The Complete Colony Series. Lisa Jackson
One way one moment, completely changed the next.
“I’m in your blood,” she said.
And then she was gone.
She’d run up the stairs and out the back door, and as he’d followed and reached the porch, he heard the engine of her car turn over. From the porch he watched the glow of her taillights disappear in the rising fog.
Now he trudged back up the stairs, hearing the ancient boards creak under his weight.
He’d never seen her again.
And what had he done after Jessie disappeared that night twenty years ago? Mourned? Grieved? Longed for her return?
Well, maybe he had a little, in the beginning. Then there had been the questions from the cops and the wondering, always the wondering what had happened to the girl he was supposed to have loved.
But in the end he’d sought solace, comfort, and a chance to forget in sex with Becca. Yes, it had been a few years later, but it hadn’t felt right. He’d wanted to drown himself in her, but Jessie’s face, her voice, her ways…had never gone away, not completely.
Had it been his own guilt eating at him? Undoubtedly. But that feeling had been real and raw enough that it had forced him to give up on Becca. Forced him to discover a new life. Forced him to move on.
I see things… That’s what she’d said, what Tamara had echoed tonight at the restaurant. It was as if they, the friends who’d known her, understood that she was different, a bit ethereal.
He drained his glass, left it in the sink, then walked into his living room and threw himself down on the sofa. The blank screen of the television stared at him but his mind was viewing a film of its own making.
Were those Jessie’s bones found in the maze? The only news released through the media was that they belonged to a young female victim. Nobody was saying whether they’d been lying there twenty years or if they were newly deposited. The police were mum, and the story had been eclipsed by more recent local news: a murder apparently from a burglary gone wrong; flooding along lower elevations from a rapidly melting snowpack; a defendant in a criminal trial suddenly hauling off and smacking his own lawyer in the face.
Hudson sighed. He’d been running for years from thoughts of Jessie…and Becca. He’d been running for years from his own feelings. Regardless of what was decided about the bones found at the base of the Madonna statue, maybe it was time to remember, think, even conjecture. Figure out what happened, if anyone could.
It was time to stop running.
Chapter Six
“Hey, Mac!”
McNally pretended not to hear Detective Gretchen Sandler’s demanding nasal tone. For the love of God, that woman’s voice was like the scrape of nails on a chalkboard. Truth to tell, she bugged the shit out of him.
He was bent over his computer screen, though he wasn’t near as adept at researching on the ’net as he acted. Sure, he could get what he needed from the electronic equipment that had grown and expanded and reached over the whole department like some alien plant life, invading every aspect of law enforcement, even here in Laurelton. But he still liked to examine real evidence, preferred tromping across crime scenes, and he got off on mentally putting pieces together like a jigsaw puzzle in his brain until he reached that “Aha!” moment.
“Mac!”
“What?” He didn’t look up.
“Don’t act like you can’t hear me,” she said from her desk, which was less than three feet behind him. “I’m zippo on fifteen-to twenty-four-year-old missing females through 1993. Either nobody cares that she’s gone, or we’ve got to go back further.”
“Go back further,” he said, trying not to snap.
He sensed something behind him, something quiet and building. Glancing around, he saw that Gretchen was barely holding in suppressed amusement, as were some of the younger men and women in the department, who, upon seeing his dark expression, moved back to their stations. Gretchen, however, was Mac’s latest partner, a woman who’d earned her job as a homicide detective because she was damn good at her job. Damn good. Just ask her. And she resented being saddled with a has-been, obsessed nut job like Mac who’d earned his promotion to homicide detective out of virtue of simply hanging around long enough. This, of course, was Gretchen’s opinion, not Mac’s.
But it might be a lot of the rest of the department’s as well.
“Maybe I should go back to 1989,” she suggested. “Isn’t there a vic named…oh, let’s see if I can remember…” She snapped her fingers. “Jezebel Brentwood?”
His temper spiked and he bit out, “Maybe you should have started there.”
“And keep you from your obsession? No way. I’ll let you begin at that end and meet you in the middle.”
“If I had DNA on Jessie Brentwood, it would only be a matter of waiting for the results from the bones.” He swivelled in his chair and gave her what he hoped was a cool look, but he felt a muscle working in his jaw.
Gretchen was in her early thirties with creamy, mocha-colored skin and straight black hair, a product of her Brazilian mother, and a pair of icy blue eyes, colder than Mac’s own, a product of her father, apparently, one Gretchen had never known. Or so she’d claimed. “You’re that sure.”
“You got any other missing girls from St. Elizabeth’s?”
“I got a few from the surrounding area.”
“You sure like making it hard on yourself to prove a point.” Mac turned back to his computer as Wes Pelligree, a tall African American detective everyone referred to as Weasel, nudged an unwilling, rain-sodden suspect in damp sweatshirt, dirty jeans, and cuffs toward his desk. Hands chained behind his back, the perp had dirty bare feet, lank, greasy hair, a pimply face, eyes at half mast, and a sneer showing bad teeth, and he reeked of his own puke. An obvious drug bust. But then Weasel had a knack for nailing scumbags who sold meth and crack. Rumor had it his older brother, the one who had dubbed him with the nickname in the first place while Wes was still in grade school, before he’d grown to six-three, had died of an overdose before Wes was out of the Academy. Ever since then, Wes Pelligree had been on a mission.
Which was bad news for the drenched white guy protesting his innocence.
Gretchen, standing too close to his desk, watched them pass and wrinkled her nose as the suspect dropped loudly into a side chair at Weasel’s desk. Phones rang, conversation buzzed, and police personnel in uniform or plain clothes weaved through the maze of desks and cubicles that were crowded into a central area with little privacy and few windows. A heating system that had been “upgraded” sometime in the mid eighties was rumbling and blowing air that was five degrees too warm.
“When are we getting some data we can use?” Gretchen demanded. “The lab techs on vacation, or what?”
“Gotta be patient.” Mac was growing tired of always explaining everything to her. She knew it anyway, but liked to hear herself talk.
“Twenty years patient? I don’t think so.”
She walked off and Mac slid a look after her. She was easy on the eyes. Great figure, nice butt, slim waist, and decent enough breasts, he supposed, but she worked really hard on being unlikeable. He watched a couple of other detectives throw her a glance as she passed. None seemed particularly warm and fuzzy. Mac might be the butt of a few jokes because of his obsession with Jessie Brentwood, but Gretchen was the coworker to avoid. No sense of humor. No big-picture thinking. No fun. She dotted all her i’s and crossed her t’s and fell all over herself in her eagerness to catch the high-profile cases—the few that came along here.
Gretchen Sandler was loaded with ambition, and she didn’t care who got trampled in her climb to the top.
“Humph,” Mac grunted at the computer screen.