Be Afraid (40 page)

“What about Danny? Has he said what happened to Heather?”

“No.”

Rick rubbed the back of his neck. “Loyola is gonna live and Danny will talk.”

“You can’t bulldoze your way through everything, Boy Scout.”

“Watch me.”

When Rick and Bishop arrived at Loyola’s hospital, a news crew greeted them. He glanced around expecting to see Susan Martinez, but found a blond reporter in her early twenties headed his way.

“Detective Morgan,” the woman shouted. “I’m Brandy Corker with Channel Five. Can you tell me if you’ve found the mother of the Lost Girl?”

“Where’s Martinez?” Rick mumbled to Bishop, waving Brandy away, as if swatting away a fly. He and Bishop turned and hurried into the hospital.

“Flew away on her broom.”

“I suppose.”

Bishop glanced back at Brandy. “She’s a looker.”

Rick shook his head. “Don’t be fooled. She’ll eat you up and spit you out for a story.”

Bishop glanced back toward the reporter. “I might risk it.”

The detectives found Dr. Bramley, Loyola’s doctor, on the second floor at the nurses’ station.

He was a young guy, not much more than thirty, with thick brown hair and a young face weighted down by fatigue.

Opening the chart, Dr. Bramley read over his notes. “You got her here just in time. Five more minutes and she’d have died.”

“So she’ll live and stand trial.” Bishop flexed the fingers of his right hand. “Good. When will she be awake?”

Dr. Bramley closed the chart and tucked it under his arm. “She’s making some sounds now.”

“Can you give her something to wake her up?” Rick asked.

“Her system has been through a real trauma.”

Rick dug deep for an ounce of pity but couldn’t find any. “She’s a suspect in a missing child case and, most recently, an arson case. I need to know why she set the fire and if she had help.”

“I can’t stimulate her with drugs, but if you make noise, talk to her as loud as you can, you might reach her. It’s clear she’s used before and is burning this stuff off faster than most.”

“Thanks.”

Rick and Bishop pushed into her hospital room, the doctor on their heels. Rick approached the bed, staring at the pale, thin figure.

“Loyola!” Rick spoke sharply, hoping his tone would reach through the haze.

She stirred but didn’t open her eyes.

“Loyola!” He clapped his hands and this time she did stir.

“Go away,” she mumbled. She turned her head to the side and tried to bury it in her pillow.

Rick clapped his hands again. “I’m not going anywhere. Why did you set the fire?”

She flinched and moaned. “I didn’t . . .”

“You did. We found accelerant in your motel room and pictures of Jenna. When did you decide to burn her house down?”

“I didn’t . . .”

“You did. You tested positive for accelerant. You set that fire.”

She tried to lift groggy lids. “No.”

If Rachel Wainwright remained her attorney, all this would get thrown out of court. But he wasn’t worried about an arson conviction right now. He wanted whoever put her up to the fire and then he’d nail her on murder charges.

Rick leaned close enough to get a whiff of a sick, sweet smell emanating from her body. “Loyola, who told you to set the fire?”

She shook her head. “I set it.”

Rick patted her face with his hand over and over until she opened her eyes and looked at him. “No way. You couldn’t have found Jenna’s address that fast.”

She stared at him, eyes part vacant and part defiant.

“Tell me who showed you how to set the fire. Let me help you.”

Her brow wrinkled. “You don’t want to help me.”

Bishop nudged Rick aside. He drew in a calming breath, sat at her bedside, and laid a gentle hand on her arm. “I do. I do. But you’ve got to work with me.” He smiled.

Touch was a powerful tool and Rick knew Loyola craved approval. He knew this, but was too angry to give it to her.

She swallowed as if her throat hurt. Her gaze locked on Bishop. “I don’t have a name.”

Bishop took Loyola’s hand in his. “No name?”

“I didn’t ask. I didn’t care.” Her voice drifted and Rick sensed he was losing her.

“How about a description?” Even Bishop’s normally abrupt accent had softened.

She closed her eyes. “Not tall. Not thin or fat. Just regular. Wore a bulky hoodie.”

“Hair color. Eyes?”

“Brown and brown.” Her breathing grew deep and though he repeated more questions, she was drifting back into unconsciousness.

Bishop rested his hands on his hips. “That description narrows it down to about a million people.”

Rick resisted the urge to shake the woman.

The sun hung low in the sky as Jenna returned to the Big House, her arms loaded with art supplies and a few bags of clothes she and Georgia had found at the consignment store. She’d bought a couple of pairs of jeans, a few sweaters, and a pair of sneakers and a killer pair of black boots. She’d also picked up a phone charger as well as a few toiletry items. They’d driven by her house, not pausing to dwell on the charred remains, so that she could pick up her Jeep, which had survived the inferno. Other than a few lost sketchbooks and clothes, she’d come through fairly unscathed. She was out only a couple of hundred bucks that she’d spent on clothes and new art supplies.

In the Big House, she dropped her bags and flipped on a light. Georgia had left for work, leaving her alone to glance around at the framed family pictures on the walls. Rick might have gutted the kitchen, but he’d saved and framed the pictures of his family. One image had been taken in this very spot. Buddy Morgan and his wife stood front and center and their children were gathered around them. Buddy wasn’t smiling but there was pride gleaming in his eyes. His wife grinned as if privy to a joke. The four children clustered around: fifteen-year-old Deke, twelve-year-old Rick, eleven-year-old Alex, and five-year-old Georgia who stood in front of her brothers, her hands on her hips.

“You’re a lucky guy, Rick Morgan.”

She’d not heard from him for hours but refused to fret. If he wanted to see her again, he could dial her number.

Flipping on more lights, she curled up on the couch tucked in the alcove by the kitchen. She pulled up the picture on her phone and studied the image of the boy who had dated her sister over two and a half decades ago. She had no memory of Billy Martinez, which seemed odd. If he’d dated her sister, surely he’d come by their house at some point. But there were no memories.

She stared into his eyes in the photograph and then flipped open her sketchbook. She opened a new pack of pencils and began with the eyes just as they appeared on the picture. When she’d drawn the eyes, she sat back. Her heart skipped a beat.

Shadow Eyes.

Jenna glanced at the boyfriend’s face. How could he be Shadow Eyes? He had just been a kid—nineteen or twenty—when her family had been killed. This could not be right.

She began with the age progression. She had no access to his genetics or habits in the last twenty-five years, which played a huge part in how a person aged. So, she guessed and generalized.

After an hour, she had a sketch. She stared at the face. It was a closed-lipped expression. She’d given him slightly darker hair and had thinned it a fraction. But as she stared at him, there was no flicker of recognition. “I have no idea who you are. None.”

She snapped a photograph of the picture and texted it to Rick. All she typed was
age progression complete.

Her cell rang and she was disappointed to see that the number wasn’t Rick’s. She considered ignoring the call after all the prank calls the television interview triggered, but, thinking it might be Rick from a different phone, she took the call. “Jenna Thompson.”

“Ms. Thompson, this is Officer Woods with the Nashville Police Department. Detective Rick Morgan asked me to give you a call.”

“Okay.” He couldn’t call her directly. The idea burrowed under her skin. “What does he want?”

“He has a question about a sketch.”

“What question?”

“I don’t know, ma’am. A question about a sketch. He said to call and I’m calling.”

“So am I supposed to call him?”

“He’d like you at the station.”

“Really?” Why was she annoyed with Rick? He’d made no promises. She’d wanted no promises. But he was treating her like another cop. Which is essentially what she was, but . . . “Fine.”

“We’re sending a car for you.”

“When?”

“Any minute.”

“Fine.”

She grabbed her purse and phone and headed out the front door expecting to see a marked car driving down the long drive any moment. She’d taken one step off the porch when she heard the crunch of gravel and the very sharp sting of electricity shooting through her body. She jolted, faintly remembered being tased at the academy, and then passed out.

Rick read Jenna’s text about a half hour after she sent it. The instant he opened the image he rocked back on his heels. He recognized the face instantly.

Rick dialed Jenna’s number a second time and a second time got no answer. Georgia had said she was back at the house and drawing. “Where the hell are you?”

Bishop looked up. “What’s eating you?”

“Look at the picture of Sara Thompson’s boyfriend.”

One glance and Bishop cursed. “Fucker was right there all along.”

Rick called Jenna again. No answer. “Jenna isn’t answering her phone.” He made a second call to Georgia. She picked up on the third ring.

“What’s up, Bro?”

“Where’s Jenna?”

Through the phone, he heard the rustle of papers as if she’d put aside what she was working on and shifted all her attention to him. “I left her at the Big House. She was doing your sketch.”

“She’s not answering.”

“Why the red alert?”

“The age-progression sketch she did of her sister’s boyfriend, Billy Martinez, looks like William Spires, a realtor that we interviewed.”

“Shit. Do you think Susan Martinez knows?”

“I don’t know.” Rick’s nerves tightened like a bowstring. “I do know all the murder scenes were for sale.”

“William Spires had access to all the locations.”

He drummed his fingers. “Where the hell is Jenna?”

“She could be taking a walk.”

“She keeps her phone with her.” And her face and family history had been all over the news thanks to Susan Martinez. If she knew what her brother was doing then she’d served Jenna up to him with that interview. “Where is she?”

A chair squeaked as if she leaned forward. “Her old family home is for sale. She mentioned it earlier while we were shopping.”

“Shit.” Worry pounded in his chest, reverberating through muscle and bone. “Thanks.”

“Call me when you have something.”

“Yeah.” His mind already raced ahead. He turned to Bishop who watched him closely, and relayed what Georgia had told him.

“Saying she is missing and in trouble, a fact we’ve not confirmed. Would it be so simple as him snatching her and taking her to her old home?”

“He’s not strayed far from his comfort zone. He picks a home he’s seen and toured. He picks surrogates to take the women.”

“Tuttle, Wheeler, and Mitchell.”

“And Ronnie. Ronnie killed Jenna’s family. But Ronnie fucked up the fire and he didn’t keep to the script. He took Jenna.”

“Spires/Martinez gets smarter and the next go around, he’s on scene during the killing and then kills the surrogate almost immediately. You think he turned Loyola loose on Jenna?”

Tumblers clicked into place as a lock opened. “I do. We need to go to the Thompson house.” He flipped through one of the Thompson murder files on his desk and found the address.

Friday, August 25, 9
P.M.

When Jenna awoke, she realized she was on a bed. Her hands were tied to the headboard and her feet to the baseboard. The strong scent of diesel hung in the air.

Quelling a surge of panic, she forced her mind to clear as she looked around the room and tried to figure out who had taken her. She moistened dry lips and did her best to ignore the ache and stiffness radiating through her limbs. She swallowed. “I know you’re out there. You wouldn’t set this little event up and just walk away.”

Silence. And then the shuffle of footsteps and the sound of breathing.

Jenna twisted her wrists in metal cuffs that chafed her skin. She looked around the room, doing her best to get her bearings. Her gaze darted from a dresser to an overstuffed chair and ottoman and to an area rug. She’d been here before. Days ago with Susan Martinez. This was the home she’d lived in until she was five. This was the house where her family had died.

Sadness and panic welled inside her as she closed her eyes for a moment and struggled to get control
. Keep it together, Jenna. He wants to see you afraid. He wants to taste your fear.
She dug deep for steel and wrapped herself in it. “Kind of trite bringing me to the place where it all began. Couldn’t you have come up with a better spot?” She laughed. “I could’ve done a better job.”

A shadow appeared at the door’s entrance. She couldn’t see a face, but knew she’d gained his attention.