by Lisa Jackson
She’d had very little experience with sex, except for some trial and errors with a couple of guys from college who’d been more or less test cases rather than serious romances. She’d just never found a guy she wanted that much.
But this was something else. She wanted him. Wanted him driving deep inside her. She wanted to scream and flail and beat her fists on his back. She wanted to arch her back and bite his ear and make love like this was the one and only night in her life.
Well.
She did all that and more. She unbuckled his belt and pulled down his jeans and took him into her mouth as if she’d done it all her life. She heard him groan and pull away, and then she was down on her back, pressed into the satin coverlet, and Blair was atop her, pushing into her, and she was grabbing his butt and helping, begging, wanting everything so fast and hard.
“Jesus, Kat,” he murmured.
“Don’t stop.”
“God, no …”
God, no, she thought now, grinding her back teeth together, as she pulled into the parking lot at the east side of the park. The rest of that night was a blur, the morning after embarrassing; she’d tried not to wake him as she gathered up her clothes. A hammering headache hadn’t helped. Nor had the fact that he’d woken up and watched her fumble around as she hopped on one foot to get into her jeans—forget the underwear, she never found it—and struggled with clasping her bra, something she could usually do in her sleep but couldn’t seem to manage, and then she swore under her breath when she saw that two of the buttons had been ripped off her blouse.
He’d gotten to his feet and yanked his own jeans on, also commando style, and said in a drawl she’d found sexy the night before but was like fingernails on a chalkboard the morning after: “You need a ride home.”
“Yes …”
His gaze flicked to the mussed covers. Neither of them had made it beneath the sheets. “It’s still early, we could … ?”
She felt like hell. No. No. No. But her mouth again said, “Yes.”
And that time, he’d been tender, and she’d floated, somewhere between pleasure and pain, because the horrible hangover that attacked her hadn’t quite come into play yet, and the feel of Blair’s body inside her made so much of it disappear beneath a wave of desire that swept through her womanhood and made her cry out with joy.
She’d gone to work with two little men clanging hammers against a gong inside her head. She’d thrown up twice in the station bathroom, then gone home and crawled into bed feeling like she might die. She’d awakened at two o’clock in the morning, nibbled on cheese and crackers, then forced herself to crawl out of bed to go to work the next day, too. She felt better by that evening—and like a complete idiot. She was scared at how many bad choices she’d made. It was so unlike her.
Blair called her sometime that second night. “How’re you doin’?” he asked.
“Okay,” she lied.
“I’m going out of town, but I’ll be back next Wednesday.”
“Okay.”
“You want to get together again?”
Yes. Of course she did. But this time her brain took over and made her mouth answer the way she should. “I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Well, sure. I’d like to.”
It was so casual. Too casual. She had a distinct chill run through her when she realized that it was all in a day’s work for Blair Kincaid. No big deal. Happened all the time. And her mind tripped to Paula Gregory, who not that long before had been crying over Blair at Molly’s Diner, blubbering into her cheap Chardonnay. “It’s just sex to him,” she said on a hiccup. “He doesn’t care about me, but I don’t care. I want him, and if I can only have some of him, that’s what I’ll take.” And then the tears had really started flowing, and her girlfriends at the table jumped up to offer handkerchiefs and tissues and mascara and eyeliner for makeup repair.
Kat had felt sorry for her and suddenly saw herself in the same position, crying over Blair Kincaid, who she knew was bad news, romantically speaking.
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” she said, and then she hit the END button on her cell phone.
And that, as they say, had been that.
Did she feel a little sorry? Of course. Was she going to change things? No.
And the baby?
Couldn’t think about that now, she decided, as she pushed open her door, climbed out of the Jeep, and waited for Ruth to park.
*
They walked to a picnic table not far off the path they’d wandered down together fifteen years before. Kat set the recorder and her notepad on the weathered planks of the fir table and settled onto the bench. Ruth sat down opposite her, her eyes on the recorder.
Kat pressed the ON button, aware of the whispering birch leaves above their heads, caused by an errant breeze that had cropped up, and the caw of a rattled crow that clearly didn’t like their interference in its domain. The machine could pick up ambient noises, but it would record their voices loud and clear. Kat stated the date and time, who and where they were, then asked Ruth for permission to record their conversation.
“Yes,” Ruth said in a barely discernible voice. Then, stronger, “Yes.”
“Go ahead,” Kat told her.
It took a few starts and stops, but Ruth managed to relate the events of the rape fifteen years earlier by an assailant she couldn’t identify. After laying out the particulars—that Shiloh and Kat were with her while they were skinny-dipping in the pond—she gained momentum and went on to explain that they’d all scattered, but that Ruth was captured by the man, and that Shiloh and Kat had returned to rescue her. She finished with, “If they hadn’t come back for me, I believe I would have been kidnapped. That’s what I think happened to Addie Donovan. That’s what I know happened to Courtney Pearson, and maybe Rachel Byrd, and Erin Higgins. I’m sorry I didn’t come forward sooner. So sorry.”
Her voice weakened, and Kat stopped the tape. They both were silent for a moment, then Ruth said, “I’ve tried to block it out, but it doesn’t work that way. So I’ve been concentrating on the details of what I remember about him. Wide girth, furry skin, thick hands. That’s my mantra. That’s what goes through my head when I think of him.”
“I’ll take the tape to Sheriff Featherstone and Ricki. They’ll probably want to talk to you themselves,” Kat warned.
“I feel better now that it’s out there. I’ll be okay. Sorry I panicked. I had this mental image of me in a room with silent police officers, all of them staring at me, and it just didn’t work.”
“Arms folded across our chests. Cold judgment in our eyes.”
Ruth choked out a laugh. “I know that’s not how it would be, but …”
“You don’t know how it’ll be until it happens. It’s okay.”
“Thank you, Kat,” Ruth said, heartfelt. “I have a hotline, and I get calls from women who won’t come in, won’t finger their attackers, even if they know who they are. I know how they feel. The fear is crippling.” Ruth gazed, clear-eyed, at Kat. “But hiding the truth only delays justice. Speaking up is the only way to get these guys.”
“Maybe we’ll find him now,” Kat said. “The one at the pond.”
“He’s still here in Prairie Creek, and he hasn’t changed. I think he took Addie. You think so too.”
Kat nodded.
“He would have kidnapped me, if you and Shiloh hadn’t stopped him. I’m actually one of the lucky ones.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a notebook and an envelope similar to the one Shiloh had handed her earlier. “This is my list of suspects. There’s also one who’s a client, but I didn’t put him on there for professional reasons. And this is the photo he left in my mailbox.”
Kat accepted the items. “He hasn’t left one for me.”
“Yet,” Ruth said seriously. “Be careful, Kat. I’m spending almost every minute with other people. Ethan’s with me every night.” A faint blush stole into her cheeks. “Tell Shiloh to watch out too.”
&nb
sp; “She’s staying at the Tate ranch with Beau Tate. They’re taking care of Morgan, and they’ve got a dog.”
“Ethan says you try to have dinner once a week or so, but that you haven’t been able to get together lately. Maybe we can all find some time in the near future?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll call you,” Ruth said, looking a little uncertain about Kat’s monosyllabic reply. The truth was, currently Kat couldn’t imagine ever eating again.
*
Three hours later, Kat and Ricki were in Ricki’s Jeep rattling down the long driveway that led to the Rocking D, Ira Dillinger’s ranch. Kat had tried to think of something to eat for lunch, but the image of the blood-red remains of her breakfast in the toilet was something she couldn’t get out of her head. She held on to the panic bar as they bumped along, hoping she didn’t upchuck on the upholstery. Finally, they hit the blacktop, and the ride smoothed out for the last quarter mile.
Ricki had asked her if Ruth had come in, and Kat had said no, without explaining that they’d met in the park. Kat was waiting until after this meeting with Ira Dillinger about the barbed wire to bring up Ruth’s recorded statement and the rape. She planned to present the facts of the crime to both Ricki and Sheriff Sam Featherstone at the same time, and the sheriff had been out of the office all morning.
“Still waiting on that full report on Courtney Pearson, but preliminaries are grim,” Ricki said now, her eyes straight ahead, her expression set. “Indications suggest she was subjected to rough sex, probably for years.”
Kat swallowed.
“Someone doused her in gasoline, inside and out. Maybe they meant to burn the body, or maybe they thought it would disguise DNA. It’s not clear. Her cause of death was from exsanguination.”
“She bled out?”
“That cut on her wrist was from the barbed wire. Not the wire that was binding her wrists. A separate piece, apparently, that wasn’t with the body.”
“He cut her wrist to kill her?” Kat said slowly, disbelieving.
“Or maybe she’d had enough and did it to herself.”
“Oh. God.”
Kat hung her head and felt saliva gather in her mouth. She swallowed quickly, several times.
“You want me to stop the truck?” Ricki asked.
“No.”
“Hangovers can really be a bitch,” she said sympathetically as they pulled up in front of the wide front porch of the two-story rambling mansion of wood and stone.
*
Ira Dillinger sat behind the huge desk in his den, his gray-white brows capping a pair of sharp eyes. He looked rawhide tough and weather-beaten, and he gave Kat a hard looking over as she entered his office behind Ricki. Kat nodded to him, then focused on the multi-generational photograph of the Dillinger family prominently displayed behind him. It had been taken years earlier, when Ricki was much younger. She was standing in front of a gray barn with a brilliant blue Wyoming sky behind them. Beside her were her brothers, Colton and Tyler, and her sisters, Delilah and Nell. Kat knew them all by sight, though none of them very well, other than Ricki.
“What is it you want me to see?” Ira asked his daughter.
Ricki pulled out the snapshot of the close-up on Courtney Pearson’s wrists. “Patrick Starr thought this was Dillinger wire,” she said, pointing to the barbed wire. “I figured you’d know for sure.”
He dragged a pair of wire-rimmed glasses out of his pocket and perched them on his nose. When he made no immediate comment, Ricki explained, “It was wrapped around the wrists of Courtney Pearson, who had been missing for fifteen years.”
Ira shook his head. “Well, it’s Dillinger, all right. Haven’t used it in years. Don’t like them finding it and using it for God knows what purposes.”
“We believe someone used it as a means of binding.”
“I can see that.” He shoved the picture aside. “I don’t like what I’m thinking about it.”
“I know,” Ricki agreed.
Before she could go further, he pointed a finger at her. “This is no job for a woman. I’ve said it before; I’ll say it again.”
“Dad.” Ricki was long-suffering.
Ira shot Kat a look. “Your father’s the one who realized it was Dillinger wire. You’re Patrick Starr’s daughter.”
“Yes.” She pegged Ira as late sixties, early seventies, maybe older, but he was in great shape, so it was hard to say.
“How’s he like you being a cop?”
“Dad,” Ricki said again, exasperated. “Where would someone get their hands on our wire? Is there any left on the property? In some corner of the barn or one of the outbuildings?”
“Well, I don’t know. Ask Colton. He’s all over the property.”
“When did you stop using this particular design?” Kat asked.
He gave her another hard look but answered readily enough. “We never really went back to it after the old homestead burned down twenty years ago. All the old barbed wire’s been replaced.”
“Ricki, is that you?” a female voice called from somewhere outside the office. Both Kat and Ricki turned, and soon a pretty, blond woman wearing a Baby Bjorn appeared, a sleeping, dark-haired infant leaning against her breast. Delilah Dillinger Kincaid. And with her was another woman, tall and beautiful, carrying a garment bag over one arm.
“Sabrina, is that your dress?” Ricki asked.
Delilah answered first. “It’s a bridesmaid dress she wants me to try. I don’t think I can fit it.” She puffed out her cheeks and gestured to her stomach.
“You don’t have an ounce of baby fat left on you,” Sabrina told her.
Ricki leaned in to touch the baby’s head, and Kat looked at the velvety hair on his head and felt her heart beat painfully hard.
Ira growled, “Bring him over here.”
“Hi, Katrina,” Sabrina greeted her with a smile. “Good to see you. How’s your dad?”
“Good.” She cleared her throat.
The front door opened and shut again, and soon a tall man with a long stride came into view. Dark hair, slashing grin. Colton Dillinger. Sabrina’s husband-tobe. “What is this, a family meeting?”
“We’re just stopping by to see Ira,” Delilah said, gently extracting the baby from his carrier and handing him to Ira. “And to try on a dress that won’t fit.”
“It’ll fit,” Sabrina assured. “Are you coming to the wedding?” she asked Katrina.
Kat blinked at her. “Um …”
“You got an invitation, right?” Sabrina looked alarmed, like she’d forgotten to send it.
“Yes, thank you,” she said. Patrick had received one for the whole Starr family, though Kat had determined she wasn’t going; it was just one more event to avoid because she didn’t want to run into Blair Kincaid. “Unfortunately, I have a conflict, but I’ll make sure Dad sends back the reply—”
“I’m so sorry,” Sabrina said, too polite to ask what Kat’s conflict was, which was a relief since Kat’s mind was currently a blank. She couldn’t think of anything she would be doing six weeks from now.
Except maybe starting to show …
“Can I talk to you a moment?” Ricki asked Colton.
“Sure,” he said.
“If something changes, just let me know,” Sabrina told Kat. “We’re keeping it casual, so the guest list is fluid.”
“Thanks.” Kat swallowed.
“We’ll be upstairs,” Sabrina called after Colton, who was already heading out of the office with Ricki.
Kat followed them all into the front entryway. She glanced back to see Delilah putting baby Joshua into Ira’s stiff arms. “Relax,” Delilah laughed at her father. “He’s a sound sleeper. He won’t even notice.”
Kat dragged her attention away from the baby as Ricki showed Colton the picture of Courtney’s barbed-wire-wrapped wrists and explained what he was looking at. His expression grew sober, and he made a sound of unhappiness. “What the hell?”
“Dad says it’s Dillinger barbed
wire, so somebody got it from here. You think there’s any left on the property?”
“Possibly.” He rubbed his chin.
“Mind if Kat and I take a look around?” Ricki asked.
“I can do it later for you, if you can wait. I gotta go into town right now, but—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ricki cut in. “We’ve got this.”
Ira yelled from the office. “Let Colton do it!”
Ricki shook her head in exasperation, and Colton nodded in understanding. Ricki motioned for Kat to follow her, then stalked through the house and kitchen, out the back door. “Any way he can get me to not do my job,” she muttered as she stomped into the hot sunshine. “He was about to give you a lecture on policework, but we were saved by the wedding.”
There were a number of buildings around the property, used for machinery and storage, and there were several barns as well. They went into the first one, and Ricki ordered Kat to start in the back and go room by room, stall by stall. The musty smells of dust, horse, and grain didn’t help Kat’s uncertain stomach, and her mind’s eye was still filled with the sight of Blair’s nephew, the sweep of the baby’s lashes, the lips sucking in sleep, the sweet, smooth skin and fat cheeks. She clenched her jaw and continued the search by sheer willpower, but she couldn’t stop the thoughts and images that stayed with her: Courtney’s body and the barbed wire; a shadowy man dragging Addie Donovan away from her horse; the hard planes and sinewy strength of Blair Kincaid’s body; the two pink lines; the sheriff’s office where she would soon explain all the years of silence over Ruth’s rape …
They worked through two of the buildings, then entered an older one with a weathervane atop a cupola. Ricki took the front, while Kat walked to the back, her nose registering new smells, oil and gasoline. She’d discovered a hay baler, a rototiller, and a couple of ATVs. There were various pieces of junk parked against the back wall, which she looked over and around, and at the far end of the room was a low door that Kat had to shove her shoulder against. It opened with a groan, and she entered another room with more junk: a pile of metal machinery pieces; blocks of wood, one split by a rusted axe; and along the back wall, tiny remnants of rusted barbed wire.