Field Of Danger

Published:

Publisher: Steeple Hill Love Inspired

“Who killed my father?” Eyewitness to a murder, April Presley wants to answer the deputy sheriff’s harrowing question. But she can’t. She barely caught a glimpse of the crime through the deep Tennessee cornfield, and cannot recall anything to help the investigation. Or can she? Daniel Rivers is certain that April remembers more of his father’s death than she realizes. And the killer agrees. In the race to uncover April’s missing memory before the killer finds her, Daniel is the only one she can trust to keep her safe. Yet will he stay by her side when the shocking truth is unveiled?

Chapter One

When the shotgun went off, April Presley dropped her thermos and screamed.

Hearing her own scream scared her almost as much as the man with the gun did, and April clamped both hands over her mouth as she watched her next door neighbor, Levon Rivers, crumple in the middle of his newly plowed section of the field. Levon and his killer were almost 50 yards away, but even at that distance, April could see the blossom of red on Levon’s chest and a cold brace of fear flooded through her.

Then another screech burst around her tightly clamped hands as the killer swung around to face her, his face a blurry mask of rage. Without hesitation, he lifted the gun and fired again.

April ran.

And the morning had started out so peacefully.

As usual, April had spent her morning half on business and half on enjoying the luscious garden of flowers, herbs and vegetables behind her cottage. Since moving to the tiny town of Caralinda, Tennessee, April had found solace and a kind of spiritual comfort in her gardening. Levon, whose cornfield ran right up to the edge of April’s yard, had given her tips that had turned the wimpy cluster of plants into a thriving garden that filled the morning air with the scent of roses, lavender, sage, fuchsia, rosemary, and a whole forest of day lilies.

In turn, April brought Levon a thermos of cold lemonade, every day that he worked in the field. She would hear his tractor or truck thumping down the field road that ran alongside her house. Around ten in the morning, she’d wend her way through his cornfield to wherever he worked. Lemonade in the mornings was her token of thanks, and delivering it was usually much more of a joy than a chore.

Yet, today, she had barely stepped from between the dense rows of stalks when the shot rang out, her gesture of friendship suddenly putting her in the line of fire. April fled, grateful for high summer and a corn patch thick enough to hide her, grateful that she had walked this field enough with Levon to keep her footing among the dry ruts and clumps of earth. She knew how to keep her head low and her arms out to push away the sharp, green blades that slapped around her as she ran.

She was especially grateful that a shotgun had a limited range.

All these things stumped the killer, and April could hear his bellows of pain as he tried to run through the corn, then heard the blast that did little but rain shotgun pellets harmlessly over the field. Finally, April stopped, holding her sides and trying to catch her breath. She had outrun him, hidden. She could still hear him stomping about, raging through the corn, the noise growing closer, then moving away. He bellowed obscenities and demanded she show herself. She could stay hidden a long time in Levon’s expansive field, especially if he kept making a racket, but April knew if someone didn’t come, he’d continue to search. And eventually find her.

April’s knees buckled, and she dropped to the ground. Adrenaline and fear fogged her mind and made her arms and legs tremble uncontrollably. She needed to rest, make a plan. Calm down, girl. She might be able to outwait him. Maybe. Lord, I need your help. Guide me out of this. Show me what I need to do. She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them to her, trying to still her quivering limbs. Otherwise . . . if no one else saw . . . how would she get out of the field without the killer seeing her? And had he seen her well enough to know who she was?

These questions echoed in her mind as the hot air around her dried and caked the sweat on her skin. Her muscle tremors quieted, but her mind still swirled out of control, pushing her close to panic. She fought to sit still, to focus.

Normally the smell of the ripening corn and tangy scent of the leaves refreshed her. Today, they were oppressive. The hard-packed earth absorbed the sun while the dense rows of corn blocked most of the wind, so April felt as if she were sitting in an oven. Her stomach growled, and she swallowed hard, wishing she’d held on to the thermos. What do I do now?

The killer’s calls lessened, but she could still hear him, his words now muffled by the plants and the stifling air of midday. April closed her eyes, trying to plan. Her home and Levon’s bordered a field road south of these acres of corn, but the shooter still prowled between her and those points of safety. To the east lay the open field where the shooting had occurred, and west of her a narrow country road wandered through the landscape. The open land of both of those directions could easily put her into direct contact or line of sight with the killer, with no place to hide. Not a good idea.

North? April opened her eyes. Now that direction held a glimmer of hope. Just beyond the cornfield . . . .

Soft footsteps padded in the dirt behind her, and April spun around, her heart almost stopping with fear. An old woman stood there, her long white hair held down by a wide-brimmed straw hat and her finger pressed to her lips, indicating that April should remain silent. Beside her, a white German shepherd stood, head held low and pressed against the woman’s hip.

Gulping air in relief, April nodded, and the woman motioned for her to follow her. Moving slowly, the three of them headed north, and April’s hope bloomed, as she now knew exactly who she followed.

Everyone in Caralinda called Lucretia Stockard “Aunt Suke.” April hadn’t been able to find out why yet, and she’d never been introduced to the woman. And, at this moment, she cared very little about the odd nickname. She followed Aunt Suke’s careful, silent footsteps as they moved slowly north toward the edge of the field. At the end of the row, Aunt Suke paused and turned her head, listening. The dog stood still, head tilted to watch Aunt Suke, waiting for her command. The angry shouts had stopped, but they could still hear the sound of corn stalks being slashed aside not too far away and rapidly coming closer. Aunt Suke took one step forward, looked left and right, then motioned for April to come up next to her.

They were standing at the edge of Aunt Suke’s backyard. The soft expanse of dark green grass led right to the back of the brick antebellum Stockard mansion, broken up by beds of flowers, a lofty canopy of ancient trees, and a small vegetable garden to the right of the house. At the back of the house and close to an broad porch that towered to the full three-story height of the house, slanted double doors leading to a root cellar stood open. Their white slats gleamed in the summer sun, making the doors look like a sea gull’s wings.

Aunt Suke pointed at the root cellar and said one word. “Run.”

April fled toward the safety of the 170-year-old house, even though the yard felt as if it were the size of a football field. As the three neared the doors, she heard a rage-filled roar echo over the field. He’d seen them, and even as Aunt Suke shoved her hard down the stone steps into the basement and slammed the doors, April knew the planks of wood wouldn’t hold against the shotgun.

With a movement made familiar by years of living in the giant home, Aunt Suke slid a wooden bar through the handles of the cellar doors, and swung around, eyes bright with command. “Polly!” Her voice snapped the word out in a harsh whisper. “Upstairs! And stay!”

April watched as the white shepherd turned toward a set of steps to the left of the doors and trotted upward. Aunt Suke then motion her toward the basement wall to the right, where a thick wooden door was padlocked shut. Aunt Suke snatched a set of keys out of her pocket and had the lock open in seconds, pushing April ahead of her into a pitch dark room.

The older woman pulled the door shut, just as the first blast of the shotgun thundered against the cellar doors.

* * *

Daniel Rivers refused to believe what he’d heard over the radio. The county dispatcher who took the 911 call apparently did believe it, however, and her usually dispassionate voice shook with despair as she alerted the units. Daniel, who had been watching for speeders near Bell County High School, stared at the radio a moment. This has to be a prank. Or he’d not heard it right.

Why would be there be a shooting at Dad’s?

He picked up the radio mike. “Unit A12. Base, repeat the call.”

Silence followed, then his cell phone rang. He checked the number. It was the station, and his fingers trembled a bit when he answered. “Rivers.”

Janet Williams had been a dispatcher for the Bell County sheriff’s department for almost forty years, and her nasal, drawling voice normally was as steady as a low river on a hot day. Now the voice that had schooled many a rookie on the ways of Bell County shook with shock. “Daniel, the 911 call came from Aunt Suke. She claims someone shot Levon and is trying to shoot April Presley.”

Ice formed in Daniel’s gut. “That old woman is crazy.”

“I know. The sheriff is on his way though, to check it out.”

Daniel reached to start the engine on his patrol cruiser. “I am, too. Thanks, Janet.”

“Be careful, baby.”

“You know I will.” Daniel dropped the phone and gravel spun as he slid the car into a U-turn and headed for his father’s farm. He hit the siren, which screamed as the cruiser responded like a thoroughbred on the home stretch. Daniel pushed it hard through the curves of roads he’d driven since he was fifteen.

He didn’t want to think about what Janet had said. It had to be wrong. Everyone knew Aunt Suke was at least two bushels shy of a full load. Even the quilts she made, with designs that made the church ladies whisper behind their hands, emphasized that she had an odd view of the world. She had spent too much time watching the town from those upstairs windows, spent too much time alone in that old house.

Suke Stockard was crazy. She was wrong. She had to be wrong. “Please, Lord,” Daniel whispered under his breath. “Please let her be wrong.”