You Can't Escape (9781420134650)

by Bush, Nancy

  The house they pulled up to was near the far end of the lane, just before the road itself petered out. There should have been a cul-de-sac put in for easy turnabout, but the road just came to a stop. Gravel had been strewn over the dirt and grass for the unwary who made a wrong turn and found themselves facing the greenway and copse of trees. September supposed you could make a U-y, but there was a strong chance a tire or two would slip into mud, so the prospect was iffy.

  “Who called you to this house?” September asked, looking at the older two-story home. Its shingles were painted dark green, its white trim blistered and rotting. She could see a window below the siding, which indicated there was a basement, where the “skeletons in the closet” had apparently been found. The place looked like a true handyman’s delight, the kind that needed a serious overhaul from years of neglect. The only thing new about it was the crime tech’s white van parked in front.

  “A woman named Carol Jenkins hadn’t heard from her sister in a long while so she flew from Florida to see what was wrong, but when she got to the house, she was stalemated by her great-niece and the niece’s husband. They wouldn’t let her in the door. She set up a clamor, and eventually got a court order to be allowed in, and the niece and husband appear to be minor drug users and dealers. No sign of the sister, until, what do you know . . . a pile of bones in the basement.” Gretchen’s eyes were bright and glittering at the prospect of what lay ahead. She loved being involved in sick crimes of all sorts, though September was far less eager to delve into the strange, warped, and amoral world that seemed to so fascinate her partner. Literal “skeletons in the closet” definitely appealed to Gretchen.

  As September slammed the passenger door shut, her eye on the dilapidated concrete steps that led to the narrow front porch, her cell phone buzzed. Pulling it from her pocket, she looked down at the number and sucked in a breath.

  “What?” Gretchen demanded, her head swiveling September’s way.

  “It’s my sister, July. She’s past her due date.”

  “Oh.” Babies did not interest Gretchen.

  September quickly hit the talk button. “Hey, there,” she said, unable to contain the excitement in her voice.

  Immediately, July said, “No, no, nothing new. Just wanted to talk to you. I’m blimping around over here, waiting and waiting. Tomorrow I’m going in to see what’s what. God knows I’m sick of being pregnant.”

  July was September’s older sister, who’d decided not to let the whim of love or fate decide when she would have a child. Instead, July had gone to the sperm bank and picked out a father. She’d learned a few months earlier that she was having a baby girl in May, and, in keeping with one of the strangest Rafferty traditions—naming a child after the month in which it was born—she’d decided to name her baby girl May.

  But now they were getting very close to the end of the month, so September queried, “How do you feel about June?”

  “Kinda wanted May, you know.”

  Their oldest sister, May, had been killed as a teenager and, upon learning the baby was due in May, July had wanted to honor her sister by giving her baby her name. “I know,” September agreed. Gretchen was staring at her, making the hand motion that meant for her to wrap it up.

  “Oh, who knows . . . maybe I’ll name her Gilda,” she added impishly.

  They both laughed as Gilda was the name their stepmother, who was younger than both of them, had wanted for her own daughter, born the previous January. But of course Rosamund had bent to their father’s wishes and the baby had been named for the month she was born as well.

  “I gotta go,” September said. “But if anything happens—”

  “I’m calling you first,” July promised.

  September had to hurry to catch up to Gretchen, who was eating up the walkway to the porch with ground-devouring strides. As she reached her, her phone rang yet again. Gretchen blew out a raspberry in frustration, but September looked at the screen and said, “Auggie.” She clicked on. “Yeah?”

  “Jordanna Winters,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Danziger’s girlfriend. Jordanna Winters. She’s a freelance reporter. Maybe she’s worked with him. I had a still picture of her from the hospital camera and showed it to some of Danziger’s colleagues. One of them recognized her. The guy had crossed paths with her in the course of work. Apparently she’s written articles for smaller papers.”

  “Jordanna Winters,” September repeated thoughtfully.

  “Just wanted to let you know. Oh, and I met with the feds who don’t want to share. We both know ’em.”

  “Donley and Bethwick,” September said, recalling the two FBI agents she’d worked with the previous fall.

  Hearing the names of the two agents, Gretchen groaned and said, “Frick and Frack.” She’d had run-ins with them before, and September had danced around them as well.

  “You got it,” Auggie said. “They’re focused on the Saldanos, so I’m keeping the Winters information to myself for the moment. I’m going to go by her apartment, see if there’s any chance she and Danziger are there.”

  “What about Carmen?” she asked.

  “I’m not telling her jack shit, and don’t you, either.”

  “This is your case, not mine.”

  “For the moment, anyway.”

  “Stay on it,” September advised her brother, and he grunted an assent before she clicked off.

  “Are we ready now?” her partner asked her sardonically.

  September nodded and followed her inside the house and down the stairs to the basement, where the crime tech crew was just finishing up. “What can you tell us?” Gretchen asked a young man with a pencil-thin mustache and a glittering ruby stud in one ear.

  “Looks like the bones from two separate human adults, maybe more,” he said.

  “More?” Gretchen repeated, but the tech had moved past her on his way out.

  Gretchen’s curly, black hair seemed to shiver as she growled to September, “Come on. Let’s interview the stoners I took to county. They weren’t giving up anything about the skeletons before, but maybe they’ve had a change of heart by now.”

  “How old are the stoners?”

  “Early twenties maybe.”

  September followed after her into a warming afternoon, where a watery sun gilded the needles of several large Douglas firs. Though she should have been more intrigued by the case, her thoughts had turned to Jordanna Winters, who may or may not be Jay Danziger’s girlfriend and who may or may not know a hell of a lot more about the Saldano bombing.

  She, like Auggie, wished she could stay on that case.

  Dance worked his way into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water from the tap. He had the vial of painkillers in his pocket and he shook out two tablets, stared at them a moment, then put them back in the bottle and just drank the water. Yeah, his leg hurt. It hurt like hell, and there was a low-grade headache hanging around that was making him testy. Still, it was better than feeling dull and stupid. Jordanna had told him to stay ahead of the pain, and though she was probably right, he wasn’t going to listen.

  He wasn’t particularly hungry, but he hadn’t eaten since she’d left, so he opened the box of Triscuits and ate about ten before he couldn’t stomach anything further. He hated being an invalid.

  He gazed down the scrubbed counters toward the microwave. The refrigerator sat against the adjacent wall, but though Jordanna had plugged it in, its days of usefulness were apparently over. It had irked Jordanna, and she’d growled under her breath about her father, but Dance didn’t much care one way or another. The way he saw it, they were camping. They’d both run away from life as they knew it, but soon enough they would be returning, or at least he would. Whether she copped to it, or not, whether she even realized it yet, Jordanna had reconnected with her roots through the unidentified vic who’d been found near her father’s property.

  He was still standing in the kitchen, leaning on his crutches, when he heard h
er car approaching. Thumping his way back to the living room, he sank onto the couch, tucking the crutches to one side. He hated the crutches, too. In fact, he pretty much totally hated the situation he was in, except maybe for Jordanna. Sure, she was after a story, and she’d certainly taken advantage of his infirmity to that end, but she was helping him and she was entertaining to boot.

  And maybe she could help him in the Saldano investigation. Though he’d told her she was all wet in her theories about them, the audiotape said differently. The same audiotape that had undoubtedly been blown to smithereens. Still, he had a copy....

  Footsteps rang on the floorboards of the woodshed. Dance straightened in shock. They were too heavy for Jordanna’s. This was a stranger. Quickly, he struggled to his feet, grabbing up the crutches, calculating just how he could use them as a weapon when the kitchen door opened and the footsteps clomped inside. Boots, he realized dimly, lifting one crutch with his right arm and hand to use like a bat, if necessary. His weight was balanced on his right leg as well. Awkward, damn near impossible, but he wasn’t going down without a fight.

  The man who appeared in the aperture between the kitchen and living room was about six feet tall, somewhere in his fifties, and a complete stranger. He wore cowboy boots and jeans and a leather jacket. He stared at Dance and Dance stared back.

  “Where’s Jordanna?” he asked.

  “Who are you?” Dance responded.

  “Dayton Winters. The owner of this property. If you’re not with my daughter, you’re trespassing, and if you are with her, I’d like to know what you’re doing here and where she is.”

  Jordanna picked up the bag of burgers from the grill counter inside Baxter’s Pharmacy and hurried outside to the RAV. She’d wanted to drive straight home after her encounter with Chief Markum, but she’d waited around awhile, lurking inside her car, hoping Peter Drummond would return. In that, she’d failed, but she had seen Rusty Long’s cousin, Todd Douglas, entering the pharmacy so she’d hurried up the street to meet him.

  “Hey,” she’d greeted him, when she realized he was going to the grill counter. It was four o’clock, but he was seating himself on one of the stools and picking up a plastic-covered menu. “Early dinner?”

  “Jordanna,” he said, smiling. “Yeah, I’ve gotta head home, but I missed lunch. Heard you met Rusty at the Longhorn last night.”

  “Yeah, and some ex-classmates as well.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “Oh . . .” She’d waved toward the north, in the opposite direction of her father’s current house, the opposite direction from the homestead. “I just talked to Chief Markum about that branded victim. He wasn’t very forthcoming.”

  “You didn’t talk to Pete?”

  “He wasn’t there. The chief said I should speak to the ME.”

  “County morgue’s in Malone,” Todd said.

  “Yeah, I know, and that’s where you’re from.”

  “You want a ride over there?”

  “No, I just was looking for some information, I guess.” She hesitated, and that’s when Loretta, behind the counter, had asked if she wanted anything to eat, so she’d placed an order for two burgers.

  “You’re either extra hungry, or you’re feeding somebody else,” Todd had observed.

  “I may be heading back to Portland tonight,” she’d lied. “You know, I also ran into Martin Lourde today.”

  “Don’t think I know him.”

  “He has a dairy farm right next to the Freads’ property. Bernadette Fread is the missing girl.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Rusty was saying the Freads are members of Green Pastures Church. I know you’re not a member of that congregation, but you’re . . . more spiritually inclined than Rusty.”

  Todd snorted. “Nearly anyone’s more spiritually inclined than Rusty.”

  “Do you know much about Green Pastures? I understand it’s a very strict congregation . . . a lot of rules?”

  “That’s about the size of it. What are you looking for?” he questioned.

  “I was just at the police station and I mentioned to the chief that I’d heard Bernadette Fread may have run away because her father was too strict. I also brought up Green Pastures, and I questioned whether there was abuse.”

  Todd signaled Loretta and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. He then turned to Jordanna. “You should come hiking with me and forget this. I’m serious. You’re poking a hornet’s nest. The chief’s a Green Pasturer.”

  “I heard that. It was kind of the point of why I brought it up to him. He damn near threw me out.”

  “Which story are you following? The homeless guy, or the missing girl?”

  “Both?” Jordanna said, a bit sheepishly. “I’d like to follow up on Bernadette, as well as the branding victim. I’m thinking about checking in with the pastor at Green Pastures, Reverend Miles.”

  He shook his head, his gaze admiring as it skated over her. “If you’re asking me what I think, I think you should leave it all alone. You go to Green Pastures, you won’t be greeted with open arms. They’re pretty reclusive.”

  “My father’s a Green Pasturer. I was invited to the wedding, but I didn’t go.”

  “They would have been happy to have you at a wedding, but they won’t want you digging into their world, especially if you’re trying to find out something they don’t want you to know, like why Bernadette Fread ran away.”

  “You think that’s it? She ran away? And some of the parishioners know?”

  “What I know is that it’s not going to be easy for you to get past their defenses. Don’t get me wrong. A lot of ’em are good people, but some of ’em . . . maybe not so much.”

  That had pretty much been the extent of their conversation and Jordanna had paid for her burgers and left. Now, she was almost back to the homestead, her mind reflecting on everything she’d learned. She was eager to see Dance, too. A part of her had this irrational fear that somehow he was going to get up and leave and go back to Portland and the Saldanos, and she was going to be left in Rock Springs without him.

  She pulled around to the garage at the back of the property and gasped when she saw the black Explorer parked in her usual spot. The Saldanos! God, no! No, no, it couldn’t be. How would they know?

  Oh, God . . . Dance!

  She ran through the woodshed, not bothering to hide her clattering approach. Her cell phone was in her hand. If he was in danger, she could dial 9-1-1 pretty damn fast.

  These thoughts skidded and pinged off each other in her mind, fast as atoms. She’d never thought of herself as brave, but she felt a wild, carnal need to protect. She burst into the kitchen and through it to the living room, where she skidded to a halt upon seeing Dance seated on the couch. He looked up at her, his hands clasped and hanging loosely between his thighs.

  Then she whipped around and saw the other man seated on the wooden bench against the opposite wall.

  “Holy . . . shit . . .” she whispered.

  “Jordanna,” her father greeted her carefully, rising to his feet.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded. “What have you been saying?”

  “I came to see you, but instead I found Mr. Danziger, who says you two were working on a story together.”

  Jordanna turning blankly to Dance, who gazed at her calmly and said, “I told your father the truth about you helping me on the Saldano case. He offered up the help of the chief of police here, but I said you had the matter in hand.”

  “And I told Mr. Danziger that there are only so many places in town that you could be, and that finding you was too easy,” her father said. “Once Jennie told me you were in town, it didn’t take long to find you. She thought you were just moving through, but I didn’t believe you were back just to choose a hiking trail.”

  He spoke matter-of-factly, but Jordanna was nearly deafened by the pulse thundering in her ears.

  “A few days, that’s all we need,” Dance said to her father, in a tone th
at suggested he’d made this request already.

  “I’m not going to give you away,” her father assured him.

  “We turned the electricity on. I’ll pay you back for all this,” Jordanna said tautly, waving an arm to encompass their living arrangements.

  “No need. I’m just happy to see you. And I understand that you need discretion. You’re lucky you weren’t killed by that bomb, son,” he added, inclining his head toward Dance.

  “Yeah,” Dance agreed.

  “I’m not stopping by,” Jordanna said a trifle too loudly. “Tell Jennie.”

  “That should be looked at,” Dayton said, his gaze zeroed on Dance’s bound thigh. “Come into the clinic and I’ll—”

  “No.” Jordanna was emphatic.

  “If we’re still here early next week, I’ll come in,” Dance overrode her.

  “NO.” Jordanna pinned him with angry eyes.

  “I don’t think that’s your call to make,” her father told her lightly. “Stay as long as you need, but make sure you’re safe and healthy. . . .”

  And with that he walked out.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Across the field from the barn, the house glowed pale yellow in a shaft of afternoon sunlight. He trained his gaze on it, feeling a tightness in his chest. It was a familiar feeling. He took no joy in the job he was facing. Too many of God’s children had strayed and the list grew longer each day.

  And Boo was a problem. Damn the boy. Why couldn’t he stay away from the graveyard? If he kept going out there, someone else was going to learn about it. Boo had to stop feeling sorry for the misguided souls who’d followed Satan instead of the Lord. Just the night before he’d caught him digging up a board in the shed, pulling out a dusty box that held keepsakes. He’d had to wrestle it from the boy, who’d beat at him with both fists, crying that his mother had left it for him.