Cold Touch

by Leslie Parrish

  They had to find the boy, Jack. Had to.

  “Gabe,” she said, speaking carefully, “is there anything you think we should do, before the police get here?”

  She didn’t put it out there. Didn’t make the offer, knowing how he’d acted last night to the very idea of her touching the victims found in the woods. But, God, this was his friend, his partner. This man deserved justice. And Jack has to be found.

  He didn’t catch her meaning, still looking a little dazed. He put his hands on his knees and slowly rose to his feet, careful not to touch the doorjamb or the open door. She had no doubt he’d gone inside to see if there was any way he could save his friend. Then his cop instincts had kicked in. He’d come out here to grieve, doing nothing to contaminate the scene further.

  He extended a hand to help her up. “I guess we oughta get our stories straight,” he muttered, sounding so tired, so sick of the games and machinations.

  “The truth should suffice,” Julia said from the lawn below. “Your partner didn’t show up for work, you grew concerned when you couldn’t reach him.” Then she looked at Olivia. “Your girlfriend knew you were coming over here and was worried about you, and showed up a few minutes later.”

  That was the truth. A skimmed-down version but the truth nonetheless.

  “I guess,” he muttered before crossing the porch and slowly descending the steps. He looked at Julia for a moment, as if he wanted to say something. Olivia had the feeling he didn’t know whether to thank her or tell her he hated her guts for being the one to bring him such evil, life-altering news. In the end, he said nothing, just nodding once and then walking past her toward the street to wait for the emergency vehicles.

  Olivia watched his every move, noting the slump in his shoulders, the trudge in his step. He seemed a little shell-shocked, too filled with grief to think of anything else.

  She understood; she felt almost as crushed.

  But she was still able to think clearly.

  Apparently, so was Julia. The other woman cleared her throat and gave her a pointed stare from a few steps below. She cocked her head, listening as the sirens drew closer, probably no more than a couple of minutes away.

  “Well?” Julia asked, leaving the decision in Olivia’s hands.

  She was torn. On the one hand, she knew Gabe wouldn’t want her to put herself through it—he’d made that clear last night. On the other, she knew he’d move heaven and hell to solve his partner’s murder.

  Olivia could solve it. Right now, right this minute. Not only solve it, she might also be able to save a child’s life.

  She could sit right on the step where he’d been sitting, extend one hand two feet into the house and place the tip of her finger against one of Ty’s. She wouldn’t have to go inside, wouldn’t disturb any possible evidence, wouldn’t touch anything else except a centimeter of his partner’s body.

  Gabe was leaning against a tree by his car, keeping his back toward them, his hand raised to his face. Grieving privately, trying to get it out before his coworkers showed up and the situation changed from the site of a friend’s death to a crime scene.

  The sirens. Louder now.

  Ten blocks? Eight?

  Julia continued to stare. Silent. Nonjudging. Saying she’d support her either way.

  Unable to resist, Olivia turned and looked over her shoulder into the house. Her eyes immediately went to that helpless hand, and she was struck with a deep, nearly inconsolable sadness for all the things Ty would never have, never hold, never do.

  That hand would never brush the cheek of a woman he loved, never wear a wedding ring, never tickle his child’s feet, never again wave goodbye to a friend.

  All that glorious potential was wiped out, his empty hand full of nothing but the remnants of possibility that could have been the rest of Ty Wallace’s life. Like dark streams of smoke and ash, those hopes for the future eluded his grasp, dissipating into the ether of lost dreams and unmet expectations.

  Tears streaming down her face, Olivia made her decision.

  Ty had died because he’d wanted to save a child’s life. His sacrifice deserved to be honored . . . and shared. Even if it would hurt her terribly to share it.

  She slowly lowered herself to the metal doorstep on which Gabe had been sitting. Not touching the door or the jamb, or the carpet, mindful of every possible fingerprint, hair or fiber, she reached inside, noting the cooler air against her skin. She hesitated for just a second while she mentally prepared herself, then extended her hand.

  She thought she heard someone yelling in the distance. But it was too late.

  By that time, Olivia had already brushed her fingertip against Ty’s cold, dead skin.

  Monday, 1:15 a.m., eleven hours ago

  Ty usually had no trouble sleeping. Once his head hit the pillow, he was almost always out immediately, sleeping like the dead. His granny called that the sleep of a righteous man. He called it the sleep of a dog-tired one.

  Tonight, though, he’d had trouble. He’d been tossing and turning, running everything over in his head. The case, of course, but also the big pit of psychic quicksand he and his partner had somehow walked into. He’d seen and heard stuff in the past two days that would stay with him the rest of his days. Just thinking about the story Olivia had told, about experiencing the final minutes of that boy’s life, was enough to make him want to get down on his knees and give thanks that he’d never had a near-death experience.

  One of these days he intended to ask Gabe how he really felt about it. There was no way his partner could disguise the fact that he was falling for the woman—and Ty wondered if the man had really given it a lot of thought, what being involved with someone like that would mean. Marrying her, having kids with her, with what was in her head? How could he ever do it?

  “Okay, head, empty out—time to sleep,” he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. He tried to picture sheep up there, jumping over a little fence, but that just made him hungry. He hadn’t had his mom’s roast lamb with mint jelly in a long time.

  Knowing his partner was a night owl, he thought about calling him, but honestly, until he had solid news to share, he didn’t really want to. Part of him hadn’t been disappointed not to have reached Gabe earlier tonight, because Ty had almost as many questions as he did answers.

  It wasn’t that he’d had no luck with his investigation.

  No, he hadn’t spoken with the detective who’d handled the Virginia Jane Doe murder case. The man had retired a few years back, and nobody was around on a Sunday evening who could tell Ty how to contact him.

  And no, he hadn’t been able to reach the father of the missing child who he thought might have been their Zachary. The man’s last known number had been disconnected, and a quick property search showed his house—his last known address—had been sold almost twenty years ago.

  Ty had searched online, looking through driver’s license records, arrests and criminal cases, and hadn’t found anything on the man. He knew he’d be able to run a more extensive search on property and tax records in the morning when he could get some help, have live people to talk to. But he had exhausted what he could do on a Sunday night.

  With one option left, he’d crossed his fingers and tried calling the only other relative named in the case file, the father’s cousin.

  To his surprise and delight he’d gotten through. The man’s only relative had sounded nice enough at first. At least until Ty had mentioned the missing boy and his father. Then the voice on the phone had gone from friendly and confused to wary and cautious.

  That’s what was keeping him up.

  Gabe had been telling him for a year that the best detectives learned to rely on their intuition. That while cold, hard facts were most important, knowing how to recognize that churning in your gut or the tightening in the back of your neck could also be critical. And his Spidey senses had been tingling up a storm during that telephone conversation, which he replayed in his mind

  Johnny’s gone. He
left the country. His heart was just broken to pieces when he lost his baby boy—that was awful, what his wife did, stealing Zachary away.

  When Ty had asked where Zachary’s father was now, he’d been told this “Johnny” had joined the army and hadn’t come back for a visit in more than ten years.

  It was possible, he supposed. It would explain the lack of local records. Still, Ty hadn’t been completely convinced.

  Mainly because his stomach had churned. And the back of his neck had felt tight when he’d hung up at the end of the conversation.

  That cousin knew something. He’d lay money on it. Hopefully, tomorrow, he and Gabe could figure out how to get that information.

  Knowing he wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep, Ty got out of bed, having decided to go do some more surfing on the Internet. See if he could find out anything else about this family.

  “Gonna be an early morning,” he muttered, eyeing the clock. But being awake and working was better than being awake and tossing around in his bed. So he headed for the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, then went into the tiny spare room he used as an office. He turned on his laptop and, while it fired up, flipped open the folder with the report on Zachary and his mother. He’d skimmed it earlier, but now he read a little more carefully, paying special attention to any mention of the rest of the family.

  It was while reading a transcript of the father’s statement to police, when he’d reported that his wife had kidnapped their son, that the tension he’d been feeling became a full-on frenzy.

  He stared at the father’s name. Then stared at the boy’s name. Then stared at the nickname the father had used for him.

  Then remembered every word Olivia had said about Zachary’s last minutes.

  “Oh, no, you didn’t,” he whispered. “You son of a bitch, no, you did not.”

  He read it again.

  She took him. I love him—I still love her, too—it broke my heart when she left me, officer. But him, my son—God, why would she do such a thing? Why would she take my little Jackie-boy when he’s all I got?

  “You motherfucking piece of shit,” he snapped, hearing his own anger in the darkness. As it all washed over him, the whole, ugly truth, he lurched out of his chair, needing to go get something stronger to drink than water. “Bastard, hanging’s too good for you. What kind of father would do that?” he muttered as he walked out of the office into the dark living room.

  He didn’t even see the man until he charged forward, the gleam of moonlight reflecting against the long, sharp blade in his hand.

  Ty was caught totally off guard, never in a million years expecting something like this, so he was a bit slower to respond than he might otherwise have been. But he did respond. He instinctively threw up his arm, to ward off the blow. He gasped, taking a deep slice to the forearm, glad only for the fact that the hunting knife had missed its intended target—his chest or throat.

  The shadowy figure came at him again, from the right, and Ty spun around, knocking over a table and lamp. He kicked out with his right foot, making contact with a beefy leg. But his bare foot barely slowed the bastard down, and the knife arced through the air, cutting into the back of Ty’s calf.

  “Ah, God!” he cried, pain exploding through him. “Christ, who are you? What do you want?”

  “You shoulda minded yer own bizness,” the voice said. “Left me and Jackie alone.”

  He suddenly got it and knew he was fighting a madman, fighting for his life. Despite the pain, he found some well of strength and startled his attacker by launching forward, barreling right into his chest. They both fell, rolling across the floor until they slammed into the couch. Ty ended up on top of the man’s back, and he swung his left fist, hard, hitting his assailant in the kidneys.

  The man grunted in pain, squirming, but Ty hit again. He looked frantically around, seeing nothing close enough to use as a weapon. The knife had flown out of the man’s hands, too far for either of them to use it, and Ty’s service weapon was holstered in his bedroom.

  He punched a third time as the man bucked, pushing himself up to his knees, taking Ty with him. The room had begun to spin. Glancing down, Ty saw blood gushing from his leg.

  He tried to hold on, knowing if the man got up, it would all be over. Ty’s right arm was hanging useless by his side, and he wasn’t sure he could walk on his leg, which still throbbed with the kind of pain he hadn’t known was possible.

  It was a losing battle.

  Though he tried desperately to wrap his good arm around the man’s thick neck, he just couldn’t hold on, growing weaker with every second that passed. His attacker finally threw him off and staggered to his feet. Ty rolled onto his knees and glared at the other man, hating him, wanting to lunge forward and rip him apart with one hand and his teeth if he had to. But he could barely see his attacker much less do anything to hurt him from here. He was several feet away, it was too dark, and Ty was too badly hurt.

  He considered diving for the knife, or trying to roll—or hell, crawl—to his room, which had never looked so far away. But before he could do either one, he saw the killer pull something out of his pocket.

  A gun.

  Fuck.

  His assailant raised the weapon, pointed it. Ty lifted a hand, palm out, as if to ward him off. But he didn’t beg, didn’t plead. This bastard had come here for this, to kill him. There was no mercy in his veins. What he’d done to poor little Zachary—John Zachary Traynor, who his father had called Jackie-boy—was eternal proof that he had no soul.

  Ty was about to die. His life was ending at the age of twenty-six.

  Knowing that, his mind churned frantically. He had seconds at most, and while he wanted to think about his parents and his granny and his brothers, and his partner, and oh, God, how he wanted to think about Brooke Wainwright’s pretty smile and her soft hair, he knew he didn’t have that luxury.

  He had to leave a message.

  “Liv,” he muttered, “he killed his son. His own son. Zachary was Jackie-boy. Tell Gabe—look at the noncustodials. Tell him the name John . . .”

  Pop.

  He flew back, landing on the floor a few feet from his front door, wondering why he hadn’t heard much of a shot or why it didn’t really hurt. Had it been some kind of tranquilizer. . . ?

  Jesus. He moaned, unable to make any more sound than that. The fire had started, the burning in his chest; his mind just hadn’t caught up to the pain till now. Real gun. Real bullets. Just silenced.

  He looked up, gasping for air, knowing something vital inside him had been hit, wasn’t working anymore. Because he couldn’t catch his breath, couldn’t even feel his heart beating.

  But his mind worked. And the things he’d wanted to think about suddenly flooded it.

  He pictured the faces of the people he loved, remembered the way his Dad had taught him how to fish, and his Mom had made the best pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving, and his granny had called him every Sunday night to ask if he’d gone to church. He’d missed her call tonight and figured he’d call her back later in the week.

  She’d be waiting on that call forever, now. Sorry. So sorry.

  He heard heavy footsteps, barely noticing—or caring—that his killer had gone to pick up his knife and was now coming back. Ty knew he should look at him, should try to fill his eyes with every detail, hoping Olivia would see, would recognize the man despite the darkness.

  But he was almost gone . . . almost gone.... He didn’t want his murderer’s image to be the last thing he ever saw in this world. And he was tired, very tired; he could hardly keep his eyes open.

  So he stopped trying. He closed them and let his mind drift. His thoughts landed on one last image, one last lovely thought.

  How he would have liked to have gotten to know her.

  “Such pretty blond hair,” he whispered.

  And then he died.

  Chapter 13

  Gabe felt like he was moving underwater or in slow motion. He’d been standing
by the street, trying to dry his goddamn face before the first responders showed up. Then something had made him glance over his shoulder to see what Olivia was doing. From across the small yard, he saw her lean into the house, her hand extended, as if she was reaching to grab something.

  What is she doing?

  But the thought had immediately been replaced by a sick certainty that he already knew.

  She wouldn’t. She’d promised. She wouldn’t do that, not without saying anything. Not without asking, not without giving him the chance to say absofuckinglutely not.

  Only, she was.

  “No, Livvie, stop!” he yelled, his own voice sounding distant to his own ears.

  She didn’t stop; she couldn’t—it was already too late.

  He hesitated, hearing the sirens no more than a minute away. Two at most.

  Two minutes ten seconds.

  “No!”

  He wouldn’t allow it. This was his partner, his friend. Ty had just died. He was still lying in a pool of his own blood, in his own house, and Gabe hadn’t even processed that yet. Olivia couldn’t just . . . just . . . reach out and take his death like she had some right to it.

  He felt sick. Afraid for her, furious at her. And all these feelings combined to finally get his brain working and his feet moving. He raced toward the house, yelling at her to stop, almost barreling right over Julia, who stepped directly into his path.

  “Wait!”

  He grabbed her upper arms and moved her out of his way.

  “Damn it, Gabe, just wait a minute,” she said, pushing in front of him again. “It’s already started. Let her do what she has to do.”

  Gabe thrust a finger in the woman’s face. “She doesn’t have to do it—don’t you get that? All you people who call yourselves her friends make her feel like she does. You encourage her to do something that not only tortures her but eats at her soul, one tiny bite at a time.”

  Julia’s face paled, and her eyes widened in her face, as if nobody had ever said such a thing to her. How could these people claim to know her and never have realized, never have seen the truth? This so-called gift was actually a curse, and she used it at her own peril.