Stone Cold

by James Glass

  Marti nodded, resembling a bobble head.

  “At first I dismissed the notion. Then when neither of us could sleep, the idea of doing something constructive felt comforting. So while you were at work, I did some searching on the web while Marti made some phone calls. Turns out Dexter Allen has a sister who lives in Montana.”

  How did Francisco, Carrubba, and I miss that?

  Tess patted my hand. “I can tell when you’re upset. But don’t be. She changed her maiden name from Cynthia Allen to Cynthia Connor.”

  My stomach rumbled. I set the apple down on the table and began eating Tess’s salad.

  Marti nodded. “We thought the same thing. Tess asked her, but the woman didn’t answer the question.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tess said. “She told us she changed her name after her brother went to prison. When he was released she was afraid he might find her.”

  I pointed the fork at her. “Why was she afraid?”

  Tess and Marti glanced at each other.

  “C’mon ladies, cough it up.”

  Tess sipped more water. “The family grew up on a farm in Virginia. Dexter would torture the animals.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Serial killers are known to torture animals. It’s one of the indicators along with bed wetting and setting fires. But what are you not telling me?”

  “He didn’t just torture the animals. He cut the tongues out and sewed their mouths shut.”

  “Holy shit, Batman!” I said, caught off guard by Tess’s revelation. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to cuss. This means Dexter Allen wasn’t made into a serial killer.”

  “What do you mean, Rebecca?” Marti asked.

  “I assumed he was bent on revenge after his wife’s suicide. The trigger that lit the match for his justification to murder those who sent him to prison.”

  Marti opened her mouth then closed it.

  “Are you saying Allen has always been a serial killer?”

  “No. If someone shows signs of being a serial killer doesn’t mean they’ll become one.”

  “Like teenagers,” Marti said.

  “Where did that come from?” Tess asked.

  “I watch Dr. Phil,” she said as if that explained her remark.

  “And?” I prompted.

  “He said all teenagers are psychopaths and that’s why they’re so crazy.”

  Marti had a way of twisting words.

  As we sat there talking about Dexter Allen’s sister, I realized I had missed a fundamental question. “How did you find the sister?”

  Tess smiled a lazy smile. “We did a search on one of those ancestry sites.”

  I laughed.

  “What?” Marti asked, apparently as surprised from my laughter as I was.

  I shook my head. “That’s brilliant.”

  Tess did a little bow from her chair. “We aim to please.”

  “Did Cynthia Connor say why her brother tortured animals?”

  “He once told her that the Lord called on him to do God’s work.”

  I cocked a brow. “You’re joking, right?” This whole conversation seemed more like a dream than reality. It reminded me of one of those talk shows where a woman came and told the audience she didn’t know she got pregnant until the contractions started.

  “No. She said Dexter was a voracious reader of the Bible. He would spew verses on the street corners to cars stopped at red lights. He even started his own congregation, but it didn’t last long. When he turned eighteen he attended a Christian college but dropped out after one semester. Then he joined the Navy.”

  “Wow. I’m impressed by your talents. You two could be private investigators.” I ate some salad.

  “We are,” Marti said.

  I almost choked on a piece of lettuce.

  Tess patted my back.

  I sipped some of her water. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Marti’s face brightened. “We finish the training next week and then it’ll be official. Tess and I will apply for our private investigator license after we graduate.”

  I had a flash of them getting their own series on television.

  Chapter 47

  Saturday, 9:30 a.m.

  Dexter Allen had gone missing. The case was getting colder by the minute. Francisco and I were ordered to take a break, get some R and R, come back with our minds clear and refreshed. My go to for R and R was skydiving. The last time I took a vacation, my therapist had recommended an outlet. Skydiving didn’t seem to fit her logic of letting go of the past. I must admit, I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, and it would be hard to list them in order of stupidity, but skydiving would have been numero uno back then. Jumping out of a plane that wasn’t going down in flames didn’t seem logical.

  Falling from the sky at speeds over one-hundred miles-an-hour used to freak me out. The thought of the sudden crash into the earth didn’t sit well in my stomach, either. But after my first jump, I was hooked. The adrenaline rushing through my veins fueled my desire to leap from the plane again and again. After a while, my anxiety level became manageable. My therapist couldn’t argue with positive results.

  I had asked Francisco to come along, but he thought jumping out of a perfectly good airplane seemed ridiculous. At least we were back on speaking terms again. I think the sex messed us up. Although we probably shouldn’t have, I don’t regret it. Maybe we could patch things up and move on. Francisco still seemed to think we could be the perfect couple, or so he’d implied in the occasional aside. I was beginning to entertain the idea.

  The sun beamed down from a blue, cloudless sky as I and a group of eleven other jumpers moved toward a small silver plane. A faded lightning bolt painted yellow ran from the fuselage to the tail. All the windows had been blacked out, except for the cockpit. I smiled at the thought of Francisco seeing the ragged flying contraption in front of me. Would he still think I was jumping out of a perfectly good airplane?

  We boarded the aircraft and took our seats, facing each other from either side of the aisle. The inside of the plane smelled musty. Beads of sweat formed on the back of my neck. The jumpmaster, a retired army ranger, wore a black and blue jumpsuit. His hair and mustache matched the same color of the plane. He slammed the door shut and turned the handle.

  Because the windows were darkened, the only light trickled through the cabin windows. Bud walked slowly down the aisle, his eyes probing each jumper.

  Across from me was a group dressed in gold jumpsuits with Golden Oldies stenciled in blue. A large figure sat in the last seat, next to the Golden Oldies. His big body pushed the limits of his yellow jumpsuit. He wore a black helmet with matching goggles. Goosebumps popped up along my forearms.

  There hadn’t been any sightings of Dexter Allen since he visited me last…well, tied me up along with my aunties. Too bad I had left my gun in the lock box under the driver seat of my Jeep. I still had a knife strapped to the outside of my harness. Although the blade was only six inches long, I kept it razor sharp in case the primary parachute got tangled when deployed. There wouldn’t be any need to deploy the reserve chute if the primary didn’t release from my body.

  The plane shook as the engines roared to life.

  “Listen up,” Bud said in a gruff voice, holding a clipboard. My throat felt thick with anticipation and dread as he called off each name. The mystery man answered to Steve Smith. I twisted the ruby birthstone on my finger.

  The plane rattled as it raced down the runway. It began to lighten as it gathered momentum. I grabbed the strap hanging from the overhead as the aircraft nosed up.

  My cell vibrated in my pants. I thought about letting it go to voicemail. What if it was about Allen? I grabbed the phone out of one of the cargo pockets of my green jumpsuit.

  Bud frowned at me.

  I mouthed, “I’m turning it off.”

  It was a text from Carrubba.

  Williams found guilty. Reduced to Captain and discharged from the Navy.

  Even though the judge had reduced him from admiral
to captain, Williams would still be able to retire. I doubted Dexter Allen would be happy with the judge’s decision, but I wasn’t. The man had abused his authority and should have been discharged without any benefits. Hell, if I'd been the judge I would’ve sent his butt back to Gitmo, behind bars.

  A large shadow swallowed me up.

  It was Bud, his face twisted in some kind of snarl. It reminded me of Clint Eastwood.

  I shut the phone off and shoved it into a pocket.

  Bud turned and stalked to the door and pulled it open. The aircraft slowed. Bright sunlight sprayed the interior of the aircraft. Wind swooped in and swirled around the plane. The green light next to the exit turned on. We were clear to jump. Everyone strapped their helmets, put their gloves on, stood, and shuffled to the door.

  There were four people ahead of me. Today was supposed to be a good day, but the mystery man in the corner kept creeping into my thoughts. A Golden Oldie stepped to the door, looked back at us, and gave a thumbs up. He danced a little jig before leaping into space.

  Two more Golden Oldies moved to the exit—a man and a woman. The man used a finger to countdown from three. Before he got to one, the woman pushed him out the door. Bud looked as if he was going to blow a gasket. Safety was his highest priority. Before he could chastise her, she waved back at us then jumped.

  Bud pointed to me. It was my turn. Looking over my shoulder, I saw the mystery man move up the line. He would be jumping after me. Not a good sign. I wouldn’t feel right again until my feet were planted firmly back on the ground.

  On the count of three, as is my routine, I jumped into clear, blue sky. I dove face-first, but my mind was back at the aircraft as my body shot like a torpedo toward earth. Even with the helmet, the wind sounded like a locomotive going through my head. My altimeter read eighty-three hundred feet. Normally, I deploy my chute at twenty-five hundred feet. Several hundred feet below were a few of the Golden Oldies. They were in a circular pattern, holding hands. With their bodies in a low arch and their arms and legs extended, I would pass by them in a matter of seconds.

  I stretched out my arms and legs, slowing my descent. I twisted my head to the right and upward, but didn’t see the man in yellow. Maybe heʼd decided not to jump after all. It happened often enough, people backing out at the last second.

  My anxiety diminished at the thought.

  Then the mystery man zoomed past me, his body arrow straight, arms to his side. I think if I had looked left, he may have crashed into my head. If that was Dexter Allen who zipped by, he'd just missed his opportunity to kill me. Then again, it was possible the person was simply new at skydiving.

  Several seconds later, his chute deployed.

  Now that my fear had subsided, I glanced to my left. The last of the Golden Oldies caught up to the rest of their group in their circle. It was neat to see these senior citizens living their lives the way they wanted. If all went well in my life, I’d love to be able to skydive well into my eighties. Maybe with a partner. Watching the Golden Oldies gave me hope.

  I glanced at my altimeter—2500 feet. I pulled the ripcord. My body jerked a little as the chute opened, slowing my descent. Although freefalling at a high rate of speed is exciting, I loved the birds-eye view of the landscape below. To my left were patches of green fields with sporadic houses. To my right was the city, the streets bustling with traffic. I felt free up here. Seconds later, my feet touched down on the ground.

  I looked around but didn’t see the mystery man.

  A jetliner cut across the blue sky as the last of the jumpers touched down. One of the Golden Oldies approached, a portly man with a bristle-white mustache.

  “I saw you leap out of the plane as if someone was chasing you.”

  “What?” I asked, trying to conceal my embarrassment. I was a cop. People shouldn't be able to read me so easily.

  He patted his gut. “Just jerkin’ your chain.” He held out a hand and we shook. “I’m Taylor Swift, not to be confused with the country singer.” He laughed. “But seriously, I saw how that jumper in yellow almost collided with you. Now that would have been a bad day for the both of you.”

  Another Golden Oldie approached—a man with cropped white hair and clean-shaven. His eyes were the color of the sky. “Taylor, stop bothering this beautiful young lady.” He flashed a smile. “Besides, everyone’s waiting on you. We’re going to lunch.”

  Swift nodded. “Hold your horses, Gus.” Swift turned to me. “You want to join us? We’re all going to Denny’s.”

  I disconnected the chest and leg straps of my harness. “No, but thank you for the offer. I already have plans.” I was meeting the aunties at the mall for lunch.

  After gathering my parachute and stuffing it in the backpack, I made my way to the parking lot. Maybe I would see my aunties later and see what new adventures Marti and Harry Poole were up to. I also wondered how the ladies would fare as private eyes. If nothing else, I was sure it would be entertaining.

  I set the satchel in the back of the Jeep and hopped in the front seat. There was a piece of paper folded between the windshield wipers. Probably a political flyer. They were everywhere these days.

  I leaned outside the window, keeping one hand on the steering wheel for balance and snatched the folded sheet from the wiper blade. I flipped it open.

  My gut tightened as I read those seven words.

  You shouldn't have done what you did.

  Chapter 48

  11:00 a.m.

  Jumping out of an airplane usually relaxes me. Not today. The mystery man and note had me on edge. The note could have been from any number of people, but my money was on Dexter Allen. I pulled to a red light and picked up my cell. I contemplated calling Lieutenant McVay, but the last thing I needed was for him to assign an officer to watch over me every second of the day. And for how long? The thought of having indefinite twenty-four-hour protection didn’t sit well with me. I didn't need a babysitter.

  Part of me wished the bastard would try and get me at home. A home invasion attempt would work in my favor. I’m not big on killing people, but self-defense is self-defense.

  The light turned green and I set the phone in the center console. I’d chew on the idea of calling the boss later. For now, I wanted to go home, take a shower, and get ready to do lunch and some serious shopping with the aunties.

  The sky remained cloudless and beautiful on the drive home. The wind felt good against my skin. If the weather held, maybe I’d take Sam to the beach this evening. She loved chasing after flocks of seagulls gathering along the shoreline.

  I pulled into the driveway and almost got out without my Glock. Despite my bravado, the note had me discombobulated. Shit. I hate not being able to think on my feet.

  Though Dexter Allen had received an unfair trial in Gitmo, revenge didn’t give him a free pass. The man needed to pay for his actions. If by some chance he eventually killed Williams, I don’t think he would stop there. He clearly had a thirst for blood. And I’d never heard of any serial killer stopping on their own. The man was as cold-blooded as any murderer I’ve put behind bars. Stone cold.

  As I made my way to the front door, I took several long seconds to study the landscape. The windows were closed, the blinds halfway up like I’d left them this morning. When I reached the front door, I placed my ear against the wood. Not sure why. Guess my fear wouldn’t let go. It’s not like anyone inside would be making noises loud enough for me to hear anyway. The Animal Planet station was on the television, which gave me hope nothing had been disturbed.

  After unlocking the deadbolt and entering my domain, I set my gun on the table in the vestibule as Sam trotted toward me from the living room.

  I kicked the door shut with a foot, leaned down and gave her some loving. She returned the affection with wet kisses. “God, your breath reeks. Did you eat a skunk?”

  Sam tilted her head as if trying to understand the question.

  I stood and grabbed a jar on the bar. Her loyalty and keeping the hom
e front safe was rewarded with two doggie treats. She knew the routine. Instead of devouring them, her gaze focused on me. I snapped my fingers and she ate both in several bites, followed by licking up the crumbs. I patted her on the head as we made our way toward the bedroom. She jumped on the bed as I undressed, then followed me into the bathroom and flopped on the floor.

  Short on time because I’d be meeting the aunties for lunch, I opted for a shower. I entered the stand-up shower and turned the spigot. A few seconds later, a stream of hot water washed away my worries. Steam filled the tiny space and fogged the door.

  My thoughts turned to Francisco. He’d been so passionate during our one-night stand. Part of me wanted him to swallow me up into his arms and never let go. Truth was, I was scared to commit to anyone. Look what Michael had done. He'd broken my heart, cheating on me when we were married. Francisco had slept with lots of women since we'd been partners.

  Nope. Not going down that road again.

  Even so, a girl could fantasize. Especially in the shower. I soaped up and wondered what life would be like with him. His big hands caressing my breasts. A jolt of electricity shot through me as I remembered his touch. I could almost taste his skin, smell his musky cologne as I bit lightly on his shoulder. Smiling, for a while there, I got lost in the memory of his kisses. Hot, heavy, demanding, then just light enough to make a woman mindless with wanting more. Oh, yeah, Francisco had it down.

  Sam barked, yanking me back to reality. Shit, I couldn’t see anything through the fogged glass. Then the bathroom door slammed closed. Double shit. Sam was on the other side of it, and I was not alone.

  Before I could turn the water off, powerful hands ripped me out of the shower. I tried to save myself from falling, but my wet hands slipped on the sink and I crashed onto the tile floor as Sam continued to bark outside the door. Desperately she clawed at the other side, trying to reach me. At least I knew she was alive.

  I scrambled toward the door to let her in when a boot kicked me in the ribs. Pain exploded along my side so intensely my vision blurred. Before I had time to recover, the hands that had shoved me down pulled me upright and sat me on the toilet seat.