Season of the Wolf

by Summers, Robin

  No, that didn’t seem right, either. He assumed, in this age of women in the military and all, that the Pittsburgh BP had to have at least a couple of female homicide detectives. So why bring in someone from outside? Maybe his first supposition had been right after all.

  Billy shook his head. His mind was going in circles. But something about the woman that morning, about the way she had stood out front of the police station leaning against her car and staring up at the building, was sticking in Billy’s craw. Like she was hesitant to go inside.

  Billy was good at noticing the little things, always had been since Pa had first taken him hunting as a boy. “You have to pay attention, Billy,” his pa had said. “You have to look for the signs. The signs are everywhere if you know how to read them and are diligent enough to seek them out.” The signs his father had been referring to were far different than the one God had told Billy to watch for, but the lesson applied just the same. And the signs he was considering now were telling him something was a little off about this whole situation.

  When he had followed them from the police station, Billy had assumed they would be taking Maddie to a safe house somewhere, or maybe a motel. But the house they had gone into didn’t read like a safe house, at least not one that he’d ever heard about. Sure, the best place to hide someone was in plain sight, and there were plenty of police departments that used residential neighborhoods for witness protection, with safe houses looking like any other homes on nondescript blocks. But this place, with its flowers on the porch and manicured hedges and fall wreath on the front door looked too…lived-in.

  Another piece to the puzzle forming in his mind. Another piece that didn’t quite fit.

  A car passed by, the third one in the last half hour. For a quiet neighborhood, it sure was busy. He watched the car parallel park down the street. The driver got out and pushed a button on his remote, presumably locking the doors. Instead of heading up to the house he’d parked in front of, however, the driver glanced back down the street toward Billy’s car.

  It didn’t last more than a few seconds, but it was enough to tell Billy it was time to go. There was a reason police put safe houses in residential neighborhoods, after all. Suburban housewives bored with their soap operas were sure to notice an unknown car with a man sitting behind the wheel for hours on end.

  Billy waited for the man to go into the house before he pulled away from the curb and drove away. No need to draw the man’s suspicions any further by hightailing it out of there while the guy was still looking.

  He would rather have sat on the house the rest of the day to be sure they didn’t leave, but he had a strong feeling they wouldn’t be going anywhere. He’d return later, well after they had fallen asleep, to finish this thing once and for all. He couldn’t wait to see the look on his daughter’s face when they were finally reunited.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jordan gave Devon a tour of the house she had grown up in. She had not had a visitor other than Henry or Ella since moving back into her mother’s house, and it felt strange showing Devon where the towels were kept, the way that the hot-water tap in the upstairs bathroom tended to stick, and how to pour the first cup of freshly brewed coffee so the coffeepot didn’t leak all over the counter. Yet it also felt strangely normal, almost nice. She felt like she was thirteen again, showing a friend around who had come for a slumber party.

  They arrived at Jordan’s bedroom last, and she felt a mild sense of trepidation as she reached for the door handle. She hadn’t invited a woman anywhere near her bed in nearly a year. Not that she hadn’t been with anyone, nor that this was that kind of situation. Jordan told herself it was just awkwardness about having a woman in her room even though somewhere, deep down, she knew there was more to it. She felt exposed. Raw. Like she was opening the door to some part of herself instead of to a simple bedroom.

  Jordan opened the door, stepping through the threshold and off to the side. Unlike the rest of the tour, during which she had prattled on—nervously, much to her chagrin—about every nuance and flaw of the old house, here Jordan stood silently, allowing Devon to explore the room on her own terms.

  For more than a decade, Jordan’s mother had kept the room exactly as it had been when Jordan had left it for college at the age of seventeen. During her college years, she had been grateful for the preservation, for the room was familiar and safe, a space in which she always knew she belonged whenever she came home. After that, Jordan had begun thinking it was silly of her mother to keep the room as it had been, that she could put the space to a better purpose. She had told her mother as much, but her mom had always replied, “I have all the space I need, Jordan. This space will always be for you, whenever you want or need it.”

  Not long before she was shot, Jordan’s mother had finally changed her mind about the decor. It was as if somehow she had known Jordan would be needing it again, and not as some shrine to her childhood. Gone were the Indigo Girls posters and athletic trophies, replaced by Jordan’s favorite Ansel Adams print and photos from her life: her college graduation, the white-water rafting trip she and her mother had taken just before she entered the police academy, her academy graduation, the day she got her gold shield. It was her mother’s attempt at reminding Jordan of who she still was as opposed to who she had been. Jordan had added to the photos over the last year, including one of her, Henry, and Max working on the front porch of the cabin. Max had the audacity to look disgruntled at the mess the sweaty, grimy humans had made of his prime napping spot.

  Devon stopped before the photos atop the dresser. Jordan watched her study each one in turn, watched the myriad emotions flicker across her face. When she came to the newest photo from the cabin, a slow smile turned up the corners of Devon’s mouth. She looked over at Jordan.

  “These are nice photos.”

  “Mostly my mother’s work,” Jordan explained, as if she needed to apologize.

  Devon carefully picked up one of the photos. “Is this your mother?”

  “Yes.” It was taken the day Jordan became a detective. Her mother stood with her arm around Jordan’s shoulders, her face lit up with pride, matching Jordan’s. Caroline stood beside Jordan, too, but the smile on her face did not quite reach her eyes. Jordan had never noticed it before, but now she could see the distance between them, despite her arm around Caroline’s waist.

  “She’s lovely,” Devon said softly, and Jordan understood that she wasn’t referring to her mother.

  “Her name is Caroline,” Jordan said. “We aren’t together anymore.” She wasn’t sure what made her add that last part.

  Devon hummed thoughtfully. “It’s good to have such moments captured.”

  Jordan couldn’t help but wonder if Devon had any photos of her own. She decided the answer was most likely no, and the reality of that truth pierced her like an arrow through her heart.

  “You know, if there’s anything back at your apartment that you want, we can send someone over to your apartment later—”

  “No, thanks,” Devon said, shrugging. “There’s nothing there that means anything.”

  The confirmation cut through Jordan. She wanted to reach out but decided such a move might only make Devon feel worse. “Well, I think my clothes will fit you,” Jordan said, changing the subject. She walked over to the closet. “Actually, they might be a little big,” she said, sifting through the hangers.

  “You can’t be serious?” Devon said with a laugh. “You’re tiny.”

  Jordan’s head whipped around. “I am not tiny.”

  Devon held her hands up in surrender. “Not what I meant. You are a force to be reckoned with. I just meant you’re no bigger than me. More muscular, sure, and toned…”

  Devon trailed off, and Jordan grinned at the flush staining the woman’s cheeks. A flirty retort almost crossed Jordan’s lips before she caught it. The here and now was neither the time nor the place.

  “Anyway,” Devon said with a nervous laugh, “I think your clothes will fit me
just fine, Detective.”

  “I think we’re past formal titles now, don’t you?” Jordan asked, echoing Henry’s earlier words. She stepped back from the closet. “I mean, you are going to be wearing my clothes and all. You might as well call me Jordan.”

  Devon tilted her head, seeming to study her, and Jordan wondered what was going through her mind. “Okay,” Devon said finally. “Jordan.”

  Jordan’s heart fluttered as her name passed Devon’s lips for the first time. There was something in the way Devon said her name, throaty and soft and sweet all at once, like honey lacing a glass of whiskey. It rang in her head, reverberating down her spine until it settled deep in her belly. A slow, steady warmth spread outward from there, reaching into all the cold, empty places inside. It was like nothing Jordan had ever felt before.

  Her mind swam and her heart began to race. She could feel the walls she had so carefully constructed over the last year and a half, the ones which had started to fall at the simple act of Devon saying her name, begin to rise high, protecting her heart once more. And for the first time she could remember, she wasn’t sure she wanted them to. Still, old habits were hard to break for a reason, and Jordan breathed easier when she felt the last stone in her defenses slide back into place.

  She remained unsettled, her thoughts about what had just transpired churning in her mind, until a loud, low growl pierced the air. Jordan tensed, assuming the sound had come from Max, but the dog sat staring up at her, his head cocked to the side as if to say, What are you looking at lady? It wasn’t me.

  That’s when she noticed Devon’s hand across her stomach and the sheepish look on her face. Jordan chuckled. “Hungry?”

  “I guess I am,” Devon said with a matching chuckle.

  “That’s not surprising. You probably haven’t eaten since, what? About five?”

  “More like eight last night. I skipped breakfast.”

  Jordan slapped a hand on her thigh. “Well that settles it. A late lunch it is.”

  *

  Henry sat staring at the notepad in front of him, going over the scraps of information he and Lawson had cobbled together. It wasn’t much. All they’d really been able to do was confirm part of what Devon had told them.

  They’d been making calls and searching databases since returning to the station. He’d filled in the captain, who—once Henry had laid out Devon’s story and the evidence so far—agreed that the diner murders were unrelated to the recent robberies. The captain would go to bat with the brass about using Jordan as a consultant on the case. As much as Henry wanted Jordan back full time and officially, he’d settle for what he could get. And he’d make Jordan’s status work for them. Given what they already knew about Billy, the more outside the box they could take things, the better off they were.

  Henry scanned the page before him, working the details through in his mind. Devon James, real name Madison Montgomery, was born in April 1985 to Marie and Billy Dean Montgomery in Des Plaines, Illinois, not long after the couple had moved there from West Virginia. They relocated to Roscoe, Illinois, sometime around 1989, whereupon Billy had taken a job as a sheriff’s deputy. It wasn’t clear whether the job had precipitated the move or vice versa. Beyond the sheriff’s office, Billy’s job history was thin—a lot of odd jobs here and there, but nothing very solid before Roscoe. On a blind inquiry to the Illinois State Police, Henry had been surprised—and delighted—to learn that Billy had applied to be a state highway patrolman in the mid-1980s but had been turned down. The state police kept records going back decades, and they had already forwarded Billy’s application and, even better, fingerprints. No photo, but the fingerprints would be helpful. Marie had taught part-time at the local kindergarten for a couple of years, but tax records indicated she hadn’t worked after 1992. In November 2000, when Devon was still fifteen, a fire at the Montgomery home had claimed the lives of Marie and Billy. The house had exploded and burned to the ground.

  The local newspaper ran several stories on the fire and ensuing investigation, and listed the obituaries and funeral services for Marie and Billy Dean Montgomery. They were buried in different cemeteries on the same day. Henry suspected that had been Devon’s doing, not that he could blame her. None of the news reports mentioned anything about Marie being murdered, save one. A story in a nearby town’s paper a few days after the fire had a couple lines about the police investigation and said there was evidence of foul play in reference to Marie’s death. But that was the last mention of it anywhere.

  He hadn’t yet gotten a copy of the autopsy reports, the case file on the fire, or Billy’s personnel file from the sheriff’s office. He’d put in the requests but knew small towns were often the last to upgrade to electronic records. Everything he was looking for was likely in a box in some dank basement somewhere, if it still existed, and the department wouldn’t be in any hurry to dig up the files on a twelve-year-old case, let alone one that involved one of their own. Henry sighed. Short of going out there and finding those files himself, he’d be lucky to get his hands on them by Christmas.

  Chapter Twelve

  “So what was it like? Growing up in Illinois?”

  The question startled Devon. One minute they were making idle conversation as they washed and dried the lunch dishes, the next minute…for a few blissful moments, she’d nearly forgotten Jordan was a cop.

  “It was okay, I guess.”

  “That’s not really an answer,” Jordan said, handing the final plate to Devon to dry. She shut off the faucet.

  “I know,” Devon said, trying not to sound defensive.

  “Was there any other family besides you, your mom, and Billy?”

  “I had a grandmother—my mom’s mom. But she was in West Virginia and I never really saw her. She died when I was five. Mom said her daddy had died when she was a girl.”

  “What about Billy’s side?”

  “There was no one. He didn’t have any siblings, I don’t think. He never really talked about his parents, though I heard him once say his father had been a preacher. Mom never talked about them, either. I never knew them.”

  “What else do you remember?”

  She set the now-dry plate on the counter and wiped her hands. Jordan had turned so she was leaning back against the sink. She watched Devon expectantly. Devon sighed. She walked over to the kitchen table and sat down. She knew what Jordan wanted to hear.

  “For a long time, it was normal, I guess,” Devon said, meeting Jordan’s gaze. “At least, I didn’t know any different. I was an only child, with a mother and a father who loved me.”

  Jordan stayed leaning against the sink. Devon appreciated the space.

  “My mom worked some when I was younger. She taught at my school, though I wasn’t in her class. Then she stopped working. I never really knew why. She always seemed a little sad about it, but she never said anything. I didn’t really care, honestly, because it meant I got to spend more time with her. Everyone always thought she was kind of quiet and shy, but when it was just the two of us…I remember she had such an imagination. She was always telling me stories about faraway lands and beautiful but brave princesses who battled dragons and evil kings.”

  “No princes to rescue the princesses?”

  “Never,” Devon said, smiling broadly. “Mom always said a lady needed to know how to rescue herself because there wouldn’t always be someone around to rescue her.”

  “Smart woman.”

  Devon grew pensive. “Yeah. I wish she’d been able to take her own advice.”

  “When did things change?”

  “I know earlier I said things changed, but I’m not sure they changed, so much as I became more aware of what was really going on. The differences in my mother when Billy was around and when he wasn’t. The differences in me.”

  “He was gone a lot?”

  Devon hesitated. They were edging toward territory she didn’t want to go anywhere near. “He worked a lot. Picked up extra shifts when he could. With mom not working, the
re wasn’t much in the way of extra money.”

  “So when he was home, how were things?”

  “When I was younger, they were great. I really did adore him. Maybe it was because he was working all the time. You always want what you don’t have, and what I didn’t have was a lot of time with Billy. But when I got older, maybe ten or eleven, I started noticing things. The way my mom got quiet when Billy was home. She hunched her shoulders more, and she never did that when he wasn’t around. She always seemed just a little bit sad, but she tried so hard to hide it.”

  “Did he hit her?”

  It had been so long ago, and she rarely thought of her childhood anymore. Anytime she did think back that far, her mind caught on the memory of her mother’s murder, and it cast a long, terrible shadow over her memories. “Not that I remember. Not that I saw. Not until that day.”

  Jordan settled into the chair next to Devon’s and rested her forearms on the table. Her voice grew quiet. “The day he killed her.”

  Devon nodded.

  “But before then, your mother was afraid of him.”

  Devon nodded again, more slowly this time. She knew what her mother had felt, what she had felt back then, but had a hard time separating it from the other fear, the one that came later. The one that came after the darkness and desolation and pain and terror. The one that came not from the unknown, but from the knowing.

  “It was like a shadow. I don’t know when exactly I became aware of it, or why. But once I recognized it, it was always there. I could feel it, this cold malevolence surrounding him, radiating from him. I just knew what would happen if we crossed him, if we displeased him. So we didn’t. And we weren’t the only ones.”