Blood of Dawn

by Tami Dane

  JT shook his head. “No, ma’am. It doesn’t.”

  She nodded and shuffled away, shoulders sagging.

  “I feel for her,” I told him, once I was sure she was out of earshot.

  “Me too. She lost her only daughter.”

  Staring at the photographs lining one wall of the living room, I grumbled, “I hate that so many of our cases involve children. The kidnapping in the first one, the stolen babies in the second, and now this.”

  “Yeah.” JT shoved his fingers through his hair. “Makes it hard to sleep at night.”

  “I thought I was the only one.”

  JT’s gaze locked onto mine. “You’re not.”

  I forced myself to look away before things became uncomfortable. Not so long ago, we’d gone out. On a date. And it was nice. Very nice. But I had decided, even though there was enough chemistry between us to cause a nuclear reactor meltdown, that we had to keep things professional. I had high hopes for a career in the FBI. Any rumors about my sleeping with a superior would pretty much put an end to that dream.

  At any rate, every now and then, things got a little strained between JT and me. Even though I was now kind of, sort of, seeing Damen. I’d read that a person’s brain could rule the body, that thoughts could cure disease, lengthen life, and improve health. So why was it so hard for a person’s mind to seize control over an overactive libido?

  Thankfully, Mrs. Walker came back. “The detective wants to take Emma’s phone for evidence, so I copied down the names and numbers for you.” She handed JT a piece of paper.

  “Thanks.” JT turned around and gave me the paper.

  “Now, one more time, what can you tell us about what happened last night?”

  “I don’t know. I came home from work at a little after midnight—I’m a nurse, working afternoons this week. I found my daughter upstairs in her room. She was . . .” She stopped and blinked once, twice. “She was on the floor. No pulse. Nothing. And she had these strange marks on her neck.”

  “When was the last time you talked to her?”

  “I called her after school, right before cheerleading practice.”

  “Did she say anything unusual?” JT scribbled some details in his little notebook.

  “Nothing. After practice, she was going to the library to study and then she was coming home.”

  JT asked, “Is it possible your daughter brought someone into your home without your knowledge?”

  The mother’s lips thinned. “Yes, I suppose so. But I’ve warned her never to bring anyone in our home when I’m not there. I trusted her.” She placed her shaking hands over her mouth. “If only I’d known . . . If only . . .” She started shaking all over, hard sobs cutting through the silence.

  Not sure what to do, I stood mute at JT’s side. Would I ever know what to say in these situations? Or would they always be uncomfortable and awkward?

  JT gave the woman a moment to collect herself. When it seemed she was able to speak again, he asked in a soft voice, “Outside of your daughter, did you notice anything else unusual? Anything out of place?”

  Mrs. Walker’s eyes darted around the room, as if she was searching. “No. But I wasn’t looking. I just went upstairs to check on Emma when she didn’t respond. Once I found her, I called 911 right away. After that, I don’t really know what I was doing. I’m a nurse with over twenty years of experience, and I’ve seen just about anything you could imagine. But this . . . Well, even I couldn’t handle this.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said.

  Forrester came down the stairs and turned the corner, joining our little circle. “We’re just about done upstairs. We’ll be out of your way soon, ma’am. I’d like a phone number to reach you in case we have any more questions,” the BPD detective inquired.

  She nodded, then enclosed her body in her arms. “I . . . I don’t know if I can stay here tonight.” Her eyes cut to the stairs. “No, I don’t think I can. My sister lives a few miles from here. I’ll probably go stay with her for a few days. You can call my cell phone. I’ll give you her number as well.” She rattled off the numbers for the officer.

  Meanwhile, JT and I were getting antsy. We were standing around, accomplishing absolutely nothing. We had two dead teenagers. Two. Killed within twenty-four hours of each other. This guy was going to kill again. Soon. We needed to be doing something.

  “What’s next?” I asked JT.

  He was skimming his notes. “We’ve got nothing.” His brows scrunched. “Not a goddamn thing.”

  “Have you asked if Emma Walker knew Stephanie Barnett? Or what about Barnett’s father?”

  “I . . . No.”

  I did a three-sixty, looking for Mrs. Walker. She’d been right there, behind us, a few minutes ago. Not any more. Forrester was gone too. I dashed outside and found Forrester. “Where is Mrs. Walker?”

  “She went to stay with a family member.”

  “Address?”

  He flipped his notebook open, ripped a sheet out, and wrote something on it. I thanked him and turned back toward the house, figuring I’d find JT inside. He wasn’t. He was outside, walking toward his car.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I don’t know.” Leaning past me, he grabbed the door handle.

  I set my hand on his arm. “Is everything okay? You’re acting a little strange.”

  “I had a rough night.”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” His jaw clenched a little as he pulled open the door. “I’m heading back to Quantico.”

  “But what about Mrs. Walker? I have the address where she’s staying. Shouldn’t we talk to her about Barnett?”

  “You talk to her. I need . . . to go.” He sat and slammed the door. With me standing outside, wondering what was going on, he started the car and zoomed off.

  I haven’t known JT long, but I knew him well enough to realize something was very wrong.

  Shoving aside my concern, I dashed to my car and motored over to the address Forrester had given me. There were three cars crowded on the double-wide driveway. I hoped one of them was Mrs. Walker’s.

  I wasted no time running up to the house and knocking.

  A woman, who looked a lot like Mrs. Walker, answered. “May I help you?”

  “Hi, I’m Sloan Skye. FBI. I was wondering if Mrs. Walker was here?”

  “She is, but she’s resting.”

  “We had only a couple more questions for her, if there’s any chance she might be able to speak with me. It won’t take long.”

  The woman stepped aside, inviting me in. “Let me go check with her. FBI, right?”

  “Yes.”

  I stood in the tiled foyer of a pretty Federal-style Colonial and watched the woman shuffle up the wood staircase. At the top, she knocked on a closed door. Seconds later, she stepped into a room. Mrs. Walker emerged, looking worse than she had a little while ago. Very pale. Her face. Her lips. She staggered slightly at the top of the stairs. And then, she just collapsed. I saw her falling. It was like time had slowed and every second lasted minutes. I tried to stop her, tried to catch her, but I couldn’t get there fast enough. Before I knew it, the thumping had stopped and I was staring into her eyes, wide open but unseeing. I couldn’t move. Not a muscle. I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen. Was it real?

  Someone screamed, snapping me out of my stupor. Finally able to move, I ran to her, felt her neck for a pulse, and shouted, “Call 911!” I didn’t know if anyone had heard me.

  Not that it mattered.

  There was no pulse.

  There were no respirations.

  She was dead. The poor woman was dead.

  Hours later, I was finally given the green light to leave. No sooner was I on the road than the chief called, asking when I would be in. She needed to discuss something with me. As soon as possible.

  I haven’t been working with the PBAU for long, and thus I don’t have a lot of experience in these things. However
, I’ve already learned that when one was called into the chief’s office for a private chat, the news generally wasn’t good. My heart started thumping irregularly the minute JT informed me that Chief Peyton was waiting for me in her office.

  I fussed with my clothes, self-consciously, as I hurried toward her office. These days, Mom had the money to shop at the finest stores. And she took full advantage of that fact. But her taste hadn’t elevated. Not one iota. Instead of owning ugly clothes sewn from cheap materials, she now owned hordes of ugly clothes sewn from expensive materials. Lucky me, I got to wear them.

  I did my best to bolster my confidence as I knocked on the chief’s door. She responded with an invitation to come in. I opened the door and saw she was on the phone. There was a grim look on her face. I sat in the chair that faced her desk; my hands clasped together in my lap.

  She cut off the call, placed the phone back on the cradle, and then smiled at me. The smile wasn’t genuine.

  I was in for something horrid. I could tell.

  “I heard about your unfortunate accident, Sloan. The fire. If there’s anything we can do to help, please don’t be afraid to ask.”

  “That’s very kind of you to offer,” I said, knowing the fire couldn’t be the reason for my being called in for a private tête-à-tête with Alice Peyton. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” The chief hesitated. This was just a lead-in to the real purpose of our meeting. “Sloan, you have done an exceptional job for us since your very first day on the job.”

  “Thank you. It’s been an excellent experience. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”

  “So glad you feel that way. I’m sure you realize your activities go far beyond those of the average summer intern.”

  “I do.”

  “We’re walking a very fine line with you, and I want to make sure you’re not feeling pressured to take on more than you can handle. At times, your work has put you directly in the line of fire. That’s something no intern has experienced before.”

  I wasn’t sure where this conversation was leading. Was it possible that someone, maybe one of her superiors, was blaming me for what had happened to Mrs. Walker? I had a witness who could testify to my innocence. Immediately after she had collapsed, her sister came out of the room with an empty pill bottle. Mrs. Walker had overdosed.

  Preparing myself mentally to defend my innocence, I said, “I’ve always felt you took calculated risks and reasonable measures to protect me.”

  “We have done our best.”

  “I know.” And I did. What I wanted to know now was where this conversation was headed. “Does this have anything to do with Mrs. Walker’s death?”

  “No.”

  No? If not, then what is it?

  Was this the result of some kind of disciplinary action? Had someone reported what I was doing and decided the bureau needed to put a stop to it, pronto?

  “Chief, I realize I don’t have the training to be a full member of this team yet, and maybe you’re bending the rules a bit—”

  “Sloan, I haven’t bent the rules. I’ve looped them up and tied them in knots. My superior reviewed our work on the last case, and there is talk of my facing a disciplinary review.”

  Oh, no. “I’m sorry.”

  “You have nothing to be sorry for. You followed my direction, and we got the job done, thanks to you. I knew from the start I was taking a risk. The bottom line is my superior has determined you should be facing no more dangerous tasks than driving in.”

  I sighed. Bureaucracy. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing. I’ve informed my superiors that you will be delegated tasks that are more suited to your current position with the bureau.”

  In other words, the fun was over. I would be, from this point forward, filing and fetching coffee. “I understand.”

  “In the meantime, I’ve secured your spot in the next FBI Academy class. You’ve just finished up your master’s. I don’t know what your plans are for the fall. But the slot is yours, if you want it.”

  My insides did a somersault. “You bet I do. Thank you.” When I’d applied for the internship, I’d hoped I might receive some kind of recommendation for the academy. I hadn’t expected the path to be paved for me.

  “Excellent. I know you’ll be a very valuable member of the bureau for years to come. And I hope you’ll choose to join our team when you graduate.”

  “I would be honored.”

  “Good.” She steepled her fingers under her chin. “Another thing: Hough is out on medical. She miscarried last night. The unit is putting together a care package, if you’d like to contribute.”

  Miscarried.

  That explained JT’s sour mood earlier.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Of course, I’ll contribute.”

  “Very well. Thomas is handling all the specifics. You can get with him later. Now, about our current case. We’re having a status meeting tomorrow morning. I want you there. I have an assignment for you. I don’t know how anyone could argue with this one. It’s no more dangerous for you than it would be for any teenager.”

  I was intrigued. On the one hand, she’d just been warned to pull me out of danger. While on the other hand, it appeared as though she was sending me undercover again. “I’m all ears, so to speak.”

  Her lips curled into a slightly devious smile. “I knew I could count on you.”

  If you only do what you know you can do—you never do very much.

  —Tom Krause

  6

  The day I said “sayonara” to Osbourn High School was the happiest day of my life. Over were the days of being teased and tormented by students who were years older than me, but dozens of IQ points beneath me. I had endured being stuffed into trash cans and lockers, called any number of derogatory names, humiliated and harassed from the day I stepped into the concrete-and-tile building until the day I stepped out of it.

  And now, I was about to dive right back into the shark-infested waters of high school. Oh, the joy. I hoped Fitzgerald High wasn’t as bad as Osbourn.

  This time, in the interest of fitting in somewhat, I was pretending to be a below-average student. If not for the mean girls and obnoxious boys, it might have been an interesting experiment. But for whatever reason, I seemed to be a bully magnet, attracting them no matter what I did.

  I hoped I wouldn’t be playing the part of a below-average high-school junior for long.

  Standing in the FBI Academy parking lot, I made a few adjustments to my clothes before I tumbled out of the car. I’d done some shopping yesterday, after my meeting with the chief. She let me know Mom’s clothes just weren’t going to cut it for this assignment. Thus, instead of the wool trousers and ugly silk blouse I’d been wearing yesterday when I’d come in, I was now sporting the unofficial uniform of the high-school student: miniskirt, top, and sandals.

  The skirt was too short. The top was too tight. The heels were too high. The ensemble screamed “slut.”

  I yanked on the skirt’s hem again. I felt ridiculous, more ridiculous than the time I had to pretend to be nine months pregnant and had to wear one of Brittany Hough’s castaway maternity dresses. The ugly thing had a freaking bib, and still I felt worse in this getup. Especially when I caught the look on JT’s face as I pushed my car door shut. He parked his car and shoved open his door. “Not one word,” I warned him as I tried to pretend his obvious staring wasn’t making me feel a little warm.

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You said it with your eyes.”

  His lips curled into an adorable half smile as he sauntered over to me. I couldn’t help noticing the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I just can’t hide anything from you, Sloan, can I?”

  “I don’t think you even tried.”

  “You’re right. I didn’t.” His gaze dropped to boob level.

  I pushed on his chin, forcing him to lift his head. “Do.”

  He chuckled and the two of us headed inside. Despite my suspicion that
his semi-inappropriate leer was just an act, to cover up his pain, I was glad to see he was acting a little more like himself. I’d never been pregnant. I couldn’t even imagine how it felt to lose a child.

  One of the reasons why I’d decided to draw the proverbial line in the sand with JT was finding out he had donated his sperm to Hough, and she was carrying his child. Granted, their situation was somewhat unique. She was a lesbian, despite having conceived the child the old-fashioned “Tab A, Slot B” way. She’d initially intended to raise the baby with her wife. But since she’d suffered an ugly breakup—which, rumor had it, was leading to what promised to be an even uglier divorce—JT had been taking a more active role in preparing to parent. And a more active interest in Hough’s pregnancy. Thus, I suspected he might have felt the loss more keenly than he’d expected.

  Inside the building, as we waited for the elevator to rumble its way down to us, I asked, “How’s Hough doing? The chief told me yesterday.”

  “She’s doing as well as could be expected, I guess. She took it hard.”

  “I’m sorry.” The bell chimed, and the door rolled open. A couple of guys in suits stepped out; their gazes flicked to me as they walked past. I smashed my arms over my chest. “This is ridiculous. I want to change.”

  “You look fine,” JT said, poking the button for our floor.

  “People are staring.”

  “That’s only because you appear younger than you are. You look out of place.”

  “I don’t know.” I glanced down. My boobs looked mighty big in this shirt.

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  The car bounced to a stop at our floor, and I scurried into the sanctuary of the unit, dropped my stuff on my desk, and grabbed a legal pad and pen. Then I headed up to the conference room, situated at the back of the open space, elevated slightly. A raised walk led to the entrance. I clomped up the steps in my high-school “ho heels” and plopped down in a chair at the huge table. Within minutes, the others joined me. JT, Chad Fischer, our media liaison, some man I didn’t know, Gabe Wagner, who seemed to appreciate my outfit more than JT, and the chief.