Falling Hard and Fast (25 page)

At least he had until he'd met Zoey. The swift stab her name brought him was becoming too familiar. He pushed his half-eaten meal away and propped his feet up on the chair across from him. Taking the cigar from his shirt pocket, he gave more attention to lighting it than the act required.

He was a man known for his steady persistence, but he'd shown none of his usual patience this morning. The thought of her leaving, of her lack of faith in their relationship, had had logic clouding and emotion taking over. He'd pushed, hard, when he should have known better. He could have bided his time, used the next month or two to bind her to him so closely that she couldn't fathom leaving him. But instinct had reared up, born of fear of losing her.

Thunder rumbled sullenly in the distance. Although the promised rain showed no signs of beginning, he was still reminded of the first time he'd made love to Zoey. His body tightened at the memory. The helpless feeling he'd left her house with was as foreign as it was frustrating. She seemed to hold their future in her palm, and there wasn't a blessed thing he could do about it.

To divert himself, he concentrated on blowing a trio of perfect smoke rings. Ila would have his hide for smoking in the house, and she had a nose like a bloodhound. He couldn't bring himself to care.

It took more effort than it should have to force his mind back to the meeting he'd had with Lane. He'd half hoped the man would scoff at his suspicions, point out flagrant inconsistencies in his tenuous theory. But instead, he'd
given it credence—the kind of credence that Cage had been half hoping it lacked.

Instincts that had nothing to do with logic told him that further investigation would eliminate doubt about the homicides being linked. And those links might point to a common thread between the victims, one that could lead them to a killer.

Narrowing his eyes, he considered the haze of smoke before him as if it held some much-needed answers. The locations of the murders were scattered all over the state. At this point, trying to predict where the killer would strike next seemed futile.

That was the biggest question in his mind: where. It didn't occur to him to wonder when. It had been five months between the last two victims the killer had claimed.

There was no doubt in Cage's mind that if something didn't break soon, another would be claimed before the summer was over.

 

Zoey's progression through the small house was signaled by the lights that winked on, one after another. They shone like tiny beacons in the darkness. She moved out of the kitchen, onto the attached screened-in porch. Backdropped against the light spilling from the kitchen door, she appeared for a moment to be haloed by the glow.

Senses heightened, the figure watched silently in the night, each beat of a pulse throbbing like a wound. Dagger-edged expectancy sliced deeply among varying emotions, and an urgent need rose to an almost unbearable pitch.

It could happen now. Eyes slid shut; the scene unfolded in the depths of a twisted mind. The lock on the door would be no problem, and the shock on her face would be sweet. The moment when that shock switched to terror would turn the keen blade of anticipation into a painful rush of power that was dizzying in its intensity.

It was more difficult than usual to turn back the swell of temptation. But everything had to be perfect. Details took
careful planning. Surely Zoey would understand the importance of planning.

It wouldn't be much longer before Zoey would understand…everything.

T
he gunmetal sky was pierced with occasional jags of lightning, and the rain fell in sheets. Cage glanced out the office window. Although lacking the winds of the previous storm, the weather threatened to persist for hours. It matched his mood after a singularly sleepless night. As a matter of fact, it seemed to match the mood of just about everybody he encountered today.

He rubbed the stiffness from the back of his neck. He'd been a cop long enough to know how intangibles like weather, barometric pressure and a good old-fashioned full moon could affect human behavior. And, true to form, they'd been dealing with phone calls from disgruntled parish citizens all day. Ethel was certain she'd spotted Donny Ray peeking in her windows bold as could be this morning, and Fern had called to describe a car she'd spotted parked near the woods where “it shouldn't oughta be.”

Even his own employees weren't exempt. Surely the dreary day was to blame for Luanne and Patsy sniping at each other about who made the best coffee. Hell, while he
was at it, he could blame it for Fisher's short temper with DuPrey's incessant questions, as well. Not to mention Tommy Lee's foul humor after returning from lunch at the Stew 'N Brew. Although to be fair, that could just as easily be the result of yet another rejection from a certain blond waitress.

Hearing the shouting emanating from the area of the cells, he heaved a long breath. It'd just go to figure that the Rutherfords would be as susceptible to the rotten weather as anyone else. After all, they were human, too, all evidence to the contrary.

Rising, he strode to his door, but it opened before he could reach it. He spoke, stemming the words that threatened to tumble from Luanne's mouth. “I know, I heard. Our guests object to the quality of the food here. I'm on my way to remind them it comes straight from the diner. If they want to complain about Ethel's cooking, I'm going to make them say it to her face. That should put the fear of God into the lot of them.”

But Luanne's plump face remained creased with urgency. “Baker and Sutton just radioed in. You'd better head on out to the woods behind the old Carney place. They found Donny Ray hanging from a tree out there. Looks like a suicide, Sheriff.”

 

The steady rain didn't prevent a crowd from gathering, hampering the efforts of the deputies. DuPrey had been given the duty of crowd control, and he looked to have his hands full. When Runnels and one of his officers arrived, DuPrey waved them through.

Tarps and spotlights were being utilized to preserve the scene, efforts that would no doubt be wasted. Doc Barnes was still bent over the body where it had been lowered to the ground. Cage stood next to him, knowing the man well enough to avoid rushing him. Scanning the area, his attention was arrested. Well beyond the crowd, amidst the dense foliage, was Billy McIntire. Their gazes meshed for a mo
ment, before Billy turned and melted into the woods. Cage made a mental note to search the man out to get a statement. If he'd been wandering in the woods at the same time Donny Ray had, he might be able to shed some light on his death.

His attention drifted back to the body. “What do you think, Doc?

“I think he's dead,” was the testy reply. “Hasn't been long, though. No more than an hour, maybe two. He knew how to do it right. Picked a tree with a hell of a drop. Broke his fool neck.” With effort, the older man got to his feet. “Any sign of a note?”

Cage motioned to Fisher, who pulled on latex gloves and took out an evidence bag. He squatted down and began to go through the corpse's pockets. Runnels knelt beside him.

“Think we've got something, Sheriff.” Runnels took the evidence bag from Fisher and held it so the deputy could ease his finding inside. Cage bent to see the sodden piece of paper Fisher smoothed out once it was in the bag.

 

I done my best to rid the world of evil.

 

“Well, there's your suicide note.” Fisher rocked back on his heels. “Not exactly what I'd expect from Donny Ray. Of course, hadn't figured him the type for suicide, either.”

“He may have been despondent over his wife leaving him,” Boyd observed. “Or life on the run became too much for him.”

“I'd hardly considered surviving in the woods he's known all his life as being on the lam, Boyd.” Cage's voice was dry. He tended to agree with Fisher's assessment. Men of Donny Ray's ilk sometimes committed murder-suicides, victimizing their wives or girlfriends, but he wouldn't have predicted the man would take his own life.

Cage bent over the body again. “Let's see what else we can find.”

“Sheriff.”

He looked up to see Deputy Sutton addressing him.

“What about the next of kin?”

“Shoot.” He rose, thinking quickly. He hated the thought of having Stacy hear this news over the phone, but they wouldn't be free for hours yet. “You'd better call Stacy at the shelter. Make sure you talk to the director first, so she has somebody there for her afterwards.”

Sutton nodded.

“And Donny Ray's brothers will have to be told.” His eyes met Sutton's. “It probably wouldn't hurt for you to stick close to the office until I get back.” The deputy nodded and turned away.

“There. Right there.”

Runnels's voice was pitched with more excitement than Cage had ever heard in it. He returned his attention to the two men squatting beside him.

“It's sticking to the back of that match book cover you just dropped into the bag. What's that?” Runnels held the evidence bag in front of one of the spotlights, and Cage and Fisher peered at the object he was pointing to.

Everything taken from Donny Ray's pockets was clumped together, saturated by the rain. The flash of color pressed against the dark match book was an incongruous sight. Cage was no expert, but the long false nail looked a likely match for the color Pearly Pink. The polish Janice Reilly had had applied the day before she was murdered.

 

Zoey stared blindly out the window into the gloom. The steady rain showed no signs of lessening. The dismal weather was a perfect match for her mood.

Oxy sat at her feet, his head cocked, as if to gauge whether she was ready to burst into tears or start throwing things. She'd done both that day. Neither had helped. Nothing would relieve the feeling that she'd had something precious within her grasp, only to throw it away.

The rain ran in tiny rivers down the windowpane to clus
ter, shimmering, before dropping to the ground below. It wasn't as if Cage hadn't known what he'd been asking. He'd read her fears as if they'd been written on her face, and he'd made his demand in spite of them. Or, perhaps, because of them.

Turning away from the window, she began to pace. He couldn't possibly know what it was to have only yourself to depend on, while others were counting on you. Once control was learned, it was difficult to give up. It was easy to preach about letting others near, but closeness established vulnerability. Where one was vulnerable, one could be hurt.

As Cage could hurt her.

She walked through the house, not noticing the toy Oxy had left in her path until she stepped on it and it emitted a squeak. Alan hadn't had the power to wound as deeply as Cage could, because of the emotional distance she'd maintained. Hadn't that saved her from the worst of the pain from his betrayal? It shouldn't make her a coward to want to spare herself that.

She'd tried to keep a similar distance with Cage, but the man had simply made it impossible. Sinking to the floor, she let Oxy climb onto her lap, and then hugged the animal close. She should have paid closer attention to those alarm bells that sounded whenever she was in Cage's arms. Somehow, he'd slipped past her defenses. And somehow, he'd made her glad of it.

The dog gave a yip, and she loosened her hold. Oxy immediately made his escape. How long, she wondered, had she been kidding herself imagining that the choice was still hers to make? The risk of losing Cage couldn't be any less painful than the possibility of being hurt by him at some time. If distance was what she wanted, she'd long since passed the time where it would have been effective. Long past the time when she'd fallen in love with the man.

It wasn't an abrupt realization; more like smoke curling beneath a door that she'd kept stubbornly closed. She'd been deceiving herself thinking she still had time to step away
from Cage. What he wanted from her still had the power to make her palms sweat and her throat go dry. She hated to think of disappointing him; hated to believe that maybe she wasn't capable of giving him what he was looking for.

But she'd despise herself as a coward if she didn't try.

Rising, she headed to the phone and called his number. Though it was early evening, the phone rang endlessly. Next she called his office, only to be told by the impersonal voice on the phone that he couldn't be disturbed.

The message she left took a ridiculous amount of courage. “Will you tell him Zoey called and asked him to come by her house when he's finished? Tell him…I have the answer he's been waiting for.”

 

“I guess I'm not following you, Sheriff.” Fisher surveyed him placidly. “Why would you even raise the question of whether Donny Ray died by his own hand? Suicide note looked to be his handwriting, didn't it?”

Cage blew a smoke ring, and considered his deputy's questions. The answers were both affirmative. The inverted-V bruise on the back of Donny's neck had indicated hanging rather than strangling. What was holding him back from washing his hands of the whole mess? He had a chance to wrap up a couple of cases with a nice big bow. Runnels's final words that evening were probably correct. The taxpayers would be spared the expense of two trials. And despite what the chief thought, Cage's reluctance to be convinced wasn't due to Runnels being the first to spot the evidence labeling Donny Ray as Janice Reilly's killer.

He reached out, tapped the ash from his cigar into the ashtray. Trouble was, he was having difficulty putting all the details together in a way that made sense to him.

“I guess you could say it's the false nail that's bothering me,” Cage mused aloud. “I just can't see a reason Donny Ray would have for killing that girl. Assuming, of course, that it does prove to belong to Janice Reilly.”

“We know he's capable of violence toward women. And Morris found an empty envelope from a Baton Rouge bank. He could have seen the victim on the street sometime he was there and planned the whole thing out.”

“Planned the whole thing,” Cage echoed. Maybe that was what was bothering him so much. “Donny Ray might have had it in him to murder someone in the heat of the moment, especially if he was liquored up. But he doesn't strike me as being able to carry out a murder and leave no clues. And it's a sure thing that a woman like Janice Reilly wouldn't go with him without force. Her body didn't show signs of drugs or head trauma. What would cause her to go near a man like him?”

Fisher frowned, considering. “With both of them dead now, I guess we'll never know all the details of her murder.”

Cage looked up, caught the weariness in the other man's face. “Well, it's been a long day. There's nothing more that needs to be done tonight. Why don't you go on home, Delbert. Who's on the night shift tonight?”

“Baker, for one.”

“Ask him to swing by Billy McIntire's place. If he can find him, I'd like to talk to him.”

The door closed behind Fisher. Narrowing his eyes, Cage exhaled a stream of smoke. Maybe he was just being bull-headed. He should be overjoyed to find that the speculation he'd engaged in with Tom Lane was just that—that their concerns about a serial killer operating in Louisiana were based on exaggerated coincidence.

Problem was, as a detective he'd learned never to trust coincidences. Especially if there were lives at stake. He strove to set aside bias and focus on fact. Whoever had murdered Janice Reilly was someone she felt safe with. Someone with good communication skills, credibility or a harmless appearance. None of those descriptions fit Donny Ray Rutherford.

But they would describe the kind of killer who had murdered eight women without leaving a shred of evidence.

Patsy ducked in and handed Cage a piece of paper. “Didn't want to interrupt you before, Sheriff. You had a phone call.”

His stomach did a slow pitch and roll as he read the message Zoey had left. He folded the note and creased it carefully with his thumbnail. There was no way of knowing just what Zoey's answer was; no way to be sure if it was the one he was so desperate to hear.

He stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray. He was just cowardly enough to consider putting off seeing her until tomorrow. Then, at least, if it wasn't the answer he wanted, his mind would be clear to muster a convincing argument.

“You gonna answer that message, Sheriff?” Patsy asked in an arch voice.

Cage slowly shook his head. “I don't think so. Is there any more coffee out there? I think I'm going be here awhile.”

 

The rain had slowed to a steady patter. Zoey decided to prepare stir-fry, which would be quick and easy to fix when Cage came.
If
he came.

To distract herself from the nerves that were flashing and jittering inside her, she drew a knife from the butcher block and concentrated on slicing up chicken breasts. She was going to think positively. Cage
would
come. And she would tell him what was in her heart, no matter how daunting the act was—because the thought of him not being in her life was even more terrifying.

A knock sounded at the front door, and she pressed a hand to her heart. It was rocketing in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she headed down the hallway, Oxy trailing her, and opened the door.

Her heart plummeted to someplace in the vicinity of her shoes. “If you're looking for Cage, he isn't here.”