Anything but Mine (24 page)

Nothing.

Backing out of the shed, he eyed the ground. The grass seemed undisturbed. He studied the woods, his nape prickling. Something just didn’t feel right, but he didn’t see anything out of place.

He returned his flashlight to his belt and walked back to the porch where Mrs. Milson waited. At the bottom of the steps, he stopped and rested his foot on the second riser. “I don’t see anything, Mrs. Milson. If he was there, he’s gone now. I’ll file a report and have a deputy run by here as often as possible over the next couple of days. If you see anything, don’t hesitate to call and we’ll get someone out here.”

She harrumphed at him and stalked into the house. Stanton sighed. “Nice day to you too, ma’am.”

Keys jingling at his belt, he jogged to the patrol car and called in to dispatch before turning around in the yard. The radio crackled, drowning out the whir of tires on the blacktop. Frowning, Stanton zeroed in on the conversation, Tick verifying his arrival at another burglary.

Bubba Bostick’s hunting cabin. Stanton braked, slowing to a near stop. Bubba’s cabin was…less than a mile away. He’d just passed the turnoff for it. On impulse, he swung into a three-point turn and headed that way. He took the right into the long, narrow path that led toward the river, underbrush scraping along the sides of the Crown Victoria. When it opened up at the rustic one-bedroom lodge, he stopped behind the marked unit Tick was driving. Bubba’s cherry red Ford stood to one side, and the men talked on the front porch, Tick nodding and frowning while Bubba gestured.

Stanton’s boots crunched on fallen acorns as he strode toward the steps. He nodded a greeting. “Bubba. Tick.”

Bubba grimaced. “Sheriff.”

“What’s going on?” Stanton jerked his chin at the front door, slightly ajar, the screen ripped from the outer frame.

Tick scribbled in his notebook. “Somebody busted the lock. Can’t find any footprints out here, pine straw’s too thick. Couple spots of blood in the kitchen, like maybe he cut himself getting in.”

“What did they take?” Stanton shifted his attention to Bubba, the one county commissioner who seemed to like what they’d done with the sheriff’s department in the last nine months.

“Cleaned me out of saltines and Vienna sausages. Took my case of Coke from the back porch. Probably hauled it all in the blanket off the couch. Hell if that ain’t gone too.”

After a few more minutes of conversation, Stanton walked with Tick back to the patrol cars. Hands at his hips, he gazed over the unit into the thick woods. “This is strange.”

Tick quirked an eyebrow at him, jotted one last note and tucked his notebook away. “What is?”

“I just came from Mrs. Milson’s. She claims a man was in her yard, hanging around her shed a couple of days ago.”

Tick squinted, looking north, toward the Milson place. “Probably a squatter. A transient off the highway.”

“Off the
highway
?”

“It happens.” Tick shrugged. “It’s only ten miles and you get guys who come through the area once or twice a year. They know the river’s back here, that there’s good fishing. Easy meals, plentiful firewood.”

Stanton scratched his jaw. “Wonder if that explains our other burglaries.”

“No. Money items taken during those, stuff somebody could sell or pawn for a quick buck. This is somebody hungry. I’m telling you, it’s a squatter. Lord only knows when he actually broke in. You heard Bubba say he hadn’t been out here in two weeks. The guy’s probably halfway to Atlanta by now.”

It sounded logical enough, but something continued to niggle at him. “What about Mrs. Milson’s story?”

Tick pinned him with a look. “This is the same woman who called us and reported a UFO sighting because she could see the new lights on the water tower, remember?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

With a sigh, Tick rolled his eyes. “Tell you what, tomorrow after church, I’ll get Chris and the dog and we’ll go through the woods, see what we turn up.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, tomorrow.” Tick shook his head. “He’s gone to Valdosta for training, remember? Besides, my chest hurts like hell, and Cait and I haven’t had dinner at home together all week. It’s been a sandwich at the courthouse or while we’re meeting with the GBI. I need a break. And from the looks of it, so do you. Go get something to eat, see Autry. You’ll feel better.”

Her house didn’t feel right.

Autry transferred the last of her toiletries from the overnight bag to the bathroom and paused in the doorway, staring into the bedroom. She rubbed at her arms. The air of the place felt off—not only dusty and unused, but just plain wrong.

Or maybe it was her.

Tired and out of sorts, she wandered into the living room. Madeline had gone shortly after dropping her off, back to their mother’s. Autry had been grateful for the solitude, but now the silent emptiness wrapped around her, almost smothering in its intensity.

She curled up on the couch and reached for the remote. The television flickered to life, the bright prattle of the local news anchors dulling the silence. Days later, the courthouse bombing continued to be the top story, with tales of rescues and updated death tolls mixed with eyewitness accounts.

Each day, there were fewer rescues, a higher number of dead.

Autry closed her eyes. So many lives gone, so many chances unfulfilled. She had the opportunity to make a new start, to begin her life from this point and make it whatever she wished it to be. What did she want? Look out for number one, Madeline had said.

She’d already started. She was here, in her home, despite the supposed reappearance of the stalker. So he’d sent her flowers. Big deal. There was nothing he could do that would rival the horror of the explosion, her loss, and she would not let him send her running scared again. She wasn’t going to run to Stanton for protection. That part of their relationship was over, but it left her facing the same question.

What did she want?

Her fingers slid over her lower abdomen and she bit her lip at the emptiness, remembering the tiny flutters. Pain sheared through her. Another baby. Did she want that, at some point in the future? Would Stanton? She’d watched him grow accustomed to the idea of their daughter, watched him become attached, but accepting an accidental pregnancy was a far cry from planning one.

She pulled the throw to her shoulders. What did she need? A man who would let her make her own decisions, who wouldn’t be intimidated by that, who would respect the choices she made.

I’ll back off; you can have whatever time you need.

He was trying. She yawned. He was right. She’d been given a second chance and she had plenty of time.

They had plenty of time.

No sense in rushing things.

Exhaustion pulled at her and she gave in to a light doze, still aware of the television droning.

Her doorbell rang and she jerked to awareness, feeling like her thudding heart had taken up residence in her throat. Only the bell at the front door worked and no one she knew ever used it. She sat up, clutching the throw, and eyed the door. The bell rang again.

No way was she answering that.

Two more short rings.

This is ridiculous. You’re a grown woman. You can look through the damn peephole.

Casting the throw aside, she rose and crept to the door, making sure her feet made no sound on the wood floor. Hands braced on the door, she peered through the peephole. The tension drained from her body. It was only Keith Lawson, holding a clipboard and her car keys. His daddy’s wrecker waited in the driveway, her car on the rollback. A shaky laugh left her lips on a breath and she reached for the chain. Lord, her mother had taught him in Sunday School when he’d been little and she’d been afraid to answer the door.

She threw the deadbolt and opened the door.

Keith smiled. “Hey, Ms. Holton. I was beginning to think you wasn’t home.”

“I’m sorry, Keith. I was taking a nap.”

He nodded and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Brought your car. The sheriff asked me to drop it off.” He held out the clipboard. “Just need you to sign here.”

She took his proffered pen and scribbled her signature on the form. “Thank you.”

Tapping the clipboard against his palm, he glanced down at his feet. “Real sorry about your daddy. It’s a terrible thing. He was a good man, my daddy says.”

Her throat closed, and she swallowed hard. “Yes, he was. Thank you.”

Keith rubbed a grease-stained thumbnail across the edge of his clipboard. “Can’t say I’m sorry about Jeff Schaefer being dead, though. Not after what he did to Amy. Or those other girls.”

What could she say to that? Legally, not to mention ethically, she couldn’t discuss this with him. “I’m sure there are many who would agree with you.”

He ducked his head and glanced away. “Well, I’d better be going. All right if I just leave her in the drive?”

“That’s fine.” She accepted the keys.

With a wave, he bounded down the steps to the truck and began unloading her car. A familiar Explorer turned into the street and eased to a stop at the curb. Stanton unfolded from the driver’s seat and she crossed her arms over her middle, trying to suppress the way her pulse accelerated at the sight of him. Heaven help her, she loved the way he moved, his long stride and the tentative smile on his face.

He jogged up the steps and held aloft a white bag. “I stopped by Ming Yong’s. I hope Chinese is okay.”

“Chinese is fine.” She stepped back to let him enter. Keith’s wrecker lumbered away. The warm scent of fresh fried rice wafted over her and her mouth watered. Lord, she was hungry. She hadn’t wanted to eat for days, but suddenly she was ravenous. “What did you get?”

He handed her the sack. The heavenly smells of shrimp and broccoli and hot crab rangoons rose to tantalize her. In the kitchen, she set the bag on the table and inhaled, her eyes sliding closed on a pleased sigh.

A warm hand cupped the back of her head and her eyes flew open. She barely registered his nearness before his mouth covered hers in a fast, hard kiss. Then he was gone, the table between them, his hands tucked in his pockets and a frustrated expression on his face.

She touched her mouth and his eyes darkened, fixed on the gesture. “Go ahead, bitch me out. It was worth it.”

“I’m not…” She shook her head, still able to taste him. Turning away, she fumbled in the drawer for forks. “Are you hungry?”

He laughed, a brief puff of sound behind her. “Yeah, something like that.” A rough exhale filled the air. “I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have done that, but it’s been a hell of a day and I was glad to see you.”

“It’s okay.” Her hands stilled, and she pulled in a deep breath before facing him. “I’m glad to see you too.”

With a grimace, he tugged a hand over his hair. “This is hard, Autry, going from where we were to here.”

She clutched the forks to her chest. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Pain flickered in his eyes. “It doesn’t have to be this way. Come home with me.”

“I thought you said you were going to back off?”

He glanced away, a muscle flicking in his jaw. “You’re right. Come on. Let’s eat.”

Her appetite nonexistent now, she lifted the cardboard containers from the bag. She watched the tense line of his shoulders as he pulled glasses from her cabinet and crossed to the refrigerator. Ice clinked. She popped the top open on the first box. Steam rose and fat shrimp glistened against a bed of bright green broccoli. Her stomach roiled.

The refrigerator door opened with a small sucking noise, but no sound of his rummaging for beverages followed. Autry glanced up to find him staring into the depths of her refrigerator. Over his shoulder, she glimpsed the bright red of a whipped-cream can. Memories rolled over her, laughter and lovemaking here in this room. Her heart clenched.

“I can’t do this.” Stanton stepped back and closed the refrigerator. He spun to face her, his expression pained.

She wrapped her hands around the counter’s edge. “What do you mean?”

His Adam’s apple took a sharp bob. “I can back off and wait for you, but I can’t come around and act like we’re just friends. I want too much.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be. I want you to be sure.” He tapped a fist against his thigh. “I’m going to take off. When you make up your mind, you know where to find me. I’ll be waiting, Autry, as long as it takes.”

Caitlin nudged his side, sending a shock over his still-healing ribs.

“Tick,” she murmured, “phone.”

He reached for the cordless. “Maybe it’s for you.”

“Yes. An emergency background check, I’m sure.”

Lifting the phone to his ear, he pushed up on the pillow. Caitlin shifted, pressing her face into the hollow of his shoulder, her leg over his thigh. He cleared his throat. “Hello?”

“Tick, man, I’m sorry to wake you.” Cookie’s subdued voice raised the hair at Tick’s nape. “I’m over at Mrs. Milson’s. I think you ought to come out here.”

Tick disentangled himself from Caitlin’s easy hold and rolled to sit on the edge of the bed. The green numerals on the clock glowed three-thirteen a.m. “What’s wrong?”

“The newspaper guy noticed her lights were off. Seems she always leaves the porch light and the living room lamp on. He decided to check on her. The front door was open.” A harsh sigh traveled over the line. “Tick, she’s dead, and it ain’t natural causes.”

Already on his feet, Tick grabbed khakis and a department polo from the closet. “I’m on my way.”

He dropped the phone in the charger. Sheets rustled, and with a soft click, light flooded the room. Blinking, Caitlin eyed him, midnight hair tumbling about her shoulders. “What is it?”

He threaded his belt through his holster and belt loops. “Possible homicide.”

“Who?”

“Nance Milson.” He sat on the bed and tugged on socks and his shoes, adrenaline already pumping into his system.

“Oh my God.”

“Yeah.” Reaching over, he opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out his cuffs, wallet and badge. His department cap dangled from the bedstead and he grabbed it, tugged it on. He leaned in to brush his mouth over Caitlin’s. “I’ll lock up and set the alarm. Go back to sleep. I probably won’t see you for breakfast. You know how long this’ll take.”

She tangled her fingers in his collar and pulled him in for another brief kiss. “Be careful.”

“You know it. See you later.”

Outside, frogs croaked in the damp night air. He jogged down the steps to Caitlin’s Volvo. Damn, he’d be glad when Lawson finished fixing his truck. Her car made him feel like he was driving a tin can.

Nance Milson’s home was a mere four miles from his. When his old frame house had belonged to his grandmother before her death, the two women had been good neighbors, often visiting to swap recipes and help can vegetables. He’d spent countless days as a teenager cutting her grass, weeding her garden and dodging her wrath. He frowned. Mrs. Milson was nosy and absentminded, a total pain in the ass as far as the sheriff’s department went, but why would anyone want to hurt her?

When he arrived, Cookie’s unmarked unit shared the long, rutted driveway with a regular patrol car, blue lights spinning a lazy whir in the dark and casting an eerie glow about the yard. The headlights and spotlights on both cars were trained on the house. The paper carrier’s rattletrap Buick sat to the side. Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the drive and Chris Parker leaned against the patrol unit’s trunk, interviewing Wayne Andrews.

Tick ducked under the tape. “Hey, Chris.”

“Morning.” Chris muffled a yawn. “Cookie’s inside.”

“Thanks.” He stopped at Cookie’s unit, the trunk open to display the evidence recovery kits, and grabbed a pair of gloves, snapping them on. He surveyed the house’s exterior. The screens were intact, if a little rusty. No trampled bushes. No signs the door had been forced.

Flashlight in hand, he eased around the side, careful where he placed his feet. The jalousie window in the storage room, near the back door, was open, the glass tiles extended enough to allow a man to wedge his arm in. Maybe far enough to throw the lock open. He shone the light around the concrete steps. A couple of footprints in the damp clay stood out.

Backtracking, he entered through the unlocked front door. Lights blazed in the living and dining rooms. “Cookie?”

“In here.” The deep drawl flowed down the narrow hall and Tick followed it to the tiny bedroom at the rear of the house. The musty smell of a closed-up dwelling grew stronger, competing with the sharp odors of body fluids.

Cookie stood just inside the door, sketching the layout of the crime scene in his notebook. He didn’t look up. “That was fast.”

“I live four miles away.” Not touching the doorway, Tick peered into the room. “Damn.”

Cookie glanced up then, his sharp eyes a stormy gray. “Yeah. She didn’t make it easy for him.”

“You dust yet?” Tick studied the destruction in the room, signs of a major struggle apparent, from the overturned lamp to the twisted bedcovers and mattress hanging halfway off the bed. Long gouges at the side of the bed marred the dull hardwood floor. Mrs. Milson’s thick glasses, twisted and cracked, lay nearby, amid the shards of a broken glass.

“Nope. Secured the scene. Called the coroner. Talked to Mr. Andrews, the paper carrier. Chris is taking his statement.” Cookie gestured at the room. “Want to call the crime lab or are we doing it?”

Tick shook his head. The crime lab in Moultrie was straining under the evidence from the explosion. No need to call them out to process a scene he and Cookie were capable of handling. “We’ll do it.”

Cookie nodded. “Body’s on the floor, other side of the bed. Rigor’s setting in. Probably been dead a few hours.”

Moving with care not to disturb anything, Tick stepped around him, far enough in so he could see. Mrs. Milson’s body lay awry, arms bent at an awkward angle, her old-fashioned nightgown twisted about her form. Her head was tilted back, mouth agape, clouded eyes staring.

“Check out her neck.” Cookie snapped his notebook closed. Over his shoulder, Tick tossed an inquisitive look at him. “Just look.”

With a shrug, Tick eased closer. Dark bruises mottled the crepey skin of the elderly woman’s neck. “She was strangled—” The words died in his throat and he closed his mouth with a snap. Surely he wasn’t seeing what he thought he was. “Holy hell.”

“Yeah. That’s why I called you.”

Tick leaned over, inspecting the darker bruise, a small, flawless semicircle pressed into her throat. The impression of a button left when the murderer pressed his arm across the woman’s throat, crushing the windpipe, cutting off all oxygen. “Cookie, there’s no way. It’s impossible.”

“I just wanted you to see it.”

Tick frowned. Obviously, Cookie recognized the similarity in that mark too. Not exactly the same but close enough that unease was pouring over his spine like icy rain. “It has to be a coincidence.”

“Yeah.”

“Because there’s no way.” Except stranger things had happened.

“Yeah.”

“Cookie, Schaefer died in that explosion.” He waved a hand at the body. “This is a coincidence. Just a fluke that the mark looks like the ones on his victims. Besides, those came from his watch. This looks like…a button, maybe?”

“Yeah.” Cookie fixed him with a long-suffering look. “You calling the sheriff, or am I?”

“Shit.” Tick looked down at that damning bruise again. Sometimes close enough was still too close to ignore. “I’ll do it.”

With Will Botine on his heels, Stanton met Tick on the porch. “What the hell is going on?”

“What’s this about Schaefer?” Botine asked, irritation lacing his voice. He hadn’t been real happy when Stanton had called him just after four and asked him to ride along out to the Milson place.

Tick held out a couple of Polaroid photos. Stanton took them, squinting at the glossy paper under the dim porch light. “What am I looking for?”

“Here.” Tick tapped his index finger against the image. “See that bruise on her neck?”

Botine leaned in to look as Stanton peered closer. Stanton glanced up. “Looks kinda like the mark on Amy Gillabeaux’s neck.”

Tick nodded. “Our Jane Doe, Sharon Ingler and Vontressa King, too. When Williams did the autopsies, she said it probably came from a watch. Schaefer’s Timex matched up perfectly.”

“This isn’t from a watch. Too small,” Botine said, scratching his stomach. “Besides, Schaefer’s dead. We found his identification and a body.”

“A body so damaged it couldn’t be visually confirmed as being him.” Tick rested his hands at his hips. “I’m just saying…it looks like his MO and we don’t have confirmation of his death yet. What if he managed to walk away from that?”

Stanton frowned. “Walk away? Come on, Tick. We found Autry under twenty feet of rubble and you think Schaefer walked away?”

“They were in different parts of the courtroom, remember?” Tick’s face took on an intent expression, dark eyes glittering in the dim light. “She was in front of the jury box. We did find those people under several layers of debris. But Schaefer? He was across the room. Ray Lewis was sitting behind him.”

“And Ray was near the top,” Botine said. “Only reason he didn’t free himself was a chunk hit him in the head, knocked him out.”

Still frowning, Stanton dropped his gaze to the photos. “Explain the ID card, then.”

Tick shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t on him. Maybe he’d laid it on the table.”

“Okay, so if it’s him, why Mrs. Milson? The smart thing for him to do would be to run, get as far away as possible.”

“Maybe this was as far as he could go. If he’s injured, he might have trouble moving.” Tick waved a hand at the looming darkness of the woods behind the house. “He’s familiar with the area, he knows Mrs. Milson is a little off, that we might not take her seriously.”

Stanton nodded. As much as he hated to admit it, the idea had some merit. And Tick’s instincts as an investigator were normally dead-on. Schaefer loose in his county again? Stanton repressed a shudder. The prowler call, the break-in at Bubba Bostick’s cabin trailed through his mind. “We need to search the woods.”

“Chris and Monroe are already out there with a couple of the day-shift guys.”

Stanton shot him a look. “What did you do, call out the whole damn department?”

Tick blinked. “Well, yeah.”

Stanton rolled his eyes, visions of being called on the carpet about budget excesses tumbling in his head. Oh, hell, let ’em bitch. “If he’s trying to keep a low profile, why kill her?”

“Desperation, maybe?” Tick shrugged again, a negligent roll of his shoulders. “Hunger, pain, thirst. Found half a sandwich in the kitchen. Purse contents are scattered in the bedroom. Her keys are in the ignition of her car. Bet it wouldn’t start. It’s ancient as hell and the battery connections are corroded.”

“So he’s on foot.” Botine glanced toward the woods. “Why the woods, though? I mean, all that’s on the other side is the river. Makes more sense he’d go east, through Hardison’s fields. He’d come out at the highway.”

“That’s almost ten miles, though, and what’s he going to do when he gets there?” Stanton studied the photos again, unease shivering through him. “He needs a vehicle if he’s going to get anywhere. Mrs. Milson’s didn’t work out for him. But he’s smart, he wants the cover the woods offer while he moves. Where’s the next closest home?”

Botine pointed south. “The Gurleys’ place. Five miles down the road.”

“Down the road. Seven through the woods.” Tick frowned, his head whipping north toward the woods. He paled. “Oh, shit.”

The chill of disquiet trickled down Stanton’s spine again. “What?”

With jerky movements, Tick pulled his cell phone from his belt. “The next closest house as the crow flies? Mine. Four miles north through the woods.”

Botine chuckled. “He’d have to be nuts to show up at your place.”

“He’s not crazy, but he’s also not scared of me. Thinks I’m inferior. Stan, you saw those journals. You know what he’d planned for Cait.” Eyes closed, he slapped the phone closed on an oath. “No freakin’ signal, as usual.”

A garbled radio transmission carried to them from the patrol cars, Troy Lee’s voice murmuring in response. His car door shot open and he jumped to his feet. “Hey, Tick!”

Stanton froze, aware of Tick stiffening beside him. Foreboding crashed over him, no longer a mere trickle. Troy Lee ran for the porch. He stopped at the bottom of the steps, his expression earnest and strained as he looked up at them. “Roger says your alarm company just called. Your backup silent alarm is going off and no one’s answering the phone.”

Caitlin shut off the water and slicked her hair away from her face. She pushed the door open and grabbed a towel, smoothing water from her limbs before stepping from the shower. After rubbing on a layer of body lotion, she wandered into the bedroom.

She hadn’t been able to go back to sleep. The house was too quiet with Tick gone, the silence pressing in around her. She grabbed panties and wriggled into them, tugged a snug T-shirt over her head and slid into a pair of yoga pants.

No, the house was too damn big. As much as he loved it, it was too much house for just the two of them. They lived in a grand total of four rooms and the idea of the formal rooms up front and the other bedrooms upstairs, closed off, sitting silent and empty, gave her the willies whenever Tick was gone.

He hadn’t intended for those rooms to stay empty. He’d planned to fill them with children, a family, with the noise and chaos and love that bloomed in his childhood home, his siblings’ homes. She pressed a hand over her flat stomach, the pang of loss sharp and strong.