Better the Devil You Don't Know Read online

  Better the Devil You Don’t Know

  by Mairsile

  Better the Devil You Don’t Know

  © 2017 by Mairsile. All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form, without written permission.

  Editor: Tracy Seybold

  Cover Design: Mairsile

  Other books by Mairsile

  www.Mairsile.com

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  And as always, may the glory go to God.

  About this book:

  Casey was at the pinnacle of her career in Texas, the best detective in her precinct, when a horrific accident veered her off course and sent her spiraling over the edge. She ended up in another state with another, less dangerous job, or so she thought. On her first day as the Chief of Security at a large hospital in Colorado, someone is murdered in the parking lot. She had unknowingly walked into the unpredictable world of a serial killer, and being the good detective she was, she couldn’t turn her back on her training. Helping the police with the investigation, she discovers a member of her own staff is the killer’s next target, along with two other women connected to the hospital. Can she catch the madmen before he kills again? Can she save the three women, two of which she is reluctantly falling in love with?

  Michele is a spirited woman in her fifties who has given up on ever finding the love of her life. Along comes a young woman in her twenties who challenges Michele in ways she never imagined possible, and convinces her to take a chance on a May to December romance. Michele doesn’t expect it to last past June. A new boss, a serial killer targeting her, and falling in love with the young woman sworn to protect her, send Michele’s hum-drum life into overdrive. But the nagging question is, what if her new lover is the serial killer?

  Chapter One

  Casey Dennis

  “Okay, here’s the deal, you son of a bitch. I’m going to shoot you, and it’s going to hurt like hell, and you’re going to bleed. Ready?” I could tell by the amused look in the kidnapper’s angry eyes that he was not taking me seriously. He was one of those guys who thought women were weak and choked when it came to violence. No matter. I was deadly serious. Someone waving a Saturday night special in my face tends to make me very serious. My training at the Houston police academy taught me to disarm if possible, defend if not. But that was seventeen years ago, and I’ve learned so much more since then. Like how to play dirty in the back streets of Houston.

  “Hold up a sec, Casey,” my partner, Bobbie, said. “I don’t want to get that bastard’s blood on me when you shoot him.”

  I saw Bobbie’s body move stealthily out of the corner of my eye, and knew she was getting into position. Bobbie was shorter than I by a foot, but she was muscled and could hold her own in a fight if this guy killed me.

  “Okay, go ahead. You can shoot him now,” she said, her weapon also drawn on the man.

  The asshole holding the gun on me was in his mid-forties, tall, muscled, and straggly. It didn’t look like he had bathed in days. He was also holding a child in his arms that wasn’t his. Well, biologically it was his, but the court had taken away his parental rights for obvious reasons. The adorable, frightened six-year-old with freckles across his round face had thick wavy hair that seemed to stick up in every direction. He held his hands out, begging me to take him. That child didn’t understand what was going on and frankly, neither did I. How could that man proclaim to love the boy and then terrorize him like that? It wasn’t for me to understand. The law said that I had a job to do and I was duty bound to do it.

  Bobbie Vandyke, who was with the FBI, teamed up with me on the investigation of the murder of a woman and the abduction of her son. That investigation provided us with an accomplice to the murder and DNA evidence that led us to this man and this standoff. The father, Harold Brooks, an unemployed electrical engineer, was using his own child as a shield.

  “Last chance,” I stated loudly. “Put the boy down and surrender while you still can, Harold.”

  It took me seventeen long, hard-fought years to achieve my dream of becoming a detective. I went through the academy training, highest in my class, even earning marksmanship in all the weapons. I walked the beat, wrote speeding tickets and arrested prostitutes. I went from a cadet to a police officer to a sergeant, and finally, I took the test and became a detective. All that hard work and perseverance had come down to this one little boy crying in his father’s arms

  “He’s my boy!” he shouted. “He’s coming with me!”

  I looked at the child, then I looked at the revolver the father now had pointed at the boy’s head. He was going to kill his own son. If he couldn’t have him, no one could.

  “No. He’s not,” I stated pointedly and shot the man in the leg, blowing out his kneecap. He fell on his other knee, dropping the boy. I grabbed the child and pulled him away as Bobbie warned Harold to drop his gun. He didn’t. Instead he aimed his pistol at his son.

  “No!” I screamed and quickly pushed the child behind me. I fired at Harold even as I saw the flash from his pistol, felt the bullet rip through the air and heard the boy gasp. I spun around and the child slumped into my arms. “Damn it! No!” I clamped my hand down hard over the blood gushing from the child’s chest, but he quickly bled out in my arms. Tears blurred my vision as I looked from the child to Bobbie.

  Bobbie kicked the gun away and checked to make sure that the man was dead. He was. She picked up the pistol and ran over and kneeled next to me.

  “Help him,” I begged, knowing it was already too late. My voice sounded strange, as if it were coming from a deep well.

  “Are you hit? Casey, are you hit?” she asked, her fingers on the child’s pulse.

  “Am I?” There hadn’t been any pain until she asked me that. Suddenly I was dizzy and the air seemed to vacuum around me. Then I felt the excruciating pain. “Yeah, I think I am.”

  I spent weeks in a hospital where I had to learn to walk all over again. What they couldn’t teach me was how to erase the memory of that child dying in my arms, because that’s what I saw every night before I fell asleep, and woke up screaming about every morning. The shrink said it would get better in time. The shrink was wrong. In those few moments that I held that little boy, my motherly instincts, which I didn’t know that I had, overwhelmed me. Up until that day, I thought that I wanted to have children. A boy and a girl, and of course a wife to love. All that changed in that one instant when I couldn’t save that little six-year-old boy.

  The bullet had glanced off my pelvis, disintegrating both my ovaries and a fallopian tube before it exited out my side. The doctor said that I would never have children, but that I was lucky the bullet had missed my spine. The doctor was wrong. Maybe if it had hit my spine, that boy would still be alive. Maybe if I had been smarter and not toyed with the bastard, or quicker, or shot him in the head instead. Maybe.

  After I got out of rehab, I still had three months to recuperate so I spent the first month drinking, the second month screwing any woman who would lay with me, and the third month soul-searching. I was still ruminating as I stood in the shower on the morning of the day that I had to return to work. I guess I was trying to wash away the past and decide what to do with my future, but the shower wasn’t helping. I cranked up the hot water, letting the steam relax my nerves, although it couldn’t calm my mind. I still had some soreness in my hip whenever I walked, sat down, or stepped out of the sho
wer.

  Wiping the steam from the mirror, I looked at the pinkish scar just above my left hip and my eyes twitched as a sudden flash took me back to that moment. Back to the smell of sulphur and the sound of a bullet ripping through the air. I have the bullet that they dug out of that little boy. The case was closed. Both parents were deceased, so the evidence was placed on the disposal list.

  I carry it in my pocket and rub on it, reminding myself of my guilt, not that I need reminding. The shrink was horrified. She told me to throw it away because I had nothing to feel guilty about. The shrink was wrong. I knew it was fear. I knew that. What I didn’t know was how I would be able to do my job if I was afraid?

  I had completed rehab, passed the psych eval tests, and my surgeon said I was fit for duty. Today was the day.

  I walked into my captain’s office and gave him my doctor’s release statement. He grunted and tossed it on his desk.

  “You know, Dennis,” he said. “I’ve had the privilege of working with you for five years now, and I’ve watched you become one of the best detectives in the state. You can be a pain in the ass sometimes, but your dogged pursuit of the truth is what makes you the best.”

  “Uh, thanks, Captain,” I said, not really one for sentiment.

  He stood up and walked around his desk, holding a small box in his hand. He pulled out a medal and pinned it on my shirt lapel. “For acts above and beyond the call of duty, the city of Houston, in the great state of Texas, awards you with the medal for heroism.”

  That was the final straw. I resigned right there and then. “I’m sorry, Captain. I won’t accept it.” I laid my police-issued revolver and my badge on his desk, tossed the medal in the trash can, and walked away from a career spanning seventeen years.

  I bought a small motorhome and traveled across the country for a year until my savings dried up, and I was stranded in Boulder, Colorado. A week later, I took a job as Chief of Security at a level-one trauma center in Boulder. A children’s hospital.

  Chapter Two

  Michele Michaels

  “Damn it!” I leaned closer to the mirror and yanked the gray hair from my head. “Let’s face it, Michele,” I said to my reflection in the mirror. “You’re old.” I stood there for a moment, hoping that my reflection would object. Shrugging, I finished drying my hands, tossed the paper towel in the trash and left the bathroom. I primped my hair and straightened my skirt. People tell me that I dress a lot like the character Effie Trinket in Hunger Games. I’m not trying to dress like her, but sometimes I like to wear a colorful puffed skirt with puffy shoulders and matching shoes. I like color; it’s vibrant and joyful. I’ve seen pictures of Effie, and I must admit I would wear that outfit with the butterflies in a heartbeat.

  As I do every morning, I made coffee first thing and then I sat at my desk and waited for my team to arrive. Because of my position as the office coordinator, my team tends to think of me as their mother, which is so funny, considering I’ve never had nor wanted children. Still, mothering my team does fill that nagging hormonal drive to have children.

  “Thank God it’s Friday,” Dorey said as she trudged over to the coffeepot. Dorey Davis was almost always the first to arrive on dayshift and always looked fresh, with an air of professionalism about her. She kept her uniform pressed and her buttons shined. With pretty blond hair and blue eyes, she wore very little makeup, probably because her face was perfect without it, and clear fingernail polish. There was nothing splashy about her, but I found it incredibly sexy when she put her hand on the two-way radio on her security belt and cocked a leg out. If she wasn’t my best friend, I’d seriously make a play for her. Well, that and if she didn’t have a husband and a fifth grader at home. We had both been hired on the same day and became instant friends. I know that I can tell her anything and get an honest response.

  “Yes, indeed,” I replied cheerfully. “Got big plans for the weekend?”

  “Nah, I’m working this weekend,” she replied halfheartedly.

  “Oh, that’s right. I should have remembered since I put up the schedule.”

  “What about you, Michele? What wonderful things will you be doing this weekend?” Dorey asked, pouring her cup to the brim with coffee.

  I contemplated for a moment, not sure which joke I wanted to use. “Well, let’s see. I’ve got a date—”

  She stopped and turned to me. “A date? With who?”

  “With my cat’s litter box that desperately needs to be cleaned,” I quipped.

  “Ew, Michele.” She shook her head, laughing, and picked up her coffee cup. “Did you have to put that vision in my head before I’ve had my coffee?”

  I chuckled, pleased that she laughed. “Sorry about that, Dorey.”

  “So, I hear we’re getting a new boss on Monday. Any idea who it is?”

  “Morning, gorgeous,” Byron said as he strutted in. He looked flushed, with a cocky grin on his face, and it made my skin crawl. Byron Becker wasn’t bad looking, but his uniform was always wrinkled, and his shirt was rarely tucked in all the way. His dark, thick hair was never combed and hung down in his eyes. His nose was pointed, and he had thin lips and a jaw that jutted out just a bit too much to make him look like a Greek god. Although he certainly thought of himself as one.

  “Score another one, did we?” I asked tartly.

  Dorey glanced at me and rolled her eyes.

  “Please. You have to ask?” he bragged. He walked over to the coffeepot, and Dorey quickly walked away. Like me, she couldn’t stand to be near the man.

  “So, when are you and I going to hook up, beautiful?” Byron asked as he poured sugar into his coffee cup. He always added half a cup of sugar to his coffee, and I often suggested that he have coffee with his sugar.

  “Uh, how about the second Tuesday of next week?” It was my standard reply to his daily question. Besides the fact that I’m a lesbian and everyone knew it, I wouldn’t swing his way if he were the last man on earth and I was horny as a banshee. Granted, I haven’t had a date in years, and my last serious love dumped me fifteen years ago, so my life may well depend on it if I don’t get some relief pretty soon. No, not even then.

  “Michele? Are you all right?” Dorey asked. “You’re shaking.”

  “What?” Thank God she brought me out of that sickening vision. “No, I’m fine, thanks.”

  “Good morning, ladies,” Josh said as he walked in. He nodded at Byron as he pulled his coffee cup from the drying tray by the sink. Josh Hamilton was a nice man in every sense of the word. Nice sandy brown hair, with nice brown eyes, and small lips that stretched from ear to ear when he smiled. And Josh was very nicely stacked. He had muscles on his muscles. He was also a diabetic and had to test his blood often. I felt so sorry for him.

  “Someone go wake up Barney so we can give report,” Byron suggested.

  “Go ahead, Byron. We’ll wait for you,” Josh retorted.

  “Make a hole,” Lucas demanded. “I need some coffee or I’m fubarred.”

  Lucas Jurado was a character. A former sailor in the Navy, he loved to cuss a blue streak, and oftentimes left me blushing. Although when he first explained that fubar, in relation to coffee, meant fucked up beyond all recognition, I had to agree, because I’m the same way. Without my morning coffee, I’m completely fubarred. Lucas was Hispanic and had dark hair, brooding eyes and a ready smile.

  It was common knowledge that those two boys, Byron and Lucas, hated each other. I have my theories as to why. Either Lucas was jealous that Byron got laid every night, as Byron so proudly proclaimed, or Lucas detested the man because he used his job to get laid every night. I prefer the latter theory, because Lucas had his own escapades to tell and they didn’t include a patient’s bed at the hospital.

  Barney walked in, huffing and puffing. Granted, the security department was on the ground floor, tucked away in the back of the east wing, but at the sound of his panting, you would have thought he ran all the way. Bless his heart, there’s no way Barney Johnson could run,
period. He was a good guy, he was just terribly out of shape and overweight. He also tended to sweat a lot. He was a heart attack waiting to happen, and I have told him repeatedly that he needs to do something about it. He promises he will, but of course, never does. Barney wasn’t a bad guy, he was just lazy, and given that he’s at least a hundred pounds overweight, I guess I can understand why.

  There was one other guard on the team, Robby Longfellow, but he had the day off. Young Robby joined our team six months ago, and he was really shy and unassuming. He’s also pretty. Long eyelashes that I envy, ocean blue eyes and large lips. Although he has never mentioned it, and why should he, I think he is gay. I think that’s why he tries to act tough, to cover it up. Obviously, he hasn’t come into himself yet. I’d really like to set him up with a nice guy I know who works in Maintenance, but I just have to find the right way to approach the subject. I am not the subtlest person when it comes to sensitive subjects like that.

  “Okay, so dish. What do you know about our new boss?” Dorey asked.

  “I know absolutely nothing. Well, except that I heard his name is Casey Dennis and he used to be some tough cop in Texas,” I replied, feeling somewhat nervous about it. I’ve been the office coordinator for a little over five years and have seen two bosses come and go in that short time. But then, the hospital has been sold twice, and every time they prepare to sell it, they lay off people. The big dogs love to lay off the middle man almost as much as they do us peons. And after every sale, the new big dogs come in and hire people to fill the holes their predecessor made. I’ve learned not to get too comfortable with the new boss, because in a couple of years, they’ll be gone. “I also heard that he was some kind of hero, but I’m not sure why. He’s probably in his late fifties, they usually are, married with three kids, with a beer gut and a mother complex.”