Watching Their Steps

by Alana Terry

  Jail cells or chairs . . . oh the options. I didn’t foresee myself getting much sleep tonight. That was okay. I had plenty of reading to do. I clutched my book to my chest as I thought about all the times I had read to Gin.

  I walked into the conference room and plunked down in my former chair to read. No one had asked what I wanted to eat, so I opened my mystery takeaway container and was pleasantly surprised by the heaping mound of French Fries and mountain of ketchup packets.

  Marx had remembered our conversation in front of the department. He followed me into the room and set a Styrofoam cup in front of me before taking a seat at the table.

  I popped the lid and peered inside. Chocolate milk shake. Yum. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I glanced through the pane of glass at Jordan, who was sitting on the corner of a desk as he spoke to the remaining deputies. I couldn’t hear him, but his hand gestures suggested he was formulating some kind of plan.

  I squirted a packet of ketchup into the container and stared at the drop of it on my fingertip as the words the waitress had relayed echoed through my mind: red is a beautiful color for your skin.

  “You’re starin’ at that ketchup like it’s poison,” Marx observed in between bites of his cheeseburger.

  I wiped the ketchup off onto a napkin. I had no doubt the “red” the killer had been referring to was the blood on my skin when he sliced open my arm. Given the way he intended to kill me, I could think of no other meaning.

  That thought nearly made me shudder.

  “You’re protected inside this department, Holly,” Marx assured me, as if he could sense the uneasy turn of my thoughts. “Jordan is postin’ deputies at every entry.”

  “If we’re in here and he’s out there, how are we ever gonna catch him? We can’t just hide forever.” And I was tired of being confined.

  “Let me and Jordan worry about that.”

  “Do you think you’ll be able to arrest him?”

  He set his burger down and wiped his hands on a napkin. “I promise you that one way or another, we will resolve this.”

  Jordan came into the room as we quietly picked at our food, and the expression on his face was difficult to interpret. There was another folder in his hand. Folders never boded well; I was beginning to hate the sight of them.

  “We have a match for the sketch,” he announced. “It just came through the fax.” He dropped the folder in front of Marx.

  I released the curly fry I’d been dangling in midair into my mouth and licked my fingers clean as I stood to see the folder’s contents.

  Marx opened the folder, grimaced, and then slapped it shut with a hand when I tried to sneak a peek. “No.” When I opened my mouth to argue, he said curtly, “Absolutely not.”

  “It’s not pretty, Holly,” Jordan explained.

  I sighed and walked to the middle of the room as the two men reviewed the contents of the folder in hushed tones. I was getting pretty tired of other people deciding what I did and didn’t deserve to know.

  “I have a right to know his name and why he’s doing this,” I said, agitated. “I’m the one he’s trying to murder.”

  Marx gave me a frustrated look. I understood he wanted to protect me from the harsh details, but he needed to understand that I didn’t want to be left in the dark. I held his gaze defiantly, and after a moment, he folded. “His name is Edward Billings.”

  Wow. I hadn’t actually expected him to tell me. I must be getting better at my intimidating stares.

  “He’s forty years old,” he continued. “He was released from prison at the age of twenty-one after he brutally murdered his mother and father at the age of fourteen.”

  “Fourteen?” I gasped. He’d just been a child when he murdered his family. What inspired a child to do something like that?

  Jordan nodded. “There were rumors of severe physical and emotional abuse by the father and neglect by the mother. Despite the fact that he bludgeoned his father and stabbed his mother to death, the court decided not to try him as an adult due to the extremely abusive circumstances and his age. So he was paroled at twenty-one with intensive counseling.”

  His parents had tormented him, and he’d killed them for it. “I almost feel sorry for him,” I muttered. Almost.

  “Well, don’t. He doesn’t deserve it,” Marx said harshly. “Your childhood was just as difficult, if not more so, and you cherish human life. There was no excuse for what he did.”

  A question sparkled in Jordan’s eyes. Apart from my family being murdered, he wasn’t aware of the difficulties I faced growing up. And I wasn’t about to enlighten him.

  “This says he was last seen in Oklahoma,” Marx read aloud. “He didn’t show up for his shift at the gas station, and the parole officer lost track of him. That was a year and a half before he murdered Holly’s family.”

  “He had to have experimented in between,” Jordan thought aloud.

  Marx closed the file and tapped it thoughtfully with his fingers. “It’s good to have a name, but the rest of the information is rather moot at this point. We already know he’s here; we just have to catch him.”

  “Well,” Jordan sighed with a glance at his watch. “The best thing we can do right now is wait to see if my people find anything in the woods. Why don’t we take the downtime to figure out the sleeping arrangements.”

  I shifted uneasily. “About that . . .”

  “I was kidding about the jail, Holly. I would never put you down there. Marx maybe.” His eyes grew distant as if he were imagining how that might play out, and Marx grimaced. “But we can toss a few mattresses and blankets on the floor in the conference room. It’s the biggest room we have.”

  I tried not to come across as rude. “Um, I don’t really... camp out with other people. Do you have a smaller room I can have to myself?”

  “We have a few offices but they’re all occupied in the morning. We have a storage room. It’s five by eight and it doesn’t have a window, but we could move the stuff out of it and set up a mattress in there for you.”

  Five by eight. That was a tiny space, but it was better than the alternative. “That should be okay.”

  It took the three of us nearly two hours to clear everything out of the storage room. When we were finished, boxes were lined up along the wall in the hallway.

  Jordan and Marx brought one of the mattresses up from downstairs with a pillow and a few clean blankets. I turned on a lamp in the corner and settled onto the makeshift bed with my book.

  “You look cozy,” Marx commented as he appeared in the doorway. “The size doesn’t bother you?” He looked around the cramped space.

  “It does. But . . .”

  “But it feels safer than sharin’ a room.” He leaned in and examined the doorknob, tapping a finger on the lock. “Jordan does have a key, though.”

  I fidgeted nervously. “I know.” I had been trying to figure out how to barricade the door when there wasn’t any room to stack anything against it.

  “I don’t think he would come in without askin’,” Marx said reassuringly. “He’s tryin’ very hard to put you at ease. But if he does suffer a serious lapse in judgment, you still have your pepper spray.”

  I smiled a little at that.

  “Here,” he said. He tossed something to me, and I fumbled to catch it. “I owed you a chocolate bar.”

  It was a bag of M&M’s. “Technically this isn’t a bar,” I teased.

  He lifted an eyebrow as he sat down in the doorway and pressed his back against the frame. “Technically it’s chocolate, so quit your complainin’.”

  I smirked. “Thank you.”

  He draped his arms over his knees and studied me, his green eyes trying to gather information from my expression and body language. It freaked me out that he could do that. “How are you doin’?”

  “You keep asking me that.”

  “And I’m gonna keep askin’ until I get an answer that isn’t evasive.”

  I
sighed as I ripped open the bag of candy. I didn’t have an answer to give him. My thoughts and feelings were so twisted up that I couldn’t really put them into words.

  “Do you believe in God?”

  He smiled. “You do have a knack for askin’ uncomfortable questions, don’t you?”

  I shrugged.

  “I suppose you might say I’m on the fence. But my mama is a firm believer.” He gazed at the far wall for a long moment, seeming to debate whether or not to share something. “I’ve seen a lot of bad things with my job. And I’ve asked God why, if He exists, He allows them to happen. I never get an answer.”

  “Do you ask Him why He allows the good things to happen?”

  A thoughtful line formed between his eyebrows. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “If you’re gonna hold God accountable for the bad things, you should hold Him accountable for the good things too. There’s a lot more good than bad, but if all you do is pile the bad at His feet, you’ll never be able to see past it to the good things.”

  I didn’t blame God for any of the bad things that had happened in my life. He hadn’t hurt me; people had hurt me. And out of everyone in my life, He’d been the only one who listened without doubting my words, who loved me despite my many flaws, who was determined to keep me alive when I was lying on that bathroom floor after taking a handful of pills and hoping to die.

  “I keep a journal of the things I’m thankful for,” I continued. “Because if I don’t acknowledge those small lights in my life, the darkness in this world will snuff them out.”

  “I’ve never thought about it that way,” he admitted. “A journal, huh?”

  “Well, with the way you write, you may wanna consider a tape recorder.” He probably couldn’t even read his own chicken scratch. Maybe that was why he always flipped through his crime scene notes but never seemed to read them.

  He smiled. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Why did you ask about God?”

  “Just pondering the age-old question that plagues us all: why is all this happening?” I poured the candy into my palm and started picking through it “Can I borrow your hand?”

  “That depends. What are you gonna do to it?” he asked as he offered his hand. I swiveled my finger in the air, and he flipped his hand over, palm up, with a curious expression on his face. I plucked the brown and yellow M&M’s out of my palm and dropped them into his. “What are you doin’?”

  “I don’t like the brown and yellow ones.”

  He frowned. “They all taste the same.”

  “They taste brown and yellow.”

  “You’re imaginin’ things.” At my shrug, he laughed. “Well, what am I supposed to do with them?”

  “Eat them, throw them on the floor, flick them at people’s heads.” I popped a blue one into my mouth.

  “Why do I have a feelin’ you’ve done that last one before?” He opened his mouth and poured all the M&M’s in at once.

  Oh, I had done it before, and it had been boatloads of fun. I was sucking on my M&M when a question drifted through my mind. I knew my family was dead, but there had to be someone.

  “Do I have a grandmother or a grandfather? Aunts, uncles, cousins?”

  Sympathy clouded his eyes. “No.”

  “So it’s just . . .”

  “It’s just you.”

  I pushed through that disappointment with a bit of difficulty. I had hoped to have at least one person I could call family—even a fourth cousin thrice removed, if such a thing existed.

  “What about your family?”

  “I have a mother, father, and an older sister. Cresceda. A few cousins somewhere.”

  “No nieces or nephews?”

  “No, unfortunately. Cresceda had cancer, and the doctors told her she could never have children. My wife didn’t want children. So it’s just the four of us,” he explained, and I could hear the note of old, lingering sadness in his voice. “Though, if you ever meet my parents, I expect they will probably try to adopt you.”

  “Why?”

  Marx smiled. “You’d have to meet my mother to understand. If Cresceda or I had had a child, she would be about your age, and the fact that I care about you automatically means my mother would spoil you rotten. She goes a little overboard with the Southern hospitality thing from time to time. She would probably take one look at you and declare that you’re too skinny, you’re absolutely adorable, and that she intends to keep you. My father was always a bit softer with Cresceda, so I expect he would adore you.”

  His family sounded blessedly normal and inviting.

  “I’m gonna run into town and grab our things from the bed-and-breakfast,” he said.

  I set my book down. “I’ll come with you.” I had no desire to be alone here with only Jordan and a few deputies I didn’t know. I didn’t think Jordan would do anything, but I wasn’t comfortable being alone with him after knowing him for less than twenty-eight hours.

  “No. You’re stayin’ right here behind locked doors and plenty of armed deputies. It shouldn’t take me more than twenty minutes or so. We’re not too far outside of town. I’ll be back by seven thirty. Do you want me to pick you up anythin’?”

  I shook my head. “Just . . . be careful. Apparently, there are desperate women who haven’t seen a single man who isn’t their cousin in decades.”

  He smiled. “I’ll be extra cautious with the desperate women.”

  Chapter 38

  I WAS IN THE MIDDLE of a paragraph about little people on a yellow brick road when I pulled my eyes from the book and looked through the doorway at the clock on the wall in the main room. It was five minutes till eight.

  Marx had said he would be back by seven-thirty. I tried not to launch into instant panic mode. He was only twenty-five minutes late. It was possible something had come up. Maybe he’d stopped for dinner or Oma, the innkeeper, had convinced him to stay for coffee and cookies.

  I was not going to overreact. I forced my eyes back to the book, but after reading the same line five times without absorbing it, I gave up. I closed the book and glanced at my phone beside me. It couldn’t hurt to call and ask, right?

  That didn’t qualify as panic.

  I picked up my phone, pressed the number three, and hesitated for one self-conscious moment with my thumb over the send button before pressing it. After the fourth ring, the small knot of worry in my stomach expanded. The call rolled over to voice mail.

  I hung up and stared at my phone. Marx had promised he would always pick up when I called. Maybe he didn’t hear it. Maybe he was in the restroom. I would just wait a few minutes and then try again.

  I watched the minute hand on the clock drag by with agonizing slowness. Five minutes passed and I tried again. The call went unanswered. He wouldn’t ignore me, would he?

  No. He wouldn’t do that. Not with the killer so close. Not when he knew I never called for frivolous reasons. Now I started to panic.

  I scrambled to my feet and sprinted into a small office with a plaque on the door that read “Sheriff Jordan Radcliffe.” Jordan was seated behind the desk, filling out paperwork. He looked up when I came in.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Marx. Something’s wrong.”

  He set down the pen. “What do you mean?”

  “He said he would be back by seven thirty. And he’s not answering his phone,” I explained. And I sounded as insane as Jace did when she said things like “I thought you were abducted” because I was ten minutes later than promised.

  Jordan relaxed and said with a patient expression, “He probably stopped for food or got sidetracked by someone in town.”

  “Why wouldn’t he answer his phone?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he turned the ringer off or he just didn’t hear it. It happens to everyone sometimes.”

  “No,” I disagreed. “He always answers my call. He promised. We have to go look for him.”

  Jordan rubbed a
hand through his hair and sighed. “I’m sure he’s fine, Holly. He’s a big boy. Besides, I don’t have the man power to spare. Everyone who isn’t here is resting so they can work the dayshift tomorrow.”

  “But if we all go . . .”

  “You’re under my protection. I’m not taking you out after dark to look for Marx, who is probably having dinner or trying to talk his way out of Oma’s kitchen.”

  He wasn’t listening to me. Why didn’t people listen to me? I knew something was wrong. I could feel it all the way to my bones. “So that’s it? We do nothing?”

  “It’s only been thirty minutes. If he’s not back in a couple of hours . . .”

  A couple of hours could be too late. Jacob had died in minutes. If Marx was wounded, he might not have hours. I knew he wouldn’t stop to have dinner or linger to talk with someone with the killer this close. He would’ve retrieved our things and returned as soon as possible to help keep me safe. That was just who he was.

  “I can’t do nothing,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. But there’s no other choice right now. We . . .”

  I grabbed the car keys off the corner of his desk and bolted. I didn’t know how to drive, but it couldn’t be that hard to figure out. By the time Jordan shouted my name and rounded his desk, I was already unlocking the front door.

  The deputy posted by the entrance blinked at me with surprise when I flung open the door and ran down the dimly lit ramp to the parking lot. It took me a moment to pick Jordan’s car out of the other vehicles in the darkness.

  I sprinted through the eerie patches of darkness to the driver’s side and fumbled with the keys before realizing there was one of those button things like Marx had for his car. I pressed the left button and the lock clicked up on the driver’s side.

  “Holly, stop!” Jordan shouted as he came down the ramp. The deputy from the front door followed at his heels. I wrenched open the door, climbed in, and hit the second button a split second before Jordan collided with the side of the car and grabbed for the handle. He pulled, but it was locked.

  I panted in the driver’s seat as I watched the deputy take up position on the right side of the car. She had her hand on her gun, but she looked uncertain. They were supposed to protect me, not shoot me for stealing a car.