Synopsis
Devon James is on the run from a killer who has been hunting her for years. When she discovers the murdered bodies of two co-workers, Devon knows it is time to run again. But before she can run, the police arrive and take her in for questioning.
Jordan Salinger is a Pittsburgh homicide detective on leave after a hostage standoff left her with a bullet wound in her shoulder and an even bigger hole in her heart. When she is called in by her partner to help with an uncooperative witness, Jordan has no idea that the woman holds the key to the murders and to her salvation.
With the murderer stalking them at every turn, can Devon and Jordan overcome the horrors that haunt them in time to save each other?
Season of the Wolf
Brought to you by
eBooks from Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
http://www.boldstrokesbooks.com
eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.
Please respect the rights of the author and do not file share.
Season of the Wolf
© 2014 By Robin Summers. All Rights Reserved.
ISBN 13: 978-1-62639-089-8
This Electronic Book is published by
Bold Strokes Books, Inc.
P.O. Box 249
Valley Falls, New York 12185
First Edition: March 2014
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Credits
Editor: Ruth Sternglantz
Production Design: Susan Ramundo
Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])
By the Author
After the Fall
Season of the Wolf
Acknowledgments
When I began writing this book, I thought it would be a relatively easy journey. I already had one book under my belt, after all, so this second one would naturally be a piece of cake. But, as is often the case in life, my journey took an unexpected turn.
A few months into writing Season of the Wolf, my dad—my rock, my inspiration, and my hero—was diagnosed with leukemia. He fought bravely, with more spirit and humor than anyone had any right to expect. His motto became our family’s: whatever it takes. He, and we, would do whatever it took to get him better and home.
Unfortunately, cancer cares little for intention or resolve, and after a courageous six-month battle, my dad passed away in May 2012. He was much too young, and he deserved far better.
Many things, as you might imagine, took a backseat during his illness. I was blessed in a way many are not, with an understanding boss, board of directors, and co-workers, who provided me with invaluable, precious time to spend at my dad’s side and with my family.
I was equally blessed to have a tremendous publisher, who gave me the time and the space to finish this book on my own terms. It took a long time after my dad’s death for me to begin writing again, far longer than I might have anticipated. But once I did begin to write, I found it was—as writing always has been for me—a balm for my wounded soul.
To my family and friends, thank you for your unending support, encouragement, and love, throughout the writing of this book and, more importantly, throughout my life.
To K, my love, for staying by my side through it all, and for being your wonderful, funny, intelligent, beautiful, loving self. You are still the best thing that ever happened to me.
To my editor, Ruth Sternglantz, for always answering my questions—no matter how inane—at all hours of the day and night.
It is said that we write what we know, which is certainly true. But it is also true that we write the truth of our characters, and sometimes that truth is not the same as our own.
I love wolves, and—despite a recurring adage within this book—do not advocate them being killed. It is a metaphor befitting the character’s past, and that is all. Anyone interested in the conservation and protection of wolves and their habitats should check out Wolf Haven International at http://www.wolfhaven.org.
I am also a big, big fan of the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU), and am deeply appreciative of their commitment to defending the individual rights and liberties guaranteed under the US Constitution. Everyone has rights…even serial killers. You can learn more about the ACLU’s work at www.aclu.org.
Dedication
For my dad, whom I love and miss every day.
Chapter One
Billy lifted the fork to his mouth, savoring the way the delicate crust melted on his tongue. He hadn’t had a piece of apple pie in years. He preferred to eat healthy—chicken breasts and brown rice, fresh fruits and vegetables, no butter, little fat. He wasn’t one of those “my body is a temple” nut bags. No, Billy’s discipline was born of dedication, his body a tool as essential to his trade as a knife to a chef or a badge to a cop.
He chuckled at that.
But smelling the pie that morning, fresh out of the oven with just a hint of cinnamon and brown sugar like his momma used to make, it clawed at his stomach. He’d just had to have a piece of that pie.
“I have to tell you, this might be the best pie I ever ate.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, talking to the waitress with the golden hair. “Don’t tell my momma I said that.”
He hummed to himself between bites, a melody of his own creation, inspired by the morning and, of course, by the pie. He found that music had a way of coming upon him that way, stirring up from his bowels, vibrating up and through his vocal cords in ways he had never contemplated and, he thought, no one else ever had, either. Sometimes he thought he might be a bit of a musical savant, a modern-day Beethoven who, if he ever sat down at a piano, would compose the most fantastic symphony ever heard. Of course, he never did sit down at a piano. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to play—although he didn’t—but more that somehow it seemed like an utter waste of time.
“This really is good pie,” he said as he chewed, looking down at his dining companion. “You sure you don’t want some?”
A pair of lifeless eyes stared accusingly up at him from the floor.
“Oh, come on now. Don’t be like that.” He laid his fork beside his plate and delicately wiped his mouth with the napkin from his lap. The woman—Sally, according to her name tag—lay on the dingy tile, her glossy curls a pristine halo around her head. The angelic aura was an illusion, however, undone by her corneas, which had begun to whiten, and the blood-soaked uniform covering the twelve ragged wounds.
Twelve was an important number to Billy. Twelve apostles. Twelve days of Christmas. Twelve years.
Billy swiveled away from the counter so he could face her directly. His momma had always told him it was rude not to give a person his full attention when he was speaking to them. Billy was nothing if not polite.
“It’s not your fault, honey. You just had the misfortune of working this morning. Couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t anything personal against you or that cook.” Billy glanced back toward the kitchen, where the cook was slumped down against the freezer with his throat slashed open. “Nope, nothing personal against either of you.”
The gray of early morning was beginning to filter through the slats of the closed window blinds, and Billy knew it was nearly time. In fact—he looked down at his watch—it’s a little past time. He cocked his head like a mutt puzzling over a scratching within the walls, listening for the telltale sound of keys scraping against the lock of the diner’s back door. Instead
of the sound he was waiting for, Billy could detect the incessant hum of the city waking around him, growing louder with each tick of the clock. Even though it was past time, he knew there was still time, though it was growing shorter.
A furious rapping at the door evaporated the time that was left. Billy sighed.
Of course.
Billy thought sometimes that God had a very interesting sense of humor.
He looked down again at Sally, the accusation at last fading from her blind stare. “But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength,” he said. “They shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.”
Isaiah 40:31. One of Pa’s favorites. Patience—and faith—would be rewarded.
Billy stood and fished around his front pocket, pulling out a fistful of change. He sorted through the assortment of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies with his index finger. “I know it was in here this morning. I really need to…ah, there you are.”
He lifted up a single penny and inspected it in the faint morning light. Mr. Lincoln’s profile seemed to have a harder edge, as if he were expressing his disapproval over Billy’s most recent activities. Billy turned the coin over and smiled fondly at the two stalks of wheat lining the sides. He walked over to the cash register, which hung open and empty save for a few loose bills and rolls of change, and carefully set the penny down on the counter next to it, wheat side up.
Billy came back around the counter and squatted next to Sally the waitress, being careful not to step in the blood congealing around her. He reached out his hand, brushing an errant curl from her forehead. He wished he could feel its softness on his skin, but the best he could do was imagine what it would feel like without the leather glove.
The rapping at the door began again, this time accompanied by, “Come on, Sally, open up. I’m starvin’!”
Knowing time was no longer on his side and God seemed to have plans different than Billy’s, he picked up his plate, fork, and napkin and took them into the kitchen. He washed the plate and fork and set them in the drainer to dry. The napkin he pocketed to throw away later. Then he exited the diner through the back door, shutting it with a soft click. He stood for a moment in the darkened alley, thinking maybe, just maybe, this was where it would happen. But as the morning’s rays began to dissolve the lingering shadows of night, Billy knew it was not meant to be. Not yet.
Twelve years and a day longer.
Chapter Two
Devon James ran down Grant Street, weaving between cranky pedestrians and dodging projectile paper cups and discarded morning newspapers propelled by the fierce November wind. She was late for work—again—though it was hardly her fault. The eighty-seven bus was supposed to run from East Liberty to downtown every ten minutes, at least according to the schedule. If that bus showed up once an hour, it was practically a miracle, complete with burning bushes and choirs of angels. The best Devon could figure, the folks at the Pittsburgh Port Authority managed their bus service like an ROTC cadet put in charge of the Normandy Invasion. They were simply in way over their heads.
Devon had learned quickly upon arriving in Pittsburgh that when planning her day, it was wise to think of the buses as operating in dog years—with the occasional leap year thrown in for fun—where ten minutes in normal, human, have-to-get-to-work time equaled seventy minutes in Pittsburgh-city-bus time, except when the buses skipped an hour if only because they could. So if she wanted to make it to work in time for her 6:00 a.m. shift, the only sure way to do it was to be at the bus stop by 4:30 a.m., which, on a double-shift day like the one she was facing today, was absolutely unthinkable. So she had convinced herself for what had to be the forty-third time over the last nine months that just this once the Port Authority gods would smile down upon her and allow her to catch the 5:22 a.m. bus and make it to work on time, as advertised.
Which was, of course, how Devon found herself dodging the aforementioned pedestrians and paper cups in a mad dash to make it the last four blocks and arrive at work nearly thirty minutes late. Not that running was going to help matters. Devon was going to catch hell. Again.
Good thing they’re all bark and no…
Devon skidded to a stop a block from the diner, brought to a halt by something she had never before seen. The restaurant appeared to be closed, and there was a line of impatient customers waiting out front in the cold. She approached the building cautiously, her instinct for self-preservation going from zero to sixty in the time it took to blink. Questions swirled in her mind as she approached the door.
“Hey, Devon, what gives?” one of the regulars asked as she reached the door.
“Yeah,” another regular chimed in. “What’s with the locked door? Sally didn’t go and get foreclosed on, did she?”
Devon tuned out the growing muttering of the small crowd and tested the door. Locked.
“What, you thought we were standing out here for our health?”
Devon ignored the sarcasm, entirely focused on the locked door and what it could mean.
Maybe Sally and Chuck overslept. Maybe they decided to take an impromptu vacation. Maybe Sally’s visit to the bank yesterday didn’t go well.
They were all reasonable guesses, except that in all the months Devon had worked at the diner, she had never known Sally to miss a day of work. Or Chuck. And Sally, who both owned the place and served as its main waitress, wouldn’t have asked Devon to work a double if she’d had any inkling the diner would be taken away. In fact, Sally had sounded downright upbeat about the future when she’d called Devon the day before.
“Shoot, you think I’m going to let those greedy sons of bitches take away everything I’ve worked for?” Sally said. “Not as long as there’s any breath left in this ol’ bag of bones.”
“You’re far from old, Sally,” Devon scoffed. Sally was only about ten years older than Devon. She hadn’t even turned forty yet.
“You’re damn right. And still hotter than a whore in church on Easter Sunday.”
Sally was nothing if not forthright. She was also demanding, hardworking, infuriating, and the closest thing Devon had—or would let herself have—to a friend.
“You gonna let us in or what?”
Devon shook herself out of the haze of memory and reflection and pulled the keys out of her bag. She unlocked the door and pulled it open, the bell above it chiming its cheery welcome. She stepped over the threshold. It took her a minute to adjust to the faint morning light pushing into the gloom.
“Holy Jesus.”
Devon barely registered the voice behind her. She was too focused on the body of her boss lying on the worn tile, the crimson gashes screaming at her in warning.
Dear Lord, please no.
All the convenient explanations she had come up with moments earlier vanished in an instant. Not that she had really believed any of them were true. Deep down, she had known what she would find when she stepped through that door.
She moved closer, her vision fixed on Sally. She didn’t see Chuck but she knew he, too, was dead. You didn’t need to feel the blade at your throat to know it was going to kill you.
The diner’s patrons called to her from the doorway, but she paid them no mind. Her gaze lingered on Sally a moment longer, a simple act of respect for one who had deserved better, and then it moved across the floor. Scanning. Seeking.
The voices behind her whispered urgently. She could hear their fear that whoever had done this terrible thing might still be within. But the killer was gone. She could feel it.
Finding nothing on the floor beyond body and blood, Devon edged around all that remained of Sally Pendleton. She moved instinctively toward the counter, noting the open and empty cash register. But Devon wasn’t interested in what had been taken, or even what remained. She was interested in what she knew had been left.
The penny shone like a lighthouse against a starless night, luring her in with its siren song. She knew before looking any closer, but s
he looked closer anyway. Two stalks of wheat lined the edges, mirror images bordering the words one cent in the upper center. Devon had seen many such pennies in her life. To some people, they were collector’s items. To Devon, they were the tangible proof of her eternal damnation.
Adrenaline surged in Devon’s veins, screaming at her to move. She began to backpedal, her limbs knowing what to do before her brain sent the signals. The adrenaline worked its will, lifting the fog from her mind until she could finally hear the voice screaming inside her head.
Run!
Devon turned, surging for the door, bursting through the crowded doorway and straight into the eye of a hurricane.
The cops had arrived. There was no escape.
Chapter Three
Despite the heavy clouds and cold wind that had overrun the city early that morning, it was turning into a surprisingly mild day. Jordan Salinger was grateful for the deviation from Pittsburgh’s normal November chill, for it enabled her to shed her coat while she carried the last box from the house to her black Jeep Cherokee.
Max, her faithful nearly one-and-a-half-year-old German shepherd, sat watching her in the yard. He had no tether, and he didn’t need one. Jordan had trained him too well to worry about him running off. The only time she even used a leash on Max was to comply with the city’s leash law when they walked down at Point State Park.
Max had been a gift a year earlier from her partner—well, former partner, really, though she had to force herself to think of him that way—Henry.
“Maybe taking care of him will help you take care of yourself,” he’d said. She’d bitched him out for interfering in her life and continued to grumble about it for months afterward, but he’d been right. Of course he’d been right. He usually was.
Season of the Wolf Page 1
