Authors: Tami Dane
Blood of Dawn (5 page)
A knock on my window woke me up sometime later. Much later. It was light outside.
Mom was standing there, munching on a piece of toast, staring at me like I was Shamu at SeaWorld.
I turned on the car so I could power down the window. The clock’s digital display glowed green. Seven-thirty. And the windshield was covered with water droplets. It had stormed again while I’d been sleeping.
My phone rang.
“Sloan? Why are you sleeping in your car?” Mom asked.
“Because it’s more comfortable—and drier—than the front porch. You locked me out.”
Mom gave me stink eye. “I didn’t lock you out. You locked yourself out. I was in bed when you left.”
“You’re right. Technically, I did lock myself out.”
Mom handed me her nibbled toast. “Are you hungry? Here. Come inside and I’ll make you some pancakes while you shower.”
I haven’t had Mom’s pancakes in years. That’s a good thing. She’s the only person I know who can mess up a perfectly good Aunt Jemima batter. It’s the additives she tries to sneak in, to make them healthy: crunchy twigs, little leaves. And don’t get me started on the brown liquid—labeled sugar-free syrup—that she douses them in. “That’s a very kind offer, but I’ve got to go.” As if on cue, my phone rang again. I snatched it. Expecting it to be either Chief Peyton or JT, I checked the display. It was the latter. “See? Work’s calling me. I’m late.” I grabbed my phone and purse and hurried out of the car. “I need to change clothes.”
Mom shrugged, then fell into step beside me. “I guess that leaves more for Katie. She’s a little skinny, anyway. And her diet is absolutely horrible. Did you know she eats a ham sandwich every single day?”
“Terrible, isn’t it? I’ve tried telling her how bad those processed meats are, but she won’t stop. Maybe she’ll listen to you.” Inside, I hustled up the steps. There was no time for a shower. I would have to freshen up, pull my hair back, put on a little makeup, and head out. I still had a long drive to Quantico ahead of me.
“You can bet I’ll try my best. I love that girl like she’s my own daughter.”
“I know you do, Mom. And she’s so, so lucky.”
After I changed, slapped on some makeup, and plastered my hair back, I hurried back downstairs. I checked my messages before heading out to my car.
JT: “Sloan, call me. ASAP. We’ve got a second victim.”
My insides twisted. Bad news already. “Damn.”
Every man casts a shadow; not his body only, but his imperfectly mingled spirit. This is his grief. Let him turn which way he will, it falls opposite to the sun; short at noon, long at eve. Did you never see it?
—Henry David Thoreau
5
Within an hour, I’d parked down the street from the middle-class residence of Emma Walker, the second victim. Wasting no time, I bustled out of the vehicle and jogged down the sidewalk toward the cordoned-off area in front of the house. The similarities between the girls, at least from the outside, were apparent right away. Like Stephanie Barnett, Emma Walker lived in a nice, well-kept home on a quiet suburban street. Their houses were mere blocks from each other, which suggested the killer was probably local, targeting girls he knew personally. My first thought, as I hurried up the front steps, was to check what schools the girls attended. If we were dealing with a teen killer, chances were good they were students of the same school.
Inside, I found JT standing in the living room, talking to a woman who had to be the girl’s mother—judging by the bloodshot eyes and tear-streaked face. My heart did a little jerk in my chest at the sight of the bereft woman, and I wondered if I’d ever get used to seeing such wretched human suffering. My insides twisted, and my stomach churned. I took a couple of deep breaths and approached JT and the girl’s mom.
JT introduced me. “Mrs. Walker, this is Sloan Skye. She’s going to help us profile the person who did this.”
Dabbing her splotchy face, Mrs. Walker merely acknowledged me with a nod before turning back to JT. “I don’t understand why anyone would do this. My daughter was an innocent girl. A good girl. She was liked by everyone. Had lots of friends. Never got into trouble. Why?” She started sobbing again, and JT glanced at me.
He said, “I know this is hard for you, but the more information we can get about your daughter, the more accurate our profile will be.” I could see that he was having a hard time with this one too. The man did have a good heart.
I tried to encourage him with a tiny nod.
The woman’s sobs finally settled down a little, and she blew her nose. “I’m trying.” She sniffled.
“Take your time,” he said gently; his eyes were very soft and kind.
“What was it you wanted?” she asked. “I don’t remember.”
“We’d like a list of all of her friends at school,” he answered.
The woman looked left and then right. “I don’t know. . . . Wait, her phone. Let me see what I can come up with.”
“We’ll stay right here.”
“Okay.” She lifted an index finger. Her lip quivering, she asked, “Does it make me a bad mother that I don’t know most of her friends’ names?”
JT shook his head. “No, ma’am. It doesn’t.”
She nodded and shuffled away, shoulders sagging.
“I feel for her,” I told him, once I was sure she was out of earshot.
“Me too. She lost her only daughter.”
Staring at the photographs lining one wall of the living room, I grumbled, “I hate that so many of our cases involve children. The kidnapping in the first one, the stolen babies in the second, and now this.”
“Yeah.” JT shoved his fingers through his hair. “Makes it hard to sleep at night.”
“I thought I was the only one.”
JT’s gaze locked onto mine. “You’re not.”
I forced myself to look away before things became uncomfortable. Not so long ago, we’d gone out. On a date. And it was nice. Very nice. But I had decided, even though there was enough chemistry between us to cause a nuclear reactor meltdown, that we had to keep things professional. I had high hopes for a career in the FBI. Any rumors about my sleeping with a superior would pretty much put an end to that dream.
At any rate, every now and then, things got a little strained between JT and me. Even though I was now kind of, sort of, seeing Damen. I’d read that a person’s brain could rule the body, that thoughts could cure disease, lengthen life, and improve health. So why was it so hard for a person’s mind to seize control over an overactive libido?
Thankfully, Mrs. Walker came back. “The detective wants to take Emma’s phone for evidence, so I copied down the names and numbers for you.” She handed JT a piece of paper.
“Thanks.” JT turned around and gave me the paper.
“Now, one more time, what can you tell us about what happened last night?”
“I don’t know. I came home from work at a little after midnight—I’m a nurse, working afternoons this week. I found my daughter upstairs in her room. She was . . .” She stopped and blinked once, twice. “She was on the floor. No pulse. Nothing. And she had these strange marks on her neck.”
“When was the last time you talked to her?”
“I called her after school, right before cheerleading practice.”
“Did she say anything unusual?” JT scribbled some details in his little notebook.
“Nothing. After practice, she was going to the library to study and then she was coming home.”
JT asked, “Is it possible your daughter brought someone into your home without your knowledge?”
The mother’s lips thinned. “Yes, I suppose so. But I’ve warned her never to bring anyone in our home when I’m not there. I trusted her.” She placed her shaking hands over her mouth. “If only I’d known . . . If only . . .” She started shaking all over, hard sobs cutting through the silence.
Not sure what to do, I stood mute at JT’s side. Would I ever know what to say in these situations? Or would they always be uncomfortable and awkward?
JT gave the woman a moment to collect herself. When it seemed she was able to speak again, he asked in a soft voice, “Outside of your daughter, did you notice anything else unusual? Anything out of place?”
Mrs. Walker’s eyes darted around the room, as if she was searching. “No. But I wasn’t looking. I just went upstairs to check on Emma when she didn’t respond. Once I found her, I called 911 right away. After that, I don’t really know what I was doing. I’m a nurse with over twenty years of experience, and I’ve seen just about anything you could imagine. But this . . . Well, even I couldn’t handle this.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
Forrester came down the stairs and turned the corner, joining our little circle. “We’re just about done upstairs. We’ll be out of your way soon, ma’am. I’d like a phone number to reach you in case we have any more questions,” the BPD detective inquired.
She nodded, then enclosed her body in her arms. “I . . . I don’t know if I can stay here tonight.” Her eyes cut to the stairs. “No, I don’t think I can. My sister lives a few miles from here. I’ll probably go stay with her for a few days. You can call my cell phone. I’ll give you her number as well.” She rattled off the numbers for the officer.
Meanwhile, JT and I were getting antsy. We were standing around, accomplishing absolutely nothing. We had two dead teenagers. Two. Killed within twenty-four hours of each other. This guy was going to kill again. Soon. We needed to be doing something.
“What’s next?” I asked JT.
He was skimming his notes. “We’ve got nothing.” His brows scrunched. “Not a goddamn thing.”
“Have you asked if Emma Walker knew Stephanie Barnett? Or what about Barnett’s father?”
“I . . . No.”
I did a three-sixty, looking for Mrs. Walker. She’d been right there, behind us, a few minutes ago. Not any more. Forrester was gone too. I dashed outside and found Forrester. “Where is Mrs. Walker?”
“She went to stay with a family member.”
“Address?”
He flipped his notebook open, ripped a sheet out, and wrote something on it. I thanked him and turned back toward the house, figuring I’d find JT inside. He wasn’t. He was outside, walking toward his car.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Leaning past me, he grabbed the door handle.
I set my hand on his arm. “Is everything okay? You’re acting a little strange.”
“I had a rough night.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about it right now.” His jaw clenched a little as he pulled open the door. “I’m heading back to Quantico.”
“But what about Mrs. Walker? I have the address where she’s staying. Shouldn’t we talk to her about Barnett?”
“You talk to her. I need . . . to go.” He sat and slammed the door. With me standing outside, wondering what was going on, he started the car and zoomed off.
I haven’t known JT long, but I knew him well enough to realize something was very wrong.
Shoving aside my concern, I dashed to my car and motored over to the address Forrester had given me. There were three cars crowded on the double-wide driveway. I hoped one of them was Mrs. Walker’s.
I wasted no time running up to the house and knocking.
A woman, who looked a lot like Mrs. Walker, answered. “May I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Sloan Skye. FBI. I was wondering if Mrs. Walker was here?”
“She is, but she’s resting.”
“We had only a couple more questions for her, if there’s any chance she might be able to speak with me. It won’t take long.”
The woman stepped aside, inviting me in. “Let me go check with her. FBI, right?”
“Yes.”
I stood in the tiled foyer of a pretty Federal-style Colonial and watched the woman shuffle up the wood staircase. At the top, she knocked on a closed door. Seconds later, she stepped into a room. Mrs. Walker emerged, looking worse than she had a little while ago. Very pale. Her face. Her lips. She staggered slightly at the top of the stairs. And then, she just collapsed. I saw her falling. It was like time had slowed and every second lasted minutes. I tried to stop her, tried to catch her, but I couldn’t get there fast enough. Before I knew it, the thumping had stopped and I was staring into her eyes, wide open but unseeing. I couldn’t move. Not a muscle. I couldn’t believe what I’d just seen. Was it real?
Someone screamed, snapping me out of my stupor. Finally able to move, I ran to her, felt her neck for a pulse, and shouted, “Call 911!” I didn’t know if anyone had heard me.
Not that it mattered.
There was no pulse.
There were no respirations.
She was dead. The poor woman was dead.
Hours later, I was finally given the green light to leave. No sooner was I on the road than the chief called, asking when I would be in. She needed to discuss something with me. As soon as possible.
I haven’t been working with the PBAU for long, and thus I don’t have a lot of experience in these things. However, I’ve already learned that when one was called into the chief’s office for a private chat, the news generally wasn’t good. My heart started thumping irregularly the minute JT informed me that Chief Peyton was waiting for me in her office.
I fussed with my clothes, self-consciously, as I hurried toward her office. These days, Mom had the money to shop at the finest stores. And she took full advantage of that fact. But her taste hadn’t elevated. Not one iota. Instead of owning ugly clothes sewn from cheap materials, she now owned hordes of ugly clothes sewn from expensive materials. Lucky me, I got to wear them.
I did my best to bolster my confidence as I knocked on the chief’s door. She responded with an invitation to come in. I opened the door and saw she was on the phone. There was a grim look on her face. I sat in the chair that faced her desk; my hands clasped together in my lap.
She cut off the call, placed the phone back on the cradle, and then smiled at me. The smile wasn’t genuine.
I was in for something horrid. I could tell.
“I heard about your unfortunate accident, Sloan. The fire. If there’s anything we can do to help, please don’t be afraid to ask.”
“That’s very kind of you to offer,” I said, knowing the fire couldn’t be the reason for my being called in for a private tête-à-tête with Alice Peyton. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” The chief hesitated. This was just a lead-in to the real purpose of our meeting. “Sloan, you have done an exceptional job for us since your very first day on the job.”
“Thank you. It’s been an excellent experience. I’m grateful for the opportunity.”
“So glad you feel that way. I’m sure you realize your activities go far beyond those of the average summer intern.”
“I do.”
“We’re walking a very fine line with you, and I want to make sure you’re not feeling pressured to take on more than you can handle. At times, your work has put you directly in the line of fire. That’s something no intern has experienced before.”
I wasn’t sure where this conversation was leading. Was it possible that someone, maybe one of her superiors, was blaming me for what had happened to Mrs. Walker? I had a witness who could testify to my innocence. Immediately after she had collapsed, her sister came out of the room with an empty pill bottle. Mrs. Walker had overdosed.
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