Seek And Find. Dana Mentink
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door of the shop. Inside, a small lady with blond hair pulled into a tight bun jerked her head up from a display case to look at Madison. The blonde shook her head. “Not open,” she mouthed.
“I just want to talk to you for a minute,” Madison tried.
The lady shook her head firmly. “Not open. Come back later.”
“But...”
The woman turned away and disappeared into the back of the shop.
“Could this place be any less welcoming?” she grumbled. “Maybe the Cactus Café will have one kindly soul who will talk to me.” Her route took her by the side door of the bridal salon, which was ajar. Angry words floated out.
“No excuses,” a low voice rumbled.
She could not hear the reply, but the tone was tense, high-pitched. Madison inched up, poised to knock on the door and offer help if necessary.
“...tell you again.” She did not hear the rest except for the name Tony. Careful to step quietly, she edged closer, hand on her phone, ready to call the police.
“Please...” came a woman’s voice.
Fear echoed in her tone and rolled through Madison. Fear. How Madison hated the emotion. Hearing it made her wonder what her mother had felt just before she’d been strangled, with the hideous knowledge that she was helpless at the hands of someone she’d trusted, loved.
Madison heard the sound of ripping cloth. It was too much. She could not stand there one more second and allow the woman inside to be harmed.
She darted through the door, emerging into the back room of the salon. Racks of plastic-covered dresses blocked her view. The floor creaked loudly under her feet. Should she call the police? But they already thought she was a trouble-maker, and no one had exactly invited her into the salon. Nonetheless, she kept her hand on her phone keypad.
Heart hammering, she pushed past the dresses, the plastic crinkling under her touch.
The shop owner’s eyes were round with fear, hands clasped to her mouth.
“Are you okay?” Madison asked, stepping through the dresses.
The woman didn’t answer. Her gaze shifted slightly. Madison saw the shadow of movement in her peripheral vision. She turned and got a glimpse of a man, an impression only of a bald scalp, the swing of an arm, a rush of air.
Then something exploded against the side of her head. Sparks of pain charged through her body. Her vision blurred, narrowed, and she crumpled to the floor.
She heard the woman scream as she slid into darkness.
* * *
James was getting into his car to head back to the station. His radio crackled, something about a break-in at the bridal salon. He was about to respond when a black sedan shot past him at a speed approaching fifty miles an hour. Had the car come from the salon parking lot?
James turned on the siren and gunned the engine, taking off in pursuit and praying no pedestrians were in the path of the crazed driver. Hawk sat up, rigid, and bayed so loud James’s ears rang.
“Quiet,” he called. They took the bend out of town, the sedan shimmying and bucking as if the driver was not fully in control. James tried to catch the license-plate number, but it was covered in mud. As he turned a corner, he rolled past a tiny grocery store. Out in front was a truck half in the road, the deliveryman loading a dolly full of vegetable crates.
With a last-minute correction, the sedan jerked past, barely missing the deliveryman, who fell over, heads of lettuce tumbling everywhere. The sedan plowed into the side of the truck, sending bits of metal and glass flying. James leaped out and drew his revolver.
“Put your hands where I can see them,” he shouted.
There was a momentary pause before the driver slammed into Reverse and backed straight toward James. There was no choice except to leap up onto the front of his police car. The sedan smacked the bumper, sending James to his knees and upsetting his aim before the driver put the vehicle into Drive and shot away down the road. James scrambled off of his cruiser, Hawk barking madly in the backseat.
The deliveryman sat on the sidewalk, dazed. James longed to continue the chase, but he could not leave the man there without help. He radioed his position and ran to the victim.
The deliveryman stood on his own, brushing debris from his hair. “What in the world just happened?”
James did a quick medical assessment, and the man assured him he was uninjured. He got back behind the wheel, hastily checked on Hawk and drove a few hundred yards but realized he’d lost the guy. His radio chattered.
Not just a break-in at the salon. Someone had been attacked. Frances, the quiet single-mom shop owner? He fought the sick feeling in his gut as he wrenched the car around and hurtled to the salon. He was the first officer to arrive on scene. He hastily secured Hawk to a pole outside, shaded by a crooked awning. “Sorry, Hawk, but you’re not suited for this type of situation, Gotta secure things first.” Hand on his gun, he raced to the back door, which stood ajar.
Listening, he picked up on soft crying. That made him move even faster, pushing through the back hallway and emerging against a rack of hanging dresses. Frances knelt on the floor, tears streaming down her face.
Frances gasped. “I think she’s dead.”
A woman lay on the floor, facedown, spectacular red hair fanned out around her, in a puddle of blood. His heart thunked as he recognized Madison Coles.
Nerves pounding, he radioed for an ambulance and was alerted that one was already on the way, dispatched from the neighboring county. As gently as he could manage, he lifted the hair away from her cheek and slid his fingers along her neck to check for a pulse. The gentle flicker of a heartbeat sent a wave of relief through him. Not daring to move her, he stayed there, monitoring her pulse, waiting for help to arrive.
“She’s alive,” he told Frances. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. She knocked on the front door, but I told her we were closed. I must have left the back door unlocked. When I went to look for some invoices in the back, she was lying here, like that.”
James saw a small but solid plaster bust that must have been used to display bridal headpieces lying on the floor next to Madison. Blood stained the bottom edge. It would make a lousy scent article for Hawk, he thought automatically, since it had no doubt been handled by multiple people.
“So you didn’t see the attacker?”
She shook her head.
He put a hand on Madison’s back to reassure himself that she was still breathing. Fury boiled in his blood. Who would do this? “Did you hear anything? Voices? Talking? A car outside?”
“No,” Frances said. “Nothing.”
He pressed for more detail, but she was unable to provide anything. She was probably in shock. “Was there anything stolen?”
“No. The cash register was untouched.”
“And you didn’t notice anyone come in? What were you doing?”
“Paying some bills in the office.”
“What about noise? You must have heard the back door open.”
“I was playing music.”
He heard no music. Surely she would have seen something. But why would she lie? No, it had to be the shock. He did his best to make Madison comfortable until sirens announced the arrival of more cops.
He heard a soft moan and bent close, mouth to her ear. “It’s okay. We’re getting you to a hospital.” He brushed aside the silky hair that had fallen over her cheek, amazed at the heavy weight of it. Her skin was fair, like porcelain, slightly freckled, her lashes the same rusty hue as her hair. She moved a hand as if to brace herself on the tiled floor. Her slender