Valerie Hansen - Trail Of Danger

“No! Let me go!”

A low masculine voice cut through her protests and brought calm. Large hands gently touched her shoulder. “Easy, Abigail. It’s okay. They’re just trying to help you.”

“Don’t let them strap me down! Please!”

“All right.” She saw Reed casually wave the medics away. “I’ll be right here. Nobody will have to restrain you as long as you lie still. Understand?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good. Now let them take your blood pressure and pulse, okay?”

A strong urge to resist any involuntary movement of her arms arose as soon as one of the medics began to work on her again. Thankfully, this tech was a woman who made short work of checking her vitals, listening to her ragged breathing with a stethoscope and reporting to a doctor via radio.

The numbers quoted didn’t matter to Abigail. All she cared about was having the police officer close by. It didn’t occur to her that he wouldn’t be able to climb into the ambulance with her until he stepped back at its door.

She reached out. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Can’t.” The attendants paused while he explained. “I have a responsibility to Jessie, not to mention my reason for being out here tonight. I was in the middle of a different search until you screamed.”

No matter how logical his answer was, she couldn’t accept it. “Promise you’ll follow me? You’re the only one who has any idea what happened out here.”

“You’ll be fine once you’re under a doctor’s care.” The way he patted the back of her hand as he spoke reminded her of a parent trying to soothe a child who was throwing a tantrum. That unfortunate comparison was hard to take, particularly since her head was still pounding and her vision blurred whenever she moved.

Abigail jerked her hand away, turned her head and closed her eyes. “Fine. Go. Save the rest of the world if that’s what you want.” Tremors wracked her body. Nobody had to tell her she wasn’t herself. Her conscience was doing a good job of that without any outside help. Harsh words and snappy retorts were not her usual reactions to difficulties, nor was she sarcastic. People at work were always complimenting her on her even temperament.

Work? Yes, work! She was an outreach coordinator for AFS, A Fresh Start, and helped homeless and troubled teens. That she remembered well. She could picture the tiny office in Brighton Beach, her desk stacked with file folders, and even the potted violet plant atop the bookcase beneath the window.

“That’s better,” she whispered with a sigh, not expecting anyone to take notice.

The female medic smiled. “Good to hear.” She held out a clear plastic mask fitted with a narrow tube. “Just let me give you a few breaths of oxygen and you’ll feel even better.”

The plastic contraption hovered over Abigail’s face. There was a continuing urge to resist being treated, but now that she’d recalled more about her life, she’d settled down enough to control herself. “Okay.”

Elastic straps held the mask in place. She took several deep breaths.

“That’s it. Nice and slow.” The medic was hovering over her, looking directly into her eyes. “Now, the law says I have to secure you before we can hit the road, so here come the straps again. I’m sorry to have to do it but I could lose my license if I didn’t make sure you were safe.”

Abigail inhaled more of the enriched air, then lifted the mask to speak. “I’ll try to behave. I promise. I don’t know what came over me before.”

“Leftover trauma, if I had to guess,” the woman replied pleasantly. “I almost wouldn’t mind trading places with you if I could get Reed Branson to look at me the way he looked at you just now.”

“That cop?”

“Oh, yeah.” She chuckled as she tightened the safety strap. “What a hunk.”

“I didn’t notice.”

“Really?” The medic fitted her with an automatic blood pressure cuff and checked the flow of oxygen to the mask, then smiled. “Maybe you need your vision checked, too.”

* * *

Reed’s first duty was to notify acting chief Noah Jameson that he had diverted from his tracking assignment in order to intervene in a crime. Then he checked in with fellow police officers while they were still on scene. Some had dispersed to search the shadowy amusement park while others guarded the carousel and busy crime scene techs. The Coney Island boardwalk was relatively safe most of the time but it did draw a rougher element late at night, particularly in warm weather. A hot summer or fall day brought out every troublemaker in the state of New York at night. Or so it seemed.

Adding to the foreboding atmosphere, wind-driven rain began pelting the rides and the ground as if bent on settling a score with humanity. Reed kept Jessie fairly dry under the canopy of the carousel while CSIs dusted the control booth mirrors for fingerprints and filled tiny plastic envelopes with dust and debris from the floor of the wooden turntable.

“Needle in a haystack?” Reed asked a familiar crime scene investigator.

“More like a needle in a stack of other needles. There’s virtually no chance we’ll scoop up usable clues. They’ve probably blown all the way to Flatbush by now.”

Reed nodded. “Agreed. Sorry I didn’t get a better look at the guys who tried to grab the victim.”

“Any chance this is connected to the rash of disappearing teens?” the CSI asked, pausing to glance up at him.

“Remotely. This victim looked pretty young until I got up close. You’d think anybody who was after kids would be able to tell the difference, though.” He scowled. “I’m sorry she had to go through this, but she probably stood a better chance than an inexperienced kid would have.”

“Do you know her?”

“Not the way I know you and most of these others.” Reed indicated a group of NYPD regular officers sweeping the area with flashlights and sloshing through puddles. “Going by what she told me after Jessie tracked her down, her name is Abigail Jones. That’s so common I didn’t believe her last name until the medics found ID on her.”

“Jones? I wouldn’t have bought that, either.”

“Are you about done here?”

“Why? You got a hot date?”

Smiling slightly, Reed denied it. “Nope. Just wondered. Chief Jameson released me and I thought I’d check on the victim before my shift ends.”

The man chuckled. “Your car is going to smell like wet dog, Branson.”

“Probably. It often does.”

Reed had a standard-issue yellow slicker and a modified cover for Jessie, too. In his Tahoe SUV. Three blocks away. He sighed, waved goodbye to the friendly tech and stepped off the carousel.

Big drops were still falling so close together it was impossible to stay dry. Jessie snapped at a few of them as if it were a game. “You’re thirsty, aren’t you girl? Hang in there. I’ll pour you a drink as soon as we get back to the car.”

Because he was paying close attention to his dog, Reed noticed a slight change in her behavior as they walked up the street. That was part of being a K-9 handler. He and the dog were supposed to read each other without fail. And right now Jessie was acting as if she sniffed something familiar. Since Abigail was long gone, Reed could only surmise she was getting a whiff of the thugs.

He delayed radioing his suspicion until he had walked a little farther, following his dog until she paused at a curb and turned in circles several times. When she looked up at him he could tell she was disappointed.

“Well, you tried, girl,” Reed said. “And I forgot to reward you the last time, didn’t I?” Handing the K-9 her favorite toy, a piece of frayed mooring rope, he ducked into a doorway to call dispatch. “This is Branson, K-9 Unit. Jessie just led me to an empty parking space. It’s in front of a falafel stand on West Fifteenth almost to Surf Avenue. There’s a tourist trap with souvenirs next to it. We may see something on surveillance cameras if we pull up tonight’s recordings.”