Now that she knew where Cecile had been born, finding her birth certificate would be easy. Then she could begin searching for relatives. Not that she held out great hope of them telling her anything. If a seventeen-year-old girl hadn’t told her best friend who she’d slept with, she wouldn’t have confided in a distant relative.
Gina didn’t have much information that would help Lucy find Cecile’s killer, but she was a marvelous storyteller, and at the end of their meeting, Lucy had enough details about her mother’s childhood to flavor the book beginning to take shape in her mind. She’d been planning to write it in the first person, crafting it around her own recollections of her mother, but talking to Gina gave her a new perspective. Cecile’s life had been formed before her children had been born. Could her death, too, be the product of events so far in her past? Could she have landed in Dobbs Hollow not because of something drawing her on, but because of something she was fleeing?
Lucy walked Gina to her car, then checked the prepaid cell phone she’d bought after dropping her brother in Dallas. One of Todd’s friends had suggested the practice when she’d needed a way for sources to contact her during her research for the Amicone book. She maintained a post-office box and a professional e-mail address, but she’d been reluctant to give out a phone number, even knowing she could change it. The disposable phones, untraceable and refillable, suited her perfectly. She didn’t expect any response from the advertisement she’d placed the day before, since the paper copy of the local weekly wouldn’t hit newsstands for another two days, but the clerk had assured her the ad would appear on the website right away. She’d also placed a craigslist ad with the same information before leaving home.
The phone’s gray screen informed her she had one text message.
WHORE. I AM WATCHING YOU.
The threat took a moment to register, and if it hadn’t been for the first word, Lucy would have laughed it off. But the innocuous dark print on the backlit screen brought to mind the same word scrawled on the paper wrapped around one of the bricks tossed through her window, and smeared in blood across Renee Josephs’s pale skin.
She shivered and leaned against a car.
Misled by the massive difference in scale of brutality, she had dismissed Ethan’s warning about the connection between the bricks and the body. She tucked the phone into her purse and ran her hands over her arms, rubbing away the goose bumps that had formed there.
Why the petty crime and the text message? If the man knew anything about her, he would know they wouldn’t chase her away. They were like the acts of a child, while Renee’s murder was that of a full-grown psychopath. She’d told TJ that the man who killed Renee Josephs had used her body as a billboard. What if the message he was sending—with the brick, with the text, with the body—was simply: “Fear me”? What if he got his thrills watching people react to violence and threats?
If so, he would be watching now. She glanced around the parking lot, trying to remain casual. A few people were checking out of the hotel. A family packed bags into a big, red SUV. A couple walked, hand in hand, over away from the parking lot toward the town. No one seemed to be paying her any mind.
Fear me. Renee’s killer hadn’t been a novice. The high level of ritualization, the immaculate scene, both indicated he’d had plenty of practice. Cecile Sadler’s killer, on the other hand, had left behind a plethora of evidentiary material, had anyone cared to collect it. One man’s learning curve? Or two completely separate individuals?
She removed the phone from her bag once more and stared at the gray screen. The number had not been blocked. She would give it to Ethan to check, but for the moment she had to assume tracking wouldn’t help. It likely belonged to another anonymous prepaid cell.
Ethan would be furious that she’d given out her phone number in the paper, even if the number wasn’t a personal one, but she did not fear of his anger. In fact, she looked forward to sparring with him. To seeing him. Which just went to show how screwed up she was. She’d shoved him away, terrified by her own reaction to their kiss, and here she was practically salivating at the thought of seeing him again. He’d been more than understanding about her behavior the first time, but she couldn’t expect him to put up with it again.
She could spend the next three hours at the Mineral Wells library looking through old copies of the Mineral Wells Index, the local paper, take another three hours in the car on the drive home figuring out what to do about Ethan, and be back in Dobbs Hollow before dark.
• • •
AN HOUR INTO her drive home, Lucy’s personal cell rang. For a completely irrational moment, her heart leapt in anticipation of hearing Ethan’s voice, but she didn’t recognize the number on the car’s Bluetooth display.
“I know this is gonna make your day,” TJ said without preamble when Lucy answered, “so I thought I should give you the heads-up before you got home.”
Lucy sighed, imagining what vandals might have done to her house while she was away. “What now?”
“Drew is telling people you threatened to shoot him.”
Lucy couldn’t decide whether to laugh or scream. “What?”
“Yeah. He says he went by your place to welcome you home, and you came after him with a gun.”
Perfect. Just perfect. “Oh, for crying out loud.”
“Yeah, well, you know Drew. He figures if he can portray you as crazy woman, anything you say later will be tainted.”
The past loomed between them suddenly, creating an awkward silence.
“Lucy—”
“No. We’re not going there, Tara Jean. It’s too late to hold him accountable for what happened in school. In some cases, your only hope is karmic retribution.” TJ didn’t answer, and Lucy, fearing she wouldn’t leave the topic alone, switched gears.
“I can’t believe your father let you become a cop in Dobbs Hollow.”
Tara laughed. “He didn’t have much choice. I did my stint in the academy, then took a position in San Antonio. That was a few years ago, and I met Ethan while he was down from Houston on a case. When I heard he got hired as chief here, I applied and he hired me. Nothing Daddy could do about it. He gets to choose the chief, but the chief chooses his own officers.”
Ethan. It always came back to him.
“Do you have any idea how your father happened to hire him?”
“No.” Static crackled on the line as both women considered the same man. “Ethan’s a good guy, Lucy. His service record is pretty much impeccable. I wondered myself why my daddy would hire someone like him over another Al or Billy Pike, but he did. And Ethan took me on, which means he’s not just another one of the Dobbs yes-men, hard as that might be to believe.”
“I’m sorry, Tara—TJ—but it is hard to believe. This town . . .”
“It’s changed. You gotta let the past go. Not all of it, and some of it won’t let go of you, I know that, but things do change. The Hollow’s grown too big for one man to control, and much as it pains him, I guess even the mayor finally had to admit that.”
“If you say so.”
“Even if you can’t accept the rest of it, accept that Ethan’s on your side and that he’ll do the right thing.”
“You sound very certain.”
“I am. I’ve worked with the guy for six months. He’s moody as all hell, but he’s rock solid, too. I’m just thankful we got him down here before Renee Josephs’s murder. I’d hate to imagine what a mess Al Pike or Charlie Hobart would have made of a case like this one.”
“Have you found anything new?”
“Nope. Ethan has me looking into like crimes, but so far there’s not a lot. He said he told you about the missing women and the rapes?”
“Yes.”
“When I first heard about the pattern—the beatings and accusations—I thought . . .” Even over the static-filled cell connection, Lucy could hear Tara swallow.
“Don’t. If you thought about it, then you checked, right? I know you too well to think you wouldn’t.”
“Yeah, I checked. There were only a few dates I could be a hundred percent sure of, but if we’re assuming the rapes were all committed by the same guy, then . . .”
“Then a single alibi rules out a suspect. I do wonder, though, whether we’re really looking at the work of one man, or whether Renee is a completely different case, unrelated to the rapist or the abductor. You said Ethan had you going through the ViCAP files?”
“Yes.”
“Did any of the women report being stalked before the rapes? Or before they went missing?”
“Yes! Three of the seven rape victims reported having received phone calls or letters beforehand, but none of them took the threats seriously enough to report them until after they were raped. Then, of course, they felt guilty, as if they somehow deserved what happened to them because they didn’t go to the police when the phone calls started. We haven’t gone through all the missing women’s files yet, but so far two had been to the police in the weeks before they vanished and filed complaints about receiving threatening letters, and another two told family or friends. How did you know?”
Fear me. “It came to me in Palo Pinto, what Renee’s killer might have meant to broadcast. Not his opinion of Renee, but his ability to do what he wants, to whomever he wants, whenever he feels like it. Writing on her was his way of saying that the truth of what you are doesn’t make any difference; all that matters to whether you live or die is what he thinks. If he gets off on watching people run scared, I’d be surprised if he hadn’t stalked at least one of his victims, terrorized her before he took her.”
“Have you talked to Ethan about this? He’s thinking along much the same lines.”
“Not yet. I’ve only just been working it out in my own head.”
“You should call him.”
“I will. There are other things I need to talk to him about as well. I’m on my way home now, actually.” She checked the dashboard clock. “I should be there in about an hour. Will you be around?”
“I’m on patrol until midnight. Ethan will probably be at the station, though. You should stop by on your way home.”
“I think I’ll hit the house first. Shower, maybe grab a bite to eat.” Figure out what the hell to say to Ethan.
“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’ll be by later.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
An hour later, however, she pulled up in front of her house with no clearer idea how to deal with Ethan. She would have to tell him about the text, which would infuriate him. And she’d have to tell him about her theory of the case, which—according to Tara—would intrigue him. But she’d also have to be alone with him for the first time since the kiss they’d shared that had shattered everything she thought she knew about herself and her own reactions.
Which was precisely the problem. She preferred situations where she knew exactly what would happen, where she could control the outcome. Getting involved with Ethan would be like being sucked into a riptide—no matter how hard she swam, her strokes wouldn’t alter the direction. She might find herself cast up on a remote but beautiful island or she might end up dead on the rocks.
The headlights illuminated the white siding of the house, clean and fresh, as if red paint had never dripped down it. But Lucy remembered, and she passed by the house once, examining it from three sides as she did for any signs of unwelcome visitors. There were none, so she pulled into the driveway. From the back seat, she lifted a heavy-duty flashlight, and with that in one hand and her Glock in the other, she made a quick, efficient circuit all the way around the property.
So far, so good. With a last glance around, she set the flashlight back in the car, grabbed her overnight bag from the trunk, and unlocked the front door. Holding the bag in front of her body and the gun close to her side as she entered, she locked the door behind her immediately. Then she laid the bag next to the door and walked through the entire house, snapping on lights in each room.
Nothing. Letting out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding, she laid the gun down on the desk and got a glass of water from the kitchen. Next came the ritual turning off all the lights she’d just turned on, save only the living room and the bedroom and bathroom for her shower. The shower revived her, the hot water relaxing her stiff muscles, and a peanut-butter–and-jelly sandwich filled the hole in her stomach, but neither helped her decide what to do about Ethan. Nor did spending an extra twenty minutes deciding which of the few clothes she’d brought she should wear to their meeting. When she could put off leaving no longer, she locked the house and checked the exterior one last time. Tote bag on her shoulder, she slid into the driver’s seat of the Rover and pushed the key into the ignition.
A second too late, the sound registered. She was already rolling from the car when she felt the rattler’s fangs sink into her calf.
“Fuck!” The scream, like the roll to safety behind the car with her gun drawn, was instinctive. Her leg was on fire, the pain spreading in a circle around the periphery of the bite on the surface and streaking up her leg like an arrow. Thank God the damned thing hadn’t gotten her in the thigh. Eyeing the area around her as well as she could, she stumbled back into the house, slammed all the locks shut behind her, and called 911.
“Ambulance is on the way, sugar,” the dispatcher assured her. “You hang tight. It was your leg, right?”
“Y-yes.” Lucy’s teeth were chattering.
“Are you wearing pants?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Her nicest jeans. The ones that made her feel almost pretty. The ones she’d picked out because she was going to see Ethan.
“If you can get them off, you should. Snakebites swell like crazy, and if the cloth is too tight, you’ll damage the skin and muscle. Can you take them off?”
Lucy looked down at where the bulge of her calf was already distorting the line of her jeans. “I can try.”
“Good girl. You do that, and I’ll be right here.”
Lucy’s fingers didn’t seem to be functioning properly, and it took forever to get the button undone and the fly down. By the time she’d peeled the jeans off, sweat dampened her shirt, and droplets made
their way down her face.
“Th-they’re off,” she said to the woman on the phone.
“Okay. Do you have a bandage or bandana or belt? They’d like you to put on a tourniquet. Not too tight, mind you, a few inches above the bite. Can you do that without moving around too much? If not, it’s not so important. It’s more important to stay still and keep your leg down below your heart. Sit down, but don’t lie down.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have a tourniquet nearby?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s all right. Just stay still. The EMTs are going to bring the antivenin, but I’ve also dispatched the Dobbs Hollow Police. They’ll be able to take care of you in the meantime.”
“Okay.”
“You stay on the line with me until they get there, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Can you say something else? Tell me a little bit about the situation. I want you to keep talking to me.”
“Okay.” Oh, right, she wanted more than that. The wrenching pain had surrounded Lucy’s whole left leg and every beat of her heart felt as if it overstretched veins too thin to hold her blood. She whimpered, then concentrated on the phone in her hand.
“I was getting into my car, and the snake must have been under the driver’s seat. I heard it, but I didn’t move fast enough to get out of the way.” She paused. “Or stay still long enough for it to settle down and get out without biting me.”
“It was inside your car?”
“Y-yes.”
“How long had it been since you’d last used the vehicle?”
> “An hour? M-maybe an h-hour and a h-half?” Lucy tried the control the shaking in her body, but it refused to obey her commands. Her leg was on fire, but her skin felt cold, overly sensitive to the slight breeze from the ceiling fan.
Someone rang the bell.
“The police have arrived,” the dispatcher said. “Is your door locked?”
“Y-yes.”
“Okay. Can you get up to let them in?”
“I can get it.”
“All right, then. You do that. I am going to stay on the line, so you let me know when they’re inside.”
Lucy checked the monitor and saw Ethan standing outside. Moving as carefully as she could so as not to put any pressure on the envenomed leg, she limped over and let him in. She handed him the phone. “Nine-one-one operator,” she explained, heading back to the couch.
“Chief Donovan here,” he said into the receiver. Then, “Oh hi, Marie. Yeah, we’ve got it. How far out are they? Okay. Tell them pedal to the metal, okay?”
He flipped the phone closed and came to sit next to her. “How come you didn’t call me?”
“The dispatcher s-said she already had. And she w-wouldn’t let me off the phone.”
Ethan smiled, but his eyes remained shadowed. “That’s her job. Keep you awake and talking. How long has it been since the bite?”
“N-not long. Five minutes? Maybe ten. Not more.”
“Good. Let me have a look at it.” He knelt on the floor and examined her left calf, his hand busy stroking her right one the whole time.
“How bad’s the pain?” he asked, looking up at her.
“It hurts.” She tried to smile, then went for an Indiana Jones joke: “Why did it have to be a snake? I hate snakes.”
When he grinned up at her, everything inside her suddenly collapsed, and she burst into tears. In a split second, Ethan was back on the couch, his arms around her.
“Shhhh,” he said, sliding his fingers up through her hair and gently massaging her scalp. “It’s gonna be okay, sweetheart. The ambulance is on the way. And I’ve seen a lot of snake bites. Yours doesn’t look all that bad. I know it hurts like the devil, but you’re going to live. I promise.”
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