Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 1
Page 29
Taylor and Baldwin were sharing a beer, holding hands, watching the sun set. The air was pink and chilly; the fire pit at their feet put out a steady heat.
After a time, the sky turned purple and the shadows around them disappeared. She finished off the beer and grinned at him.
“Want some dinner?” Her voice still sounded like sandpaper, and the scar that traversed her neck stood out, a stark red reminder of how close he’d actually come to losing her.
“Yeah, but I’ll cook. You just sit here.” He stood and bent to her, giving her a long kiss. When he went inside, whistling, Taylor felt the absence of his lips sharply, pulled her scarf closer around her throat.
Her survival had been nothing short of miraculous. She’d only been out of the hospital for a few days. It had taken three weeks of advances and setbacks, plus two more surgeries, until she had been cleared for release. She would be in therapy for several more weeks, but the prognosis was excellent. She’d always had a raspy voice, but now it was deep and husky. She thought she sounded awful; Baldwin found it incredibly sexy.
He’d been by her side the whole time, and she was so grateful. There’d been an attraction between them from the beginning, certainly, but it had grown into more, much more, in the weeks since they’d met. In the hospital, through the pain and agony and recriminations, every time she opened her eyes, he was close by, reading, working on his computer, sleeping. He talked to her, read to her, kept her spirits from flagging when the pain threatened to overwhelm her.
She should have told him to leave, to go live his life, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want a life without him in it.
When she’d been discharged, he’d driven her home. She’d asked him to come in, and he hadn’t left. She was so very glad. Having him in her life, in her house, banished the demons she’d been facing. She felt right again, as if she’d come back to herself. She knew he felt the same way.
*
Baldwin opened the refrigerator door and pulled out the steaks. He set them on the counter, pulled out a pot to cook the corn. Her home was easy to be in, relaxing, restful. He hadn’t felt this comfortable in years.
Taylor had saved him, and nothing would keep him from her side ever again. He thanked God every day for bringing her into his life. And Garrett Woods, and Mitchell Price, and the whole Nashville Murder Squad, for forcing him back to the land of the living. Nothing in his past mattered anymore. Taylor had forgiven him, and he’d forgiven himself. He’d have to go to Quantico at some point, grab some of his things from his apartment up there. He didn’t want to go back to the BSU full-time. Not yet. Woods had agreed he could work out of the Nashville field office. Baldwin might be healing, but there were still people who would never forgive him. Staying away seemed like the best course of action for now.
There was also the added bonus of the blond goddess out on the deck, the fire making her skin glow.
His stomach flipped as he watched her. The cat hopped in her lap, settled in by the fire. She stroked her soft head, kissed her between the ears. Gentle and strong. Loving and fiery. Capable, yet vulnerable.
Mine. She’s mine. Yes, staying put was a very good thing.
He put the corn in the water, was carrying the steaks to the grill when the phone rang. He picked it up.
“Hello?… Yeah… Oh wow. Okay, I’ll tell Taylor… Yeah, she’s doing well. Thanks for calling.”
He left the food in the kitchen and went out to the deck.
“Was that the phone?” She started to sit up, but he put a hand on her shoulder, dipped down, and gave her a small kiss on the forehead, a longer one on the lips.
“It was Fitz. Jill delivered the baby an hour ago.”
Taylor nodded. “We knew this day was coming. Jill finally fulfilled Gabriel’s prophecy.”
He took her hand. “Sort of. It’s a girl, Taylor. Gabriel’s Messiah is a girl.”
*
AUTHOR NOTE
Thank you for taking the time to read Field of Graves. I hope you enjoyed seeing Taylor and Baldwin meet and fall in love, and of course, how Taylor got her remarkable scar.
This novel was my very first full-length work. Written between 2003 and 2005, in a complete and utter vacuum, it is the novel that landed me my agent but didn’t sell to the marketplace. On my agent’s advice, I went on to write All the Pretty Girls, continuing the Taylor series, which was my first sale.
I put Field of Graves in a drawer, jokingly calling it my 80,000 words of backstory. Over the course of the Jackson series, I stole from it on occasion, referred to it often, making it a living, breathing document, a real part of the series, though unseen by readers’ eyes until now.
It has been lightly edited, and I’ve done this on purpose. First, seventeen novels later, I am now a better writer, with a more solid grasp of story and a more distinct voice and style. Second, there were some scientific and forensic mistakes that have now been corrected. Third, since I did steal some scenes verbatim for later books, I needed to smooth over those sections. I apologize for any repetitions I’ve missed.
But I didn’t want to change the book too much. It is my first novel, with the flaws inherent to a debut effort. It was rather fun to revisit the book and see these flaws. Some I’ve left; others, where egregious, I’ve fixed.
The Nashville setting represents the city at the time I wrote the book; there are places, restaurants, and cultural situations no longer familiar to our town.
The biggest issue I found was how to deal with Taylor’s cat, Jade. In the current series, beginning with All the Pretty Girls, she does not have a pet. Between the books, I realized the demands being placed on her character would preclude the time and effort needed to care properly for an animal. Having someone at home who needs you to show up, feed, water, and love does take time away from catching bad guys.
But in Field of Graves, Taylor has Jade.
Some of you may recognize the name, and the description of the cat. The Jade in this book is my baby, Thrillercat. For those who don’t know the story, let me share it with you.
She came to us as a replacement cat, after we suffered the loss of our nineteen-year-old Siamese, Jiblet. (All names in my family start with J—from parents to siblings to animals to husband). When I first saw her at the pound, she was five weeks old, suffering from a bad cold. So bad that they were going to put her down. They can’t afford to have sick kittens in the cages; disease spreads too quickly.
We took her to the vet next door and insisted he patch her up. He did. When we brought her home, we named her Jade for her intense green eyes.
Having just moved to Nashville, I couldn’t find work in my chosen field, so I was happy to accept a position with the vet who healed little Jade. I thought I’d be working the desk, but he wanted me as a tech in the back. Bad. Bad. Bad. After my first neutering, I was done. But before I could quit, I picked up a large golden retriever and herniated a disc in my back. That led to surgery, and recovery time, and library books, where I discovered John Sandford. The rest, as they say, is history. I sat down and wrote a Jackson novella, then took what I’d learned and created Field of Graves.
Sadly, Jade passed away in 2012 from pancreatic cancer. It took years, but we finally adopted again—this time, sisters, also shelter kittens. How Jameson and Jordan came to live with us is a story for another time, but I will share that Jade was a huge part of the process. And it’s not lost on us that we needed two kittens to fill the void Jade left behind. She was a magnificent cat.
Though it is a departure from the rest of the series, I’ve chosen to leave Jade in this story to honor her spirit. I miss my little furry muse terribly, and I simply couldn’t erase her from the book that she gave me. It wouldn’t be right.
Thank you for reading, and for being a part of my writer’s journey. Please forgive the book’s rawness. We all need to have a first.
J.T. Ellison
Nashville, Tennessee
ISBN-13: 9781488010446
Field o
f Graves
Copyright © 2016 by J.T. Ellison
All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 225 Duncan Mill Road, Don Mills, Ontario, Canada M3B 3K9.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.
www.Harlequin.com
Nashville Homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson is working to catch a serial rapist after a local girl falls prey to a sadistic killer. The Southern Strangler is slaughtering his way through the Southeast, leaving a gruesome memento at each crime scene—the prior victim’s severed hand. Taylor finds herself in a joint investigation with her lover, FBI profiler Dr. John Baldwin, as they pursue the vicious murderer.
Ambitious TV reporter Whitney Connolly is certain the Southern Strangler is her ticket out of Nashville; she’s got a scoop that could break the case. But she has no idea how close to this story she really is—or what it will cost her.
Battling an old injury and her own demons, Taylor is desperate to quell the rising tide of bodies. But as the killer spirals out of control, everyone involved must face a horrible truth—the purest evil is born of private lies.
J.T. ELLISON
All the Pretty Girls
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
CHAPTER ONE
“No. Please don’t.” She whispered the words, a divine prayer. “No. Please don’t.” There they were again, bubbles forming at her lips, the words slipping out as if greased from her tongue.
Even in death, Jessica Ann Porter was unfailingly polite. She wasn’t struggling, wasn’t crying, just pleading with those luminescent chocolate eyes, as eager to please as a puppy. He tried to shake off the thought. He’d had a puppy once. It had licked his hand and gleefully scampered about his feet, begging to be played with. It wasn’t his fault that the thing’s bones were so fragile, that the roughhousing meant for a boy and his dog forced a sliver of rib into the little creature’s heart. The light shone, then faded in the puppy’s eyes as it died in the grass in his backyard. That same light in Jessica’s eyes, her life leaching slowly from their cinnamon depths, died at this very moment.
He noted the signs of death dispassionately. Blue lips, cyanotic. The hemorrhaging in the sclera of the eyes, pinpoint pricks of crimson. The body seemed to cool immediately, though he knew it would take some time for the heat to fully dissipate. The vivacious yet shy eighteen-year-old was now nothing more than a piece of meat, soon to be consigned back to the earth. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Blowfly to maggot. The life cycle complete once again.
He shook off the reverie. It was time to get to work. Glancing around, he spied his tool kit. He didn’t remember kicking it over, perhaps his memory was failing him. Had the girl actually struggled? He didn’t think so, but confusion sets in at the most important moments. He would have to consider that later, when he could give it his undivided thought. Only the radiant glow of her eyes at the moment of expiration remained for him now. He palmed the handsaw and lifted her limp hand.
No, please don’t. Three little words, innocuous in their definitions. No great allegories, no ethical dilemmas. No, please don’t. The words echoed through his brain as he sawed, their rhythm spurring his own. No, please don’t. No, please don’t. Back and forth, back and forth.
No, please don’t. Hear these words, and dream of hell.
CHAPTER TWO
Nashville was holding its collective breath on this warm summer night. After four stays of execution, the death watch had started again. Homicide lieutenant Taylor Jackson watched as the order was announced that the governor would not be issuing another stay, then snapped off the television and walked to the window of her tiny office in the Criminal Justice Center. The Nashville skyline spread before her in all its glory, continuously lit by blazing flashes of color. The high-end pyrotechnic delights were one of the largest displays in the nation. It was the Fourth of July. The quintessential American holiday. Hordes of people gathered in Riverfront Park to hear the Nashville Symphony Orchestra perform in concert with the brilliant flares of light. Things were drawing to a close now. Taylor could hear the strains of Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, a Russian theme to celebrate America’s independence. She jumped slightly with every cannon blast, perfectly coinciding with launched rockets.
The cheers depressed her. The whole holiday depressed her. As a child, she’d been wild for the fireworks, for the cotton-candy fun of youth and mindless celebration. As she grew older, she mourned that lost child, trying desperately to reach far within herself to recapture that innocence. She failed.
The sky was dark now. She could see the throngs of people heading back to whatever parking spots they had found, children skipping between tired parents, fluorescent bracelets and glow sticks arcing through the night. They would spirit these innocents home to bed with joy, soothed by the knowledge that they had satisfied their little ones, at least for the moment. Taylor wouldn’t be that lucky. Any minute now, she’d be answering the phone, getting the call. Chance told her somewhere in her city a shooter was escaping into the night. Fireworks were perfect cover for gunfire. That’s what she told herself, but there was another reason she’d stayed in her office this holiday night. Protecting her city was a mental ruse. She was waiting.
A memory rose, unbidden, unwanted. Trite in its way, yet the truth of the statement hit her to the core. “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I
became a man, I put away childish things.” Or became a woman. Her days of purity were behind her now.
Taking one last glance at the quickening night, she closed the blinds and sat heavily in her chair. Sighed. Ran her fingers through her long blond hair. Wondered why she was hanging out in the Homicide office when she could be enjoying the revelry. Why she was still committed to the job. Laid her head on her desk and waited for the phone to ring. Got back up and flipped the switch to the television.
The crowds were a pulsing mass at the Riverbend Maximum Security Prison. Police had cordoned off sections of the yard of the prison, one for the pro–death penalty activists, another comprised the usual peaceful subjects, a third penned in reporters. ACLU banners screamed injustice, the people holding them shouting obscenities at their fellow groupies. All the trappings necessary for an execution. No one was put to death without an attendant crowd, each jostling to have their opinion heard.
The young reporter from Channel Two was breathless, eyes flushed with excitement. There were no more options. The governor had denied the last stay two hours earlier. Tonight, at long last, Richard Curtis would pay the ultimate price for his crime.
As she watched, her eyes flicked to the wall clock, industrial numbers glowing on a white face: 11:59 p.m. An eerie silence overcame the crowd. It was time.