The Drowned Woman: An absolutely unputdownable mystery and suspense thriller (Jericho and Wright Thrillers Book 2)

by CJ Lyons

  Leah had a plan. He should’ve known. Luka began to cross the slippery railroad ties, his shoeless feet allowing him to grip the wet wood better.

  “Please,” she was begging Jack. Her arms were wrapped around the railing, hands hidden by her parka.

  Jack stepped closer, pushing the pistol’s barrel between her eyes. Leah didn’t move. Then Jack raised his gun hand, ready to strike her.

  The movement put him off balance for a split second. Long enough for Leah to spring up from her crouch, hands pushing his gun hand away from her as she launched her body against him, spinning him over the railing.

  It was a good move, would have worked, except Jack’s other hand had a firm grip on the railing. He fell against the railing, but quickly recovered, bringing his gun down against Leah’s skull. Stunned, she dropped, almost sliding under the railing. That’s when Luka saw that she’d lashed herself to the vertical support strut. Smart. She stopped her slide by throwing one hand around a train rail.

  Jack straightened, taking aim with his pistol. Luka rushed him, swinging his tree branch like a baseball bat, aiming first for Jack’s gun arm, knocking the pistol from his grasp, and then on the back swing, hitting him in the solar plexus.

  Jack staggered, off balance, his momentum propelling him toward Leah, who was crouched on the tracks. Using the hand gripping the railing above her for leverage, she launched her other fist into Jack’s throat. Jack slumped forward over the railing, all resistance vanished.

  Luka grabbed his arms and quickly handcuffed him as Jack sputtered and gasped for breath.

  “You okay?” Luka asked. Leah had blood trickling down her forehead into her eyes.

  She nodded. Together they each took one of Jack’s arms and hauled him off the bridge.

  “Put him into recovery position,” Leah instructed after Luka had placed Jack on the ground and searched his pockets, finding a cell phone along with Luka’s service weapon.

  They rolled Jack onto his side. Leah checked Jack’s breathing, ignoring the glare Jack lasered at her. Luka stood guard over her, his weapon sighted on Jack as he dialed with his other hand. “Where’s Risa?” he asked Leah.

  “At the pumphouse. He drugged her.” She took in a breath, wiped the blood from her face, and pushed to her feet. “He’ll be fine, but I need to get back to her.”

  “I left my guys just down the road at the Homan farm.” The road was on the other side of a thin strip of trees. “I’ll have them come pick us up and call for an ambulance. It’ll be faster than you walking back.”

  She nodded, but still seemed a bit stunned, taking a beat longer than normal before answering. “Why were you at the Homans’?”

  “It’s a long story…”

  Fifty

  Two mornings later, Leah found herself hugging a pillow to her chest as she sat on the couch of her trauma counselor’s office. “How many times can one little girl be traumatized without it causing lasting damage?”

  “But was Emily traumatized?” he asked, using that infuriatingly neutral therapist tone, as if they were discussing the cafeteria’s lunch menu and not her daughter’s life. “From my understanding, she was never in danger and handled the situation with extreme maturity.”

  “She’s six!” Leah flared. “Her life has been threatened twice—three times if you count what happened at the Homan farm—and she saw her father murdered. Of course she’s been traumatized.”

  “And is already in treatment for what happened around her father’s killing. Yes, she’s been through more than any six-year-old should, and yes, you’re worried about her, but I sense there’s something more beneath those feelings…”

  Silence was one of his favorite weapons, Leah had learned. She understood why—she’d seen Luka use it as well, manipulating the human urge to fill the void with words. But it wasn’t going to work, not on her. Silence was her friend. In silence Ian’s voice could come through—or what she imagined he would say, always less harsh than her own judgment of her actions. Ian never made her feel guilty or fearful; it was her own voice that did that.

  “We’ve spent almost this entire session discussing what happened to Emily,” he continued when she didn’t speak. “But how do you feel about what happened to you? You were kidnapped, drugged, almost killed, ran for your life. Then confronted a killer just as you did after Ian died.”

  “I’m fine.” She tightened her grip on the pillow. Why was he wasting her time with this? Emily’s welfare was the priority.

  “During all that, did you consider the fact that you might need to take another person’s life? How did that make you feel?”

  “Feel? I was furious. And that’s exactly why I did survive. Why I fought. For Emily. I couldn’t leave her alone.”

  “But your survival wasn’t solely in your control. No one’s is.”

  Again a lengthy silence, the only sound the clock’s soft ticking behind her. Surely their time was up, Leah thought, anxious to leave this discussion and get back to work.

  “Are you at all concerned that your new position, working so closely with the police, might place you in danger again?”

  “Of course I am.” Was she really paying him to ask such idiotic questions?

  “Then why not quit? I’m sure a talented physician such as yourself could find other opportunities.”

  This time he didn’t break the silence that followed his question. Leah had answers—Emily’s need for stability, their financial security, etc. But none was the real answer. She knew it and, obviously, so did he.

  Finally came the chime announcing the end of their session. Leah bolted upright, throwing the pillow back onto the couch. The therapist stood, reaching the door before her, blocking her path. “Before our next appointment, I’d like for you to think about what attracts you to a life filled with emergencies—whether as a physician treating patients or now as a consultant for the police.”

  She frowned at him. “Saving lives and helping people isn’t good enough for you?”

  His banal smile was more infuriating than his silence had been. “I wonder if it’s enough for you. I wonder if perhaps there’s something more fulfilling or rewarding that your chosen careers provide you? If we can explore that fully, perhaps we can also find ways to mitigate any attendant danger in the future.” He opened the door for her. “Just a thought. See you next week.”

  Leah left, feeling a bit sheepish. Deep down she knew exactly what he meant. Once a colleague had accused her of having a savior’s complex, needing to try to save every victim that came into her ER. But she’d brushed him off, never explored the why behind her actions. It had to be more than a need for control, more than being an adrenaline junkie.

  She turned to stare at the closed door, wondering if she’d find the courage to return. Decided that, for Emily’s sake, she would.

  Leah crossed the street from the outpatient clinic building to Good Sam’s inpatient tower and began her rounds. First, she saw Mrs. Czury, the elderly victim of a vicious mugging. Mrs. Czury was finally awake, moving from the ICU to the neuro-psych unit where she’d receive intensive therapy for the stroke her head injury had caused. It would be a few days before Leah could do a complete forensic interview for Luka, but Leah was hopeful that the old lady would make a fair recovery.

  Next was Walt Orly, Trudy’s husband. Dr. Chaudhari had fine-tuned his medication regimen and he was much calmer, able to be transferred to a long-term placement. The home in Smithfield that Trudy had hoped for didn’t have an open bed, but a very nice facility in Hershey did. The curious thing was that in Walt’s mind, Trudy was still alive and well, living with him at the hospital, just out for a cup of coffee when Leah stopped by. She saw no need to torture the man with the truth. Sometimes denial was the best medicine.

  Which left her final patient, Risa Saliba, who was undergoing chelation therapy for heavy metal toxicity. But when Leah got to Risa’s room, she’d already been discharged. Leah tried calling her, but it went straight to voicemail.

>   “Hello, you’ve reached Risa Saliba’s number. I’m out in the field for the near future, because life is too short, and the world is too big to be a prisoner of your own life. Leave a message if you want, but I probably won’t be checking. People to meet and places to go. Ciao.”

  Leah listened to the message twice, enjoying the strength and passion that colored Risa’s voice. At first, she’d thought Risa might tip into a crevasse of depression and guilt, but the reporter was proving more resilient than Leah imagined. Good for her.

  She left Good Sam through the ER, smiling and waving at the nurses and other staff who greeted her. It’d been such a thrill, rushing Risa into the ER two nights ago, feeling like her old self for the first time in a month. It made her aware that her new job wasn’t as different as she thought. Which reminded her of her therapist’s final question. Maybe she didn’t have all the answers, was maybe a coward, afraid to search too hard for them, but she was slowly discovering her own truth.

  Surviving without Ian had felt like a betrayal. But now she realized that hiding in shadows of guilt and grief were the last thing he would have wanted. He’d want more for her. Not just to merely survive but to learn how to live again, to embrace her new life, as painful as it was.

  Living without him didn’t mean living without his love. Far from it. Every time she looked at Emily, it was clear that Ian was never truly lost.

  She drove over to her next appointment: volunteers from Ian’s church were meeting her at her old house to help her sort through their possessions, pack the ones she wanted to keep, and take the rest to their charity shop.

  She arrived early, just as she’d planned. Not only in case she had another panic attack, but also because she wanted time alone with their home, with Ian. This time she strode straight up to the door. Despite the tears blinding her eyes she managed to get the key turned and walk inside without any sense of panic. In fact, she felt the opposite—she felt a bit giddy, like when Ian took her hand and they danced their first dance as husband and wife.

  He was with her, a comforting weight supporting her, a warm hand guiding her. And he’d never abandon her—or her him.

  Epilogue

  17 days later…

  Luka straightened his tie in his truck’s rearview mirror. He couldn’t believe the crowd that had gathered along the river to celebrate Cherise’s life. He was the only one dressed in a tie and suitcoat—everyone else had followed the instructions on the invitation and came in jeans and work boots. He nodded and smiled to them—old college friends, friends from work, Cherise’s family, even McKinley and Ahearn, Leah, Ruby, Emily, Pops, Janine, and Nate, holding Rex’s leash in one hand and a shovel in the other.

  Luka took his place standing on the rock where he’d left the dead irises. What a difference a few weeks made. The sky was blinding blue, as if competing with the flowers crowding the back of his truck. The river gurgled a happy tune, its angst and roiling rage vanquished. The grass was green, the trees were budding, and a breeze carried the scent of pine down from the mountain.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he began. “I’ll keep it short and then we can get to work. First of all, a huge thanks to someone who couldn’t be here today, Risa Saliba. She orchestrated all this, getting the county to turn this land into something to truly honor Cherise’s life. Welcome to the Cherise Sumner Community Garden.”

  The crowd applauded, even Cherise’s parents, who were both wiping tears away between clapping.

  “As you know, a famous poem by one of our favorite poets was used to mark Cherise’s death. So now, I’d like to remedy that miscarriage by reciting a poem I’ve written in tribute to both Cherise and Langston Hughes.”

  He pulled the well-creased and sweat-stained slip of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. Like the original Langston Hughes poem, his was only twelve words long, but he didn’t want to risk messing it up. Every word had been carefully chosen to mirror Hughes’ “Suicide’s Note.” A study of opposites and contrasts. He hoped.

  “Beloved’s Letter.” He read the title. He cleared his throat and began—he’d never performed any of his poems without Cherise in the audience, but now as he looked out over the crowd of faces, he realized she was here, in each and every one of them.

  “The vibrant,

  Warm touch of your lips

  Invites me to live forever.”

  He finished and looked up. Silence greeted him and for a moment, he feared he’d made a fool of himself, desecrated Cherise’s celebration.

  But then, a few anxious heartbeats later, applause broke out, all at once as if the crowd was obeying the commands of an invisible orchestra conductor. Several openly wept—including Harper and McKinley of all people.

  “Enough tears,” he said. “Let’s get planting.”

  As the crowd broke apart, grabbing tools, soil, and the plants for the garden, Leah approached him. She carried a box wrapped in Christmas paper. “Sorry, it was all I could find at Nellie’s.”

  “What’s this?” They sat down on the rock, facing the river. The water was the last thing Cherise saw, Luka thought, another poem beginning to crystallize in his mind.

  “Open it.”

  He didn’t need to be asked twice. He tore the paper off and tugged the box flaps apart. Inside were a dozen or more books, slim volumes of various sizes. Books of poetry. Tennyson, Dickinson, Frost, Eliot, Robert Hayden, Chinua Achebe, Rainer Maria Rilke, Rita Dove. And more.

  Luka glanced up at Leah. He recognized these books, knew exactly where they came from: they were Ian’s. “Leah, are you sure? This is a treasure trove—shouldn’t it go to Emily?”

  “Emily has plenty to remember Ian by. When he wrote code, he said it felt like writing poetry, so I thought of you.”

  He placed his palm over his heart. “Thank you, I’m honored.”

  Nate and Emily raced past, Rex leading them both as he chased a butterfly.

  “You’re doing a good job with him,” Leah said. “Seems like he’s starting to open up.”

  “More like I’m opening up to him.” Luka smiled at the children, feeling as warm inside as outside. “You know, a very wise person said something that I’ll never forget. She said you can’t go your whole life trying not to love. I’ve decided that she’s right.”

  “Cherise would agree.” Leah rubbed her wedding ring, glinting in the sunlight.

  “As would Ian,” Luka said, knocking his shoulder against hers. He stood and reached a hand down to help her up. “C’mon, let’s go plant some memories.”

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  Books by CJ Lyons

  Jericho and Wright Thrillers Series

  The Next Widow

  The Drowned Woman

  Fatal Insomnia Medical Thrillers

  Farewell to Dreams

  A Raging Dawn

  The Sleepless Stars

  Lucy Guardino Thrillers

  Snake Skin

  Blood Stained

  Kill Zone

  After Shock

  Hard Fall

  Last Light

  Devil Smoke

  Open Grave

  Gone Dark

  Bitter Truth

  Angels of Mercy Medical Suspense

  Lifelines

  Catalyst

  Trauma

  Isolation

  AVAILABLE IN AUDIO

  The Next Widow (Available in the UK and the US)

  A Letter from CJ

  I want to say a huge thank you for choosing to read The Drowned Woman. If you did enjoy it, and want to keep up to date with all my latest releases, please sign up at t
he link below. Your email address will never be shared and you can unsubscribe at any time.

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  I’m often asked about the “themes” of my novels. I love this question because it gets to the heart of why I write.

  Critics and reviewers have commented on the fact that grief and loss play a recurring role in my books. I don’t deny it—anyone who has read my full bio on my website knows that I’ve been both haunted and inspired by the tragic loss of a friend who was murdered when I was twenty-five.

  However, I would argue that my books aren’t really about loss, and my theme isn’t actually grief. Rather, my books are about courage. The courage to hope. To heal. To find the strength to live and laugh and love despite tragedy.

  As Maggie (the wisest young person in Craven County!) says in the first Jericho and Wright thriller, The Next Widow, “Grief is the price we pay for love. But love is what saves us from grief.”

  This journey from tragedy to hope is one many of my characters undertake, just as I myself have faced it, time and again. It’s the emotional heart of my thrillers, and hopefully what sets them apart from other mystery and suspense novels, as exploring the “why” of the human heart and soul is always challenging as well as fascinating! Let me take this opportunity to thank you for joining us now and hopefully for many more stories to come.