The Hero Next Door. Irene Hannon
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the pockets of his jeans and strode back to the window. There were lots of people on the street now. Laughing, smiling, chatting. Everyone seemed to be having a good time.
He turned his back on them.
“It was in the report. I’m sure Dennis would give you a copy.”
“I’d rather hear it from you.”
J.C. fisted his hands in his pockets. “And I’d rather not talk about it.”
The chief pursed his lips. “I’m going to assume the required counseling didn’t help a whole lot.”
J.C. snorted in disgust. “She didn’t have a clue about the stresses of undercover work. The isolation. The no-man’s-land existence, pretending to belong one place but cut off from the place you do belong. The strain of putting your life on hold to bring about justice. And that’s when things are going well.” He took a deep breath and let it out as his shoulders slumped. “But after all that effort, all that sacrifice, to watch two of your buddies take bullets because you made a mistake…” His voice turned to gravel, and he gripped the back of Burke’s desk chair.
“According to everything I heard, it wasn’t your fault.”
“I slipped up somewhere. If I hadn’t, Jack and Scott would still be alive. We walked into an ambush, Burke.”
“I heard you came pretty close to getting taken out yourself.” J.C. averted his head. “There are days I wish I had been.” A fresh wave of anguish swept over him, and a muscle in his jaw clenched. “Or that it had been me instead of them. They each left a wife and young children. No one would have missed me.”
In the ensuing silence, J.C.’s words echoed in his mind. If he was in Burke’s shoes, he’d be having serious second thoughts about now. No chief wanted a troubled cop on the force. Traumatized people didn’t think clearly. They were distracted and emotional, and they often overreacted—or underreacted—to stressful situations. In law enforcement, that could be deadly.
Steeling himself, J.C. faced the older man. Although he didn’t detect any doubt, cops were good at hiding their feelings.
“Did I just shoot myself in the foot?”
Burke cocked his head. “Should I be worried?”
“No. I’ll admit I haven’t resolved all my issues. But I’m working on them. That’s why I asked for an extended leave. I knew I needed some time to regroup in a different environment. Since I started as a beat cop, it felt right to go back to those roots. And after all my years undercover, I know how to compartmentalize. I can promise you I won’t let what happened in Chicago compromise my performance here.”
As Burke regarded him, J.C. held his breath. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if he was sent packing. But in the twenty-four hours he’d been on Nantucket, he’d sensed that this place held the key to a lot of the questions he’d been unable to answer in Chicago. And he didn’t want to leave.
“Okay, J.C.” Burke stood. “I wouldn’t touch most guys in your situation with a ten-foot pole. What you’ve been through can mess with a person’s mind. But I’ve seen you in a lot of tough situations, and you’ve always been steady under pressure. From what I’ve heard and observed, I don’t have any reason to think that’s changed.” He held out his hand. “Welcome to the Nantucket PD.”
As J.C. returned Burke’s solid clasp, he forced his stiff shoulders to relax. And sent a silent plea to the Lord to stick close.
Because while he was confident his training would kick in should he find himself in a volatile situation, he was counting on the summer being quiet relative to the Chicago crime scene. None of the lawbreaking he was likely to encounter here—petty theft, traffic violations, even drug issues—should involve altercations where lives hung in the balance.
And that was good. He didn’t want any more baggage.
What he did want was a quiet, uncomplicated summer that gave him plenty of opportunity to sit on a beach and do some serious thinking about the rest of his life.
The muffled rattling sounded suspicious.
J.C. slowed his pace as he approached the gate leading to the garden beside The Devon Rose. Since his breakfast with Burke, he’d spent the day exploring the town, including an all-important visit to the grocery store. He was ready to call it a night. But he wasn’t wired to ignore odd sounds, and this one fell into that category.
Juggling his bags of groceries, he listened. It sounded as if a metal object was being shaken.
In Chicago, following that kind of rattle into a dark alley often led him to a homeless person rooting through a Dumpster or trash can. But as near as he could tell, homeless people were rare on Nantucket.
Thieves were another story. Due to the private backyards, which were often hidden from the street by lush vegetation or privet hedges, burglars could pull off robberies without detection. According to Burke, that was one of the biggest problems in the quiet season, when many vacation homes were vacant.
This wasn’t the quiet season, however. Nor did The Devon Rose appear to be vacant. Light from an upper window spilled into the deepening dusk.
Another subtle rattle sounded, and a light was flipped on on the lower level of the house. Heather must have heard the sound, too, and was going out to investigate.
Not a good plan if an intruder was nearby.
A shot of adrenaline sharpened his reflexes, and J.C. set his bags on the sidewalk. Unlike the entrance to Edith’s backyard—a rose-covered arbor with a three-foot-high picket gate—Heather had gone the privacy route. Her gate, framed by a tall privet hedge, was six feet high and solid wood. The U-shaped latch, however, provided easy access.
Stepping to one side of the gate, J.C. lifted the latch. To his relief, it moved noiselessly. He opened the gate enough to slip through, shutting it behind him as he melted into the shadows of a nearby bush.
Any other time, J.C. would have admired the precise, geometric pattern of Heather’s formal boxwood garden, with its ornate birdbath and beds of colorful flowers that reflected a well-planned symmetry. Instead, he focused on the back of the house, where he expected her to emerge any second—and perhaps step into a dangerous situation.
He heard the door open at the same time the rattling resumed. Both sounds came from the rear. Sprinting down the brick path that bordered her side garden, he crouched at the back corner of the house and stole a look at the porch.
As he’d feared, Heather was standing in clear sight, the porch light spotlighting her.
Providing a perfect target.
Another rattle. Now he could pinpoint the source. It was coming from behind a privet hedge at the back of her property.
Pulling his off-duty snub-nosed .38 revolver from its concealed holster on his belt, he stepped forward as Heather descended the two steps from the porch. She gasped at his sudden appearance, but when he put a finger to his lips and motioned her to join him, she followed his instructions in silence. Taking her arm, he drew her into the shadows beside the house.
As he pressed her against the siding, shielding her body from the rear of the yard, he spoke near her ear. “I was walking by and heard a noise in the back.”
“So did I. That’s why I came out.”
Her whispered breath was warm on his neck, and a faint, pleasing…distracting…floral scent filled his nostrils. “It would have been safer to call the police.”
She blinked up at him in the dusky light. “This isn’t Chicago. Nantucket is safe. And you scared me to death.” She flicked a quick look at his hand. “Is that a gun?”
“Yes. And crime happens everywhere.”
“Not in my backyard. The noise we heard is probably feral cats. They’re a big problem on the island. I caught them rooting through my trash