Twisted Threads (A Cape Trouble Novel Book 3)

by Janice Kay Johnson

  Sean had tried to talk to him. They brought in Louise Acosta from the D.A.’s office, under the theory he might settle down with a woman, especially one so motherly. He told her to fuck herself.

  Her placid response was, “Don’t have the equipment.” When she came out of the interview room, she shook her head. “Sorry.”

  Daniel had made the drive from Cape Trouble. He got no further than anyone else, and came out shaking his head. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. My gut feeling is no because he’s kind of scrawny, but we all know that anyone being assaulted magnifies the size of the attacker. A badge probably doesn’t make me immune.”

  He did tell them that Ed Fisk had called to let him know that he and his wife were going into hiding.

  “In fact, they threw some things in suitcases last night and left not much behind the ambulance. Figured the guy wasn’t likely to be watching the house or in a position to follow them. He wouldn’t tell me where they are.” Daniel’s mouth had a quirk. “Said anyone could be listening.”

  “You’re not paranoid when someone actually is after you,” Sean couldn’t resist saying.

  Hoping Fisk had made a smart choice about where to hide, Sean went back to pursuing a possible lead as to what had happened to Braden’s possessions after his death. Staff had changed at the group home. They guessed maybe stuff might have been put in the attic, if he wanted to take a look. He did.

  Amongst trashed furniture, stored items like fans that wouldn’t be needed until summer and a stash of record albums, he found a stack of cardboard boxes. Some did hold what he suspected were possessions left behind by boys who’d been moved, returned to their families, gone to juvie or prison. Some included school notebooks with a name scrawled inside. He didn’t find Braden’s name anywhere.

  One more dead end.

  *****

  Stuck at The Sandpiper for yet another day, Emily made a decision. When this was all over, she would sell the business. She just wasn’t very interested anymore. She’d clung to the belief that someday, when her mourning passed, she would want to go back to active participation. Her dream had once been to have her own retail business. If she and Tom had settled somewhere more populous, she might have opened a quilt shop. Here, local crafts were an obvious substitute. Her days of selling her own work at farmers’ markets had given her contacts and even friendships among other local artisans. Back then, Cape Trouble was barely beginning to see the benefits of catering to tourists. She hadn’t had as much competition as she did now. She’d been so excited about promoting the handwork of Oregon coast artists and craftspeople, with an emphasis on the textiles she had always loved.

  Frowning, she tried to decide whether she had become too much of a loner to want to spend her days surrounded by other people. That would imply she really was broken. And it was true that she’d become accustomed to not talking to another soul for days at a time, but…she thought that wasn’t her entire reason for being ready to let go of the store.

  She didn’t need what income she drew from it, for one thing.

  While it was true she could never be the same person, the woman who’d loved chatting with acquaintances and strangers alike, maybe she should substitute the word ‘changed’ for ‘broken’.

  Truthfully, she was content with focusing on her own quilting. There were so many galleries and gift shops up and down the coast, if The Sandpiper ended up closing altogether or changing focus, none of the artisans whose work she carried would have trouble finding other outlets. For herself, she could quit bothering with the small pieces made to please the tourist trade and concentrate on the traditional quilts she loved, and the art quilts that had increasingly intrigued her. The thought was liberating.

  She also discovered how restless she felt. She understood why she had to stay at the store all day, waiting on customers or sitting behind the computer in the office, whatever she’d rather be doing. But she felt as useless as a guest at Sean’s every evening. She wanted access to her sewing machine, her quilting frame, her cutting tools.

  Back in her own home, surrounded by memories of her husband and child, would she feel the same about Sean? She needed to find out.

  She wanted to go home.

  Her resolve was temporarily forgotten at her first sight of Sean when he picked her up. “What happened?” she cried.

  He gingerly touched his swollen, discolored nose. “Wrestling match.”

  During the drive home, he told her about the capture of the young vet with PTSD, not hiding the pity and sympathy he seemed to feel for the guy despite the damage he’d done. Her respect for him deepened.

  Emily waited until they were eating dinner to make her suggestion.

  “You know the pane of glass in the window was replaced at my house.”

  Without appearing very interested, Sean made an acknowledging sound. He was occupied putting together another taco from the ingredients in serving dishes on the table. She watched as he added a dollop of sour cream. A few bruises didn’t seem to have hurt his appetite.

  “I know you don’t want to leave me alone right now.”

  His head came up. “You’re right. That’s not an option.”

  Emily took a deep breath. “What I’m wondering is, could we stay at my house instead of yours?”

  She’d swear he didn’t even blink. His eyes bored into hers.

  “Why?”

  “Because I can work there.”

  “You’ve been doing hand quilting here.”

  “Yes, but I can’t piece new quilts. I can’t work on the one in the frame. My fabrics are there. My sewing machine.” When he didn’t immediately say anything, she buttressed her argument. “Even if it has a weakness, I do have a home security system, which is more than you have. And it’s not as though he doesn’t know I’m living here if he’s watching.”

  Sean set the taco down on his plate. “You want to go home so you can get more work done.”

  “Yes!”

  “That’s the only reason.”

  She opened her mouth, hesitated, and closed it. She didn’t want to lie to him.

  “It’s home,” she finally said.

  “If we move there, I won’t be home.”

  “You’ve barely settled in here. It’s not the same.”

  “We’re sleeping together, Emily. I’m guessing you haven’t replaced your bed since your husband died. How are you going to feel having me putting my head on his pillow?”

  Oh, God. How would she feel? Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  She was the one to go utterly still now.

  If she had a guest room…but she didn’t.

  “I…I’m okay with it,” she heard herself say, even as her lungs squeezed closed. Was she really? She’d have to be, wouldn’t she, if there was to be any possibility of a future with Sean.

  The intensity of his stare didn’t waver. “I’m not so sure I am.”

  “I could…buy a new bed. We could probably get it delivered tomorrow.”

  “It’s not just the bed.” He scraped a hand over his face, leaving it more expressive, less robot-like, but no happier. “You figuring after we make an arrest, you and I will go back to our own houses? Maybe date? Or is that even on your horizon?”

  “Of course it is!” she cried, her chair legs scraping as she pushed back. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us! Do you?”

  “I was hoping I did. I don’t want his and her houses, Emily. I like seeing you the minute I open my eyes in the morning. Coming home to you. Talking about our days. Going to bed together. Making love.”

  She couldn’t look away from his vividly blue eyes. “I do too,” she whispered.

  “I’ve been thinking neither of our houses is really big enough for a family,” he said, voice husky. “Not given how much space you need for your quilting.”

  A family? He was thinking a family? Her heart felt as if it was being torn right down the middle. Replace Cody? She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. But…if she’d been pr
egnant when he died, if they’d already had other children, she would have loved them. She had so successfully suppressed this yearning for a baby, a wiggly, smart, active toddler, for a family, she had never suspected she held it inside her.

  Until now.

  She had sat speechless too long. Sean’s lashes veiled his eyes. “Good to know where I stand.”

  “No!” Her eyes burned. She never cried anymore. Never. Until Sean had come along. “You don’t understand.”

  “What don’t I understand?” His expression was still shuttered, but his tone gentle.

  “I can’t leave my house.”

  His “What?” was almost soundless.

  “I’d be leaving them.” Her hands had begun to shake. She clasped them together out of his sight, beneath the table. “My memories…”

  Sean’s stare became incredulous. “That’s it? The whole house is an altar to their memory? You meant it when you told me you’d never be ready to move on, didn’t you?”

  “No.” Her vision had blurred. “I was wrong. You’ve made me see that. I—” Just say it. “I’m in love with you. But...why can’t we live there?”

  “You, me and your dead husband and son. Sounds real cozy. Is there room for three in your bed, Emily?”

  “It’s not like that,” she said hopelessly. Because…it was?

  No!

  Really? How was she going to feel if she had a baby? Would she strip Cody’s room bare and redecorate for the new child? Or insist that son or daughter live in a room haunted by Cody’s presence?

  Sean shook his head. “Let’s clean the kitchen, then pack. I have some camping stuff out in the garage. I’ll bring a pad and sleeping bag.”

  Then he stood up, carried his plate to the kitchen, and scraped the taco he had so carefully constructed into the trash.

  Unable to move, Emily wondered if it was possible to bleed out, when the wound wasn’t physical.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mind clouded by tiredness the next morning, Sean sat at his desk, brooding over what to do about the homeless veteran. They couldn’t hold him indefinitely, not without charging him with assault on an officer. Once they did that, the guy was screwed, and Sean didn’t see it as justified. But, damn it, they weren’t any closer to identifying him. His fingerprints weren’t in the system, telling them only that he’d never been arrested. They had also been submitted to every branch of the service, but who knew when or if they’d be favored with an answer.

  He stood abruptly. “I’m going to talk to him again.” After a stop in the restroom to slap cold water on his face.

  The closest detective gave Sean a startled look, but a couple of desks away, Jason pushed his chair back. “You want me to have a go? He knows I’m ex-military, too.”

  Sean wondered if he’d ever been that eager. Given that he currently felt like a zombie, he couldn’t imagine.

  He shook his head. “I think it’s safe to say he hates you. You brought him in. Stick to what you’re doing.”

  Jason was still trying to trace Braden and his mother’s movements. The rental application had turned out to be useless. According to Jason, the manager had been more than embarrassed. His ass would be fired if the owner ever found out he was letting renters move in without providing background info. Jason had since widened his search, so far without results. There was no saying she and Braden had even lived in the state before coming here.

  Fifteen minutes later, Sean was at the jail, sitting down in a small interview room across the table from the guy, now wearing institutional orange.

  He looked…diminished. Scared. He sat with shoulders rounded, head bent. As Sean watched, he rocked in his seat.

  “You know Larry,” Sean said.

  The rocking stopped.

  “We’re all okay with Larry’s lifestyle. No one wants to pen him up. We check to be sure he has enough to eat, and that’s about it. Tell us your name. Once we confirm your identity, if you’re not the man we’re looking for, we’ll release you. I know the shots you fired at me were only warnings. The head butt was an accident.” Sort of. “Detective Payne has agreed not to charge you with assaulting an officer for the punches you got in on him, either.”

  The guy looked up. “I didn’t hit him. He lies. You all lie.”

  “No. I’m an honest man.”

  His face worked. “Why do you care who I am?”

  Despite the posture, he didn’t look quite so crazy today. He was actually taking in what Sean told him. Asking a straight question.

  Sean gave him a straight answer. “Because we’re investigating a series of murders. We think the killer is a veteran, fairly new to this area. We know enough about who he is to eliminate you if we can confirm your identity.”

  His eyeballs twitched and kept twitching for a moment, as if he had a stigmatism. The effect was unnerving. “I can’t go home,” he said in panic.

  “No one said you have to.” Sean made sure his voice was even, soothing. “Burris County is good place to live. You’re welcome around here as long as you stay out of trouble—” He half-smiled. “Not shooting at law enforcement officers would be a good start.”

  “You’ll let me go.”

  “I will.”

  The guy’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He apparently came to a decision. “My name is Jeff. Jeffrey.”

  Sean waited.

  “Dunn. That’s my last name.”

  “You got out of the service recently?”

  Alarm flared on his face. “You trying to claim I’m AWOL?”

  Sean shook his head. “I’m not suggesting that. I don’t care. What I need to know is where you grew up. How old you are. Whether you have parents.”

  The eyeball twitching thing happened again and his voice rose. “So you can call them to come get me?”

  “No.” Sean stayed outwardly relaxed, hoping he projected sincerity. If Jeff Dunn’s story panned out, he might call the parents later, just to let them know their son was okay and working through some things. He didn’t tell him that. Instead, he said, “I made a promise to you.”

  Jeff ducked his head and rocked in place a few times. The tendons and veins stood out in his neck and hands and forearms. “Medford,” he mumbled. “That’s where my parents are.”

  He finally named them. Brian and Eleanor Dunn.

  After having Jeff taken back to his cell, Sean returned to the bullpen, mildly surprised that he was alone now. Within minutes, he found the high school yearbook online and, from a photo, confirmed that Jeffrey Dunn was who he’d said he was. Further search told Sean that Brian Dunn owned an auto parts and supplies store and his wife was a receptionist in a chiropractor’s office. Jeff had a sister, two years older, who had married right out of high school and still lived in Medford, an agricultural town in a dry part of the state not far from the California border.

  Unfortunately, the next step was clearing his decision with Lieutenant Wilcynski. Neither had said anything since about the confrontation in the hospital, but Sean had to work to suppress the anger still at a simmer.

  Wilcynski was in. Sean had begun to wonder if he lived here. His office door stood open, and he glanced up when Sean appeared. Once he heard what Sean had learned, he gave a sharp nod. “Cut him loose.” There was a distinct pause. “Good work.”

  Sean returned the nod, but his smile as he walked away was distinctly humorless.

  At the jail, he waited until Jeff changed back into his camo getup and signed for his few other possessions, then offered him a lift, expecting to be given the bird.

  Instead, Jeff accepted. Sean’s couple of conversational forays during the drive brought no response, which was okay. He didn’t feel chatty himself.

  “Here’s okay,” Jeff said abruptly, as the Cape Trouble city limits neared.

  Sean put on his turn signal and pulled over.

  Getting out on the shoulder of the highway, Jeff paused. “You’re okay,” he said abruptly. “The other one is still a liar.” Then he slammed the door, lea
ped the ditch, and vanished into the forest.

  Sean felt something akin to amusement. Would Jeff stop and talk to him the next time they spotted each other? Or would he shoot first and remember Sean was okay later?

  Time to pick up Emily from her store. He felt certain she wouldn’t be any friendlier than Jeff Dunn had been.

  The frozen silence between them was killing Sean.

  He had slept on the floor last night and would tonight.

  Emily had told him with quiet dignity that they could stay in his house. Hurt and pissed, he had insisted they pack up then and there and move to her house. By damn he wasn’t going to sleep in the bed she’d shared with her husband, far less make love to her in it.

  What he did was open all three bedroom doors to be sure he heard any faint sound of an intruder coming in through a window, then bedded down in the hall right outside her room. She tried to cry quietly, but he heard her anyway.

  Had he gone to her, taken her in his arms and told her he’d been a jackass and was sorry? Hell, no. That would have meant burying the hurt, or maybe only his pride. He didn’t know.

  He hadn’t gotten much sleep, that was for sure.

  Having the investigation once again at a standstill didn’t help, either. Sean had never lived in tornado country, but he’d read about the sickly color of the sky, the ominous heaviness of the air, that served as warning. Too aware that Emily was still a killer’s quarry, that’s what this felt like.

  Even so, it wasn’t the investigation that kept Sean awake later, after another stilted evening.

  Right before he’d turned out the hall light, he had noticed something he should have seen before. On the wide, white-painted wood molding that framed the door to what he knew was the linen closet, a line had been drawn in what looked like ink. There were some tiny squiggles next to it. Crawling over the air mattress and crouching in front of it to get a better look, he felt like he’d taken a shot to his chest.

  Beside the thin, horizontal line was the letter C and a date. February, four years ago.

  At his house, there were a whole bunch of lines on a narrow strip of wall that would never be painted over, at least until his parents were gone and the house had to be sold. Once a year, Mom had made each of her kids stand tall, back to the wall, while she used a ruler to draw a new line. Then she’d carefully label it with their initials and the date. He remembered stepping back, his eyes moving from the last line to the new one, being awed at how much he had grown. Sometimes he slid his finger down the wall in search of his initials. Had he really ever been that short?