by Desiree Holt
Handing over her business card, Dana had asked as nicely as possible for what she needed. As soon as she told the woman what dates she was interested in, she could feel the hostility rise up like a stone wall from the woman behind the counter at The High Ridge Messenger. Marion Jordan wasn’t about to budge an inch. The pencil in her fingers tapped against the counter with an irritating cadence.
Tap, tap, tap. Pause. Tap, tap, tap.
Dana was beyond tired. Landing in San Antonio just after eight o’clock that morning, she’d rented a car and immediately drove the three hours to High Ridge, fueled with industrial strength coffee and anxiety. She hadn’t even looked for a motel yet. And this woman was getting on her last nerve.
She tucked her hair behind her ears—a chronic nervous gesture—and tried to put on her best smile.
“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice cajoling. “Every newspaper I’ve ever worked with saves their editions all the way back to the very first one. Somewhere. Can you check for me? Please?”
Marion Jordan stared at her, lips thinned in disapproval.
Tap, tap, tap.
“Perhaps if you tell me what specific information you’re looking for I can direct you to another source.”
All right. If that’s the way she wants to play it.
“The pedophile killer is the subject of my next book, and I need the newspapers for research. All of them during those dates I gave you.”
Marion’s eyes were frosty, her posture rigid. “I think writing a book like that would be a very big mistake. The people in this town suffered a great deal during that time. I wouldn’t want to be the one helping you rake it all up again.”
Dana mentally counted to ten. “Perhaps there’s someone else here who could be of better assistance.”
“I can promise you no one will want to discuss this with you,” Marion assured her. “You can count on that. It took this town a long time to get over it. They won’t want it all dragged out again.”
The two women stared at each other.
“Is there a problem here?” A gravelly voice broke into the chill.
Dana hadn’t heard the outside door behind her open, but suddenly a man stood next to her. Dressed in jeans and a work shirt with the sleeves rolled up, he looked to be about the same age as Marion Jordan. Mid-forties, Dana guessed. His hair, worn just a little long, was heavily laced with gray, with traces of its original sandy color here and there. His broad forehead was currently wrinkled in a frown.
Looking at him, her body tensed. Could he be the one? Was that possible? He was about the right age and height. Would she end up looking at every man in the county as a possible suspect?
Cut it out. Pull yourself together.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Garrett. I told this woman the editions of the paper she wants aren’t available.” Each word was an icicle dropping from Marion Jordan’s lips.
Tap tap tap.
“I’ll take care of it, Marion. Thanks.” He held out his hand to Dana. “John Garrett. I’m the editor here.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “For my sins.”
“Dana Moretti.” She withdrew her hand as quickly as she could. Although she managed in pubic with rigid discipline, contact of any kind with men froze everything inside her.
“The writer.” His sharp eyes studied her.
“Yes.” She fished out another business card.
“Marion usually isn’t so obstinate about requests.” He ran his fingers through his hair in an absent gesture. “Can you tell me a little more about what you want?”
“I’m here to do research for my next book. When I made a request to look at some old editions of the newspaper, I discovered there’s apparently some problem with me seeing them.”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “Here? What could possibly interest you in a small town like High Ridge?”
“She wants to see the newspapers from twenty-five years ago,” Marion told him, her face tight. “You know which ones. I said they weren’t available.”
Garrett studied the card for a long minute. “You want to dig up the pedophile killer case.”
“That’s right. If you’ve read any of my books, you know my interest is in old cases that were never solved.”
He stuck the card in his shirt pocket. “Well, Miss Moretti, I don’t think you’ll be doing this town any favors if you go ahead with what you’re planning. People here would just as soon not have to deal with it all over again. For many of them, it’s still as real as if it happened yesterday.”
Dana swallowed her frustration and tried to blink the grit from her eyes. A glance at her watch told her she’d been going for more than twenty hours, catnapping only briefly on the plane. The adrenaline that drove her this far was beginning to slide.
She moistened her lips, trying to tamp down her impatience. “I’m surprised that no one wants to find out who the pedophile really was. He could still be someone in this community, hiding behind his public face.”
“We all agreed it was just some itinerant working in the area who’s since moved on.” Garrett’s voice was hard. “Not anyone who actually lived here.”
“You were here then?”
He nodded. “Lived here all my life.”
“Then maybe—”
He lifted the flap in the counter and gestured for her to follow him through the main area. “Maybe we’d be better discussing this in my office.”
Dana looked around the area at the small staff of reporters and graphic artists, suddenly aware that everyone was listening with open curiosity. “All right.”
She’d been stonewalled before and could play the game as well as anyone. But the knot in her stomach reminded her that this time the game was personal and far too important to let anything get in the way.
“Coffee?” Garrett asked, indicating a pot on a small table next to his desk.
“Yes, thank you. Black, please.” Right now a good jolt of caffeine was exactly what she needed to jack herself up again.
“It’s been a long time since all that nasty stuff happened,” he told her, handing her a Styrofoam cup and lowering himself into his desk chair. “I don’t know if you’ve done any research on Salado County or High Ridge itself, but they’re nice friendly places. What happened scared the bejeesus out of everyone, and they were grateful when it was over.”
It’s not over and done with for everyone. “So they just want to keep pretending it never happened?”
Garrett leaned forward, set his cup down carefully and steepled his fingers. When he looked at Dana his eyes were like hard pebbles.
“The last…incident…was different than the others,” he said slowly, “and then it just…stopped. Nothing’s happened since then. As far as this town is concerned, whoever it was didn’t come from around here. Maybe someone doing casual labor in the county for a couple of years. Someone who didn’t call attention to himself. You know people like that don’t appear much on the radar. Now he’s gone.”
Meaning he could have been one of the many illegals. But Dana didn’t think so. And she couldn’t say anything yet without giving herself away.
When she spoke she tried to keep the impatience from her voice. “What if they’re wrong? What if that person is still living here, a member of the community, laughing at everyone because of what he got away with?”
Garrett shook his head. A little too vehemently? “Not possible. It was a stranger. No one in this county would do anything like that.”
“But sometimes—”
“Everyone wants to bury the past and move on,” he cut her off. “A lot of families whose children were molested and killed still haven’t gotten past it after all this time. Talking to them would be nothing less than cruel.”
“I can assure you, I’m extremely circumspect when dealing with survivors.”
“I’m sure you are. Still…” He sighed and pushed back his chair. “All right. I’ve done my best. I guess there won’t be any talking you out of it. Your reputation precedes you. An
d legally I can’t keep you from looking at back issues.”
“So you have them.” She tried to keep the satisfaction out of her voice.”
“Yes, but they’re on microfiche and those rolls are packed away.” He swallowed some of his coffee, made a face, and set the cup down again. “I’ll need until tomorrow morning to get them out. Where are you staying?”
“Actually, I haven’t checked into any place yet. Maybe you have a suggestion.”
She didn’t know if the expression on his face was a smile or a grimace. “You’ve got your choice between Azalea Bed and Breakfast or the High Ridge Motel.”
“Which one would you recommend?”
He grunted. “Neither, to tell the truth, but at the motel you won’t have Betty Ann Morrison sticking her nose in your business.”
Dana rose from her seat. “Thank you. And thanks for agreeing to help.”
He shook his head. “Don’t mistake what I’m doing for a blessing on this project. I’m just hoping you’ll do your research, find nothing, and go away quietly. Ten o’clock tomorrow work for you?”
“That’s fine.”
Every pair of eyes followed her as she made her way to the front door. On the sidewalk, she stopped a moment and looked around. Her skin crawled, as if the predator was actually there, watching her. All these years, she’d been convinced he was still here, hiding behind a familiar face, concealing the evil that swirled within him.
Her mind still on her conversations at the newspapers, Dana barely glanced at the large black pickup parked across the street from The High Ridge Messenger. And the man watching her through the passenger window.
****
Just who the hell is she?
Sheriff Cole Landry sipped on the giant cup of hot coffee from Freddie’s Gas and Go, watching the woman walk out of the newspaper office and climb into her car. Everything about her screamed “big city.” She was maybe five four, with streaky blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail so tight it had to give her a headache and a slender body in jeans and a blazer. Her eyes were hidden behind huge sunglasses. Everything expensive. Even he could see that.
He was sure she wasn’t from around here. As sheriff of Salado County, population twenty-five thousand, there were few people he didn’t at least have a nodding acquaintance with. And with just five thousand people in High Ridge, strangers easily stood out. This one more so than usual.
She was definitely a different breed of animal. Tension radiated from every line of her body. He’d known plenty of women like her—tightly wound, obsessive about control even in bed, emotions locked down. Down and dirty sex, then get the hell away.
But something about her made the back of his neck itch. And worse than that, made his cock sit up and pay attention. What the hell was someone like her doing in his nice quiet slice of the world? The place he’d spent summers on his uncle’s ranch. The place he’d retired to when he left the Marines—burned out from Iraq and Afghanistan—and bought a small spread of his own. And how lucky was it that Salado County was looking for a new sheriff at just that moment?
So far it was mostly speeders, Saturday night fights, a little shoplifting. Nothing to raise the blood pressure. But he had a feeling this woman was going to kick him straight out of his comfort zone.
He took another swallow of the coffee. Usually, he waited to reach the office before pouring his first cup, but he’d had to stop and see Freddie about some minor vandalism at the store and the coffee had looked and smelled better than anything Grace, his dispatcher, brewed. The stop put the stranger square in his sites.
Finishing the last of the dark liquid, he crushed the Styrofoam cup, turned on the engine, and headed for his office. He was barely inside before someone yelled to him, “John Garrett’s on the line for you.”
Good. Maybe he’d get some answers.
****
Needing something in her stomach besides airline peanuts, Dana took the time to grab a sandwich at a nearby diner. She had only vague memories of the town she’d grown up in, culled from the mind of a seven-year-old. But research told her High Ridge was just like all the other small Hill Country towns. Limestone buildings, ranches whose rolling acres held herds of cattle and horses, the local high school and weekend rodeo serving as centers of activity. As she drove down Main Street she thought she’d stumbled into a Charles Russell painting.
How many times had she Googled both the town and the county, searching for…she sure didn’t know what. If it had to do with the children’s murders, she didn’t find it. Somehow, the sheriff at the time had been able to shut down the flow of news, and newspapers outside the county carried only a smattering of details of the crimes.
What had she expected coming back here? A sudden message from outer space telling her who destroyed her life and killed her sister? That certainly wasn’t happening. Instead, what she got the minute she passed the boundary sign for Salado County was the familiar cold fist of terror that never released its grip. Not once in all these years. It was the single force that drove her.
The High Ridge Motel was every bit as dreary as Dana expected, but no worse than dozens of others she’d stayed at. This one was distinguished by the fake antlers on the wall in the lobby, the terra cotta tile floor, and a potted cactus that had to be a hundred years old. The bedspread in her room was fake animal hide and the furniture a very cheap oak.
At least it would do for one night. She had a feeling she wouldn’t be leaving this town any time soon. Tomorrow she’d do what she often did—find a short-term rental.
Parking in front of her room, she hauled her suitcase and laptop inside her room and flopped onto the bed, still fully dressed and exhausted. The lack of sleep the night before and the flight and the tension of the morning finally caught up with her, and in seconds, she fell into an uneasy sleep. A sleep haunted by dreams of an old barn and the high cackle of a man’s voice.
Chapter Two
Dana pushed open the door of the The High Ridge Messenger and hoped Marian Jordan didn’t shoot her on sight. When she woke that morning, she was no more rested than before she fell asleep the day before. Her dreams were especially disturbing, and she had to look carefully around the room to be sure Kylie’s little body wasn’t lying somewhere for her to find. Sleeping in her clothes hadn’t helped, and a shower had barely washed away the rumpled feeling.
When the grumbling of her stomach reminded her she hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before, she made herself stop at the Gas and Go for coffee and a sausage biscuit. Now the food sat like lead in her stomach. She forced her mouth into a smile for John Garrett when he came out to greet her.
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you doing this.” Dana stood in his office, hoping he would give her what she wanted and leave her alone to work with it. Like every other man his age in the county, he was somewhere on her suspect list and being around him made her nervous and edgy.
“You won’t thank me when you start reading this muck,” Garrett told her. “But if you’ve got your mind set on it, I might as well get you what you need. I suppose you won’t give me any peace until I do.”
“I like to think of myself as persuasive,” she told him. “And I’ll be fine. It won’t be any worse than other research I’ve done, I can promise you.”
He motioned for her to follow him. “Come on. I’ll take you to the storage room where everything is kept. Lucky for you, those issues are on microfilm and not lying stacked in some box somewhere. Who knows what shape they’d be in by now? I’ll set you up at a machine and leave you to it.” He shook his head. “I wish you joy of it. I have to warn you, though. This town won’t give you much cooperation if you try talking to anyone.”
“I’ve already figured that out,” she told him in a dry voice.
The room he led her to was obviously not used on a regular basis. A long table pushed against one wall held two microfiche machines, a printer, and dusty cartons labeled by years with rolls of microfiche in them.
“H
elp yourself to the coffee out there if you want,” he told her. “Although after you start reading this stuff, you may need something a lot stronger.” He walked away, muttering to himself.
Dana wiped her palms on the fabric of her slacks, her hands suddenly damp with perspiration. Setting a note pad, a pen, and her pocket PC next to her, she took a deep breath and loaded the first roll of film onto the machine. With the first turn of the handle, she crossed into territory from which there was no turning back.
She moved through the film one frame at a time, each story branding itself into her brain. By the time she’d been at it for two hours, her eyes burned, her shoulders ached, and she had to force herself to fight back the nausea.
She finished sooner than she expected. The paper published weekly and they never ran more than two stories about each incident, as if by downplaying it, they could pretend it didn’t happen. The stories were light on the details of the bodies, but even the flimsy descriptions were enough to rip her heart open.
Dana had read stories and reports of horrific crimes as she gathered research for other books. Been revolted by the inhumanity of what people can do to each other. But this. This created a special hell all its own. Even the barest of details of the mutilated young bodies, the scant particulars of the rapes were enough to give anyone nightmares.
Tears burned in Dana’s eyes and her heart pinched, hard. What kind of monster could do something so hideous to innocent, unsuspecting children? To her and Kylie?
Oh, God. Kylie. Dana was supposed to have protected her, to make sure nothing ever happened to her. She’d certainly done a lousy job. Pieces of that night slammed into her like a fist, knocking the breath from her body. Kylie’s screams echoed in her head, over and over, a reminder of her failure to save her baby sister.
Her stomach heaved, and she shoved her chair back from the table. Racing for the rest room, she barely had time to lock the door to the stall before the miniscule contents of her stomach roared out of her. She retched until there was nothing left, until dry heaves shook her and left her gasping for air.
