Twisted Threads (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 3)

by Janice Kay Johnson

  “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “It is.”

  The horror in Emily’s eyes didn’t abate as she gaped at the window. “But I have an alarm system. Why didn’t it go off?” Her whisper rose to an outraged cry. “It was supposed to go off!”

  “The window sensors react to the window opening, or the glass breaking. If the glass is cut carefully enough, maybe cushioned somehow so there’s not much vibration, the sensor doesn’t react. He could have used something like a suction cup to stabilize the piece he was cutting out.”

  She looked like a woman betrayed. “But when he climbed in…”

  “I don’t know where you left it, but the sensor is right there. He probably disabled it once he could get a hand on it,” Daniel said. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “Oh, God.” Emily spun abruptly, turning her back on them. “I shouldn’t have had it sitting on the window sill. I never dreamed—”

  “None of us did.” Sean crossed the room and squeezed her shoulders, gently massaging until her rigidity eased. “How did you know he was in the house, Emily?” he asked. “Were you awake?”

  She shook her head. “But I wasn’t in my own bed. If I’d been—” Suddenly, she began to shake. Sean pulled her against him, hoping his embrace made her feel safe, and let her burrow.

  When the worst of the shudders passed, he murmured, “If you weren’t in bed, where were you?”

  “Cody’s room. I went in to sit and…I guess I fell asleep.”

  He hated the picture that formed in his mind of her sitting in the dark on the edge of her dead son’s bed, remembering the nights when she’d tucked him in. Sung to him, kissed him softly. Had she rocked herself? Cried?

  Her teeth chattered. “There’s a place in the hall. The floorboard squeaks.” She pulled away from him and went out into the hall, going a few feet toward what he knew to be her son’s bedroom. Sean heard a small creak.

  So little, to have saved her life.

  “It’s not very loud, but— For a minute, I thought I might have had a nightmare. But, really, I knew.”

  Fighting for control, he closed his eyes, picturing her alone, petrified. A killer so close.

  “So I got out of bed, being as quiet as I could, and I unlocked the window, only I started thinking maybe I’d dreamed the sound.” She shot him an apologetic look. “Denial is one of my specialties.”

  “No.” He sounded harsh and didn’t care. “You were quick and smart. Don’t start thinking you should have done anything differently.”

  Her teeth closed on her lower lip. After a moment she nodded.

  “I decided I’d rather feel stupid than die. I threw up the window and dove out.” She hugged herself tight and still trembled. “I looked over my shoulder and saw him. Just a shape, standing at the window. So I ran. And…and you know the rest.”

  He knew that this time the guy had done the smart thing and taken off.

  The better to try again.

  Emily waited in the hall while he and Daniel checked out her bedroom, but there was no sign anyone had been here. Even the covers remained smooth.

  Only the pane of cut glass told its story.

  Fear felt like ice in Sean’s veins, circulating throughout his entire body.

  When he looked back at her, waiting in the hall, Sean saw her teeth chatter. He picked up her slippers from beside her bed and opened drawers until he found a sweatshirt. Maybe the husband’s again; right now, Sean didn’t care.

  He crouched in front of her and lifted each foot in turn to put on the slippers as if she was a child, then gently unwound the blanket, letting it drop. The sweatshirt went over her head. After pulling her fat braid free of the neckline, he helped her get her arms into the sleeves. Then he cocooned her in the blanket again.

  “Better?” he asked, and her head bobbed.

  “I’m taking her home,” he said without even looking at Daniel. “I’d tell you to lock up when you’re done, but I guess that wouldn’t serve much purpose.”

  Not even looking back, Sean steered her down the hall.

  *****

  Emily had never seen Sean look so grim.

  Last night, after bringing her home, he’d made her a cup of hot cocoa and refused to talk about their new knowledge.

  “Morning is soon enough,” he said. He insisted she get into his bed. Leaving on the sweatpants and T-shirt he’d been wearing, he’d set his big, black handgun on the stand where he could reach it and climbed in with her. She hadn’t even been able to make herself protest. His arms around her felt too good. She had rested her head on his shoulder, closed her eyes and relived the terror and the inexplicable knowledge that a serial killer had her on his list until, astonishingly, she’d fallen asleep. Now she thought it had to have been the shock. Her brain had simply shut down.

  She had woken up alone, but known he wouldn’t have left her. Once again, he had fed her breakfast. Suppressed rage showed in his body language, but it was the determination in his eyes that persuaded her to eat the food he set in front of her. She had a suspicion he’d shovel bites in her mouth himself if she didn’t do it.

  Once her plate was empty, he poured coffee for both of them, then looked at her across the table.

  She bent her head and went utterly still, resisting the desire to stick her fingers in her ears. She did not want to talk about this.

  As if denial had ever done her any good.

  “You’ve watched the news. You know the facts. In each of the three murders we’ve linked, the killer got in the house by cutting out a piece of window glass,” he said, in that same implacable voice. “It has to be the same guy, Emily.” And yes, that was regret in his eyes now, or even pity. “What we have to figure out is why you.”

  “I’m…I didn’t know any of them!”

  “So you said.”

  Struggling with her fear, it took her a moment to hear in his voice that he hadn’t believed her.

  “You think I’m lying.”

  The lines in his forehead deepened, letting her see his weariness and worry. “No, Emily. But I do think you know something. You had a thought when I asked you about Darryl Roff. Whatever it was, you didn’t want to share.”

  She bowed her head, focusing on the coffee in her mug. She had to tell him.

  “I never met him. That’s the truth.”

  “But?”

  “I…Tom and I fostered a teenage boy briefly.” She made herself look at him. “It was something Tom had always wanted to do. His best friend as a kid lived in a foster home. When he contacted social services, they asked if we’d consider taking a teenager instead of the younger child we’d been picturing. They had a boy whose mother had just died. We agreed.”

  She wasn’t sure Sean was so much as blinking.

  “Um…his name was Braden. Braden Wilson.”

  He frowned, as if the name had tickled his memory.

  “Braden stuttered. Supposedly it had been a problem when he was younger but he’d overcome it, only after his mom died, he reverted. Kids made fun of him, but that wasn’t the worst. He had biology with Mr. Roff. Braden hated him. Every day in class, Mr. Roff made a point of using this fake stutter to give directions. Then he’d say something to the whole class like, ‘To make sure Mr. Wilson understands these instructions, too.’ Or, ‘Since Mr. Wilson’s English isn’t yet fluent.’ Of course, everyone would laugh.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Sean muttered.

  “The thing is, we’d only had him a few weeks when Tom and Cody were killed. Braden is part of the reason I hadn’t gone with them to visit Tom’s parents. They…didn’t know we’d taken in a foster child, and Tom expected them to disapprove. We didn’t want to spring him on them.” The shame she still felt rose in waves of heat that were probably painting her cheeks red. “After…” She swallowed back nausea. “I fell apart. I called social services and asked them to find another place for Braden. I couldn’t take care of another human being. I wasn’t taking care of myself.”

  Compassion in h
is eyes, he reached across the table and clasped her hand. “That’s understandable, Emily.”

  “If I’d had another child of my own, I wouldn’t have given him away.”

  “Not the same thing.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe it should have been. I’ll never forget the way he looked at me when I told him he couldn’t stay.” The betrayal on his face had penetrated her devastation, but only briefly. Too briefly. She’d been so relieved when he was gone, but even that vanished in the bottomless well of pain that was her reality. “All I know is, I let him down. I never heard what happened to him after that. I never asked or tried to find out. But…it’s because of Braden I knew something about Mr. Roff.”

  “He’s the key. He has to be.” Sean went utterly still, then made a strange sound, as if he’d taken a blow and air was escaping. “Oh, Christ. I know that name.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “What? Tell me,” Emily demanded.

  Sean hesitated, because, damn, he didn’t want to. But keeping Braden’s fate quiet was hopeless. She needed to know why she’d been targeted by a killer.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t keep him,” he said tersely. “Braden raped a girl, Emily. He was tried and convicted, but as he was being led out, he managed to grab a gun from a guard in the courtroom. Another deputy shot and killed him.”

  Shock widened her eyes. “Oh, no. I remember that.” She released a ragged breath. “Vaguely. Did the news report his name?”

  “Since he was a juvenile, they probably didn’t initially.”

  As if she hadn’t heard him, she said, “Oh, my God. That was Braden?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Puzzle pieces were slotting into place as if moved by an invisible hand. “And what do you want to bet Frank Lowe was his attorney and Judge Tranor presided at the trial?”

  Her forehead crinkled. “But…if he’s dead…?”

  “Oh, he’s dead, all right.”

  He saw that Emily got it. “Somebody cared about him,” she said slowly. “And…he intends to murder every single person who ever hurt Braden.” Despite a shudder, she somehow kept her voice steady. “And I’m one of them.”

  He took her hand again. “You can’t blame yourself.”

  Her eyes met his. “Can’t I?” she said with simple dignity.

  “Emily…”

  She shook her head. “You have a job to do.”

  They had to talk about this. She didn’t need to be haunted by one more death, but Sean recognized in frustration that this wasn’t the time. She had retreated emotionally, and he had to let her.

  “I can’t leave you alone.”

  “You can drop me off at The Sandpiper. I’ll stay there all day. I promise.”

  He didn’t like even that idea. He wanted her where he could see her, but could just imagine what Lieutenant Wilcynski would say if she became a permanent ride-along partner.

  “You won’t be alone there?”

  “I promise.”

  She’d still be too vulnerable. As ruthless as this bastard had proved himself to be, he might be willing to kill another woman just to get at Emily. Sean had to remind himself that, after his last failure, the guy had retreated to regroup. Yeah, and chosen to take out another of his targets before working his way back around to Emily.

  And so far, he’d operated only at night.

  Because he had a nine-to-five job and had to keep up appearances? Sean speculated. Or because he was a crazy, homeless veteran who could pass unseen at night, but whose appearance would turn heads during the day?

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice only a little rough. “I’ll drop you and pick you up.”

  He went so far as to walk her into her store, relieved to see that two other women greeted her in surprise and studied him with interest. Emily promised again not to set foot outside until he picked her up. Sean checked the back door, reassured that the deadbolt was already locked.

  Then he made calls, summoning everyone on his task force to a meeting. The sheriff was the only one he failed to reach.

  Even Rey Mendoza showed up. Sean brought them up to date, first with the night’s events, then what he’d learned from Emily.

  “I pulled up what I could on the trial. Braden Wilson was accused of raping a girl named Kimberly Fisk, who also attended Cape Trouble High School. Sure enough, Lowe represented the boy and Tranor presided. We know from Ms. Drake that Braden hated Darryl Roff. As I see it, we have two immediate priorities. One is to determine other possible targets and provide protection. Second, now that we know he’s connected to Braden, is to figure out who this guy is.” He glanced at his notes. “Braden was prosecuted by Mike Emerson.”

  Even Wilcynski had likely encountered Emerson by now. His title was Assistant Chief Deputy District Attorney. If the killer was angry at the presiding judge, he would harbor as much rage at the man who had prosecuted Braden.

  “Was he prosecuted as an adult?” Daniel asked, reminding Sean he had only been in Cape Trouble for something like a year and a half.

  “No, thank God. Not much in this qualifies as good news, but Braden being a minor is a silver lining.”

  “No jury,” Mendoza murmured. “Otherwise, we’d be looking at twelve more potential targets.”

  Sean continued, “We need to get social service records. First, because the social worker – or workers – who supervised this kid in his foster homes is at high risk.”

  “And then there are the other foster parents,” Wilcynski said.

  “Maybe multiples. It’s possible there was only one other home, but if Braden was already troubled, odds are good that in two years he was moved around. Then there’s the girl he raped. Was she a classmate? A random target? Braden claimed she lied, that the sex was consensual.”

  Someone snorted. “Don’t they all?”

  “As far as the killer is concerned,” Sean said, “she may be the brass ring. It’s all her fault.”

  “Oh, I’d think there would be two brass rings. Who shot and killed him?” Wilcynski asked.

  “One of our deputies. Byron Saunders. Having to kill a kid really hit him hard. I remember him saying he had a boy of his own not that much younger.”

  “Was there any question about whether the use of force was appropriate?” Jason asked.

  Sean remembered that Jason wouldn’t have been around then either. “Not that I recall,” he said. “Once the boy lunged and got his hands on the other deputy’s weapon, and right in the middle of the courtroom, there weren’t a lot of options.”

  Wilcynski lifted his eyebrows. “Let’s find out as much as we can about the incident. If the shooting wasn’t a hundred percent necessary, that might explain the level of rage the killer is displaying.”

  A ball of anger lodged in Sean’s gut. “How does it explain him wanting to kill a woman whose only sin was not being able to function as a foster parent when her own husband and child were killed?”

  “He might think everything else that went wrong is her fault,” Jason suggested. “Especially if it turns out the kid was abused in a later foster home.”

  Sean’s jaw was clenched so tight, he was about to crack some teeth. It was probably just as well he didn’t respond.

  Daniel glanced at him, then said, “Let’s not speculate ahead of the facts. The boy may already have had behavioral issues that just hadn’t manifested yet. Remember, he was new on the social services radar. Do we know how the mother died?”

  “No,” Sean managed to say. “That’s a question we need to ask. More important is finding out what other family Braden Wilson had. It’s hard to imagine some buddy caring enough to carry out a lethal vendetta. Where was the father when the kid needed him? Were there siblings? Other relatives? An attempt would have been made to locate relatives before placing a kid in foster care.”

  He passed out assignments, reserving the Department of Human Services for himself.

  Wilcynski promised to get a warrant in the works in case they needed it. “I’ll talk to Byron Saunders as w
ell as his direct supervisor, too,” he said.

  Mendoza grimaced. “If I were him, I’d take the whole family on a vacation. Say, a Caribbean cruise. It’d be hard to get to him on a cruise ship.”

  There were sounds of agreement.

  Jason volunteered to track down the rape victim and her family. Mendoza would talk to Mike Emerson with the D.A.’s office.

  “Then we have a plan,” Sean said. “Stay in touch. We’ll meet again tomorrow morning, same time. In the meantime, let me know what you learn and I’ll disseminate it as necessary.”

  After swift agreement, the room cleared.

  *****

  Sean’s visit to the local Department of Human Services produced the expected consternation. If Braden had still been alive and in the system, he’d have met more resistance to opening the boy’s records. As it was, he was funneled almost immediately to a sturdy, middle-aged woman named Jeanette Kelley, who had been Braden Wilson’s caseworker. She was scared, but maintained enough self-possession to remind him that she dealt on a daily basis with angry teenagers and troubled adults. In fact, she told him, she’d been assaulted twice in her career.

  She remembered Braden well, and not only because of his violent death.

  “After we removed him from Mrs. Drake’s house at her request, we placed him with a family whose last name was Fisk.” She saw Sean’s expression. “I see you understand the significance.”

  “They had a daughter.” Oh, crap. The dots had all seemed so random, but now a kindergartner could have drawn lines between them.

  “That’s correct. Braden was later accused of, and convicted of, raping Kimberly Fisk.” She sighed. “Braden inexplicably became ‘clumsy’ shortly after going to live with the Fisks. There was a broken arm, a cracked cheekbone and black eye. His stuttering worsened. I became suspicious immediately, but Braden denied abuse initially and, of course, had been struggling over his mother’s death and going into the foster care system. After several ER visits, I removed him from the home. At that time, he admitted that Mr. Fisk had been physically abusive. Braden said Kimberly was the little princess and could do no wrong, while everything Braden did or said brought a blow. The Fisks had previously fostered a girl who turned eighteen only a few months later. That went fine.” Her lips thinned. “Why they agreed to take a boy, I have no idea. Braden was a big kid – taller than Mr. Fisk and already strongly built. I can only guess that Mr. Fisk felt threatened by him in some subliminal way. I regret not understanding what was happening in that home faster than I did.”