by Rita Herron
“Did you know about this?” he asked him.
“Detective Reeves doesn’t share well,” Waters said in an irritated voice. “And I was checking out a couple of Carrie Winters’ clients.”
“Any leads?” Derrick could barely concentrate for the worry eating at him.
The sheriff shook his head. “For a hooker, she seemed to have morals. No extortion or threats to expose her clients. And I ran backgrounds on the few names but no one with a history of violence against women.”
That they knew of. After all, men with money could pay to have their illicit activities covered up.
The sheriff’s siren wailed as they careened into the parking lot for the funeral home.
“Ellie’s Jeep,” Derrick said, pointing to her parked vehicle.
“I’ll look around out here if you want to check inside.” Bryce pulled his weapon and scoped out the property. Woods backed up to the brick structure, heavy gray clouds overhead threatening a downpour and casting the exterior in deep pockets of gray.
Senses honed, Derrick held his gun at the ready while Bryce headed toward the woods. First, he climbed the steps to the outside entrance of the apartment but found it was locked and boarded up. A quick look through the window revealed it was empty, so he went back down the steps. If Finton had someone here, he’d probably put them in the basement. Ellie might be there now in trouble.
Walking around the outside of the building, he checked doors and windows for a point of entry. He finally found a lock broken, the window half open and dusted with footprints. Two sets. A woman’s boots and a larger set that had to belong to a man.
Crawling inside, he shined his flashlight around the dank interior, the acrid odors of body waste and chemicals permeating the concrete walls so strongly that he briefly gagged.
Moving slowly, he listened for any indication that Ellie was inside, or that another woman might be here needing help. The furnace clanged, and somewhere he heard a mouse skittering along the floor. He followed the hall to the prep room and looked inside, but it appeared to be empty. Still, he ducked inside and checked the storage room, careful not to touch any of the instruments or supplies.
Forcing himself not to think about the fact that this place had seen countless dead bodies, he continued on to the refrigerated room.
Dread made his stomach cramp, but he opened the heavy door and looked inside. A blast of frigid air assaulted him, but the steel shelves and tables were bare.
A noise from down the hall made him step back outside, closing the door then creeping past an office. Eyes peeled for an ambush, he eased open the door and shined the light inside. Dingy yellowed walls, a cold tile floor, and a room full of caskets.
There was the noise again, and he spotted McClain dragging himself up from behind one of the coffins and staggering toward the door.
“McClain?” Derrick went still. “Where the hell is Ellie?”
The ranger rubbed the back of his head with his hand. Looking confused and dazed, he slumped against a gray coffin, leaning over as if struggling to focus.
Just as Derrick moved toward him, he thought he heard a sound again. A squeaking sound. Or was it scratching?
“Ellie?” he shouted. “Are you in here?”
Quickly glancing around, he realized there was no one else in view. If someone was in the room, they had to be in in one of the caskets. Stowing his gun, he hurried toward a bronzed coffin against the wall. He quickly lifted the lid. Cream-colored lining, gold around the edges. But it was empty. Fear pulsed through him as he raced to the next casket, a dark charcoal one with a silver bracket closing it. Heart hammering, he raised the lid and found ivory satin pillow and lining. No one was inside.
“Ellie!” he yelled as he moved onto another. He jerked it open, expecting to find Ellie. Or… Shondra.
But there was no one.
Rapidly exhaling a breath, he ran to the last one in the corner. Polished nickel.
The shrill sound echoed again and his hand shook as he jerked the lid up.
Ellie lay inside, gasping for a breath, her eyes wide in terror, hands clawing to get out.
Ninety-Five
Ellie screamed and grasped at Derrick to help her out. With the latch broken and the lower half of the casket closed, her legs were trapped. He gently helped her, lifting her free.
Tears trailing down her face, she gulped for air, the claustrophobic darkness finally giving way to light.
“I’ve got you,” Derrick said as he hauled her limp body toward the door and held her. “You’re okay, Ellie. You’re safe now.”
Unable to help herself, she sobbed against him, tremors running through her at the terror of being locked inside.
Derrick carried her into the hall. She blinked back tears, unable to stop trembling.
Her fingers ached where she’d tried to claw her way out, and her nails had broken off, her fingers bleeding from scratching at the interior.
Footsteps echoed behind them, and Cord shuffled into the hall, rubbing the back of his head. “Ellie?” he said in a thick voice. “El?”
“She’s right here,” Derrick replied, his tone harsh. “What happened, Ellie? Did McClain lock you in there?”
Ellie’s head swirled with confusion. One minute she and Cord had been searching the space, then the next, someone had jumped her from behind.
“Ellie?” Derrick asked. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know,” she whispered. Cord wouldn’t have hurt her. Would he?
Footsteps pounded, then another male voice sounded from nearby. “Agent Fox? Ellie?” A second later, Bryce ran into the hall, his gun drawn.
“I found her,” Derrick shouted. “She was assaulted and locked in one of the damn caskets.”
Hurrying toward them, the sheriff’s jaw was set tight as he took in the scene.
“Arrest him,” Derrick ordered, staring at McClain. “I think he attacked Ellie because she got too close to the truth.”
“What?” McClain said, his voice slurred. “No. That’s not true.”
Ellie opened her mouth to argue but she was still struggling to breathe as Bryce handcuffed Cord and hauled him down the hall.
Ninety-Six
Stony Gap
An hour later, after Ellie had been examined by the medics, she and Derrick made it back to the sheriff’s office. Derrick was unable to erase the image of finding Ellie trapped in the casket, panicked, gasping for air.
“I’m telling you, you should be looking for Finton,” Ellie said. “Cord wouldn’t hurt me.”
“We’re issuing an all-points bulletin for him and his son Roy,” the sheriff replied, clearly annoyed at her defense of McClain.
“Let me talk to Cord,” Ellie said.
“He’s in an interrogation room. Stay here, Ellie.” Sheriff Waters disappeared through the double doors that led to the interrogation rooms and holding cells.
After hesitating for a second, clearly recovering from her ordeal, Ellie took off after the sheriff. “I want to watch the interview.”
Dammit to hell, she is stubborn, Derrick thought as he followed her. The first interrogation room was open, so they went to the second and Ellie knocked.
The sheriff opened the door. Cord was already handcuffed and seated at a table, his expression sullen.
“I want to be in there,” Ellie said, trying to push past the sheriff.
“No way,” Bryce said, blocking her entrance. “I know you two are friends. I’ll handle this.”
Cord didn’t even look up.
“I’m going to sit in,” Derrick said, clearing his throat. “I have information that might be helpful.”
Ellie’s face paled as she looked at him, but he couldn’t apologize for doing his job. He was just following the evidence. If McClain had anything to do with the Weekday Killer murders, he had to be stopped.
“Turn on the camera so I can observe in the other room,” Ellie said through clenched teeth.
Bryce tens
ed, but nodded in concession.
“Cord is not the Weekday Killer,” she said with as much conviction as she could muster.
“This is why women shouldn’t be cops. You let your emotions get in the way,” the sheriff said sharply.
“It’s not emotion. It’s instinct,” Ellie said with a glare.
Her comeback made Bryce’s eyes flare with anger. Saying nothing, Derrick followed the sheriff into the room while Ellie spun around and headed to take her place and watch.
Waters claimed the chair opposite McClain, but Derrick remained standing.
“All right, Cord,” the sheriff began. “What the hell happened today?”
“Ellie wanted to go to Finton’s funeral home,” Cord’s expression was as flat as his voice. “I went with her. We got jumped from behind.” He rubbed his head. “When I came to, Agent Fox was there shouting Ellie’s name, and I finally roused.”
Walking over to Cord, Derrick stared down at him.
“We know about your foster family, the Fintons. Felix Finton told your caseworker about how you enjoyed dressing the female bodies.”
Silence engulfed the room, tension building.
“Did you take your habit of playing with dead bodies to the next level and start murdering women?”
McClain hissed between his teeth but said nothing. He just folded and unfolded his hands, staring into his lap.
“We checked. Finton’s has been closed for renovations for the past two weeks, like the sign said.” Derrick slapped his palms on the table. McClain didn’t flinch. “Have you been hiding the bodies at the funeral home after you murder the women, then returning to move them when you’re ready for them to be found? Is that why you have blood under your fingernails?”
Curling his fingers into fists, Cord remained silent.
“Come on, McClain, talk to us,” the sheriff said. “You were caught red-handed in that home. Now we know you’re a pervert.”
Rage burned in Cord’s eyes. Derrick thought he was going to jump up and grab Bryce, but he wheezed out a breath instead.
“Your print was found on Shondra’s vehicle,” Derrick said. “Tell us where Shondra is and if she’s still alive, and we might help you out.”
Cord’s brows furrowed and he went very still. Either he was surprised that the print was his or surprised that he’d been caught, Derrick reasoned.
“Why would I take Shondra?” he finally said.
“You tell us,” Derrick said. “And while you’re at it, tell us where you were on the nights of these killings.” He laid a photograph of each victim on the table.
Staring at the pictures, Cord’s expression was a mask of barely controlled emotion. But he didn’t respond, remaining tight-lipped.
The sheriff stood abruptly, pushed away from the table, circled around and wrenched Cord from the chair. “You don’t want to talk, fine. Maybe a night in a cell will change your mind,” he said, dragging him from the room.
Derrick followed them into the hallway, where Ellie rushed toward them, a mixture of disbelief and panic on her face.
“Bryce, let me talk to him,” she said.
The sheriff shook his head. “No way. Go home, Ellie. I’ve got this,” he said, shoving McClain through another set of doors to the cells in back.
As Ellie clenched her hands by her side, Derrick saw the blood on her fingers and his stomach twisted. If McClain had done that to Ellie, he felt like killing the man.
“Cord might talk to me if Bryce would just let him,” Ellie said, her tone full of angst.
“If he is innocent, why isn’t he defending himself?” Derrick asked. “Why not answer my questions?”
Ellie pressed her lips into a thin line.
“I’ll drive you home, Ellie. You need rest,” Derrick said. “Then I’m going to get a search warrant and search McClain’s house tonight. If you’re right, there may be something there that can exclude him, or, if my gut is right, there could be something to tell us where Shondra is.”
“I’ll go with you,” she replied. “If something’s there, I need to see it for myself.”
Ninety-Seven
River’s Edge
Denial stabbed at Ellie as she drove to Cord’s. Gray skies promised a deluge at any minute, painting the woods in an oppressive gray. Though she wanted to take her own car, Derrick insisted on driving in case she was concussed.
Being locked in that coffin reminded her of just how much she didn’t want to have to bury her mother. She made a quick call to her father on the way. “Hey, Dad.”
“It’s good to hear your voice,” her father said. “I miss you, El.”
Emotions overwhelmed her, but she swallowed them back. “I don’t have much time. We’re working the case, but I wanted to check on Mom.”
“Her vitals aren’t good, honey. They’re doing all kinds of tests. She might need open heart surgery.”
That was a scary thought. “When will you know?”
“Hopefully in the next few hours. I’ll call when I hear.” He hesitated. “And thanks for calling. I’ll tell your mother. It might cheer her up.”
Ellie hung up, her heart in her throat. Damn her parents for lying to her. Damn Paulson for setting fire to their house.
Damn Bryce for not allowing her to speak to Cord. He’d worked with the ranger on rescue missions and had to know in his gut that Cord wouldn’t kill anyone, much less commit multiple murders––or hurt her.
Something was going on here, something that wasn’t right. It was almost like the killer was lobbing grenades at her with clues pointing to different suspects. Was that part of his game?
They parked at Cord’s cabin and got out. Ellie shivered as she hurried up to the front porch.
As usual, darkness bathed Cord’s rustic log cabin, which was nestled between the oaks and pines as if it had been carved from the forest.
“I got the warrants,” Derrick said as he removed a lock-picking tool and jimmied the front door open.
Ellie scanned the front porch, then the surrounding area. The grass had been mown recently, bushes trimmed, and firewood that Cord cut himself for his stove was stacked by the house.
Derrick pushed the door open, and she flipped on the light in the entry. The sense that she was violating Cord overcame her, reminding her she’d felt the same way when she’d combed her parents’ home––now up in smoke––for evidence of Hiram.
That search hadn’t ended well. She hoped today yielded better results.
They both pulled on gloves, and stepped into the house. The minimalistic décor screamed that Cord was a loner. There were no personal photographs of family, friends or trips.
Derrick gestured to a book on plant and flower symbolism, then he flipped it open and found a page about daffodils.
His gaze met hers. “Right in line with the MO.”
“Okay, we know his background,” Ellie conceded, unable to keep the anger from her voice. “That doesn’t mean he killed those women or took Shondra. The AT has been his home––of course he’s bound to be interested in this kind of stuff.”
“Heath did some digging. He can’t find anything on McClain after he left juvie. There are years missing in his life, Ellie. Years before he met your father and started working for FEMA.” He paused. “Has he ever talked to you about that time?”
Ellie’s heart gave a pang, but she shook her head. He’d never talked about Finton either.
With a grunt, Derrick headed back to the bedroom. Ellie had been inside there once, right before she left for the police academy. The only night they’d spent together.
She tapped into her memory bank for any red flags, any warning signs. Cord had been gruff and adamant about leaving the lights off.
But that didn’t make him a killer.
While Derrick searched the bedroom, Ellie checked the kitchen. A few groceries, beer cans and whiskey, steaks. Nothing odd. Rooting through the drawers, she spotted a small wooden box in one of them. She opened it and found a key, and instin
ctively knew what room it opened. She strode across to the door she’d never seen open and turned the key in the lock. The door opened creakily, and she was pitched into darkness. For a moment, the world spun, like she was trapped in the coffin all over again.
Gripping the door frame to steady herself, she inhaled deep breaths to calm the suffocating sensation. Seconds passed. The blood roared in her ears. Fingers of fear crawled along her spine.
“Ellie?”
Derrick’s brusque voice cut through the fog and she swallowed hard, biting back her terror.
“What’s in there?”
“I don’t know,” she said. Suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Running his hand along the wall, Derrick flipped on a light. Ellie blinked as the warm light filled the room. One wall held an assortment of knives—jackknives, hunting knives, a Buck 110 folding knife with a wood grain handle and brass bolsters, and an assortment of carving knives, tools and pocketknives. She knew that Cord usually carried the Buck 110 on his hikes.
Derrick gestured toward the collection. “Laney said the lacerations on the victims probably came from a hunting knife.”
Inhaling, Ellie continued studying the room, desperately searching for some clue to help Cord prove his innocence.
One corner held wood shavings, another section a table where he must do his taxidermy. Two wild cats sat there now, tools lined up neatly next to them, along with a jar of glass eyes.
Derrick marched across the room, lifted another jar that sat on the shelves by the table and held it up to examine it.
“Blood.” His gaze swung to her. “Could be the blood he used to write on your door.” Derrick looked grim. “Shondra’s.”
Nausea climbed Ellie’s throat while Derrick opened the doors to a metal cabinet.
Inside, fixed to a cork board, were photographs of all the Weekday Killer’s victims posed on the daffodils. Four dead women so far, four gruesome images.
And there were two more pictures—of Shondra and Ellie.
