by Karen Rose
Steven took the rest of the stairs three at a time and stopped short at Jenna’s threshold.
Two uniformed police stood back near her dining-room table where a chair lay on its side. The remnants of her dinner still sat on the table and Steven recognized one of his own plates. He looked down at his feet to where one of the dogs lay still. Then over to her sliding-glass door where a fist-sized circle had been cut neatly in the glass.
Jenna was lying on the sofa, a paramedic kneeling on the floor next to her. Her face was white in stark contrast to the black of her hair. She had a bandage at her throat.
Unholy rage started deep and boiled over. Sonofabitch. Coming into her home. Hurting her.
He swallowed hard, staring at her face, at the bandage on her throat. Someone had hurt her.
But she was alive. And she’d called him.
He crossed over the threshold only to be stopped by the uniforms. He flashed his badge.
One of the uniforms frowned his confusion. “Not your jurisdiction, Special Agent Thatcher,” he said politely.
Steven clamped a lid on his temper. “She’s my jurisdiction,” he said through clenched teeth. “She’s mine.”
The uniforms looked at one another, then stepped back without another word.
He dropped to his knees next to the paramedic. “Jenna.” Her eyes opened and in them he saw shock and tears and guilt. Her lips trembled and she blinked, sending tears down her white face. “I’m so sorry, Steven. I should have listened to you.”
The paramedic looked at him sharply. “She’s in shock, but she’ll be okay.”
From behind him one of the uniforms said, “She’s said that a couple of times. That she’s sorry and should have listened to you. What does she mean?”
Steven reached for her hand, ignored the suspicion in their innuendo. “She’s been having trouble from some kids at the school where she teaches. A couple days ago, they cut the brakes on her car. I was afraid for her to be alone. Al Pullman, Investigative Division, has all the details.”
“She’s also asked about Jim and Jean-Luc,” the paramedic added, packing up his things. “We assumed they were the dogs.”
Steven looked over at the dog lying by the front door, then at the uniforms standing behind him. “Yeah. Are they alive?”
“Barely,” Uniform One said. “I’d suspect poison for that one. The one in the back tangled with her attacker. He’s cut up pretty bad, but breathing.”
Steven’s mind flashed back to the clearing, to Pal and old Bud Clary. To what seemed like a day a hundred years ago. “I’ll call a vet, but don’t touch them. We’ll want Forensics to check them for evidence.” He’d no sooner punched Kent’s number into his cell phone when the man himself appeared in Jenna’s doorway with a woman Steven recognized as Kent’s “lady-vet” at his side.
“Pullman called me,” Kent said, “after Nancy called him, after you called her. Nancy told him you’d want me to check the scene and the dogs. Wendy was with me and offered to come along.”
Steven chose not to comment on the fact that Wendy the “lady-vet” just happened to be with him in the middle of the night. “Thanks, Kent. Wendy, the dog in the back was stabbed.”
She nodded. “Understood. I have a digital camera in my bag. We’ll get pictures before I stitch him up.”
Jenna struggled to sit up, pushing aside the well-meaning hands of the paramedic. “Jim’s there by the door. Jean-Luc’s in the back. Please help them. They saved my life.”
Steven swallowed. And for that the dogs got beefsteak for the rest of their days. If they lived.
Wendy smiled at Jenna. “You worry about yourself. I’ll worry about your boys.”
Steven turned his attention back to Jenna, noticing the smears of blood on her worn Duke T-shirt. “Any other wounds?” he asked the paramedic.
The paramedic shook his head and snapped his case closed. “Only her throat. The blood on her shirt appears to be her own.”
“We found bloody handprints on the carpet where she crawled from the bedroom,” said Uniform Two.
Steven’s gut seethed, picturing her scared and hurt and crawling through her own house like a wounded animal. For that alone, whoever did this to her would pay.
Kent reappeared, a question on his face. “Jenna, was there a blanket on your bed?”
She stared up at him dully and for a minute Steven didn’t think she could answer. Then she licked her lips, chewed on her lower lip. “He pulled it off me. Onto the floor.”
Steven’s eyes flicked to the paramedic in a panic. “Did he—”
The paramedic shook his head. “She says no and I didn’t see anything to the contrary.”
“He started to,” Jenna said unevenly. “He... touched me. He was wearing gloves. Then he stopped and opened a case.” She paused and her eyes focused. “It sounded just like yours,” she said, pointing to the paramedic’s case. “The way you seated the buckle, then snapped it closed. Except he was opening his. Then Jean-Luc was there. They fought and he screamed. Then Jean-Luc . . .” She winced and looked away.
“If he can be saved, Wendy’s the one who can do it,” Kent said matter-of-factly and Jenna looked up at him, gratitude in her eyes.
“Thank you.”
“There’s no blanket there now, Steven,” Kent said, dropping his voice. “I think the dog may have gotten him good enough to draw blood. He probably used the blanket to stem the flow. Wendy’s checking the dog’s teeth.”
Unbelievably Steven felt his lips curve. “You’ll be paying royalties to Law and Order before all this is over.”
Kent grasped his shoulder and squeezed. “She’s okay, Steven.” He looked over at the paramedic who was now standing, watching with interest. “Does she need to go to the hospital?”
“No. I closed the wound and gave her an antibiotic injection. She should have it looked at by her doctor, but she can do that tomorrow morning.”
Kent looked back at Steven. “Then take her home and have a drink to settle your nerves. Get some sleep. We can manage without you for one morning meeting.”
Steven squeezed Jenna’s hand. “I’ll pack you a bag.”
Monday, October 10, 8:00 A.M.
His team frowned when he came in the next morning. They started talking at once, his boss leading the pack. “We thought you’d be staying home today, Steven,” Lennie said reproachfully.
“What the hell are you doing here, Steven?” Sandra demanded.
“Ste-ven,” Nancy sighed.
“I told you we could manage,” Kent said, looking a little hurt.
“You’re an idiot, Steven,” Harry muttered.
“You should be home,” Liz declared.
Meg just looked at him, exasperated but unsurprised. Davies sat at the end of the table watching.
Steven took his seat and looked at his team, his boss, his visiting “associate.”
And thought about the night before. Jenna’s terrified face, the blood on her shirt. Her two wounded animals. The blood on her bed. Next to the vicious rip in the mattress. He closed his eyes and shuddered. The rip that could have just as easily been in her. He would have lost her.
He opened his eyes to find everyone watching him, concerned. “I want him,” he said simply. “I want him put away. I want to throw the key into the middle of the ocean so he never sees the light of day again.” He looked at Liz. “Legally, of course.”
She raised a brow. “Of course.”
“So,” he said, sitting back in his chair, “where are we, people?”
Monday, October 10, 8:00 A.M.
He eased himself into the only chair in the barn. “Damn dogs.”
He winced as he pulled the watting from his leg and dabbed the torn flesh on his thigh with a ninety-nine-cent bottle of peroxide he’d bought at an all-night drugstore over the Virginia border. He couldn’t waltz into a hospital with a bite like this. He simply wasn’t willing to give Thatcher that big a handicap.
He knew from experience tha
t he’d be all right in a week or so. Once, years ago, he’d been bitten by a dog he hadn’t quite immobilized well enough before initiating a slice across his belly. He’d taken care of that bite himself, too, so he knew the drill. Key learnings from that experience had been to keep the wound clean, keep it dry, and use lots of antibiotic cream. And never, ever cut open a dog if he hadn’t thoroughly tested the strength of his restraints.
After tonight he could add two more jewels of wisdom to the list. Never assume there is only one dog just because you’ve only seen one. And never, ever make house calls.
Next time, he’d bring Miss Marshall here. Where he had all his things about him.
He limped over to where pretty Alev lay huddled on his table in a fetal position. She was starting to get dehydrated and she hadn’t eaten in a few days. She wouldn’t last much longer, so he’d have to make the best of the time he had left.
He pushed aside the residual anger over the events at Miss Marshall’s apartment.
Don’t worry, he told himself. Consider it a practice run. There’s always next time.
Monday, October 10, 8:15 A.M.
Steven massaged his throbbing temples. “Both Rudy and his father have alibis for last night?”
“By none other than our own unmarked cars,” Lennie said dryly. “How’s that for irony?”
“It sucks,” Steven said. “So where does that leave us?” “Somebody else was in Jenna’s apartment last night,” Harry said. “One of Lutz’s football buddies most likely. We have the names Pullman questioned about the cut brakes. We’ll pull ’em all in for questioning.”
“Whoever it was will have a nasty dog bite,” Kent said with satisfaction.
Steven looked over at him. “Please tell me you found something in Jean-Luc’s teeth.”
His eyes sparkling behind his thick lenses, Kent nodded. “Wendy took the swab and it’s perfect. DNA lab says we’ll get a good print.”
Thank you, Steven prayed silently to heaven. To Kent he said, “Good work. Tell Wendy I said the same.”
“But we’re no closer to having enough to bring Lutz in for questioning on either angle,” Lennie said, bringing them all back to the subject at hand.
Steven sighed. “Nope.”
“And now Lutz knows we’re watching him,” Lennie added.
Steven cringed as he remembered the unpleasant conversation with the mayor the day before. And he was grateful he’d assigned the surveillance anyway. At least they knew who hadn’t tried to kill Jenna seven hours before. “But for the cut brakes, he thinks,” Steven said.
“And if I’m William Parker posing as Rudy Lutz, I’ll think someone’s on to me,” Meg said thoughtfully. “It will change how he functions.”
“How?” Davies said, uttering his first word of the day. “Depends on how sure he is of himself. He’ll either stop or turn up the heat a notch.”
Davies rolled his eyes. “That’s helpful.”
Meg narrowed hers. “Well, he’s your boy, Neil, why don’t you offer some ideas?”
Davies stood up and walked to the bulletin board and stared at the photo of Samantha Eggleston. “Back in Seattle, when he was fifteen, he was different. He picked cheerleaders, shaved their heads, stabbed them fifteen times, but he didn’t have the same sense of style.”
“Style.” Lennie repeated the word in annoyed bewilderment.
“Yeah, style. I mean, look at the way he’s got her laid out. Hands tied together to look like they’re folded in prayer. The tattoo.” He smacked the bulletin board next to the photo. “The sign, for God’s sake. He’s playing a damn game. In Seattle, he didn’t keep them for days on end. We found them within forty-eight hours of their going missing. The locations weren’t forest clearings that you needed aerial photos to find. They were shopping mall parking lots and soccer fields.”
“But he still wanted the victims to be found,” Meg observed. “He still wanted everyone to know someone had killed them. But I see your point. Not only is he escalating in rate, he’s escalating in panache. Not only does he want them to be found, but he’s going to decide how and when. He sends a letter, leaves a sign. Harry, how did you feel when you found the sign?”
“Pissed off,” Harry answered. “Like he was thumbing his nose at us.”
“Or at me,” Steven said. “He seems to have it in for me. Probably because of the press conferences.”
“Then we should play up to that,” Liz said. “We’ve got to draw this guy out in the open or he’ll just keep on killing.”
Steven checked his watch. “Nancy, schedule another press conference for two this afternoon. Meg, write me a script. I want him so mad he comes after me. Then we’ll see if he can pick on someone besides little girls.”
“The little girls might suffer, Steven,” Meg said, looking doubtful.
“Then we fire with both barrels. Nancy, call all the high schools and set up assemblies for all students. Mandatory assemblies starting tomorrow morning. We’ll each take as many schools as we have to get the message out to every young girl in the county.”
Davies turned from his study of the bulletin board. “And the message is?”
“Don’t get into cars with strangers and monsters don’t always have fangs.” Steven looked over at Meg. “Put that in the press conference script.”
“Which part?” Meg asked with a smile. “About the assemblies or not all monsters have fangs?”
Steven’s return smile was grim. “Both. And make sure I’m scheduled to speak at Rudy’s school. I want the little sonofabitch to know exactly who I am so he knows who to target.”
Monday, October 11, 1:50 P.M.
“So what do you think?” Jenna said, modeling her new sweater for Casey. “I’m normally not one for turtlenecks, but I wanted to hide the bandage when I went to Allison’s for dinner on Wednesday.” She’d stopped at the mall to buy the sweater on her way from the animal hospital, where Jim and Jean-Luc were not out of the woods, to the human hospital, where Mrs. Kasselbaum was stable and Casey was completely out of the woods.
Casey frowned from her hospital bed. “You mean you didn’t tell the Llewellyns about the break-in?” she asked, her voice still rough from the removal of the breathing tube.
Jenna bit her lip. “I told them someone broke into my apartment. I just didn’t tell them about the knife. So what about the sweater?”
“You’re changing the subject. Whatever.” Casey patted the bed. “Come, sit, tell me all about you and Special Agent Thatcher.” Then she laughed, a strange little gravelly sound. “Is he as good as you thought he’d be?”
Jenna ran her tongue over her teeth. “Oh, yeah.”
Casey grinned and clapped her hands. “Details, Jen, details.” Then frowned at Jenna’s yeah-right expression. “You’re not going to tell me anything, are you?”
Jenna grinned. “Nope.”
Casey grimaced. “Bitch.” Then she brightened. “Can I be your maid of honor?”
Jenna rolled her eyes. “Casey, you’re impossible.”
“But now you’ll think about it.” Her blue eyes widened. “You have been thinking about it.”
Jenna felt her face flame even hotter. The thought had only crossed her mind briefly. Many, many times, but each of them
briefly. “Look, Casey, about your final grades for the quarter. Blackman asked me to ask you what else needed to be done.”
“Nothing. I finished my themes and left my grades in an envelope on Blackman’s desk.”
“The Crime and Punishment themes, you mean.” Casey’s brow crinkled at the mention of the book’s title. “What?” Jenna asked.
Casey looked troubled. “There’s something important about those themes and I can’t remember what it was.” She bit her lip, then dismissed the thought. “It’ll come to me. Anyway, I think I’d look good in blue. Satin. And if you pick a dress with a bow on the butt, you’re toast.”
Jenna barely heard the threat, her attention snared by the television. Where she’d heard
only muted murmurs before, she heard Steven’s voice. He was giving another press conference. She held her breath until she realized no more girls had been taken. She thought about the fact that he’d stayed up all night, holding her until her trembles finally stopped, then showered and went off to catch monsters of a different variety. “He looks tired, Casey. I’m worried about him.”
Casey patted her hand and said nothing.
Monday, October 10, 2:20 P.M.
He frowned and stowed the bottle of peroxide in the closet with the rest of his darkroom chemicals. Nobody ever checked his darkroom and if they did, all brown bottles looked the same in the dark. Thatcher was upping the ante. And getting a bit personal. He bared his teeth in the mirror on the closet door, annoyed to find he sported no fangs.
He rolled his eyes. So monsters didn’t always have fangs, huh? What a lame attempt at a sound bite. He really had thought more of Thatcher.
He smiled sweetly at his own reflection. He didn’t have fangs. He had really, really sharp knives that worked even better.
Monday, October 10, 3:00 P.M.
Her first name was Evelyn. “Kasselbaum, Evelyn” read the chart outside the room where Mrs. Kasselbaum lay, still unconscious but stable. Jenna drew a breath and pushed the door open. And stopped. Standing by the small window was Seth, his shoulders hunched.
He turned and his gaze focused in on her throat, covered in the turtleneck sweater. And in his eyes Jenna saw worry and fear. And hurt. He knew. About the knife. I should have told him myself, she thought.
“I’m okay, Dad,” she whispered. “Really.”
He said nothing. Just stood there and Jenna felt lower than a snake’s belly.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t want to worry you.”
He still said nothing. But his throat worked like he wanted to cry and Jenna suddenly understood that she’d wounded him. And she knew it was time to come clean with the whole story.
“Adam’s car is wrecked, Dad. Totaled. Last Thursday.” He flinched, grew even paler. She drew an unsteady breath. “Casey was driving and went off an embankment. She nearly died.” She held her back rigid. “The brakes were cut. I was the one who was supposed to be hurt.”
