“That’s not true. It’s the damn ringer I can’t seem to get to work right. Stupid phone always ends up on silent or vibrate.” Jordan laughed. Henry turned the conversation. “How are you holding up? Really.”
“I’m fine. A little beat-up and sore, but fine.”
“I don’t just mean physically.”
Jordan sighed. “I’m fine. Honestly. I want to get this guy.”
“And we will, Jordan. You have to know that.”
“I do.” And she really did. One way or another, they would get him. She just prayed no one else got hurt in the meantime. “You come up with anything yet?”
It was Henry’s turn to sigh. “MCU is still working on it, but so far, no prints. There is some blood, and I’m presuming it’s all his?”
“It is,” Jordan said. “I thought I hit him.”
“You definitely did, though the splatter makes me think you probably just nicked him, I’m afraid.”
Jordan swore under her breath. She’d been hoping she’d hit something more vital.
“You did good, Jordan. Once we get the DNA back, we’ll run it through CODIS, hopefully match it up to some of his other handiwork.”
“That’s great for trial, but won’t do anything to help us catch him,” Jordan said, her voice rising in frustration.
“It’s what we do,” Henry said. She knew he wasn’t trying to placate her. “I’ve confirmed what Devon told us yesterday. The DeKalb investigation was a real hack job. You wouldn’t believe it, Jordan. DeKalb focused on Devon from the beginning and never looked into Billy. They didn’t even really investigate.”
“Damn.” Jordan was frustrated once more by the incompetence of the people who should have protected Devon all those years ago.
“There’s more,” Henry said. Jordan heard him shuffling the phone again. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed. “There’s a warrant out for her.”
Jordan said nothing. She didn’t need to. They both knew where they stood on the matter.
Henry’s voice returned to its regular volume. “It would really help if we knew where Devon has been for the last ten years. Who she’s been. There’s a reason she kept moving all those years.”
“He’s been on her trail.” But Jordan knew there was more, things Devon hadn’t told her. “I’ll talk to her about it today. E-mail me what you’ve found so far. I need to get inside this bastard’s head.”
“Will do.”
“And Henry? Be careful, okay? If he found us last night because he followed us to the house, he could follow you again.”
“I know, and I will. Keep your head down.”
“Always.”
*
At some point during Henry’s conversation, Lawson had returned from the store with his new cell phone.
“It’s ready to go,” Lawson said, handing Henry the unwrapped phone and a slip of paper. “That’s the phone number.”
“I hate these things,” Henry grumbled, looking it over. “Bad enough I have to carry one, but now I have two.”
Henry tried to work his way through the phone’s menu, but it was maddeningly different than his regular phone. “How do I add a contact?”
Lawson took the phone back. “Give it to me. What do you want to program in?”
Henry handed him his notepad with Jordan’s new number. “Put it in and forget it, understand?”
Lawson nodded, hit a few keys, then handed the phone back to Henry and showed him how to access the phone’s contacts. Henry noticed Lawson had programmed the number under Holden Caulfield instead of using Jordan’s name. Henry grinned at the reference before sticking the phone in his breast pocket.
He picked up the stack of paper on his desk, including his notes. “Can you get these to Jordan? Do that techy thing you do to get them into an e-mail?”
Lawson chuckled. “You mean PDF them? Yeah, I can do that.”
“Did we get anything from Roscoe yet?” Henry asked. Lawson shook his head. “For Pete’s sake!” Henry picked up his desk phone and began dialing.
“Who are you calling?” Lawson asked.
“A friend who maybe can put some pressure on that sheriff’s office.”
“Coleman,” a gruff voice answered on the first ring.
“Hey Carl, it’s Henry.”
“I thought you were dodging me,” Coleman said, his voice instantly lightening.
“I wasn’t.”
“So you’ve got it then?” Henry could hear the giddiness in Coleman’s voice. It wasn’t something Henry heard often, just when Henry lost a bet.
“My signed, near-mint, 1967 copy of Whisper Not by the one and only Ella Fitzgerald? Yes, I have it.”
“You mean my signed, near-mint, 1967 copy of Whisper Not by the one and only Ella Fitzgerald, don’t you?”
“When I give it to you, yes,” Henry said grudgingly. “But for now, she’s still mine.”
“I told you not to take the bet,” Coleman said with a laugh. “So are you just calling to make arrangements, or do you have something else to discuss?”
“Something else. We’ve got a murder investigation going on here, Carl, and I need your help.” He rarely asked for help and knew that would get Carl’s attention.
“How can I help you?” Coleman said, suddenly all business.
Henry filled in the details of the case, Devon’s history, and everything they had learned.
“Is your partner okay?” was the first thing Coleman asked when Henry was finished.
Henry appreciated that. “She’s fine. Banged up, but fine. Listen, I need that personnel file from Roscoe and the case file from the fire investigation.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Coleman said. He went silent for a moment, then asked, “Do you need a parachute?”
Henry had known FBI Special Agent Carl Coleman for nearly forty years. They had met near the end of Vietnam, both green seventeen-year-olds in a foreign land trying to not get their heads blown off. Their CO, a grizzled veteran at the ripe old age of twenty-two, used to assess the risk level of missions based on what a person needed to survive a fall. We need a cushion meant they were in good shape, while we need a pool meant they were at risk. We need a parachute meant they were in way too deep.
“Almost,” Henry said, “and not just for me.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
*
Devon flipped open the knife and closed it again. It was made to be opened one handed, with a slide of a button and a flip of the wrist. It swiveled smoothly, with little effort. She could appreciate that even as the feel of it in her hand nauseated her.
She didn’t like knives. She wasn’t comfortable with weapons of any sort, but she really didn’t like knives. They reminded her of everything evil in her life.
She understood Jordan’s reason for giving it to her. Devon had suspected it was meant for her back at Mel’s when Jordan had purchased two of the blades. Still, Devon had hoped she’d been wrong.
“It won’t come to this, but just in case,” Jordan had said, handing her the knife. “It isn’t much, but you need to have some way to defend yourself if…”
She hadn’t needed to finish the sentence. If he finds us and gets past Max and me.
The thought filled Devon with an ice-cold dread. Jordan’s unspoken nightmare scenario would only happen if she and Max were dead. It was enough to turn her stomach inside out.
Devon shook off the images filling her brain and set the knife on the kitchen table. She needed some air, the cabin feeling suddenly, violently claustrophobic.
It was another beautiful day. The crystalline blue sky was dotted with puffy white clouds, and a light breeze played through her hair. It was still relatively warm for Pennsylvania in late November, though the temperature had dropped some at this higher elevation and there was a definite bite to the air, the first tendrils of the oncoming cold front.
It was quiet up on the mountain, clear and clean and peaceful, the only sounds coming from the animals rustling thr
ough the trees beyond the home and the rhythmic thwack coming from around the side of the cabin.
Devon rounded the corner and halted midstep, momentarily dazed. Jordan brought down the ax in a graceful, powerful arc, splitting the log set on the tree stump cleanly in two. She efficiently placed another log upon the stump and repeated the process. Devon didn’t have much experience with chopping wood, but she didn’t have to be a logger to understand that splitting a log with a single stroke was no easy task.
Jordan had come out here only a half hour earlier to work on building up their woodpile, while Devon had stayed inside to take care of their morning dishes. She had figured it was the least she could do and had thought she’d have plenty of time to finish up and come out to help Jordan before she had gotten too far into her task. But by the large rack of firewood and the dwindling pile of logs, Devon could see she had underestimated Jordan’s prowess with an ax.
That, however, was not what stopped Devon in her tracks. Jordan had stripped down to a dark tank top, and the thin material clung to her taut stomach as she raised the ax and brought it back down. Sweat gleamed off her bare arms and chest, the perspiration highlighting the fullness of her biceps, the curve of her muscular shoulders, and the swell of her breasts.
Max sat off to one side, his tongue lolling out of his mouth as if he were the one laboring instead of Jordan. He cast a glance back at Devon, confirming her presence, and then turned back to his job managing his master’s work.
Devon’s heart quivered in her chest, her mouth going inexplicably dry. Her eyes trailed down to Jordan’s firm legs, noting how they strained against her jeans. Jordan turned to grab another log, treating Devon to the sight of her shapely behind encased in denim. Devon swallowed thickly. Although her mouth was dry, another part of her was anything but. She unconsciously clenched her thighs, jolts of pleasure racing to every corner of her body. Her nipples tightened to aching points.
She had not noticed another woman—not like this—in years, perhaps ever. She felt like a voyeur watching Jordan this way, but she could not turn away. Her gaze was transfixed by the magnificent sight before her.
She is utterly gorgeous. And I want her.
Once the words were spoken in her head, she could not dismiss them. Her desire for Jordan was as real as anything she had ever felt in her life. She didn’t just care for Jordan, she needed her. Hungered for her. That realization was as surprising and wondrous to Devon as it was unwelcome and frightening.
Devon had never let herself feel this way about anyone. She’d had flings, and friendships of sorts. She had even let herself care for a few people here and there in a guarded way. But Devon understood all too well what would happen if she let herself get too close. They would be taken away, ripped from her life like a page being torn from a book, never to be seen or held or known to her again. Even though she withheld a part of her heart, the loss was always terrible, and she knew, deep down in the place she didn’t speak of, if she ever truly opened herself up to a person, it would be her undoing.
This thing she was feeling now for Jordan gave her hope but also terrified her, for it represented the promise of both actual happiness and of the ultimate loss. If she could open herself to Jordan, let her in completely, then she might finally—someday—be loved in return. But loving meant losing, and Devon knew that to lose someone she loved would destroy her.
Wait…love?
It was impossible. It was too soon. It was impractical and complicated and inopportune and illogical and potentially disastrous. And yet she could feel the stirrings of it inside her, cinders searching for the slightest gust of wind to spark them into flame.
She did not love Jordan Salinger. But for the first time, she thought she could love. And that scared her far more than Billy ever could.
Devon roused herself from her turmoil and slid her mask into place, the one of friendly passivity that she had worn for so many years, and walked over to Jordan and Max.
“Can I help?” Devon asked, trying to ignore the sexy smudge across Jordan’s forehead after she swiped at her brow with her forearm.
“No, I think we’re good,” Jordan said. She rested the ax against the stump, surveying the woodpile. “We’ve got enough for at least a week now, maybe more. That ought to be enough.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t get out here earlier to help you. This is hardly physical therapy for bruised ribs.”
“Are you kidding?” Jordan asked, flashing a toothy smile. “I absolutely hate doing dishes. So you saved me from that.”
Devon laughed. “I think I got the better end of that deal.”
“It’s a deal I would happily make again.” Jordan returned the ax to the shed at the back of the house, stretching as she walked back.
Devon felt the tingle in her body return at the sight of Jordan’s shirt slipping up a few inches above her jeans and the tantalizing strip of golden skin it revealed. A twinge passed across Jordan’s face, shifting Devon’s focus. “What’s wrong?”
Jordan reached her arm across her chest, attempting to stretch out her shoulder. “Nothing. A little stiff.”
“Come inside and I’ll rub it out for you.”
Jordan looked at her a little funny. “It’s okay.”
“I insist,” Devon said, taking Jordan’s hand and leading her into the cabin. Max loped behind them and made a beeline for his water bowl once inside. Devon deposited Jordan into one of the kitchen chairs and stepped behind her, beginning to rub her tight neck. The groan that escaped told Devon all she needed to know about whether Jordan liked what she was doing.
She worked both shoulders gently at first, increasing the firmness of her massage as Jordan’s muscles loosened up. She tried to ignore how Jordan’s skin felt beneath her fingers, or the warmth spreading through her with each moan that passed Jordan’s lips.
She slipped the straps of Jordan’s tank top and bra over her shoulders to give her better access. That’s when she noticed the scar just below her left clavicle. It was actually two scars, one a line that was vaguely crescent shaped, which bisected a puckered circle Devon understood instantly had been caused by a bullet. Her hands stilled. She felt Jordan tense, as if waiting for Devon to pull away. Sadness flooded Devon, for the wound and for whoever had made Jordan feel like it was something to be ashamed of. Devon began her massage once more.
Silence siphoned off all the oxygen in the cabin. After several long minutes, Jordan spoke.
“Last year a woman was shot to death. Wife, mother of three. Henry and I were assigned to the case. We suspected her husband, but we didn’t have much more than circumstantial evidence. No witnesses and no gun. We questioned him for hours but eventually had to let him go.”
Jordan’s voice was low and steady, but Devon could hear the strain of telling it lacing her tale. She lightened her touch, more soothing now than therapeutic.
“Then we caught a break. A drug dealer looking for a plea on another crime said the husband had bought a gun from him a few days before the murder, and then the guy had wanted to sell it back to him a few days later. The dealer still had the gun. It was the right caliber, and there was a single print on the barrel matching the husband. We got our warrant and went to arrest him.”
Jordan fell silent, as if working up the courage to tell the rest. Devon continued her rhythmic kneading, easing the pain she could reach.
“Henry took the front and I went around back in case the guy tried to run. He saw me coming and started firing as I approached. Henry came running but we both got pinned down. And then we heard the kids screaming from inside the house.”
Devon had to work to keep her fingers from digging too deeply into Jordan’s flesh. She could only imagine the terror of those moments for Jordan and her partner, and also for the children.
“They were supposed to be in school, but he’d kept them home that day. The two youngest were crying, but the oldest one—he was only five—he kept yelling Daddy, stop shooting! We didn’t fire back once we real
ized the kids were in there. Henry called for backup. Every time we tried to leave or talk to him, he started shooting again. Turned out he’d armed up since we’d released him, had gotten his hands on another handgun and an assault rifle, and he had plenty of ammo.”
Jordan’s muscles tensed, signaling what Devon knew had to be coming next. She kept her hands moving, supporting Jordan the only way she could.
“SWAT arrived. They ordered the husband out of the house, which shifted his attention away from us to what was going on out front. He had shut all the blinds and SWAT couldn’t see in, but Henry and I were free to move. The negotiator arrived. He tried calling out over the bullhorn, but the husband wouldn’t respond. Then they tried the phone, but the husband wouldn’t pick up. It was just too damn quiet. Something wasn’t right, and we all knew it. The SWAT team leader gave the order to breach. We had no time. I managed to get the back door to the kitchen open and Henry and I snuck inside.”
Devon realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to relax. She stroked Jordan’s arms and back, lending the only comfort she could.
“We finally were able to see into the living room. He wasn’t there, but the front door was booby trapped with explosives. Henry tried to warn the SWAT team over the radio, but I was already moving. I rounded the corner and went down the hall—I found him with the kids in a bedroom. He had his arm wrapped around the oldest boy, the gun pressed to his back. The little ones cowered in the corner. I ordered him to drop the gun and then all hell broke loose. It sounded like thunder, and the whole house shook. I heard his gun go off, saw the boy falling to the floor. I managed to get off a shot before I felt his next bullet slamming into me. He was dead before he hit the ground. I passed out.”
Jordan hung her head, seemingly finished, seemingly in shame. Devon wasn’t about to let that be the end. She rounded the chair, kneeling in front of Jordan and taking her hand.
“You did nothing wrong. You saved two children.”
“Two SWAT officers died in the explosion,” Jordan said. “The boy—his name was Jacob—died instantly, according to the ME. But he didn’t. I saw his face. I watched him as he fell. He was looking at me, looking to me to save him. But I didn’t.”
Season of the Wolf Page 13
