My Time Is Your Time

By Ellice Lints

For Dr. Elizabeth Delbridge, giving professional advice to her listeners over the radio was her ideal job, until one caller decides to become too obsessive. Should she involve the police or try to deal with the stalker on her own?

Not wanting to become too personally involved due to an unpleasant ending in a similar case, Detective Gabe Ryder keeps his distance from the enticing talk show hostess. As the case develops, Ryder discovers he may need the up close and personal touch to solve the case. Will he allow his feelings to save the day, or will he go by the book?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781496964229

Ellice Lints

Ellice Lints lives in rural Manitoba, Canada. She raises registered Mountain Welsh Ponies. Alongside her writing, she enjoys storytelling to children of all ages. She is currently working on the sequel to My Time Is Your Time.

Book preview

MY TIME IS YOUR TIME

ELLICE LINTS

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AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

© 2015 Ellice Lints. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 01/28/2015

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6351-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4969-6422-9 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Chapter Forty Five

Chapter Forty Six

Chapter Forty Seven

Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty One

Chapter Fifty Two

Chapter Fifty Three

Chapter Fifty Four

Chapter Fifty Five

Chapter Fifty Six

Epilogue

This is

dedicated to Bob for his love and support.

To Ashley for naming the hero and to Jillian for reading it.

To Mona for the picture of her clock, for her friendship and for her continuous support during my chemo time. Could not have done it without you. Thanks so much for being such a wonderful friend.

Also to Sandra for all her readings and her suggestions regarding my books. Thanks again for being there during the dark times. What a good sister.

And to Marilyn who has been there from the time I was diagnosed with cancer, through the chemo and to the end of it.

About the Author:

Ellice Lints lives in rural Manitoba. She raises registered Welsh Mountain ponies. One of her hobbies along with writing is story telling. She enjoys spending time with children and is always eager to hear any response regarding her novels. She has written, Spitfire, Dragon of Hope and is currently working on, ‘FireAngel, Dragon of Truth. Coming soon is ‘Our Time’.

Chapter One

One Year Earlier

Orr Police Academy, Duchess, Saskatchewan

You failed the written exam. Please sign your name on the way out. You can apply again in six months, said the senior police officer handing the young, slim built man his rejection slip.

Staring at the piece of paper Roger could not believe it. He thought he had aced this exam. After three attempts he should have known all the answers.

Over the last three years he managed to read four older versions of the official police handbook cover to cover. The only thing he had not done was the actual shadowing of the police officers while they were on call. Maybe that was where he went wrong, Roger thought trying to work out how he failed such as basic test.

Glancing once more at the blue slip of paper to make sure he had read it correctly the first time, Roger gave a deep sigh of disappointment. No, it still said ‘reject’ on it.

He dreamed of nothing but becoming a police officer since he was eight years old. After one simple phone call of 911 the police rescued his mother, his sister and himself from his crazed father.

He remembered the daily beatings for not answering his dad with a ’Sir’ behind every sentence, not finishing a task fast enough and not wearing long sleeves on a summer’s day to hide the ugly black and green bruises. It had been hard to hide all the bruises. From then on Roger knew the teachers were keeping a close watch on him and his sister. There had been one too many bruises for the homeroom teacher’s liking after seeing Roger wince as he tried to take off his jacket. She had taken him to the school nurse’s office who in turn had immediately stripped him of his shirt. Taking one look at his bruised back, arms she had without hesitation called the social worker. He had arrived within the hour and arrangements were made to have the children removed from their current living environment.

Two days later, the same social worker arrived at their doorstep with papers in hand to take the children. If Diane, Rodger’s mother wanted to leave with them, she was more than welcome. In fact they insisted it would be better if she did.

Seeing his father’s eyes narrow in anger at the social worker the moment he had entered the small apartment, Roger ran to the kitchen phone and punched in the numbers, 911.

Tom Stowe laughed in the social worker’s face, pushed him back into the hallway, slammed the door shut and barricaded his family in their tiny apartment. Nobody was going to take his kids and wife away without a fight.

His mother tried to stop his dad from harming the social worker but her efforts cost her a backhand across her face. No one crossed him and got away with it. Another hard slap was for her wanting to take the children and leave. The third for daring to let her children attend school with bruises showing which started everything in the first place.

Without pausing to catch his breath, Tom Stowe grabbed Roger by his sore arm dragging him into the kitchen where he kept his rifles and handguns. Reaching into the closet he snatched the first small handgun his fingers could touch. Using one hand Tom jerked his son towards the old, wooden chair by the window. Placing the tip of the barrel against Roger’s head, Tom made the boy climb onto its seat. Quickly tying his son’s hands behind his back, he then looped the nylon rope around his neck like a noose. Grabbing the left over yellow rope Tom flipped it over a coat hook on the wall then wrapped it around his own hand so should he trip or fall, Roger would hang one way or another.

One did not call 911 on the old man and live to tell about it.

During those seven minutes, the whole apartment had become utterly quiet until the sharp shrill ring of the phone. His sister began to cry. His mother pulled Libby behind her at the same precise time his dad swung the rifle in Libby’s direction.

The phone rang again and again.

Tom glared at it.

He did not need a negotiator to sort out his problems. No one was going to tell Tom Stowe how to raise his children.

No one.

From the moment the phone had rung, Tom Stowe’s pale, blue eyes had taken on a frightening, glittery look, almost manic. He positioned himself in such a way he could look out the window, yet still be able to watch the entrance to the apartment.

Snarling at Roger, Tom told him how he was useless and how he would be better off dead than live with his mother, Diane. She would suck the living soul out of him, just like she had done to him.

Placing his index finger on the trigger Tom waited for Roger to make a sound. Roger had never been so still in his life. His legs trembled from the strain of keeping the legs of the chair level on the uneven floor but he refused to cry in front of his dad. It would only aggravate him.

Tom shook his head in disgust as he watched the tears well up in his son’s eyes.

The little rotter.

Calling the police when he should have been backing his old man. A new wave of anger rushed through Tom. He wanted nothing more than to have Roger dead. He had been betrayed by his own flesh and blood. If Tom Stowe was going to get killed by the police due to some interfering social worker, he was taking Roger with him.

In the next moment there was a large crash as the crime unit smashed through the door with the battering ram. Eyes wild with fear Roger watched the S.W.A.T. team carefully approach his father.

Tom Stowe gave a wicked laugh as they stormed into the apartment. He wasn’t going down without a fight. His finger gradually inched toward the trigger. So frozen in terror Roger could not have screamed even wanted to. Slowly turning toward his son, Tom moved in front of Roger so his face would be the last thing he saw before he killed him.

Tom grinned.

A red dot from the sniper’s gun appeared on his dad’s forehead.

Then came a popping noise. Within a space of a few seconds an officer snatched up Roger to position him so the rope would not choke him. In the meantime another team member slashed the rope with his knife.

Roger was safe.

He could breathe again.

He was alive.

Tears ran down his cheeks as reaction to what had just happened began to sink in. Never in his life had he been so scared. From the safety of the policeman’s arms, he watched his mother weep in relief. She wept as if her heart would break. His sister wrapped herself around his mum; her head pressed against Diane’s thin, narrow shoulders.

His mother sobbed. Her haunted dark eyes focused on Roger. Those violet eyes held a sense of relief and freedom. Roger would never forget the sound of her cries. He never wanted to hear her cry again. To protect her, he stayed home longer than most men his age.

At the age of twenty-five Roger when Roger showed no signs of moving out she gently told him he needed to be on his own. His sister had already moved out; it was time he did also.

Roger moved into a small apartment across the city. He still could not cook or eat in a kitchen. It brought back too many memories. He spent as little time in there as possible. However the thrill of excitement whenever he heard the sirens blare when a patrol car screamed by on the street below would cause the tiny little hairs to rise on his arms and legs every time. He could never get enough of it.

Living on his own Roger craved the adrenalin of excitement he experienced as a child when he was rescued by the police. To feed his addiction Roger decided to join the police force.

But so far it was not meant to be.

Numbly Roger turning away from the front desk he walked toward the station’s main doors. Head bent downward as he reread the words on the paper he became unaware of the people around him.

He bumped into an officer.

Sorry, said the detective dressed in blue jeans, a black T-shirt and a black leather jacket.

Roger did not respond but stared at the blue piece of paper clutched in his hand. The detective gave a quick glance at the piece of paper and asked, A rejection slip?

Roger nodded his head.

Don’t let it get you down. It took me a couple of tries before I was accepted. Keep studying, have patience and don’t give up. If you want it bad enough, you will get it. Then you will be one of us, he said with an encouraging smile.

Roger slowly raised his head and regarded the detective with amazement.

Hope.

‘You will be one of us,’ kept resounding in his head.

Roger read the number on the detective’s badge which was clipped to his pocket on his jacket and mentally filed it away for future use. Perhaps he was the one to learn from. He held out his hand to the man and mumbled a brief, ‘Thanks,’ to him.

A surge of renewed strength and hope swept through Roger as they shook hands. Once again the police force had come to his aid in his time of need. The detective had said he was one of them.

Roger raised his head with pride, ‘He was one of them.’

Chapter Two

Present Day

Gabe Ryder walked over to where his partner was working, looked over his shoulder asking, Well, Brooks, who do the instructors teach this term?

The way these yo-yos are answering the test questions, it’ll be lucky if they have anybody with half a brain sitting in the classroom.

Can’t be all that bad, said the other detective.

Yeah it is. I still don’t see why we are the ones to correct these exams. I thought Anderson was to review them, send the possible candidates to us and we pass them on to the shrink for assessment.

That was last term’s regime, he reminded his partner.

Really? It makes me very grouchy picking up someone else’s slack. What with these kind of answers. Listen to this one. Question: what kind of questions would you ask the perpetrator if you were seeking information regarding the crime? Answer: The arresting officer has the right to choose a variety of methods. I, however prefer twenty questions, groaned Brooks tossing the exam on top of a growing pile of rejects. What the hell kind of question is that? Isn’t it a kid’s game?

The detective smirked and said, You should know, you’re the one with kids.

Chapter Three

Roger Stowe left the police academy in a daze. The only one in the whole building to acknowledge his potential was the detective who collided into him.

Perhaps he had been using the wrong approach to enter the police force. He should be tailing the detective’s activities instead of reading about it or watching it on TV. If he followed him on a daily basis surely he would pass the exam and become one of them.

Roger’s eyes lit up as he began to formulate a plan. Giving a high pitched giggle, a little skip and a hop in excitement Roger continued to walk home. He rebuked himself for such silly actions. Policemen did not behave in such a childish manner. After all his new detective friend had said, You will be one of us.

Reaching his apartment building Roger climbed the stairs to the tenth floor. He hated closed-in spaces so he never took the elevator. Slightly out of breath he walked down the low-lit hallway to his apartment. He would have to get in better shape he thought if he was going to one of the police force. Locking the door behind him, Roger went directly to the closet where he kept his old scanner. Hauling it out, he looked at the smashed box. He knew when he threw it against the wall he should never have let his temper get the best of him.

He was not like his father.

Besides, he had only been frustrated; not angry.

There was a difference.

Instead of trying to put it together, Roger went on line and ordered two scanners. One for his car and one for the apartment. Therefore he would always be in touch with his new found detective friend. He would have to give him a name, he thought absently. He could not keep calling him, his new found friend.

Roger thought about it for a while and then a smile came to his face. Fox, he would call him, ‘The Fox.’

Within a matter of hours the scanners arrived. Roger set them up and listened. Days passed without too much action. Then as luck would have it when he was about to give up, he recognized the Fox’s voice.

They were on a drug bust.

Not