The Hunting Season

by Janice Kay Johnson - His Best Friend's Baby

  He kept his foot between the jamb and the door. “I’m not. I…actually have good news for you.”

  No relenting was visible.

  “Uh…can I come in?”

  Her expression was about as friendly as a jagged chunk of lava.

  Suddenly appalled, Daniel wondered why he was really here. He could have called. Should have called, not shown up on the doorstep.

  “Okay,” he said, pulling back his foot. As he’d hoped, she didn’t slam the door. “We verified your purchase at the Java Stop.” They’d been able to do that right away. “An hour ago, I was finally able to talk to Officer Capek. Do you know him?”

  Terse nod.

  “He saw your car at the city park. Passed it three times during the forty-five minutes you told us you were there.”

  Her eyebrows challenged him. “Maybe I sneaked out the back side of the park and called a cab.”

  “An old lady lives right across the street from the Norrises. She’d have seen the cab.” Unless Lindsay had had it drop her a street away. But Daniel didn’t believe that for a minute. What killer would dare take a cab to a murder scene? Ask the cabbie to wait for him? What if he returned covered with blood?

  Daniel knew Lindsay was smarter than that.

  Her grip on the door eased. “Somebody was in the house, so why didn’t she see them?”

  Good question. If Mrs. Knudson had caught even a glimpse of the killer, he and Melinda would have had other leads to follow and not gone straight to the state Department of Health Services offices.

  “Back slider was unlocked.”

  “But he still took a chance that someone would see him—what? Jumping the fence?”

  “He did, but if he was watching and, say, saw two adults leaving for work from the same house, he could be pretty safe in thinking he wouldn’t be seen.”

  “If only people paid more attention…”

  Catching the dark tone, mixed bitterness and sadness, Daniel nodded. “Both of our jobs would be easier.”

  “How can people not see long-term abuse?” Lindsay’s expression softened to bewilderment that he understood.

  “Hard to figure,” he said quietly.

  She’d let the door fall open far enough for him to notice the suitcase behind her.

  His eyebrows climbed. “Going somewhere?”

  “Going…?” Her head turned to follow his gaze. “Oh, yes. I’m fleeing from the law, obviously.”

  His grin clearly startled her. “Took your time about it.”

  Lindsay scrunched up her nose. “I haven’t gotten away even overnight in months.” One shoulder lifted. “Seemed like a good weekend.”

  Keeping his voice soft, Daniel said, “May I come in?”

  “I was just leaving… Oh, fine.” She stood back.

  The front door of the small rambler opened into the living room. Gleaming hardwood floors weren’t usual for the era of the house. He bet somebody, maybe Lindsay, had added them at a later date. A huge braided rug in muted shades of rust and peach centered the sofa, an easy chair and two antique rocking chairs. The brick fireplace would be great in winter. He guessed the TV was in the antique armoire, the door of which was firmly shut. Two built-in floor-to-ceiling bookcases to each side of the fireplace took pride of place.

  “Nice house,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Now she did look shy. “Will you be here long enough for a cup of coffee?”

  “I’d love one.”

  Instead of sitting, he followed her to the kitchen. Bright red tiles formed the backsplash beneath old-fashioned white cabinets. A red enamel teakettle and red-and-white-checked curtains accented the tiles and made this room, too, homey.

  She had her back to him while she started the coffee, giving him a chance to admire her curvy body in tight-fitting jeans and a thin red T-shirt that hugged her generous breasts.

  She definitely pushed his buttons, and not only physically. Daniel just wished she wasn’t mixed up in this mess somehow. While she couldn’t see him, he let his mouth twist. Okay, by being such an ass to her he might have squelched any possibility of taking this attraction somewhere even when this was over.

  Assuming she shared it.

  After standing on tiptoe to take two mugs from a cupboard and setting them on the counter, Lindsay faced him, her expression turned wary. “It occurs to me I surrendered too quickly. You still have questions, don’t you?”

  He could tell she knew the answer before he opened his mouth.

  Chapter Six

  “I do,” he admitted, but held up a hand before she could shove him out the door and slam it in his face. “But they’re the kind of questions I’m asking because you know the people concerned.”

  “You mean, the families?”

  Her wariness would have deep roots, in part because keeping information about cases confidential was her default. And then there was his hot-and-cold behavior. Why would she trust him?

  “If necessary, but I’m thinking more of people working in your field.” He hesitated. “Your coworkers.”

  “What?”

  She hadn’t put quite enough force into that. Lindsay had to have some of the same ideas he and Melinda had.

  Daniel rolled his shoulders. “Can we go for a walk? Or—” No, she’d never agree. But, damn, he felt restless.

  She glanced toward her suitcase. “I really wanted to get away.” She sounded wistful. “Do something fun.”

  “Do you ride?” he asked.

  “You mean, horses?”

  He smiled. “Of course, horses. I’m not a big fan of motorcycles, not after scraping so many bodies off the pavement as a patrol officer. I live on some acreage outside of town, where I can keep my horses.”

  “More than one?”

  “Five,” he said. “Quarter horses. I breed my three mares. Only one of them has a foal by her side right now, though. A two-year-old is about ready to start under a saddle. I’m letting him put on some size to be sure he’s up to my weight.”

  He’d swear that was wonder he saw on her face. He hadn’t screwed up after all. She might not like him, but she was obviously horse-crazy.

  “If you mean that, I’d love to go for a ride. Heck, by the time I got up to Mt. Hood, I probably wouldn’t be able to find a place to stay anyway.”

  “In August? Maybe a cheap motel.”

  Lindsay made a face at him. “Give me a minute to change clothes.”

  While she raced upstairs, he studied the books on her shelves and speculated as to why she didn’t have any family photos on her fireplace mantel or walls. They might be on display elsewhere in the house or tucked in a photo album she often perused, but somehow he doubted it. Her own history might explain why she’d committed to her line of work.

  That got him to thinking about social workers in general. Or, more specifically, Child Protective Services caseworkers. How many were motivated to do such a difficult job by backgrounds as abused children? That would surely make them more likely to burn out in a big way—and to feel the kind of rage this killer so obviously did.

  Something to ask Lindsay, except he didn’t want her to think he was digging into her background.

  “Sorry to be so slow.” She took the steps at a clip that had him instinctively moving to the foot of the staircase to catch her if she took a header. “My boots weren’t where they’re supposed to be.”

  Not cowboy boots, but brown leather ones clearly made for riding. Right now, he wore the flexible tactical boots that were most practical on the job. Once home, he’d change into worn cowboy boots.

  She grabbed her purse and car keys. “Should I follow you?”

  “No, I can bring you home later. Maybe we can stop for lunch.” If he hadn’t gotten her back up again by then.

  Once on their way, she surprised him by expressing curiosity about
his background.

  “I grew up in this part of the state,” he told her. “Near Prineville. My father was a second-generation citizen. My mother came to the US from Guatemala as a teenager with her parents, who were migrant workers. Dad has a cattle ranch, which wasn’t for me. I have an older brother who will likely take over when Dad retires, if he’s ever willing to.” He smiled. “Mama will no doubt put her foot down at some point. Cooking for half a dozen ranch hands for years and years must get old.”

  Lindsay chuckled. “I would have said I like to cook, but not that much.”

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, I grew up in Portland. Ended up here only because I was offered a job in Sadler right out of grad school.”

  “Family still there?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her hands flex, as if she wanted to tighten them into fists but had stopped herself.

  “No,” she said finally. “Never knew my father. My mother drifted in and out of my life until the court finally terminated her parental rights when I was ten. I learned later that she died just a few years after that.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Alcohol.”

  Daniel took a hand off the wheel and laid it over hers on her thigh. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and then made himself let her go. He wasn’t much for touching and rarely did on impulse, but her tone had bothered him. She’d sounded so damned composed, as if she were talking about a casual acquaintance’s troubled childhood, not her own.

  “I suppose I’m a cliché,” she said after a minute. “Trying to fix other families because I couldn’t fix my own.”

  He thought about that. “Given that you work for CPS, isn’t it more that you’re trying to rescue abused children because nobody rescued you?”

  The glance she flicked at him was both startled and shy. “People did occasionally try to rescue me. Thus the foster homes. Actually, I learned to ride at one.”

  He really wanted to reach for her hand again. Just touch her. Again. But this was too soon, even assuming he ever decided to act on his attraction to her.

  Uh-huh. When was the last time he’d taken a woman out to his place for a ride?

  He had to struggle to remember, which meant he’d kept any women he’d been involved with at a distance.

  Lindsay and he were both quiet for the last five minutes of the drive.

  LINDSAY LEANED FORWARD after he turned onto the packed earth of a long driveway. “Is that your home?”

  “Yes. I converted an old barn.” His satisfaction showed on his face as he looked at the structure.

  Lindsay felt a sudden pang of jealousy. She liked what she’d done to her house, but this… The exterior appeared to have been stained and a protective coat undoubtedly applied, but the lines of the old barn remained, up to the peaked roof that would shed snow. The hayloft appeared to be a balcony now. Huge windows and skylights no doubt opened up the interior, both the main floor and what looked like a loft.

  “It’s spectacular,” she said, unsure if it would be appropriate to ask for a tour.

  Smiling faintly, he parked by the converted barn rather than the long, low one that was presumably a stable and said, “Come on in and take a look if you’re interested. I need to change my boots.”

  The interior was rustic enough that she guessed he’d used reclaimed wood for the few walls and the floor, which was glossy but not planed to the completely smooth surface she was accustomed to. Kitchen, dining and living areas flowed in a way that felt natural. Cabinets had been crafted of a knotty pine and the counters were brown granite streaked with gold. Daniel disappeared up an open staircase to the loft, and she ventured to explore the back of the main floor, where a few rooms were walled off by rough, aged lumber that might have come from the original stalls. She found a full bathroom, a home office and what was probably a guest room.

  Lindsay sighed with pleasure. This wasn’t anything she’d have expected from him. Especially when he was being a jerk.

  When he came back downstairs, she asked if he’d done the work himself.

  “A lot of it,” he said, his head turning as if he assessed the quality of that work. “My brother helped, as did a couple of friends. I did a hell of a lot of research before I started. The idea isn’t original, you know.”

  “I do, but it isn’t common, either. This really is gorgeous, Detective.”

  His smile became crooked. “Can we go back to first names?”

  Stung by a sharp memory of how she’d felt when he went on the attack, she said, “Maybe that’s not smart,” and with her head held high, went out the front door.

  Daniel—Detective Deperro, she reminded herself—grabbed a black Stetson from a hook by the door, set it on his head and followed her. He didn’t comment as he led the way to the stable.

  He saddled two horses, both easily identifiable as quarter horses from their powerful hindquarters, one a blood bay, the other near black. The bay was for her. Giving Lindsay a boost up, he said, “Nessa is good-natured. Not a slug, but she’ll read your mind whatever your skill level.”

  His gelding was Max, although both horses had lengthy names under which they were registered. The two-year-old, which he pointed out grazing in a nearby pasture, was Nessa’s son.

  They set out at a walk, broke into a trot and then a lope. Lindsay gradually let her body relax and flow with the horse’s rhythmic gait. The sun shone, not yet as hot as it would be by midday, and the sharp scent of ponderosa pine and juniper was one of the world’s finest perfumes as far as Lindsay was concerned. She felt happy, in a carefree way she rarely did. Beside her, Daniel rode as if he’d spent half his life on horseback—which he probably had, growing up on a ranch.

  The land was gradually rising, the pines growing taller and closer together. Daniel drew his gelding back to a walk, and Nessa did the same without waiting for permission from her rider.

  Lindsay stiffened, knowing that Daniel slowed to a pace that would allow for conversation. Still, she turned to look at him. “Thank you. I don’t get to ride often enough. If I had a horse—”

  His mouth quirked. “You’d ride every day?”

  “Do you?”

  “When I get home before dark.”

  The weight of her job settled back on her shoulders. “I…don’t have much time for recreation.”

  “I’m sorry this can’t be just for fun.” He sounded as if he meant it, but his dark eyes were, as always, hard to read.

  Lindsay only nodded. “What is it you think I can tell you?”

  “It’s probably occurred to you that one of your coworkers might have gone off the deep end.”

  She pressed her lips together and stared straight ahead, not really seeing the landscape before her. It seemed wildly improbable that one of the men or women she worked with could have committed such grotesque crimes, but…somebody had. She couldn’t help thinking she sounded like the shocked neighbors after a serial killer was arrested.

  But he kept his lawn neatly mowed, and there was that time when my garbage can got knocked over and he picked it all up without asking for thanks.

  Even so, Lindsay argued, “It’s hard to imagine. We’re a small enough office that I know everybody pretty well. Two are relative newcomers, but they’re both young and idealistic.”

  “You must have started that way.”

  She still didn’t want to look at him. Talking about herself always made her feel uncomfortably vulnerable. She tended to avoid it whenever possible.

  “Not in the same way. Growing up the way I did doesn’t leave you with many illusions.”

  “No.” He sounded thoughtful. “I don’t suppose most people last long at CPS.”

  “There are some who make it a career. My former supervisor, for example. Sadie—the current supervisor—has been with CPS for almost ten years now. If I had to guess, it’s the ideal
ists who burn out the quickest. Their expectations are unrealistic. I see a lot of what I do as achieving small victories. Sometimes I change lives, but not often. Some of the calls we get are for suspicions of abuse that are true, but not as severe. If the parent or parents will agree to counseling, there’s a chance to change the family dynamics before we have to take more drastic action.”

  “So your instinct isn’t always to want to yank the kids from the home.”

  “If there’s any hope, I prefer not to. The foster care system is less than ideal, you know.”

  “I’ve read about the problems.”

  “At some point, I might like to go back to licensing and supervising foster homes. It’s another kind of intervention, and really important.” Lindsay gave her head a shake. “I’ve been rambling. This doesn’t have anything to do with what you asked.”

  “Not true,” Daniel denied. “The more I know, the better I can judge whether a particular social worker is covering up serious rage.”

  She had to ask. “I want to think it’s chance that I’m the caseworker for the two families involved in the murders.”

  He was quiet longer than she liked. Somehow, the sharply defined angles of his face gave an impression of grimness. Lindsay wondered if he knew that the half roll of his shoulders was something of a tell. Stress didn’t go to his stomach; it rode his shoulders and neck.

  He glanced at her, his gaze somehow sharp. “I’d like to think so, too.”

  Speaking of stomachs, hers knotted.

  “Somebody could be trying to please you,” Daniel said slowly, “or get you in trouble.”

  She’d prefer option C, if it existed. Hoping he didn’t see her shudder, she said, “Those are both horrible possibilities. I’ve already decided that when the next call comes in where the kid is hospitalized, I’m asking Sadie to assign it to someone else.”

  He tipped the brim of his hat. “Good idea.”

  Then, of course, he queried her about her coworkers. She felt as if she was betraying them by talking about them to a police detective behind their backs. She wouldn’t have done so at all if she hadn’t understood his reasoning so well. She dreaded going back to work Monday, when she’d have to look around and wonder. Was dark humor a healthy outlet, or a hint at hidden anger? Was outward serenity nothing but a cover? She’d evaluate expressions, feel uneasy whenever she caught a coworker’s eye.