by Laurel Dewey
Jane found a large rock and laid it on the bottom rung of the barbed wire, providing a somewhat larger opening for her to crawl through. She’d almost made it under the fence safely when her brown hair hooked on a barb in the line above her head. It was just enough to throw her off balance and send her forward into the damp dirt. “Fuck!” she exclaimed, as the butt of the Glock bit into her ribs. Peeling her body off the ground, she brushed the palms of her hands against her jeans and canvassed the area. She took about ten steps and nearly tripped on a metal rod that poked six inches out of the dirt. It was painted bright red and seemed to have no reason for being there.
The plume of smoke blew toward her, laying a soft cloudy pillow across the dead leaves. Her cowboy boots sucked into the wet earth as Jane crisscrossed the terrain, holding back now and again behind a spruce trunk to make sure she was hidden from Jordan’s view. The smoke seemed to seek her out in the woods, winding its hazy fingers around her muddy boots and exploring every crevice of her body. Jane heard a distinct crackle close by. She ducked behind a tree and carefully surveyed the landscape in front of her. Beyond the coppice, there was a small clearing with a four-foot-wide circular stone fire pit. The fire roared, sending amber tentacles into the air and created an optical illusion of waves in midair. Jane cautiously scanned the forest for Jordan but saw nothing. The fire actually felt good against her chilled frame. It lulled her senses momentarily, but then the realization that a body might be baking in the coals brought her back to life.
Satisfied that Jordan was not around, Jane pushed through the sharp, unyielding branches and into the clearing. The fire licked without prejudice from one side of the stones to the other. Jane’s face burned hotter as she inched her way closer to the pit in an attempt to decipher what had been thrown into the inferno. She raised her jacket to shield her face from the heat and took another step closer. The fire popped loudly as she heard his gravelly voice.
“Looking for his dead body?”
CHAPTER 11
Jane spun on her heels, instinctively reaching for her Glock.
Jordan Copeland stood ten feet away right in one of her fresh footprints. Had he been right behind her the entire time, stalking her as she stealthily moved on his property? There was a second of indignity on Jane’s part followed by a realization that she was, in fact, trespassing and holding no warrant. Now with only ten feet between them, Jane could take in the towering beast in front of her. He stared at her with those penetrating, hypnotic steel-blue eyes, set under his elongated forehead. Flecks of debris nested in his grey beard and mustache, and continued through the wet, salt-and-pepper tangles of unruly curls that draped heavily across his shoulders and midway down the back of his oilcloth olive green duster. His enormous hands—gnarled, dark and thick with hard calluses—were balled into ready fists, waiting for an excuse to pound.
Jane stood her ground, fingers still inside her jacket touching her Glock. She’d stood up to a few monsters in her life and there was no way she was going to be intimidated by this one. She just hoped Jordan couldn’t hear her heart nearly beating out of her chest.
“Go on,” he said, his voice raspy and low. “Check the fire. See if he’s in there. Maybe I didn’t tuck his foot in tight enough.”
Jane took a step back. “I’m Sergeant Detective Jane Perry from Denver.”
“Jesus fucking Christ, aren’t you official?” Jordan’s fists relaxed. “I know you’re a cop. We’ve already met. On the bridge? Right before your Negro partner came to step ’n’ fetch you?”
“Negro?”
“Oh. Sorry.” Jordan’s face reeked of derision. “Black. Or shall we really indulge ourselves and call him African American so we can pretend we’re two whites who give a shit?” Jordan moved closer to Jane. She curled her fingers around the butt of her Glock. “You gonna let that gun see some action or are you just gonna keep stroking it…leading it on?” He sauntered to the left of Jane and stood close to the fire. Jane turned to face him. Jordan grabbed a small branch from the ground and poked the coals in the pit. “Sergeant Detective Jane Perry,” he mused out loud, flicking a hot coal back into the center of the flames. “You like the way that vibrates in the air, don’t you?” Jordan never took his eyes off the fire. Jane stared into the pit, surveying the remnants of charred trash.
“You know,” Jordan said, “every time I get a good fire cranking, I smile because I know somewhere out there, I’m really pissing off one of those fuckin’ eco-freaks. Yeah, they love the earth. but they hate the people on it! You’re not one of the Green Guilters, are you?” Jane shook her head. “I didn’t think so. You don’t look like a Nature Nazi. The only time I go green is when I smoke some bad shit that makes me puke.” He lifted his filthy face and stared at Jane.
Jane gradually took her hand off her gun. “There’s a shock.”
Jordan remained silent as he continued to gaze at her with his mesmerizing orbs. He tilted his head and peered deeper into Jane’s eyes as if he were trying to read words only he could see. Jane felt herself being drawn into the vortex, the same way she was on the bridge. She quickly peeled her eyes away from Jordan and sunk them back into the flames. “Do I frighten you, Jane?” His tenor was purposely disturbing.
That familiar wellspring of grit rose up and warmed her core. “That’s ironic.” She fastened her brown eyes on him. “I was gonna ask you the same question.”
A mocking expression crept across Jordan’s mug. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, weighing in at one hundred and thirty pounds in the ring tonight we have Sergeant Detective Jane Perry ready and willing to show me she can’t be cowed. I wonder how smart she is? Let’s start with something simple. How about a children’s riddle?” Jordan stood a little taller. “I am the ruler of shovels. I have a double. I am as thin as a knife. I have a wife. What am I?”
Jane remembered the riddle from Jordan’s videotaped interview with Bo. She thought for a moment, recalling it from her childhood. “You’re the King of Spades.”
Jordan raised an eyebrow. “Very good, Jane. Let’s try another. How much dirt would be in a hole six feet deep and six feet wide that was dug with a square-edged shovel?”
Jane didn’t have to think about this one. “There’s no dirt. It’s a fucking hole.”
“Good, good, good. You stay focused and you aren’t swayed by meaningless information.” He took a couple steps around the fire pit. “Just one more. When does a Mexican become a Hispanic?”
Christ Almighty, she thought. “When he marries your daughter.”
Jordan smiled. “I’ll give you a grand if you can find Hispania on the map!” He continued his slow pace around the fire. “Three for three. Nicely done. You aren’t afraid to expose the politically correct culture for what it is. I’m liking you more and more, Jane Perry. So, let’s cut the shit. Ask me the million-dollar question.”
“What would that be?” Jane asked, never taking her eyes off him.
“What the fuck do you think it is?” Jordan’s tone turned suddenly mean. “Do you think I offed the kid?!”
Jane stiffened. “Did you?”
“I asked you first.” Jordan ceased his promenade around the fire pit about four feet from Jane.
“I think you’ve got the criminal vibe honed to perfection. You’ve also got the rap sheet and hard time against you. There’s also the similarities in the two cases…”
“The fact that a boy was involved? That’s pretty general, Jane. Daniel was thirteen and he wasn’t on a bridge or trying to kill himself. Daniel was also retarded. This kid wasn’t.” Jane watched Jordan’s face for any sign of deception. She could usually discern some kind of body language, whether for innocence or guilt, but this guy seemed impenetrable. “There’s also that pesky term of my probation that says I can’t be within one hundred feet of a school or in the presence of a child under the age of eighteen. Jesus, do you have any idea how difficult it is to bump off a kid from one hundred feet away? I’m not saying it can’t be done, mind you.” He gr
inned. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way, Jane.”
Jane was tiring of the sick banter. She decided to interject a few spines of attitude to irritate him and see if that cracked the surface. “You know the kid’s name. Why won’t you say it? Feeling guilty?”
“Ah…she’s a master of the unspoken. She seeks to uncover the truth by the subtleties she hears and sees.”
Jane needed to regain control of this extemporized campfire interview. “Say his name, Jordan.”
“And she stays on message!” He moved closer to her, his oilcloth duster dragging across the rim of the blackened stones. “Jake Van Gorden.” He paused. “Did you hear anything odd in the way I said his name? Did you detect any whisper of artifice in my cadence?” It was now Jane’s turn to remain as impenetrable in her body language. “Let me say it again. Jake…Van… Gorden.” Jordan stepped within two feet of Jane.
She searched his face, coming up empty. “You get off on mind-fucking people? Did that buy you extra treats in prison?”
“And now we move to the profiling portion of our number-one suspect.”
“You see yourself as quite the little road scholar, don’t you? That’s road as in street, by the way.”
“Turn of the word…aren’t you a clever girl?”
Jane felt trapped by Jordan’s looming presence. She calmly moved to her left and walked slowly around the fire pit. “You don’t care what people think because fuck ’em, right? Nobody did you any favors, did they?” She noted a slight wince in his eyes. “Oh, did I hit a nerve?”
“I don’t have a nerve to hit, sweetheart. Don’t be so full of yourself.”
“Because you’re dead inside.” Jordan stared at her across the flames. Perhaps she wormed into his psyche. “You died a long time ago, but nobody gave a shit. The heart may be pumping, but you’ve left the building.” Yes, there was something cracking in his façade. She recalled the brief early history of Jordan that Weyler recounted. “You were eight years old and it all came crashing down.” Jordan stiffened. Not knowing the monster’s M.O., Jane wasn’t sure if she should continue. But she was used to pushing that proverbial envelope. “All you had was silence and isolation to occupy your days. You could cry, but why bother? You were in the way.”
Jane looked down at Jordan’s hands. They were slightly quivering, but within seconds, the shaking intensified. It was the identical thing that she saw when she first came eye-to-eye with him on the bridge. Instead of hiding the physical reaction, Jordan let it happen, almost disconnected from the strange effect. If she were sitting in the interrogation room at Headquarters, this is when she’d go in for the kill. Now with the fire cracking and hissing below her, it seemed an appropriate time. “Are you involved in any shape or form with Jake Van Gorden’s disappearance?”
Almost on cue, his hands stopped shaking. His face became emotionless. “You’re the cop. You figure it out.”
Jane was damned if Jordan was going to get the upper hand. “You know, I could make one phone call and have three police agencies descend on this place and tear it up from the front end to the ass end.”
Jordan regarded her for a moment and then smiled. “You’re not gonna do that because you know they had no evidence to hold me and nothing substantial to link me to that kid’s disappearance. You can’t pull a warrant just because you think I’m disturbed. I know it and you know it so don’t try to bullshit me.” He stabbed a piece of errant trash with the stick and thrust it back into the flames. “The cops aren’t coming back here.” His gaze quickly intensified, “But you will.” Jane felt her heart race but she tightened her mask of bravado. “You and I have business together.”
Jane met his intensity. “What kind of business?”
“Very important business,” he said, pursing his lips. “You have something I need.” Jane’s blood turned cold. A jarring electrical shock ran down her spine forcing her to slightly jerk. It was the same shockwave that coursed across her nerve endings when she first saw Jordan on the bridge. Jordan moved closer to her, his blue eyes slightly out of focus. “We can help each other, Jane. I can enlighten you about so many critical things…”
“Like where Jake Van Gorden is?” Jane interrupted, standing her ground.
He took in a haughty breath. “Sure. I can tell you everything I feel as I feel it.”
“And in return?”
“You give me…” He searched her face for the answer. “Life.” As Jordan said the word, it was as if he realized it at that exact moment.
“Life?” Jane’s first thought was a life sentence.
His eyes drifted to the side. “You bring me…life…” With that statement, Jordan’s hands began to shake.
“I’m not sure I understand what the hell you’re talking about,” Jane said, growing tired of the mystifying banter.
His eyes still locked faraway, Jordan spoke but his voice was drifting in another realm. “I’m not sure I do either. But that’s the best I can give you right now.” He looked at her. “You need to go now. You got a lot of work to do.”
Jane wasn’t used to being summarily dismissed, especially when she positioned herself in the authority role. The sky darkened above her as a soft pitter-pat of rain fell. Jane turned to head back into the thicket when Jordan spoke up.
“Don’t worry, Jane.” His acerbic tone was thick with sarcasm. “When all else fails, we always have…hope.” Jane thought how much she hated that word. It was empty, impotent, passive and useless. The second that thought crossed her mind, Jordan piped up. “I despise the word hope. It keeps you waiting at the door long after you’ve rung the bell.”
Jane felt an uneasy quiver. It was as if he read her mind. Or if he didn’t, he somehow felt the same way she did about that ineffectual word. She started back toward the wire fence.
“Jake Van Gorden is not dead.” She turned back. His words fell like stone around her. Jordan poked his stick between the crevices of the rocks that circled the fire pit. “But he’s not safe. His world as he knows it is about to crumble and be shattered forever.” He lifted his head and stared at Jane. “But, then again, he asked for it.”
By the time Jane got back to her Mustang, the heavens had let go with a torrent of angry rain and wind. Her boots looked as if she’d trudged across the prairie and her jeans were equally mucky. A hard chill infected her body as she slammed the car door and looked at the clock. It was 5:45 pm. That couldn’t be right. She’d gotten to Jordan’s fence line around 3:45 pm. Factoring the slinking around, their meeting and her hasty return to the car, she figured it was no more than forty minutes tops. Jane checked her cell phone to see the correct time. 5:45 pm. Crazy, she thought as she drove back to town.
The Rabbit Hole was buzzing, crowded and deafening when Jane got there just after six o’clock. There were about seventy-five people on the dance floor and the surrounding tables. Almost every barstool was taken. The band, made up of an eclectic mix of middle-aged rogues, played “It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere.” They all looked half in the bag, except for the drummer who wore jeans, a Hawaiian shirt and a cowboy hat.
Jane crossed to the highly varnished bar, leaned across and tugged on the bartender’s shirt. “I’m looking for Hank Ross,” she yelled above the earsplitting music.
“The half-birthday boy?!” he yelled back at her.
“Excuse me?”
The guy pointed toward the band where a banner was strung across the ceiling. It read: Happy Half-Birthday Hank!
“What the hell?” Jane muttered to herself. Irritated, she pulled out her badge and flashed it at the guy. “I’m a cop! I need to see him.”
The fellow stood back observing Jane with a quizzical look. “Goddamnit! Did that son-of-a-bitch hire a stripper dressed like a cop for his own half-birthday?“
“Hey, asshole!” Jane yelled above the din. “I’m a cop. Dressed like a cop.”
He put his thumbs up in the air. “Like the attitude! And you’re in character! I get it.” He motioned toward Jane’s
muddy shirt. “Dirty cop! Love it! Hank’s the guy playing the drums.” He winked. “Knock yourself out.”
Jane turned to the band. Great. She wormed her way through the crowd as the band wound up their song. Hank capped it off with a dizzying riff and piercing crash of the cymbals. Jane looked closer at him. “Shit,” she said. It was the same guy with the pickup truck she’d already seen twice that day on the street. Jane waited until the crowd’s appreciation died down before leaning on the stage and yelling Hank’s name.
Hank squinted through the stage lights, but when he saw Jane, his smile broadened. He put down his sticks and told the band he was sitting out a few songs before he moved to the lip of the stage. “This is one for the record books,” he said, his blue eyes twinkling. “I haven’t even blown out my half-birthday candles yet and I already got my wish!”
Jane was confounded. “Look, Mr. Ross…”
“Oh, come on! It’s Hank,” he yelled as the band swelled into a bluegrass number.
“My name’s Jane Perry.“
“I know who you are. We get the Denver paper up here.” He smiled.
“I need to ask you some questions.”
Hank jumped off the stage and spied Jane’s holstered Glock under her jacket. “I like the way you accessorize!” He nodded toward her muddy shirt. “You look like you’ve had a hard day. How about a drink?” Hank led Jane to the far end of the bar. “What can I get you? Beer? Whiskey?”
“I don’t drink,” Jane stated, building a wall of protection around her.
“A cop who doesn’t drink? The only cops who don’t drink are cops who used to drink. Tonic and lime?” Jane nodded halfheartedly. “Two tonic and limes,” he told the bartender. “What do you wanna eat?”
