You Can't Escape (26 page)

“What can I help you with?” he asked, spreading his hands. His long, lined face had a hangdog look that seemed to go well with his job.

The doctor seemed to direct his question at Dance, but Jordanna explained that she’d lived in the area and wanted to know about the branded victim who was found near the Treadwell/Winters property. Ferguson nodded almost immediately. “I remember that one well. Never was identified. Maybe your story will help with that,” he said to Dance in a tone that suggested he had little hope for that. “What do you want to know?”

“Everyone I spoke to referred to him as ‘homeless,’ like it was an understood thing,” Jordanna said. “Can you explain that?”

“No. But people around the area always expect to know everybody. Rock Springs is a small community. So’s Malone. Someone almost always knows somebody. I’d venture since the body went unclaimed, he was described as homeless. He may well have a home, but it’s apparently not around here,” he added with a quick grimace that Jordanna thought might have been his version of a smile. To Dance, he said, “You usually write about political and corporate scandals and such.” He gazed at Dance’s injury and the light clicked on. “There was a bombing at that warehouse. . . .”

“And I was there,” Dance said, finishing the thought.

“Is that why you’re asking about our John Doe?” he asked.

“Totally unrelated,” Dance said.

“Huh,” he said, as if he couldn’t quite believe him.

Jordanna said, “The body was found on government land by a nine-year-old boy, Zach Benchley.”

“He was on an ATV and practically ran over the body. A nine-year-old on a motorized vehicle. People should be more careful.” He shook his head. “Victim died of hypothermia. It was January and it was cold. He was found on the east side of Summit Ridge Road, next to the Benchley property. The kid’s father was there when we were loading up the body. He stared pretty hard at the victim, but said he didn’t recognize him.”

“What about the branding mark?” Jordanna asked, making mental notes.

“On his right buttock. Looked like an upside-down cross.”

Dance’s attention sharpened. “A religious symbol?”

The doctor grimaced again, only this time it looked like a real grimace. “Coulda been, I suppose.”

“You have a picture?” Dance pressed.

He inhaled and exhaled heavily. “That would be in the police report. You’re going to need to talk to Chief Markum about anything further,” he said, almost apologetically. “I’m all for helping close out this case, but it’s still active. Talk to the chief.”

“Still active, my ass,” Jordanna muttered a few minutes later after Ferguson had said his good-byes and closed his door behind them.

“Maybe Markum’s ready for some help,” Dance said as they worked their way down the hall back toward the elevators.

“I’ve blown any small chance I had with him. He went apoplectic when I asked about Bernadette Fread.”

“He’s a friend of your father’s. Maybe Dayton could talk to him.”

Jordanna didn’t respond until they were outside. The rain had stopped, but there was a surprisingly cold, kicky little wind whipping around. It tugged at the hair Jordanna had pulled into a ponytail. “My father wouldn’t help me. You know that.”

“Maybe he would.”

“No. He only wants to absolve himself, and I don’t want to play that game.” She stalked ahead of him to the car and climbed inside, waiting as he levered himself into the passenger seat.

“You don’t know that,” Dance said reasonably.

“Oh, but I do. I’ve been living this life a lot longer than you’ve been involved with it.”

“You’re a reporter on a story.” He looked at her, as if daring her to argue with him.

“What?” she demanded, though she knew where he was going and it was already pissing her off.

“So, use all your sources. Your father’s a friend of Chief Markum’s, ask for his help.”

“You really don’t get it.” It killed her that she’d poured out her heart, and now he acted like she should just get the hell over it.

“I get that you think your father sexually abused your sister, and that you reacted violently, whether you meant to or not. I also get that you were a teenager who’d just lost her mother. You may be right about your father. I don’t know. But from what you’ve said, you want to do serious in-depth reporting, and if so, you gotta do the hard work.”

She peeled out of the parking lot with a chirp of tires. “Sorry,” she said shortly. She didn’t want to be at the mercy of her emotions, but he was hitting her in her most vulnerable place, and the worst of it was, he was right.

“Call him up. Tell him what you’re doing. You don’t have to touch on the rest of it.”

“You’re not listening. Of course I have to touch on the rest of it. That’s what he wants from me!”

“You want me to talk to him?”

“NO.”

There was silence as several miles sped by under her tires. Finally, he said in a low, taut voice. “You told me how blind I was about the Saldanos. I denied it, over and over again, even though I knew you were right. I just didn’t want to face it because Max is a good friend.”

“This isn’t the same as that, if that’s where you’re going,” she said stubbornly.

“I had doubts. I just kept pushing them aside and look what happened.” He spread his hands and looked down at his left thigh. The material of his sweats pulled tightly where the bandage was.

When she didn’t respond, he asked, “What about you? Any doubts? Any at all, that what you saw was your father sexually abusing your sister?”

She wanted to shriek at him that he was wrong, wrong, wrong. But she also knew that those who screamed the loudest oftentimes had the weakest argument.

Could you be wrong? Could you?

“No doubts,” she stated firmly.

“Even though your sister denied it. Told you she was sleepwalking, that she made a mistake.”

“She was on top of him,” she ground out.

“Doesn’t that say more about her than your father?”

She slammed on the brakes and pulled over to the side of the road, perilously close to the large ditch that ran on either side of the two-lane highway. Dance met her gaze directly, unmoved by her erratic driving. “Just because you like my father doesn’t mean you’re right.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“You . . . don’t know . . . anything.” She was struggling for words, horrified that her nose was burning and she was close to tears. Swallowing, she put the SUV back in gear and eased out onto the road. Her chest was drum tight. She didn’t want to breathe because she thought she might sob.

“I know that your mother died of a terrible disease and your father handled it badly. You saw your sister in a compromising position and you took aim, literally. I know that you might never get past it.”

She threw him a hard look. Very slowly, she said, “Don’t do this.”

“Jordanna, if—”

“DON’T DO THIS. Maybe you’re goddamn right. I don’t care. You understand? I don’t care.”

Her cell rang again and she blasted, “Don’t answer it,” but Dance picked it up and looked at the screen. He turned it her way and she saw KARA. Snatching it from his hand, she clicked on. “Hey,” she said in a tight voice.

“Where are you?”

“I’m coming back from Malone.”

“Did you see Aunt Evelyn?”

That threw her for a moment. “No. It was something else.” She hadn’t thought once about her aunt, whom she hadn’t seen since her mother’s funeral.

“Well, I’m on my way. If you’re not there, maybe I should stop and see Dad before coming to the homestead. By the way, how is the place? Livable?”

“Just,” Jordanna answered by rote. Her whole being was concentrating on Dance.

“What are you doing in Malone, if you’re not visiting Aunt Evelyn? Does it have something to do with your friend?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. I’ve been looking into things.”

“What things?”

“Kara,” Jordanna started impatiently, then managed to stop herself from snapping at her sister. “Just meet me at the house in about an hour or so.”

“Okay. I’m going to grab some lunch. God knows, maybe I’ll see someone I know around here.” She half laughed.

“I’ve run into a few.”

“Oh, yeah? Like who?”

“Martin Lourde, for one. The one you told me about, with Emily? Remember?”

“I’m not likely to forget. What was he like?”

“Not really as interesting as you might think.” Jordanna was sorry she’d prolonged the conversation.

“Did you talk about Emily?” she asked curiously.

“A bit. He said he wasn’t her boyfriend.”

“I know he wasn’t.” Her voice faded out a little, as if she’d taken the phone away from her mouth. “He was just one of the guys she slept with. The boyfriend was someone else.”

“You were only fourteen at the time. How would you know?”

“Because I watched, Jordanna. I followed her. She had this, like, secret life, and I wanted to know about it. The real boyfriend was the one who got her on the path to the Lord.”

“Okay, fine. Who is that?”

“I don’t know. I just caught a glimpse of him once. He was a big guy.”

“They’re all big guys around here.”

Her attention seemed to be gone, too. “This town . . . it’s weird how often you run into someone . . . oh, my God.” She made a sound of disbelief. “It’s him! HEY!” she suddenly called, and Jordanna could tell she was hailing someone else. “I’ll see you later,” she said in an aside into the phone.

“Who is it? What do you mean ‘it’s him’? Who?”

“The dude I was just talkin’ about! Oh, my God . . . I’ll catch up with you later.” She hung up before Jordanna could ask any further questions.

“Your sister ran into someone in Rock Springs?” Dance asked, following her end of the conversation.

“Apparently.” She shot him a glance. She’d found Kara’s conversation disturbing and couldn’t wait to ask her about it. “I don’t want to talk about my dad anymore,” she said. “Let’s pick up some lunch and think about what to do next.”

“Find the neighbor kid on the ATV who discovered the body.”

Jordanna nodded. It was disconcerting the way he read her mind, but then they thought along the same lines. Another time that would have thrilled her, convinced her that she had what it took to reach his echelon of ability. Today, she just wanted to ignore him . . . because he was making too much sense.

He was coming out of the feed store, hauling bags of grain that he threw into the flatbed of his truck, when the girl called out to him. “HEY!” He looked around, not certain she meant him, but then she came up to him. Pretty gal. Vaguely familiar.

“I know you,” she said, and her next words sent him spiraling into a dark past. “You’re Emily’s old boyfriend.”

There was thunder inside his head.

“You’re the guy she was seeing,” she said in wonder. “I was just talking about you.”

The sun came out from behind a cloud and hurt his eyes. Stabbed at him. A message. “Talking about me?”

“I don’t know your name, but you’re the guy. Who are you?” She was smiling, but it was a smile full of evil intent. “I’m Emily’s sister, Kara.”

“Kara,” he repeated, and the sound vibrated through him, sending waves of panic and disgust. She was one of them. One of the Treadwell sisters. The reporter?

He must have said that aloud, because she answered, “No, that’s Jordanna, my other sister. She’s in Rock Springs, too, now. That’s who I was talking to. Jesus, it’s like we conjured you up.” Her grin widened and he thought he saw hot flames beating inside her throat. She’d used the name of the Lord’s son in vain. He thought of the branding iron, cold now. But it could seethe with heat quickly.

He looked around. There was no one on the street. A moment in time when everyone was inside the stores. She was standing beside his truck. Her blouse was pale peach and thin, the wind pressing it against her breasts. He could feel his cock rise. Maybe he could have her first, like Emily. Just once. Maybe God would forgive him.

No.

Throat dry, he said, “I’m driving out to feed my horses. Emily loved to feed the horses.”

“You have horses?” She sounded delighted. “I’d love to see them, if that’s an invitation, but I gotta know your name first.”

She was so fucking coy he wanted to slap her. Instead, he pulled his lips into a smile and racked his brain for an answer. It came to him so easily, it sounded perfectly natural when he drawled, “Some people call me Boo.”

“Boo? Like, ‘oh, my God, you scared me’?”

This time it was the Lord’s name. His smile froze on his face. He bent his head, glad for the cowboy hat that obscured his expression. “That’s right.”

She looked around. “I got a little time to kill.”

“You have a car?”

She nodded to a little gray compact next to the curb by Braxton’s, some foreign piece of shit, he thought with a sneer.

“Follow me,” he told her, then jumped behind the wheel and started the engine.

He watched her sashay across the road, swinging her hips like a mare in heat. He let his hand drift to his crotch and gave himself a few quick strokes through his jeans.
That’s all
, he told himself.
That’s all. She’s Satan’s daughter.

He pulled into the road and kept an eye on her in his rearview. Part of him wanted her to just go away, drive off and disappear. Another part, the hungry part, silently begged her to turn that tin car around and follow after him. But if she did . . . if she did . . .

He thought about Bernie and swallowed hard. He’d managed to keep his cock out of her. He’d kept his mind strong, his mission pure. But he didn’t think he’d be able to this time. Kara was too sassy and smart, too much like Emily.

He watched her pull a U-turn and start his way just as he hit the outskirts of town. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding. He wouldn’t take her home. He would drive past his property and lead her into the hills, past the Fowler place, past her family’s homestead. It was safer that way.

He slid a glance at the glove box. Inside were the drops. Just a couple would knock her out, and then he could administer the eternal sleep.

His inner sight envisioned her hips as she walked across the road. The rhythmic movement. When she was out . . . just before he sent her to a better place. Not heaven—she was too soiled for that—but a purgatory where she could keep away from the devil’s clutches . . . Maybe then he could indulge himself, just a little. He wet his lips at the thought. A gift, for being a good soldier in the war against Satan.