Blood Stained (2 page)

When she was a kid, Lucy's dad loved to take her fishing. Together they delighted in teasing trout from their shady hiding places along the banks of the Loyalhanna. He always said fishing was all about the art of dangling bait. Showing them what they wanted but not ever letting them have it.

Dad was right. That's all her job was, a different kind of fishing. And Lucy was a good fisherman. She lived for that instant when the line snapped taut, ready to break, adrenalin stretching the moment, time holding its breath until she took control and finessed the fish into shore—right where she wanted it.

Just like Plushenko and his attorney. The attorney shuffled through his legal pad of notes, then turned to the judge. "Given the late hour, your honor—"

The judge took the hint. "Let's take this up again tomorrow. Nine o'clock. Until then court is adjourned."

Lucy would have preferred to stay and see Plushenko buried once and for all. But one good thing about leaving early, she'd be able to get over to Megan's soccer practice before it finished. 

She waited until the jury departed before she left the witness box. She wanted to leave them with the impression she was in no rush; she'd be happy to answer any and all questions if the defense attorney only let her. Several of them smiled at her as they gathered their coats and sweaters and the bailiff led them out.

Just as she was slipping into her own coat, a utilitarian parka, the doors to the courtroom opened and a tall black man in his early fifties entered. Walden, her second in command. 

"What's wrong?" she asked when he met her mid-aisle. She kept walking, knowing anything serious enough to get Walden to come across the river from the Federal Building on Pittsburgh's South Side was going to require her presence somewhere other than an empty courtroom.

"You got a letter. Sender didn't realize we open and screen everything." He handed her a photocopy. A single page. Words centered. Not that there were many of them.

There didn't need to be. Because the sender used the one word Lucy could not ignore.

Megan's name.

She had to force her gaze back to the top. Her chest burned before she remembered to take a breath.

Dear Lucy,

I've missed you. You blamed the wrong man for my work in New Hope. That wasn't very nice of you.

You need to make this right. Or I'll be forced to take drastic action.

Hugs to Megan—I hope to meet her someday. I'm sure she's growing up to be a beautiful teenager.

See you in New Hope.

Signed,

A disappointed fan.

Lucy's fingers went numb, barely able to fold the letter and shove it in her pocket. New Hope. Christ, she'd prayed that nightmare was dead and gone forever. She leaned against the marble wall beside her, not feeling the cold as she pretended to search her pockets for her cell phone when really she was busy squelching the sudden nausea that threatened to topple her. She looked up. Walden wasn't fooled by her cover actions, but he was kind enough to not say anything.

"I need you to get a car over to the soccer fields off of Braddock," she instructed as she fumbled her cell phone from her pocket and impatiently waited for it to power up. Damn court rules. She began down the hallway, long strides for such a short woman, heels clacking loud enough to make several court officials and bystanders glance up as she rushed past. "And Nick—"

"Galloway's already headed over to his office." Jenna Galloway was the new addition to the team, the postal inspector.

Damn. Nick wasn't picking up. Must be in with a patient. She didn't leave a message. What could she say? Some nut job sent a letter threatening their daughter? 

She'd never told Nick about New Hope. Prayed like hell she'd never have to. The man responsible for the kidnapping, rape, and killing of at least eleven women was supposed to be dead. 

Not sending her letters. Letters using Megan's name.

"Forensics?" Going down the investigative checklist helped keep her emotions from running wild.

"Working on it."

She dialed her mother. No answer there either. "I need someone to locate my mother."

Walden finished talking with the Pittsburgh Police Zone Commander who oversaw the region where the soccer fields were. "On it."

They cut down one of the restricted access corridors, were waved through security, and emerged behind the post office. Lucy's personal vehicle, a blue Subaru Impreza, was parked beneath the overhang near the employee exit, protected from the November rain. "I'm going to Megan. Call me when you know anything."

Walden touched her arm as she opened the driver's door. "You know how many of these letters come through every day? And half of them are addressed to you—especially after all the press in September."

"None of them threaten my family by name." She shook his hand free. Walden hadn't worked New Hope; he didn't understand. He would as soon as he read the file. "Call me."

She slammed the door, grateful for the safe haven of her car. She turned the ignition on and pulled past the guardhouse out onto Bigelow Avenue. November sleet and wind rocked the car in a staccato beat the windshield wipers struggled to keep up with. The radio was cranked high, as usual, and Mudvayne came on with "Scream with Me."

As Lucy swerved between sedate, carefree drivers oblivious to her need, she followed the title's command. One ear-splitting release of noise before silencing the radio with a stab of her finger.

If only Plushenko's lawyer could see her now.

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Somehow Lucy made it to the soccer field without crashing. She climbed out of the car and waved to the officer waiting in the police cruiser. He nodded, flashed his lights, and took off to return to his duties. 

She hugged herself against the cold. Her parka was unzipped and beneath it she wore her "court" suit: navy skirt and jacket and black pumps that sank into the soggy gravel of the parking lot. The week after Thanksgiving and it had already snowed twice in Pittsburgh, leaving slushy mounds to ambush unsuspecting pedestrians. Thick clouds, heavy as steel, pressed down against the waning sunlight, trying to squeeze the life out of the city, promising more snow to come.

Happy squeals came from the soccer field where kids in colorful uniforms chased a ball covered in mud. The other parents lined up beneath bright golf umbrellas along the sidelines, clapping and cheering despite the weather. These were the top players in this age range invited for a special intersession all-star skills camp and their parents were the district's top soccer moms and dads.

Lucy didn't join them. She didn't have an umbrella. She needed both hands free. She didn't raise her hood. Too restrictive. Cut off her peripheral vision. Resting one hand on the gun at her hip, she remained behind the crowd at her car. From there she could keep Megan in sight, target the crowd as well, plus the car provided cover and escape.

A whistle blew. Lucy jerked upright, hand falling to her Glock. 

Hyper-vigilant, Nick had diagnosed her. Normal after almost dying two months ago, after seeing her daughter placed in harm's way. As if there could be anything normal about that.

Megan vanished from sight as two fathers arguing about the Steelers' offensive line blocked Lucy's view. Her heart skidded, lurching into overdrive, pounding louder than the sleet drumming against the car roof. She ran two steps forward. Hands. She needed to see all of their hands, even as she scanned for Megan. 

It wasn't until the whistle blew again and she spotted Megan's form bobbing through the crowd of players that she realized she'd drawn her gun.

Tears streaked warm down her chilled cheeks, a counterpoint to the embarrassment and fear flooding her. She hadn't raised her gun, hadn't pointed it at anyone. But that didn't matter. Her emotions overpowered her training. 

Thankfully the rest of the crowd remained focused on the players. Lucy turned away, needing both trembling hands to re-holster her weapon. Nausea left her mouth dry and skin clammy. Leaning against the car, she focused on the not-so-simple act of breathing, tried to force back her panic.

It never left. Never entirely. Not since September. But she could control it. 

She had to. If she let herself fall apart, who would protect her family?

Chapter 2

Adam Caine got off the Greyhound in New Hope, PA with seventeen cents in his pocket. He wore everything he owned: ragged tennis shoes with a hole in one toe and a broken lace, jeans, a t-shirt, flannel shirt, Penn State sweatshirt with a rip in the hem, and his father's oversized denim jacket. He was fourteen, hungry, cold, and his home was no longer his.

The bus stop was the curb in front of Thomson's Hardware. There was no depot. If you were lucky enough to be leaving New Hope, "No Hope," the kids called it when Adam was young, you bought your ticket from the clerk inside the Safeway at the other end of the parking lot.

No hope of Adam leaving anytime soon. But that was okay. It was nice to be back. He'd spent the past eight months on his own, foraging for food, standing up to street bullies. Kids as alone and scared as himself, psych patients left to fend for themselves on the streets, plus other kinds of predators, the ones with money in their pockets and need in their eyes. To Adam, New Hope lived up to its name, simply by still being here.

No worries about predators in New Hope. Unless you counted Adam. 

This was one of those November days where the sun didn't set so much as fade away without even a whimper of surrender. There were only four cars in the Safeway's lot and he recognized three of them. One of them was Mrs. Chesshir's bright yellow vintage VW bug. He edged through the hazy gray light, wincing when he stepped into a mound of slush and ice, the cold water rushing into his shoe. The icy wet made him walk funny as if he had a limp.

A familiar form approached from the bright lights of the store, a woman juggling two cloth shopping bags and a large paper bag. Mrs. Chesshir. The last teacher he ever had. Back in fourth grade. The perfect fish. All he had to do was reel her in.

 Adam hesitated. Not because he was afraid. No way. That churning in his stomach was just hunger. Even if he was afraid—and he wasn't, of course he wasn't—he wouldn't ever let it show. 

His dad had hammered it into him: never admit fear. Deny it. Smile. Make eye contact. Offer help or a compliment. Get them to say yes—to anything. Hunch your shoulders so you don't look so damn tall and intimidating. Be polite. Never say "I" always say "we."

Seven steps to getting just about anything you wanted. All you had to do was follow Dad's rules.

Mrs. Chesshir stopped and nodded to the leg he hobbled on, ice water squishing between his toes. "Are you okay?"

She startled him. He forgot all about the approach he meant to make. "Mrs. Chesshir. You remember me?"

"Of course. It's good to see you, Adam." 

She recognized him right away even though he'd been gone four years. The thought swept through him like a fever. She hadn't changed—still the bright smile that lit her eyes, the glossy dark hair that swung below her shoulders. Back when he was a kid, he'd kinda fallen in love with her. Fantasized she'd be the one to rescue him. Adam knew better now. He needed to rescue himself. 

"Here. Let me carry those." Treat her like a fish. Follow Dad's rules. Before she could protest, he lifted the brown paper bag and one of the canvas ones from her arms.

"Why thank you. Are you home visiting?" She didn't ask about his dad and he didn't volunteer. Never volunteer information, Dad always said. 

"Yes ma'am. Got an uncle and cousins over in Huntingdon, but when the bus stopped here, well, I couldn't resist—"

Too late he realized his mistake. Huntingdon was too close. There was a good chance she knew he didn't really have relatives there. Stupid. Barely off the bus and he'd already screwed up. Good thing Dad wasn't here to see it. 

Adam shuffled his feet as she opened the trunk of her VW, the bag crinkling restlessly as he hugged it. He bowed his head as he thought hard about how to fix his mistake.

"Such a shame about your mother. She was a brave woman," Mrs. Chesshir filled in the silence. "You came to pay your respects?"

Adam swallowed hard and nodded. She patted his hand and looked away as if she thought he was crying. He wasn't, but after he placed the groceries into the trunk he swiped his bare knuckles, white with the cold, across his cheeks. Dad could cry on command—so could Morgan. Adam never mastered the trick. 

"Do you need a ride?" she asked. "I don't mind. It's on the way."

A lie. The churchyard where his mom's marker stood—they'd never found her body or any of the others—was a good two miles out of her way. But that was just the way folks were here in New Hope. A third of the population was Amish or Mennonite, the rest farmers and merchants or folks looking to get out of the city and live in the middle of nowhere. There was no industry except the fruit stands and craft fairs that popped up during summer tourist season. Not that they ever brought the town much revenue. The only tourists who found their way to New Hope were hopelessly lost, usually took the wrong turn on their way to a Penn State football game or tailgate party.

"No. Thanks. I'd—I'd rather walk."

"I understand." She clasped his hand, folding a five-dollar bill into it. "You know you can call me anytime. If you need anything."

Stunned by the unexpected kindness, he nodded and said nothing. He wouldn't be calling her. He didn't have a phone. Too easy to track, Dad said. Although he let Morgan keep the smart phone Morgan lifted from a Starbucks they'd been walking past. Like watching a magic trick. Morgan laughing, telling a story, hands gesticulating. The phone on a table, then in a hand, zip, it went in the backpack and vanished. Dad had smiled.

He never smiled like that at Adam. Not anymore. It was always Morgan, younger than Adam, but perfect in Dad's eyes. Unlike Adam.