Pushed Too Far: A Thriller (7 page)

But as bad as all that would be, she had a feeling things were going to get much worse.

“Looks like they’re done,” Becca said.

Val raised her left hand, shielding her eyes from the glare. Movement shuffled through the glass doors of the squat, brick county building. The media came out first, television cameras looking for the money shot, reporters and local news personalities following, either scribbling notes or fixing makeup and hair, depending on their medium.

County deputies took their spots on either flank of the small crowd of parka-clad curious. Not exactly the size and fervor one would find in Val’s native Chicago, but something the area had likely never seen. At least not since Hess’s conviction.

Now they had only to wait for the guest of honor.

An uncomfortable shimmer of energy raced along Val’s nerves, the kind of feeling she got when things were about to go very wrong. She concentrated on her breathing, in four counts, hold four counts, out four counts, and clasped her hands in her lap. Her numb fingers felt cold to the touch. How could she have forgotten her gloves?

The glass doors opened, two more deputies emerged and then the man himself.

A few people trailed behind, his lawyer, some others, but Val couldn’t focus on anyone but Hess. He was dressed the same as he had been this morning, with the addition of a dark gray coat over his suit. He held his head high as he performed his perp walk in reverse. A free man. A proud man.

An innocent man.

Val felt sick to her stomach.

“So what happens now?” Again, Becca’s voice gave her a jolt.

“We work to put him back.”

“And if we can’t?”

“We will.”

It occurred to Val that her protégé had no inkling of how comfortingly boring small town police work could be. Boredom for which Val had developed a physical longing.

She could hardly remember what it felt like to take a day off, to watch the Packers with a beer in hand, cross country ski through the trails in Devil’s Lake State Park, or sleep all day just because she wanted to.

Because she needed to.

At the curb, Hess and Tamara Wade split ways, the lawyer walking a little faster as if eager to get away from him. She climbed into a silver-blue Volvo parked at the curb.

He paused next to a burgundy SUV that had seen better days, but instead of getting in the vehicle, he spun around and stared straight at Val.

“Oh my God,” Becca whispered under her breath.

The sharp blue eyes flicked to Becca, taking her in. Then his lips pulled back in a smile, revealing straight white teeth.

Val had an overpowering urge to lean to the side, blocking his view of the young officer.

She’d been stupid to come, stupid to show him how interested she was in noting his every move, really stupid to bring a young woman along, cop or not, that he could notice, fixate on. Hadn’t she just been reading about the young woman he’d tortured to death in Nebraska? “Let’s get out of here.”

Becca shifted into gear.

When they drove past Hess, he was still watching, and Val shot her hardest stare right back. But even after they were safely down the road, her whole body was shaking, and she wondered how soon she’d see Dixon Hess again.

By the time Becca dropped her back at the station and left to enjoy what was left of her day off, Val’s blood was buzzing. Hess might have dressed his threat up as a question of justice and a lament about how much he’d lost, but Val recognized it for what it was. She needed to make sure everyone involved with the investigation and trial was informed and protected.

She started with Pete Olson, who had finally gone home to his wife and kids for the first time in days. In true Olson form, he wasn’t surprised by the threat, in fact, he said only two words.

“I’m ready.”

Monica Forbes was prepared as well. Answering on her cell, the assistant district attorney was almost inaudible over the chimes and beeps in the background.

“Where are you?”

“The local casino. We’re staying at the hotel. Might as well take advantage of the slots. And you know hotel sex is always the best.”

For Monica, Val was getting the idea that any and all sex was always the best. And she had to admit, the envy she was feeling over her friend’s evening had little to do with jamming tokens in slot machines at the casino run by a local Native American tribe.

Next she called Dale Kasdorf, witness to the brawl between Hess and Kelly that left Kelly’s blood in his truck right before she disappeared. Val had met Kasdorf her first day on the job when he’d decided to show his appreciation of the Wisconsin open carry law by hanging out in Rossum Park with an AR15 strapped to his back and a Heckler and Koch Mark 23 at his waist.

Once a farm hand at the Meinholz’s dairy farm, he now made his living writing a blog and how-to manuals about weapons and survival. He didn’t answer the phone—Kasdorf never did—so she had to leave a message.

The last call she made was to David Lund, but he wasn’t home either, and apparently he wasn’t answering his cell.

After a word with the shift sergeant taking over for Olson, ordering hourly drive-by checks of Kasdorf’s and Lund’s homes, she left her office and made for the dispatch center, a glorified closet packed to bursting with equipment purchased with Homeland Security money back in 2002. Before that, Val could only guess what the tiny burg of Lake Loyal had gotten by with. Probably a single phone with a pigtailed cord and an old CB radio.

“I thought you were going home.”

“Nice to see you, too, Oneida.”

The dispatcher, secretary, coffee brewer and cleaning lady, Oneida Perkins ran the station. She’d been Jeff Schneider’s right hand woman when he’d been chief, and Val had inherited her bossy mothering. Her unquestioning allegiance still clearly belonged to Schneider.

A large, white woman, Oneida liked to tell anyone who would listen that she had Indian blood running through her veins. Val happened to know her dispatcher had paid a fortune to have her family tree researched, and as far as native roots went, she’d come up empty.

A secret Val would never spill.

Oneida gave her a disapproving frown. “Get out of here. Go home.”

The woman was strong on the frown, even when she was happy. And Oneida was never happier than when she was mothering Val. Or bullying her.

Same thing.

“I just have a few things to tie up.”

“A few things? It’s been days, and you’re starting to smell. He’s out now, okay? It’s done. Time for you to get some rest, come at it fresh tomorrow.”

Val slipped her right hand into her coat pocket, not wanting Oneida to see just how badly she needed to take the advice. “I’ll leave. I promise. How are things here?”

“Nice and quiet. Just the way we like ‘em. Now, go. Get something decent to eat. Get some rest. And for heaven’s sake, take a shower. I better not see you again until tomorrow.”

A shower would feel good. And food. And sleep. Although the latter might be hard to come by with Hess’s threat running through her head.

“I’ll schedule a drive-by check or two for you tonight, also,” Oneida added, as if reading her mind.

“Thanks,” Val told her, and she meant it.

Leaving Oneida humming to herself, Val followed orders and left.

Darkness came early this time of year. And with the long nights came the cold. Her breath fogged the air in front of her. She stuffed her hands deeper into her pockets, still trying to remember where she’d left her gloves.

Her engine rolled over on the first try—thank God for small favors—and she backed out of her space, the power steering squealing in the cold, and pulled onto Branch Street. But instead of turning left on Elmwood, she kept going.

If the television vans had followed him all the way home, they were gone now. She could see that as soon as she made the right onto Bradhearst. She slowed, assessing Hess’s building through leafless trees. The apartment she judged to be his was dark, only the soft flicker of television light visible through nicotine-stained blinds.

She scanned the parking lot, looking for the SUV he’d driven from the courthouse, the only vehicle registered in his name.

One pass.

A chill started at the back of her neck and trickled downward.

She turned into the far entrance and wove through the cars, locating spot 217.

No SUV.

No Hess.

She wasn’t hungry anymore. Now she felt sick to her stomach.

It had been a good day, the kind of day Tamara Wade had dreamed about when she’d announced to her parents at age fifteen that she wanted to become an attorney. That same year, she’d also decided she’d be a vegetarian and spend two years in the Peace Corps before going to college.

One out of three wasn’t bad.

She drove south on Highway 12 through rolling hills, the lights of Middleton glowing ahead. Norah Jones crooned on her car stereo. The scent of coffee filled the car. When she got home, she’d settle in front of the fireplace, pour a glass of Bordeaux, snuggle her cat and toast to justice.

When she’d taken Dixon Hess’s case, she’d been as sure he was guilty as everyone else. She’d worked hard anyway, given him solid legal counsel. No one could have known the authorities had the wrong victim. They had DNA, after all. Juries worshipped DNA. No one could have looked at the facts of the case and come to any conclusion but the one they had.

She couldn’t be blamed, but she could claim some credit now. Justice had prevailed. She had prevailed. And she had every right to feel good about it.

She took the off ramp and wound through Middleton’s quiet streets. Christmas lights twinkled along rooflines and swags of greenery wrapped light poles. Maybe she wouldn’t have Bordeaux. Maybe she’d make it champagne.

The whole thing was funny, really. She’d never liked Dixon Hess. The guy had given her the creeps since the first time she’d seen him. He wasn’t bad looking. He could even be charming. But there was something about him that made her uneasy.

She’d obviously listened too much to the prosecution, just as the jury had. If there was one thing she was ashamed of in this case, that was it. She’d believed the smear against her own client and wasn’t skeptical enough of the evidence.

That was the only reason she’d agreed to carry those notes to him.

For a moment, a chill stole over her skin despite the fact that the car’s heater was turned up to ninety.

But she didn’t have to worry. Val Ryker might suspect she’d acted as a messenger for Dixon, but it wasn’t as if she’d really done anything wrong, not like Val thought. The notes she’d delivered had nothing to do with the police chief’s case against Dixon. It was simply something she could do to make up for the way she’d judged him.

But now that she’d gotten him released, she and Dixon were square. Today, any mistakes she might have made were squarely behind her. And if she was really lucky, she’d never have to see him again.

She swung into the side drive of her apartment building. Approaching the entrance to the underground garage, she used the unit on her dash to raise the door. Pulling into her space, she heaved a satisfied sigh, grabbed her briefcase and climbed out. She was just about to lock the door with her remote, when she spotted movement near the elevator.

Letting the smile she was feeling spread over her lips, she turned to face her neighbor. “Nice night, isn’t it?”

No, not her neighbor. “What are you doing here?”

Dixon smiled.

In two seconds he was beside her.

In three, he was smashing her skull into the concrete wall.

A
fter only three or four hours of sleep in the past fifty five, Val would have assumed she’d be snoring before her head hit the pillow.

She would have been right.

What she didn’t foresee is jolting awake an hour later.

She stared at the ceiling for another hour, images of burned bones and babies dancing across the slapbrush texture, then she finally kicked back the comforter, climbed out, pulled on a pair of yoga pants and a thick sweater.