Anchored by Death (A Jo Oliver Thriller Book 3)

by Catherine Finger

  “Government issue?” The screen revealed a detailed topography map. I clicked on the first star. The black-and-white photo obscured the ice-covered lake. The dead man’s body rested on the ice. From this angle, it’d be easy to think he’d been decapitated, if you didn’t know his head was submerged in a little round ice-fishing hole.

  “Keep going.”

  I clicked on the next star. The scene in Westfield off Highway 51 appeared. The viciously beaten body hidden in a snowy field wouldn’t have been visible without the yellow outline. “Am I looking at these in order?”

  “Yes. Nothing’s jumped out at me so far.” Nick hit the right arrow button to the third scene.

  A magnified view of the top of the bluff on Pigtail Alley, just off Highway 33, appeared. I could see the eyeliner of the dancer on a billboard advertising a gentlemen’s club alongside the road. The body lay sprawled in a clearing, thick yellow highlighter outlining its shape. “There’s got to be something more that connects each of these scenes.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow, waiting.

  Lost in thought, I scrolled back to the shot of my dead golfer’s head, outlined in yellow, connected to an approximation of where his body lay hidden in the sacred earth.

  I sat there, leaning into the screen while Nick leaned into me. The inside of his arm brushed against me. Fire tore through my nerve endings. Control yourself, woman.

  “Crandon, Westfield, Portage, Baraboo. What’s he trying to tell us?” I channeled Mickey Spillane in the hopes it would calm my tone. I studied the map. “Let’s check the distance between each point, see if there’s any symmetry to consider. Was that one of the points you covered in the profiling class you taught?”

  “Yes. I’ll find it.” Sitting down beside me, he pulled out his phone and started reading. “First site to second site, Crandon to Westfield. Where is it? Okay … looks like two-and-a-half hours, 151 miles, give or take.”

  “And Westfield to Portage, that’s what, about half an hour?” I’d driven that road many times between Stevens Point and Baraboo during my undergrad days.

  “Good memory. Twenty-eight minutes, about twenty-five miles.” He kept thumbing through images on the tiny screen.

  Memories of long ago evening rides under the stars floated into mind. Nick and I used to zip along back roads on his Harley after working a long shift in Chicago, making it to Wisconsin before the bars closed, looking for a safe place to land. Together.

  I pushed the memories away. “And Portage to Baraboo is twenty minutes, tops, probably the same number of miles.” My voice was thick with regret.

  “Yeah, more or less. And while there’s a hint of a line for the first three sites, the Portage-Baraboo location cuts that theory short with a jig and a jag on the map.” He tapped both dots with his forefinger.

  “Sure. But just for the fun of it, let’s say there is something here.” I pulled out a tattered notebook from the kitchen junk drawer and returned to my stool. I drew the mitten-shaped map of Wisconsin on the last coffee-stained sheet of paper. “Makes me proud of my public-school education.”

  Nick rolled his eyes and then got up to freshen his coffee while watching my inner artist emerge.

  I waved him away from my lukewarm mug and added the names of the towns nearest where each victim was found on my makeshift map. “It’s not quite a straight line, but the kills do sort of come down to the point of a Y on the map.”

  Nick studied my work. “I’m not seeing your Y, but I am seeing a clear pattern.” The dark tone of his voice gave me pause.

  “Nick?”

  He sat on the stool, staring off into space for several seconds. The color drained from his handsome face. When he finally spoke, he sounded like a drunk man. “Write in the mileage between each scene, please.”

  I cocked my head at him, raised a brow and did exactly that.

  He stared at the map without speaking. Months away from Nick had done nothing to dull my appreciation for his numerous skills, public and private. One of his better-known public skills had always been that of a teacher. Private too, come to think of it, if any of the rumors were true.

  I breathed in, held it for ten seconds and let it out, counting to ten again. It helped. I think. My heartbeat slowed, and I turned to face him. “You’re thinking about what you taught in your profiling class in Mad Town?”

  “Yes.” He rubbed his knuckles across his lower lip. “A pattern theory.”

  “Woo-woo,” I teased. Some of Nick’s theories were pretty far out there. But today he didn’t smile at my teasing. I cleared my throat.

  “So, given your pattern theory, is there anything that might lead us in the direction of what he might be thinking of next?”

  “Well, there are a couple of possibilities. The close association of the last two kills could mean that he’s about to change his tack, move off his current trajectory and create a new one.” Nick looked from the computer screen to my handwritten map. “Or, he could be going to ground, ready to hibernate for a season. But that doesn’t feel right.”

  “Why not?”

  “This feels more like anger than getting ready to set up camp and hide out to me.” He commandeered his computer, punching in FBI passcodes.

  “And if you’re right, if he’s changing tack, ramping it up, we’ll see more kill sites. And you think they’re going to follow a pattern similar to the kills we’ve seen so far, right?” I thought about this for a minute, then I drew a big arrow in a downward slash to the right of the crime-scene locations. “Which means, we could see a slew of new murders following a similar trajectory elsewhere in the state, correct?” I drew an up arrow on the left-hand side of the paper.

  “It’s possible. And one way of predicting next moves might be to get a range of possible locations within maybe a hundred-mile radius of Baraboo but headed up toward the Reedsburg–LaValle area.” Nick’s face brightened. What did he know that I didn’t?

  “How is that good news for us at this point?” I was fishing. Why had he gone from desperado to yogi-like? What was going on in that mind of his?

  “Well, I wouldn’t call it good news. But I would say he’s showing signs of classic decompensation—which may make him prone to errors.” He ran his tongue inside his cheek.

  “But how many bodies does it take for a killer to decompensate enough to catch?” I added the letters we’d found at the crime scenes to the small paragraph of information we were amassing on each murder. If we were going to start adding more letters, I was going to need more paper.

  The brutal truth of a killer on the loose in my home state clubbed me over the head like a sack of rocks. I gripped the edge of the counter. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I was happily chopping through the rough, hunting for a lost golf ball. Four dead bodies, a touchy country sheriff, and one unpredictable quasi-boyfriend later—nothing in my life felt safe anymore.

  Nick stretched one of his perfectly muscled legs to the floor, then came to stand behind me, massaging my neck and shoulders. The intimacy of the gesture threatened to awaken more of me than I was ready to offer. Sucking in air, I closed my eyes, steadying myself.

  His gentle finger tracing across the back of my neck startled me into stillness. I opened my eyes and looked up just as he moved to lean against the counter beside me.

  “Josie.” He cupped my face in his hands and kissed the top of my head. He had a tiny dark cross etched on the inside of his right wrist. “Will you pray with me?” He dropped his hands down, placing my hand between both of his.

  I bowed my head and closed my eyes.

  “Father God, we come to you, asking that you grant us your supernatural ability to stop this killer. We need your help. Thank you for bringing me back into Josie’s life, and we ask your guidance over what happens next between us.” Nick ended his prayer with a squeeze of my hand.

  “So now what?” I smiled, relieve
d.

  His simple act of prayer had cleared the tension between us. Funny how that happens. Bring something into the light, and things go from fuzzy to crystal clear pretty quickly.

  Nick shoved his phone back into his pocket. “Time to take this party on the road.”

  “Where are we going?” Why was I being included? That may have been a better question.

  “We’ve got work to do. On different ends of the same rainbow.” His eyes were bright.

  Tremors of confusion rippled through me. “I thought we were all over your pattern idea?”

  “Yes, we are. But we need to look at them from different angles. And you’ve already hit on my number one priority, and reminded me of a better way to utilize your hick expertise in your official capacity as my area consultant.” He pulled his jacket on.

  “I have?”

  “Yes, you reminded me about my woo-woo class in Madison.” He lowered his sunglasses over his face.

  “Son of a sea biscuit,” I said. “Are you thinking about the possibility of someone in your class becoming overly fond of your woo-woo theories and deciding to go for a little extra credit?”

  His face was a grim mask. He nodded at me as he cleared our breakfast dishes. “Go get dressed, and bring your mitten-map.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Where we going?” Ideas swam through my mind, triggered by Nick’s classroom-connection theory.

  “Back to school.” He wound his way through the pine-tree-lined drive and headed down the gravel path that led to Snake Hill Road.

  We arrived at the corner of Ski Hi Road and Highway 12 eight minutes later. I flicked my thumb to the left. “Turn and burn, baby. I’d like to see what this thing can do if you open her up once you hit the highway.” Nick had never been a car guy until he drove a Tesla in a police impound lot and bought it from an officer of the court a week later.

  He shook his head and turned onto the highway, pushing the sedan over seventy and holding steady. “Just enough of a touch to put us at the head of the class, not enough to be detained by the locals.” He pulled out his cell phone and tossed it in my lap. “Amelia wants us to drop by the field office. Call Quinn?”

  I nodded and found his name in Nick’s contact list. Amelia Dixon was one of my favorite special agents. The Tesla’s console lit up as the ringing filled the car. It clicked into voice mail in three rings. I looked over at my partner and left a message. “Quinn, Nick and I are heading to Madison on a lead. C’mon down the minute you get this. We’ll be at the Bureau on State Street. Thanks.” I ended the call.

  “Feel that hot to you?” Nick’s question surprised me.

  “Yes. It absolutely does.” I hadn’t recognized the feeling until he’d asked about it. The tingling from earlier in the day had grown to a roar, and everything I had in me was hoping for a break. “The map, you suddenly teaching someone else’s class and using your pet patterning theory. It all adds up to the possibility of a bad guy sitting in your class. The more I turn it around in my mind, the better it fits.”

  He nodded, two-handing the wheel. He pulled out into the oncoming lane and smoothly passed a semi with a double trailer, followed by a Camaro and a minivan. My kind of guy.

  “I’m going through names and faces, and I’ve got two likelies. Both male. One looks pretty good for it, and one looks even better.” He tapped on the steering wheel as if communicating in Morse code.

  “Tell me all about Even Better Guy first.” I was struck by how good it felt to be next to him, driving in a squad together again, barreling into the middle of a case. I was born for this. We were born for this.

  “Alex Burdock. Sits in the front row. Wears stripes with plaids, expensive loafers, and bow ties.”

  “Since when does being a fashionista make a guy a criminal?” A smile crept across my face.

  “It’s more than just his fashion sense. He has the eyes. And he’s careful, interested in the material, practically sits at my feet, yet he’s buttoned-up. He feels forced, studied. Plus, what’s a guy like that need me for? He’s a high school guidance counselor.” Nick seemed to be taking his measure, but did he have enough information to start a profile on Burdock?

  “And your number two?”

  “Second guy’s just creepy. And angry. Could be a deadly combination.” He slowed to accommodate the curves of a traffic circle.

  “Frickin’ roundabouts.” I tsked loudly.

  Nick shook his head.

  “What? This ain’t England.” The base of my neck tightened.

  “They’re efficient.”

  “And cost more than, what, a million bucks a pop? Don’t get me started.”

  “Deal. Back to the case. Something we have the potential to solve. You asked about my second-in-line.”

  “Fine. Name? Background?” Impatience coursed through me.

  “He’s got a vanilla name. Smith or Jones-esque. But he’s definitely the kind of guy you might never forget under the right circumstances.”

  I shivered. That was my least favorite kind of killer.

  Nick thumped his hand on the wheel. “White. His name’s Melvin White. Knew it was imminently forgettable.”

  “Name like Melvin, you’re pretty much destined for a life of crime.”

  “The thing with him is how completely unremarkable, uncriminal, he is. Guy’s got a public library card for Pete’s sake.”

  “And you know this because?”

  “Because he leaves a book out on his desk in every class. Spine pointed in my direction, I can’t help but read it.” His voice slowed with every word. “Almost as if he wanted me to see them.”

  “Oh no. So, can you think of any titles?” Any number of clues could be hidden in a perp’s habits.

  “True crime. They were all true crime. Some of the grittiest.”

  “Crap.” I pushed my sunglasses up and rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger.

  “Yeah. Text it in for me, would you please?” He nodded toward his phone.

  I plucked it from the console and sent texts with the names of each man to Amelia. She responded with three icons: a thumbs up, a red heart, and a smacking set of red lips. I rolled my eyes. Nice. Glad to see Nick is still keeping it strictly professional with his coworkers.

  “Done. Remind me, you’ve been teaching your geo woo-woo class in Madison for … how long?”

  “Almost six weeks.” He passed a white pickup, a fallen-soldier decal prominently displayed on the back of the cab, nodding at the baseball-capped driver as we passed. The driver nodded back.

  “And your class is made up of mostly law-enforcement types?”

  “Mostly.” His eyes bounced among all three mirrors at equal intervals. He should be teaching defensive driving. Come to think of it, he did.

  “So …” I didn’t want to even think about dealing with a dirty cop again.

  “Maybe. Maybe not. Not everyone’s law enforcement.” Was he reading my mind?

  “Who’s not everyone, pray tell?” I had a feeling he might be talking about our top two.

  “Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum are not everyone. One’s a high school guidance counselor like I said, and one owns a convenience store.” He’d done his homework on his class roster. That didn’t surprise me.

  “Holy cow. I’ve never heard of a killer high school guidance counselor. Puts a whole new spin on those aptitude tests though, doesn’t it?”

  He smirked and pushed the car up to just a hair under eighty miles per hour.

  We rode along in silence, the specter of a serial killer posing as one of Nick’s students sitting heavy between us. The rolling countryside lulled me into distant memories. Each one featured Nick prominently.

  “Cat got your tongue, Josie?” His voice pulled me out of my reverie.

  “Are we going to talk about it?” I choked out the words.


  “It meaning us?” He raised a brow and glanced at me longer than street legal as he drove.

  Steam rollers pushed up my throat. My anguished silence filled the air between us.

  He pulled into a wayside stop and parked under an old oak. “We’ve got a head start on Quinn. We can afford a few minutes in the shade. Time for a badly needed talk.” Unbuckling his seat belt, he turned to me, sliding one hand through my hair. “Am I starting? Or are you?”

  I closed my eyes. Use your words, Josie. “I …” I put my hand over his, pulled it down into my lap, cradled it. “When I … the time I was in the hospital … when you …” Gah! C’mon, woman up. “I was afraid. I wasn’t ready. Or I thought I wasn’t. But then I was. And by then, you were gone.”

  His eyes glistened, and his face turned from empathic to … embarrassed? “Not a day goes by that’s not soaked with regret for what I did.”

  Great. He thinks I’m blaming him. “But it was me too. I kept pushing you away. I asked you to leave. It was just … when you didn’t come back, I was afraid you gave up on me.”

  “I should never have left your side.” His right hand wrenched free from my grasp, and he raked it through his hair. “When I did come back to see you before you left the hospital … after Kira … and you refused to see me, I should’ve tried harder. Should’ve ignored your words. Should’ve known it was the painkillers talking. Not you.”

  “No. You don’t get to do that. Don’t you dare put that on yourself. You don’t think I’ve been swimming in regret ever since I pushed you away?” Hot tears trickled down my cheeks. “I have to live with knowing what this has done to you. To Sam. Even from a million miles away.” I willed myself to stop the tears.

  “You weren’t yourself. You were heavily sedated. You’d been wounded. I shouldn’t have listened to a word you said that day. I knew better.” Agony laced his tone. “And then the time stretched on, and I was too ashamed of walking away to face you again. But I couldn’t just let Sam be.”