Trace Evidence in Tarrant County

Sgt. Sloan McKinney stopped cold when he heard the sound. A snap. Like someone stepping on a twig. He eased his SIG SAUER from the holster belted around his waist. That snap was a sound he shouldn't have heard since the wooded area and the back of the police station were off-limits, sectioned off with yellow tape that warned Do Not Cross. It was a crime scene and the very path that a killer had taken. Not exactly a comforting thought. Especially since that snapping sound might be a sign that the killer had returned. Sloan lifted his head, listening. Waiting. He trusted his training as a Texas Ranger. He trusted his instincts. But a bullet could negate all training and instincts, and he had to be ready to defend himself. "Drop that gun," he heard someone say. It was a woman. Her voice was raspy and thick, and she was behind him. Hell. How had she gotten so close before he'd heard her make that snap? And, better yet, who was she? She was no doubt armed. A person didn't usually make a demand like that unless they had something to back it up. Since he had no intentions of surrendering his weapon or getting killed, he started with the basics. "I'm Sgt. Sloan McKinney, Texas Ranger. Identify yourself." There was silence, followed by a loud huff. Sloan hadn't recognized the person's voice earlier, but he could have sworn he recognized that huff. "Carley Matheson?" "SheriffCarley Matheson," she corrected with absolute authority. Sloan mumbled some profanity. Oh, man. He didn't need this. And he definitely didn't needher.He could already hear the argument they were about to have before he even turned around to face her. It actually took him several moments toface herthough. First, there was the already brutal morning sun that was spewing light from behind him and on her. Sloan had to squint and then he had to look past her .45-caliber Colt automatic to see her face. Yep, she was squinting, too, because of the sun. And she was also riled. And, yep, there would be an argument. Since the argument was inevitable, Sloan decided to go ahead and start it. "You're supposed to be in bed, resting," Sloan reminded her. Less than a week ago, Carley had been shot while in pursuit of a killer and she wouldn't be cleared for duty for at least another forty-eight hours. "I'm fine," she said as if that explained away everything. Carley lowered her Colt. Not gently, either. Her movements were jerky and stiff, and she shoved her firearm into her leather shoulder holster. She also winced. Probably because that rough gun shove had pulled at her bandages and caused some pain. After all, the shooter's bullet had apparently sliced through Carley's right side and nicked a rib. She was lucky to be alive. The shooter's other victim, Sarah Wallace, hadn't been nearly as fortunate. In an eerily similar way to how her own mother had been murdered sixteen years earlier, Sarah Wallace had been strangled while staying at the Matheson Inn"just a stone's throw away from where they stood and in the very inn owned by Carley's family. The inn where Carley now lived in a converted attic apartment. Murder on her own doorstep. That couldn't have been easy for a peace officer to accept. Especiallythispeace officer. Unless she'd changed a whole bunch in the past couple of years"and Sloan doubted that she had, Carley would have taken this crime personally even if she hadn't been shot. Justice was her town, and keeping it safe was her responsibility. Sloan reholstered his own weapon, and because of that wince, he nearly moved closer to check on her. However, Carley's steely expression had him staying put. It'd be suicide to try to get a look at her wound, especially since it would involve unbuttoning the shirt of her khaki uniform. Definitely suicide. So why did he even consider it? Sloan gave that a littlFossen, Delores is the author of 'Trace Evidence in Tarrant County ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780373887453 and ISBN 0373887450.