Haunting Jordan pcm-1

by P. J. Alderman

  “Out where?”

  “Shut up, or I’ll shoot,” Ted shouted, his eyes wildly darting around the room.

  “Attack, for God’s sake!” Jordan yelled.

  “Well, why didn’t you just say so?”

  An entire wall of books flew at Ted, and he screamed, dropping the gun and putting his hands up to protect his face.

  Malachi and Jase launched from the doorway, and all three of them went down in a heap of flying fur, growls, and thudding fists. Jordan dove, scrabbling for the gun. More books flew off the shelves, hitting her in the back, almost knocking the wind out of her.

  “Charlotte, stop!” she yelled, rising.

  No one listened. Jase and Ted rolled, locked in combat. She jogged backward, avoiding being flattened by them while she fumbled with the gun.

  Ducking more books, she closed in and stomped her running shoe on the back of Ted’s right wrist, pointing the gun. “Freeze, or I’ll shoot your hand. You’ll never caress the valves of your horn again.” Steadying the shaking gun with her other hand, she added as an afterthought, “You fucking creep.”

  Ted froze, and Jase landed a solid punch that had his eyes rolling back in his head.

  Malachi grabbed Ted’s neck and held, growling. More books flew.

  “Charlotte!”

  “Okay, okay!”

  “It’s easier to start than it is to stop,” Hattie explained apologetically.

  “Call off the damn dog!” Ted screamed.

  “Malachi, come.”

  Jase shoved books aside and flipped Ted over, planting a knee in the middle of his back. He yanked Ted’s arms up and back, holding his wrists with one hand, holding out the other. “Give me the gun, and then go get Darcy’s handcuffs.”

  Darcy. Jordan did as he said, then ran into the hallway and knelt beside Darcy. Blood soaked her chest, and when Jordan pressed fingers to the side of her neck, her pulse was fast and thready. Jordan felt her pockets for the handcuffs, tossing them to Jase.

  “Hattie! Dish towels from the kitchen.” She grabbed her cellphone and dialed 911, praying the phone was still functional. Towels flew at her. She snagged them out of the air with her free hand and pressed them to Darcy’s wound.

  “Nine-one-one operator. State your emergency.”

  Jordan babbled out her address and something about an officer down.

  “A neighbor already called it in, ma’am. Units are on their way. Describe the location of the shooter.”

  Blood immediately soaked through the towels, and she pressed harder. “He’s facedown, in the library, cuffed.” She craned her neck, then added, “He’s crying.”

  There was a moment of silence. “Crying’s good,” the operator finally said, her tone wry. “Stay on the line, ma’am, until the police arrive. Can you do that for me?”

  Jordan could hear the sirens in the distance. She let out a sob, giving Jase a wobbly smile. “Yeah. I can do that.”

  Amanda took that moment to come strolling down the hall from the kitchen. “Hey, there’re cop cars all over the place. What’s up?”

  Chapter 18

  JUST after dawn the next morning, Jordan sat in the hospital room next to Darcy’s bed, punch-drunk from lack of sleep. She, Jase, and Tom had spent the night at the hospital, helping each other stay positive while they awaited word of Darcy’s condition.

  After four hours of surgery, she was stable. The bullet had entered her upper right chest, then bounced around a bit, nicking her lung and shattering a rib. After another two hours of recovery, Darcy had been moved to the ICU, and the nurse had consented to Jordan’s request that she be allowed to stay in the room, even though she wasn’t family.

  A number of Darcy’s officers and administrative staff had been in and out during the long night, waiting to find out whether their police chief would recover. The mayor had even supposedly stopped by, though Jordan had been in the cafeteria at the time, trying to find coffee while she called Carol to give her the news that they’d caught Ryland’s murderer.

  According to Tom, a detective by the name of Bert Park had taken over the logistics of contacting Detective Drake. Drake had made arrangements to fly to town later today, to retrieve Ted and transport him to the L.A. County lockup, to be arraigned on murder charges. Tom had told Jordan that Drake had not been pleased to find out he’d been investigating the wrong person all along.

  Jordan stretched. Closing her eyes, she rolled her neck to relax the muscles that were giving her a screaming headache. Or maybe it was the fatigue and the gallon of coffee she’d ingested in the last sixteen hours. She’d seen better dawns, that was for sure.

  “You’ve been a pain in the ass from the very beginning.” Darcy’s voice cracked on the words, but they were lucid.

  Jordan’s head jerked up. She tried to smile but failed. “Taking out the chief of police within days of hitting town definitely constitutes a personal best for me,” she agreed, then added, “This is all my fault.”

  “I was kidding, for chrissakes,” Darcy tried to shift one hand and winced. “You know that stalkers, once they reach that level of violence, can’t be rehabilitated. And the smart ones cover their tracks. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

  “I could’ve recognized his pathology.”

  Darcy managed to snort. “At least tell me that jerk is either dead or in a jail cell where I can get to him and beat the crap out of him.”

  “It might be a while before you can do that.” Jordan held a spoonful of ice slivers to Darcy’s lips.

  Darcy glared as she sucked on the ice. “Just give me a couple of days. I’m motivated,” she grumbled. “Talk to me—what’s happening?”

  Jordan brought her up-to-date. “Jase demanded that Drake immediately hold a press conference and announce that I was no longer considered a suspect.”

  “Good man.” Darcy closed her eyes, starting to drift.

  “As I hear it, Drake was not pleased.”

  “Even better.”

  Tom appeared in the doorway, holding a large bouquet of flowers and looking embarrassed. “She awake yet?”

  “I’m here,” Darcy mumbled. She opened her eyes and saw the flowers. “You must’ve been really worried.”

  “Just shut up.” Tom placed them at her bedside. “You scared the crap out of us. Couldn’t you have gotten shot in the leg or something?”

  “Hard to control the shooter’s aim.” Darcy looked at Jordan. “You tell him yet?”

  “You mean about Hattie’s killer?” Tom nodded. “I told Jordan to contact a reporter with the newspaper and see if she can get a human interest story published. The community needs to know the truth about Michael Seavey. It’s not right to keep the information from Holt, either. My family can weather the hit.”

  “Good.” Darcy shifted uncomfortably, wincing. “So tell me how you stopped that son of a bitch after he shot me.”

  “I didn’t—Charlotte did.”

  Darcy’s eyes shot wide open. “I don’t friggin’ believe it! Are you telling me I missed a teenage ghost taking out a violent stalker, just because I was out cold?”

  Jordan and Tom grinned.

  * * *

  JORDAN parked the car at the curb in front of her house and sat for a moment with the car door open, petting Malachi. She didn’t relish the task ahead of her. It had been hard enough to explain to Tom.

  “Have you told them yet?” The deep voice brought Jordan out of her thoughts. She turned to find Frank Lewis standing about ten yards away, hands in his pockets, watching her.

  “You mean Hattie and Charlotte?” Jordan shook her head. “I’m headed in to talk to them now.”

  “Hattie will be upset that she misjudged Seavey so badly.” Frank grimaced. “I can’t say I like that he never tried to stop my hanging, though.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call him an angel,” Jordan agreed. “It’s hard to tell from his papers, but I suspect he was responsible for more than a dozen deaths over the years.”

  “
Then again, if he killed Clive Johnson, he just might’ve redeemed himself for the rest.”

  “There you go.” Jordan paused. “Are you coming inside? Hattie could use the company after I tell her, I’m certain. And she’ll have her hands full, caring for Charlotte.”

  Frank shook his head. “My reasons haven’t changed.”

  Jordan studied him. “As a psychologist, I can recommend you’ll be far healthier if you let go of all that guilt.”

  “And I don’t remember asking your opinion,” Frank retorted.

  “‘Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, which eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.’” She shook her head. “That was close, anyway. And being an old-time union man and sailor, you should relate.”

  He scowled. “Who said that?”

  She shrugged. “Some British bishop from the seventeenth century. It’s one of my favorite quotes, actually.”

  “Yeah, well, most ships in my time were made of wood, so I can’t relate all that well.”

  She gave up and climbed out of the car, heading toward the house. “Just think about it,” she said over her shoulder.

  * * *

  SHE found Hattie and Charlotte waiting for her in the kitchen. After fixing the espresso she was convinced she couldn’t survive without, she knew she couldn’t stall any longer. She sat them both down and explained what she’d discovered in Michael Seavey’s papers.

  Hattie sat quietly, her expression horrified. “I had it all wrong.” She pressed her lips together. “I treated Michael Seavey horribly.”

  “Let’s keep a little perspective,” Jordan countered. “He propositioned you, pressured you to drop your plans to unionize Longren Shipping, took your money, and watched Frank hang without a qualm, all to save his own skin. It’s not like he was the model of an upstanding citizen.”

  Charlotte had started crying, and her sobs showed no signs of abating. “This is all my fault,” she wailed. “If I hadn’t encouraged John, he wouldn’t have murdered you.”

  Hattie put an arm around her shoulder. “Nonsense. You did nothing wrong.”

  “But you suspected how bad he was, and I didn’t listen!”

  “Once you become the obsession of a pathological personality,” Jordan said gently, “there’s almost nothing you can do to alter his behavior. And it’s very hard to see the behavior for what it is, unless you’ve got specific training.” And not even then, she thought. She’d never seen the pattern in Ted at all; she’d simply thought he was suffering from transference.

  “So he never loved me.” Charlotte sniffled.

  Jordan shot a glance at Hattie, who frowned. “He loved you,” Jordan explained, “but his love wasn’t very healthy.”

  They were interrupted by a knock at the back door and Jordan got up to answer it. Frank stood on the back steps, his hands fisted at his sides, his expression tortured.

  Jordan smiled and turned. “Hattie? There’s someone at the door for you.”

  Hattie floated out of her chair, her expression confused. When she saw Frank, she gave an inarticulate cry, her hands covering her mouth.

  She flew into his arms.

  * * *

  GIVING them some privacy, Jordan called to Malachi, and the two of them retired to the front porch to sit in the early morning sunshine. They settled on the top step, and she closed her eyes, propping her shoulder against a column and raising her face to the warmth of the rays.

  Jase sat beside her on the step.

  He handed her a latte. “So about this Four-Point Plan of yours.”

  Jordan let out a small laugh. “Fuck the FPP. Of course, I still talk to ghosts, and I don’t know what I’m doing with my life, or what I’ll want to do after I fix up the house.”

  He didn’t even blink. “We admire ‘quirky’ around here—you’ll do just fine. And personally, I think you should revamp the FPP and stick with it.”

  She gave him a sidelong glance. “Really?”

  “Really.” He paused for a moment, as if he were gathering his thoughts. “You’ve had a lot of turmoil in your life in the last year. You lost your husband, and you were stalked by a psychopath. And those are just the normal-world stresses you’ve faced.”

  She rolled her eyes.

  “I’m serious—you should take all the time you need to come to terms with the changes in your life.” He shot her a grin. “In the meantime, I’ll hire you to tend bar and keep me informed about the needs of my spectral customers.”

  “Since I can’t exactly charge my clients my normal fee, I probably will need the money.” She took a sip of her latte, a new thought occurring to her. “Oh, hell. I think Ted was the one who got into my underwear drawer.”

  Jase raised a brow.

  “The ghosts were at a telekinesis seminar,” she explained, getting another grin out of him, “and Malachi was at the vet’s. Ted must’ve gotten into the house and rifled through my clothing. I found it all rearranged, and Hattie swore they hadn’t done it.” She shuddered as she pictured Ted pawing through her lingerie. Major ick. “I think I need to buy all new underwear.”

  “Hmm. The purchase of lingerie is a symbolic act and not to be taken lightly.” Jordan narrowed her gaze. Jase’s expression was solemn, but his eyes held a twinkle. “There’s this great shop downtown,” he added. “Talk to Mary Ann—tell her I sent you.”

  “Right.” Amused, Jordan leaned back, closing her eyes.

  They sat together, not speaking, listening to the neighborhood wake up. And for the first time in a very long time, she felt at peace.

  Haunting Jordan is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Bantam Books Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2009 by P. J. Alderman

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-553-90692-9

  www.bantamdell.com

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