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“Who did the work?”
“I’ve no idea but she liked the work he’d done.” Linda stared at the ruined house. “It was all normal twelve hours ago. All the work and love she’d put into the house was really showing and now it’s destroyed.”
Whoever had done this had planned carefully. It would take planning to buy the diesel and if Thermite had also been used, it would take more time to get that. Rick handed his card to the neighbor. “Call me if you think of anything.”
Rick returned to his office to find the Thompson murder case files on his desk. Dusty and faded with age, the cases took up five file boxes that the clerk had stacked around his desk. Curious, he moved to the top box, flipped off the lid, and opened the first file. Investigating officers were Buddy Morgan and KC Kelly. He shook his head, staring at his father’s bold handwriting. Buddy Morgan, the legend. Closed more murder cases than anyone else in the history of Nashville homicide.
Whereas his older brother, Deke, had tried to live up to the legend, Rick had never suffered under such pressure. He wanted to close cases, be the best cop he could be, but he’d had no desire to chase Buddy’s legend.
He glanced at the black-and-white forensic photos of the Thompson house. A brick Tudor-style home, it was ringed with manicured shrubs and adorned with meticulous beds. One glance told him it was pure, old Tennessee money. He read Buddy’s detailed description of the father, Ralph Thompson. A judge in family court, Judge Thompson had a reputation for toughness and fairness. He’d made a fair amount of enemies during his ten years on the bench and when the cops realized the five-year-old daughter, Jennifer, was missing they’d assumed the killing and kidnapping were connected to the job. But initial searches didn’t land them any solid suspects. A friend of the family had mentioned Ronnie’s name to the police. He’d done some handiwork for them months earlier and had spoken about little Jennifer. She’d reminded him of his sister.
Judging by the press-clipping file Buddy had saved, the media attention had been huge. Susan Martinez was quoted in quite a few articles and cited as the leading television journalist on the story. That explained her connecting the dots in the case so quickly. He reached a section with family photos. The picture of Jenna or Jennifer was that of a dark-haired little girl with a round face, bright green eyes, and a wide smile. Just like the one in the missing persons file.
A smile tugged the edges of his lips. She’d been a cute little thing and the idea of Ronnie killing her family, and grabbing and locking her in a closet for nine days set a cauldron of anger simmering in his belly. He turned the picture over and shifted his gaze to Jenna’s older sister, Sara.
If Rick could have imagined Jenna at age sixteen she would have looked like Sara. Same hair, same smile, same dimple in the chin. If Sara had lived, he imagined she’d have looked a great deal like Jenna today.
More reading and he discovered that the medical examiner had reported that Sara had had intercourse within an hour of her death. The doctor had been unable to determine if it was forcible or consensual. The cops had found Ronnie in his apartment, dead from an overdose. Another overdose.
As he read about the reports of finding Jenna in the closet, his anger fired. He sat back in his chair, rolling his head from side to side and channeling distance and objectivity. “Get a grip.”
Another glance at the images tightened his belly. He closed the file. He’d read through dozens of missing children’s files in the last few days and managed to stomach the carnage. But Jenna’s case cut deep.
He wanted to quit reading.
But he didn’t.
The elaborate chess set revealed a game in play. Madness flexed stiff fingers and moved a bishop to knock out another pawn. Another worthless player gone, off the board for good. The bishop was now within striking distance of the white queen.
The white queen stood tall and straight, taunting all who saw her. “So much like Sara.”
Sara had been a selfish girl, tossing back another’s love as if it were garbage. The decision to kill her had come easily, but the planning of the deed had taken time. And so Ronnie had been recruited. That simple boy who’d worked in the school and had always had a thing for sweet Sara. Ronnie was the windup doll easily set on a path of destruction.
But Ronnie had not been as predictable as anticipated. Don’t take your finger off the player until you are very certain of the next move. Ronnie had gone against orders. He’d not only failed to set fire to the house but he also had not killed the entire family. He’d taken Jennifer and kept her for himself.
Ronnie had sworn he’d killed the girl and he’d been so convincing that believing him had been easy. Shoving the needle in Ronnie’s arm had been effortless. The fool had welcomed the promised relief. Ronnie’s temporary reprieve from stress had been permanent and he’d taken to the grave a terrible secret: the girl lived.
Long fingers wrapped around the queen and squeezed. Today’s scene had nearly gone sideways. Ford had approached Nancy early at the delivery office and caused a scene. The little puppet had taken matters into his own hands and grabbed her early. He’d said they’d not made a sound in the hours he held her in her own home but there was no way of telling. Not good. Not good at all.
A measure of control had returned by the end of the scene but then it had been shattered by the woman’s defiance. Her eyes blazed until the very last moment life had left her body.
Tracing the face of the queen, he turned his thoughts back to Jenna. Diane’s death had brought short-lived pleasure. Nancy’s had brought even less pleasure. Already the thrill of that kill was fading, leaving Madness frustrated. Why couldn’t this hunger be satisfied?
“Jenna, like Sara, will satisfy me.”
“You’ve said that before. You’re out of control. You don’t know how to stop anymore. Soon the cops are going to be here.”
“I can stop. After Jenna.” Madness raised a trembling glass to parted lips. The idea of prison, capture, ruin, deeply unsettled Madness. “Yes, give me Jenna and I will be happy.”
“You swear?”
“Yes.”
“How can I believe you? You always want more.”
“You can believe me. I’m telling the truth. Just give me Jenna.”
“If we keep on, we’ll be caught.” Reason grew increasingly nervous. They danced on the razor’s edge but Madness didn’t seem to care.
“I will be satisfied with Jenna. I swear.”
“What if she isn’t afraid? What if she’s like Nancy?”
“We’ll make her afraid. We’re good at that.”
Chapter Thirteen
Tuesday, August 22, 10 P.M.
Jenna shifted the gears of her Jeep and drove off the exit ramp that took her into the rolling hills and toward home. She was tired. Instead of going by KC’s tonight she’d set up her easel on the Cumberland River at the park. There was an old-car show in town and the streets teemed with tourists. It hadn’t been too hot, so folks were happy to sit and have their picture done. She’d made a few hundred bucks, enough to pay another month’s rent if she wanted to stay in Nashville longer.
She glanced in the rearview mirror, spotted the set of headlights, and gave little thought to the second car as she punched in a different radio station and turned up the radio. She liked music. It pulled her out of dark places quickly and she’d used it often in her life. She never went anywhere without her music.
She took a corner and then a quick turn down a smaller road. Just four miles from her house, she longed to strip off her jeans and sweater, slip into a hot bath and then into her pajamas. She’d made a pot roast the other night and knew it would warm up well. A good night just to cocoon and forget about killers, loss, and sadness. She turned the radio up another notch.
This time when she looked, she realized the lights had drawn closer. Tightening her hands on the wheel, she sped up. The second car not only matched her speed but also increased until it was inches from her bumper.
“No way. No way.
” She pressed her foot on the accelerator but her old Jeep wouldn’t move much faster. Cursing, she shoved her foot almost to the floor.
The second car could have hit her bumper but instead cut hard to the left and came along beside her. She glanced into the other car but only saw a dark hoodie. The driver held up a gloved middle finger and then cut his car hard to the right and smacked into the side of her vehicle.
Old training kicked into play. She kept her gaze ahead as she swerved into the other lane. Praying for no traffic, she hit the brakes and watched as the other car zoomed ahead. She quickly got back into the right lane and kept driving as she watched the car up ahead. Damn.
For a moment, the car lights grew distant and the brake lights tapped on. She immediately slowed and cursed the two-lane road that gave her nowhere to go. The brake lights clicked off and then reverse lights appeared. The driver was backing up and heading straight toward her.
Heart pounding in her chest, she spotted an easement on the side of the road that led toward a field. Gunning her engine, she drove toward the patch of dirt and whisked off the road seconds before the other car barrelled past her.
The Jeep’s undercarriage bumped and scraped against the field’s rocks and ruts, jostling her against the side door. Her shoulder hit hard. She gripped the steering wheel and jammed on the breaks. When it came to a stop, her thoughts jumbled into a mix of anger, adrenaline, and fear.
Jenna reached for her glove box where she kept her Glock. She unholstered it as she glanced back toward the road to see if the driver had returned. Heart beating in her throat, she searched for the car. Only when she was certain it was gone did she fumble for her phone and dial 9-1-1. Backup. She needed backup.
“Nine-one-one operator.”
Again old training came into play. Once a cop always a cop. She gave her location and a description of what just happened as she searched in her rearview mirror for signs of the second car. In the distance, the glow of headlights appeared.
“I’ll have someone out there immediately.”
The dispatcher’s even, measured tone fueled rather than calmed her jazzed nerves. “Have them hurry. I think he’s turned around and headed back for more.”
“Can you provide a description of the car?”
She focused on facts not fear. Shutting off the engine, she killed her headlights. In the dim moonlight she could make out the car’s silhouette. “Appears to be a four-door sedan. Dark color. Too much in the shadows to make it out.”
“License plate?”
She tightened her grip on her gun as she waited for a sign the driver was getting out of the car. “Can’t see it.”
“We’ve a car on the way.”
“Good.”
The car paused for a long, tense second, its lights blaring in her direction and its engine humming. He had to see her. Her phone rang, making her jump. A glance at the screen told her it was a local number.
The car then backed up, turned around and sped off, kicking up gravel. The large engine rumbled down the deserted road. Hands trembling, she reached for the phone. “Hello?”
“Ms. Thompson, what’s your status?”
She dropped her head back against the seat and held her semi-automatic close. Adrenaline snapped and bit and then just as quickly faded as it evaporated. “The driver has left. He just drove off.”
“I’ll stay on the line with you.”
