Be Afraid

by Mary Burton

  “I’m looking for a contact in the Baltimore Police Department. I have questions about an officer. Know anyone?”

  The rustle of papers sounded through the phone. “Try Derrick Preston. He works robbery. I doubt he remembers me but I interviewed him last year for a story.”

  Susan scribbled down the number as Carolyn read it off. “Thanks.”

  “So what’s the allure of Baltimore?”

  Always looking for an angle on a story. Smart. Irritating. “Just a hunch. Thanks.”

  Susan rang off and called Baltimore. A few more calls and she had located Derrick. Susan relied on the truth as much as possible. It was the best cover she’d ever found when she needed information. Susan gave Derrick the run-down on Jenna Thompson’s volunteer efforts to catch a child killer. That softened him enough and soon she knew what she needed to know about Jenna Thompson.

  Back in the day, she’d been careful to hide her personal connection to the story, but now, she was considering playing it.

  Rick Morgan approached the records department of the Nashville Police Department, knowing the guy working the night shift had been a friend of Buddy’s. The air was dank and thick in the basement offices, but the fluorescent light humming above was bright, leaving no shadow in any corner.

  Rick knocked on the half-open door to Records and poked his head in. Sitting behind the desk was a tall, lean kid who looked fresh out of the academy. He wore blond hair short and his uniform was well starched and fit his trim body well.

  “Where’s Ben?” Rick asked.

  The officer stood, leaving an open magazine and a half-eaten roast beef sandwich on his desk. “He called in sick. I’m filling in. Officer Morgan, right?”

  Rick smiled. “Right.”

  “Can I help you, sir?”

  “How’s it going down here?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  He’d have attempted small talk with Ben but the kid, well, he didn’t have a thing in common. Better to just cut to the chase. “I’m looking for an old file.”

  “Sure, what do you want me to search?”

  “Jenna Thompson. She’s about thirty and was born in the Nashville area. Your search would go back about twenty-five years because I know she left the area when she was about five.”

  The kid scribbled down the name. “Anything else?”

  “Just keep it to yourself. I don’t know what you’ll find, but I’d like to play the cards close until I know more.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Thanks.”

  The music in the bar pulsed loud. The bass of a guitar thumped. The honky-tonk was off the beaten path from Broadway and the tourists. This place was reserved only for locals who after a long day in a trivial job needed a place to have a few beers and blow off steam. The place teemed with frustrated men and women who took shit from bosses all day long. There was so much rage simmering in so many half-lidded gazes. So much frustration. So much desire to exact a little revenge against a world that had treated them so unfairly.

  A man by the pool table cradled a bottle of beer close to his rounded belly. He wore a clean T-shirt but his jeans, held up by a large buckle that read CSA, were grungy and covered with construction dust. Dark hair slicked back into a low ponytail and thick steel-toed construction boots covered big feet.

  The man’s name was Ford Wheeler. He wasn’t more than thirty, single, came to this bar almost nightly, and he always allowed his gaze to settle on a blond woman. No blonde in particular at first but in the last few weeks he’d fixated on a waitress.

  The waitress was pretty enough. Not more than twenty, she had yet to earn the world-weary gaze of her older counterparts and smiled easily at her customers. Ford ignored the waitress. His thoughts were only for another woman.

  Ford had confessed his desires after far too many beers. Over and over, he talked about dreams of tying a woman to a bed and standing over her, a gun pointed to her head.

  Rising, it took only a few quick steps forward to gain Ford’s attention. “Good evening.”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “Just checking in.”

  Ford dug his fingernail into the label of his beer bottle, scraping the paper away from the glass. He teemed with frustration, a volcano ready to explode. “I ain’t so good.”

  “Why?”

  He dropped his voice a notch and ducked his head a fraction. “I want to play and you won’t let me. I don’t understand why you’re making me wait.”

  It wouldn’t take much to coax Ford into a play. Just a light push. Barely a nudge.

  Reason shouted from the shadows, “This is a bad idea.”

  Madness sipped beer, ignoring Reason and savoring the cold bitter taste as it washed down a dry throat. Normally, alcohol was out of the question but, tonight, the needs cut so sharply through bone and sinew, it took drink to dull them.

  “You could have the waitress,” Madness said.

  Ford looked up, startled, surprised his thoughts had been so transparent. “She’s not the one I really want. You know that. I like the fancy one you picked out.”

  “I think it’s wise you stay away from that one.”

  A scold deepened his forehead. “You don’t think I can handle her.”

  Madness loved winding up the toys and watching them dance. “No, I don’t. Not now anyway.”

  Ford frowned. “I can handle her. I’m ready.”

  “But the waitress is well within possibilities.”

  It would be so easy to create a scene with Ford and the waitress. So easy.

  “I don’t want her.”

  “She’s all we have right now.”

  Ford glowered at the waitress. “I want the other one.”

  “It’s my way or no way at all.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  Ford hesitated. “Sure.”

  Reason squirmed under the weight of Madness. “You wind him up and you can’t predict what he’ll do.”

  Madness’s reckless spirit rejected Reason’s counsel.

  Chapter Nine

  Friday, August 18, 8 A.M.

  Jenna rose with the rising sun. Too anxious to sleep or paint, she opted to take a long walk in the woods. Brush and leaves crunched under her booted feet as she made her way down the old path that the rental agent suggested had been an old Indian path.

  The trail ended at a small river that twisted and cut through the woods. It had been a wet spring and summer and the water was high and fast. A couple of times, she’d been tempted to swim in the stream but had opted against it because of the water’s speed.

  She sat for a long time on the river’s edge and allowed her eyes to close as she concentrated on the sound of the woods. But thoughts of Ronnie Dupree and his mother scattered whatever serenity she’d gathered. She just couldn’t believe a guy like Ronnie had shattered her life. His type crossed paths with the cops all the time. They were always stirring trouble and landing in jail. But to just walk into a home and kill everyone?

  She’d bought the line that Ronnie had killed because of jealousy and insanity all her life. “Sometimes, bad things happen,” her aunt had once said. And she might have kept believing all that she’d been told, if not for the growing sense that Shadow Eyes was real.

  The crack of a twig underfoot and the rustle of branches had her turning and automatically reaching for a sidearm that she no longer carried. Rick Morgan stood on the path.

  He appeared relieved to have found her. “I thought I might find you down here.”

  She rested hands on her hips. “How would you even know to look?”

  He glanced around staring at the woods. “You know the history of your house?”

  She nodded, remembering. “The homicide. Did you work it?”

  “No. Deke did, but Tracker and I walked the land with him. We needed the exercise and we acted as a second set of eyes for him.”

  “Did he solve the crime?”

  His hair was damp as if
he’d stepped from the shower and he smelled faintly of soap. “He did. The woman that lived here was killed because she had information the killer wanted.”

  According to what she’d read, he’d omitted a world of details. “That information must have been something important.”

  “It was.”

  Twigs crunched under her feet as she stepped toward him. “Where’s Tracker?”

  “I left him at the edge of the woods. Terrain’s a little rough on his hip.”

  She moved toward him, negotiating the uneven rocks easily. “What about yours?”

  The careless smile flashed. “Getting better every day. You come out here every day?”

  “When I can. Clears my head. And I love open spaces.”

  “I hear ya.” He slid his hand into his pocket. “Ready for Susan Martinez?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be. I’ve given a couple of interviews before. Most of the questions are standard. Should be straightforward.”

  “Good.” He checked his watch. “Speaking of which, she’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  She liked standing here in the woods alone with him. None of the outside world existed and, for just a few minutes, all the puzzle pieces fit where they should. As tempting as it was to keep hiding, it was no longer feasible. Time to go public.

  They arrived back at her house minutes later and she immediately moved to the coffee machine to brew a fresh pot. It occurred to her that she should run a brush through her hair and maybe dig up some lipstick but the doorbell rang before she had a chance.

  “Showtime,” she said.

  Rick smiled, hanging back. “I’m here if you need support.”

  “Thanks.” She opened the door to a very stylish woman wearing a turquoise suit. Dark hair skimmed narrow shoulders and gold loops dangled. Her makeup was perfect and the smell of an expensive perfume wafted.

  The woman smiled as if cameras had started rolling. “I’m Susan Martinez.”

  Jenna looked past her to the news van and the cameraman moving up the sidewalk with a camera in hand. “I’m Jenna Thompson. Please come in.”

  Susan held her hand for a beat, closely studying her face. “I appreciate you seeing us on such short notice. Your sketch was amazing and I had to meet you.” The reporter’s gaze skimmed over the room assessing every detail. She studied the portrait covered with an oilcloth before shifting to Rick. “Detective. Good to see you again. I’ll be interviewing you as well?”

  The earlier ease the detective had enjoyed moments ago had vanished. “If that suits.”

  “It does. This is my cameraman, Gabe Richards,” Martinez said as the tall, burly man with a plaid shirt and full beard entered the house.

  Introductions made, Martinez’s curious gaze slid back to the covered painting. “You’re doing commission work?”

  “I am.”

  “I’d love to see the work.”

  A knot tightened in Jenna’s belly. It was always the way when she showed a picture for the first time. “I’m afraid the client gets the first peek.”

  A brow arched. “That’s fair, I suppose. Do you have a portfolio?”

  “Not much of one. I left what I’d had in Baltimore. I’m giving this client a substantial discount because I’m building my portfolio.”

  “If it’s anything like the sketch you did of the child then I’m sure it’s stunning.”

  “Thank you.” She learned long ago nothing was off the record with reporters. Still, when she glanced toward Tracker and caught his steady gaze, something inside her relaxed. “Where would you like to conduct the interview?”

  “Whatever suits you?”

  “How about by the fireplace? As lovely as the view is out the back, the glare from the sun could be a problem.”

  The cameraman nudged a club chair closer to the hearth. “Have a seat and I’ll mic you up.”

  “Sure.”

  Tracker’s ears perked as Jenna moved to the chairs in front of the cold fireplace and arranged them so that they faced each other. She sat and accepted the mic pack, which she fed up under her shirt. The cameraman had large hands but clipped the tiny microphone with nimble movements.

  He stepped back and checked to make sure the mic wasn’t too obvious. “Mind saying something so I can do a sound check?”

  She sat a little straighter. “Jenna Thompson. One, two, three.”

  Gabe adjusted the second chair by Jenna’s and indicated for Rick to sit. The detective’s frown deepened as if he faced the lion’s den, but he did as asked and soon was wired for sound. Tracker rose and sat between the chairs.

  When Rick looked as if he’d order the dog offscreen Jenna said, “Let him stay.”

  “Okay,” Rick said.

  As Jenna settled, Susan slid on her microphone and took a seat across from the two of them. The cameraman moved behind Susan. “He’ll start the interview behind my shoulder but may move behind you to get a couple of shots of me, which we’ll edit later.”

  “Fine,” Jenna said.

  “Sure,” Rick said.

  Martinez began her questions with Rick, getting background on where the bones were found, the age of the child, and how long the bones had been buried. He gave clear concise answers, his deep, rich voice carrying confidence and authority. Trusting him would be easy. He was the kind of guy who took care of things. He was the kind of guy who kept all the balls in the air. The kind of guy she never dated.

  The reporter then shifted through her notes and switched her questions to Jenna. She asked about Jenna’s background as a forensic artist and how she went about drawing the face of the girl.

  Jenna answered easily and when the reporter dropped her gaze to her notebook she imagined the interview was wrapping up. There were only so many ways she could describe what she’d done.

  Martinez smiled, but the action wasn’t joyful. In fact, it reminded Jenna of a cat that had cornered a mouse. “I’m a curious reporter by nature and I did a bit of digging.”

  Jenna said nothing, but felt her spine stiffening.

  “You’re from Nashville, correct?”

  Invisible fingers prickled up her spine, but she brushed them aside. Martinez had found something. “I am.”

  Martinez leaned forward a fraction. “I dug into your past.”

  Rick sat forward in his chair as if ready to fight. Tracker, sensing his tension, also sat straighter but neither made a sound.

  Martinez anchored her gaze on Jenna. “You were born Jennifer Elliot Thompson, correct?”

  Jenna held her breath a beat. And so here it was. Her past laid out. “Yes. That’s correct.”

  “Your family was murdered when you were five. Father, mother, older sister shot to death. The killer’s name was Ronnie Dupree.”

  “Correct.”

  “Ronnie spared you but took you to his hideout and kept you there for nine days locked in a closet.”

  “Yes.” Jenna saw Rick shift in her side vision but didn’t dare look at him.

  Martinez maintained a cool, concerned expression but her eyes snapped with a treasure hunter’s glee. “Ronnie died of an overdose and you were found hours later by the cops.”

  “So I’ve been told.” Hearing the story spoken by someone else made it sound all the more tragic, molded into something solid and real, if that were possible. She’d always done a good job of keeping the story at arm’s length and pretending it belonged to another. But it didn’t belong to someone else. It was her story.

  Armor clinked and clanged into place. “All correct.”

  Martinez smelled blood. “You know the anniversary of the murders is days away.”

  “Yes. I know.”

  “Why have you come back now?”

  “Maybe it was fate. Maybe my returning to make sense of my past will help solve the case of another little girl that wasn’t so lucky.” She ended the sentence knowing Martinez had a good interview with a solid stopping point. She pulled the mic off. “Thank you for the interview.”

  Susan in
dicated for the cameraman to cut the film, but Jenna was smart enough to know the audio could well be running.

  Rick shifted in his seat toward Jenna. He looked so disappointed and shocked. Was he wondering what other secrets she held? Had he expected her to open up this vein of sorrow for him?

  A clock ticked. No one spoke. She rose.

  Susan rose. “I’d like to do another story on you. A full in-depth look into your family and their murder.”

  “I’m old news. The case was solved. It’s closed.”

  “I think it would be a powerful human interest story.”

  Rick rose. No doubt wondering how he could have missed this about her. He moved away from the fireplace to the large window that faced the woods.

  Susan, ever the salesman, continued, “The Thompson murders and your kidnapping were huge stories at the time and one of the first I covered in the city. I think the world would like to know how you’re doing.”

  “I’m doing fine.”

  Martinez cocked her head. “All these years and you’ve never been back to Nashville?”

  “No.”

  “Why now?”

  “Time just seemed right.”

  “Did it have anything to do with that last case in Baltimore? The girl locked in the closet?”

  Jenna released the breath she was holding. “Let’s say it was time for me to visit my birthplace.”

  Rick continued to watch her. She was a cop and knew how cops thought. He was wondering what other secrets she had.

  Martinez leaned in a little. “I know a lot about your case. I could share with you what I have if you’ll sit down for an interview. Maybe let me follow you while you visit your old home.”

  Make a wish and it will be granted along with all the unintended consequences. “What’s in it for you?”

  Martinez’s eyes sparked. “A great story.”

  “If I say no, would you still run the story of the Lost Girl?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. I’d hate to see her penalized.”