Guardian Of Justice. Carol Steward

the officer, too.”

      Finally, sliding off the car, he turned and disappeared among the shadows of the trees near the front entrance.

      Why is he going into the house? Kira grabbed the radio receiver and pressed the button, just as she’d always wanted to do when she sat in her father’s patrol car as a child. “Help!” Suddenly, the radio codes she’d heard so many times vanished into thin air. She could practically visualize them as if they were written on paper, but for the life of her she couldn’t think of the one she needed. “Dispatch, this is Kira Matthews,” she finally said. The man had appeared again, and was bending over in front of the house to pick something up.

      “What are you doing on this channel?” a voice answered. The dispatcher obviously wasn’t used to distress calls from ride-alongs.

      “Send help,” she yelped, dropping the mike when she saw the man heading back toward her, waving a huge rock above his head.

      Panic pulsed through her. She found the mike again and forced herself to speak slowly. “I’m a…a social worker riding along with…” What was his name? “Brooks,” she blurted, then screamed as the crazy man heaved the rock at the driver’s door, shaking the squad car. “A man is trying to break into the cruiser. Help!”

      Dispatch didn’t respond.

      The man threw the rock at the car again, barely missing the window this time. The rock bounced onto the hood and he followed it.

      Kira gulped. He was going to get in unless she did something. She searched fervently for controls for the lights and sirens.

      “Oh come on, where are they?” She leaned closer to the dash in her search.

      As the man stood up on the hood of the car, he threw the rock directly at her. Kira reached out and hit the horn.

      TWO

      Dallas approached the modest brick house, taking mental notes. Small basement windows. Tall juniper bushes block the view from street to front door. The edge of a curtain is caught in the closed window. Where’s the screen? He stepped closer and looked around, wondering if he’d missed it on the ground nearby. The other windows each had them. Why not this one? He glanced at the front door again, then the window. Dallas heard a loud bang and reached for his gun as glass shattered.

      A deep voice yelled profanities. Doors slammed, as if someone was leaving. Someone madder than a raging bull. Dallas stepped back into the driveway, around the junky old car, and took a look around the corner of the house to get his bearings. A heavy padlock secured the chain-link gate to the backyard. Junk was piled on the other side. He listened, but didn’t hear any sounds of movement. He had a sudden image of being back in the high school the day of the shooting.

      Inside, a woman’s voice bellowed, “You just had to torque him off, didn’t you? I don’t know how you think we’re going to come up with the money to fix that window!”

      “Same way you pay for everything else, I ’spect,” a young boy snapped back, a slight crack in his voice.

      Dallas heard the sound of skin slapping skin. It didn’t sound like a prank call any longer. He glanced toward the cruiser. Looked like Kira Matthews was going to be working tonight, after all. She was already on her way.

      “Get back in the car,” he said as quietly as he could, waving her away. She took her own sweet time following his order, he noted. He crept up the steps and to the side of the entrance.

      “PD 138 requesting backup ASAP. Domestic disturbance in progress.”

      “Copy 138.”

      “One-ten responding,” Mark Pierson replied.

      Dallas knocked on the door, ready to announce his presence, just as the woman blasted the child with enough profanity to burn even his jaded ears.

      “Police, open the door,” he yelled.

      The woman murmured something that he couldn’t make out, then yelled, “Hold yer horses.”

      Dallas heard faint footsteps run on hard floors inside the house. “Police. Open the door,” he repeated. He rested one hand on his gun and the other on the handle of the screen door. He pressed the button and pulled. Locked. “Ma’am, open the door, now.”

      He heard three locks click before the wood door opened, then one more click opened the screen. The residents were afraid of anyone getting in, that was for sure. In most neighborhoods, two locks were overly cautious. In this subdivision, three was definitely overkill. A padlocked gate and heavily secured door? Something wasn’t right.

      “Yeah?” The woman who appeared pulled the door closed behind her, blocking his view of the inside.

      He nodded toward the house. “We had a 911 call from this residence. I’m going to need to come in and make sure everything is okay, ma’am.”

      “No one here called you.” She glanced behind her and muttered another profanity before returning her attention to Dallas. “My kid just broke that window and I lost my temper. Ya know, kids don’t have any respect these days.” Her speech slurred and she tugged her stringy blond hair away from her pocked face. “It’s no big deal. I mean yelling, ya just gotta do it sometimes with fifteen-year-olds.” The woman’s hands didn’t stop moving in random jerky gestures.

      Keep her calm, she’s on some sort of drugs. “I’m going to need to talk to everyone, make sure you’ve all calmed down before I can leave.”

      There was a long pause before she opened the door and motioned him inside. “See? The kid is fine.”

      Dallas looked around as he stepped in, adrenaline causing a pulsing in his temples. He had a bad feeling. Just like the day in the school. “Is there anyone else in the house?”

      She got a panicked look on her gaunt face. “I don’t want no trouble, Officer.” Her head twitched as she spoke.

      Dallas took another step inside. A gangly boy stood, barefoot, in the middle of the broken glass, glaring at his mother. “Who was slamming doors when I walked up the steps?” Dallas asked.

      No one said a word. Everything seemed quiet elsewhere in the house. Was it too quiet? He glanced down the hall toward the next room. There were no lights on, no sounds.

      Pulling a small pad of paper and a pen from his chest pocket, Dallas jotted down a few notes for the report. “I need your name,” he said with his pen poised.

      She threw her head back and crossed her arms over her chest as she let out a groan. “Shirley Mason.”

      He heard dialogue from dispatch coming through the radio on his shoulder and turned it down slightly so it didn’t interrupt his discussion with the family.

      Dallas shot a quick glance at the boy. Drops of red on the floor next to the window caught his eye as he did so. “And this young man is your son?” he asked.

      The woman nodded.

      “Your name?” Dallas asked the teenager.

      After a short pause, the boy answered, “Cody.”

      “Last name?”

      “Jones,” Cody said.

      “What happened here?” Dallas asked him.

      “I just told you what happened. You got more questions, ask me,” Shirley ordered, making it clear that she’d do the talking.

      Dallas looked at Cody’s bare feet and the shards of glass surrounding them. “You cut?” Something didn’t add up here. Dallas lifted the boy out of the glass, noting the lack of meat on his ribs.

      Cody shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said, with obvious satisfaction at disobeying his mother. Her glare was lethal.

      “So who’s bleeding?” The child he’d heard running had sounded much smaller. Was that who’d been cut? Could that be who’d