by Tami Dane
“JT, still, we shouldn’t.”
“We’re in a hotel. Alone. Who’s going to find out?”
“Nobody. But that’s not the point.”
“What is the point, then?” He pulled me closer. A very prominent bulge, hard and long, was poking at my stomach. My breasts, which were a little on the sensitive side, were squashed against him. “I want you. You want me. We’re adults. We’re single. We can—”
“I can’t.” With great effort, I pushed against him while taking a step backward to put some distance between my flaming body and his. “I just ... can’t. And what about Hough?”
“We’re friends. Only friends.”
I wanted to believe him; really, I did. But something was standing in my way. Fear, maybe? His teeth sank into his lower lip, the one that had just been brushing over mine such a short time ago. He’d tasted so good, like mint and man and need. How I longed to taste him again.
You’ll regret it.
“You’re sure you can’t?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“If you change your mind ...”
“I won’t.”
“I’ll be next door. Just knock.”
“Good night, JT.”
After giving me one lingering look, he left.
I brushed my teeth, stripped out of everything but my undies, and dropped into the bed. What felt like five minutes later, someone was knocking on a door. I poked my head out from under the covers and followed the sound with my eyes. No, it wasn’t coming from the door opening to the hallway; it was coming from the door leading to JT’s room. No doubt he was going to try convincing me to change my mind about sleeping with him. I checked the clock.
Eight o’clock? In the morning? Could that be right?
“Sloan, are you awake yet? We need to get rolling.”
“Hang on!” I shouted as I rolled out of bed and scampered to the bathroom. “I’ll be there in a few.”
“Meet me at the breakfast buffet,” he shouted through the hollow door.
“Will do.” I hurried through my morning routine. A five-minute shower woke me up. I did what I could with my hair and brushed on a little blush and lip gloss—at least those hadn’t been lost in my go bag. Then I scurried down to the breakfast buffet, set up in a small dining area positioned off the lobby.
JT was sitting in the corner of the room, an empty plate on the table in front of him. He saw me right away and gave me a good-morning grin, which made my day.
I trotted over to him and slumped into the chair opposite his. “Sorry. I guess I slept in.”
“We’re fine. I called the lead detective. He’s not available to meet with us until after ten, anyway.” He motioned to the food, displayed on an L-shaped counter. “Hungry?”
My stomach rumbled. “Starving. Be back in a few.”
JT pulled his laptop out of the case sitting at his feet. “I’ll be right here.”
I returned a few minutes later with a toasted bagel, some fruit, and a glass of orange juice. While I smoothed some cream cheese on the bagel, I asked, “Find anything interesting?”
“No. Your father’s work is far and above better than anything I’ve found on the Net. You?”
“Nothing specific enough to be useful.”
JT shook his head. “I put in a call to the chief this morning, asking her if she’d gotten anywhere in the search for the missing infants.”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing. The bureau has some agents working on the infant black market trade, but so far they haven’t seen any increase in recent activity in the area.”
“What is she doing with the infants if she’s not selling them?” I was still utterly confused about how the infants were being delivered and subsequently stolen without leaving a bit of evidence, or waking the men sleeping in the same bed with their wives. We were missing a big piece of the puzzle. A giant one. “Do you think they’re still alive?”
“I hope so, but ...” JT’s expression darkened. He shook his head. “It’s not looking good.”
I set down my bagel. “We need to stop her.”
“We will.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because we have you on our team.”
“I don’t think that’s enough in this case.”
“Don’t cut yourself short, Sloan. You’re brilliant. You’ll figure it out.”
JT’s words echoed in my head as we checked out of the hotel, picked up our rental car, and drove to the Canton Township Police Department.
JT had so much faith in me—more than I did, that was for sure. True, I’d helped track down the killer in our first case. But did that mean I’d be able to do it again? It could have been a fluke.
Oddly, for the first time in my life, I was having serious doubts about my own abilities. That scared me a little.
No, it scared me a lot.
At the Canton Township PD, we introduced ourselves to Detective Grigsby, and he led us to his cubicle up on the second floor. On his desk sat a single file box. It was labeled with a number on one end. He rested his hand on the top.
“This is everything we have. The case is old. There’s not much to go on.”
“Thanks.” I eyed the small space. “We appreciate the chance to take a look.”
The phone rang. It was sitting on Grigsby’s desk, in the corner. We all stared at it.
As he eased past us to answer it, Grigsby said, “How about I set you up in a conference room where you’ll have space to spread things out?”
“Sounds good,” I said.
JT and I stepped outside his cubicle to wait while Grigsby took his call. Then we followed him down the hall to a conference room that boasted a big table and comfortable-looking metal-framed chairs, with cushy cloth seats.
After thanking the detective one last time, we dug into the box, pulling file folders out to inspect the photographs and reports.
The date on the box: August 7, 1984.
“Could it be the same unsub?” I asked. “That’s almost twenty-eight years ago.”
JT flipped through a report; then he handed it to me. “We did think the unsub had been at it for a while.”
Right off the bat, we could see the similarities in the cases. The victim was found in her bed. There’d been a small puncture wound in her groin. There’d been no sign of forced entry, no blood spatter, no trace evidence. And it was confirmed, the victim had been pregnant. But that infant had died in utero. And there was no mention of damage to the window screens in the room. From the photos, I concluded there was no alternative entry to the room, no fireplace or skylight. Of course, it would make no sense whatsoever to go inspect the windows now, nearly twenty-eight years later.
“The baby ...” I swallowed a hard lump in my throat.
“Maybe she hasn’t always delivered the infants before killing her victims? Perhaps she’s evolved?”
“Maybe. Other than that, it’s all familiar,” I said, summing up what I’d read.
“Keep reading.” JT, currently inspecting a photograph of the victim’s wound, handed me another folder. “Here.”
I accepted the folder and flipped it open. More photographs. Of the floor, the door, the windows. I noticed something in the last picture. Something pink was sticking out, seemingly caught between the window and the frame.
“JT, look at this.” I showed him the picture. “Could that be the proboscis?”
“Don’t know. But somewhere in here’s got to be an interview of the husband. Maybe he mentions something.”
I dug through the remaining paperwork until I found the interview transcript. It was lengthy. Clearly, the detective on the case at the time had suspected the husband of the crime. By the time I’d read through the entire thing, my stomach was rumbling again. We’d been sitting in that little room for over three hours, poring over the details of a decades-old case.
Ah, the glamorous life of an FBI agent.
“There’s nothing in here about the window or anyth
ing suspicious coming from it,” I grumbled.
JT stretched and yawned. “Maybe the husband didn’t mention it because he didn’t think it was relevant. I’d like to go talk to him.” He gave my noisy stomach a pointed look. “But we’d better stop somewhere along the way and get you something to eat. Or we won’t hear what he’s saying. He’ll have to shout over that noisy stomach of yours.”
My face probably turned ten shades of red. “Yeah, I could use a little something to eat.”
After calling Fred Isbell, the victim’s husband, to set up an appointment, making copies of some photos and documents, and calling Grigsby to thank him for giving us access to the files, we headed down to the lobby and stepped out into a sauna.
We dripped to our rental car. We zoomed up Canton Center Road, made a right at Ford, and considered our lunch options. I decided Burger King was as good as anything else, so JT maneuvered through the drive-through. Minutes later, I was munching on fries and a Whopper Jr. JT stuffed chicken fingers into his mouth as he drove.
Frank Isbell’s house was only a couple of miles from the restaurant. Fortunate enough, he still lived in the house he’d shared with his wife so long ago. We parked in front of the brick-and-vinyl 1970s boxy Colonial and finished our lunches. I grabbed Gabe’s laptop bag, looped the strap over my shoulder, and climbed out of the car. Right on time, we headed up to the front door and rang the bell.
Isbell answered right away.
We’d looked at pictures of him back then. Twenty-eight years ago, he’d been a young man in his prime. No longer youthful, but he still looked good for his age. His dark hair was now tinged gray at the temples. His body was thicker, and not nearly as sculpted. Otherwise, he hadn’t changed much.
“I’m Special Agent Jordan Thomas,” JT said as he offered Isbell his hand. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us on such short notice.”
“Not a problem.” Isbell motioned us inside. “I was glad to hear someone had taken an interest in my wife’s case. It’s been such a long time. I assumed it had been forgotten.” He led us into a living room, furnished with pieces that had to be original to the house. On the far wall was a fireplace. And above that mantel hung a painting of his wife. Isbell followed my gaze. “That’s Evelyn. Beautiful, wasn’t she?”
I nodded. “She was.”
“Evelyn was pregnant with our first child when she died. I lost both her and the child that night.”
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” I said.
Isbell cleared his throat. “How can I help you, Agents?”
Standing beside me, JT pulled out his little pocket notebook and flipped to an empty page. “We realize it’s been a very long time since that night, but we’d like to ask you some questions.”
“Sure, I’ll do my best.”
I pulled the picture of the window out of Gabe’s bag. “Do you happen to recall whether your bedroom window was open or shut that night?”
“Open, I believe.”
“It’s shut in the picture.” I handed him the copy we’d made.
“Yes, I shut it when it started raining, right after I discovered my wife. But I didn’t think anything of it. Surely, nobody climbed up the side of our house and into the window.”
He motioned for us to follow him. We went up the curved staircase to the second floor and turned in the first bedroom. He pointed at the window, which was narrow, maybe sixteen inches.
“This window looks out onto the attached garage’s roof, so I guess someone could climb up there. But it’s too small for an adult to fit through.”
I inspected the window, noting the aluminum sliding frame, which looked exactly like the picture.
“And do you remember noticing anything strange or unusual about the window when you closed it?” I asked as I slid the pane to the left to open it.
He squinted at the photo for a moment; then he looked at the actual window. His lips twisted. “Well, I saw something move as I shut it. It was a strange pink thing that looked a little like a worm or an insect.”
“Anything else?”
“Well, a few days later, I found a dead bird on my garage roof. But what would that have to do with my wife?”
“What did you do with the bird?” I asked as I poked my head out the window to check out the garage roof.
After twenty-something years, I had no hope that any evidence had been left behind, but I looked, anyway.
“Dumped it in the trash, of course.”
“Of course.” A rumble of thunder signaled an approaching storm. Just for kicks—the window frame was a little grungy, and there was a reddish smudge. I motioned to JT. “Swab?”
He pulled a swab out of the bag he was carrying and ran it along the window frame; then he stuck it into a plastic bag. I shut the window and turned to face the bed. JT was standing next to Isbell, looking tired and ready to leave. I guessed he was ready to head back to Quantico.
“Finished?” he asked.
“I guess so.” To Isbell, I said, “Thank you again for meeting with us. I appreciate it.”
We headed out.
In the car, JT gave me a sidelong glance. “What do you think you’re going to find on that window? That was over twenty-five years ago.”
“It was worth a shot.” I put the sample in Gabe’s laptop bag for safekeeping.
JT maneuvered the car to the main road. “Any DNA you find after all this time is bound to be contaminated, not to mention degraded.”
“Maybe. I’ve read very old DNA samples have been processed. Granted, under better conditions. The warmer and more humid the sample is kept, the faster it degrades. But what do we have to lose, right?”
“Sure.” After a beat, he asked, “So what do you think? Are we dealing with one unsub? Or a whole species?”
“I wish I knew.”
My phone rang. After a quick check, I answered.
It was bad news.
Confusion is a word we have invented for an order which is not understood.
—Henry Miller
14
Delivering bad news to Mom was always a dodgy prospect. She rarely ever took it well. Now she was pregnant. I’d never seen her pregnant. The last time she’d been pregnant I’d been the bun in the oven. All that to say, I had no idea how she was going to react to hearing the venue she’d chosen for her wedding was booked solid for the next year and a half. There was absolutely no chance she was going to be married at Maryvale Castle.
An hour after landing at the base in Quantico, I was standing outside my folks’ place. JT was at the office, taking care of a few things. We were meeting later at my place to go over my dad’s research.
I braced myself for a hysterical outburst and headed in, nodding to Sergio.
“She’s in the media room, downstairs,” he said.
“Thanks.” I hadn’t been in the media room downstairs, but I had some general idea of which direction I should be going. On my way toward the back of the house, I ran into my father. He was in the den watching a baseball game; or rather, he appeared, at first glance, to be watching a baseball game. Since his eyes were closed, I doubted that he was actually watching much of anything.
I didn’t wake him, just kept going. I found the basement stairs in the kitchen, closed behind a white paneled door. I knew what she was watching before I’d opened the door. She was definitely testing the capability of her surround sound.
Not bothering to knock—she wouldn’t have heard me—I headed down the narrow steps. At the bottom, I found myself in a full-fledged home theater, the kind with the fancy recliners set on risers. The TV/movie screen was positioned on the far wall. It wasn’t the size of a full movie screen, but it was pretty damn big. Which made what Mom was watching all the more disturbing.
A woman screamed, blood spurting from her neck as the guy with the mask attacked her with a chain saw.
Mom was reclined in a chair up front, munching on popcorn.
I took advantage of a rare quiet moment to shout, “Mom!
”
She jumped a little, then twisted to look my way. “Sloan? Is that you?”
The room was dark. I’d give her that. But who else would be calling her “Mom”? She pointed a remote at the screen and the movie paused.
“What are you watching?” I asked.
“It’s some silly movie. I don’t know why I’m watching it. What are you doing here?”
“We made plans. Remember?”
She looked at me as if she had no clue.
“We’re meeting with the woman you’d talked to on the Internet about officiating the ceremony.”
“Oh, yes!” Staring at the screen, Mom stuffed a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Chewed.
I checked my cell phone. “We’re going to be late.”
“I thought she was coming here.”
“No, she couldn’t,” I said to her profile as I rounded the front row of chairs. I stood smack-dab in front of her. “Remember? She has a wedding later. She agreed to squeeze you in.”
“Oh.” She leaned to one side, looking around me, and crammed another handful of popcorn into her mouth.
“Mom, if you don’t want to go—”
“Thanks! Let me know how it turns out.” She shooed me away.
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
Mom acted like she hadn’t heard me. She picked up the remote, made the volume higher, and resumed stuffing her face.
I was about to let her know I was not going alone, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.
My father.
“I’ll go with you.”
“All right.”
My father motioned for me to head upstairs, which I did. I heard him say something to my mother before joining me in the kitchen. Upstairs, he said, “I’ll drive. This’ll give me a chance to talk with you.”
“Is there something in particular you want to tell me?”
He motioned for me to wait, which I did. We headed out to the attached garage and boarded his black Lincoln Navigator. It looked fresh-out-of-the-showroom new. He didn’t speak until we’d turned onto the road.
“I’m worried about your mother.”
“Worried? Why?”
