by Rita Herron
“Why did you think my father had an inappropriate relationship with Kelly Cousins?” Ian asked.
“One of the boys at school said he saw them together, saw the coach cornering Kelly, said she looked scared. Then her mama found that note. Kelly talked about how much she loved your daddy, that she hoped he left his wife for her.”
Ian’s lungs squeezed for air. His father never would have done that, or given Kelly that idea. “Did you have that note analyzed to make sure it was her writing?”
“Couldn’t. It was typewritten.”
Shit. Advances in technology and criminology could do wonders today. “You did log it into evidence, didn’t you?”
Headler hooked his thumbs in his overalls. “Yeah. I wasn’t incompetent, Kimball.”
“We’ll have the note analyzed,” Beth said as if she’d read his mind. “Where is it? The county office?”
Headler shrugged. “I believe so.”
“Did you keep notes on the case?” Ian asked.
Headler worked his tobacco. “Yeah, I think they’re here somewhere. Kelly’s mother showed us her daughter’s diary, too. In it, she talked about seeing the coach, how good he was to her, how much she liked their private time together.”
Ian twisted his mouth in thought. “So she had a crush on my dad. A lot of girls did.”
“Did she say that he actually molested her?” Beth asked.
“Not in those words.” Headler averted his gaze as if he was uncomfortable. “Although the ME said that she wasn’t a virgin.”
“That doesn’t mean she slept with my father,” Ian said impatiently.
Beth gently touched Ian’s arm to calm him. “I’d like a list of the names of the students you spoke to,” Beth said. “I’m also going to request the coach’s files from the school.”
“You’ll have to get a warrant,” Headler said.
Beth gave him a tight smile. “We know the law.”
Ian crossed his arms. “If Dad’s students told him their problems, there might be something in his files proving one of them lied.”
“Why would one of them have lied?” Headler asked.
Beth set her cup down. “Teenagers lie all the time. And they get crushes on male role models. Her infatuation with Coach Gleason could have been one-sided.”
“If one of the kids had a grudge against my father,” Ian said, “he or she could have maligned his character.”
“Why would anyone want to hurt the coach?” Headler asked. “Unless he hurt them, which means the accusations against him were true.”
Ian’s defenses rose. Was this man really that dense? “Did any other female claim impropriety?”
“It’s been a long time.” Headler scratched his chin. “I’d have to check my notes.”
“You were up for reelection around the time of the arrest, weren’t you?” Ian asked in a harsh tone.
Headler’s nostrils flared. “Yes, but that had nothing to do with how I handled the case.”
“Really?” Disbelief rang clear in Ian’s tone. “You didn’t rush to make an arrest so the people would think you were a hero?”
“Ian.” Beth’s calm demeanor reminded Ian that if he pissed Headler off, he might not cooperate. But dammit, the man should have explored other possibilities.
Headler pushed himself up from his chair, then rubbed his leg as if it was stiff. “I’ll give you a copy of my notes. Then the two of you can get the hell out of my house.”
Beth tugged her jacket around her as she and Ian hurried to his SUV. The animosity between Ian and the sheriff had been so thick she thought the room would explode with it.
At least Ian had obtained the former sheriff’s notes. The file was thinner than she would have expected, but she couldn’t wait to read the interviews.
“We should talk to Kelly’s parents,” Beth said.
Ian started the engine and pulled onto the road. “See if the Cousinses’ address is in his notes.”
Beth flipped through the folder and located the phone number and address. “They may have moved by now. I’ll call.”
Ian shook his head. “Let’s just stop by. They might not want to talk to us if they get a heads-up first.”
“I wouldn’t blame them. Dredging up their painful past won’t be easy.” The strategies she’d learned in the bureau would be helpful. She needed to be compassionate, understanding, tactful with the questions.
“No, but if their daughter didn’t commit suicide, they have a right to know.”
“We may be jumping to conclusions regarding that,” Beth said.
Ian shrugged. “Maybe. But I want to talk to them anyway.”
Mixed emotions pummeled Beth. She wanted the truth, but she felt for Ian. Proving his father’s innocence was driving him.
What if he discovered his father was a serial killer?
Corbin Michaels was tired of being on the fucking short end of the stick. He’d worked his ass off to cover that serial killer case involving Josie DuKane, a complicated shitfest that revolved around the very people working to create a film about the Bride Killer and Thorn Ripper cases. The sheriff and those Feds might argue that Graveyard Falls didn’t breed and draw crazies, but he didn’t make up these stories—he just reported the facts.
He took another sip of his third high-gravity beer, watching the locals as if he might spot the maniac who’d buried nearly a dozen girls outside of town. Someone that sick should have tattoos of the devil on his head or horns growing from his ears.
Then again, psychopaths often looked normal.
That would make a good slant to his story . . .
The killer might be charming, attractive, at least enough to entice a woman or girl’s trust.
Fuck.
He had no idea who this creep was. Neither did the cops.
He set his beer down and grabbed his laptop. He was notorious for recording everything. It used to drive his girlfriend nuts. Then she’d left him for a fucking pissant personal trainer who had abs she said she could eat off.
Who the fuck wanted to eat off a man’s chest?
A dark-haired woman walking by reminded him of Beth Fields.
Something about that federal agent seemed familiar. The fact that Kimball didn’t want her picture in the paper intrigued him.
He plugged in her name and frowned at the typical run-of-the-mill information that popped up.
No personal information on Beth Fields other than the basics—birth certificate, educational background, documentation of her time studying with the FBI. They seemed almost too . . . pat. Like ones he’d seen when he’d covered that story on WITSEC, the witness protection program.
Victims and witnesses of crimes, and sometimes criminals, often made deals to testify in exchange for a chance at a new life. The U.S. Marshals arranged new identities, jobs, complete lives.
A criminal wouldn’t be allowed to join the bureau. But a witness or a victim . . . that was possible.
He tapped his shoe on the floor. What if Beth Fields wasn’t really Beth Fields? That would explain the sheriff’s insistence upon keeping her picture out of the paper.
Working on a hunch, he pulled up the file on the disappearance of Sunny Smith and JJ Jones. Sunny Smith’s body had been found in that sea of bones.
But JJ had survived the abduction. Where was she now?
Seconds later, photographs of Sunny Smith and JJ Jones filled the screen. Sunny had been a blonde doll. JJ—a redhead with freckles and pale skin.
As he zeroed in on the picture, suspicion took hold. The slanted nose, heart-shaped face, those deep blue eyes . . .
He slumped back in his chair as the truth hit him.
Special Agent Beth Fields was JJ Jones.
He reached for his beer with a triumphant smile. By God, he had his angle.
He picked up his cell phone and called his editor.
Just wait until his headline ran.
Survivor of Boneyard Killer Returns as FBI Agent to Track Down Her Abductor.
CHAPTER TEN
Ian punched the couple’s address into his GPS and drove back onto the interstate. They lived just a few miles from Headler.
Night was setting in, the skies gloomy, adding a macabre feeling to the land. Although the tornado had swept through, the devastation wasn’t as bad as it was in Graveyard Falls. A few trees were down, limbs and debris dotted the roads, and a couple of old outbuildings and barns had been damaged.
The Cousinses lived in a small neighborhood with older brick houses that had probably once been nice but had been ravaged by age.
“I’ve worked with families who’ve lost a child. Some of them never recover from the loss,” Beth said.
“I can understand that,” Ian said.
Beth shifted, her tightly wound bun starting to slip. For a brief second, he glimpsed the sweet, shy young girl she’d been. He’d seen her watching him on the soccer field. Knew she’d had a little bit of a crush on him.
She certainly didn’t anymore.
He had the urge to tuck her hair back in place, restore order for her.
Yet at the same time, his body heated. He wanted to tear the strands down, run his hands through the loose ends, and make her lose control in a different way.
The thought of getting involved with her shook him to the core. Ian had never let himself get close to anyone before. Didn’t want to get hurt, to lose someone else he cared about.
She absentmindedly rubbed one finger along her wrist. Another scar darkened her arm, making him wonder how she’d gotten it.
The Cousinses’ house slipped into view, though, and he put the question on the back burner. They had work to do.
Ian studied the house as he parked. A low lamp burned in the front room, indicating someone was home. A carport held a rusted Impala, and the yard was overgrown, the flowerbeds ragged.
“What do you know about Kelly’s suicide?” Ian asked.
“I heard all the rumors, but I didn’t know what to believe. Someone said she had emotional problems, that she’d run away before. One of the cheerleaders claimed she’d had oral sex with the coach.”
Shock knifed through Ian. “I don’t believe that. It sounds like she was needy and wanted attention.”
“Maybe so.”
“But the parents bought her story and blamed my dad,” Ian said bitterly.
Beth surprised him by placing her hand over his. Her skin felt warm, soothing, easing some of the pain.
“The parents were hurting, Ian,” she said softly. “They wanted someone to blame besides themselves.”
Ian narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Working with NCMEC has taught me about family dynamics. More than anything, parents want their children to be happy. When their children have problems, the first question they ask is, ‘What did I do wrong?’”
Ian cut the engine. His father had taken the fall for their guilt.
Although if Kelly hadn’t committed suicide, that meant she’d been murdered.
Beth hated to dredge up the painful past for the Cousinses, but if Kelly hadn’t committed suicide, they deserved to know.
Not that learning she was possibly the victim of a serial killer was any comfort.
Worse, if Kelly was murdered, she might have been the man’s first victim, which was significant. First victims were more likely a personal kill than a random one.
Kelly’s death was slightly different than the others. There was a suicide note. Her body had been found near a church, not buried in Hemlock Holler. But the cross and candle were common denominators.
The profile taking shape pointed toward an insecure person, one with a strong religious upbringing. One who, in his own twisted mind, thought he was saving these girls.
The killer could have started out with the cross and candle with Kelly, then evolved over the years, adding to his MO with the white gowns.
Chilled, Beth wrapped her sweater around herself and walked up the sidewalk.
Ian knocked. A minute later, feet shuffled and the door opened. A short, pudgy woman with wavy hair streaked with gray looked up at them, the hollow look in her eyes mirroring the emptiness Beth had seen in the eyes of other mothers who’d lost children. Fifteen years might dim the pain, but nothing could completely alleviate the anguish.
“Mrs. Cousins?” Beth said.
Kelly’s mother wiped a hand over her tired face. “If you’re selling something, I don’t want it.” She started to close the door, but Ian caught it with one hand.
“We’re not selling anything, ma’am. My name is Sheriff Ian Kimball, and this is Special Agent Beth Fields. Please let us come in. It’s important.”
Wariness flashed in the woman’s eyes, but she stepped aside and let them enter. “What do you want?”
“Have you seen the news about the bodies that were recently discovered in Graveyard Falls?” Ian asked.
The woman paled slightly. “Yes. What does that have to do with me?”
Beth gently laid a hand on the woman’s arm. “Those bodies were all adolescent girls, all the same age as your daughter when she died.”
Mrs. Cousins’s frown deepened. “I don’t understand.”
“Is your husband home?” Beth asked.
Her shoulders sagged. “No. We separated ten years ago.”
“Your daughter’s death tore you apart?” Beth asked softly.
Anguish shadowed her eyes. “Yes. Now please leave me alone. I’ve been through enough.”
Ian held the door firmly with one hand. “What if we told you that Kelly might not have killed herself?”
“What?” she gasped.
“It’s possible that the same man who murdered the girls in the holler may have killed your daughter and made it appear like a suicide,” Ian replied.
A choked sound erupted from deep in the woman’s throat, and she leaned against the doorjamb. “You mean Coach Gleason didn’t just drive Kelly to cut her wrists? He actually cut her himself?”
“That’s not what I’m implying,” Ian said. “I believe someone else murdered Kelly, then planted suspicion on the coach with phony allegations.”
Beth’s heart ached for the woman. She hoped Ian wasn’t jumping to conclusions. Maybe they should have had more evidence before approaching Mrs. Cousins.
Denial raged in the woman’s eyes. “That can’t be true. He did it. I know he did.”
“How do you know?” Ian asked.
“Sheriff Headler said he did.” The woman cinched the belt on her robe tighter. “Besides, I finally made peace with my daughter’s death, finally got over my husband leaving, and now you want to stir it up by telling me my little girl was murdered.”
Beth patted the woman’s shoulder. “Mrs. Cousins, I’m sorry. I realize this is a shock. But we all want the truth. If Coach Gleason didn’t hurt Kelly, you want to find out who did, don’t you?”
Pain clouded the woman’s face. “Of course I do.”
Beth squeezed her arm. “Then tell us more about Kelly.”
Mrs. Cousins blew her nose on a tissue, then went to the bookshelf and removed a scrapbook. She opened it on the side table, and Beth and Ian watched as she showed them cards Kelly had made as a child, then photographs of her daughter.
“This was Kelly at her dance recital when she was five,” the woman said with a sniffle. “All she talked about was being a ballerina one day.”
“Did she continue dance lessons?” Ian asked.
Mrs. Cousins shook her head. “She tore a muscle in her calf when she was eleven. After that she never went back.” She tapped a picture of Kelly in a canoe with her father when she was a little older, maybe thirteen. “But hormones hit and she became sullen. She used to want to go fishing with her father, but suddenly she didn’t want to be with the family anymore. All she talked about was dieting and staying slim so the popular girls would like her.”
“That’s not uncommon for teenagers,” Beth said.
“It was those girls’ fault that Kelly was so dep
ressed,” Mrs. Cousins said. “They were so mean to her. She just wanted to fit in, to be popular like they were.”
“That’s when she started seeing the coach for counseling,” Beth said.
Mrs. Cousins nodded. “At the time, I thought it would help. But then . . . she became obsessed with him. And when he hurt her, she slunk further and further away.”
“What do you mean? How did he hurt her?” Beth asked.
“She was vulnerable,” Mrs. Cousins said. “She thought she was in love with the coach. At first he led her on. But later he rejected her.”
Beth narrowed her eyes. “He rejected her?”
“He told her she was just a kid. Then he recommended a different counselor. She couldn’t stand the thought of that.”
She closed the book with a disgusted heave. “The day I heard Coach Gleason escaped prison, I felt like I’d lost her all over again.”
Connecting Kelly’s case to the boneyard murders was a stretch, but Beth had to know. “My friend Sunny Smith was abducted three months after your daughter died. She was one of the victims found in Hemlock Holler.”
“Oh my God,” Mrs. Cousins gasped. “Do you think Coach Gleason killed her and those other poor girls?”
Beth shook her head. “I don’t think so. There’s something else, Mrs. Cousins. I’m JJ, Jane Jones, the girl who was kidnapped with Sunny.”
The woman’s brows furrowed together. “Then you know who killed her.”
“I’m afraid not. I was traumatized and suffered from amnesia,” Beth said.
Ian lowered his voice. “The number of victims we found in Graveyard Falls indicates that we’re dealing with a serial killer. Coach Gleason doesn’t fit that profile, which makes us question his guilt in JJ’s kidnapping and the accusations against him regarding Kelly.”
Mrs. Cousins turned toward Ian, her eyes widening as recognition dawned. “You . . . Ian is your name? You’re his son, that awful man’s son, aren’t you?”
Ian tensed. “Yes, ma’am, he was my father.”
Beth rushed to calm the woman. “Please, we need your help. Was there anyone Kelly was afraid of? Another man who seemed too friendly with her?”
