the crooked cop away from her by heading south. He knew this stretch of shoreline was void of civilization for the next several miles—all the way to the jetty. He also knew that if his body gave out—and that seemed likely—he would probably be dead before sundown.
* * *
Leah paused to catch her breath and, hearing the dog’s pathetic whines, looked down. Seeing the hurt confusion in his golden eyes, she spoke quietly to him as she paused to examine his gunshot wound. She knew from the day they’d met on the beach that his name was Ralph. His master’s name was still a mystery.
“It’s okay, Ralphie,” she said quietly as she checked his left hindquarter. Although it was bleeding, she was relieved to see the bullet had only grazed him. “You’re going to be okay, little guy,” she said soothingly. “We can fix that up.” Still, she knew from her nurse’s training that direct pressure was needed to stop the bleeding.
With nothing to use as a bandage, she decided to turn his wounded side toward her midsection. If she could hold him tightly against herself, she might be able to slow down or stop the bleeding. Knowing it was the best she could do and there was no time to waste, she took off running again.
As badly as she felt for the man who had come to her aid—Ralph’s master—she knew that all she could do at this point was to run for her life, as he’d urged her to do. But the memory of those gunshots—after she’d run—was still reverberating through her. What if he’d been killed?
With no time to think about this, she focused on getting herself and Ralph out of harm’s way. If that were even possible. And as she sprinted through the beach grass, she silently prayed for Ralph’s owner. Unless she’d imagined it, the stranger’s eyes had suggested a northward direction, but she had gone the opposite way. Intentionally. Her plan was to cut through the creek and double back in the surf, in an effort to hide her footprints.
* * *
After Jon had gone about half a mile, he knew he needed to tend his wound. Besides the pain, which had subsided some, he knew he was leaving a trail of blood. Fortunately the old plaid flannel shirt he was wearing over his T-shirt could help. He removed it and wrapped it tightly around his thigh, using the sleeves to secure it. If the cop was trailing him—and that was preferable to the man tracking down the woman—he could at least attempt to make it more difficult. And the longer it took the cop to find Jon, the better the chances for the pretty brown-eyed lady—who he hoped was headed in the opposite direction.
The memory of the slender woman dressed in her running clothes shoved roughly against her car by the heavyset cop filled Jon with a fresh sense of outrage. And with his bandage secured, that anger propelled him even faster. Everything about the scene had felt wrong. All wrong. Even if the girl was a wanted felon, which he seriously doubted, the cop had been inappropriately rough. Not to mention inappropriate. Plus he’d broken the law by not reading the girl her Miranda rights or checking her ID. There had been lots of red flags—strong