Twisted (8 page)

“Main Street.”

Mark went around and helped the man out while Allison spoke to his daughter.

“Oh! Sorry about your suit. Should I . . . ?” The woman cast a glance over her shoulder. Several neighbors were watching from their front porch.

“I’ll get it later,” Allison said. “Make sure he takes his meds now, all right?”

The woman shuffled her father inside as Mark and Allison looked on.

“He do that a lot?” Mark asked.

“Oh, you know. Maybe once a year. Usually he’s in his tighty-whities.” She shuddered. “The joys of small-town policing, huh?”

Mark glanced at her as he got behind the wheel and thought she looked embarrassed. He pulled away from the house and drove down the tree-lined street.

“It’s nice to see people taking care of each other,” he said. “You don’t get that much in big cities.”

She sighed. “I don’t envy Marcy what she’s going through. Anyway, sorry about your coat. I’ll get it back.”

“No hurry. I’ve got another one just like it.”

“You buy them in bulk?”

“Makes for easy packing,” he said, turning onto Main Street. He glanced at her and she was smiling.

“What?”

“Nothing. Hey, you mind doing a quick drive-by? It’s probably a waste of time, but I wouldn’t mind having another look.”

Mark didn’t need more explanation. He’d been thinking about that crime scene, too. He wended his way through town and headed back toward the park entrance. When they neared the sign, he cut the headlights and rolled down the window. Cool air filled the sedan as they eased past, silently scouring the area for any more visitors. Mark peered into the woods. Wind whipped through the dark leaves and he heard the owl again. But there were no car noises or any other signs of trespassers.

They drove back to the police station in silence. The parking lot was nearly empty, and Mark pulled into a space beside her pickup.

She pushed open the door. “I’ll pick you up at seven-thirty sharp tomorrow. The appointment’s at eight.”

He’d intended to drive, but he decided to choose his battles. “Seven-thirty, then.”

She reached into the backseat and grabbed the muddy boots he’d borrowed.

“And about the interview—I’ll take the lead,” he told her.

She looked instantly suspicious.

“I’ve got a lot more experience, Allison, and that’s not a knock against you—it’s just a fact. You want in on this case, you need to stay in the background.”

Her eyes simmered, and he could tell she didn’t like it, but whatever her objections, she didn’t voice them. Maybe she knew how to choose her battles, too.

“You got it, Special Agent.” She slid out of the car and started to shut the door.

“Wait.” He studied her face again. It had two dings now: one from the meth addict and one from earlier tonight. “Want me to follow you home?”

She looked amused, and he hoped she didn’t take it as a come-on.

“Make sure I get in okay?”

“Something like that.”

She shook her head at him. “I’m the law around here, Wolfe. If I’m not safe, who is?”

Jordan Wheatley lived in a small A-frame cabin on the banks of Dry Creek. True to its name, the creek had not a drop of water in it when Allison’s pickup bumped over the low-water bridge and rumbled up the dirt road leading to the house. Railroad ties marked off a parking area beside a large pecan tree, and Allison swung in beside a dark green hatchback. Her Chevy shuddered and coughed when she cut the engine, and she avoided Mark’s gaze as she climbed out.

“Right on time,” she said.

Mark stood beside the car, studying it. Leaves had collected at the base of the windshield. The tires were low. She wondered if he was drawing the same conclusion she was.

He glanced up at her. “Remember, I take the lead.”

She gave a noncommittal look as the front door swung open and a German shepherd bounded out.

“Maximus, stay!”

The dog halted, his body quivering with restrained energy.

A tall woman stood in the doorway. She held a
cigarette in her hand and wore a baggy gray sweat suit. A thick pink scar on her neck stretched from one side to the other like a necklace.

Allison stepped forward. “Hi. I’m Allison Doyle.”

“Who’s he?” She nodded at Mark, who had crouched down to pet the dog.

“Morning, Mrs. Wheatley.” Mark stood up and walked over to the weathered porch steps, hands in his pockets, very low-key. The dog followed him. “I’m working with Detective Doyle on one of her cases, and she asked me to come along today.” He held out a hand. “Special Agent Mark Wolfe, FBI.”

She gave him a long, cool look. “Come on in,” she said at last, and held open the door.

Mark went inside. Allison followed, attempting to ease the tension with a smile.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Mrs. Wheatley.”

“It’s Jordan.”

Her house shoes snapped against the wood floor as she led them inside. Allison noticed her hair—the brunette pixie cut was matted on one side, as if she’d just gotten out of bed.

“Y’all want coffee?”

“I’d love some, thanks,” Mark said.

“Detective?”

“No, thank you.”

Jordan showed them to a large, open room that smelled like cigarettes and . . . soil, Allison thought. She glanced around the open floor plan. Casual furniture, throw rugs, a TV. Upstairs was a loft that looked out over the main room. Through the wooden railing Allison saw a king-size bed with a green comforter bunched
at the foot. If there was a second bedroom, she couldn’t see it, which confirmed her information that the Wheatleys had no children.

Jordan was on the kitchen side of the room now, pouring two cups of coffee.

“You take sugar?”

“Black.”

Jordan slid the mugs into the microwave, and Allison studied the home more carefully. She spotted the source of the soil smell—a wooden table beside the window where someone was potting herbs. Allison wandered over to it, aware of Maximus’s attentive gaze tracking her around the room.

The house backed up to a sloping hillside. Through the windows Allison saw six neat lines of trees—pear, lemon, some young pecans.

“Nice orchard.” Allison turned around. Jordan was leaning against the kitchen counter, puffing on her cigarette and watching her.

“It’s Ethan’s.” She flicked her ash into the sink. “He’s a landscape architect. Raises plants, too, to supplement things. He’s on a delivery right now.”

The oven dinged, and she retrieved the mugs, deftly handling them and her cigarette as she made her way to the sitting area. She set the coffee on the table and sank onto the couch.

Mark took his cue and lowered himself into the armchair near his mug, leaving Allison with the futon. Maximus brushed past her and plopped down at Jordan’s feet.

“So.” She took a deep breath. “You want to hear about my rape.”

Allison was surprised by the bluntness. Jordan gave
her a challenging look as she sucked on the cigarette. She dropped the butt into a Coke can and blew out a stream of smoke.

“That’s what I’m supposed to call it, according to my shrink. No euphemisms, no avoidance.”

Mark eased forward in his chair. “You’re been seeing a counselor?”

“Twelve months now. Once a week, every week. Got the empty bank account to prove it.”

“Do you find it helpful?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. If it’s supposed to make me forget about it, then I’d say no, it’s not too helpful. Haven’t swallowed a bottle of Ambien, though, so she must be doing something right.”

Allison cleared her throat. “They never made an arrest in your case, is that correct?”

“You tell me. You’re the investigators.”

Okay, clumsy opening.

“According to Deputy Sheriff Brooks,” she tried again, “the suspect sketch and the vehicle description you provided haven’t yielded any leads.”

“Don’t forget the rape kit. I provided that, too, for all the good it did.”

Allison shifted in her seat. This woman radiated hostility, and she wasn’t sure quite how to handle her. She glanced at Mark for help, but he was focused on Jordan.

“You’re angry with the local investigators,” he stated.

“Wouldn’t you be? I had a goddamn pelvic exam right after getting my neck sewn up. I sat with a police artist for two hours the very next day. I talked to detectives, even though my throat felt like it was on fire the whole time. I told them about his car, his clothes, everything.
And have they arrested anybody? No. My case has been dead for months. How would you feel?”

“I’d be furious,” Mark said.

She stared at him for a long moment. Then she took a deep breath. “Thank you.” She reached down to pet her dog between the ears and seemed to be collecting herself.

“So, the FBI’s involved now. You think he’s done this somewhere else.” She said it as a statement, not a question, and her tone was somber.

“We believe that, yes.”

“And the other woman . . .” She looked from Mark to Allison. The cautious hope in her eyes made Allison’s chest squeeze.

“We know of six other women who suffered attacks similar to yours,” Mark said. “They didn’t survive.”

Jordan looked stricken.
“Six?”

He nodded.

“Oh my God.” She closed her eyes.

Silence fell over them. No one moved. The distant chirp of the birds outside the windows sounded out of place, like giggling at a funeral.

Jordan shook her head. “I knew there were others. Somehow I knew that, but . . .” She stared at her lap. “Something about the way he did it, the way he talked to me. I knew he’d done it before. And he’s done it again, too, hasn’t he? That woman in San Marcos.” She glanced up, and Allison saw the fear in her expression. “Do you think he lives around here?”

“We’re working on a profile of him, to help investigators,” Mark said. “Part of that will be determining where he lives.”

“When they didn’t get anywhere with the sketch and
the vehicle, they told me he was probably a transient.”

“Unfortunately, we don’t know where he is, we only know where he’s been.” Mark paused. “Hopefully, you can help us get a more complete picture of him.”

She gazed down at her lap. For a while, she didn’t talk, and when she looked up again her eyes were moist but clear.

“You’re a profiler.”

“Some people call it that.”

“Then before I help anyone, I want something from
you.
” Her voice was uneven. “I want to understand how he did this to me. I want to understand how it happened. I never thought I was a victim.”

“You’re a survivor,” Mark said. “Not a victim.”

“Then how did I get like this? Look at me!” She pounded a fist on her thigh. “I’ve gained thirty pounds. I’m scared to leave my house. I can barely look at my husband. My whole life is destroyed. Why did this happen to me? What did I do
wrong
?”

Mark leaned forward on his elbows. “Let’s get one thing straight, Jordan. You didn’t invite this attack, no matter what you did.”

She watched him intently, and Allison could tell she was clinging to every word.

“He’s very skilled. We think he has a sophisticated method of luring women into his trap, which is how you can help us. We need to know more about his MO so we can find him before he does it again.”

Her brow furrowed. “I don’t know what you want me to say that I haven’t already said to police. You’re the expert on human behavior.”

“No, Jordan, you’re the expert.” He paused until she
looked up at him. “You sensed the danger that day, probably from the moment you saw him.”

She didn’t reply.

“You know when you’re in the presence of danger. It’s your most sharply honed survival skill. Think back.”

She gazed away, at the windows.

“What were your instincts telling you when he first approached you?”

She took a deep breath and nodded, as if she knew what he was getting at. “It just felt . . . off, I guess. From the beginning.” She looked at Mark. “He said he was having car trouble and he needed help, and he kept smiling. It seems like nothing, but looking back, I see that I didn’t trust it. Something about his smile.”

Mark watched her, but didn’t say anything overtly encouraging. It was all in his face, in the utter focus he was giving to her.

“And then he acted like it was assumed I should help him. Like, ‘Hey, we’re stranded here together. What are the odds we’ll get a tow truck?’ ”

Mark nodded. “Forced teaming.”

“What?”

“It’s one of the most sophisticated methods of manipulation: Create a shared purpose where one doesn’t exist.”

Her gaze sharpened. “That’s just how it was. And then when I hesitated, he said something like, ‘I bet you don’t have time to play Good Samaritan,’ and suddenly I’m agreeing to help him, trying to prove him wrong about me.” She blew out a breath. “I mean, how stupid was that? Why did I care what some total stranger thought of me?”

“He’s an expert manipulator.”

Another deep breath. Jordan stroked Maximus between the ears. The dog seemed to be providing her some sort of comfort so she could keep talking.

“And then there were little things, too. They seemed minor at the time, but they just, I don’t know, seemed off. He kept mentioning his wife. And then he started talking about his mechanic. I remember thinking it was odd.”