Bogeyman

by Gayle Wilson

  Maybe this was simply a natural progression in the long process of grieving. Maybe nature had decided it was time she began to notice members of the opposite sex again.

  Sex.

  Something else she hadn’t thought about in a long time, she realized. And didn’t want to think about right now.

  Especially not as the man who had epitomized every adolescent daydream she’d ever had advanced toward her across the room, holding out his hand. If Ada Pringle’s rudeness could reduce her to an adolescent state, what effect would placing her hand into Cade’s have?

  “Cade Jackson.”

  It was obvious he didn’t remember her. But then, she was very different from the twelve-year-old she’d been when he’d left Crenshaw. Maybe she should have been flattered that he didn’t make the connection.

  “Blythe Wyndham.” She put her fingers in his, aware of their calloused hardness.

  His handshake was firm and brief, without any of the cheesy lingering hold men sometimes used to prolong contact with an attractive woman.

  Because he doesn’t find you attractive?

  “Wyndham?” A tiny furrow appeared between the dark brows.

  His eyes hadn’t changed either, she realized. Surrounded by thick, dark lashes, they were an unusual blue-green, almost aquamarine. Their paleness contrasted to the darkness of his skin, still deeply tanned despite the season.

  “Née Mitchell,” she offered, and then wondered if he would even know what that meant.

  “Blythe Mitchell. Of course. I heard you were back.”

  She waited for the obligatory expression of sympathy, but he didn’t offer one. Maybe the town gossip hadn’t provided him with the information about her husband’s death. Or maybe he’d forgotten it.

  She became aware that he, too, was waiting. After all, she had asked to talk to him.

  “I have what may seem a strange request.”

  The lips she’d just thought of as being sensual quirked slightly at the corners and were quickly controlled. “I doubt it’s any stranger than most of the ones we get in here.”

  He glanced at the kid at the desk, who, Blythe realized, had been hanging on their every word. Despite the convenient excuse Ada Pringle had suggested, Blythe didn’t want it spread around that she was investigating the town’s most notorious murder. That would only provoke more gossip about her situation, something she’d had enough of.

  “Do you think we could talk in your office?”

  She knew by the momentary hesitation before he answered that she’d taken Cade by surprise. It took only a second or two for him to recover. He turned, using his hand to direct her toward the hallway and the still-open door.

  She stepped past him, once again aware of him physically. Of his size. Of the faint aroma of soap or aftershave that seemed to cling to his body along with the scent of laundered cotton.

  She wondered who did his laundry. Maybe he had a wife, someone who had taken the time to lovingly put that knife-edge crease into the khaki pants.

  Then, concentrating on what she’d come here for, she determinedly banished any thought of Cade Jackson, the man. He was simply the current sheriff of Davis County.

  That was the only role she was now interested in having him play in her life. She had long ago outgrown the other.

  His office was small, but neat. There were only two chairs, a battered leather swivel on the far side of the desk—obviously Cade’s—and a straight-back wooden one, very like the chairs in the library, on the other. Blythe waited until he entered behind her, leaving the door open. She watched as he crossed the room to stand behind his desk. He gestured, indicating that she should sit down.

  “Jerrod said you want to get in touch with Hoyt Lee.” He had waited until she was seated before he settled into his own chair. “That doesn’t seem such a strange request to me, although I would think Miz Ruth would have been able to help with that.”

  “Actually, I didn’t realize he wasn’t sheriff anymore. I came here thinking I could talk to him.”

  “Would you like for me to call him? Set up an appointment?”

  “No. You’re right. My grandmother will have Hoyt’s number. Actually…” She was repeating herself, she realized. Of course, she’d never been very good at prevaricating. “I do freelance articles for magazines,” she began again. “At least I did.”

  “And you want to write an article about Hoyt?”

  Cade’s elbows were on the arms of the chair, long brown fingers tented so that their joined tips touched the slight depression in the middle of his chin. It wasn’t deep enough to be classified as a cleft, but it had always fascinated her. It was a little disconcerting to realize that it still did.

  She wondered if she should just tell Cade the truth. Wouldn’t he be bound by his office to keep anything she told him confidential? If she’d been willing to confide in Hoyt, why not in the current sheriff of Davis County?

  “My grandmother suggested that doing so again might provide…a source of income.”

  His brows lifted slightly. “And…”

  “I’ve spent the afternoon researching the town’s history. Reading back through the old issues of the Herald, trying to find something that might be interesting to the outside world.”

  “Did you?”

  “Ada reminded me of the Comstock murder. And that it’s still unsolved.”

  “That’s right.”

  Judging by the shortness of his answer, she wondered if Cade disapproved of what she said she’d come here to do. Again she fought the urge to tell him the truth. He might believe she was an idiot, but at least he wouldn’t think her a ghoul.

  “Was that a case where the police knew the killer, but couldn’t prove it?”

  “Not in my opinion.”

  “Then you’ve read the file?”

  “I read through all the unsolved cases when I took office.”

  The sheriff of Davis County was an elected official. Blythe wondered what credentials Cade had brought to the job other than some long ago prowess on the football field. Of course, in this state that might have been recommendation enough.

  “May I look at it?”

  “Why?”

  “I told you—”

  “I know what you told me.” He lowered his hands, resting them on the edge of his desk. “Now I’d really like to know why you’re so interested in a murder that happened twenty-five years ago.”

  “Cold cases catch the public’s attention,” she said, repeating Ada’s words. “And maybe editors’.”

  “So you’re thinking of a book deal?”

  “I really haven’t gotten that far. Besides, there may be nothing there—”

  “There’s plenty there. For the curious. There’s just no evidence. Certainly not enough to lead to an indictment. And no way you’re going to be able to come up with the murderer.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “What kind of story would you have without a conclusion?”

  She relaxed a little, believing that she understood his objection. “I’m not trying to solve the case, Sheriff Jackson. I don’t have the skills to do that. I assure you I’m interested in doing exactly what I said. Writing an article. Preferably one I can sell,” she added.

  There was another of those thoughtful silences. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  When Cade began the sentence, she had believed he was about to apologize for giving her a hard time. By the time he finished it, she realized that he had connected John’s death with the article. He obviously believed she needed the money. Which was the truth, she acknowledged.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ll have Jerrod get you the file. There’s an office across the hall you can use. I can’t let you take anything out of course, but there’s a copier in the reception area.”

  Cade stood, indicating that their conversation was over. Except she hadn’t asked him anything she’d come here to find out. She had been morbidly fascinated by the Comstock murder, and it had provided an
excuse for her research, but what she really needed to know…

  “Are there any other…” She hesitated, unsure how to phrase what she wanted to ask.

  “Murders as gruesome as Sarah’s?”

  Again she sensed his disapproval. “Acts of violence,” she said, finishing her interrupted question. “Other incidents of violent death.”

  “A few brawls and farm accidents. Are those the kinds of things you’re looking for?”

  “Not really. Someone mentioned that something violent had happened in the house I’m renting. It’s the two-story frame house at the end of Wheeler Road.”

  “Not that I’ve ever heard of. However, your grandmother or Hoyt would be a better source for that kind of information than I am. Both have lived here all their lives.”

  “You’re right,” she said, finally getting to her feet. “I’ll check with them. Thank you for your time.”

  She turned and walked through the door of his office, aware that he was following her. The kid watched as they came into the reception area. She smiled at him as she passed the desk.

  “Jerrod, would you get Ms. Wyndham the file on Sarah Comstock, please?”

  Realizing that she had been about to walk out without looking at the material she had professed to want to see, Blythe turned, making a point of glancing down at her watch. “Actually…” Again. “Would it be all right if I come back another day and read through the material? I’m late picking up my daughter. They’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.”

  “Of course. Whenever Ms. Wyndham is ready, Jerrod.”

  “Yes, sir,” the deputy said. “Anytime, ma’am.”

  “Thank you. Thank you both.” She started to the door.

  “Good to see you again,” Cade said. “And since I didn’t say it before, welcome home.”

  She smiled her thanks. A smile he didn’t return. Cutting her losses, she opened the door and escaped those considering blue eyes by stepping out into the cold twilight.

  5

  H er first thought was it was too soon. It had been only four nights ago that Maddie’s screams had awakened her, and now—

  Not screams. Whatever she was hearing didn’t follow the normal pattern of the nightmare. And then, in a blood-chilling flash of recognition, she knew the sound for what it was.

  Smoke alarm.

  There was only one, located at the top of the stairwell. She’d meant to buy another for the kitchen, but with everything involved in the move and with what had been going on since—

  She threw off the covers and leapt out of bed, adrenaline flooding her system. She was halfway to the door of the second bedroom before she encountered smoke. As she ran, her mind analyzed the possibilities. None of them were comforting.

  It was thicker in the hall, but she didn’t slow. As long as whatever was burning didn’t keep her from getting to Maddie, she wasn’t concerned with it right now. Once she had her daughter, she’d think about the terrifying reality that in the middle of the night her rented house was filled with smoke.

  As she neared the door to the main bedroom, where Maddie had been sleeping since Blythe had heard the tapping on the window, she fought her panic, reassuring herself that despite the density of the smoke there was enough breathable air….

  The little girl was sitting up in bed, her eyes wide as the alarm continued to sound its warning. “Mama?”

  Blythe threw back the quilts and scooped her up off the bed. Maddie clung to her neck, her legs automatically wrapping around her waist.

  She carried Maddie into the hall, heading toward the stairs. In the darkness, framed by spindles at their top, she could see the glow of flames, already licking up the stairwell.

  The most immediate danger was the smoke, which was already thick in the upstairs hall. Toxins would be released by the burning furniture, and the smoke itself would rapidly eat up the life-sustaining oxygen.

  How long did that give her? Blythe wondered, reversing course. How long would there be air for them to breathe? How long did she have to try to find a way out?

  Running now, she carried Maddie toward the window at the end of the short hall. One look at the two-story drop below it made her rethink that solution. She turned away, glancing over her shoulder at the glow from the stairwell.

  Mentally she reviewed the windows on this floor. The one where she’d heard the tapping overlooked the roof of the screened-in porch. And apparently the fire had started on the other side of the structure….

  She hurried into what had been Maddie’s bedroom. She leaned over the secretary, putting her forehead against the cold glass. Below stretched the gently peaked roof of the addition.

  She bent, setting Maddie on the floor. “Lie down and stay down,” she ordered, in her I-mean-it voice.

  She jerked the desk away from the wall as if it weighed nothing. Even if she decided the drop to the roof below was too great, once she opened the window, they would at least have fresh air.

  She turned the metal latch at the top of the sill and then tried to push up the sash. No matter how much pressure she applied, the window refused to budge, not even when she bent, using the muscles of her thighs and buttocks. Either moisture had caused the wood to swell or it had been painted shut.

  She looked back toward the hall, which was now thick with smoke. There had to be another way. Another window. Some other access to the roof.

  Even as she mentally sought other possibilities, she knew there were none. The other windows on this floor offered a straight drop to the ground two stories below. And there was no guarantee that any of them would be easier to open than this.

  Her eyes fastened on the small desk chair that had been shoved into the keyhole of the desk. When she’d moved the secretary, it had carried the chair with it.

  Coughing, she jerked the chair free, holding onto the back of it with both hands. It seemed incredibly light, far too fragile to accomplish what she needed it to do.

  “Keep your head down,” she ordered Maddie.

  She moved back to the window, swinging the chair at the bottom half, the part without the wooden mullions. The first time the legs and seat hit the broad pane of glass, they bounced off.

  The second time she swung the chair with all the strength she possessed. The glass cracked, and when she struck it the third time, it shattered.

  She took a deep breath of the cold night air rushing in through the opening. Behind her, the fire crackled and hissed with the renewed flow of oxygen. The sound destroyed her sense of euphoria, replacing it with another burst of panic.

  Using the chair and her hands, she broke out the shards that clung to the frame. Then she turned, picked Maddie up off the floor and started back to the window.

  “Mama? What are you doing?”

  “It’s okay,” Blythe said. “We’re going out the window. Just do what I tell you, okay?”

  Against her body she felt the little girl’s nod.

  Dear God, don’t let me lose her, too.

  The broken window loomed before her. For a moment she couldn’t decide if she should drop onto the roof and then have Maddie jump down so she would be there to break her fall.

  It took only a second to realize too many things could go wrong with that plan. She could be knocked unconscious by the fall. Maddie could refuse to jump. The fire could reach her before—

  She destroyed the thought as she set Maddie on her feet. Then, putting her arms around the little girl’s torso, Blythe locked her hands around her back. She lifted her daughter and lowered her body through the open window.

  The roof below looked much farther away than before. She would have to drop the little girl on the right side of the peak so that when she fell, she would roll down into the valley formed by the wall of the original house and the roof of the addition. If she dropped her on the other side, Maddie might roll off and onto the ground below.

  Blythe edged nearer the right side of the window, ignoring Maddie’s sobs. One chance to save her daughter’s life. If she b
lew it…

  She bent as far out as she could, so that her belly was pressed against the bottom of the frame. She could feel a piece of the broken glass that had clung to it slice her skin, but she ignored the pain, carefully positioning Maddie for the drop.

  Blythe’s shoulders screamed for relief from the weight they held, but she ignored them, too. Instead, her left arm still around Maddie’s back, she managed to slide her right hand up until it was fastened around Maddie’s wrist. She closed her eyes, anticipating the strain on her shoulder as she held on to the small, dangling body with one hand while with the other she completed the same maneuver to grasp Maddie’s other wrist.

  She thought she could feel the heat of the fire behind her. She could definitely hear it. Despite the length of the drop and the chance of injury, she had to release her daughter and let her fall.

  Only chance…

  “I’m coming, Maddie,” she said, pitching her voice to carry over the noise of the inferno behind her. “I’m coming. Just stay there, and I’ll jump down beside you.”

  Opening her hands to let Maddie go was the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life. Heart in her throat, she watched as the small body, clad in its white flannel gown, fell. The little girl rolled over twice, coming to rest in the protection of the valley, just as Blythe had planned.

  She waited just long enough to see Maddie raise her head to look up at the window. The intensity of the heat behind her allowed no further hesitation.

  She put one leg over the frame, turning so that she could hold onto the inside edge of its sill with her fingers. That would allow her body to extend to its full length before she let go and dropped to the roof. Through the pall of smoke in the bedroom, she could see the glow of the conflagration that was now consuming the upper hall.

  Only chance…

  She let go, falling hard onto the side of the peaked roofline. As she slid down into the valley between the two rooflines, she tried to slow her progress by grabbing at the shingles, scraping her hands as well as her hip.

  “Mama.”

  She turned to find Maddie looking up at her, her eyes wide. In the moonlight, which seemed bright as day, there were no visible injuries. Even if there were…