Jonna explained the strange phone calls in detail, finishing, "I'm sorry, I should have mentioned the first one last night when you were here, but..."
"It isn't like you didn't have plenty on your mind," he soothed.
"And I'd forgotten the first one. It didn't occur to me that the two had anything to do with each other and... do you think it might have been Sam?" she asked.
"It could have been anyone with access to a phone, Jonna. We'll put on a tracer."
"Whoever is doing this isn't stupid enough to stay on the line that long," she said wearily. "They've both, especially the one last night, been very brief."
"That's a fallacy, hon. The person receiving the call controls it now. We use a device that ties up the line so the person initiating the call can't disconnect until you hang up. All you have to do is leave the phone off the hook."
"Then do it." Technology really was amazing. "But that’s not why you called, is it, Madden?"
"No, 'fraid it’s not."
She heard him sigh and mentally braced herself.
"I wanted to let you know what I found out about Barton's tale. There have been three murders in different parts of the country. As far as the facts go, what he told us was true."
"What do you mean, as far as the facts go?"
"Barton's interpretation of the evidence is questionable, at best," Madden said. "The experts usually focus on the details of the crime itself. According to the agent I talked to, until Sam came to them, nothing in the FBI computer tied the three killings together."
"And with the information he gave them?"
"Well, once they added in that info—where the victims went to college, that they'd recently won awards, etc.—the computer tagged them and noted one other thing."
"What?"
"All the states where the murders have taken place begin with the letter C."
Jonna laughed.
"That’s what I did," Madden said. "But that's why they don't usually put in the kind of information Sam gave them."
"Why?"
"Because then the computer comes up with all sorts of weird connections. Ones that have nothing to do with anything."
"Well, that lets me off the hook anyway," Jonna said lightheartedly, and realized that one laugh had relaxed her and brightened her day considerably.
"Oh, what makes you think so?" Madden asked.
"Kansas starts with a K."
"Unless you're spelling phonetically," Madden supplied wryly. "California, Connecticut, Colorado, Kansas. There ain't nothing in this world, Girlie, that guarantees someone who gets away with murder has to be educated or intelligent."
Jonna sighed and still appreciated the chuckle.
"And even then," Madden went on, "these crimes have as many similarities to other crimes as they have to each other."
"So they think Sam's lying?"
"I'd say it's more likely they hope he's a nutso."
"They hope?" Why would the FBI hope for more insanity in an already insane world?
Madden cleared his throat. "Well, you gotta look at it the way they do: If he's a nut who's imagining things because he desperately needs someone to blame for his sister's murder, he's probably harmless."
"But." Jonna heard the reservation in there somewhere.
"But if there is any truth to his suspicions, he's the only one they can identify who had access to the information he says the murders are based on and the opportunity to commit every one of 'em."
"So he might be dangerous?"
"Not 'might be,' darlin'," Madden said gently. "Is dangerous. If he's right, if there really is one person responsible for the deaths of those women—as Sam thinks there is— Sam Barton's the only suspect."
Sam was saddling up Murphy when the extra phone ringer he'd rigged in the barn went off.
When he got inside, Barry had left a message and Sam dialed the college number immediately.
He interrupted Barry's hello. "What's happening?"
"Got another one, Sam." A heavy concern permeated the words. "I certainly was tempted not to tell you," he added.
"Barry, if you give up on me, too, I'm... I'm..."
"I know." There was a long pause. "That's why I decided to tell you about it. Besides, this one's a little different than the others. The differences bothered me enough that I went back and did some comparisons to the others."
Barry gave him the details of an alumnus in Louisiana who had won an award. "But," he emphasized, "she won it—and received it—almost four months ago."
"And she's still alive?"
"Yes. I called. She's definitely still walking around, working, talking. Boy, could that woman talk."
"And you told her about all of this?"
"Of course not," Barry said in his wryest voice. "I told her the alumni office always calls to congratulate award winners. You think I want people believing I'm as nuts as you?"
"So why-"
"That's what I wondered," Barry broke in. "If you're right, why hasn't this wacko killed her? I pulled the other files and I think I might have an answer."
Sam waited impatiently while Barry, as usual, took full advantage of his chance at heightening the drama.
"This woman sent her own announcement. You know, the handwritten, guess-what's-been-happening-with-me- since-graduation type note with the mention of the award casually tacked on at the end so we wouldn't think she was bragging."
"Yes. And what were the others?"
"News releases."
A clue. Finally a clue.
"One's from a PR firm representing an international organization," Barry continued. "The others, the one on Denise and the woman in Colorado, were from the associations who presented the awards."
"So the killer is probably someone in publicity or PR," Sam said, as much to himself as to Barry.
"Not necessarily." Barry stopped him. "We print those items. The whole idea of sending out a release is to get as many people to print them as possible. Whoever the madman is—if there is a madman—could have received the release, just like I did, or read the news just about anywhere else."
"So I need to get a list of the people those announcements were sent to.''
"It might be a start, but Sam, give it to someone else."
Sam started. Barry rarely used such an intense tone.
"Give it to the FBI, the cop on Denise's case, someone," Barry urged.
"I've had such success with them," Sam pointed out dryly.
"Please, Sam. Think about it? Dr. Simpson in the psychology department—"
"The one in hot water for letting his TAs do all his classroom work?"
"That's the one. His teaching assistants do all his teaching because he's too busy publishing his own personal studies on deviant behavior, remember?"
"What about him?" Sam asked.
"He's starting to get quite a reputation, and a lot of people consider him one of the foremost experts in the nati—"
"And what does that have to do with me?"
"This latest thing. You knew everyone would talk when you took a leave and went off like that? Well, you know Dog-Eat-Dog Simpson. He doesn't mind bringing up some multiple-personality disorder or some such nonsense every time your name enters a conversation. He hasn't actually said your name in the same sentence but the implication is there."
"But no one—"
"He's planted the seed, Sam. You know how this profession is, publish or perish. If you happen to turn out to be a mass murderer, you'll be his ticket to the talk show circuit and a major university. Ivy League even. He hasn't been shy about telling everyone that's where he plans to go."
Sam let that bit of information sink in.
"And you can't deny, you've acted a little over the edge the past few months. Unfortunately, Sam," Barry added slowly, "that's not the only news I have."
Sam wasn't sure he wanted to hear more. "Okay. Give it to me, Barry."
‘‘Donna called bright and ear
ly this morning. Guess who had just shown up on her doorstep? Asking questions? About you?" He answered his own question. "An FBI agent."
"Why Donna? We quit seeing each other right after Denise..."
"Died, Sam," Barry filled in for Sam when his hesitation dragged on too long. "Right after Denise died. It isn't so tough to say. And it's past time to deal with it and put it behind you. Son of a gun, Sam, I wish your mother hadn't laid all that baggage on you, but Denise's murder was not your fault. Your obsession with this is starting to make me nervous. Why don't you just come back?"
"I can't, Barry, you know that. You want to publish another story in the alumni news about Jonna?" Even saying it was like tempting fate. He felt a cold sweat layer his entire body.
"But now the FBI is interested. Isn't that what you wanted? Come back. Let them take care of it. You don't have to be involved."
And that word took his breath away. Dammit. He'd broken all his own rules. He was involved. The knowledge was like a body blow.
When he didn't comment, Barry went right on. "Get the hell out before something happens, Sam. If you're right about this Jonna Sanders, that’s the last place you should be. Especially with them asking questions about you—"
"And she would be here, totally on her own, while they're in Texas investigating me."
"Oh-h-h-h." Barry groaned and Sam could picture him wiping his big hand across that plump face in frustration. "Sam, what am I going to tell them when they show up here? You know they will. I've been expecting them since Donna called. Do I tell them you know who is doing this? You don't. Do I tell them you couldn't be responsible for any of it? I, myself, gave you every bit of information you would need to have killed the last one—and this one. Try living with that for a day or two. I keep telling myself you and I are both sane, but everyone else thinks I'm aiding and abetting a madman."
"I'm sorry, Barry. You know I never intended you to—"
"How do I convince them you're not crazy?" he went on without acknowledging Sam's apology. "You've acted crazy as a loon the past several months. Someone else they interview will surely mention that."
There was a lengthy silence and Sam felt the heavy weight of Barry's concern.
"Barry," he said finally, "just tell them the truth."
"But-"
"Maybe they'll come here to keep an eye on me. That would be perfect. You know the problem. We've talked about it before. They don't investigate something that hasn't happened yet. But if they come to watch me, they might just be around when that bastard shows up again."
"Again?"
"Oh, I didn't tell you." Sam briefly described yesterday's ‘visit.’ Barry asked if Sam was positive his murderer was responsible for the destruction of Jonna's house.
"She wouldn't have an enemy in the world," he answered a little passionately he realized when Barry was silent for far too long. "No one else would have done something like this," he added quickly before Barry could comment with something that Sam knew he would have to defend.
"Why didn't you get him then?"
"The faxes. It happened while I was in town picking up the faxes I asked you to send."
"Then she believed you when you showed her the articles?"
"I'm still here," Sam said.
But several minutes later, after they'd said their goodbyes, after Barry had promised to keep him up to date on what was going on in Texas, Sam returned to the work Jonna had hired him to do and admitted to himself that Barry was right.
He really shouldn't be here. Day after day, he was getting in deeper and deeper. After the incident yesterday, he wasn't so confident anymore.
Somehow, at some time during the long lonely night, he had realized his focus had shifted. But he couldn't care about Jonna.
He couldn't risk becoming more preoccupied with her than he was with the bastard who had destroyed Denise. That’s when he'd slip up and if he failed this time...
Everyone thought he was crazy now. If he let Jonna die, they'd all be right.
CHAPTER TEN
A knife turned inside every time Jonna thought of her conversation with Madden. Sam Barton's the only suspect!
For some reason, that seemed to be the one and only thing she could think about.
He's the only suspect!
Madden had promised to keep an even closer eye but cautioned her again about keeping Sam there. "The FBI agrees that you're safe until you get back from getting that award. If he leaves, we may lose him," he'd said.
It still bothered her that she was almost relieved to take his advice. And all the logic in the world wouldn't let her confuse Madden's excuse—keeping track of Sam—with her own. She didn't want Sam to leave. She wanted him to have the chance to grow out of that grim, dark, responsible, stranger self-image. And she had to be nuts! This time, trusting the wrong person could get her killed.
Jonna gave up trying to work and placed the call she couldn't talk herself out of making to Moss. She took a deep breath, preparing to ask if she could stay with him for the next few days until she left for Los Angeles. Instead, he handed her a surprise.
"I was just getting ready to call you," he said, clearing his throat. "I'm checking into the hospital in Emporia this afternoon," he told her quickly. "Doc Benson is a little worried about some pains I've been having. He insists I go in for some kind of test. They'll knock me out and do it in the morning."
Everything she'd always considered stable and secure was eroding out from under her. As they talked about his symptoms, his heart and the possibility of surgery, she buried the hope of running to Moss for refuge deeper and deeper. The most she revealed of her own problems was when Moss asked about the gun she'd borrowed from Brian.
"I haven't seen the bobcat again," she stammered. "I guess the neighbors got it after all."
They ended the conversation with her promise to see him at the hospital tomorrow.
"You can't waste all that time and trouble right now," Moss protested.
"You're the only family I have, Moss." She practically choked on the truth of it. "Of course you're not going through this alone, any more than you'd let me."
That he didn't argue further was evidence that Moss was scared beyond what he would admit and more than a little grateful to know Jonna would be there.
She hung up and fought off a panic attack. What now? Whom could she turn to now? The house closed in around her, tighter and tighter. And though she couldn't trust Sam—and she didn't think she had to worry about forgetting that fact—she'd settle for any human company.
She'd seen him leave the barn on Murphy an hour or so earlier. Jonna saddled Candy and rode directly to where she had found him yesterday, then followed along the fence. She didn't have to go for. Raw hammer marks in the dry wooden fence posts indicated she was on the right track.
She spotted them from the rise in the farthest corner of the section. For a moment Candy stopped, and Jonna sat quietly, watching Sam's slow but steady progress.
He sat tall and easily in the saddle, obviously at home on the horse. With little noticeable movement, Murphy stopped, walked and—a rarity for free-spirited Murphy— seemed totally subject to the rider's control.
Nudging Candy with her knees, Jonna urged the mare forward, continuing the insistent pressure until Candy cantered.
Jonna knew the second Sam heard the horse's hooves. Suddenly his broad shoulders were a little more square, his back perceptibly straighter. She wondered if he was remembering her indignant attack on him yesterday.
It seemed like a televised rerun as she anticipated his next reaction. And just like yesterday, with no obvious direction from Sam, Murphy swiveled and the two motionlessly awaited their arrival.
Only Jonna's inner turmoil was different this time. For some crazy reason, the terror had been painted over with a numb acceptance and a morbid, fatalistic sort of anticipation. She'd told herself before she left the house that maybe if she was with him, he'd say something, give hims
elf away. Or do something that would aid her doubts once and for all. As she rode to meet him, she realized she wanted to be with him.
Sam dismounted when Jonna was within twenty feet. Murphy followed him docilely as he walked to meet her with those purposeful strides. Then the horses were face-to-face and Sam reached for Candy's reins.
Jonna let him take charge of her horse and quickly joined him on the ground. He scowled at her, then scanned the broad prairie behind her.
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