She Can Run (12 page)

Barry wrapped the brace around Jack’s leg and fastened the Velcro straps. “I loosened the hinge so your leg can bend sixty degrees. This is mainly for lateral stability.”

Barry handed him the crutches. “Last time we did seventy-five percent of your body weight. Let’s try a couple of steps without any assistance. The crutches are only there if you feel like you’re going to fall.” Barry stood in front of him. “Take it easy now.”

Jack stepped forward and transferred his weight to his injured leg slowly. Stability was more of an issue than strength, and walking was not as painful as the flexion exercises. He rolled his weight forward and stepped through with an exhalation of relief. The leg held, but he wouldn’t be appearing on
Dancing with the Stars
next season.

Or any other season for that matter.

After twenty minutes of quality time with a jumbo-size ice pack, Jack showered, changed, and limped out to his Explorer. Heaving his exhausted body into the driver’s seat, he dragged his left leg into position under the dashboard. Pain shot through the joint.

Shit.

It was time he faced it. He was never going back to the force. The captain had made noises about a transfer to a less physically demanding position, but a desk job or spot in public relations appealed about as much as an IRS audit. Maybe less.

He started the truck and switched the air conditioner on full to combat the assault of the midday August sun.

As he leaned back against the headrest, a picture of Beth’s pale face at breakfast this morning popped into his mind. The episode with Lucy in the barn last night had taken its toll on her, as had yesterday morning’s incident with Will Martin. The horse couldn’t help being sick, but Martin made a conscious decision to be an asshole.

Could it have just been the heat that had unsettled her so thoroughly? No. Definitely not. Her hands had been shaking. When she’d ridden into the barnyard, her face had held an attractive flush from exercise and the obvious pleasure riding brought her. After she’d finished in the loft, a mere fifteen minutes later, she’d looked traumatized—no, victimized. Afterward Beth had pulled herself together by sheer force of will, but Jack had been acutely aware of her vulnerability.

What had Will Martin done up in that loft to intimidate Beth? Anger rose in Jack’s chest.

He made a mental note to talk to Mike O’Connell, the local police chief, about Will Martin. In the meantime, he would find out if there were any other feed suppliers in the area. He wondered if Beth knew anything about self-defense. He could show her a few moves, but she wasn’t comfortable with physical contact. Jack had a bad feeling deep in his gut that Beth was in danger. He’d learned to trust his instincts. He’d get Beth a canister of pepper spray. That stuff could take down a bear. If all else failed, well, there was always Sean, who would have no qualms with helping Jack give Martin a very private message.

The mystery surrounding his new employee made the back of his neck itch. But he still couldn’t put his finger on what exactly was wrong. Nothing about Beth’s actions set off his criminal-ometer. She and her kids acted like victims. It was far more likely she was running away from something. Or someone. She was a smart woman, so she must have a good reason. But, damn it, he couldn’t help them if he didn’t know what they were up against. Since she seemed determined to remain tight-lipped, he’d have to start looking for answers elsewhere. He’d have to be careful, though, and keep his investigation firmly under the radar. Who knew what she’d do if she found out he was digging into her secrets.

He didn’t have access to records anymore, but he knew someone who did.

He switched on his Bluetooth and speed-dialed Wes’s cell. Jack hadn’t set foot in his former station since his injury. But his gut was firmly telling him his new employee needed help, so it looked like the time had come.

He trusted his former partner with his life—and Beth’s.

Two hours later Jack parked in a visitors’ slot in front of the butt-ugly concrete square that housed the South Bend Police Department. Despite the pain he was sure to endure later, he left his cane in the car. His former coworkers would feed off it like sharks on chum. Cops protected each other against outsiders, but hazing within the ranks was brutal.

With a deep breath, he pushed through the glass door. The receptionist gave him a finger wave as she answered her phone. Jack skirted the front desk and limped toward the door that led to the main room. As he pushed through, a cacophony of ringing phones reverberated against metal desks, industrial linoleum, and cheap ceiling tiles.

In his head, Jack cringed. How many years had he worked here? Had it always been this loud and dirty?

Working his way through a sea of back pats, handshakes, and “hi, how are ya’s,” Jack weaved through a maze of cubicles to Wes’s desk in the far corner. Wes was on the phone. His friend held up one finger.

Working hard to keep a straight face, Jack nodded to the slim man at the next desk, Wes’s new partner, Brandon Stiles, otherwise known as “Jonas” for his resemblance to the lead singer of Disney’s boy band. Someone had taped an autographed picture of the pop star to the front of his desk. Although he had to be close to thirty, the baby-faced boy wonder could still pass for a teenager, which had been good for his career. Before Jack’s accident, Jonas had been on an undercover narcotics assignment at a local high school.

Jack watched as Jonas grimaced at his computer screen. The corners of his eyes wrinkled ever so slightly. Looked like Peter Pan was going to have to leave Neverland.

Wes hung up the phone and stood up to greet him. Jack leaned in to shake his hand. “If you can ditch Jonas for an hour, I’ll buy you a late lunch.”

“No problem.” Wes snorted and turned to his partner. “Hey, Jonas, why don’t you get started on that paperwork from this morning’s stiff while you wait for your agent to call.”

Jonas flipped Wes the bird without looking up from his screen.

Wes grinned. “He’s just pissed ‘cause somebody inter-officed him a purity ring.”

Jack snickered. He felt bad for Jonas, but what was the kid thinking? He was wearing a fucking pink shirt under a thin-lapelled gray suit jacket. And those tight-legged pants were probably high fashion on the club scene, but with this testosterone-pumped lot, the kid might as well post a “kick me” sign on his back. The police station rivaled a frat house any day of the week.

Of course, today it looked more like a frat house than ever. Was it his imagination, or was everyone in the room at least fifteen years younger than he and Wes? Jack scanned faces, noting that a few familiar ones were missing. “Hey, where’s Dan?”

“Retired.” Wes snagged his cell phone from his desk. “Took the package the second it was available.”

“Phil?”

“Out on disability. Herniated disk.”

OK. He and Wes
were
the oldest guys in the room.
Shit
. He didn’t belong here anymore, and not just because of his knee. Had the murder and mayhem phase of his life run its course?

Jack followed his friend out into the lobby, struggling to keep pace and ignore the pain now slamming through his leg thanks to his juvenile ego. In the parking lot, Wes automatically headed for his police issue. Jack followed, sliding into the passenger seat of the unmarked sedan. He pulled an empty Subway bag from behind his back and tossed it on the floor, where it joined a couple of Power Bar wrappers. A few chest pains over the winter, which thank God had turned out to be heartburn, had prompted his partner to embrace a lifestyle change that involved eliminating cigarettes and greasy food.

“How’s the kid as a partner?”

“OK, I guess. Young.” Wes sighed. He glanced at Jack’s leg. “You OK?”

Jack looked down. He’d been unconsciously rubbing his knee. “Yeah. Any progress on the case?” Jack didn’t have to specify. The body that had been pulled out of the Watkins Rivers a couple of weeks before had been determined to be a victim of the Riverside Killer. He and Wes had handled a number of homicides each year, but they’d never worked a case involving a serial killer.

“Not much.” Wes reached into the front pocket of his worn sport coat for a pack of gum. He popped a stick into his mouth and tilted the pack toward Jack.

Jack shook his head.

“South Bend’s playin’ the ugly stepsister to the Feds, thank God. Some of the guys are pissy about it, but we all know we’re just not equipped to do the job right.” Wes sighed. “There have been four victims that we know of: all small females between twenty-five and forty, attractive, dark hair. The women were tranquilized shortly before death with acepromazine, also known as Ace, ACP, and Atravet. It’s a veterinary sedative, commonly used in cats, dogs, and horses. So we’re looking hard at vets in New Jersey and Pennsylvania.

“All the women were raped, tortured, and strangled before being dumped into the water. Bodies were weighted down with ordinary cinder blocks and tied up with plain old nylon rope. Four bodies dumped in two different states, and we’re still SOL.”

“Any luck identifying the women?”

“No.” Wes shook his head. “We’re going through missing person’s reports again. Three of the women had various STDs and two were users.”

“Hookers or homeless?”

“That’s the working hypothesis.” Wes turned into the parking lot of his favorite Italian restaurant and slid into a spot by the door. It was smack dab between lunch and dinner, so the lot was nearly empty. “We’re also pulling files and looking for the usual suspects: paroled and released sex offenders, rapists, etc. There’s enough of those on the loose to keep us busy for a long time.”

Jack commiserated, “Too bad we can’t convict violent offenders on tax evasion. They’d serve more time.”

Wes agreed with a disgusted noise.

Inside, they slid into a booth. A middle-aged waitress stopped by with glasses of ice water and took their order. Normally Jack would’ve peppered Wes with more questions about the investigation. But today, the thought of tracking a serial killer had no appeal. What the hell was wrong with him? This case was bigger than anything he’d handled in his entire career, yet his brain backed out of the conversation. “If you need a break, come on out to the mountains. I have a six-pack of Evian with your name on it.”

Wes snorted. “If I truck my ass all the way up to Bum Fuck, PA, there’d better be a beer waiting.”

“I thought you quit drinking.”

“Shit. Give me a break. I quit smokin’ and eatin’ anything that I like.” Wes reached for the bread basket and selected a hunk of garlic bread.

“Admirable.” Jack nodded. “But if you want to lose that spare tire, you’re gonna have to visit a gym once in a while.”

“Fuck you. I lost ten pounds.”

“From where? Your head?” Jack shrugged. “You really think Diane’s gonna want to come back to that fat and saggy old ass?” They both knew Diane’s departure had nothing to do with Wes’s gut.

“You suck.” With a disgusted huff, Wes tossed the bread back into the pile. “We’ll make it a light beer, then.”

“She call?”

“Yeah.” Wes picked at his napkin. “Wants me to leave the force. Says twenty-five years is long enough to play second string in a marriage.” Wes’s chest pains had been a revelation to his wife, too. Apparently, she’d had enough of the same-old, same-old routine.

“She right?”

“I don’t know. What the fuck would I do with myself? I don’t have any hobbies, and I hate fishing.”

“You could just sit around and get uglier.”

“Dick.” Wes flicked a crumpled napkin at Jack’s head. “So how’s the knee, really? You ever gonna be useful again?”

“It ain’t lookin’ good.” Jack sighed. “May have to trade in my badge for a rocking chair. Maybe I’ll take up whittling.”

“Glad I’m not that old.” Wes grinned. He was six months older than Jack, but the coal-black hair he’d inherited from his Shawnee mother refused to gray. “So why are you really down here? I mean, I’m glad to see your ugly mug, but you have something on your mind.”

Jack scanned the empty dining room. He lowered his voice so the waitstaff in the kitchen wouldn’t hear him. “I need you to do me a favor, very quietly.”