Between Dusk and Dawn

by Alfie Thompson

  "Get the hell out of here. Go stay with Moss."

  "I mean about you, for you. Shall I call an attor—"

  "Bring me the yearbooks," he broke in. He lifted both hands and cupped her face, framing her chin with links of chain. He felt a swift, sweet gratitude that they hadn't cuffed his hands behind his back. His long fingers smoothed the rain away from one cheek. It was immediately wet again.

  "I know what he looks like now. It shouldn't take me too long to identify him, convince them. Especially if I can find him in one of Denise's NET yearbooks. I've seen him be­fore. I suspect he was at the college when Denise was."

  His keeper dragged at him. Sam talked quickly. "I've got them from the five years she was there. If I can't find him in those, you can call Barry—in the alumni office at the college," he inserted. "He'll help you. He can send you more."

  Sam stumbled sideways as the policeman's grip tightened painfully. "Look, man, we're getting soaked."

  Jonna followed. "Where?"

  Sam scowled.

  "Where are the yearbooks?"

  "In that big thing in the dining room."

  "What?" Jonna's hair was plastered to her scalp. She brushed it from her eyes and blinked against the blurring moisture that dripped off the ends. "Oh, the buffet?"

  He nodded and turned to accompany the officer, glanc­ing back over his shoulder to confirm, once more, that she was real, alive.

  She looked a little less stunned. And obviously, she was on his side. A burst of warmth bloomed from the inside out.

  Dammit. How could he leave her where she stood, sur­rounded, drifting and lost in the middle of the chaos? The officer covered the top of Sam's head and propelled him down into the back seat.

  I'll be back before sundown, Sam thought. I'll hold her and protect her and refuse to leave her until that bastard is dead and in his grave.

  "Sam?" Jonna called his name as she ran to the car and huddled outside the still-open door. "I just want you to know I…I believe you," she said.

  "I know." He lifted his hands, traced her lower lip with a finger. "Go to Moss," he said. "Don't stay here by yourself."

  She nodded. "I will."

  Concern and trust emanated from her. He felt the urge to say something about the way she made him feel. He swal­lowed the impulse. He couldn't define the emotion. And thanks seemed so inadequate when what he felt was so overwhelming.

  He wasn't sure what love was anymore. Was it the need to take care of someone? Or gratitude for her faith, even though he'd given her no valid foundation for it?

  He recognized his gripping desire to touch her, hold her, make love to her. But that, by itself, wasn't love. He'd ex­perienced that too many times when that was all he felt.

  Was it love that had amassed this paralyzing lump of ter­ror in his gut?

  He couldn't love her. Loving meant losing. If he said he loved her, admitted it out loud, it would almost be like signing her death warrant.

  All he knew was that this scraggly-looking, wet waif was everything right now. And if something happened to her— and if he didn't get out of this mess soon, something might—he wouldn't want to live.

  "I'll be back as quickly as I can," he promised.

  "We gotta go," the officer said, and Jonna backed slowly away.

  The door slammed with a terse finality. The car moved out onto the highway and Sam twisted to gaze over his shoulder. Jonna looked forlorn, forsaken and fragile in the middle of the scattering male mob. Madden stood behind her, to one side; the FBI agent and the police chief flanked the other. He watched as they closed ranks, talking as they circled her and blocked her from his sight.

  He realized what he was really up against. They abso­lutely believed he had killed three women, including his very own sister Denise. They were going to do their darnedest to make Jonna believe it, too. And believing it—that they'd caught their killer—they didn't think she was in any danger at all.

  If Sam couldn't convince them otherwise—and very soon—there would be no one—no one in this world—here for Jonna when the killer came to visit again. And next time, he wouldn't kill one of her calves. Next time, Jonna would be the one to die.

  * * *

  Sam gazed down at his hands, staring at the ink smudges still staining his fingers. He felt soiled, inside and out. His lips were moving and he realized he was repeating a prayer again and again. "Please don't let her believe them." He said the words aloud. "Please don't allow her to let her de­fenses down."

  "Barton?"

  Sam lurched around hopefully. The sheriff stood on the other side of the steel bars.

  Only the light in the small cell block had been turned on. In the evening's stormy gloom, Madden and his uniform blended into the shadows of the monotone-gray corridor.

  As if reading Sam's mind, Madden swung and flipped the utilitarian switches by the door separating the jail from the rest of the county offices in the modern building. He ap­proached Sam's cell again and the bars sliced the pleas­antly plump man into thin portions.

  "I promised Jonna I would bring you these," he said.

  "She's here?" Sam looked past Madden, his weariness diminished, expecting to see her standing there.

  "She headed for home."

  "You didn't let her go home?" Madden stepped back, and Sam realized he had grabbed for the man and caught the cell door instead. "I'm sorry," he said abruptly and loos­ened his white-knuckled grip on the bars. "She didn't really go home?"

  "I still have men there working. And she's just going to out to feed the horses. She's staying in town with Moss to­night," the sheriff said defensively.

  Sam felt as if his whole body had been turned into a pressure cooker like the one his mother had used. He needed to vent steam. He felt an explosive mix of anger, frustra­tion and desperation growing, rising out of control. And he had to cap it. He just couldn't afford to blow. It wouldn't help his situation at all.

  "I'm fixing to call the Whitfield Cafe, ask than to send some supper over for all of us. Anything in particular you'd like?"

  "I'm not hungry." Sam slumped on the side of the bunk, which was bolted to the floor. He was ready to immerse himself in the heavy books, and he opened the top one.

  "Anything you don't particularly like?" Madden changed the question.

  "I would kill for a cup of hot coffee and a cigarette," Sam said absently, then realized exactly what he had said. He glanced up, noted Madden's slack jaw and set the books aside. "Look, Madden, it's just an expression. A cup of coffee would be really nice."

  Madden examined the toes of his shoes. "How about a nice hot beef sandwich with mashed potatoes and lots of gravy? It would take the chill off, maybe?"

  Sam followed Madden's eyes to the small window above the bed. Night had set in and the sky continued to leak a steady drizzle. "That would be fine, Sheriff."

  "Piece of pie for dessert?"

  "That’s generous, Sheriff Madden, but you might as well save the county funds. I couldn't eat it."

  "I didn't know you smoked."

  "I don't usually," Sam responded and settled with his yearbooks again.

  "Uh, any particular brand?"

  Sam couldn't prevent a wry smile. "Anything non-menthol with a filter would be fine." The people here didn't seem to have a concept of how you were supposed to treat "bad" guys. They were all too trusting, and certain that if you ate regular meals and were kind to your fellow man, everything would be all right. That complacency was going to get Jonna killed.

  He felt panic nearly choke him again.

  "She'll be safe for a while," he told himself. The bright-haired, bright-eyed killer was gone. Jonna would surely be okay at least one more day. "Please, God, I can't be there. Please keep her safe."

  * * *

  Last night’s storm was obviously a prelude, Jonna thought late the next afternoon, examining the gray-brown sky as she drove the nine miles home from Moss's to do the chores. Moss had wanted to come. Insisted. But she'd waited until he
was called to the store for something. If there was trouble, the last thing she wanted to have to worry about was him having a heart attack.

  She watched the storm build and brew as she took care of the horses, drove out to check the cattle tanks and put wa­ter in the giant pans she kept filled for the assortment of wild cats that had the run of the barn.

  Madden's deputies hadn't been able to wash away the splotches of dried blood. No matter how she tried not to see, she could still read the stained message as she let herself into the house. Thank heavens it wasn't Magic, she thought, ri­diculously relieved it didn't refer to a cat rather than a calf.

  Another reason to know it wasn't Sam, she realized. If Sam had made this ungodly mess, he would have used Magic. He would have known killing her only pet was a much better way to get to her than killing one of her many, nameless farm animals.

  She wondered without humor how Connors would like that reasoning? He sure hadn't agreed with the rest of her reasoning. "You believe everything he's told you?" Con­nors had asked when she'd taken the yearbooks by the jail last night.

  "Not at first," she had answered, opening the outer flap of the top one and removing some papers. "Here. I brought these, too." She had shown him the faxes Sam's friend had sent. "These are the articles that helped Sam connect ev­erything."

  Connors had rolled an old-fashioned green leather office chair from behind a desk and invited Jonna to sit down. He'd eased himself onto the corner of Madden's desk, wriggling himself a cleared spot with his butt.

  "So tell me why you think Barton isn't responsible for all this." His tone, his facial expression, the way his whole body curved down toward her, made it seem that he really wanted to understand.

  "For one thing," she said, "he's had plenty of opportu­nity if that was his intention."

  She interlocked her fingers, released them and did it all again. He'd made love to her. What better opportunity could he get? Her face grew warm as she thought of it. She focused complete attention on her fidgety hands.

  "And that’s all?"

  "The first victim was his sister. He's still grieving for her. Why would Sam kill his own sister and cause himself so much pain? It just doesn't make sense."

  Connors had leaned closer. "So you think we've arrested the wrong man?"

  "Know," she asserted, looking directly into Connors's gray-blue eyes.' 'You should have seen the way Sam looked the day my house was vandalized and left in shambles. He was as shocked and surprised as I was. And upset with himself for not being there to stop it. People just can't fake reactions like that."

  "I'm not surprised he convinced you," Connors said. "Psychopaths are notoriously good actors."

  They'd already attached a name, a label to Sam. That was almost the worst thing so far. Jonna bolted from her chair.

  Madden approached to calm her down and she held up her palm. "What about his sister? Why would he kill his own sister?"

  "That’s a bit tricky to explain, but it isn't unusual, ei­ther." Connors joined her and Madden in the center of the small room. "What people are the closest to you? Your family," he supplied before she could answer. "Who can make you feel and do things a stranger couldn't? Your family," he answered again. "Something happened be­tween Barton and his sister. He killed her in a rage. It started this whole thing. She was the catalyst. He found out he liked killing."

  "That’s ridiculous." Tears filled Jonna's eyes, hazing her vision. She had promised herself she wouldn't get upset, wouldn't cry.

  Connors lowered his voice patiently. "Sam has several colleagues in Texas who say he and his sister had a running battle in progress about her decision to move to California. It wasn't over, either. One of his previous girlfriend's told us he went out to Denise's awards presentation intending to convince her to come back to Texas with him."

  "Sam didn't do any of this," she said stubbornly. The men exchanged another look. "And how about his rela­tionship with me? It doesn't follow the pattern."

  The agent agreed, perching again on the corner of Madden's desk. "But a psychopath is into power and control. You're fairly isolated. You may be the first subject he's had a chance to practice all that power and control on, to really terrorize."

  "That doesn't make sense," she blurted.

  "I heard you talking to Madden about pattern killings. You must have done your homework."

  "Sam told me."

  "Then he also told you pattern killings evolve?" He waited.

  She stared at him mutely.

  "You have to remember, we've just tied this together—"

  "Then you need Sam's help. He figured it out a long time ago."

  Connors ignored her interruption and went on. "We're only beginning to check out the lives of the victims imme­diately prior to their deaths. We may find a lot of similari­ties the further into this we get."

  "And you plan to hold Sam in the meantime?"

  "We have to, Jonna," Madden had said. "I'm not going to take any chances with you. You've got the award now—"

  "So I'm on my own against the crazy that really wants to kill me."

  "Jonna..."

  Jonna had grabbed her purse off his desk and headed for the door. "Let me know when I can see Sam. And if you would be so kind as to get those yearbooks to him, I'd re­ally appreciate it."

  "Jonna-"

  "You will give him the yearbooks, Rod?" Sheriff Mad­den had blanched as she pinned him with her best imitation of one of her father's commands.

  He'd nodded. "And we'll still be watching your—"

  "Don't bother," she broke in. "I'll be staying with Moss for the time being."

  She'd left trembling. It hadn't stopped since. And in­stead of getting better, it had gotten worse when she'd gone by the jail this morning and Madden told her the name of the man Sam had identified.

  "Quentin Kincaid," she murmured. The name, the face in the yearbook picture Madden showed her perfectly matched the voice indelibly etched in Jonna's memory from the telephone calls. Now, she had a face to complete her nightmares. And if he ever called again, she would visual­ize the smirky twist to his lips. Just thinking of him made her cringe.

  With the chores done, Jonna walked slowly through the house, flipping on lights. For company, she turned on the TV loud in the living room—for people sounds—and to keep an eye and ear on the thunderstorm warning and tor­nado watch the weatherman had announced earlier.

  She'd left her suitcase in the kitchen last night. She car­ried it upstairs and watched her hands shake as she un­packed it, stopping to stare at the drive and the farmhouse from time to time.

  The house looked empty and isolated without Sam. De­spite the "logic" Madden and Connors had tried to pound in, she would feel much, much safer with Sam there, right down the hill, than she did with him locked away.

  An especially dark cloud hovered over the house. Maybe with the drapes closed, she could concentrate on getting some clothes packed to take back to Moss's. She got her sketching things. Maybe she could make a few rough pre­liminary drawings for the magazine. She couldn't just haunt the jail, hoping Madden would let her see Sam. And she couldn't spend the next few days wandering from room to room in Moss's small house.

  Quentin Kincaid. Connors had merely said, "We inves­tigate all leads." She prayed they were investigating him now. When they did, Sam would be free.

  The phone rang and a glance at the clock said it was time to be on her way. She'd promised herself she wouldn't stay here longer than she had to to get things done.

  "Hello," she said breathlessly on the second ring, antic­ipating the horror of Quentin's voice.

  "Hi, Girlie. I didn't expect you there, but no one an­swered Moss's phone so I thought it was worth a try." Madden's voice was reassuring.

  "I won't be here much longer," she confirmed, carrying phone to the window.

  She parted the curtain. The sky, still holding on to its ominous fury, feigned an early dusk.

  Madden cleared his throat. "I promised I'd
keep you up­dated on the news," he said.

  Jonna went very still. The corner of the drape drifted through her fingers and back into place. Somehow, she didn't think the news was going to be good.

  "We received warrants from Colorado and California. We're officially booking Sam for murder," he finally said.

  "No," she whispered.

  "We've verified it all. He had access to the alumni infor­mation and the awards announcements before they were ever published," he went on. "He admitted to being in two out of three cities where the murders happened, when they happened," Madden emphasized. "And the fingerprints found in two of the victims' homes have been double- checked and positively ID'd as his. We're just waiting for the third. Sam doesn't have an alibi for that one, no proof he was where he said he was. The case is pretty solid, Jonna."