by Jen Blood
“That’s not the same thing—”
“Why not? Because you were working and this is just some personal crusade for me? Because I—”
“Because it’s you,” he said, suddenly quiet. All the fight had gone from his eyes. He looked terrified. And very, very tired. He shook his head. “I couldn’t lose you this way, Sol.” His eyes were swimming when he looked at me again. “I couldn’t lose you any way, but this… I can’t protect you from something like this.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
He took a step closer. I didn’t move. “It’s not like I’m some crack shot with a black belt and an arsenal in my trunk. I’m a reporter. I know shorthand and surfing and Guitar God. Other than that, I’m no help here.”
I met his eye. “That’s not true.”
I don’t know who stepped where next, but somehow a second later we were right there—not quite touching yet, but close enough that I could already feel his energy like an electrical current.
He brushed the hair back from my forehead. I closed my eyes. Fisted the front of his t-shirt in my hands, and remained there, suspended, not quite touching and not quite…not. I could feel his heart beating; the soft warmth of his breath on my face when he leaned in and rested his forehead against mine. His hands were on my shoulders—I couldn’t tell whether it was to push me away or keep me close. Neither of us moved.
“We should get some sleep,” he whispered.
I nodded, our heads still touching. He palmed the back of my neck with one hand and pressed a long, lingering kiss to my forehead.
“I’m sorry I’m a pain in the ass,” I said, fighting an unwelcome surge of emotion of my own.
He laughed, his lips humming against my skin. “You should be. You’re gonna be the death of me, Solomon.” He stepped back and combed his fingers through his hair again with a long, slow exhale. “I’m staying here tonight—No way I’m leaving you in this room alone now.”
I wasn’t about to argue.
Chapter Eight
At 7:02 the next morning, there was a knock on my motel room door and Einstein completely lost his shit. I groaned and burrowed deeper into the blankets. Diggs came out of the bathroom in his shorts, his hair wet and a towel draped over his naked shoulders.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said.
I groaned again, louder this time. Diggs went to the door and looked through the peephole.
“Cavalry’s here, Sol—come on, get up.”
“Go away,” I said. “And tell whoever’s here to go with you.” I pulled the pillow over my head. In case there’s any question, I will never be mistaken for a morning person.
I heard the door open.
“You made good time,” Diggs said.
“I flew into Presque Isle last night. The case was already on our radar—it wasn’t hard to convince the director to send me out.” A male voice. Low, a little smoky, with a barely detectable touch of Cuban flavor in there.
Crap.
I was wide awake the instant I realized who it was. I prayed for invisibility.
“Is she hiding?” he asked.
“Mornings,” Diggs said. Like that explained everything. He plucked the pillow off my head. “Come on, Sol, up and at ’em. The Feds wait for no one.”
I made a half-assed attempt to smooth my hair out and rub the sleep from my eyes before facing Jack Juarez, who stood at our door in a freshly pressed suit with three coffees in his hands. He didn’t even try to hide his amusement.
“How did you know we were here?” I asked.
“I called him,” Diggs said.
“You couldn’t have given me a heads-up?”
“I thought it would be more fun this way,” Diggs said. He gave me a sexy little eyebrow pump. “I was right, too.”
“You’re such an ass.”
Juarez looked around the room. Diggs was still half naked, but both hotel beds in the room had clearly been slept in. Not that I was concerned my virtue might come into question—Juarez and I had tangled enough the last time he was in town that I’d never be mistaken for a virgin in his eyes.
My favorite Fed set the coffees on the dresser. He looked tanned and surprisingly well rested considering he must have taken a red eye to make it to the ends of the earth so quickly, or so I assumed. His dark hair was a little longer than I remembered it, his body a little leaner. He looked good. I hadn’t known Juarez long, but based on my experience thus far, this wasn’t unusual. Juarez always looked good.
“You don’t have to look so appalled,” he said to me with a smile. “You’re going after a serial killer, aren’t you? That is kind of my area. I promise I’ll let you play, too.”
I thought of Diggs’ words the night before; how completely haunted he’d seemed by them. I can’t protect you.
So he’d called in someone who could. Since it didn’t seem I had much choice, I surrendered and got out of bed. My pj bottoms had hitched down and my tank top had twisted sideways, giving both boys an excellent view of my unmentionables before I managed to pull myself together.
“When did he call you?” I asked.
“Yesterday afternoon,” Juarez said.
I looked at Diggs in surprise, but he was suddenly very focused on his coffee. “When yesterday afternoon?”
Juarez shifted uncomfortably. Diggs set his coffee down and looked me in the eye. “While you were asleep on the drive up here. I had some time to think about it, and I decided then that our best-case scenario was still more than you and I could handle on our own.” He set his jaw. “You can be pissed if you want, but I’m not sorry. Especially after last night.”
“What happened last night?” Juarez asked immediately.
I suppressed a groan and excused myself to find something decent to wear—it wasn’t like I needed to be there while they rolled their eyes and moaned about what a lost cause I was.
When I returned to the fold, Juarez was sitting on the bed going through my files. Diggs and Einstein were nowhere to be found.
“He took the dog for a walk,” Juarez said before I could ask. “They shouldn’t be gone long.”
I’d put on shorts and a t-shirt. My hair was still wet, but I felt at least moderately prepared to face the world now. I sat on the bed beside him, inching closer to get a glimpse of the file he held.
“I’m assuming Diggs told you about my father’s possible connection to the case?”
He nodded. “I did a little research of my own to learn more after I spoke with him. And I’m meeting with the coroner in Quebec tomorrow.”
“And today?”
He got up and retrieved his briefcase, pulling out a stack of files three inches thick. He tossed them all onto the bed next to me.
“I shouldn’t actually be showing you these,” he said.
“So why are you?”
It took Juarez a few seconds before he had an answer for that. “Because based on what happened last night, I’d say you’ve struck a nerve with someone—someone who is unfortunately very much alive, and not keen on sharing his secrets. And since you’re obviously not going to back down…”
“Obviously,” I agreed.
He grimaced. “Obviously. So that means it’s in everyone’s best interest to catch this lunatic as quickly as possible. I think you could be the key to making that happen.”
I picked up the files and began thumbing through. With each one, my anxiety ratcheted up a notch. I recognized a few of the names, but most I’d never heard of before.
“What are these?”
There were at least fifteen files, each with a photo clipped to the front. Every photo was of a different girl, ranging in age from sixteen to over thirty.
“Between 1981 and 1990, eight girls between the ages of seventeen and twenty-two disappeared in northern and central Maine. Five of them were found in that grave across the Canadian border.”
“So who are all the others?”
He didn’t answer. I looked through more carefully, studying the faces.
They were all white, with fair skin and slender builds. Several were redheads, but not all. Locations centered around northern New England, primarily Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont. I cleared my throat.
“Who are they, Jack?”
“I searched the database for a certain body type, facial features,” he finally answered. “And cross referenced with geographic area and similarities to each of the disappearances: victims who disappeared from their homes without a struggle, leaving behind shoes, purses, younger siblings or children.”
“You don’t actually think my father killed all these people,” I said.
“At four of the sites in those files, one man’s fingerprints were found.”
I pushed the files away. “Jeff Lincoln,” I guessed.
“Jeff Lincoln,” he agreed.
“My father was living out on Payson Isle when a lot of these happened,” I argued.
“There are boats to the mainland. You were with him part of that time, but not all. Right?”
I pulled one of the files out of the stack, opened it, and stared at the photo inside. Ashley Gendreau. The photo on top was her senior picture, taken in a pasture I assumed must be around here somewhere. She’d had a nice smile—the kind you’d expect to precede a great laugh. I closed the file again.
“Diggs told you what happened last night?” I asked.
“Someone broke into the room and left a photo of Erin Lincoln,” he said. “Someone who’s been following you and Diggs.”
“My father wouldn’t have done that,” I said.
He didn’t say anything.
“Diggs doesn’t think he would have, either,” I lied.
Diggs came through the door just in time to catch me in the act. “Diggs doesn’t think who would have done what?”
“You don’t think her father would have broken into the room?” Juarez asked curiously.
“I didn’t say that.”
My frustration was building fast. I turned on him while he was still unsnapping the leash from Einstein’s collar. “If my father was this psychotic killer, don’t you think I would have noticed? Wouldn’t there have been some sign?” I asked. “And why would he leave me that picture of his sister last night?”
“To scare you off,” Diggs said.
“He knows me better than that,” I said. “After everything that happened out on Payson Isle, you really think he’d believe a friggin’ snapshot would make me turn tail and run?”
“Look, whether it’s your father or someone else is moot at the moment,” Juarez interrupted. “I think the point we should be focusing on is that someone broke into this room last night and left a photo clearly incriminating them in not only a vicious murder forty years ago, but of stalking you now.”
Diggs raised his coffee cup. “Exactly. Listen to the Fed, Sol.”
“Fine, whatever—there’s a killer with his sights set on me. What else is new? You’ve already said you’re not gonna try to make me go home. So, what’s the next step?”
Juarez and Diggs shared a commiserating glance. “All five of the victims found on the border were from Aroostook County,” Juarez said. “I’ve contacted the families. The plan is for me to speak with them today to see if I can get any information before meeting with the coroner in Quebec tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” I said. “We’ll come along—I’d like a chance to talk to them myself.”
His gaze flickered back toward Diggs. It was nice to know that, despite everything, the bromance was alive and well.
“I was actually thinking you two could stay around here,” Juarez said, “and keep asking questions about the Erin Lincoln murder. That’s the coldest of seven very cold cases at this point, but I think it could tell us a lot about the killer.”
To my surprise—and Juarez’s, judging by the look on his face—Diggs shook his head. “I think that’s a bad idea. She should stick with you today.”
Juarez frowned. “I’ll be back here tonight—just don’t get in any trouble.”
“Have you met Solomon?”
I crumpled a piece of paper and threw it at Diggs. It glanced off his shoulder, doing precious little to drive my point home. “I know I’m no Bella fucking Swan, but could one of you at least pretend to want me along for the ride?”
Diggs quirked an eyebrow at Juarez. “Does that make me the vamp or the wolf?”
“I will hurt you,” I said.
The humor vanished from Diggs’ eyes. “I think she should go with you,” he said to Juarez again. “We’ll meet back here tonight, and then we’ll head to Quebec together tomorrow.”
“You’re sure?” Juarez asked.
“Oh for crying out loud,” I said. I looked at Diggs, who’d taken on the same haunted fifty-yard stare he’d had the night before. “I can stay with you,” I said. Juarez went to the door, giving us as much privacy as was possible in a ten-by-twenty motel room.
I sat down on the bed. Diggs came over and joined me. I heard the door open and close, and knew Juarez had left the building.
“If the guy in the truck last night really was the guy, he could have killed me right then,” I began.
“You need to stop acting like you’re bulletproof,” he interrupted before I could finish. “Or, if you’re not going to stop, you at least need someone who can keep you safe. Juarez knows what he’s doing—just listen to me for once in your life, and stick with him. He’s a good guy.”
“All right, fine. But you’ll be here when we get back, right?”
“I’ll be here.”
He grabbed his backpack and started for the door, then stopped at the threshold. “I’ll take Stein with me; we’ll cruise the countryside, see what we can find out.” He got quiet again. “Be careful, okay?”
“You too.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I will. I’ll see you tonight.”
I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute or more after he left, staring at the door like that would somehow bring him back. And maybe even convince him to stay.
It didn’t.
◊◊◊◊◊
The first stop with Juarez was to the home of Jenny Bishop—or the home of Jenny Bishop’s father, anyway. Her parents had divorced not long after her disappearance in 1982. Now, her mother lived in a retirement home in Jersey, while Brian Bishop remained in the same house where his daughter had last been seen thirty years before.
Juarez and I pulled into a winding private drive in Houlton at just past eleven that morning. A whitewashed fence ran the length of the property, three chestnut horses grazing in the distance. The Bishops had done well for themselves, and apparently tragedy hadn’t changed that: the front yard was beautifully landscaped, the grounds mowed golf-green short.
I’d put on my Sunday best and was sweating in a very unladylike fashion, even though my Sunday best was just a skirt and blazer. Juarez was trussed and trimmed, his necktie knotted tight, and he’d never looked cooler. I knew it wasn’t his fault he had better genes than me, but I found myself a little resentful all the same.
An old white farmhouse sat at the back of the Bishop property with an exact, scaled-down replica built closer to the drive. I paused in front of it, recalling Jenny Bishop’s file: A model student, lifetime horse lover, only child. The apple of her father’s eye.
Juarez looked at me. “Are you coming?” he asked.
“Yeah. I just…” I gestured toward the playhouse, then looked around at the rest of the grounds. “It seems a little…”
“Sad?” he finished for me.
“I was thinking creepy, actually—but sad works, too.”
“These kinds of interviews are never easy,” he said. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I just rode two hours listening to American Idol’s Greatest Hits. I’m thinking it can’t get much more painful than that.”
“That was nothing. I’m saving the good stuff for the trip back.”
“I can’t wait.”
I wiped my damp palms on my skirt and waited
for Juarez to take the lead up the walk. He was right, actually: there was something sad about this place, a kind of emptiness that went much deeper than the well-groomed façade. This was where the story led next, so I wouldn’t hesitate to go in and ask Brian Bishop whatever questions needed asking. It didn’t mean I had to like it, though.
Brian Bishop was thin and drawn and had a way about him that suggested he’d been an old man for a long, long time. He stood aside as we walked through the front door, then led us into a living room that had probably been the height of fashion in 1982. Based on the décor, however, it hadn’t had an update since that time. It was like the whole house was holding its breath, frozen in time. Waiting for Jenny Bishop to come home.
Photographs covered the tops of two antique dressers and most available wall space. A little blonde girl with glasses was featured in most of them.Her life had been well documented. Baby pictures, first steps, school photos, birthdays… A pudgy toddler grew into a lean, smiling little girl with pigtails, and eventually into a pretty, athletic teen. Photos of dance recitals and gymnastics trials followed every stage of her development, all the way through high school to the first day of college. And then, suddenly, they simply…stopped.
There were only a few pictures on the wall taken more recently than the ’80s, mostly school photos of other kids—cousins and other family members, some of whom had a vague resemblance to the daughter the Bishops lost. I got the sense that those other shots had been put up under duress. If he had his way, I had little doubt that Brian Bishop would have gotten rid of anything and everything that wasn’t his daughter.
Juarez sat down at one end of an outdated floral sofa. I followed his lead and sat next to him. Brian sat in a recliner a few feet away.
“You’ve talked to the police,” Juarez said. “About the bodies they recovered?”
Brian nodded. He wore thick-framed glasses and pants two sizes too large, held up with black-and-white checked suspenders.