LUCY: The Complete Lucy Kendall Series with Bonus Content (The Lucy Kendall Series Book 5)

by Stacy Green

  The answer took some thinking, and I wasn’t sure if I’d done the math correctly. “Roughly twenty-four hours.”

  “You’re going to need to rest.”

  “Not until I find Kelly.” I shivered against the blasting cold air.

  “What about your shoulder?”

  “Mac took care of it.”

  “You know I have to look at it.”

  “Later.” My eyes wanted to close again.

  “Traffic is light,” Chris said. “But we’re still looking at twenty minutes at least. Give me Tesla’s address and take a catnap.”

  My exhausted body gave me no other option.

  I woke up completely confused. My head felt so heavy I wasn’t sure I could stand up, my shoulder screamed in pain. Grotesque figures loomed out of the Audi’s window, waving in the darkness. Some seemed to reach forward, as if they were determined to yank me out of the car and prevent me from getting to Kelly.

  I blinked, my eyes sticky. My vision cleared enough for me to realize we’d parked down the road from Tesla’s, and the figures were just trees.

  “I let you sleep a little bit. Just an extra fifteen minutes.” Chris held up his hand before I could argue. “You needed it. You’re no help to Kelly if you can’t think straight. But we can’t just be sitting in the car in the middle of the night. If we’re going to look for the phone, we need to move now.”

  My legs felt even more wooden than my head. I looked at the application again, wishing it gave a more precise location. I led the way onto the Tesla property. “It’s within twenty-five feet of his address. It hasn’t moved since it came back on.” Which meant it had likely been tossed. A diversion? What if I’d gotten too close at the old apartment building and the phone had been dropped here by one of the men?

  “Do you think we should just try calling the phone?” Chris said as he fell into step next to me.

  “No way,” I said. “Not with that bastard all stirred up. Too risky.”

  Chris made a low noise in his throat. “That’s true and lucky for him. If I get the chance to put my hands around his throat for shooting you, I’ll take it.”

  I dropped low, my knees almost touching the damp grass. “Thanks, but it’s not worth it. I need you out of jail.”

  “If Tesla or his father searched,” Chris said as he ducked down and moved quietly forward up the sloping lawn, “and it was out in the open, they’d have confiscated it.”

  “So it’s probably hidden. But not necessarily close to the house.”

  “Why don’t we split up and sweep this side of the property?” He glanced at me, heavy creases between his eyebrows. “If you can make it on your own. I thought you didn’t lose much blood?”

  “I didn’t,” I said defensively. “But I’m tired, okay? I’ll be fine.” I stalked to the east side and started looking for the phone. The case was green, but Tesla might have taken it off. Most of the land leading up to the house was dotted with trees and sculpted gardens, and every single one looked the same in the dark. I checked the lilies first, crawling around on my hands and knees. Nothing but dewy grass and flowers that smelled so sweet I wanted to choke.

  Keeping low, my knees and palms damp, I found my way back to the Atlas Cedar tree. Surely the phone wasn’t here. I’d hidden behind the thing twice and hadn’t spotted it. I moved the prickly branches away from the ground, searching for the black phone that would no doubt blend into everything.

  The blinking blue message light caught my eye.

  I was right next to it earlier.

  My fingernails dragged in the dirt as I reached for the phone and pulled it out. Her password was easy: her birthday.

  She had several text messages from Justin, begging her to call him. I skimmed those and went on to the text from a blocked number. The message consisted of an image. My finger shook as I clicked on the download button and waited.

  When it finally loaded, my legs gave out and I landed on my ass in the dew-covered lawn. And then I started dry-heaving.

  Chris must have heard me because he was suddenly by my side, helping me to my feet.

  I handed him the phone without a word.

  “Coldhearted bastard.” Chris stared at the image. “And ballsy. He’s showing you his face. Maybe we can get into one of Kelly’s databases and get a name.”

  I took long, cleansing breaths. I would not throw up. Or panic. Or collapse into some kind of sniveling heap. Not when this stupid pig had just made such a mistake. He couldn’t possibly have known the kind of person he’d chosen to torment.

  “I don’t need any help from a database.” I stood straight, a familiar cold calm taking over. “That’s Jared Cook, Kelly’s stepfather. He’s supposed to be in prison.”

  Chris looked again at the image, his nose curled as if he could barely stand it. I snatched the phone from him. I wouldn’t look away this time.

  Kelly was in a small, dark room, naked and chained to a twin bed. Leaning next to her and obviously taking the picture was Cook. One of his eyes sagged, and a dark red scar ran down his cheek and into his neck. Child molesters never fared well in prison.

  “Did you know he was paroled?”

  I kept looking at the picture. The smile on Cook’s face made me want to beat someone. I would kill him slowly.

  “No, but I bet Kelly did.” I put the phone into my pocket. “Which means Justin probably did too. And he didn’t tell me.”

  I started back down the hill, no longer tired. Chris hurried after me, nervously glancing behind him. “I notice we aren’t hiding that we’re trespassing now. What are you planning?”

  “I need to get online.”

  19

  It was too early for the sunrise, but the fat, dark rain clouds stretching over the entire northeastern side of the city indicated we were in for another nasty day. Chris turned on the Audi’s interior light as he drove toward Center City while I fumbled for my laptop.

  Kelly had taught me how to gain Internet access using the Bluetooth on my phone. After a few miscues, I managed to get a strong enough signal to log in to the Megan’s Law website. Having the offender’s first and last name made the search much easier, as long as Jared Cook wasn’t a transient offender. Being on parole meant he could be in a halfway house or a shelter or a friend’s, or even worse, he could have gotten lucky and been assigned an overworked parole officer who hadn’t made sure Jared registered.

  I drummed my foot on the floor mats as I waited for the page results to load. “We don’t have time to stop.”

  Chris turned too sharply onto his street in Center City. “You can’t risk not getting an antibiotic. You’re no use to Kelly if you spike a fever.” He eased into the parking garage and into his rented spot. I hated to think how much it cost him.

  “How do you have an antibiotic?” I asked. “Paramedics don’t carry that sort of thing, do they?”

  He looked sheepish. “I had a sinus infection last month and stopped taking it when I felt better. I’ve got a few pills left. That doesn’t mean you get to skip going to the doctor. It just buys you some time.”

  “Whatever.” I leaned back in the seat. “Just hurry.”

  Results began popping up, separated by last name. There were several Cooks registered in the state, but only one Jared who was the right age. Because the state believes even sexual predators are entitled to right to privacy, the Megan’s Law site only provided address information as well as identifying marks. Jared Cook had several identifying scars, including one circling the back of his skull that he’d probably earned during a prison beating.

  The system had serious problems, but none of this added up. As a Tier 3 violent sex offender, Jared Cook should have never been paroled.

  Chris returned. He fell into the driver’s seat and tossed a medicine bottle into my lap. “Amoxicillin. Take three today and two tomorrow. Then you’re going to the doctor. You find him?”

  “He lives in a townhouse on S. Reese Street.”

  “That’s South Philly,�
� Chris said. “Not the best area, but not the worst.”

  I was already one step ahead of him, logging into the NCMEC site and digging for public records. “It’s owned by a Charles Cook, purchased five years ago. So he’s living with a family member who probably believes he’s done his time and can still be saved.”

  “Then unless this Charles is involved, we probably aren’t going to find Kelly at the house.”

  I didn’t want to admit he was right, but we didn’t have any other option at this point. My head felt heavy as Chris made his way to the southern end of town. My shoulder felt as if 100 needles had been jammed into it. Adrenaline triumphed over exhaustion. Kelly might be at Cook’s house. I could save her and get rid of Jared Cook. Or I could walk into a trap.

  The Cooks’ two-story, faded brick townhouse appeared to be well taken care of. The neighborhood was typical Philly working class, with postcard-sized yards maintained and dotted with colorful annuals. The townhouse resembled most of the others on the street, with only two exceptions: a wheelchair ramp and the uncollected garbage can waiting at the curb. Everyone else had already claimed their garbage cans.

  Sweat broke out across the back of my neck. Trying not to tweak my burning shoulder, I clumsily pulled my hair up and started to open the door.

  “Wait.” Chris’s voice ghosted into my ear, making me jump. “You need to stay behind the tinted windows and let me go first. If her stepfather sees you, he’s going to run.”

  I hated to admit he was right. “You need to take something for protection. And exactly what are you going to say?”

  “I’ve got my Sig Sauer. And I’m his new parole officer checking in. I’ll need to sweep the house and make sure he’s keeping his nose clean.”

  “What if he argues with you? He’s not just going to let you inside.”

  “He’s a convicted sex offender. He has no right to privacy,” Chris said. “I can go in without a warrant.”

  “Parole officers can’t do that unless they’re also a cop. So unless you’re going to pull a fake badge out of your ass, you can’t just go inside and snoop.”

  “Then I’ll improvise,” Chris said. “I’ll text when it’s safe for you to come inside.”

  My insides fluttered. It was supposed to be me going up to that door, not Chris. Then again, I doubted I would be able to stop myself from going for Jared Cook’s throat. But Chris had a point. Cook would be watching for me. But wasn’t my arrival part of his grand plan?

  “Stay here.” He stepped out of the car and winced. “Ouch.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  He made a face. “My foot. It’s healed but sometimes I still feel the pain if I step just right.”

  His toe. I’d completely forgotten his mother had chopped it off in her efforts to escape last winter. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “It’s all right.” Chris knew exactly what I was thinking. “You’ve got a lot on your mind right now. And it’s only a toe.”

  “I’m sorry.” I glanced toward the house, dread pooling in my chest. “Be careful.”

  I watched him saunter unevenly up the walk, his head tucked down against the rain and his blue shirt stretched tightly over his broad shoulders.

  He’d jammed the Sig into the back of his jeans. He didn’t look like he was getting ready to face a sexual predator and probable kidnapper. He could have been going up to a friend’s house. Thinking of how jittery he’d been when we broke into Brian Harrison’s house last year, I wanted to take credit for his confidence. But that would have been too presumptuous. Chris’s changes resulted from something far more compelling than me.

  He knocked on the door; my stomach knotted.

  Although the rain had slowed to a light mist, I still struggled to see through the drops on the window.

  What if Cook attacked Chris? What if he got shot before he had the chance to defend himself? Was he really prepared for this?

  I can’t let him take the risk. This is my problem.

  My hand fisted against the handle, but something held me back.

  No one answered the door. Chris kept knocking, but the house remained quiet. He glanced back at the car, holding his hand out flat as a reminder for me to stay inside. I gritted my teeth as he hopped down off the short step and made his way to the front window and peered inside. He shrugged his shoulders and moved around toward the side of the house.

  Panic mounted in my throat. He shouldn’t lose sight of me. Hadn’t he learned anything from being on the run with Mother Mary? I started to open the door and then slammed it shut. If Cook was watching, he probably had eyes on the Audi. My appearance could mean trouble for Chris.

  I grabbed my phone and called his cell.

  “Just be patient.”

  “I can’t see you,” I said. “You don’t know who is inside that house. Cook is ruthless, and prison’s only honed those skills. He could be leading you into a trap.”

  “I’m just going to knock on the back door. If there’s no answer, then I’ll come back to the car.”

  “Keep me on the line.”

  “You just can’t give up the control, can you?”

  “This has nothing to do with control. I actually give a damn if something happens to you.”

  “A conscience is a terrible thing.” His rapping on the back door accompanied his words.

  “I’m not getting into a philosophical conversation with you.”

  “Of course not,” he said. “There’ll be time for that later.”

  “Is anyone answering?”

  “No. But the back door is unlocked.”

  I clenched the door handle, desperate to sprint to the house. “If you’re going in, you need to take the gun out and have the safety off. Cook could be trying to lure you inside. He’s obviously not working alone.”

  “But how would he know I’m a threat?”

  “If they can find out about Shannon, they might know about you.” The thought brought a fresh round of fear. I should have never asked for Chris’s help. “Just come back here and let me do it.”

  “Too late.” Chris’s gagging suddenly made my stomach roll. “Oh hell. I don’t think you need to worry about a trap.”

  20

  I shoved my face into the crook of my elbow and tried not to dry heave. Crowbar from the Audi’s trunk in hand, I stood shoulder to shoulder with Chris in the townhouse’s kitchen and stared at the two dead men. One of them had died in his wheelchair, his reedy body helpless to the attack on the back of his skull. It looked as if a single blow to the head with an extremely blunt object had done the job. His chin rested on his chest, his neck having snapped forward with the blow. Dried blood stained his shirt and chrome handles of the wheelchair.

  The other man lay facedown on the floor, his head bashed in so badly it resembled a busted watermelon. More congealed blood pooled around him. I had little hope of recognizing his face, but that didn’t concern me, because Jared Cook was the man in the wheelchair.

  Thank God for the air conditioning. It hadn’t slowed decay, but it saved us from humidity making the horrific odor even worse. I searched for something to protect my hand. The kitchen was suspiciously clean. No blood spatter on the white, laminate countertop or aging oak cabinets. No drying dishes in the sink and no clutter on the counter. I used the hem of my shirt to open the drawers until I found a couple of dishtowels. I wrapped them around my hands, gently grasped both sides of his jaw, and then carefully tried to lift Jared Cook’s head.

  I might as well have tried to lift a centuries old boulder. His neck muscles had completely stiffened into rigor mortis, and it would take more strength than I possessed–and probably more fortitude-to move his head.

  Nausea swarming my stomach, I knelt down and looked up into his face.

  Jared Cook’s smile looked exactly as it had in the picture on Kelly’s phone. Now that I saw him in person, I noticed the way his entire left eye socket seemed to sag, as if the bone structure had been affected. I thought about checkin
g his face to see if I could tell if the break had happened during the attack, but his muscles were so far into rigor I wouldn’t be able to tell.

  “Is he still warm?” Chris asked.

  “Cold.”

  “But he’s still in rigor,” Chris said. “That starts 2-4 hours after death, and the body starts to cool. I’d estimate he’s in the middle of it, but I can’t tell much more without taking a body temperature. The bugs haven’t started yet–I suppose because the air conditioning’s on. Closed windows have slowed them down. Then again, the room temperature affects everything too. But I’d bet he hasn’t been dead more than 10 to 12 hours. The bugs would have found him.”

  I stood up. “How do you know all that?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been reading up on pathology. Thinking about going back to school.”

  Why he’d want to spend his days in a morgue was beyond me, but whatever. Chris’s intelligence meant he became easily bored, so he probably needed a new challenge.

  “All right. So I think it’s safe to say Jared Cook didn’t take Kelly.”

  Chris nudged the wheelchair with his toe. “Yeah, but he was in the picture. So one of the other guys hires someone, and Jared is just having fun?”

  Something didn’t feel right. I couldn’t stop comparing the way Jared smiled for the picture and the way he looked now. They were too similar. Plus the way his face was drooping, and the wheelchair …

  “We should still check the place,” Chris said. “See if there’s any sign Kelly was here.”

  Too old to be the popular open-concept style, the townhouse had a small hallway leading to the dining room, which had been turned into a bedroom, with an adjustable hospital bed butting up against the wall adjoining the kitchen. I opened the small dresser sitting beneath the dining room window. Its gleaming, black pressed wood had been recently dusted.

  “Adult diapers and cleansing wipes.” Worry latched on like a malignant growth. How much time had I wasted chasing the wrong people?

  “Christ,” Chris said. “What happened to this guy?”