Season of the Wolf

by Summers, Robin

  “You should see the other guy,” Jordan joked.

  Devon ignored her. As gently as she could, she settled the frozen peas against Jordan’s side. Jordan jumped slightly and gritted her teeth, but soon a little of the color returned to her cheeks, the cold seeming to dull at least some of her pain.

  “We’re going to need another ice pack for your cheek,” Devon said as calmly as she could manage. The sight of another bruise forming on Jordan’s beautiful skin upset her deeply. She forced herself to keep her tone neutral, even light. “You have any other injuries I should know about?”

  Jordan stared at Devon for a moment and started to shake her head, then stopped. Devon watched whatever was going through Jordan’s mind play out across her face. “I hit my head earlier,” Jordan said, like she’d gotten knocked about in a basketball game instead of having fought off a madman.

  “Hold this for a minute, okay?” Devon placed Jordan’s hand over the makeshift ice pack at her side, and she went back to the freezer and retrieved two more bags of vegetables. “Let me take a look.”

  She handed Jordan one of the bags for her cheek. She delicately probed Jordan’s scalp, finding a small but noticeable lump on the back of her head. She took the remaining ice pack and held it to Jordan’s head.

  “You could have a concussion,” Devon said quietly. Jordan’s pain was almost too much to bear.

  “Nah, I have a hard head.” Jordan laughed.

  But if her intent had been to lighten the mood, it had the exact opposite effect on Devon.

  “You need to see a doctor. You might have broken ribs, or internal bleeding. You—”

  “I’m fine,” Jordan interrupted, standing. “Really. It’s no big deal.”

  “Damn it, Jordan,” Devon said sharply, the reality of Jordan’s injuries setting in, “he could have killed you.” Devon’s heart raged. She folded her arms, as if that might somehow keep her heart from exploding right out of her chest. She hated what Billy had done, hated that she had brought him into Jordan’s and Henry’s lives, a plague that would infect anything and everyone in its path.

  “Hey,” Jordan said softly, stepping closer, “Let me give you the nickel tour of the place, and then I think we should try to get at least a couple hours of sleep. It’s been a long night. Okay?”

  The expression Jordan wore—so open and caring and utterly charming—and the gentle reassurance in her voice nearly melted Devon’s heart. She nodded her assent and took Jordan’s outstretched hand. Max, who had wisely been sitting at the edge of the kitchen watching the scene from a safe distance, followed them. Jordan did not let go of Devon’s hand, and Devon took strength from the simple gesture.

  “I threw some clothes in here for you,” Jordan said, pulling a few items out of the duffel bag. “They’re not much, but I’ve got some more stuff in the back of the truck. The cabin’s not big, but it’s comfortable. At least, I think so.”

  “It’s lovely,” Devon said, and she meant it. The home was wood from top to bottom, a deep cherry color that was rich and warm. The large front room included both the kitchen and living area, and a large stone fireplace that was clearly more than just decorative flanked one end of the room. A chocolate-brown leather sofa adorned with a purple-and-blue afghan faced the fireplace, the couch serving as a natural break between the living room and kitchen. Two large bookshelves sat astride the fireplace, every inch of them packed with books. A small television sat on a table in one corner of the room, as if it was an afterthought. In the other corner, a wingback reading chair sat in front of the window, and Devon could imagine spending an afternoon tucked into it, her legs curled up beneath her, reading some delicious novel. A surprisingly spacious bathroom held both a shower and an invitingly deep claw-foot bathtub. The bedroom was decorated in various shades of blue, a four-poster bed dominating the space. Devon thought the cabin was the personification of Jordan: strong yet soft, no-nonsense but never boring, understatedly elegant and infinitely compelling.

  Jordan gave Devon’s hand a light squeeze and then finally let it go. Devon’s hand still tingled everywhere their skin had touched. Jordan set the clothes on the bed.

  “Well, uh,” Jordan started, seemingly having trouble finding her words. Devon thought she was adorable. “You should get some sleep,” Jordan finally said, starting for the door.

  Realization hit Devon then. “I’m not taking the bed.”

  “Yes, you are,” Jordan responded, flashing a dazzling smile.

  *

  Jordan’s kitchen looked as if a bomb had gone off, without the fire damage. Broken glass was everywhere. Henry could discern at least three different types: the remains of a vase, which lay smashed on the floor in a pool of water near the dining table, its flowers withering at the center of the debris; what appeared to have once been a drinking glass, which had seemingly exploded upon impact against one of the kitchen walls; and the shattered ruins of the sliding glass door.

  Henry stood at the edge of the kitchen, waiting for the Mobile Crime Unit detective to finish photographing the room. Much of the glass from the sliding door had landed outside the house as Billy had crashed through it, but splinters still covered the kitchen floor, twinkling like a million tiny stars with each flash of the tech’s camera.

  And there was blood. A small spray raced up one of the kitchen cabinets. Droplets beat an irregular pattern from the middle of the kitchen to the sliding door. Crimson lined the edges of some of the larger shards of glass near the doorframe. They had also found another small spray pattern in the grass just outside the door.

  From the blood trail, and from what Jordan had told him, the events reformed in his mind like a storyboard. The blood would be Billy’s, or at least most of it would be, Henry was sure. The red painting the cabinets and kitchen floor was from the broken nose Jordan had given Billy, the staining of the door glass from Billy breaking through it, and the pattern outside from the gunshot he had apparently suffered at Jordan’s hand. It wasn’t enough blood to indicate anything more than a scratch, but Jordan had hit him just the same. She had really done a number on him. Henry had to smile at that.

  The tech finished taking pictures and a different detective began dusting for prints. Henry knew they would find none. But they had Billy’s blood now, which would help them put him away later. Unfortunately, it would do nothing to help them catch the bastard.

  Henry heard a set of heavy footsteps behind him. He turned to find Captain Buchanan standing at the kitchen threshold, eyes wide.

  “My God,” Buchanan said sadly. “I got a call that a PBP detective’s house was broken into and there was an altercation of some kind. When I realized it was Salinger…are they okay?”

  “They’re okay,” Henry answered.

  “What happened?”

  He led Captain Buchanan through the crime scene and the events as he knew them. They ended up standing in front of the bullet hole in the frame of the sliding glass door, the bullet having already been collected as evidence. Buchanan traced the hole with a latex-gloved finger.

  “Where are they now?” Buchanan asked.

  “Somewhere safe,” Henry answered. “I don’t know exactly where. Jordan didn’t say. She’s being understandably cautious.”

  “You two were right to hold this one close. But even so…” Buchanan trailed off, looking again at the remains of the kitchen. “How did he find them so fast?” he muttered, almost to himself.

  “Our best guess is he followed us,” Henry said, his tone revealing only a fraction of the remorse he felt.

  “Followed you? From where?” Buchanan’s voice rose in disbelief, then crashed back down in realization. “From the police station.”

  “He must have been at the diner watching for her. When he saw us put Devon in our car, he followed and waited. Then he followed us again.” Henry still had a hard time believing it. It wasn’t that unusual for a perp to lurk at a crime scene, but it was highly unusual for one to follow the cops from the crime scene to another
location, let alone to a second. Then again, everything about this case was highly unusual.

  “That takes a distressing level of patience.”

  “And skill. I saw nothing between the station and the house. If he was tailing us, he’s damn good.”

  Buchanan’s forehead was lined with concern. He looked toward the front of the house. “He could be out there now.”

  Henry had thought of that. “I’ve got a couple of unis out front keeping an eye on the crowd, looking for anyone suspicious. But we don’t have much of a description beyond middle-aged white guy.”

  The captain snapped off his gloves. The sound cracked through the air like twin gunshots.

  “Maybe it wasn’t a tail. What about the phones?”

  “It’s a possibility, though I don’t think so. But we’ll have to be careful from now on.”

  “You’re in touch with her, then?”

  “Yes.” Henry didn’t need to explain that the next time he heard from Jordan, it would be from an anonymous disposable phone. He knew his partner too well to expect anything less.

  “Good,” Buchanan said. “Keep it to yourself. He’s too good, and we’re flying blind. He knows us, knows our tricks. The fewer who know where your partner is, the better. What’s your next step?”

  “More digging. We need to figure out what makes this guy tick. We’ll check the hospitals, though I don’t think he’ll show up there. There isn’t enough blood to indicate he was badly wounded, sadly, plus he’s too smart for that. Maybe he’ll make a mistake”—Henry huffed in frustration—“but we can’t just wait for him to turn up again. We’ve got to figure out how to find him before he finds Jordan and Devon.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The normally quiet street was busy for such an early hour. Besides the four police cars, police van, and two unmarked cars with red lights set atop their roofs, much of the neighborhood had come out of their homes to see what all the fuss was about. Some were clustered in small groups on both sides of the street, whispering animatedly as they watched the cops go in and out of the house with various cases and red-striped evidence bags. No doubt they were coming up with all manner of theories as to what had happened in the predawn hours to elicit such a response.

  A group of about twenty rubberneckers had gathered up the courage to come in closer. They were just beyond the police tape on the sidewalk directly in front of the house. A cop was posted on the other side of the tape, looking bored, there to ensure no nosy neighbors trespassed too closely. Billy had lurked at the edges for a while, just another gawker wondering what had happened, before insinuating himself into the crowd near the police barricade.

  He moved cautiously among the onlookers, taking care to keep at least a foot between the person standing next to him and his tender left biceps, discreetly bandaged beneath his jacket.

  The witch had winged him. It was little more than a graze, but it stung like hell. And it pissed Billy off more than it hurt. A few inches over, and the bullet would have hit a lung or worse.

  After everything had gone to hell—he still wasn’t sure how that cop had gotten the upper hand and shot him—he had sprinted to his car and raced back to his motel to care for his wounds. He’d dealt with the gunshot first, cleaning it out and staving off the bleeding before bandaging it. The broken nose had been a bitch to reset, but the bruising around his eyes wouldn’t come in for at least another day, he knew from experience. Between the ice and the ibuprofen, it hadn’t swelled too badly. Then he’d spent the next half hour picking tiny shards of glass out of his arms, which had taken the brunt of him crashing through the door, and cleaning those cuts. His arms looked like he’d taken a cheese grater to them, but with the jacket on, no one was the wiser.

  All in all, most of his injuries were well hidden. Still, Billy pulled his ball cap down a little lower over his forehead, trying to keep his face at least partly shadowed. It wasn’t uncommon for people to come back to the scenes of their crimes—policing 101—so he didn’t want to draw any excess attention.

  He knew it was a risk, but it wasn’t as if he had any real choice. He had no idea what had happened to Maddie and the cop after he had fled. And the dog. That damn dog. Billy had had no indication there was a dog in that house before he’d entered. He’d become vaguely aware of the barking during the fight with the cop. Then she’d pulled her gun on him and he’d heard the monster charging down the stairs, and that had been it. Billy had expected to feel the dog’s claws at his back and teeth piercing his skin before he made it to his car, but neither the weight nor the bite ever came.

  Regardless, he’d had to come back to the house. It was his only link to wherever his daughter had gone. For all he knew, Maddie was now locked down in a bunker somewhere, five feet of steel and a hundred cops standing between them. If that was the case, he would never get to her now. And yet, somehow he didn’t think it was the case.

  If nothing else, God wouldn’t have brought Billy so close to coming face-to-face with her, at last, only to take her away from him again. Hadn’t Billy been a faithful servant all these years? Hadn’t he done everything He had asked of him? He had tested Billy, certainly, measured him, challenged him, but Billy had met every test, overcome every obstacle to fulfill the Lord’s will. Surely he had been deemed worthy by now? Surely he would finally be allowed to address his greatest mistake, his single failure in a lifetime of service?

  No, the Lord would not do this to Billy. There was another answer, another path forward. All Billy had to do was look for the signs.

  *

  Jordan sipped her coffee, watching the sun burn off the fog along the tree line. The cabin was situated halfway up the mountain, along an old mining road that got very little use anymore. There were fewer than a dozen homes on the whole mountain, and she knew many of the owners, mostly families who had owned their places for generations and who only used them now for vacations. There were a few who lived there year-round, an older couple who had built their lives on the mountain and a fiftyish former literature professor who had retired from the University of Pittsburgh to write her long-planned but never-completed first novel.

  They, like Jordan’s family and the rest of the mountain’s residents, owned substantial parcels of land. Coal mining had been big in the area in the ’30s and ’40s, but by the mid-1950s, the seam had started to run dry. Then one of the mines had collapsed, killing eleven men and landing the mining company in a public relations nightmare. The company, which owned the whole mountain and much of the surrounding area, closed up shop a few years later and sold off the land at rock-bottom prices, eager to move out of the area. A handful of people, including Jordan’s grandfather, had bought up large acreages, agreeing to keep the land as undeveloped as possible.

  Jordan walked over to the kitchen to double-check her inventory. She’d unloaded the boxes she’d placed in the SUV the morning before. It was a lucky stroke she’d been planning to relocate up here—they had some clothes, towels, and bed linens. Unfortunately, Jordan had not packed any food, and the cupboards were pretty bare. A few cans of soup, a box of crackers that had most likely gone stale, some bottled water, and coffee were all she really had. She would need to get supplies.

  She heard a door creak and Max’s softly padding steps. He was at her side in an instant, nuzzling her hip. She bent down to give him a good-morning rub.

  “Did you sleep well, boy?”

  “He did,” Devon said as she walked into the room. “Although, did you know your dog is a bed hog?”

  Jordan laughed. “He’s just a good snuggler, aren’t you Max?” The dog puffed out his chest as if to dare Devon to dispute it. Jordan stood and turned to Devon. “Did you get any sleep?” Devon looked radiant in the soft glow of morning, her hair loose at her shoulders, her skin still flushed from sleep. Jordan’s heart fluttered.

  “A little. You?”

  Jordan shrugged noncommittally, but Devon wasn’t buying it.

  “I told you to take the bed.”

/>   Jordan hummed a nonresponse, turning to pour Devon a cup of coffee. Devon had told her to take the bed, but she hadn’t been about to put Devon in the front room, so close to the only entrance to the cabin. And she didn’t dwell on the surge of chivalry that had made her insist when Devon had protested.

  “We could always share,” Devon suggested.

  That thought put images in Jordan’s head that had no business being there. “I intend to be between you and anything that might come through that door, so I’ll keep the couch.”

  Devon let the matter drop.

  “I’m going to need to run down to the general store, pick up some supplies,” Jordan said, changing the subject. “Unless you’re a big fan of stale saltines?”

  Devon wrinkled her nose in a way Jordan found absolutely adorable. “Not particularly.”

  “Mel’s opens early. I won’t be gone long,” Jordan said, moving toward the door.

  “You’re leaving me here?” The plaintiveness in Devon’s tone pulled Jordan up short. “Sorry,” Devon said quickly, her cheeks staining red. “I don’t mean to sound so whiny.”

  Jordan’s heart flipped at Devon’s embarrassment, and the fear she imagined lay beneath it. She should have considered how Devon would react to the idea of being left alone after all that had happened.

  “You’ll be safe here,” Jordan said, stepping closer. “He didn’t follow us, and there’s no way he could have found us.” Jordan nearly added already but wisely held her tongue. No need to stoke Devon’s fear any further.

  “Even if he knows who I am, there’s no way to connect this cabin with me. The deed isn’t listed under my name or my mother’s. It was my grandfather’s place, and he left it in a trust to my mother. The deed is still in the trust’s name. I’m planning on buying it from my mom soon.” Jordan thought she saw a question, or maybe two, in Devon’s face, but whatever it was went unasked. “Besides,” Jordan added, “you’ll have Max here to protect you.” The dog sidled up to his master, as if confirming the vow.