Twenty-Eight

The glowing green clock in Baldwin’s dashboard read 8:45 p.m.

He tapped his fingers along the wheel, trying to decide what their next step should be. Head back to Nashville? Head north to Raleigh? They might be smart to stay put, at least until Roddie Hall called them back with news about Ruth Anderson.

“That was a sad story,” Taylor said. She had drawn her hair up into a messy ponytail on the top of her head, the ends just wisping against the middle of her back. He loved her hair. So thick it had a mind of its own. He reached over and tugged the holder away, let the mass of it spill over his hand.

“Yes, it was. One of the worst I’ve heard in a long time. Not a huge surprise though. That kind of abuse, deadly abuse, disguised as loving kindness—it’s really no wonder he ended up a killer. He didn’t know any other way to interact with people—”

“But that’s no excuse.”

“No, no, that’s no excuse. Plenty of children are abused and don’t end up murdering people.” He looked over at Taylor. The playful spirit that had bubbled up between them before they talked to the old nurse was gone.

“What trips the switch?” she finally asked.

“If I could answer that, I’d be a very rich man. Every mind is different. You’ve seen this a hundred times, people who weren’t abused do terrible things, people who were abused go on to lead normal, loving lives. We’re back to nature versus nurture. I do think there’s something genetic to all of this, the predisposition could be there, but the choice to kill is just that, their choice.”

“And the odds of one man spawning two killers with two different women?”

“Unthinkable. I don’t know of a case like it. Granted, Betty’s genes played a part. If I had more time, I’d love to do a historical study on both Roger and Betty’s families, just to see. Of course, no one knows who Betty’s real father was, so that’s hard to track.”

She grew quiet, allowed him to massage the tightness in her shoulders.

“Your leg okay?” he asked.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Ms. Potts must be a hell of a nurse. I can’t even feel it.”

“The Neosporin she applied has lidocaine in it. Numbs the skin.”

“Smart.”

She captured his hand, pressed his flesh to her lips. Ah, that drove him crazy. She drove him crazy. Though how he could be thinking about sex at a time like this?

His cell rang, making them both jump like guilty teenagers caught necking in the car. Taylor giggled as he fumbled the phone from its holster. Good, she was feeling better. Melancholy didn’t suit her.

“It’s Hall,” he said, and answered with a truly professional, “John Baldwin.”

“She’s gone, man. Just like you thought. Looks like Ruth Anderson took off at least a few days ago. Neighbors saw her last Saturday, but can’t remember seeing her since. We’ve got evidence galore in her apartment—including emails with directions for the killings in Nags Head. Police chief here in Durham got us a search warrant while we were staging, and we’ve hit the mother lode. Don’t know where she’s headed, but we know where she’s been. And she’s been a busy little bee.”

Baldwin popped in one of his favorite CDs by a band called Butterfly Boucher. He keyed the player up to “Another White Dash,” his ultimate road-trip song, and hummed along to the words quietly. Taylor had fallen asleep just before Knoxville, and he intended to keep her that way.

Hall was of the opinion that Ruth Anderson was no longer in Raleigh, nor North Carolina, for that matter, because of an email from someone as yet unidentifiable who said to “come to N” if there was trouble.

Nashville.

N could have been anything, but the most logical place that was in the pool of discussion was their town. Returning to the scene of the crime in Nags Head would be suicide, there was still a very active investigative search going on in that area. Ruth’s cover had been blown wide-open, and her picture was plastered all over the evening news. Baldwin wondered what Mrs. Anderson would think of his deception, then stashed that thought away. He’d done what he needed to, plain and simple.

It was just about midnight. He would get them back to Nashville by 3:00 a.m. They’d have time to regroup for a couple of hours before embarking on the next stage of the investigation. Having the sister was going to help them close this case one hell of a lot faster. If they could find her. He called Buddy Morgan and filled him in on the situation, let him know he needed to keep watch at the Anderson home on the off chance Ruth decided to come home, or call her mother. Morgan assured him that it would be taken care of.

I-40 was flowing well, considering the roadwork and multiple long-haul trucks making their way through the mountain region. It was quiet, the moon shining brightly off the snow that crusted the hilltops, the trees marching over the ridges in ragged formation, like soldiers after a wearying battle. He was so tired. The emotional wreckage of the past few days reared its ugly head—his career, his life with Taylor, the threat against her life, the knowledge that his son was out there, being raised by another man—it was all too much. They needed a break. A real vacation, away from Nashville. Away from everything. He could tell her the truth with nothing hanging over their heads, and God willing, she’d forgive him.

Taylor’s cell phone began to trill. She shifted in her seat and opened her eyes, the insomniac in her immediately awake.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“Just past Crossville. Sorry, I forgot to turn off your phone. I was trying to let you sleep.”

She looked at the caller ID. “That’s all right. It’s Lincoln.” She stretched as she answered.

“Hey, Linc, what’s up?”

He glanced over and watched her face in the moonlight. She mumbled “uh-huh” three times, then grabbed her notebook and started writing. He loved how she could go from sleepy mouse to Valkyrie warrior at a moment’s notice.

She hung up the phone, and her statement wiped the smile right off his face.

“We have a problem.”

Of course they did. “What now?”

“Let me make a call. I’ll put it on speaker. You’ll get the gist of the issue.”

She was already dialing, referring to the number she’d written down in her notebook. She set the open phone on the console and clicked the speaker button. Baldwin heard three long rings, then the call connected. A woman answered, she sounded wide-awake. “Hello?”

“Ms. Keck?” Taylor asked.

“Lieutenant Jackson? How are you? Call me Colleen.”

“Colleen, then. One of my detectives said you’d called in and asked to speak to me personally. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“You don’t remember me, do you? We met at a FOP function several years ago. You were only a detective then, but my husband, Tommy, introduced us. It was before he…he died.”

Taylor was silent for a moment. “Of course I remember. I apologize, I’m running on fumes. How are you, Colleen? How’s Flynn?”

“Oh, good, you do remember. So many people would have just lied.”

“Tommy was a good man. Sorry it took me a moment to put it together. So what can I do for you?”

“Lieutenant, Tommy told me that if I was ever in trouble, I should come to you. He thought the world of you.”

“Are you in trouble, Colleen?”

A ghost of a laugh bled through the speaker. “More than I can tell you. Have you ever heard of a blog called Felon E?”