Too Close to Home (8 page)
Then her mother died.
And she’d stopped laughing.
And it was his fault.
He sidestepped the booby-trapped floor to reach the side of her bed. Lightly, oh so softly, he touched her hair, wanting to pick her up and hug her to him, to rock her and tell her how much he loved her. In the quietest whisper, he told her, “I’m sorry. I do love you very much, baby.”
Jenna heard the door click shut and she opened her eyes to stare through the dark at the opposite wall. She’d been to the party, found herself bored, wishing she were anywhere but there. Bradley had stayed for, like, two seconds before leaving with only a brief glance in her direction, so she’d told Patty she felt sick and needed to go home. Patty had been disgusted with her, but had grudgingly brought her home.
Jenna sighed and felt like she had a fifty-pound weight settled in the vicinity of her chest. Tears clogged her throat and her nose tingled with the effort to hold back the sobs.
“I love you too, Daddy,” she whispered.
But it didn’t matter. Nothing seemed to matter much anymore.
Samantha’s phone had been unusually quiet. Devoting her time to one case severely cut down on her calls. Tom would continue to work solo, partnering up with another agent should he find himself in a situation that required it.
Last night, after Connor assured her there wasn’t anything else she could do and had promised to keep her updated on any progress he made, she’d left, her mind humming with all the information she’d acquired in the last thirty-six hours.
Sydney’s parents had found the girl’s journal, hidden under her mattress, and brought it to the station. Andrew was going over it with a fine-tooth comb. So far he hadn’t turned up anything pertinent. The warrant on the medical records had gone through, so those would be waiting for perusal today.
Miranda’s computer would be waiting on her downtown when Sam could get there. She’d given it a glance-through before she’d left, but hadn’t found a thing. No hidden documents, no secret IMs, nothing. She’d look it over again today, but didn’t really expect to find anything. Very weird. Completely unheard of. But she still had a few more tricks up her sleeve and she’d find something. There was always a trail, no matter how careful someone tried to be.
The slight stirring of excitement at the thought of going downtown again surprised her. She wanted to see Connor. He’d offered to pick her up, but she’d forced herself to refuse.
And then kicked herself. If it had been any other cop, she wouldn’t have thought twice about accepting. But Connor made her feel things she wasn’t interested in exploring.
Okay, she was. But . . .
First things first. Settling herself in the oversized recliner facing her one extravagance, her forty-six-inch flat screen television, she dialed her parents’ number, sighing and mentally psyching herself up for the conversation. She glanced out the sliding glass door to her right. The balcony sat empty, forlorn. No plants, not even a plastic ficus tree to liven things up. At least she had the quiet woods beyond. After four rings the answering machine picked up. Sam glanced at the clock: 8:30. What was today?
Tuesday? No, Wednesday. Wednesday morning. Right. Felt like it should at least be Sunday. Of next week. Her parents would be doing their weekly grocery shopping this morning. She hung up. Oh well, she’d tried, right?
She picked up the remote and hit the power button. A commercial for some fast-food restaurant filled the screen, but her mind mulled over other things.
Tom had called just as she’d walked in the door last night to report Jamie was fine . . . and had indeed walked down to the café to get a sandwich and a cup of coffee. She’d made it safely back to her small house, eaten her sandwich, watched some TV, then went to bed.
Sam felt like crying. Ten years ago, when Jamie was eighteen years old, she’d been brutally assaulted, raped, and left for dead. The road to recovery had been a rocky one, with numerous ups and downs. One of the ups being, she’d moved into a small cottage-style house she managed to purchase while doing some contract work with the FBI. Samantha had roomed with her the first two years, then Jamie insisted she needed to learn to live alone. And so the recovery period continued. She’d finally gotten to the point that she was able to talk about the attack, but to Samantha’s knowledge, had refused to leave her home by herself ever since she’d moved in. The fact that she’d ventured out on her own last night was . . . wow.
Thank you, God. Keep working on her spirit, her self-esteem. Help
her conquer the fear. And help us catch the guy who did this to her. I
know it’s been ten years, but he’s still out there, possibly still destroying
lives. Let us get him, God, please.
Click.
She changed channels. Glanced at the clock. Time to go downtown. To see Connor.
Movement to her right caught her attention. Setting the remote on the table, she looked out the glass doors to the trees beyond. A shadow? The sun changing positions. A cloud gliding past? She shrugged and turned.
Her sliding door exploded into a cloud of glass, an object missed her nose by a fraction of an inch. Sam released a scream and reacted instinctively, rolling to the floor, hands and arms covering her head.
Connor slapped the paper down on his desk and gave a frustrated growl. Then glanced at the clock. She’d be here soon. His growl subsided at the thought.
“What’s wrong, partner?”
Looking up, Connor watched Andrew sit down across from him, coffee cup balanced on a stack of files.
“Oh, hey. Morning.”
“You look frustrated.”
“To put it mildly. It’s this case, of course.”
“Yeah, it’s stretching out too long.”
“Way too long. I’ve been avoiding the governor. Not a good thing. Somehow, we’ve got to get this guy before any more girls go missing or turn up dead.”
“The media’s getting stirred up again. I noticed them on the steps when I came in this morning.”
“I know. I had to barrel through myself. I guess they’re hoping one of us will slip up and give them a juicy morsel.”
“Ha. Not likely. I like my job too much.”
“Yeah, well, listen to this.” Connor picked up the paper he’d just thrown down. “‘In the last sixteen months, seven girls have disappeared. Three of those girls have been found dead. Is there a connection? With four girls still missing, what are the police doing? Why is it taking so long to apprehend this vicious killer? And when will another one go missing? The authorities have declined to comment. This reporter wants to know what they’re doing to keep our teenage girls safe.’”
Andrew shook his head. “At least he doesn’t have the fact that the three girls we do have were pregnant . . . and we don’t know where the babies went. And,” he added, “they don’t have the IM information or text message stuff. Shoot, even we don’t have that, yet. Unfortunately, it won’t be long before they have those facts either. I wonder who they’re bribing at this very moment. We’ve got to get this guy, Connor, and get him yesterday.”
“Unfortunately, it’s almost impossible to catch someone who covers his tracks so well. It’s almost like he’s . . .” Connor let his words trail off, not wanting to voice his horrid suspicion.
Andrew finished it for him. “Like he’s a cop?”
Connor blew out a sigh. “Yeah.”
“I know. I’ve thought it too. If so, that just means we’ve got to work extra hard and be extra smart.”
“Smarter. I’ve got an idea, but want to run it by Tim.” Tim Fields, a forensic psychiatrist, often worked with them on cases. He’d already profiled the killer of the teen girls. Now, Connor wanted to use that information in a rather unorthodox manner.
“What are you thinking?”
“What if we went public with the information Tim’s profiled about this guy?”
“Like a news conference?” Andrew looked thoughtful, and Connor could almost see that the man’s mind clicked along the same track as his.
He smiled. A partner like Andrew was a rare gift. They always seemed to be on the same page when it came to thinking things through. “Uh-huh.”
“Draw the guy out. Take his focus off the girls.”
“And put it on us.”
“Whew.” Andrew scrubbed a hand down a smooth-shaven cheek. “That could be dangerous.”
“Yeah. I know. But it might be our only hope of stopping this guy. We’d have to wear vests practically 24/7 and even that’s no guarantee.”
“Have you run it by the captain?”
“No, I wanted to see what you thought first. If we make this guy mad enough, he might come after us. If you don’t want to take that chance, then we’ll figure something else out.”
Andrew stood, walked to the watercooler, and drew a draft in the paper cup. He drank it, tossed the cup in the trash can beside the cooler. “You know, Angie and I eventually want to have kids. But with guys like this running around killing, all the evil in the world that we deal with every day, it’s hard to think about bringing a child into this world.”
“Thought you would trust God with that.”
Surprise flickered in Andrew’s green eyes. “Yes, of course, but as you know, it’s an imperfect world. Just because I love the Lord doesn’t mean he puts a bulletproof wall around me. Or around those I love. Bad stuff still happens.”
“I know. I’m terrified every day for Jenna.” Connor was a little shocked he’d admitted that out loud. But it was true.
Andrew sighed. “I worry about that girl myself. She needs you, Connor, more than ever now. I’d hate to be a teenager in this day and age. And Jenna . . .”
“What about her?”
“It’s not just you she needs, my friend. She needs your guidance, she needs to see you going to church, to see you making the decision to spend time with her, to—”
“Right, look, Andrew, I appreciate your concern, but . . .” Connor sighed and punched a fist into an open palm. “Back to this. You game?”
“Yeah.” Andrew let the topic slide. He’d made his point. “We can’t let fear stop us from doing what’s right.” He nodded.
“Let me run it by the chief and pull Tim in on exactly what we need to say in the press conference.” He changed the subject. “Now, want to go through the timeline again?”
“Sure, why not. Can’t hurt, can it?”
The timeline, simply a whiteboard depicting the dates the teens went missing, the dates they were found, and the ones still missing, hung on the opposite wall, beginning with a date that started a little over a year ago. Connor pointed to the first one. “She disappeared May of last year, which means we’re sixteen months into this case.” He stopped, pursed his lips, and eyed the wall.
“What?” Andrew stared at him, confusion glittering in his green eyes.
“I think Samantha should be here for this.”
Understanding replaced the confusion, along with a little smug smirk curling one corner of his mouth.
Connor held up a hand. “Don’t even go there. I’m just thinking that she’s helping us out on this case, so we should maybe wait for her to come on over and go through this with us.”
“She’s not done with the computers, is she?”
Connor shook his head. “No, and I promised her I’d keep her updated. She wants to stay involved. She should be here in a little bit, but I think I’ll call her and tell her to get a move on.” He picked up his cell phone and dialed her number, ignoring the excitement curling in his belly at the thought of seeing her again.
Glass rained down around her, nicking her arms and other exposed flesh. Samantha kicked over the coffee table and curled into a fetal position behind it. All she could think was that if the guy had another shot ready to fly, the wooden table wouldn’t even slow it down.
She had to get to the hallway, her bedroom, and grab her gun. But did she dare move? Did she dare stay put?
Heart pounding, breath whistling through her nose, she shoved her left hand into her back pocket and pulled out her ringing Blackberry.
A shaking finger fumbled for the right button. “Connor! Get units to my apartment now. Someone’s shooting it up!”
“What!” His shout nearly deafened her. “On the way. Stay on the phone with me!”
She looked over the edge of the coffee table at the disaster that was now her living room.
The silent stillness screamed in the aftermath.
Shaking, staring in disbelief, she finally realized Connor was shouting her name. “What? What? I’m here, yeah. I . . . I’m here. I’m okay.”
She looked across to the opposite wall and gasped. “Oh my . . .”
“What is it? Come on, Sam, talk to me.”
“Uh . . . I think you’re going to have to see this to believe it.”
A crossbow bolt was embedded in her wall above her kitchen table. And there was something on the shaft. A piece of paper?
Sirens sounded in the distance. “Is that you I hear?”
“That’s me. I’m about thirty seconds away.”
“Check the woods first. The bolt came from the trees across from my sliding glass door.”
“Bolt?” he demanded.
Then she heard him speaking to someone in the car about a crime scene investigator, but her focus centered on the bolt protruding from her wall. Then she slid her gaze to the shattered door. Was he still out there?
Surely whoever had shot the bolt had heard the sirens and gotten away while he could.
A hard pounding on her door had her wading through the debris. She twisted the knob and Connor swept in, followed by four uniformed officers.
At the sight of her living area, they all pulled to a stop and stared.
Connor sucked in a deep breath. “Are you all right? You’re cut.”
The stinging of numerous cuts kicked in, burning the right side of her face, the back of her hands and arms. “Ow. Guess I’ve got a few nicks.” Without thought, she reached up to comb her hair with her fingers, scattering pieces of the glass onto her floor—and adding a cut to the palm of her hand. “But other than that . . . yes, I think I’m okay.”
He stepped toward her and she waved him off. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of that later.”
His gaze landed on her wall and he gaped. “Whoa. Is that a . . . ?”
“Uh-huh, a crossbow bolt.”
He walked toward it reaching for his radio. “Hey, Andrew, you see anything? You’re looking for anything related to a crossbow.”