Twisted (7 page)

“Vehicle entrances? Only one. But it’s not fenced or anything, so the possibilities are pretty limitless for someone on foot.” Allison followed her flashlight over the carpet of dead leaves. “We have reason to believe she was actually killed here, not just dumped. A lot of blood had seeped into the ground around the remains.”

The remains.
It sounded so cold, when actually she
was talking about a vibrant young woman who’d had her whole life ahead of her.

Mark’s footsteps crunched behind her. He had no trouble keeping up, despite the poor visibility and the awkward clothes.

Her flashlight beam sliced through the darkness. It landed on a little orange flag attached to a stake in the ground.

“Here.” She stopped beside it.

“Scene’s been released?”

“It’s hard to keep people out, so yeah. Think we got everything, though. I talked to one of our CSIs. They spent a lot of time here.”

Mark crouched beside the freshly turned earth, where crime-scene investigators had removed soil and debris. It had been carted off to the state crime lab with the other evidence, in the hopes that some of the blood might belong to the perpetrator and not just the victim. Of course, given the backlog at the lab, it was unlikely they’d see those test results anytime soon.

Mark stood up and glanced around. There wasn’t much to look at, and she suddenly felt silly for bringing him all the way out here to view a patch of dirt.

“Anyway,” she said, “thought you’d want to see it.”

He made a 360-degree survey of the surrounding blackness.

“He chose this place,” she said, “so I would think it reveals something about him. I mean, I’m no profiler, but that seems pretty obvious.”

“You’re right. Turn off that light, would you?”

She did. Darkness enveloped them. She stood silently beside him and wondered what thoughts were going
through that mind of his. Everything surrounding them was quiet except for a faint gurgle of water.

“That’s Sage Creek,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure why she felt compelled to whisper. Maybe because this place felt hallowed in some way. A woman’s life had ended here.

An owl hooted in the distance. Allison shivered.

“I can’t imagine her fear,” she said quietly. “Being kidnapped and dragged out here, probably knowing what he had in mind, or at least an idea of it.”

“Fear is a good thing.”

She glanced in the direction of his voice, but it was too dark to see him.

“If more people listened to their fear, we’d have far fewer crime victims.”

“You’re not blaming the victim, are you?” She couldn’t keep the disdain out of her tone. “For all we know, he pulled a gun on her.”

“I’m not blaming anyone but the person who killed her. I think—”

“Shh.”
Allison touched his arm. “You hear that?”

Snick.

She whirled around. Footsteps in the distance. She switched on the flashlight and took off in that direction, plowing through vines and branches toward the trail.

Leaves rustling. Muffled words. A grunt. Allison rushed toward the sounds. Her toe snagged on something, but she caught herself on a tree. Footsteps crunched. Bushes snapped. Her flashlight beam bounced over the path as she pursued the noises, which were getting farther and farther away.

Something lashed her cheek.

“Ouch!”
She staggered backward and bumped into a hard body.

“Easy.”

Mark’s hand curled around her arm. She tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.

“Let go! They’re getting away!”

“They’re already gone.”

Squeaking metal. Slamming doors. An engine roared to life and she heard the squeal of tires on asphalt.

Mark’s hand dropped away. She stood there, clutching her cheek and brimming with frustration as the noise faded into the night.

“Chances are it was just kids, right? I mean, what are the odds it was
him
returning to the crime scene?”

Mark glanced at Allison in his passenger seat. She was still hyped up from the chase.

“Happens more than you might think,” he said. “Serial killers frequently return to the scene to relive the moment, re-experience the thrill. But in this case, I’d say you’re right—it wasn’t him.”

Allison flipped down the vanity mirror and craned her neck to see her cut. It was still bleeding. She’d found some hand sanitizer and started dabbing it on her face with a woolen glove.

“I’m guessing it was bored teens. Although it would be nice to know.” She sent him a glare. “I can’t believe you stopped me from going after them.”

“A tree stopped you from going after them. Want me to pull into a pharmacy?”

“No.” She wiped the blood off her face. “I just wish I could be sure.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t him. That was at least two people back there. Our UNSUB is a loner.”

“You’re certain?”

“Yes.”

Silence settled over the car as he neared downtown again. He needed to take her back to the station where she’d left her truck. He needed to check into his motel, too, but he didn’t really want to.

“You hungry?”

He glanced at her. “Shouldn’t you take care of that injury?”

“I’d rather eat,” she said. “Actually, I’ve been starving for hours. What about you?”

Mark considered it. The calzone he’d eaten while waiting for his flight seemed ages ago, but he didn’t like the thought of sharing dinner with her two nights in a row.

“There’s a Sonic right up here. Great chili dogs.” She flipped the mirror shut and looked at him. “They have wraps, too—in case you’re on a health kick.”

He sighed. Work or food? But it wasn’t really that simple. This was a small town. People would see them together and get the wrong idea. She might get the wrong idea.

“You know you’re hungry.”

He glanced at her. She was right. And to his surprise, he’d discovered he liked her company—which was unusual because there were so few people he liked to be around anymore.

Screw it. It was only a hamburger. He spotted the sign and pulled into the parking lot.

“One chili dog, all the way, side of tater tots.”

He shot her a look.

“What? They’re good.”

He ordered her food and added a cheeseburger and fries for himself.

“Don’t tell me they’re really going to bring it out on roller skates,” he said.

“Yep.”

“Very retro.”

She smiled. “We like things quaint.”

He left the window open, and the faint sound of a marching band could be heard from a football stadium across town. Something about the percussion noises mingled with the brisk November air was so very
heartland
, and it made him glad to know there were still places like this scattered across America.

“Friday-night lights,” she said, leaning her head back against the seat. “Only game in town.”

He watched her for a moment. She’d stopped the bleeding, but he still didn’t like the look of that cut marring her smooth cheek.

She glanced over and caught him staring.

“You grow up around here?” he asked.

“South Side High, home of the Wranglers. You’re listening to them now.”

“So you have family in town?”

“My sister. South Side homecoming queen, by the way.” Her voice was laced with pride and maybe a hint of sarcasm.

“What about you?”

“Me? No. You have to be popular for that. And wear a dress.”

He smiled. “Your parents live here, too, then?”

She gazed out the window. “My mom’s still in the house where we grew up.”

Okay. Evasive.

She turned to look at him. “Where’re you from?”

“West Virginia.” He could say it now without a trace of shame—that’s what two degrees and a federal badge had done for him.

“And now you live near Quantico?”

“Alexandria.”

“Never been there.”

“It’s like everywhere else. Used to be a town, now it’s a suburb. Anyway, I don’t spend much time there. I’m on the road a lot.”

“Bet that’s hard on a marriage.”

He looked at her. “It was,” he said, answering her unspoken question.

Something in her eyes told him the next question was going to be even more personal, and he didn’t feel like talking about his ex-wife or his one-bedroom apartment, still crammed with moving boxes two years after his divorce. A freshly minted psychologist would probably say he was in denial, but Mark knew the reason was far less interesting: He was a workaholic and hadn’t had time to unpack.

“Tell me about Jordan Wheatley,” he said.

“What about her?”

“What do you know about her case, besides what you said on the phone?”

“Jordan Wheatley,” she said crisply. “Thirty-three, Caucasian, college graduate. She lives up in Wayne County with her husband.”

“Kids?”

“No.”

“Job?”

“She works at GreenWinds, I think. They’re an energy company here. Also, she’s a marathoner. She was training for Boston when she was attacked near a jogging trail.”

A woman glided up on skates and attached a tray to Mark’s door. The scent of fried potatoes wafted into the car, and he heard his stomach growl. The waitress dispensed the orders with a wink, and Mark watched her roll away.

He handed Allison her food, and she was smiling slyly.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Jogging trail’s in Red Oak Canyon, correct?”

The smile faded. “It’s a state park about thirty miles north of here.”

“And does the sheriff up there know we’re interviewing her tomorrow?”

“Not exactly.”

“What about your lieutenant?”

Her silence answered the question.

“So you’re
not
on this case.”

She picked at her tater tots.

“Allison?”

“Jordan Wheatley’s a sexual assault, far as everyone here is concerned.” She looked up at him. “Sheriff’s deputy I talked to said they’ve exhausted their leads on it. Unless I can prove there’s a connection between her and Stephanie Snow, her case is on ice. And if there
is
a
connection—like the one you’re describing—then we’re talking about a serial killer. No one wants me opening up that can of worms.”

“He said that?”

“That’s what he meant. He didn’t even want me talking to Jordan Wheatley, even though I can talk to whoever the hell I want. I only called him and told him out of professional courtesy.”

“And to get a look at her case file, I hope.”

“That, too.” She sucked on her straw.

“And?”

“He wouldn’t give me anything without talking to the sheriff first, so I said, ‘Fine, talk to him.’ Which he did. The sheriff said I’m outside my jurisdiction.”

Mark shook his head. He was surprised and he wasn’t. Small town didn’t always mean small minded, but it usually meant territorial. And resentful of outside interference. They had their work cut out for them tomorrow.

Still, if Allison had her facts straight, it meant he had something he’d never had before in this case: a witness who’d seen the killer up close and lived to tell about it. Mark was keenly interested to hear what she had to say.

He was also keenly interested in getting someone on the local police force in his corner. Offering FBI assistance in a serial murder case was futile if the police department in charge didn’t even believe they were looking for a serial killer.

And November 19 was looming.

“Ah, hell,” Allison said.

Mark followed her gaze and saw a very tall, very skinny guy walking down the street toward them. He was stark naked.

Allison was already getting out of the car, and Mark grabbed her arm.

“Whoa. He might be dangerous.”

She shook him off. “He’s not. Can I borrow your jacket?”

Mark looked at her.

“Mine’s not long enough.”

He unclipped his seat belt and took off his suit jacket. “Be careful. He’s probably mentally unstable.”

She took the jacket and climbed out. Muttering a curse, Mark followed her. She sauntered up to the man without a trace of trepidation, which Mark didn’t like.

On the other hand, the guy clearly wasn’t armed.

“Evening,” she said, stepping into his path. The man scowled at Allison, then at Mark. “Your daughter know you’re out here, Mr. Pitkin?”

He mumbled something. A horn blasted behind them as an SUV loaded with teens rolled by, kids whooping and hanging out the windows. Mark eased around, positioning himself between Allison and the man.

“Pretty cold to be out here without your clothes.” She held out the jacket. “Let’s put this on, okay?”

He stuck his chin out defiantly, but didn’t say anything.

“Okay?” Allison held the jacket up by the shoulders. The guy scowled again and slipped his arms in.

“How ’bout we give you a ride home now, Mr. Pitkin. Does Marcy know you’re out here?”

The man looked at his feet and said something.

“What’s that?” Allison put her hand to her ear.

“She made tacos again.” His voice was gravelly. “I hate spicy food.” He frowned at the Sonic they’d just come from.

“I don’t blame you.” Allison took his elbow and guided him toward the car. “I bet she’ll fix you a sandwich, though, if you ask her nice.”

Mark opened the back door for him. “Watch your head.”

He got inside without a fuss, and Allison mouthed the word “sorry” at Mark as he shut the door.

Mark went around and slid behind the wheel. “Where to?”

Allison gave directions as she passed her food sack into the backseat.

“You take your medicine today, Mr. Pitkin?”

He said something around a mouthful of food. Mark glanced in the rearview mirror and watched him devouring the tater tots.

A few minutes later he pulled up to a one-story brick house where a woman stood in the front yard, talking on a cell phone. She paused for a moment, then rushed to the car and yanked open the door.

“Dad! You can’t
do
that! I’ve been calling everywhere.” She cast an anxious look at Allison. “I’m
so
sorry. Where was he?”