Between Dusk and Dawn

by Alfie Thompson

  Sam nodded. "They didn't ask the right questions."

  Madden ignored the statement. "Jonna, I need to look around a little more." He rose from his chair and asked Gary if he was finished upstairs.

  She started to follow, but he motioned her away. "Let me look, see what I can see without your interpretation," he said. "I'll holler if I need you."

  She folded back into her chair and Sam caught her gaze. There was a question in his eyes. Do you believe me?

  She looked away quickly. What could she tell him? She didn't know what to believe.

  "What happens next?" he asked.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Do you still want me to leave?"

  She wanted to cry. For him. For herself. She'd never seen or felt so much pain for no physical reason. "I... I really don't know."

  "I'm going to get the bastard," he said, hate dripping from the words. "Preferably before he kills you."

  She jerked back as if he'd slapped her. Her safety wasn't high on his list of priorities. The doubts flooded back. "He's killing you, too," she said sadly.

  "Jonna?"

  "Yeah, Sheriff?" She hustled out of her chair, relieved to escape Sam's presence.

  Madden was halfway down the stairs and she climbed to meet him. "You working on anything important right now?"

  She shrugged. "No more so than usual. I sent out my last project this morning. All I've really done on the next one is a few preliminary sketches." She lifted a shoulder again. "I can't imagine how any of it might be of importance to any­one besides me."

  "You're making good money now. Having a lot of suc­cess. Maybe someone who's not doing so well wants to steal your current designs." He led the way back up the stairs. "You've been up here?" he asked.

  She nodded, then realized he couldn't see her answer. "Yeah," she answered aloud.

  "You didn't notice anything missing?"

  "Just destroyed."

  "Anything irreplaceable?"

  "Not that I noticed."

  Madden stepped aside and motioned for her to pass him.

  "Check around. See if you can find anything missing. We need to cover all the bases. Maybe we're dealing with a pro­fessional burglary and all the destruction is to sidetrack us. It's hard to imagine anyone this malicious or vicious for no reason."

  Unless whoever did it—Sam?—is simply crazy, Jonna thought. She did as instructed while Madden went in and out of the bedrooms.

  "He didn't mess with a thing in your bedroom," he said on his way to the other.

  "Thank God." She didn't try to hide her relief. She'd been too freaked out to go in there before the po­lice arrived. And she had been wondering if she'd ever be able to sleep peacefully in there again if it looked like this.

  "This one either," Madden said from the door of the guest room and watched as she finished picking through the clutter.

  "Why did he leave those rooms alone?" she wondered out loud.

  "Ran out of time, maybe?" His beefy face scrunched in an I-don't-know. "More likely, he ran out of steam."

  She swallowed hard. "Do you think Sam did this?"

  "I'd say you're probably the best judge of that," Mad­den said softly. "What do you think?"

  "Absolutely, when I first saw it." The tight ache squeezed her chest again. "But now...I just don't know. How would he have had time to do all this and go and get those papers, too? Why would he suggest I call you? Why would he stay? Why would he come back at all?"

  Madden gently pushed her back in her office chair and half stood, half sat on the tall stool before her overturned drafting table.

  "So what did you decide about the damage up here?" He changed the subject.

  "Surface," she said. "All my copies of final plans haven't been touched. They're exactly as I left them in that drawer." She waved toward the oversize file cabinets the other side of him. "All my legal papers and files and things are in order. The only thing ruined was stuff I had out, lying on top of the desk and drafting board. In the bookcases."

  He nodded. "Well, that about clinches it. No real pur­pose here besides pure-D-struction."

  "How can you tell?" she asked.

  "In my experience, vandals are basically lazy," he said. "They don't want to work very hard at destroying what­ever it is they destroy."

  "He sure did a job on my kitchen," she contradicted him.

  "He probably started there first, while his energy level was high. Since vandals go for effect and you don't keep much on your counters, the fastest, easiest way he could get it was by opening the doors and pulling things out. You no­tice he didn't bother with the bottom cabinets."

  "He didn't?"

  "Nope. Too much effort and by the time he was through the top ones, he'd achieved his desired effect." Madden rose slowly from his perch. "Come on. Let's go downstairs and see if Gary's ready to go."

  Jonna clutched at Rod's hand. "Do you think Sam's telling the truth?"

  "About someone trying to kill you?" he asked.

  She nodded. She knew her eyes were far too wide, full of far too much despair as they clung to his face. "About all of it."

  "I think he believes it."

  "But do you?"

  "Jonna, darlin', the one thing that does add up is that someone has something in for you. In these parts, we don't run into this type of behavior often. Then, it's usually re­venge. You already told me you can't think of a single soul that motive might apply to. Sam doesn't have a reason to want revenge, does he?"

  Only that she'd fired him. Oh, God. She couldn't think anymore.

  She quickly told him about the incident that had sent her flying to town this afternoon.

  Madden frowned through the whole story. "Well, he's consistent, at least. Consistent enough to go to a lot of trouble to stay here. It doesn't make much sense to do something like this if his whole intent is staying. Seems to me this kind of thing would have the opposite effect."

  She shook her head back and forth.

  "And," he drawled, "if he's right about all of this, he may come in handy. With his background, I like the idea of having him around."

  "And you'll be around, too?"

  "I'll have the whole department keeping a steady eye on things out here, Jonna. And in the meantime—"

  "You'll have someone here?"

  Madden grimaced. "Your daddy would do me some se­rious damage—even from the grave—if I let anything hap­pen to his Girlie. But it's a big county and you know how small my force is. We don't have enough crime here to jus­tify more." He tweaked her cheek as he had when she was a little girl. "But I promise, call 9-1-1 and say your name, I'll have everyone in ten counties out here before you can add a 'boo.'"

  Jonna lowered her head.

  "In the meantime," Madden continued, "I'll be doing some checking on my own."

  "And if he's lying?"

  "Then he's obsessive about those awards. So you don't have to worry about anything until you get back from get­ting yours. And by then, I guaran-damn-tee you, I'll have a few more answers. In the meantime, I'd rather have him where we can watch him than have no idea where he is."

  "Then I should keep him here," Jonna said.

  "I can think of worse things than knowing what he's up to. You just keep your doors locked, your ears and eyes open and one hand on the phone.''

  "Sam's been telling me the same thing in a way."

  "And that sounds like a good sign."

  "The house wasn't locked when... I didn't think about it this afternoon before I went to town."

  "You'll think about it now?"

  She promised. It was one promise she didn't think he needed to worry about her keeping.

  And at least some of the pieces of the puzzle fit. Sam's declaration that he was staying hadn't been so much a threat as a vow. And with no one believing him, she had to admit he had a good reason to lie in the first place. The thought warmed her... until she reminded herself he could be lying now.

  She felt a sudden bitterness t
oward Jeffrey. Before her engagement to him, she'd only doubted her ability to make wise decisions. Jeffrey had managed to destroy her basic trust in her judgment of people. When she was with Sam, she wanted desperately to believe him. Out of sight, she could only concentrate on the doubts.

  "Well, come on." Madden took her hand and led her back to the stairs. "Let's go finish this up so I can get back to the office. I need to make some calls."

  Gary and Madden packed up their small supply of para­phernalia as Jonna watched.

  As Gary carried the first small load of stuff to the car, the sheriff paused at the door. "Oh, by the way, Barton?"

  "Yes?"

  "Where were you when the woman in Connecticut was murdered—what'd you say her name was?"

  Madden had written it down. Jonna, standing a little to the side and behind Sam, looked at Madden in surprise. She knew he saw the look but pointedly avoided her eyes.

  "JoAnne Campbell? I was on vacation."

  "Where?"

  "The upper Midwest, mostly Minnesota." Sam an­swered. "I was in Wisconsin the week before that at a sem­inar."

  Madden's reaction was casual, too casual.

  "Well. Thanks, Barton." His look at Sam was stern. "I'll be in touch," Madden assured Jonna and touched his hat. "Take care."

  The minute the sheriff's car started down the drive, Sam silently tore into straightening things up.

  "Why didn't you tell me all of this when you came?" Jonna asked him as he began setting the furniture upright.

  "I made that mistake once. I told Leah Darcy." He shoved things back in the bookcase he’d set right. "She didn't believe me.

  "What did you tell her?" she whispered.

  "I showed her the same stuff I showed you, minus the articles about her, of course," he added grimly. He paused, sitting back on his heels with a couple of hefty books in one hand. "I told her some nut killed my sister and another woman. That he wanted to kill her and I intended to stop him."

  Jonna knelt beside him and picking up one of the tat­tered throw pillows from the couch. "Did you tell her all the stuff about the FBI—"

  "She didn't give me a chance. So I left, but she saw me watching her house."

  He looked away and stretched to put the books he held in the bookcase. "I saw her lift the drapes every five minutes. She kept her kids inside."

  Jonna hugged the half empty pillow to her chest.

  "Finally, she came out to my car and threatened to call the police if I hung around anymore." His voice caught, then hardened. "So I left. I didn't know what else to do. I'd also begun to hope that I was wrong. He killed Denise and the one in Connecticut within twenty-four hours of them receiving their awards. It had been several days since she'd received hers. If I hadn't told her, I would have caught the bastard." And that, she realized, was one of the things that bothered her. In all his hints and threats and truths, he'd only talked about "catching" the murderer. His intent didn't seem to be saving her or anyone else. Maybe with his sister, Denise, it would have been different. His grief for her was almost palpable.

  Jonna impulsively covered his arm with her hand. The muscle in his forearm flexed and she carefully took her hand away.

  "How long since this all started, Sam?" she asked.

  "Two years, four and a half months since Denise died."

  She would almost have bet he had it down to the weeks, days and hours.

  "It's not really your problem anymore," she said hesi­tantly, studying her intertwined fingers. "Why not let the police handle it?"

  "They couldn't."

  She started to protest.

  "I don't mean they wouldn't have the capability," he ex­plained, "but our laws prohibit the various authorities from acting on gut feelings. They have to have some kind of con­crete proof. They're good laws, but that doesn't mean I could live with myself if didn't try to stop this monster since I know what's going on."

  "But that's just it," she argued. "You don't have proof either. Just speculation. Doesn't that bother you?"

  His eyes burned into her. "I know, Jonna."

  And therein lies his madness.

  "I promised my mother before she died, that I'd take care of Denise. Poor kid was only fourteen at the time."

  His eyes took on a glazed look and Jonna thought he was revisiting some distant time and place. But when she leaned closer to hear his hushed words, she realized the glaze was a cloud of unshed tears.

  "I failed."

  For a second, she caught a glimpse of the soul that used to live in this fine, fine man. He used to care about some­one besides his obsession—whatever or whoever it was; he used to be concerned and loving; he used to be someone who was oh so gentle, she suspected. She felt a bittersweet long­ing to have known him then. Before he'd buried those feel­ings somewhere deep beneath...what? Guilt? Pain? Insanity?

  "Oh, no, Sam. You took care of her while she was grow­ing up, you put her through high school and college. De­nise was what? Twenty-three years old? Isn't that what the article said? You can't possibly take—"

  "I didn't keep my promise," he interrupted in a rough voice charred by pent-up emotion, "and I can't go back. But I can stop him." He looked at her squarely. "He will pay."

  Then, as he went back to work, Jonna stared at his long, capable fingers, at the broad shoulders that seemed intent on carrying a far too heavy load. His lean, lithe body moved with such restrained power and grace. She felt a gnawing hunger to have his dangerous energy directed at her, as if somehow that would ease his burden and make her whole, too.

  Her mind played with the tantalizing contrast between the two of them. Male. Female. He possessed a controlled strength. She was weak. She couldn't seem to make a sim­ple decision without input from at least half the people she knew. But it must be far, far worse to take on responsibility for the entire world. If Sam was right about any of this—if he wasn't just a madman with an extra personality that could deftly mask another—he was going to pay a very high price. And she'd never felt more helpless.

  "Do you have a camera?" he asked, startling her out of her reverie.

  "What?"

  "It might be a good idea to get pictures of all this before we clean up. For your insurance," he added at her blank look.

  "We need pictures?" she asked.

  "Probably not since you made the police report, but it can't hurt."

  Jonna brought the camera and began recording the mess, impulsively snapping a last one of him as he began picking up with a vengeance.

  For the most part, Jonna followed him around with trash bags, telling him which things to throw out and which she thought were salvageable.

  Jonna wasn't sure she would have gotten through the task without his help, but by the time they were done, she was anxious for him to go. The strain of being an oblivious en­tity was getting to her.

  Especially when she couldn't keep her eyes off him.

  She hated her own paranoia and growing obsession. She hated having to match his self-sufficiency with a bravado of her own. She hated her need to impress him with her poise and her disappointment when he didn't seem to notice.

  She kept remembering how his arms had imprisoned her when she'd run from him earlier, and how they’d felt as much a haven as a trap. And she hated the desire and longing for him that had been steadily growing as they worked.

  She managed to stammer an awkward thanks as he fi­nally took his leave.

  "You'll be okay?" He paused by the door.

  "You're the authority on this. Maybe I should ask you." A nerve near her mouth twitched with the effort of holding her scattered emotions at bay. She hoped it was one of those things you felt but no one could see.

  He absently rested his thumb against the jumpy nerve, destroying one more overly optimistic hope. She knew her eyes were wide, pleading for reassurance as she looked up at him.

  "I could stay with you." His voice was as thick as a gray winter day.

  She flinched.

  "You're right.
Lousy idea. You're right not to trust me."

  She blinked, thankful that he'd misread her reaction. Wasn't it better for him to think she didn't trust him than to realize she didn't trust herself with him? In the past hour, she'd let down every defense. Despite not knowing if he wanted to harm her, the part of her that was currently in control longed for him to stay.