Chickasaw County Captive

by Paula Graves

  He tucked her in, his mind still worrying with her question about Kristen. Of all the women in the world, why had Maddy decided a kidphobic cop with a bleak and tragic past was the best candidate for motherhood? Hell, why was he himself thinking about taking their already-complicated relationship into dangerous new territory?

  Anytime now, Kristen could call with the news that Darryl Morris was the guy behind the attack on Cissy. Then it would all be over.

  Maybe instead of thinking so much about how to make their relationship with Kristen last beyond the end of the case, he should be thinking about how to close the book on the Kristen Tandy chapter of his life for good.

  “JEFFERSON COUNTY’S BOOKING him,” Carl Madison told Kristen after another fruitless hour of interviewing Darryl Morris. “We only have the threatening message to hold him on, and that happened in their jurisdiction.”

  Kristen didn’t answer, frustration bubbling deep in her gut. He’d admitted to almost everything except the attack on Cissy and the threat, and he hadn’t wavered a bit from his story about a mystery man pulling the strings. The story seemed crazy, but if Morris was lying, he was lying consistently.

  “We’ll tie him to the attack,” Foley added when she remained silent. “He’s got to be the one.”

  She wanted to believe it. Then Maddy Cooper would be out of danger and safe to return to a normal, happy life with Sam and the rest of his family.

  And she could get out of their lives before anyone got hurt.

  Carl pulled her aside as they walked down the hall toward the detective’s office. “Dr. Sowell from Darden left a message for you. He asked if you were still planning to visit the facility this afternoon.”

  Damn. She’d forgotten about her planned drive to Tuscaloosa. She glanced at her watch. Almost three o’clock. If she left now, she could be there by five-thirty.

  On her way down to the parking lot, she called Dr. Sowell to make sure someone would be there to talk to her about the mysterious “Bryant Thompson.” He promised to stick around until she arrived, so he was waiting for her when she got to Tuscaloosa. He guided her through the security checkpoint, where she had to relinquish her Ruger P95 pistol to the guard before following the doctor to his office.

  Sowell pulled a grainy black-and-white photo from the top drawer of his desk and handed it to her. “This is the man who introduced himself as Bryant Thompson. Do you recognize him?”

  She looked at the image. The surveillance camera apparently covered the small visitors’ area from a position high on the wall, giving her a bird’s-eye view of the entire room but not much in the way of details about anyone in the frame.

  There were only three people in the photo-the mysterious Bryant Thompson, a uniformed guard standing nearby and a thin, frail woman dressed in a white gown and a darker robe, her hands folded in her lap.

  Kristen’s stomach gave a sickening lurch as she realized the woman in the photo must be her mother.

  She was almost entirely unrecognizable, no longer the woman Kristen remembered. Though hospitalized for only fifteen years, she looked decades older, her formerly dark red hair now a dull gray bird’s nest twisted up in a messy knot atop her head. Her cheeks were thin and sunken, her body stooped and frail.

  Tears burned Kristen’s eyes, catching her unprepared. She blinked them away, steeling herself against a flood of devastating memories.

  Just look at the photo, she told herself firmly. Study the man. You already know the woman.

  She forced her attention to the man sitting across from her mother. He had light-colored hair-blond? Gray? Hard to say, given the photo was in black and white. He seemed to be sitting very still, his hands on his knees. He wasn’t leaning forward into her mother’s space, as she might have expected from someone claiming to be there to help her. If anything, he seemed to be keeping a careful distance.

  Beyond that, she could see only small, unimportant details about the mystery man. He wore light-colored slacks, not jeans, and a jacket that might be corduroy.

  “What do you remember about the man?” she asked Dr. Sowell.

  “Very little, I’m afraid. I saw him only in passing, as I had been called to an emergency elsewhere. The guard on duty may be the best person to ask, but he works the day shift so he left earlier. I can give him your phone number and ask him to call you if you like.”

  She frowned at the photo, impatient. She didn’t want to wait for the guard to call her. She wanted this mystery over with now, so she could put it behind her and never have to come back to this place again.

  “Did you ask my mother about the man who visited her?”

  Sowell seemed surprised by the question. “No. I didn’t think it would be appropriate to interrogate her when she’d done nothing wrong.”

  “At least not this time,” Kristen muttered.

  Sowell gave her a pitying look. “Of course.”

  Dread crept over her, greasy and pitch-black, as she realized the best way to get the answers she needed about Bryant Thompson was to go directly to the source. She’d avoided this moment long enough. Time to face the demons head-on.

  “Dr. Sowell, I’d like to talk to my mother.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Kristen waited, her heart racing, for the guard to bring her mother out to see her. The interview room was cold, the chair uncomfortable and the atmosphere utterly bleak. Appropriate, she thought, a bubble of hysterical laughter knocking at the back of her throat.

  The door to the room opened with a loud rattle and the guard entered first, his bulk filling the doorway. Right behind him, her bony wrist encircled by the guard’s beefy hand, Molly Jane Tandy shuffled into the room. Someone had cut and combed her hair since her earlier visit with the mystery man calling himself Bryant Thompson. It was almost completely gray now, chopped to chin length and hanging in stringy, frizzy strands.

  A pale pink, shapeless gown covered her body from throat to shins, a dark green terry cloth robe draped over her thin arms and shoulders to combat the hospital’s chilly air. No belt, of course.

  She was forty-seven years old. She looked closer to sixty-seven, her haggard face dry and lined. The bright blue eyes that had once danced with wicked charm were now rheumy and restless, darting about the visitor’s room before finally settling on Kristen’s face. Her mouth dropped open in a silent O and her eyes widened.

  “Kristy,” she said, her voice a hoarse creak.

  The urge to run was almost more than Kristen could control. She wrapped her fingers around the edges of the chair seat beneath her, gritting her teeth until she found the control to speak. “Hello, Mother.”

  Molly hurried forward, her arm outstretched. Kristen felt her whole body recoil and almost collapsed with relief when the guard caught Molly’s arm and halted her approach. He was gentle but insistent as he settled her in the chair across from Kristen.

  It hadn’t been obvious in the photo, but in person, she saw that the patient’s chair was a safe distance from the visitor’s chair, well beyond arm’s reach. The chair’s legs were bolted to the floor, and the guard bent to slide a leather cuff around her mother’s right leg, keeping her safely secured to her seat.

  The burly guard took a step back, flashing Kristen a sympathetic look. She supposed he knew all about Molly’s crime and could guess just how hard it was for Kristen to be here.

  Normally, she hated pity, but this time, she found the guard’s kind look to be a comfort. It made her feel less alone.

  Less vulnerable.

  “Mother, Dr. Sowell told me that a man came to visit you the other day. He called himself Bryant Thompson.”

  “A lovely man,” Molly said distractedly. “He spoke very well of you, Kristy.”

  “He spoke of me?”

  Molly smiled. “Oh, yes. He told me that you’re very important now. A policewoman.” Her eyes brightened, the look in them almost beatific.

  Kristen glanced at the guard. His eyes were on her mother, watchful and full of pity.

/>   “Mother, did Mr. Thompson offer to do anything for you?”

  “No, he only wanted to show me the picture.”

  “What picture?”

  Her mother slowly reached into the pocket of her robe. Immediately the guard moved forward, stepping between Kristen and Molly. But his watchfulness was unnecessary; all Molly pulled from her pocket was a folded piece of paper. The guard took it from her, unfolded it, then handed it to Kristen.

  It was a clipping from the Chickasaw County Herald newspaper, dated two days earlier. The article was about the break-in at Sam Cooper’s home and the injury to his niece. There was a photograph accompanying the article, a telephoto shot of Kristen, Sam and Maddy in the chairs at the hospital. There must have been a reporter there with a digital camera, she realized, or a staff member who’d seen the chance to sell a newsworthy photo to the local rag.

  “Mr. Thompson said you’re watching out for that sweet little girl, Kristy. Is that true?”

  Kristen dragged her gaze from the newspaper clipping. “Why would Mr. Thompson bring this to you?”

  “He said it would be good for my recovery to know that you were doing so well,” Molly answered. “And you know, I think it is. I feel so much better now, knowing that I have a chance to start over again.”

  Kristen narrowed her eyes, not following her mother’s logic. “Start over again how?”

  “With the little girl, of course,” Molly said. Her tone of voice sounded calm and reasoned, though the light shining in her blue eyes was sheer madness. “Now that you’re taking care of the little girl, you can bring her to see me.”

  Kristen stared at her in horror, realizing what her mother was suggesting. “No-”

  “I could help you take care of her. I could teach you how to be a mother. I miss my own sweet babies so.”

  The guard made a low, groaning sound deep in his chest. Kristen looked up to find his face contorted with sheer horror.

  Her own stomach had twisted into a painful knot, bile rising to the back of her throat. She pushed out of her chair, throwing a pleading look at the guard.

  “Outside to the right, third door on the left.”

  She bolted down the hall to the restroom, barely making it inside one of the stalls before she threw up.

  She wasn’t sure how long she remained in the bathroom stall, gripping the side of the toilet as she waited out the last of the dry heaves. Apparently it was long enough for the guard to have returned her mother to her room and contacted Dr. Sowell, for a few minutes later there was a knock on the door, and Dr. Sowell’s concerned voice sounded through the heavy wood.

  “Are you all right, Detective Tandy?”

  She pushed herself up and flushed the toilet. “I’m okay,” she called hoarsely, staggering slightly as she went to the sink to wash her hands and face. The woman staring back at her in the mirror looked like a war survivor, pale and haunted.

  When she emerged from the restroom, the psychiatrist was waiting for her outside, his expression full of concern. “Hastings told me what happened. I’m sorry. I had no idea she’d ambush you that way.”

  Kristen shook her head. “I knew seeing her would be difficult after all this time. I’m fine.”

  “Is there someone I could call for you?”

  “No, I’m okay. I just-I need to get out of here.”

  He walked her out to her car. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a photo print. “You almost forgot this.”

  It was the photograph of the mysterious Bryant Thompson, sitting in the interview room with Kristen’s mother. Kristen had left it on Dr. Sowell’s desk, planning to return there before she left the facility.

  She put it in her coat pocket with the clipping she’d taken from her mother. “Thank you. Let me know if my mother receives any other visits from this Bryant Thompson character.”

  “I will.”

  She settled behind the steering wheel of the Impala, breathing deeply to calm her still-ragged nerves. Her mouth tasted bitter; she dug in the glove compartment for a pack of breath mints she kept there and popped one in her mouth. As she started the car, she pulled the newspaper clipping from her pocket. Earlier, she’d noticed something bleeding through the back of the clipping. She turned it over now and found a ten-digit phone number written in black ink.

  Her own cell phone number.

  She rubbed her burning eyes, her mind spinning in a million different directions. Who was this man who called himself Bryant Thompson? What did he want from her mother?

  And how the hell had he gotten her cell phone number?

  SAM HAD JUST PUT MADDY to bed around eight-thirty that evening when he heard a knock on the guesthouse door. He finished tucking her in and dropped a kiss on her cheek. “Sleep tight, Maddycakes.”

  Already drowsing, she made a soft murmuring noise and rolled onto her side.

  He went to the front door, opening it a crack to find Kristen Tandy on his doorstep, looking pale and tense.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, letting her in. “Why didn’t you just let yourself in with the key?”

  She made an attempt to straighten her face. “Forgot I had a key.” She sat on the sofa hunched forward, her elbows resting on her knees as if she was winded.

  He sat beside her, alarmed by the obvious distress she was trying to hide. “I talked to Detective Foley a couple of hours ago. He said Morris hasn’t confessed to the attack yet.”

  “He still looks good for it,” she said, but he sensed a little hesitation underlying her words.

  “But?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s-it’s stupid. Every perp nabbed red-handed tries out the same lame excuse-‘I didn’t really do it. You have the wrong guy.’”

  “Foley said he admitted most of it.”

  “He admitted delivering the envelope. He admitted taking the photos. But he said someone paid him for them, and he didn’t know what they were for. He also swears he didn’t write the threatening note on the back of the photo.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  She paused, the furrow in her brow deepening. “Morris admits holding you responsible for dropping the charges against the man who hit his son’s motorcycle. He cops to the taking the pictures. But we’re supposed to believe someone else asked him to take them and deliver them to you? It’s crazy.” Her voice firmed up. “It’s unbelievable. He’s got to be the guy.”

  “So it’s over?” Sam was afraid to believe.

  “I think so,” she said after a pause.

  “Who’s booking him? Chickasaw County or Jefferson?”

  “All anyone can book him on at the moment is the threatening note to you. That happened in Birmingham, so Jefferson County’s going to file the charges for now. But we’re still trying to tie him to the attack on Maddy and Cissy.”

  “They won’t let me near the case.” He smiled wryly. “You’ll probably have to give me all the updates.”

  She slanted a look at him, her expression almost pained.

  “Okay, that’s it,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

  She looked away. “Nothing.”

  “It’s not nothing.”

  She pushed to her feet. “It’s been a long day and I could use a shower and some sleep. Let’s table this until morning.”

  He stood, closing his hand around her upper arm. She looked up at him, her eyes wide and dark with pain.

  He eased his grip on her arm. “You’re scaring me.”

  She looked away. “It’s nothing to do with Maddy or this case. It’s personal.”

  He moved his hand slowly up her arm, over her shoulder, finally settling his fingers gently against the soft curve of her cheek. He lifted his other hand to cradle her face between his palms, forcing her to look at him. Her lips trembled as she visibly fought for control.

  “Tell me what happened,” he said in a quiet but firm voice.

  She closed her eyes. “Sam, please. Just let it go, okay?”

  He let go with reluct
ance, stepping back. She opened her eyes, gave him a halfhearted smile and went down the hall to the bathroom, leaving him to lock up for the night.

  He checked the doors and windows, tiptoeing into Maddy’s room to double-check the window by her bed. Outside, the moon had risen high in the cloudless sky, surrounded by a million stars. He’d forgotten, living in D.C., what the night sky looked like when there weren’t a lot of city lights around to pollute the view.

  He heard the shower kick on down the hall, and he left Maddy’s room quietly, his mind returning to the disturbing encounter with Kristen. What had set her on edge that way? Knowing what he did of her past, he imagined it would take something pretty terrible to shake Kristen Tandy’s control.

  He suddenly remembered her shaken reaction to the phone call she received the day before. What had he heard her say to the caller?

  Tell her no.

  Tell whom no? Had to be her mother, didn’t it? Who else could send Kristen into such an emotional tailspin?

  It’s none of your business, Cooper.

  The case was nearly over. Morris was in jail, waiting for arraignment. With any luck, the judge would deny bail and Sam and Maddy could go back to a normal life, while Kristen Tandy went on to whatever case came her way next. It was better for everyone that way, he told himself.

  But he knew letting Kristen walk away wasn’t going to be anywhere near that simple or easy.

  A hot metallic odor permeated the air as Kristen bent over the trash can in the kitchen and tried to throw up, though her stomach was empty after a long night’s sleep. She welcomed the pain of the dry heaves, needing something to crowd out the pictures imprinted on her brain.

  Blood everywhere, smeared on the walls and floor, spread over the bedsheets and the pajamas and nightgowns of her younger brothers and sisters-the images burned into her brain. Kristen had found Tammy first, her nine-year-old sister’s small body stretched out on the floor in the hall outside Kristen’s bedroom, half blocking the door. She’d crouched by her sister, her mind rebelling against what she was seeing, only to realize there was more blood. A lot more blood.