Season of the Wolf

by Summers, Robin

  Jordan looked up at Henry affectionately. “Some things never change, huh?”

  This time it was Henry whose cheeks reddened. Jordan let him off the hook. “Okay, where is this waitress of yours?”

  “Good luck, Detective Salinger,” Lawson called out as he walked back to his desk.

  Henry led her toward the conference room, where a gorgeous woman in a blue waitress’s uniform sat waiting. Jordan’s chest grew unexpectedly tight, and she felt her heart speed up its rhythmic thumping. Devon James was classically beautiful, with high cheekbones and piercing blue eyes beneath cascading blond hair that reached just past her shoulders. She was slender without seeming fragile, and unlike many waitresses Jordan had seen in her life—even the young ones—Devon seemed unbowed by years of pouring coffee and carrying plates. From what Henry had told her about Devon’s official history, or lack thereof, it was entirely possible that the woman had never waitressed before coming to Pittsburgh. Jordan wondered what she had been in her last life. Or lives.

  Jordan forced her racing heart to slow and her breathing to regulate. This was neither the time nor the place for romance, even if she had the inclination—which she most certainly did not.

  Henry opened the door and closed it behind Jordan after she stepped through.

  “Ms. James, this is Detective Jordan Salinger.” Jordan didn’t correct Henry’s overstatement. Technically, she was still a detective with the Pittsburgh Bureau of Police. She had her gun and shield, was drawing full salary, and was on an indefinite leave of absence, which she could end at any time—and just had. So legally, there was no misrepresentation. Emotionally, though, allowing Henry to call her detective—that was an entirely different matter.

  Jordan reached out her hand to Devon. “Ms. James. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Devon looked at her quizzically, as if the decision of whether to accept her hand was about significantly more than a handshake. Slowly, Devon’s hand slid against Jordan’s, uncertain but firm. Devon’s skin was astonishingly soft, like a summer lawn beneath bare feet.

  Jordan sat across from Devon. Henry remained standing, moving off to one side just barely within Devon’s line of sight. Jordan recognized the move for what it was. This was Jordan’s interview now.

  Chapter Seven

  Billy sat on a bench in the park across the street and half a block down from the police station, giving him a perfect vantage point from which to keep watch. His old, nondescript grayish Buick was parked on the farthest corner of the street. He had his face turned up toward the sun, like he was doing nothing more than enjoying the surprisingly mild fall day. He was dressed in worn jeans and a plain blue T-shirt. He had ditched the ball cap and donned his sunglasses. Urban camouflage. He was another nameless, faceless man that no one who passed by would remember in detail, if they remembered seeing him at all.

  His relaxed, sun-worshipping posture belied the intense focus he maintained on the police station, and his growing irritation. He couldn’t understand what in the hell was taking so long. She had been inside the station for more than an hour. She should have been done by now. Unless, of course, she was talking.

  Billy clucked his tongue in disappointment. He expected her to know better than that. Hadn’t she learned anything?

  His initial wave of disappointment, however, soon dissipated. She wasn’t telling them anything. Who would believe her? The cops hadn’t back in Illinois, and Billy imagined that over the last ten years she had gotten very good at keeping his existence to herself. She’d certainly gotten good at hiding. He’d had a hard time tracking her down after Colorado and had lost her trail completely after Memphis. That was nearly five years ago. Five years without a lead, without a single trace. Billy had almost given up looking and then, out of nowhere, there she was. Walking down the sidewalk, oblivious to his presence across the street, in Pittsburgh of all places. Sure, her hair was shorter and lighter, and she had gotten leaner and nearly a decade older since he’d last gotten a really good look at her, but there was no mistaking her.

  Billy still couldn’t believe it. What were the odds that out of all the cities in all of the United States they would be in the same one at the same time? It was a whim that had brought him to the Steel City, a seemingly mindless decision when he left Louisiana. There could be no explanation except divine intervention. It was finally time to put the past to right.

  He’d kept his distance initially. He’d been so close before, but something had always spooked her or gotten in the way. He did not want to take any chances now. He had tried several times to follow her home from the diner, to learn where she lived. But God had other ideas, it seemed, because He put up roadblock after roadblock, frustrating Billy’s efforts. Finally, Billy had understood that the Lord meant for their reunion to take place at the diner.

  But then she had not arrived when she was supposed to, and Billy had been left empty-handed. God had had a change of plans.

  Commit thy way unto the Lord; trust also in him; and he shall bring it to pass.

  The knowledge that the time was so near added to Billy’s growing impatience.

  They must be some methodical sons of bitches. Idiots.

  Billy swallowed his irritation. He needed to have faith. It was not his right to question the Lord’s will. Besides, the waiting wasn’t without its perks. The sun was warm against his skin, and there were all manner of pretty things to look at. Not five minutes earlier, Billy’d had a particularly nice view of one woman walking into the station. She had short dark hair, athletic curves, and one hell of an ass.

  The woman had stood outside for a few minutes leaning against her car, staring up at the building, and giving Billy a good chance to study her. When she finally pushed off and headed inside, she walked with a confident swagger. He was certain she was a dyke—something about her style, the way she carried herself, the way she moved—but that didn’t really matter to him. He had never bought in to all that Leviticus crap, the way in which so-called Christians warped the Bible to meet their petty concerns and social agendas. He understood the true meaning of the Lord’s word, and the Lord didn’t give two hoots about which way the woman who walked into the station liked her bread buttered. The Lord was much more concerned with whether His soldiers followed the path He laid out for them. And Billy was nothing if not a good soldier.

  *

  “I would ask you to tell me what happened this morning, but I can imagine that might be somewhat annoying to you, Ms. James.”

  The new detective smiled, and Devon couldn’t help but smile back. She eased back in her chair, letting go of some of the tension that had been building within her all morning. Devon had been surprised when Lieutenant Wayne had led the woman into the conference room. She hadn’t been expecting anyone other than the lieutenant or maybe Detective Lawson. She certainly hadn’t been expecting a woman.

  Detective Salinger was striking. Dark haired and tan, but not like she spent hours lounging beside a pool or in a tanning bed. Devon imagined the detective working outdoors, maybe rock climbing or kayaking. She was certainly fit enough to do those things. Detective Salinger’s shirtsleeves were pushed up to her elbows, revealing toned forearms and accentuating strong hands. The memory of her hand in the detective’s lingered on Devon’s skin.

  The detective was stunning for sure, but the most remarkable thing about her was her eyes. They were the color of an Irish meadow, so green and bright they shone like beacons in a storm, calling Devon home.

  She shook off the crazy thoughts swirling in her mind. Detective Salinger was not here to woo her. She was here to interrogate her. Devon focused her mind and settled her racing heart.

  “I was wondering if you would tell me what brought you to Pittsburgh.”

  It was a request, not a command, and it caught Devon off guard. She debated what to say. It wasn’t the first time she had been asked the question, though she hadn’t expected it to be the first thing Detective Salinger asked. Devon’s standard answer popped into
her head, the one about a bad breakup and remembering her grandfather speaking fondly of visiting Pittsburgh when he was a younger man, but the words that passed Devon’s lips were entirely different.

  “I was looking for something better. Maybe the chance to build some kind of life.”

  Detective Salinger’s gaze never left Devon’s face. She didn’t seem to be studying Devon. She seemed only to be listening. Devon had forgotten what it was like to have someone simply listen. It was like they were making conversation over coffee in some little café.

  “And you thought you could find that here?”

  “Yes.” Devon thought back to her decision to come here. She could have gone anywhere, but she had chosen Pittsburgh. “I remembered seeing a show about Pittsburgh once. I think it was on the History Channel or something—about what had happened to the city when the steel industry collapsed, but that the city had fought back, rebuilding itself from the ashes. I guess I liked the idea of that.”

  Detective Salinger nodded, like she understood Devon’s connection to the city’s struggle. Like maybe she, too, had such a connection.

  “Do you like it here?”

  So far, Detective Salinger’s questions were far from what Devon had expected. “Yes. Very much.”

  “What do you like about it?”

  “The people, mostly. They don’t put on airs. They work hard, say what’s on their minds, and live their lives the best they can,” Devon said honestly. “People seem to appreciate what they have here.”

  “Not like where you lived before?”

  The conversation turned, and Devon tensed. She answered warily. “No.”

  Detective Salinger seemed to pick up on the change. “I’m not trying to trap you, Ms. James. I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to find the truth, and I need your help to do that.”

  Devon didn’t respond. How could she? She believed the detective, but she also recognized the road they were going down. It led to one place, and it was not a place Devon wanted to go. Or maybe she did. Something was rising within her, something that had begun earlier while she was being questioned by Lieutenant Wayne and that was now threatening to overwhelm her. If she wasn’t careful, it could destroy her. But maybe it was time to take that risk. “Devon.”

  The detective’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry?”

  “Devon,” she said again. “Call me Devon.”

  She’d been Ms. James all morning, but now, somehow, it felt wrong. Time slowed as Detective Salinger met Devon’s gaze. Devon’s breath caught in her throat. Would she understand? How could Devon expect her to understand when she barely understood herself? Devon had given her an opening, despite everything she believed, or thought she believed. She watched Detective Salinger’s eyes search her own, seeking some kind of truth within their depths. She felt them delving deep within her, so deep she thought the detective might see into her very soul. Devon felt exposed. Raw. Vulnerable. She had to fight with everything she had not to look away.

  “Tell me who killed Sally and Chuck.”

  And there it was. She had opened the door, and Detective Salinger had walked right through it. Now, Devon had to choose.

  It had been so long since Devon had trusted anyone beside herself. She wanted to trust this woman, more than she had wanted to trust anyone in years. Maybe even more than she had wanted to trust anyone, ever.

  She caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Lieutenant Wayne had shifted, was now leaning against one of the filing cabinets that lined the far wall. It was the first time Devon had noticed him since Detective Salinger had begun talking to her. And that was what all of this had felt like. Talking. Not questioning, not interrogating. Just talking. And Devon was amazed how now that she’d finally started talking, she didn’t want to stop.

  She wanted to tell them everything. She wanted to stop running. She wanted to beg Detective Salinger to save her.

  It was a new concept, and it violated every rule Devon had established for herself over ten long, hard years of keeping herself alive. She wanted to trust Detective Salinger, but her mind railed against it. It went against every instinct, every synapse, every lesson she had learned since this long nightmare began. But she wanted it, felt the need of it coil in her belly, trying to force the words past her throat despite the signals coming from her brain. She felt like she would explode from the force of it, and she would become a casualty of the war within herself.

  It was the ultimate battle, trusting someone after all she had been through. All she had seen.

  All she had done.

  It was the ultimate battle and, Devon somehow knew, her last chance to save herself. Either she took a chance and risked everything, or she condemned herself to a life spent forever running.

  And then she looked again at Detective Jordan Salinger, and everything about this woman told Devon that she was safe. That she would not be betrayed. That everything would be all right. She looked into those emerald eyes, and she knew the battle was over.

  She barely recognized her own voice as she spoke words she had not uttered since she was seventeen. “His name is Billy Dean Montgomery, and he’s my father.”

  Chapter Eight

  Of all the things Devon James could have said, Jordan had not expected her to say that. An abusive husband, a jealous ex-boyfriend, maybe even some coworker whose crazy switch got flipped after too many times being turned down for coffee. But her father?

  The words were a fist to Jordan’s stomach, sucking out the air she needed to voice any kind of response. She looked over to Henry, whose raised eyebrows and parted lips told her he was as stunned as she was.

  Jordan turned back to Devon. The woman seemed eerily calm, like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders. When she spoke, her voice was devoid of emotion. Devon spoke the way a witness to a horrific accident would, like she was somehow not affected by the events that had led to the broken, mangled corpses and the twisted, charred wreckage.

  “My real name is Madison Montgomery. I was born in Des Plaines, Illinois, but I grew up in a small town to the west called Roscoe. It was just me, my mom, and Billy.”

  Jordan noted that Devon referred to the man who seemed to be at the center of everything by his first name, rather than by anything that would acknowledge a familial connection. Maybe it was easier for Devon to think of him that way. As a stranger instead of her own flesh and blood.

  “When I was young, I adored Billy. He used to go on these fishing trips every year, sometimes twice a year. I always wanted to go, but my mom wouldn’t let me. I was too young, or I had school, or Billy needed the time to himself. After every trip, he used to give me a special penny, one with stalks of wheat on one side. He said it was a tradition his father had started with him, and now he was passing it on to me. A bond between us. I didn’t understand what it really meant until later.”

  Jordan noticed Henry’s eyebrows lift again, but he said nothing.

  “Mom said the fishing trips were Billy’s release, his way of coping with the pressures of his job.”

  Jordan made a mental note to ask about Billy’s job, but it proved unnecessary.

  “He was a sheriff’s deputy.”

  The air fled Jordan’s body once more. The guy was a cop. That would explain the lack of fingerprints, DNA, or any other kind of forensic evidence at the scene. Jordan could see Henry was thinking the same thing. Things had just gotten a lot more complicated.

  “As I got older, things changed. Billy could be…scary. Mom never said anything, but I knew. You just did not cross Billy Montgomery. No one did. Certainly not Mom.” Devon paused, then added in a voice barely above a whisper. “Certainly not me.”

  Jordan wondered what Devon was leaving out. There was something, Jordan was sure. In her experience, survivors of domestic abuse often spoke the way Devon was speaking now, glossing over details and only hinting at the fear and pain they’d endured. There was definitely abuse in Devon’s past, and it didn’t matter if it hadn’t been physica
l. Psychological abuse was just as damaging as a physical beating, sometimes more so, though Jordan was convinced Devon’s story was about to turn undeniably violent.

  Devon inhaled deeply, like she needed the extra oxygen to push the next part of the story past her lips. Jordan’s heart swelled in empathy.

  “In November 2000, I came home from school one day to find Mom and Billy sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for me. Billy announced he was taking me fishing. He looked at Mom as he said it, like he was challenging her. At first she said nothing. She got up and went over to the stove and started stirring the stew she had going on the burner. It took me a minute to realize she’d said anything, but the way Billy snapped his head in her direction, I knew she had. Then she said it again. ‘No.’”

  Devon swallowed thickly. “Such a simple word, but in that moment, it was like TNT. Billy lunged at her and grabbed her by her hair. She screamed, but he didn’t care. He swung her around and punched her in the face. Not a slap, a punch. He hit her so hard he knocked her to the floor. Blood was pouring from her nose. I was frozen. My feet wouldn’t move. I couldn’t even scream at him to stop. I was such a coward.”

  Devon’s gaze fell to the table, clearly awash in the shame of her inaction. Jordan had to clench her teeth to keep from speaking, had to grip the table to keep herself from reaching out. Devon was wrong. She had not been a coward, just a scared girl shocked into submission by the horror of what she was witnessing. Her urge to deny Devon’s self-accusation, to pull Devon into her arms and hold her until the pain of memory eased, was strong. Jordan had to fight with everything she had to suppress the need to make Devon’s pain go away.

  “Then Billy dragged my mom up to her feet. I saw her fear, but she didn’t cry out again. She didn’t fight, didn’t even flinch when he reached over and slid the knife out of the block on the counter. He just turned around so he was behind her and put the knife to her throat. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. I knew what was going to happen. I heard myself begging him, pleading with him not to do it. Mom stared at me, but there was no more fear. All I saw was sorrow, like she was apologizing to me for what he was about to do. For what would come after. And then Billy slit her throat.”