by Mary Burton
Rick drew in a steadying breath. “The guy who was a party to Diane’s death also left this doll on Jenna’s porch.”
She leaned back in her chair, rolling her neck from side to side, grimacing when she seemed to touch on stiffness. “It’s not out of the realm of possibility.”
“Did you pull any prints from the head?”
“Wiped clean. Not one print. The guy pulling the strings is very careful. We knew that. Would be a rookie mistake if he did leave prints.”
“Criminals make mistakes. This guy has been careful. We’ve nothing to link him to the first two kills but he’s picking up steam, which, to me, translates into a mind growing more and more out of control. A matter of time before he slips up.”
“If this mastermind recruited Cyrus, then he’s made a mistake. Cyrus is sloppy.”
“You got someone watching Cyrus?”
“Yeah. Sooner or later, he’s going to reach out to his boss.”
Georgia picked up a pencil marred with chew marks and rolled it between her fingers. “Jenna does fit the profile of the two dead women and Pamela. Dark-haired. Assertive. And this guy left a memento on her doorstep. She’s on his radar.”
“The other women were stalked for almost a year. Jenna has only been here a few weeks.”
“Her family is from the area.” Georgia bit the end of the pencil. “And what if your crazy theory about this case being linked to the Thompson case is right. Jenna looks like Sara.”
Rick loosened his tie as if it were a noose around his neck. “The Thompson family were all shot point blank in the head and the shooter tried to set the house on fire.”
Georgia pointed a finger as if aiming for a bull’s-eye. “But the arsonist used gasoline. It ignited too quickly and didn’t burn as planned. The scene was not destroyed and the bodies were found.” When he raised a brow, she shrugged. “I saw the files on your desk and read a few.”
Rick didn’t want to be right. Right meant Jenna was in real danger. “All those men, Tuttle, Wheeler, Dupree, and even Mitchell weren’t great thinkers or planners.”
Georgia scraped her thumbnail against a spot on the arm of her chair. The spot was well worn, a divot created by endless hours of pondering.
Rick’s neutral tone didn’t hint at the emotions swirling in his gut. “So do we have a new puppet master or is the old one back in the game?”
“The killings started about the time Jenna arrived.”
“Weeks before the twenty-fifth anniversary of the original killings.”
Madness saw the cop car parked in front of Cyrus’s house. Instead of being afraid, Madness welcomed the cops. Let them follow Cyrus around for a day or two. That would be just enough time to finish it all.
A ringing phone forced a glance from the scene to the phone’s display. Cyrus Mitchell. The phone was a burner, untraceable by the cops. Cyrus was a nervous sort and would keep calling and calling. Fine, let him. The longer Cyrus kept the cops distracted, the better. Soon it would all be over.
“The cops are smart. They’re going to figure out our connection to Cyrus,” Reason said.
Madness savored the surge of adrenaline that heralded excitement. “Stop whining. Just let me take care of this.”
“When you take over, we always end up in trouble.”
“Stop worrying.”
“Wait until it all goes sideways. You’ll come crawling back. And I only hope I can fix the mess this time.”
“Worrier.”
They’d been careful never to use their real name with Cyrus and never gave him any identifying information. A wig, glasses, and baggy clothes had altered their physical appearance so whatever description Cyrus gave to the cops would be inaccurate.
“You swear Jenna will be the last.”
“Of course.”
“You’ve lied before.” Reason’s wail sounded childlike.
“I always lie. But not this time.”
Reason went silent. This game with Madness was never going to end. Madness would destroy them both.
Chapter Seventeen
Thursday, August 24, 6 P.M.
Rick and Bishop pulled up in front of the East Nashville home. The white on the siding had faded to a muddy brown and the cracked sidewalk was a hazard even in daylight.
As they approached the front door, Bishop tugged his coat in place. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.”
“It won’t take long.” Rick knocked on the door. Inside a television blared. Footsteps sounded and the front door opened to an old woman with stooped shoulders. He held up his badge. “Mrs. Dupree.”
Old eyes narrowed. “Yeah.”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about your late son, Ronnie.”
“Ronnie again? I knew when that woman showed up trouble wouldn’t be far behind.”
“Woman?” Rick asked.
“That Thompson girl. Wanted to know why Ronnie did what he did.”
Jenna had been here. Rick’s irritation coated his next words. “And what did you tell her?”
“I told her I didn’t know. Ronnie was a good boy. He loved me. But I didn’t know him as well as I thought.”
“You never had any idea why he killed that family.”
She shook her head. “No.”
“Did he have any friends that he hung out with? A friend that might have been smart or a fast talker.”
“The only friend Ronnie had was Billy.”
“Billy,” Rick said. “Where did they meet?”
“At the school. I don’t know exactly where.”
“Do you have a last name?”
“Whenever I asked, Ronnie always got huffy about answering questions about his friend. So I dropped it. I was grateful the kid had somebody.”
“Do you have any pictures from that time?”
“I burned ’em.”
“Burned them?”
“Seemed fitting. Ronnie and his friend liked fires.”
Sitting at the edge of the bar, a small woman with dirty-blond hair lifted a glass to her mouth with a trembling hand. She stared into the mahogany depths as if willing the liquid to transform into courage and give her strength. She sniffed, set the glass down hard. She ordered another drink.
Silently, Madness rose and took the seat beside her, allowing her to order another drink. Impatience nipped at Madness, but lessons from Reason kept a tight hold on the reins of action.
The woman downed the drink in one shot and then watched as the bartender poured her a fourth drink.
Madness had moments like this. Ones that were so charged with energy or loss or anger that the only thing that could dull the throbbing sensations had been booze.
The bartender, a woman in her mid fifties with blond hair and dark eyebrows, frowned as she reached for the drink. “Go easy or I’ll have to cut you off.”
The woman sniffed and snatched up the drink. “I ain’t drunk. Not by a long shot.”
“I can’t afford to have you stumbling out of here.”
“I don’t stumble, asshole.”
Madness loved chaos. “Looks like you’ve had quite a day.”
She didn’t raise her gaze as she downed the next drink and then set the glass down hard on the bar. “One for the record books.”
“I’ve had my share of those. Somebody must have really dumped on you hard.”
“You don’t know the half of it. Do something nice for someone a long time ago and then everyone is trying to pin a murder on me.”
The report was old news now. The Lost Girl’s identity had been made and a woman, Loyola Briggs, was suspected to be her mother. She’d been brought in for questioning last night. There’d not been enough evidence to hold her, so she’d been released. However, those in the know said this gal was on borrowed time. Weeks separated her from hard time in prison.
“Got to feel kinda helpless.” A raised glass got the bartender’s attention. When the glass arrived, Madness slid it toward Loyola. “Looks like you could use this more t
han me.”
“What do you want for it?”
“Nothing. Just thought I’d be nice.”
Her gaze settled on a crack in the bar as she shook her head. “No one is nice unless they want something.”
“I don’t want anything from you.” The fishing line dangled in front of her, the whiskey was the bait. She’d not be able to resist the glass, and soon she’d not be able to resist what came next.
“I can help.”
She downed the glass. “How?”
“I know the woman who got you into trouble. The one that drew the sketch of that girl.”
The woman raised her gaze, filled with anger and confusion. Ah, here was another kindred soul whose reason battled with madness. By the looks, her madness won regularly. “That picture ain’t of my kid. My kid is living a happy life in California.”
“Of course she is. Shame though someone would tell such horrible lies about you.”
“She’s a bitch.” Another glass of whiskey was ordered and quickly tossed back.
“Want to get even?” Madness could have a sweet and kind voice when it suited. “I can help.”
Loyola stared into the empty depths of her glass as if lost. “I don’t know where she lives.”
“I do.”
“Why would you care?”
“Maybe I don’t like her either.”
She swiped the back of her hand over her mouth. “What did she do to you?” She had the eyes of a dead woman.
“Doesn’t matter. You in or not?”
Loyola held up her empty glass and smiled as he refilled it. “I’m in.”
“Excellent.”
Twenty minutes later they stood in front of Jenna’s house. Loyola swayed, so drunk she could barely stand.
“What’re we doing here?”
“This is the house of the woman who drew that picture of the Lost Girl. She’s the one that started all your trouble.”
Squinting, Loyola glared up at the cabin. “She lives here?”
“She does. I hear she’s the type of woman who likes to stir up trouble for the sake of it.”
“Some secrets need to stay buried,” Loyola said.
“They surely do. No good comes from dredging up the past.”
“No good.”
Loyola shifted her stance and flexed her fingers. “Bitch.”
In a voice low and sharp, Madness asked, “How about we give her a little payback for all the trouble she’s caused?”
“I don’t need no more trouble.”
“You wouldn’t get into trouble if you were careful.”
“I ain’t careful. I mess up everything I touch.”
“I know how to be careful. Very, very careful.”
She shook her head and rubbed her eyes as if swatting away a memory. “I screw up everything. Everything. My father kicked me out when I was seventeen and my husband was pissed when I got pregnant and kept saying I was no good for him. I tried and tried, but it never seemed to matter. I always screwed up.”
If not for her sins, one might almost feel sorry for her. She was like everyone else, rich or poor, famous or unknown. She wanted to be loved. “Would you like to do something right? I can show you how.”
“I can’t.”
What had Sister said once? You could sell ice to Eskimos. “You can. With my help.”
She looked up into eyes filled with worry, fear, and loss. “Why would you help me? We just met.”
“I see a lot of myself in you. Someone who is lost and wants to connect but just can’t seem to say or do the right thing. If I’d had a mentor my life would have been different.”
“What’s a mentor?”
“Someone who guides you. Helps you. A friend.”
She raised two clenched fists to her temples and pressed them hard against her skin. “What does all that mean?”
“It means, I show you how to get a little revenge. It means, we could do something fun. Like burn down Jenna’s house.”
She moistened her lips as if she savored a delicious flavor. “Why?”
“Why not?”
She stared at the house, her gaze burning with a white-hot desire. “If she’d not drawn that picture everything would be fine.”
“That’s right. If not for her, it would all be fine.” He settled his hands gently on her shoulders.
“Is she in the house?”
“Yes.”
Tension rippled through her shoulders. “I shouldn’t be here.”
He held her steady. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”
“What’s that mean?”
“The cops are coming after you.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. They’re going to make sure you rot in jail. At least know that Jenna isn’t laughing when they take you to jail.”
“She laughs at me?”
“All the time.”
Loyola grit her teeth. “Is it hard to burn a house down?”
“No, it’s fairly easy.”
Normal people slept at night. They closed their eyes and let the day’s events sort themselves out. They decompressed. Shut down.
For Jenna, nights could be painfully long if she didn’t sleep. She rolled on her side and punched her pillow. When she’d been in Baltimore there’d been friends she could call at night. Always someplace open that would welcome her; she could pretend it was a case bothering her and not some insane quirk she couldn’t shed.
She rolled on her back and stared at the play of shadows on the ceiling. Counting the now too familiar cracks in the ceiling, her thoughts turned to Sara. Her sister was arguing. Her voice had crackled with anger as she’d stood toe-to-toe with their father. I hate you!
The echoes of slamming doors rattled in her memory. Her father was yelling. Her mother crying. She huddled under her blanket, crying, wishing someone would take her away.
Her wish had been granted. The shouting had stopped. And she’d been taken away.
“Be careful what you wish for.” She glanced at the clock. How many hours would have to pass before sleep returned? Too many.
Frustrated, she tossed her blankets aside. As much as her mind ached for the release of art, her bones needed a break. In Baltimore, nights like this were spent watching television. She had an intimate relationship with the top infomercial presenters on television, and she’d caught just about every movie made in the 1960s. Here, though, she had no television and relied on a downloaded movie.
“Maybe Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn will keep me company tonight,” she said.
With daylight just a couple of hours away she dressed in jeans and a pullover sweater. Running a brush through her hair, she tied it up in a ponytail. She might not be able to control when she slept, but she would control what she could.
She was nearly in the den when she smelled the first traces of smoke. Smoke? Her thoughts went first to an electrical fire. She thought about her coffeemaker and wondered if she’d left it on or if the automatic shutoff hadn’t worked. And where was her cell? Most nights she charged it by her bed but hadn’t tonight.
The scent of smoke grew heavier and heavier and when she reached the living room, a wall of flames rose up. Her entire back deck was on fire and it had eaten into her living room. Thick, black smoke billowed and whipped up the wall and over the ceiling. Fire had slithered across the floor closer and closer to her art supplies. Not her art!
How had the fire started? The question rattled in her head for only a moment before she realized that right now the answer didn’t matter. Her art didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. What mattered was getting out of the house. She coughed and hurried toward the front door, grabbed her purse, and ran outside.
She drew in a breath of fresh air, coughing and sputtering. She fished her cell out of her purse and dialed 9-1-1.
Chapter Eighteen
Friday, August 25, 12:20 A.M.
Flashing lights of three fire trucks and a rescue vehicle greeted Rick when he pulled up at Jenna’s hou
se. Leaving Tracker in his car, he strode toward the rescue truck, doing his best not to run or give in to fears. God, what the fire could have done to her.
He found her sitting on the back tailgate of the rescue vehicle, an oxygen mask on her face. She glanced up at him, removed her mask, and said, “Insomnia rocks.”
Relief washed over him, extinguishing the worry in a loud hiss. “What the hell happened?”
“I can’t sleep. I prowl a lot at night. I got up, went into my living room, and my entire back deck was on fire as was the back of my house.”
“It started on the deck? Do you have a grill?”
“As I told Inspector Murphy, no grill. No candles, no lanterns, no funky wiring issues, no stored fuel. Plain old deck.”
He rested his hand on his hip. “I suppose the firebugs have put you through a lot of questions and answers.”
“As they should. My place did just burn down for no reason. And I know about the other fires. They should be grilling me.”
She was a cop, logical in the face of turmoil. Later, when the adrenaline deserted her, she’d be left with a lot of unanswered questions and maybe some fears that would let loose. He turned back toward the house, now a charred stick structure. It was a complete loss. “Damn.”
“You’re telling me.” She put the oxygen mask aside and moved beside him.
“Aren’t you supposed to be wearing that?”
“I’m fine. If I breathe any more oxygen, I’ll float away. Don’t suppose you can give me a ride into town? My Jeep is blocked in by the fire trucks. I’m not even sure if it escaped the flames.”
“Where’re you going to go?”
“Hotel. I’ve also got to call my landlord.” She held up her purse. “I did manage to grab this, so I can at least function.” Adrenaline coursed through her veins and her body all but vibrated with it.
A slow shake of his head told her he understood what was happening to her physically now. “You can stay with me.”
“No, thanks.” With this kind of emotion surging through her, it wouldn’t take much for her to seek a sexual release with the good detective. And right now, the last complication she needed was a relationship.