by Lisa Jackson
Janowitz checked her notes, flipping back a couple of pages, but Shannon guessed she really didn’t need to remind herself. If nothing else, the female detective seemed focused and, Shannon bet, had a razor-sharp memory. “Travis Settler.”
The name meant nothing to her. “Settler?”
“You don’t know him?”
She shook her head. “No. But…” She thought about catching the first glimpse of his shadowed face and the sensation that she’d seen him somewhere before. She wanted to dismiss it. Everything had been so crazy, but the detective was staring at her expectantly, waiting for her to finish her sentence. “Okay, when I saw him that night…I had this…this strange feeling that I’d met him or seen him somewhere before. Kind of a déjà vu thing.” Which was impossible. Where had she seen him? “But I’m not sure about that.”
“He’s from Falls Crossing.”
Shannon shrugged. “Where’s that?”
“In Oregon. Near the Washington border.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Not many people have.” A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Janowitz’s mouth. So the hard-nosed detective did have a sense of humor.
“And you’ve never met Travis Settler before?”
“No, I don’t know anyone by that name,” she said and turned her head to glance out the window to the leafy branches of an oak illuminated by the security lights. Was the name familiar? She didn’t think so. “Should I know him?” Shannon asked, looking at the detective again. She noticed a hint of doubt in the detective’s gaze, as if Janowitz knew something she didn’t. And the other guy—Rossi—his scowl had deepened around the small stripe of blond beard visible on his chin.
“Wait a minute,” Shannon said, her pulse escalating. “What’s going on? Who is this Settler guy?”
Janowitz ignored her question. “Do you think Travis Settler was the one who attacked you?”
“No…I…” She didn’t really know, did she? She’d thought he’d gone to free the dogs, but he could have pretended to run to the kennels, then hidden. “I don’t know, but…No, I don’t think it was him. Why would it be?”
“Who do you think it was?”
“Beats me. It was dark. I’d already been injured by the mare.”
“Tell us about it again,” Janowitz said, her steady gaze missing nothing. Suddenly Shannon felt vulnerable. Lying here in the bed, an IV dripping into the back of her right wrist, her left arm taped to her side, her face patched with bandages. These people, the police, knew a whole lot more about what had happened to her, to her property, than she did and they acted as if she was hiding something.
“I saw the fire,” she began wearily. Her strength ebbing, she nevertheless reviewed every step of that awful night: grabbing the fire extinguisher, running to the stable, meeting Settler, the mad panic as she raced through the horse barn, then backwards through the stalls to avoid being trampled, Molly’s resistance, her shoulder feeling as if it was ripping apart, the horse rearing and finally getting the crazed mare almost to safety, when she was suddenly jumped from behind.
“So there weren’t any lights in the stable?”
“They weren’t working.”
“The circuit breaker had flipped,” Rossi interjected.
“What?” Shannon asked.
“The reason the lights wouldn’t come on in the stable was that the bank of circuit breakers for the building had either tripped off, maybe because of the fire, I don’t know, or someone had switched them off intentionally. Did you flip the breakers?”
“No, of course not…”
Janowitz said, “The breakers had flipped in the kennels, too.”
Shannon’s heart nearly stopped. How premeditated had the attack been? How long had the guy been watching her? Walking on her property? Setting this up? She shivered as if the room temperature had dropped twenty degrees.
The arson wasn’t what was the most terrifying; she’d suspected that someone had intentionally set the blaze—a “firebug” as her father used to call them. But the fact that she, personally, had been targeted, that was something else.
“Ms. Flannery,” Detective Janowitz asked, her voice a little softer, “do you have any enemies, anyone who would want to hurt you?”
Shannon closed her eyes. A dozen names came to mind, people who had hurled insults at her. Slurs. Thought she’d literally “gotten away with murder” three years ago. She’d thought—no, hoped—that most of the bitterness and hatred had eased over the years…Now she wasn’t so sure. A headache pounded despite the IV drip with its painkiller. All the old feelings, the anger, the grief, the fear, converged on her again. Who would want to see her harmed? Where did she begin? Ryan’s family would be a good start. His mother, father and assorted cousins had sworn vengeance after the trial. His girlfriend, Wendy Ayers, had nearly spat on Shannon after the verdict was announced. Wendy clearly had considered Ryan hers even though Shannon was still married to him at the time of his death.
And there had been others as well, people he’d known, worked with, friends who couldn’t believe a man with his Irish charm and good looks could ever raise his voice, let alone his fist, to his wife…
Her stomach knotted with the memories. “You work with my brother, Shea. I think he can give you a list.”
Janowitz wasn’t about to be put off. She stepped a little closer, a pucker forming between her dark eyebrows. “But how about you? Who do you think would want to do you harm? An ex-lover, or someone you worked with? What about Nate Santana? He was supposed to be gone that night, but he suddenly showed up.”
“It wasn’t Nate,” Shannon said firmly, though deep inside, didn’t she, too, have questions about the man she’d hired, the man she’d spent so many hours with, the man who told her so little of his past? She knew he cared for her, though, and couldn’t believe he would be a part of this kind of violence…or could he?
“Are you involved with anyone?”
“No…not now. My ex-husband, Ryan Carlyle, is dead, but I’m sure you know all about that.”
“What about the father of the child you gave up for adoption?”
“Brendan?” She let out a quick little snort of disgust. “He took off when I told him I was pregnant, nearly fourteen years ago. Never heard from him again. His parents said he went to Central or South America.”
“No other boyfriends?”
She shook her head and felt herself color. “Nothing serious. I’ve been involved with two men since…since Ryan’s death. The first man, Reggie Maxwell, said he was from LA, turned out he lived over in Santa Rosa, with his wife and three kids. As soon as I found out, I ended it.” Her hand fisted at the memory, the fury and embarrassment of being duped.
“And the other guy?”
“Keith Lewellyn, a lawyer from San Francisco. Corporate law. We dated five, maybe six times. Neither of us was that interested in the other. It died a natural and quick death. The people who have the most ill feelings toward me are Ryan’s friends and family.”
Janowitz waited, pen poised.
Rossi stroked that bit of beard.
The recorder kept taping.
“I’m sure you realize that I was accused of murdering my husband,” she said quietly, her fingers twisting the hem of her sheet. “Donald Berringer was the lead prosecutor. I was found innocent but a lot of people weren’t happy with the verdict, including Berringer. For nearly a year I got hate mail and of course my husband’s family was up in arms.” She cleared her throat, looked directly at the two detectives. “I received death threats. I reported them.”
“Do you know who sent any of them?”
She grimaced, then told them about Ryan’s family, especially his first cousins, the Carlyle siblings, who had been so vocal in their belief that she had killed him. Liam had written letters to the editor of the local paper. Kevin had glared at her whenever he saw her, purposely intimidating her. Mary Beth, Shannon’s sister-in-law, had accused her of murder and testified against her. And e
ven the usually quiet Margaret had shunned her.
Then Shannon mentioned Wendy, Ryan’s girlfriend, but admitted that most of the hate mail had been anonymous.
“The threats slowly ebbed. I thought whoever was behind them had found a new cause to champion, a new target, and I was relieved. It was…difficult.” She cleared her throat. “I haven’t had any trouble in a year, maybe eighteen months. I thought it was all behind me.”
“What happened to you might not be linked to your husband’s death,” Janowitz said, her mouth softening a bit. “It seems more likely that it has to do with the child. The baby you gave up for adoption. She’s missing.”
“Missing?” Shannon’s head snapped up, the weariness she’d been beginning to feel suddenly gone. “What do you mean? Missing from where?”
“Travis Settler, the man who was outside your house when the fire started, is your daughter’s adoptive father. He’s in Santa Lucia because the girl didn’t come home from school over a week ago, two days after you received the burned birth certificate.”
“My—baby?” Shannon whispered, stunned, unable to quite grasp what Janowitz was saying. Her head pounded.
“Yes. The girl that was born thirteen years ago. The baby listed on the birth certificate you found on your porch.”
Shannon felt as if her world was cracking.
Janowitz’s gaze held hers. “I think it’s more than a coincidence.”
Chapter 10
Dani peeked through the crack between the door and the doorjamb, just a slice of light that filtered into this room from the next. The little gap allowed her a view of the main living area and the fireplace on the far wall. It was built out of old, crumbling rock and had a thick mantel, upon which were framed photos. They looked like pictures of people’s faces, though she couldn’t make out their features. She wasn’t able to view the entire length of the mantel, so she wasn’t sure how many he had, but she could see three.
He also kept his hunting knife on the mantel along with a box of wooden matches, a lighter and a pistol—all items Dani could use if she ever made good her escape.
And she was working on that. She had a plan.
Above the mantel was a cracked mirror. Some of the silver had come off the back and the lines running through it caused some distortion, but in the reflection Dani could see his face and part of the living area, including the door she was locked behind.
Though she was now imprisoned in this small room, she’d been allowed to walk through the rest of the cabin every once in a while. The dilapidated house consisted of this bedroom, a foul-smelling bathroom, a tiny, unused kitchen and the main living area—the room just outside her locked door, where he spent most of his time when he was here.
The bad news was that he locked the door to “her room” whenever he stepped foot out of the shack; the good news was he was gone a lot, so she could set her plan for escape into motion. And though so far he hadn’t been rough with her, hadn’t indicated that he would hurt her, she sensed it was just a matter of time. He was using her for some vile, criminal purpose and she was determined to thwart him. To save herself. She’d do whatever she had to, because though she was still playing the part, she wasn’t about to just roll over. If he tried to hurt her or kill her she was going to give him the fight of her life. Acting cowardly now might buy her some freedom, but in the end, she figured, it wouldn’t save her.
So she was figuring a way to get out of this dump. Her quarters consisted of the small bedroom, a closet and a porta-potty, the kind used for camping. The windows of the room had been boarded shut from the outside, but there was a skylight that allowed in some natural light and, with the illumination, a peek-a-boo view of the heavens. A rag rug covered most of the rotting floorboards. He’d given her a cot with a sleeping bag, and a pillow without a case that gave off a weird odor so she never used it—couldn’t imagine what kind of cooties were inside or who else had laid their head on the scuzzy thing.
As near as she could figure there was absolutely no insulation in the wood walls and so the place was sweltering most of the time. If it hadn’t been for the skylight, which he opened with a long pole that fit around a crank, she was certain she would have suffocated or roasted to death in this pit.
Now, it was night. Dark outside, though she thought she saw a hint of moonlight. It was quiet. Just the sound of insects buzzing and chirping outside.
And the creep was going through his sick ritual. Through the crack in the door she watched him again.
Each night he went through the same motions that he was following now. He bent down and, using the long-necked butane lighter, he lit the fire. It was the same kind her dad used to ignite the lighter fluid in their barbecue at home.
Her stomach twisted as she thought of her dad and she felt her chin shake as she gave in to the fear, the dread. She closed her eyes. What if he couldn’t find her? What if this sicko had covered his tracks so well that even her father—with all his hunting and tracking experience and the skills he’d learned in the special forces of the army—had no idea where she was?
Where was her dad now? Was he still coming for her? Had he given up?…No…not her dad. Travis Settler would move heaven and earth to find her; she knew that much. She just wished he’d show up. And she wished to heaven that she’d never, ever started trying to find her birth parents. That’s what had started this…It was all her fault.
She blinked back her tears and told herself she had to quit being a baby, pull herself together and stay focused on how to thwart this weirdo.
For now, she pressed her eye against the crack and watched the perv do his thing.
The yellowed newspaper and small twigs in the blackened firebox caught fire instantly, eager flames rising to lick the kindling and small logs he’d piled on the grate.
Satisfied, he placed the small torch onto the mantel again, then stood barefoot in front of the blackened stones and stared at his reflection in the mirror.
Then the really weird stuff happened, just as it had for the past three nights. It was as if he got off on the fire, or on seeing his image in the mirror or something equally bizarre.
As the fire crackled and hissed, consuming the dry wood, he slowly took off his clothes, almost as if he was performing in some kind of bizarre striptease. All for his own benefit.
Dani had never seen an actual stripper in action, of course, but she’d heard all about it from a friend, whose single mother had gotten one of those sexy messengers for her fortieth birthday who came, sang and took off his clothes. Her friend had said it had been really, really gross even though the messenger had been a “hottie” in his twenties. He had taken off his tie, tuxedo and shirt all the way down to a little thong-thing.
Now, watching this whacko undress, Dani couldn’t agree more. Still she watched, fascinated, trying to figure this loser out.
First he unbuttoned his shirt, then, his gaze never leaving the mirror, he dropped the shirt onto the floor. She sucked in her breath and bit her tongue as she stared at his back. The sight of his shoulders made her cringe. Scars slashed across his muscles, burn marks covered his skin and made it look slick and stretched too tight, while the rest of his body was smoothed and toned. What had happened to him? And what was with this strange routine?
Not knowing she was watching, he kept at it. He unzipped his jeans and let them slide down his legs, then kicked the dirty Levi’s away. If he wore underwear, it came off in the same quick motion. She never actually caught a glimpse of jockeys or boxers or anything. Then he stood naked, facing the fire, away from her, his body tanned except for his scarred back and muscular butt.
He was in good shape, she could see that. His flesh was taut. Not an ounce of flab was visible, just a hard, honed body with that horrid, disfiguring burn across his shoulders and halfway down his back. She couldn’t see the front of him, other than his face, didn’t know if the scars went down the front. But his face was unscarred and handsome, in an evil way. Blue, blue eyes, thick black hai
r, defined jaw and thin, cruel mouth.
She finally understood what women meant when they called some guy a “handsome devil.” Dani could believe he truly was a devil.
He reached toward the mantel, grabbed his small bottle of oil and slowly started rubbing his body all over, along his neck, down his arms, over his torso, making his tanned skin glisten a shiny gold in the firelight.
It was like he was into himself to the point of being obsessed.
Now the fire was burning bright, eager flames dancing and snapping, red-hot coals winking from the black ash. He smiled at his reflection and touched himself…down there.
Sick, sick, sick!
She thought he might jerk off and decided she didn’t want to watch that!
But instead he peed, sending his stream into the fire, spraying urine on the flames as his eyes moved from his own reflection to watch the fire hissing and recoiling under the foul-smelling onslaught.
Dani almost heaved.
She clamped her teeth together, determined to watch all of it, hoping to somehow figure out what made him tick.
As soon as he was finished peeing, the rite was over.
Just like that.
As slowly as he’d stripped, he pulled on his clothes in a rush, almost as if to make up for lost time. The fire sputtered and died, red embers still winking in the ashes as he yanked the shirt over his head and pulled up his pants.
Dani shrank back and crept to her cot, crossed her fingers that he wouldn’t guess she was faking it and feigned sleep. As she did every night. She knew he was coming. He always checked on her, opening the door enough to allow light to spill on the cot and her face. Sometimes it seemed as if he stared at her forever.
She always pretended that she wasn’t awake, her eyes were closed, but not squeezed shut, her mouth was slightly open and she tried to breathe evenly. Sometimes she even rolled over while he was staring, then sighed. All the while she was trembling inside, afraid that he could see through her ruse, and that he might change his routine and step into the room, move across the short distance to the cot, lean down and touch her…