The Darkest Thread

by Jen Blood

  Jack wasn’t sure that made him a killer, though.

  Though he’d followed Gordon’s progress through the system from a distance since the man’s conviction, Jack hadn’t seen him in the flesh since the day the sentence was handed down.

  And now, here he was.

  The guard led him to a thick steel door and punched a code into a keypad on the wall. The lock released with an echo. This wasn’t the best prison Jack had ever seen, the technology dated, the interior dingy and gray. Not that he’d ever visited a prison that was overtly jolly, but there were certainly better facilities than this one. And worse, to be fair.

  On the other side of the door, Gordon waited at a long table bolted to the floor. The room was carved of more dingy gray concrete, with florescent lights flickering overhead.

  Gordon was a good-looking man with dark hair that had gone gray in the years since Jack had seen him last. Like his brother Dean, he wasn’t a big guy—instead, he had a lean, wiry athleticism that suggested speed over power. Now, however, Jack noted the powerfully built upper torso of a man who worked out heavily and often. A scar bisected his left eyebrow. It hadn’t been there the last time Jack had seen him.

  The guard nodded to Gordon as though greeting a friend. “Anything I can get for you while you’re in here, Gordy?”

  “I’m fine, Rick, thanks. You on all night?”

  “Yeah, getting in some overtime.”

  “Diapers don’t come cheap these days,” Gordon said with a nod. “Sarah and the baby okay?”

  “Sarah’s tired, you know how that is. But Retta’s growing fast.”

  “You’ll have to show me a couple pictures when you come back through,” Gordon said. He looked at Jack. “Rick just had his third daughter—all of them the spitting image of their mom. I told him he’s in for a world of hurt once those girls hit their teens.”

  Rick smiled at that, but Jack could think only of the crimes Gordon was in here for. The women he’d allegedly tortured. The guard obviously must know that—he would have to know what the prisoner had been charged with.

  “That’s why their daddy’s got a whole cabinet full of guns and a crate of ammo,” Rick said amiably. “I’m ready about the time any wrongheaded Texas boys wander our way.” He paused, glanced at Jack, and appeared to remember what he was there for. “You sure you’ll be all right in here?” he asked. The question wasn’t directed at Jack, however.

  “We’re fine,” Gordon assured him. “Jack’s an old friend. I’ll holler when we’re done.”

  The guard left with barely a word to Jack, closing the door behind him. There was no indication that he thought Jack might be in danger. Rather, Jack got the impression he was more concerned for Gordon’s well-being.

  “He’s a good guy,” Gordon said once they were alone, nodding toward the space where the guard had just been. There was a certain smugness in the words, and Jack got the feeling the exchange with the guard had been entirely for his benefit.

  “He doesn’t know what you’re in for?”

  “He knows,” Gordon said. He kept his tone even. “Doesn’t believe I did it, but he knows the charges.”

  Jack felt the tension ramp up in the silence that followed. He sat in a wooden chair on the other side of the table. This, like the table and Gordon’s own chair, was bolted to the floor.

  “It’s been a long time,” Gordon said when Jack didn’t speak. He studied Jack for a few seconds, and shook his head. “Jesus. You look like hell—what happened to you?”

  “Lost a fight with a mountain,” Jack said briefly. “But I’m not here to talk about that.”

  “I’ve been following things,” Gordon continued, as though Jack hadn’t spoken. “As much as I can from in here, anyway. Seems like you’ve had some trouble the last few years.”

  “Some,” Jack said with a shrug. “I’m handling it.”

  Gordon slid to the edge of his chair, looking at Jack intently. There were no shackles on his wrists or his ankles. His blue eyes were soft, earnest.

  “I was sorry to hear about Lucia,” Gordon said. “I know it’s been a few years, but I’ve wanted to say that to you for a long time. She was a good woman.”

  Jack’s stomach churned at the words. An image of his wife’s smile, the echo of her laughter, flashed through his mind. The four of them used to have dinner together—Gordon and Rita, Jack and Lucia. Lucia would cook; Gordon brought the wine. Rita gardened, and always had fresh flowers for the table. Jack couldn’t remember the number of times they’d laughed together. Broken bread. Rita and Lucia had gotten along well… Lucia had never cared for Gordon, though.

  “I’m not here to talk about any of that,” he said. The words came out with an edge, a rasp to his voice. He cleared his throat.

  Gordon nodded. “No, I figured as much. I’ve been following it on TV. Dean’s gotten himself into some trouble, looks like.”

  Jack wasn’t sure exactly what had been reported on the news, so nodded cautiously. “What do you know so far?”

  “I know Dean’s oldest was found dead,” he said. What appeared to be genuine grief darkened his eyes. “They’re not releasing any details, except to say that Ariel’s still missing. What happened to her?”

  “Same M.O. as June and Katie,” Jack said. “Same M.O. as all your victims. Raped, mutilated, strangled.”

  A flash of anger shadowed Gordon’s face. “I think you mean, the same M.O. as all the killer’s victims. It wasn’t me.” Before Jack could reply, Gordon continued. “Who’s the agent in charge?”

  “McDonough.”

  “And he let you come here to see me?” The surprise on his face was genuine. There was something else there that Jack couldn’t read, though. Maybe anger. Maybe fear.

  “’Let’ may be too strong a word,” Jack said. “It doesn’t really matter, though. I’m here now.”

  A beat of silence passed between them. Gordon searched Jack’s eyes. “You know it was three months to the day after they took me in, that your wife was killed?” he asked. It wasn’t what Jack had expected.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “To the day. And before that happened, do you remember what you said to me?” Gordon’s hands were clasped tightly on the table, his whole body tense.

  “I don’t remember much about that time,” Jack said roughly.

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t,” Gordon said. There was sympathy in his voice, but no pity. “You told me we’d get through this. That there was nothing on this earth that could convince you I’d done what they said I did. You remember that?”

  Jack thought back to that time. He and Lucia were expecting their first child—a baby girl. Everything that was happening with Gordon had seemed like a bad dream, something he would inevitably wake up from. The rest of life was so good… The charges against Gordon had seemed absurd.

  And then, Lucia wanted to go to Nicaragua. There was work she needed to do there, she told him. She wouldn’t be gone long… An orphanage there needed help, and Lucia never turned her back on people in need.

  “That was before I had all the facts,” Jack said. It was hard to get the words out.

  “You had all the facts. I didn’t do what they said I did. I never could have—not to the women they found, and I sure as hell never could have done that to my sisters. You knew me. You of all people knew I couldn’t have done it.”

  “I didn’t know you,” Jack said. “The women you slept with, the lies you told—I didn’t know the first thing about you. About any of you.”

  “So why the fuck didn’t you look at the others?” Gordon said. For the first time, his voice rose. “We were all involved, none of the agents in that ring were any less culpable than the others. Half of them still have their jobs; others retired, kept their pensions. And here I sit.”

  “Their sisters weren’t found murdered with their DNA on the bodies. They had alibis. They hadn’t kept up relationships with every one of the dead hookers.”

  “And they never c
laimed to be your friend,” Gordon said quietly. “That’s what this is really about, isn’t it? Your goddamn pride? And anger. You thought you knew me, you thought you knew the world, and then all of a sudden everything gets turned ass over teakettle, and nothing is what you thought it was.”

  “You lied to me,” Jack growled, unable to hold it back any longer. “You say I knew you? Everything I knew was lies, a fairytale. I didn’t know shit about you.”

  “You knew what was important,” Gordon said, his own voice tight. “I’m not saying I was right in the way I behaved—I know that. I fucked up, but I was doing the best I could. Don’t sit there and judge me for falling off a pedestal I never asked to be put on in the first place. So I paid for company from a few women… That was poor judgment, but that was my only crime. I didn’t kill anyone.”

  “So who the hell did?” Jack said. “All this time, and you still haven’t come up with a viable suspect. And now…”

  “And now he’s killing again,” Gordon finished for him. “And you’re wondering if you were wrong. If maybe what I’ve been saying from the day they took me in, is true.” He paused for a moment, watching Jack carefully. Studying his face. “Why are you here, Jack? The girls are dead. I can’t help you.”

  “They’re not, though,” Jack said. Gordon looked surprised. “Melanie is. But the other girl—Ariel, the youngest. She got away. It looks like she’s in the woods somewhere. There’s a chance we could find her…”

  “And find the man who took them,” Gordon said. For the first time, there was hope in his eyes. “You have people looking for her?”

  “Yeah. There are some SAR folks from Vermont, and a team from Maine that Dean requested—people I’ve worked with before.”

  “Who?” Gordon pressed.

  “She used to work under a man named Brock Campbell—Dean apparently knew him. After he died, this woman—Jamie Flint—took over the business.”

  “Campbell was an asshole,” Gordon said. “The only kind of man Dean could ever appreciate. This Flint knows her stuff, though?”

  “She’s the best there is,” Jack said unequivocally. He felt his face warm at the way Gordon looked at him, so he rushed on. “But things are worse than that—thanks to Dean.”

  “What do you mean?” Gordon asked. “What happened?”

  “He shot a boy. Jamie’s son. They shot him, then took him and another girl hostage. So a scenario that was already dire just got a hell of a lot more so.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Gordon said, half under his breath. “What the hell are they doing? You know my brother—he’s a stubborn S-O-B, but he’s not a violent man. This has to be somebody else.” He frowned. “Barrett?”

  “It could be,” Jack said. “I agree with you, this doesn’t seem like Dean. But this whole thing has done something to him. I don’t think he’s been well. I’m not sure how much more of this he can take.”

  Gordon sighed, long and heavy. “What do you need from me?”

  Jack hesitated. This was the question he’d been asking himself since he left the ground back in Vermont; since Jamie asked him to come here.

  What the hell was he doing here?

  “What I said before,” Jack finally said. “About you never providing another viable suspect. You’ve been behind bars for the past seven years. Your lawyer’s filed appeals. I know you’ve been looking into it. I need to know if you have a theory that, for whatever reason, you haven’t shared.”

  Gordon’s eyes slid from his. Jack shook his head, recalling the frustration he’d felt when all this first began. The man knew something. “Forget it,” Jack said abruptly. He stood, annoyed. “I tried to help you when this thing first happened—you asked if I remember that. Yes, I remember. I remember believing in you. Even with the evidence they kept bringing in: DNA, hair and fibers on Katie and June. Fingerprints at the crime scenes of the other women. I still believed you, even when everyone around me was saying I was an idiot to.”

  “So what changed?” Gordon asked.

  “Everything changed. They murdered my wife. They took my world. And if they could do that and I never saw it coming, who the hell was I to say anyone was innocent? Especially if you weren’t fighting it yourself.”

  “I fought it,” Gordon said.

  “The hell you did. You said you were innocent. That’s it. No alternate theories, nothing to absolve you of guilt. Just the same four useless words. ‘I didn’t do it.’ And what I’m asking you to do now is to tell me who did. Because I believe you know. Or at least you have an idea.”

  Gordon looked away, his gaze shifting to the table.

  Jack ran his hands through his hair. He thought again of Jamie, waiting for him to come back with something. Of Ariel Redfield, out there in the woods right now running for her life—if she was still alive at all. Of Jamie’s son, bleeding, left to the mercy of Dean Redfield and whatever idiotic plan he might have.

  “I don’t know,” Gordon said.

  Jack fixed him with a glare. “You’re lying. And this time, I’m not letting you get away with it.”

  Gordon actually smiled. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

  “I’m taking you to Vermont,” Jack said. Gordon looked only slightly more surprised than Jack himself was. “We’ll work this case together, until one of us comes up with the right solution this time.”

  “You can’t do that. They won’t let me leave this place. And there’s no way in holy hell McDonough will sign off on it.”

  “Despite everything that’s happened, I’ve still got a few friends left at the Bureau,” Jack said. “McDonough will just have to deal.” He headed for the door, forcing more confidence into his tone than he felt. “Pack your shit, Gordon. We leave tomorrow morning.”

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  THERE WAS A FIRE going in the woodstove in the old house when Dean brought Ren and Bear there. It was a chilly night, so a fire made sense, Bear supposed. Or it felt chilly to him, at least—he was freezing, sure he’d never be warm again. He heard Dean whispering. Saw other men prowling around them, watching. Like he and Ren had stormed their castle; like being there had been their choice, and now they were the unwelcome guests putting the Redfield family out in their own home.

  “You said you can tend him?” Dean asked Ren when they were set up beside the fire. Ren’s eyes were wide, but her hands had stayed steady, her jaw set, through this whole thing. If there was ever anyone Bear would choose to be held hostage with, it was definitely her. Though he really could have been happy missing this whole experience.

  “I need supplies,” she told Dean. Her voice was tight, the anger just below the surface. “He should be at a hospital.”

  “And he’ll get to one,” Dean replied. “Just as soon as his mum does what she’s supposed to and finds my Ariel, then he’ll get everything he needs. In the meantime, I just need you to do what you said you could and keep him alive.” He turned to a tall, thin woman in one of the ugliest dresses Bear had ever seen, her long gray hair pulled back in a braid.

  “Wendy, get her whatever she needs. Set it up in one of the bedrooms upstairs—they’ll stay up there.” He hesitated, and Ren rushed in before he could change his mind.

  “I’ll need alcohol, hot water, and plenty of sterile dressings.”

  The woman watched Bear, and he sensed genuine empathy there. She didn’t want them here; felt bad that he’d been hurt. The thought that they might have an ally here buoyed his spirits. “She’s right,” the woman said to Dean, her voice quiet. “The boy should be in a hospital. You shouldn’t have brought him here.”

  “Do it now, Wendy,” Dean said when she started to argue. She didn’t act like Dean’s wife, Bear thought. And she was too old to be his daughter. Sister, maybe. With a pinched frown, the woman turned her back on all of them and left the room. A moment later, Bear heard footsteps ascending a set of stairs nearby.

  Inside the room, a big guy with red hair stood apart from the others, his eyes fixed
on Bear. He was rocking slightly, talking to himself. Three other men remained close to Dean, all of them talking in hushed voices. Bear didn’t like any of it, but at the moment he was in too much pain to even try tuning into what they said.

  “How are you doing?” Ren asked him quietly. They were on a couch close to the fire, so at least they were warm and comfortable for now. Who knew what the room Dean was sending them to next was like, though.

  “I’m okay,” Bear said through chattering teeth, the burning in his shoulder dulling everything else around them.

  “I don’t have to be an empath to know you’re lying, you know,” she said. She managed a small smile.

  Wendy reappeared at the door. “It’s ready,” she said.

  The redheaded man looked up at that. He looked terrified, and Bear felt a spear of dread course through him. Something was wrong. Well… Everything was wrong, but something beyond the fact that he was shot and bleeding and Ren had come along with him and now they were being held captive by a bunch of nut jobs with guns.

  Dean came up to them, his gun still in hand, and nodded to Ren. “Help him up. Wendy’ll show you where you’ll stay.”

  “What about food?” Ren asked. “We were out searching all day—we haven’t had dinner. And he needs some kind of painkiller.”

  “There’s aspirin in the kit,” Wendy volunteered. She looked annoyed, but Bear got the sense it wasn’t with them. “And I’ll bring some dinner up for you once you get settled.”

  “Is there water?” Ren asked. She was softer with the woman; she’d come to the same conclusion Bear had. Wendy wasn’t against them.

  “There’s a couple of gallon jugs up there with water from the spring—that should do you for tonight. I’ll bring more if you need it.”