Capitol K-9 Unit Christmas Page 10

  Dylan cleared his throat and remembered this woman was grieving. “I’m sorry. He was a good man.”

  Her expression softened. “Yes, he was. And you’ll have to forgive me for taking out my grief on you. I know you’re doing your job.”

  She put her sunglasses back on and looked straight ahead. “My father believed in the notion of world peace. He tried to look at all sides of an issue.”

  Dylan checked the road ahead. “They say the true measure of a man is how many friends he has at the end of his life.”

  “He lived for his work, sometimes putting duty ahead of everything else in his life.” She took off her sunglasses again and gave Dylan another forest green appraisal. “Something you might want to consider.”

  Not sure what she was really trying to say, Dylan didn’t take the bait. “I’m here to protect you,” he said. “That’s all I have to consider right now.”

  Surprise colored her face in a blush. Slamming the shades back on, she tugged her stylish black wool coat close and adjusted the cream-colored scarf draped around her neck. A full minute of silence followed while Dylan let her have her space.

  He’d been briefed about Abigail Wheaton.

  The only daughter of widowed diplomat Simon Wheaton, she’d moved through exotic, worldly circles and attended the finest private schools in the world. A globe-trotter who also liked her privacy, she’d studied business at Oxford University and now served on the boards of many philanthropic organizations and wrote a weekly blog on the plight of refugees and homelessness, both in the United States and other countries.

  Some of her opinionated posts had garnered threats. Death threats. While most of her followers supported her causes, there were always those from the fringe element who might try to do her harm. And the rising sleeper cell that claimed responsibility for her father’s death was one of those groups.

  She might want to ignore that in the midst of her grief and pain, but Dylan intended to keep her safe.

  Whether she liked it or not.

  * * *

  Abigail’s gaze moved over the crowd of dignitaries surrounding her father’s graveside. He had told her many times he wanted to be buried here beside her mother, on the land that they both loved.

  All of the Wheatons, beginning with those who had served in the Revolutionary War and those who’d served in the Civil War, were buried here. This vast country in Virginia had always been home to her father’s people.

  While Abigail had spent most of her life away from Virginia. She’d been blessed with an education that came from traveling the world, but she’d longed to come back here one day. But not this way, not with having to watch her father’s remains being lowered into the dirt.

  And certainly not with so many of Washington’s elite standing somber and silent behind her. Nor had she ever imagined she’d have to be escorted around by a brooding K-9 officer and his adorable furry partner, because of the way her father had died. Or possibly because of her firm belief in justice for all human beings.

  Her father had been murdered, plain and simple. Taken too soon, no matter the why and how.

  I always thought we had lots of time, Dad.

  Abigail studied the ornate flag-draped casket, her eyes burning with the need to sob. The bitter December wind sang a mournful wail that only matched the one trapped inside her heart like a captured scream. A chill covered the fields and valleys, a hint of snow in the clouds off in the distance. The sun refused to shine, its face hidden behind a gray, overcast sky.

  Would she ever be warm again?

  A twenty-one-gun salute. The sad, poignant sound of the lone bugler playing taps. Her father had been a soldier before he became a diplomat. And he’d been a father, first and foremost.

  Now he was gone and all she had left was a folded flag in his honor, handed to her in silence by a uniformed officer.

  It was too much. Abigail stood when the service was over, wobbly on her feet as the minister prayed. She’d added her own prayer to that of the minister.

  Dear Lord, give me strength. Don’t let me fall. Don’t let me fail.

  This place was too desolate in its beauty, too silent in its grief. She wasn’t ready to give her father back to the land he’d loved all of his life, the land he’d missed more and more with each passing year.

  Abigail loved this land, too. But not like this. Not like this. This was too heavy of a price to pay.

  Dear Lord, give me strength. Give me courage. Give me hope.

  She was going to lose it if they didn’t get her out of here. She turned after the prayer, searching for Officer Ralsey. Like a newborn puppy, she’d latched on to him, but her attachment was more covert and sneaky than that of a happy puppy. In spite of her need to remain aloof and distant, traits the tabloids loved to showcase in her, she felt exposed and open and raw, and up until now she’d refused to let it show, refused to give the photographers being held back by yellow tape and too many police officers any satisfaction.

  Officer Ralsey had changed her tough stance. He’d made her feel safe, even when she’d been rude to him.

  Safe and warm.

  She wanted to be warm again.

  So she turned to the right and saw him standing off to the side, underneath a centuries-old live oak, his heavy overcoat hiding a multitude of weapons. The dog he’d called Tico stood with him, both of them alert and attentive, solid and sure.

  Look at me. She willed the officer with the dark eyes and the inky brown-black spiked hair to notice her, to see her fear, to sense her need to have what her Southern mother would have called a regular hissy fit. See me here, please. Help me get out of here with a little bit of dignity.

  And then, he did look up at her. He started running straight toward Abigail, his gun raised. She held the folded flag and heard the shatter of the silence in the one word he called out.

  “Attack.”

  The dog went into action, barking and snarling and leaping into the air. At first, Abigail was sure the huge animal was going to eat her alive. But the dog sailed right past her, parting the crowd. Women screamed. Men jumped out of the way. Secret Service agents and police officers went running.

  And then Dylan Ralsey grabbed her and shoved her down into the brittle, winter-dry grass and slammed his body over hers, his hands covering her head while he shielded her.

  From a gunshot.

  Abigail heard another shot and saw the big dog holding on to a man a few feet away from the mourners. The man screamed in pain and tried to get away but the dog held even tighter, his angry growl echoing out over the screams and shouts. Then the man went slack, his eyes wide open to the sky.

  But the dog held on until Dylan shouted “Release.”

  Abigail gasped and tried to absorb what had happened, her heartbeat still scurrying in a state of shock.

  “I’ve got you,” Dylan said into her ear. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” And then he held her there away from all of the chaos that had broken out beyond the solid wall of his touch.

  TWO

  “We need to get her out of here. Now.”

  Dylan shut the door of the SUV and turned to do yet another visual sweep of the hillside cemetery. Flowers were scattered like colorful handkerchiefs all around the grave site. Upturned chairs lay broken and discarded near the green tent that still stood over Simon Wheaton’s casket. The spot where hundreds of mourners had been standing a few minutes ago was now empty except for the police officers and Secret Service and FBI agents who paraded back and forth like ants, gathering evidence and discussing the details with the witnesses now clustered several yards away from the scene. They’d already taken the shooter away. He’d never talk but his body could give them some clues.

  “Let’s go,” Dylan called out the SUV window again, gathering the detail team.

  “Stop
!”

  He whipped around to find Abigail with her hand on the door handle as if she were about to jump out of the vehicle.

  The driver glanced at Dylan for permission.

  She slapped a hand on the back of the seat in front of her and glared at the man through the rearview mirror. “Don’t look at him. I said stop.”

  Dylan held up a hand to the driver. “It’s okay.” Then he turned to Abigail. “We need to get you away from here.”

  She shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “The flag. I—”

  Dylan glanced over and saw the flag she’d been holding lying still folded on the ground near where he’d tackled her. “I’ll be right back,” he told the driver.

  He hurried, sprinting up the hill to retrieve the tightly folded flag. Picking it up, he brushed the grass and dirt off it and made sure it was still tucked within itself.

  Then he walked back to the SUV, holding the flag to his chest. Once he was inside, he nodded to the driver and then turned to Abigail. “Here you go.”

  She took the flag with both hands, tears still moving down her face. Rubbing her hand over the crisp fabric, she said, “Thank you.”

  Dylan didn’t know what to say. He much preferred her stoic aloofness to this. Tears. They always got to him. But her tears, so long held at bay, made him want to hold her tight and tell her again that everything would be okay. Her tears really did him in. He couldn’t go soft, though. He had to stay one step ahead of her tears.

  Because he couldn’t guarantee her that everything would be okay and he knew that from firsthand experience. She needed a good cry. She’d been through a lot in the past few days. He decided the best thing he could do right now was to get her back to the house that sat about a mile from the cemetery.

  For now.

  The old farmhouse had held up well, considering it had been around hundreds of years in one form or another. According to the reports and history he’d read, the Wheaton family had owned this land for centuries, and the house sitting up on a high hill had been rebuilt, added on to, rearranged and modernized through the years. A virtual maze of long hallways and mixed-up rooms.

  It was a nice house but it wasn’t safe. He’d done a sweep immediately after he’d been assigned to her case. Once the team had arrived here to guard her and escort her, he’d done another sweep. Too many doors and windows and stairways, too many passages and hallways. Too open and vulnerable, with wraparound porches and a big, sloping yard.

  She had a staff of four people here, too. Her bulldog of an assistant, CiCi Janus, came to mind. About as approachable as a rabid raccoon, but competent and all business. Then there was the chef, the gardener and an older woman who apparently ran the house only when the Wheatons were in residence.

  The chef, Louis Salsbury, was robust, bald and in his midfifties. He was married and ran a successful catering business but he helped out when guests were there. Abigail had him brought in to help Mrs. Sutton make soups and sandwiches for the many law enforcement people roaming around.

  Poppy Sutton was the estate manager who looked after the place year-round as needed. She only stayed on-site when one of the family members was home. She’d fussed over Abigail like a mother hen when they’d first arrived, but for the most part, she stayed in her apartment off the kitchen.

  The gardener, Sam Culliver, lived off-site but took care of the grounds year-round. He sometimes hired helpers but not during the winter months.

  Then there was Orson D. Benison, the prominent and ultrawealthy lawyer who’d been a constant by Abigail’s side since she’d returned home. Benison had counseled her on every aspect of how to handle her father’s death, since he took care of most of Simon Wheaton’s affairs and investments.

  A pillar of the beltway elite, Benison had insisted on coming back to the house with them to make sure Abigail was okay.

  They’d all been vetted and cleared but Dylan knew there were lots of ways around a background check. Which was why he didn’t want to keep Abigail there.

  He’d get her back to the farm for now, to give her a few minutes of quiet and space away from the reporters and gawkers, and then he’d take her back to the brownstone in the city. Meantime, he’d study the full report that Fiona Fargo, the team’s perky whiz kid of a lab tech, had emailed him on the identity of the man who’d pulled out a gun and tried to kill Abigail while she stood at her father’s grave.

  After calling the head of the Capitol K-9 Unit, Captain Gavin McCord, to report in on the status of the situation, Dylan chanced a glance back over at Abigail. Her silent tears glistened in the late morning sunshine but she’d spent all her grief for now. She still held the flag in her lap, one hand brushing over it.

  He dug through his coat pocket and found a clean handkerchief. “Here,” he said on a gentle note. “Take this.”

  She sniffed and lifted her dark shades, her eyelashes still dewy with a mist of moisture. “You’re kind of old-school, aren’t you?”

  The husky question hung in the air between them like her teardrops hung against her skin.

  “My mom taught me to always carry a clean handkerchief,” he explained. “She gave me a boxed set one Christmas and told me since I work protection detail I’d probably see a lot of hurting people. She was right. She gives me a new set every year now.”

  “Why a new set? Do you lose them?”

  He shrugged. “I tend to give them all away.”

  Abigail took off the shades and put them in her purse. A sign that she was beginning to trust him enough to look him in the eye. “Thank you. I guess chivalry isn’t dead.”

  He smiled, watching as she dabbed at her cheeks. Then she took the handkerchief in her hands and studied it, her gaze hitting on the black initials. “DRL. Monogrammed, at that. Your mom sounds like a classy lady.”

  “She still believes people should have manners,” he explained. “She was a teacher at a prep school for twenty-five years. She taught students how to be classy.”

  “Ah, well, that explains a lot.”

  Yeah, it sure did. His mother, much like he, had been one of those who served the upper-crust elite. Only she’d done it back in New York. Neither of them minded that, but they’d both learned a lot, watching people of privilege. Dylan had learned more than most.

  He’d loved and lost a high-society woman a few years ago in New York. And it still stung.

  Which was why he had to keep his distance from this one.

  He could give her his handkerchief, but he’d have to guard his heart. It wasn’t up for grabs anymore.

  He’d have to pray for patience on this matter.

  They pulled up to the house and he got back to work. “We’ll let you freshen up here but we have to take you back to the brownstone in a couple of hours.”

  “No.” She gave him a daring stare, one hand on the flag and one hand holding his handkerchief.

  “Yes.” He gave her a determined stare, one hand on the door handle and one hand holding his cell phone.

  “I’m staying here, at my home.” She folded the handkerchief and gathered her purse and gloves. Then she stared at the flag in her lap. “I was scheduled to attend several holiday events, but I won’t have to go back to Washington until the reading of the will after Christmas. I want to stay here until then.”

  “I have to advise against that,” he said, his glance toward the driver holding them inside the car so he could convince her. “A man tried to shoot you today in broad daylight with a crowd of people around. That’s mighty bold. Which means whoever is behind this doesn’t care how it gets done. So they won’t have any qualms about attacking us again, anywhere.”

  “Even in Washington,” she said without blinking.

  “I’m advising you to follow my instructions, regardless,” he replied.

  “I agree on principle,” she
said with a quiet smile. “You’re here to advise me—but in this case, I’m not taking your advice.”

  Dylan counted to ten and leaned toward her. “You were almost killed back there. Do you want to go through that again?”

  Her hand shook against the flag but her stubbornness didn’t move. “No, I don’t want to go through any of this but...this is my home and it’s the last place I saw my father a few months ago.” Now her voice shook, too, and she crumpled the handkerchief against her fingers. “I need to...have some time to accept not only that I’ve lost my father but that I’m now a target myself. Can you understand that I feel safe here, that I need to be here?”

  Dylan didn’t know what to say to that feminine plea. He understood that he needed to do his job and protect her and in order to do that, he needed her to follow his instructions to the letter. But he didn’t tell her that.

  “One night,” he said. “One night to get it together and then I’m moving you.”

  “One night,” she repeated, her green eyes flashing like dark waves on water. “One night to relive a lifetime of memories. I highly doubt I’ll get it together in one night, Officer Ralsey.”

  Dylan tried to focus but her soft, undemanding voice seemed to mesmerize him into thinking she might be right. “I know this is hard,” he said, since they could both agree on that. “I need to keep you safe.”

  She lifted her defiant chin. “And I’m glad you’re here. I’m thankful that you...protected me this morning.” She lowered her head again. “I’m grateful that you and the other officers on your team are so willing to look after me. My father would be impressed, too.” She glanced around the winter-dry yard. “He and General Meyer were good friends.”

  “Like your father, the general has many friends,” Dylan said. His boss, White House special in-house security chief General Margaret Meyer, had a lot of pull within Washington circles. She believed in the Capitol K-9 team and supported them in all their investigations. She’d expect him to do his best to protect Abigail Wheaton.