Tain and Ashlyn walked toward the hospital doors.
“Everything okay?” Tain asked.
She knew he was wondering how she felt about going to visit Craig, but she avoided the subject. “That depends. Are you going to quit?”
“You know me too well.”
“I think after what happened to your daughter, you thought being a cop would help you make sense of it all. That you’d be there to save other children from Noelle’s fate. When we stood over that little boy’s body last year, you looked down at Jeffrey Reimer and realized you couldn’t save them. All you could do was deal with the fallout after it was already too late.”
He didn’t respond. He didn’t have to.
“You know, Parker’s mistake was that he thought you’d want an explanation. He didn’t just want to win. He wanted you to know he’d won,” Tain said as he opened the door to the hospital.
“Sometimes, we don’t get answers, Tain,” she said as she stepped inside. She turned around to face him. “Sometimes all we do is clean up a big mess.”
He let the door fall shut behind him. “You’re okay with that? What if we’d known the truth about Millie eighteen months ago?”
Eighteen months ago, when Tain had broken through the front door of the cabin, he’d ducked just in time to avoid having a shotgun blast rip his head apart. In the seconds it took for Bobby Hobbs to realize he’d missed, Tain had lunged forward and knocked Hobbs back onto the floor. Bobby had lost his grip on the shotgun, which had gone spinning across the floor toward the back door, which Ashlyn had just entered. Craig had been right behind her.
Tain had his hand wrapped around Hobbs’s throat, and she pried him off the suspect. It wasn’t until she’d pushed him back and Craig had cuffed Hobbs and removed him from the cabin that Ashlyn had looked up, still catching her breath, to see the petite blonde girl in the corner of the room, wearing an old-fashioned white nightgown.
“Millie? Millie Harper?”
Ashlyn had reached out toward her, but the girl slid down into the corner of the room, eyes wide with fright, hands rising to cover her face.
“It’s okay, Millie. He’ll never hurt you again. We’ve got you. You’re going to be okay now.”
“Please.” The girl looked up, tears streaming down her face. “Please. Please let me die.”
Millie had been put on a psych hold hours later, when she grabbed a pair of scissors and tried to stab herself in the chest.
It made sense. After what she’d been through, Millie would struggle with guilt, would wrestle with why she’d been rescued and the other girls had died.
Ashlyn had assumed Millie never got pregnant, which was why she’d survived. It had never occurred to her that Millie had murdered her baby, a sacrifice to prove her devotion to an abductor who believed the only way she could truly prove her worth was to give up the most important thing in the world.
Her own child.
Parker had learned her secret and exploited her vulnerability. The sacrifice Millie had made to save her own life had ultimately destroyed it.
Ashlyn was torn between the guilt she felt over Millie’s death and the disgust she felt over what Millie had done. She knew she shouldn’t blame Millie; the girl had been abducted, raped and held captive for months, but that didn’t change the fact that every time Ashlyn thought about Millie murdering her own child she felt the rage boil up inside her, and when it passed she was left with nothing but her own emptiness.
She stopped outside Craig’s hospital room.
“When Noelle’s mother killed her, how’d you learn to forgive her?” she asked.
Tain pushed the door open and started to walk inside.
“Who says I have?”
Acknowledgments
Lullaby for the Nameless is the title of a song by Philip Fogarty. Ken Bruen gave me the CD a few years ago, and I asked Mr. Fogarty then if I could use the title for a book. It fit this one perfectly, so my thanks to Mr. Bruen for putting the music in my hands, and to Mr. Fogarty for the inspiration.
My thanks to my agent extraordinaire, Allan Guthrie, who has always pushed me to be a better writer, first as a friend and now as my “boss.”
I realize that if I try to name everyone I’d like to thank, I’ll miss someone, but there are a few specific people who should be mentioned.
Damon, Jay and the team at BSC Review, who have supported me personally and with Spinetingler.
Russel D. McLean, Daniel Hatadi, Patti Abbott, Stephen Blackmoore, Patrick Shawn Bagley, Chris Holm, Steve Allan, James Oswald, Stuart MacBride, Anne Frasier, Sean Chercover, Angie Johnson-Schmit, MG Tarquini, David Terrenoire, JD Rhoades, Amra Pajalic, John McFetridge, Peter Rozovsky, Linda L. Richards, Duane Swierczynski, Cornelia Read, Brett Battles, Rob Gregory Browne and so many more…The online community I’ve enjoyed over the years.
Jon and Ruth Jordan and the Crimespree Magazine family.
4MA, for the great discussions, the community spirit and the genuine love of books that is the foundation of the list.
My editor, Don D’Auria, and the team at Dorchester, for all the support and for loving the books.
Brian, for every little thing, and all the big things too.
And my thanks to all the others, you know who you are, who have contributed to my journey.
Rave Reviews for Sandra Ruttan and The Frailty of Flesh!
“The talented Ruttan turns a spotlight on the gritty reality of law enforcement…and the result is truly convoluted and disturbing.”
—RT Book Reviews
“The Frailty of Flesh tore me asunder. Rarely has a novel of such art and skill reduced me to a wreck…It’s a kick in the head that is underwrit with sheer compassion.”
—Ken Bruen, Shamus Award-winning
Author of The Guards
“Brave, dark and utterly convincing, The Frailty of Flesh is guaranteed to break the hardest of hearts. An absorbing read.”
—Allan Guthrie, Theakston Award-winning
Author of Hard Man
“The Frailty of Flesh is not only one of the best procedural thrillers I’ve read in a long time…but the ending knocked me right out of my seat. Ruttan captures the nature of crime in a way few thriller writers ever manage…this is vivid, impressive, gut-wrenching stuff.”
—Russel D. McLean, Crime Scene Scotland,
Author of The Good Son
WHAT BURNS WITHIN
“Ruttan manages to keep multiple leads and seconds on the same page admirably: she doesn’t drop too many clues in their laps or allow the tension to flag…The straight proceduralism from Ruttan serves the story well through the rewarding climax.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Well worth adding to any mystery collection.”
—Library Journal
“One absolute wallop of a novel…A totally mesmerizing narrative and a plot that literally burns off the page.”
—Ken Bruen, Shamus Award-winning
Author of The Guards
“A taut, crackling read with switch-blade pacing.”
—Rick Mofina, Bestselling Author of A Perfect Grave
More Praise for Sandra Ruttan!
“Ruttan has a spellbinding style.”
—New York Times Bestselling Author Clive Cussler
“Ruttan’s deft touch intrigues and satisfies, making her a powerful new force in the mystery field.”
—JT Ellison, Author of All the Pretty Girls
“A well executed procedural with a plot that twists and turns like a bad tempered rattlesnake.”
—Russel D. McLean, Crime Scene Scotland
“Ruttan clearly has the potential to be a very successful author…Lots of talent which I expect will be realized!”
—Maddy Van Hertbruggen, Mystery News
“Ruttan has made one big mistake in my eyes; she waited too long to bring her writing to us. She is talented in the way that a natural musician is talented, making all the notes seem effortless. Characters that feel very real, and a wonder
ful sense of timing, Ruttan brings it all and leaves it on the page. Lucky us. And unlucky me, because now I have to wait for the next one…”
—Jon Jordan, Crimespree Magazine
“Sandra Ruttan writes with a machine gun rhythm that pulls you through every unexpected twist and dark turn.”
—Bill Cameron, Author of Lost Dog
Lullaby for the Nameless
Sandra Ruttan
Finding the Body
Nolan walked toward the disturbed dirt and then stopped, still as a statue. From where Ashlyn stood she couldn’t see anything and when she glanced at the rangers the older man had turned his gaze toward the ground. The younger man glanced at her, then his partner, then looked away. The only one who didn’t avert his gaze was Rick. His expression betrayed nothing but his eyes were black as a moonless night and had the force of a magnetic pull that kept her staring back at him for a moment before she looked away.
After a glance at the officer who’d escorted them to the scene, who was also focused on the ground, Ashlyn moved beside Nolan.
God.
She was glad she had her back to the men so that they couldn’t see the look on her face…
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2009 by Sandra Ruttan
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781477831229
ISBN-10: 1477831223
For my mom, Ann.
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Excerpt
Copyright
Dedication
Eighteen Months Ago
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Part Two
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Part Three
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Part Four
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Part Five
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Part Six
Chapter Thirty-four
Part Seven
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Acknowledgments
Praise
This title was previously published by Dorchester Publishing; this version has been reproduced from the Dorchester book archive files.
Eighteen Months Ago
They say your life flashes before your eyes when you think you’re about to die, and for Jenny, it was the words of her mother that screamed in her head. She couldn’t shake the memories from her childhood…
When will you ever learn? Don’t you ever use your head?
That’s what Jenny expected her mother to say when she got home. That’s what her ma always said when Jenny got in trouble. An exaggerated sigh, the flare of the nostrils, hands on the hip and one of those familiar lines would accompany a smack upside the head.
Maybe that’ll knock some sense into ya.
What would follow the smack if her ma was really mad.
The summer before Jenny turned seven she’d snuck out of the house, to Old Mrs. Wilson’s property, and made her way to the garden to pick berries.
Mrs. Wilson had a face that looked like an apple going bad. For someone as old as she was, she could still move, though, and when Mrs. Wilson had seen Jenny, she’d darted back up the porch steps, yanked the screen door open and grabbed a broom before Jenny even thought to turn and run.
“Just wait till I get my hands on you,” Old Mrs. Wilson shouted as she scurried down the steps.
Jenny turned and ran as fast as her scrawny chicken legs would carry her.
“Your little red head will burn in hell! That’s what happens to bad girls like you!”
Jenny was only six years old, but by then she knew from experience that it was better to tell her ma she’d done something bad and get a talking to or be sent to her room without supper than to take the chance that her ma would find out later. If she waited for Old Mrs. Wilson to call her ma, she’d get the strap.
When she’d confessed her crimes, her ma had sat still on the faded brown couch.
“Are you mad?” Jenny had asked.
“What did you pick?”
“Strawberries.”
“Good.”
Silence followed, and Jenny wasn’t sure if Ma was waiting to decide how to punish her or just how much trouble Jenny was in. When Ma didn’t say anything for what felt like a really long time, Jenny, still staring at her shoes, asked, “Is hell bad?”
“I’d rather burn in hell than freeze in heaven,” her ma had said as she pulled herself up off the sofa. “Let’s have a snack.”
Jenny never even got scolded that day. It was like the idea of being together in hell had made her mother like her a little more. They’d cleaned the strawberries and Ma even let her have a bit of chocolate syrup on top, and they’d sat outside on the back steps and ate their snack together.
It had been the best day of her life.
Don’t you ever think? When will you ever learn?
Jenny’s ma hadn’t asked those questions that summer day, and the next spring she gave up asking those questions altogether, right around the time Bobby Hobbs threw Jenny’s slingshot out onto the frozen lake. Jenny was seven years old then, and she’d snuck out of the house when she was supposed to be cleaning her room and keeping out of trouble while her ma worked.
She’d been playing her own game in the woods, near the shore, shooting at trees. When she heard voices, Jenny hid the slingshot behind her back.
“Look, Eddie—it’s Scruffy!” Bobby said when he came into the clearing and saw her. Bobby and Eddie were a few grades ahead of her, but they always called her by the name her classmates had for her at school.
She hated being called Scruffy.
“Oooh, Scruffy’s out. Maybe we should tell her ma,” Eddie said.
“My ma’s working,” Jenny told him. Her ma didn’t like Eddie much, and she didn’t want her ma to know she’d been talking to him.
“My mom says your ma works on her back,” Bobby said. He elbowed Eddie, and they laughed. Jenny wasn’t sure what they were talking about, but that didn’t matter. They lost interest in her mother quickly.
“Watcha hiding?” Bobby asked.
“Nothing.” Jenny took a step back.
“Aw, come on, what is it? You scared we’re gonna cut your Barbie’s hair off?”
Bobby and Eddie both laughed. Jenny looked to her right. She was a fast runner. She could probably make it—after all, she’d outrun Old Mrs. Wilson—but Bobby must have figured out what she was thinking.
“Get her!” Bobby said. Jenny started to run, but it was too late. E
ddie grabbed her shoulders, and Bobby yanked her arm.
“A slingshot.” He pulled it out of Jenny’s hand.
“Give it back,” she said as she kicked Eddie in the leg. Eddie let go of her. Eddie followed Bobby around and did whatever Bobby told him to do, but even she could push him around if he was on his own. Just a low-down piece of Indian trash—that’s what her ma always said about Eddie Campbell. He had a big nose and giant glasses and clothes with more holes in them than hers had.
“You can have it back,” Bobby said as he pulled his arm back and threw the slingshot out onto the ice, “if you go get it.”
“She’s too much of a scaredy-cat to walk out there,” Eddie said
“Am not!” She folded her arms across her body defiantly.
“Sure you are,” Bobby said as he elbowed Eddie in the ribs. “You’re just a girl. A scared little girl.”
“Am not!”
“Are too,” Eddie Campbell had said. Jenny thought he was a loser, a kid who pretended to be tough but really wasn’t, but she still didn’t want him making fun of her.
“Shut up!”
“She’d rather be home playing with dolls.” Eddie said as Bobby nudged him in the ribs again.
“Betcha don’t like slingshots anyway,” Bobby said.
“Do too. I’ll use it on you, Bobby Hobbs! I’m gonna shoot you in the butt with a rock.”
Bobby laughed. “How you gonna do that when it’s out on the lake, stupid?”
Lullaby for the Nameless (Nolan, Hart & Tain Thrillers) Page 31