Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls #3)(71)

He planted his boots on the concrete bottom and walked up the incline, using the muscles of his legs to pull his father behind him. The entire incident took less than ninety seconds, but Mac felt as if he’d aged ten years when their heads broke the surface. The cold air that filled his lungs felt like a thousand needle pricks. Lightheaded, Mac rolled the Colonel onto his back and pulled him toward the steps. Grant and Lee waded into the water and helped lift the Colonel out onto the concrete. They wrapped him in a blanket. Hannah grabbed Mac’s hand and guided him up the steps. She wrapped a thick towel around his shoulders and patted him on the back, her best effort at comforting him.

Numb and weak-legged with relief, Mac sank onto the patio. The adrenaline that had fueled the rescue drill left him high and dry. Nausea flooded him. He scrambled for the flowerbed and hurled pool water into the shrubs.

“I knew you could do it,” the Colonel said. “There’s no shame in puking after you get the job done.” The Colonel laughed and reached over to slap him on the shoulder.



“My father was a crazy bastard,” Mac said.

He could still picture the Colonel’s face, his raw determination, his complete confidence in Mac. As a kid he didn’t realize what was happening, how the Colonel had been manipulating his emotions. But now Mac understood how the Colonel had lead his troops. His sheer force of will had been contagious, and just as his soldiers had followed his orders in battle without question, his children had followed his lead into insanity.

But he’d taught Mac a few things about determination and faith.

“No kidding,” Stella agreed.

“The next day he shoved us into a pool, blindfolded and with our hands bound.”

“What?” Stella stared at him. “That’s crazy.”

“It was OK. We lived. He taught us not to panic.”

“Sounds like your father took his water drills seriously.”

“The Colonel took everything seriously.”





Chapter Twenty-Nine


Two hours later, Stella climbed out of the car in front of her house. Local flooding had forced them to take a long detour. Her still-damp clothes clung to her body. She couldn’t wait to shower and change. “We can lock the rifle in the trunk.”

“Without cleaning it?” Mac’s tone disapproved.

“You’re right. I’m sure there’s moisture in the barrel.”

The storm had passed, and the yard smelled wet and fresh. Still carrying the rifle, Mac followed her up the walk. “Big house.”

“After my dad was killed, Mom couldn’t wait to get us all out of the city.” She led him toward the front door. “She was tired of being crammed in a tiny house with four kids.” And her husband’s memory.

“I couldn’t live in the city,” Mac said. “Too many people. Not enough trees. It always feels like it’s short on oxygen.”

The door wasn’t locked. She opened it and walked into the empty kitchen. Stella scanned the family room. Where was everyone? “My mother did everything she could to get us out of the city and away from the police force. She didn’t want any more Danes in law enforcement.”

“Since you’re a cop, I assume that didn’t work out for her.”

“Not at all. My brother is NYPD SWAT. My sister, Peyton, is a forensic psychiatrist. She’s been working in California for the past couple of years. Morgan lives here with her kids. She was an assistant prosecutor in Albany before her husband died in Iraq.”

“What does she do now?”

“Not much, if you don’t count arts-and-crafts projects with the girls. “The first year after John’s death was awful. Morgan quit her job and moved in here with her girls. But lately, the local district attorney has been cozying up to her. He wants her to work for him.” Stella hoped Morgan was ready to work or date again, or take up a hobby—anything to get her out of the house.

“Morgan is the one you asked to pick up Gianna?”

“Yes.” Knowing she wouldn’t get to the dialysis center in time, Stella had called her sister as soon as her phone had picked up service. Gianna would never get into a cop car, so she couldn’t send a uniformed officer, but the girl had met Morgan a couple of times when Stella had brought her back to the house for dinner. Gianna would go to the station with Morgan.

“Is that you, Stella?” Grandpa’s voice came from the back of the house. “I have the kids outside. They’ve been cooped up too much with all this rain.”

She went onto the deck, motioning Mac to follow. Snoozer’s high-pitched, raspy bark sounded from the yard. A deck spanned the rear of the house. Below it, a long expanse of Ireland-green lawn sloped toward the water. A hundred feet away, the current rushed high and swift from the heavy rains. Just on the other side of the deck, Morgan’s three girls and Snoozer chased bubbles. A picket fence surrounded the play area, keeping the kids and dog away from the water.

Stella shielded her eyes. The girls ran in circles, oblivious to their arrival.

Grandpa leaned on the railing and gave Mac a careful dose of scrutiny. Grandpa was critical of any male in Stella’s presence, but considering she hadn’t come home the night before, his attention would be dialed to high.

“Grandpa, this is Mac Barrett.” She gestured between them. “Mac, Art Dane.”