“Jesus.” Jordan distantly heard the word slip from Henry’s lips. She probably would have said the same if she’d been able to force any sound from her throat. Despite everything she had seen in her years on the force, every terrible tale a witness had ever told her, Devon’s story was horrific beyond measure. It wasn’t that Devon had witnessed her own mother’s murder, or that her father had committed it, or even the gruesomeness of the crime. It was the coldness of it. The murder of Devon’s mother had not been a crime of passion or even rage. Though the violence may have started as an explosion of anger, the murder had been full of contemptuous calculation.
Devon continued to speak as if on autopilot, but Jordan saw the tears gathering, tears Devon seemed to be refusing to let fall by force of will alone. Jordan wondered how strong this woman had to be to keep herself together.
“When her body fell to the floor, something inside me snapped. I moved without thinking. I didn’t care about the knife in his hand or that he was bigger than me. I ran at him with everything I had. I guess he wasn’t expecting it because he stumbled backward and we fell into the stove and then to the floor. I started whaling on him, but it didn’t take long for him to push me off. He stood over me, smiling this sick smile, and I knew I was done. That’s when I saw the flames behind him.”
Devon smiled hollowly and shrugged, almost apologetically. “I guess when we fell into the stove, something caught. A towel maybe, I don’t know. In seconds, the curtains were on fire, and there was all this smoke. Billy must have smelled it because he turned his head, just for a second. I scrambled to my feet and kneed him in the crotch. He never saw it coming. Then I reached for the closest thing I could find. I swung as hard as I could with Mom’s rolling pin. I nailed him in the side of the head, and I ran out of the house.”
Devon let out a breath, like she’d been holding it for years. Jordan found herself doing the same and attempted to quiet the pounding of her heart. Devon looked at Jordan, as if maybe she thought Jordan was going to pull out her handcuffs and arrest her on the spot. Devon had left her father in the house to die. Bastard deserved it, as far as Jordan was concerned. Legally speaking, it was a clear case of self-defense, and Jordan would fight anyone who said otherwise.
“What happened after you left the house?” Jordan asked. She was surprised by how steady her voice sounded given the blood rushing in her ears and her still-racing heart. She thought she caught a fleeting smile of relief, or perhaps gratitude, cross Devon’s lips. Jordan hoped it meant Devon understood she was still safe with her. With them.
“I stood out on the front lawn, watching the fire engulf the house. I couldn’t seem to look away, I think partly because I expected to see Billy stumbling out the front door. But he never did. I guess the fire department arrived because the next thing I knew I was being dragged away from the house and a fireman was asking if I was all right and if anyone was in the house. I told them yes, but before they could go in, the house exploded. Billy kept a propane generator in the garage, and they said later that’s what had caused the explosion.
“It was days before they were able to recover the bodies. The house was completely leveled. I told the sheriff what had happened. He didn’t believe it. None of the other deputies did, either. They questioned me for days. I guess they finally believed me when they pulled the remains from the house. The sheriff’s official report said everything happened the way I said it did.”
If Devon thought Billy was responsible for the murders in the diner, she believed he’d survived the fire. Jordan couldn’t keep herself from asking, “Did they do DNA to be sure?”
“It was a small town. They didn’t have a lot of need for DNA testing there, so no.”
“So they weren’t positive it was Billy and your mother,” Jordan said. “Or even that it was two bodies.”
Devon smiled sadly. “They said they were sure. One of the deputies said there was evidence that my mother’s throat had been cut. I guess that was enough to confirm my story. I didn’t think about it much until later.”
Jordan had run into this kind of thing before. Small-town cops were often ill prepared for big-city crimes, and they sometimes closed cases based on assumptions rather than facts. She knew it was usually a matter of inexperience or no budget to properly investigate, or both, but that knowledge didn’t make her want to kick that sheriff’s ass any less.
“I went into foster care after that. It wasn’t great, but it was okay. One of my mom’s friends took me in. I lived with them nearly two years. Her husband never really knew what to say to me. Neither did the kids. But Debra was nice enough.”
Jordan could picture Devon in that house, being eyed with suspicion, never fitting in. Never feeling loved. Jordan’s heart broke at the thought.
“I worked hard and got good grades, enough to get a scholarship to Northern Illinois University after graduation. I tried not to think much about what had happened. I thought it was all behind me. I was wrong. A few weeks after school started, I came back to the dorm and found my roommate dead on my bed.”
So this was the origin of Devon’s belief that Billy had survived the fire. “And you thought Billy was responsible.” A statement, not a question. The investigator in Jordan, however, was not yet convinced. Devon shifted uncomfortably. Jordan perceived a mixture of frustration and worry in Devon’s movements.
“Her wallet and some jewelry were missing. The cops said there were no signs of forced entry or obvious signs of a struggle, though a couple of people reported they thought they had heard what sounded like an argument and a man’s voice,” Devon said. Then she looked at Jordan meaningfully. “And her throat was cut.”
It was far from conclusive, but it was more than coincidence. The likelihood of Devon knowing two people killed by having their throats cut was extremely slim, let alone three if you counted Chuck Pendleton. Unless Devon was the killer. Every instinct told Jordan that was not the case. She just didn’t sense a killer inside of Devon.
“Did you tell the police about Billy?”
“I tried. They didn’t believe me.”
“Why not?” Jordan asked, anger creeping into her voice. The sheriff’s incompetence after the fire was bad enough, but the thought that the police had let Devon down a second time was intolerable.
Devon smiled her first genuine smile since they had begun talking, and Jordan felt herself blush.
“Her stuff was missing, so they figured she’d walked in on someone robbing her. But like I said, there was no forced entry and no sign of a struggle. And Billy was supposedly dead.”
“But the witnesses—”
“The witnesses were shaky. They weren’t sure what they heard exactly. They eventually decided they hadn’t heard anything after all.”
Jordan was all too familiar with witnesses’ forgetfulness. One minute they were sure they had heard or seen something, the next they weren’t sure of anything. These memory failures usually happened right around the time they realized that being a witness might mean they had to testify in court someday.
“So the police…what? Sent you home? With your roommate’s murderer on the loose?”
“Not exactly,” Devon responded. “They questioned me for…well, for a while. When they finally let me go, they told me not to leave town. I got the definite impression I was their only suspect.”
Jordan couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She had thought the cops were simply incompetent, not downright stupid.
“I’m sure they thought I was crazy,” Devon rushed on. “I can’t really say I blame them. I probably would have thought I was crazy, too.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Jordan said quickly but firmly. Her gut—and years of experience as a cop—told her Devon was telling the truth.
Jordan read the gratitude, and the relief, on Devon’s face. She saw Devon’s tears well up again, and even though Jordan knew they were likely a positive autonomic response to her belief in Devon, she would have given anything not to have bee
n their cause.
“What happened after they sent you home?”
“I couldn’t go back to the dorm. I…I was scared. He was out there, somewhere, waiting for me.”
“Forgive me for asking this, but why didn’t he try to kill you? Why go after your roommate?”
Devon didn’t answer immediately. Jordan watched her process her response. “I don’t know for sure. I was usually home earlier in the day, but not that day. I have always thought he intended to kill me, but for some reason he killed her instead.”
Jordan suspected there was more Devon wasn’t saying, but there would be time for that later. “So what did you do when you left the police?”
“I just…I knew he was going to come for me. I knew if I stayed, he would kill me this time. And frankly, I thought if he didn’t get me, the police would.”
“So you ran.”
Devon nodded. “I didn’t even go back to the dorm for my things. I had thirty-five dollars in my wallet, and I went straight to the bus station and took the first bus out of town. I’ve been running ever since.”
It was just as Henry had suspected.
She’s been on the run for ten years. Christ.
“You’ve moved a few times, I suspect.”
“I’ve lived in different cities, changed my name and my hair. I didn’t want to take any chances. For a long time, I thought I was safe. And then this.”
After all that time, he had somehow found her again. Either this guy was frighteningly resolved in his twisted desire to kill Devon, or he was one lucky son of a bitch.
“Why do you think Billy committed the murders here, today?” Henry’s voice snapped Jordan out of her thoughts. “Did you see him?”
Jordan looked at Henry questioningly, but his face was unreadable. She wasn’t sure where he was going with this and had half a mind to pull him out of the room to find out, but Devon answered before Jordan could act. “No. I never saw him.”
“Then why are you sure it was him?” Jordan bristled at her partner’s implied accusation even though his tone held no trace of challenge. He was asking the question gently, almost like he was trying to help Devon acknowledge the last piece of the puzzle. “Sally’s throat wasn’t cut.”
“No. But I’m sure you found the penny.”
Henry nodded, and Jordan understood. Devon had not seen Chuck’s slashed throat when she had entered the diner that morning, but she had seen the wheat penny, left behind like a calling card.
Chapter Nine
Henry had heard enough, and one look at Jordan told him she had heard enough, too. He had been right to call her in, though the story Devon had told them was far beyond anything he had expected. Henry still had a number of questions, about the ten years Devon spent on the run, about why Billy had waited two years to come after her at the college, and about how Billy had found her so many years later in Pittsburgh. There would be time to learn those answers, with Jordan’s help.
Henry moved toward the door, and through the unspoken communication they had built during their partnership, Jordan followed.
“We’ll be right back,” Jordan told Devon as she exited the room. Henry didn’t miss the reassurance in Jordan’s voice, nor how Jordan quickly but gently squeezed Devon’s shoulder as she walked past. Henry smiled to himself. Yes, he had definitely been right to call Jordan. She left the conference room door open behind her, a signal to Devon that they were not trying to hide anything from her. Henry walked to the center of the bullpen and turned to his partner.
“You found a wheat penny?” Jordan asked.
“Yes. On the counter.”
Jordan ran a hand through her cropped hair and began pacing. It was a familiar habit, one she employed anytime she was trying to process her thoughts. Henry’s heart swelled. It was good to have her back, even if only temporarily.
“She could have killed them. Planted the coin at the scene,” Jordan said.
“Yes.”
“But I don’t think so.”
“Neither do I. The evidence doesn’t support it. It’s not as easy to slit someone’s throat as they make it look on television. It takes some strength, and skill. And she would have had at least some blood on her clothes. The only way she shows up to discover the bodies in a clean uniform is—”
“Is if she stashes the bloody clothes nearby. And the weapon. There wouldn’t have been time for anything else. And you didn’t find anything, did you?”
“No.”
“We also have to acknowledge the possibility that she’s making all this up. About her father.”
“Yes.”
“It’s…it’s an unbelievable story.”
“Yes.”
“To watch your father brutally murder your mother, so suddenly and cruelly. She had her whole family taken away, then was taken in by strangers, but clearly…I mean, thank God they took her in, but can you imagine? Feeling so isolated, so alone. And then to have your father, who’s not actually dead like you and everyone else think he is, stalk you, murder your roommate. And to have no one to turn to, no choice but to run, to become someone else, over and over again. Never feeling safe, never trusting anyone.”
“Yes.”
“And on top of everything, the bastard’s a cop! A small-town cop, but a cop nonetheless.”
“Yes.”
Jordan looked at Henry, her certainty bright and unshakeable. “I believe her, Henry.”
“So do I.”
“She’s in danger.”
“Agreed.”
“You know there’s more to this story yet.”
“Yes.”
Jordan exhaled slowly. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
“Okay,” Jordan said, nodding. “I’m in. All the way.”
Henry smiled broadly. Jordan rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide the grin tweaking the corners of her mouth. She punched him lightly in the arm.
I’m keeping my promise, Ella. One step at a time.
“What do you want to do?”
Jordan looked back toward the conference room. Henry followed her line of sight. Devon was watching them, a mixture of confusion and hope on her face.
“I want to get her out of here,” Jordan said.
“Safe house?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Jordan said, turning back to Henry. “This guy’s smart, Henry. If everything Devon said is true, then he’s killed at least twice before this, faked his own death, and somehow managed to find Devon after a decade. And he was a cop. I’ll bet you ten to one he’s read every police procedure manual out there. He’ll know what to expect from us. Better we do things he doesn’t expect.”
What Jordan was saying made sense. “So we’re staying off the grid, then?”
“For now. You know where we should take her?”
Henry knew exactly where Jordan meant. “Yep.”
“We need to get a better sense of just who this guy is, Henry. What he’s done. What he’s capable of.”
“Which is exactly why I brought you in, Jordan.”
Jordan grew quiet. She frowned slightly. “I thought you just needed my…brokenness.”
The wound beneath her words clenched Henry’s heart.
“I thought you would connect with her, yes,” Henry said, pushing back his guilt. “I won’t deny that. But you also happen to be the best profiler I know, and even before Devon told us about her father, I thought we might need those skills of yours. And now I’m sure.”
Jordan looked up at him through haunted eyes. “What if I’m not up to this?”
Henry squeezed her shoulder. “You are.”
Jordan shrugged off his hand almost defiantly, her fear flashing to anger in an instant. “You say that, but you don’t know. What if I let you down? Let her down? I can’t have any more blood on my hands!”
Jordan’s words echoed off the walls of the squad room. The silence that followed was deafening. Everyone was watching Jordan now. Her face paled.
Henry reached out a ha
nd to steady her. She wasn’t really angry with him. They’d had this argument before. She was angry with herself, hated herself, for the two cops and the little boy she could never bring back.
Slowly the ever-present hum of the squad room returned, filling the lingering silence. No one wanted to make Jordan feel any worse than she already did. They all knew she blamed herself, just as they all—or at least most of them—knew what had happened hadn’t been her fault.
“I need you on this, Jordan,” Henry said softly. “I need your insight. I need your skill. Most of all, I need my partner.”
Jordan stared up at him unblinking. Finally, her decision made, she blew out a breath and nodded.
*
Devon didn’t know exactly how she ended up standing in the doorway of the conference room, but there she was, just the same. Blood on her hands, that’s what Detective Salinger had said. No, not said. Shouted. Regardless, it was something Devon understood all too well. Blood. There had been so much blood. There still was.
Something else she understood was the pain lacing the detective’s words. Detective Salinger had recovered some of her color, but she still seemed unsteady. Devon could stay away no longer and walked cautiously over to the two detectives.
“Ms. James,” Lieutenant Wayne said as Devon approached.
Detective Salinger turned to Devon. “Sorry about that,” she said quietly.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” Devon said. The statement was directed toward Detective Salinger, but was really meant for both her and the lieutenant. “I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused, for both of you. Maybe I should just—”
“No,” Detective Salinger interrupted sharply, then softened her words. “No. That wasn’t really about you. Don’t worry about it. We’re going to help you.”
Season of the Wolf Page 6
