The Summerland (19 page)

He lounged in the deep shadows of the porch, taking a rare vacation from the job, the glowing tip of the monstrous cigar he smoked highlighting his face in a homey, gentle radiance. Sighing contentedly, he propped his bare feet up on the weathered railing surrounding the deck, pushing himself even further back in the luxurious comfort of the battered old armchair.

Boomer, lounging next to him, lifted a curious ear at his movements, then settled gratefully back into doggy slumber. Bats swooped back and forth in the gloaming, their high-pitch squeals audible every so often. Crickets sung by the millions, competing with the burgeoning stars for nature’s attention. The gentle scent of night-blooming jasmine wafted across the warm evening air, turning the balmy Friday night into a peaceful, comforting companion.

Bill was satisfied. Well, almost. The telephone call he’d just finished with Special Agent Drebin put him in a very good mood, and the call he was about to make would top off the evening nicely. Wrapping his hand around the cold neck of the microbrewed ale he was nursing, he took a swig, savoring the tangy bitterness of the beer.

He let his hand drop, swinging the bottle between two long fingers and just listened to the night. The whining squeal of the hinges on the south door of the barn reminded him it was time for some much-needed maintenance on the outbuildings. Jimmy was great with the animals, but his carpentry skills sucked, to say the very least. In fact, it his attempt at maintenance that had screwed up the barn door in the first place.

Smiling contentedly, he nestled the bottle back into his lap and picked up the cordless phone, dialing Los Angeles.

* * * *

Arden was cleaning the toilet when the phone rang. Rather than race to the stereo to turn down the John Mellencamp currently blasting from the speakers, then to the answering machine to hear yet another telemarketer hang up, she continued to mindlessly swirl the toilet brush around the rim of the bowl. Her mind drifted, latching onto the gritty guitar licks. They floated through the air like dust motes, disassociating her from L.A., putting her back in the heartland, placing her in a land of simple people and simple dreams. She found herself listening more and more to music that reminded her of home, of family. She didn’t know whether to attribute it to her recent brush with death or the fact that thirty-five was just around the corner. Maybe it was a combination of both. Whatever it was, she’d found herself uncharacteristically emotional since her return to L.A. Her outburst on the telephone two days ago only confirmed it. She’d become a basket case.

The tale of Jack and Diane concluded with John Cougar’s raunchy voice becoming nothing more than a whisper. And just beneath that whisper and the sibilant hiss of speakers turned up entirely too high she could hear the answering machine and Bill Ashton’s smooth, rich voice.

Racing down the short hallway she managed to not only trip on the Portuguese throw rug strategically placed to detract the eye from the paint job, but to catch one corner of her favorite photo of the Azores with the strap of the shoulder harness immobilizing her arm. She skidded to a stop in front of the small desk, her shirt ripped, shattered glass behind her, and the sound of a dial tone on her machine.

“
Shit, shit, shit.” She played back the message, rubbing her shoulder through the rip in the thin cotton of her tee shirt. Yeah, she grimaced; this was just the way she wanted to spend her Friday night. Cleaning the toilet when the man of her dreams calls, then leaving a path of destruction throughout her own home. It was certainly a glamorous life she led. Playing back the message she wrote down the Sheriff’s home telephone number, then saved the message just so she could hear his voice if she wished. When she realized her unconscious action she plopped down into the antique rocking chair next to the phone.

“
What the hell am I doing? After one kiss I’ve made this man into something much, much bigger than he is.” Wryly shaking her head, she laughed at herself. “Shit. In my mind right now, Superman couldn’t hold a candle to Bill Ashton. And to top it off, I’m sitting in an empty house talking to myself. Not good Jones, not good at all.” Still chuckling at her own perceived insanity she made the short trip to the kitchen and pulled a dusty bottle of Portuguese red from the wine rack. If she was going to act nuts, she might as well enjoy the experience.

Expertly opening the wine, she decanted it into one of her favorite garage sale finds, an ancient glass carafe in the shape of Tigger. His tail curved into a perfect handle and the mouth of the carafe was just wide enough to let any vintage breathe properly. She remembered the day she’d found it. She had been tickled pink thinking it was the perfect kitsch. Unfortunately Tom hadn’t felt the same way, and Tigger had been relegated to the bottom of a storage box to collect closet lint.

On the day her divorce became final he had come out of that box and now held a place of honor on her sideboard, regardless of where in the world she was.

Arden puttered around the kitchen, deciding how and when she would return the good Sheriff’s telephone call, and Mr. Mellencamp began to wail about walls a tumblin’ down. The combination of raw, raucous bass licks and extreme volume charged her mood, switching her into high gear as she began to bop in the middle of the tiny kitchen, celebrating life and the certain justice of good, down-home guitar work.

She knew she made quite a picture, grooving to an eighties beat in the middle of the faded linoleum of her kitchen, one arm flapping in it’s restraints, looking like a deranged chicken. She finished her dance, poured herself a glass of wine, and then strolled to the stereo, turning it down to a conversational level just as the CD changed. She drifted toward her rocking chair as the classic but nouveau blues of Jonny Lang cried out of the speakers, slowing, mellowing the pace, and sliding her into a different frame of mind.

She needed to think rationally, to pin down exactly what she felt when it came to Bill Ashton. Twirling the balloon glass between her fingers she looked into the rich burgundy depths of the wine and thought. And analyzed. And came up with squat.

She couldn’t sum up the fusion of sexuality and good, gentle warmth that seemed to settle in the pit of her stomach whenever she talked to the man. He made her feel both sexy and comfortable, a combination she would never have dreamed was compatible. In her experience, the two were seldom connected. The kicker was, it was something he seemed to do without any effort, any guise. And he managed to affect her the same way over the telephone, for goodness sakes. He didn’t even have to be in the same room for her to picture what they would be like together, and how good it would be.

Arden Jones wasn’t the type of woman who jumped headlong into anything, but both her heart and her hormones were leaning dangerously in Bill Ashton’s direction. It scared the crap out of her for the simple reason that nothing about the two of them fell into her neatly planned outline of her future. And that was only the beginning.

While she couldn’t discount her obvious attraction to the Sheriff, she had to keep reminding herself why they had met in the first place. Samantha was missing, and presumably in the hands of a serial killer. There was little doubt of that now, with the discovery of the sigil in her car. How could she, in good conscience, pursue anything with Ashton? It just wasn’t right, it wasn’t proper, and she was afraid. Afraid deep down in her bones that nothing she or the Sheriff could do would be good enough or fast enough to save Samantha’s life.

Then what? Regardless of her past relationship with Samantha, she was still her sister, and if Arden’s fears became reality, she would never stop until the man responsible for harming her was dead. Not brought to justice, not put on trial. Dead.

Where, under those unbending conditions, did the Sheriff fit? Nowhere.

It was a worst-case scenario for them both, and for them to play with the fire that would surely erupt between the two of them was both foolhardy and irresponsible.

So, Arden decided, that is that. And with that decision she locked away her burgeoning affection for Bill Ashton, putting it right next to the memory of Samantha and herself playing as little girls, putting it in that chest where she, like so many people, kept her fondest memories and deepest regrets.

Chapter Twenty

“
Josie, I’d like you to meet Dr. Adam Porter. Dr. Porter, Josie Galloway, our resident expert.” The Sheriff made the introductions over the long oaken table in the school library, curious as to how the good doctor would react to meeting the town’s self-proclaimed Wiccan High Priestess. He was pleasantly surprised.

“
Good morning Ms. Galloway. What a pleasure to finally meet you. Your reputation precedes you.” He leaned forward, reaching across the table to grasp her hand in his. “While there are those in this community who frown upon your choice of religion, be sure that I am not one of them. In my line of work you can never be skeptical of any person’s beliefs.” In Porter’s eyes, Bill saw the frank male speculation and appreciation that seemed to light up every man’s face in the county when Josie entered a room.

Josie, for her part, wasn’t exactly being shy in her own perusal of the tall, handsome doctor. Adam Porter was well known, not only by the women in his home of Mariposa, but by females across the country.

After receiving a Ph.D. in Clinical Psychology from Johns Hopkins, he’d set off on a whirlwind global tour, prying into the mind and motivations of the female species the world over. As a result, he’d written three best selling, critically acclaimed books on the inner workings of a woman’s mind. Psychologists hailed his work as groundbreaking, and women the nation over plunked down their $29.99 at Waldenbooks and B. Dalton and Amazon.com to take this marvel home to their significant others with an ultimatum…read this and begin to comprehend me.

Understandably, this had made him the bane of many a husband’s existence. The fact that he was movie-star handsome, had brown eyes the depth and color of fine Swiss chocolate, and the body of a running back had not lessened their loathing.

No one was really sure why he’d selected Mariposa to settle in. His almost fanatical desire for privacy had proved an effective barrier to almost any line of questioning when it came to his personal life. Still, his ingrained reserve, courtly mannerisms and desire to remain below the dating radarscope made him the number one catch in the county and the source of intense speculation amongst the local gossips and matchmakers.

Josie Galloway was not piqued in the slightest that she would be interacting with the most handsome and intriguing man in a hundred square miles. Not piqued one little bit.

“
Well, hello there doctor.” she drawled. “It certainly is a pleasure meeting you. Just the whisper of a public appearance by you has set legions of female hearts all aflutter.”

The elegant doctor bowed slightly, enjoying the banter. It had been a long time since a woman had looked at him with frank appreciation rather than with dreams of matrimonial bliss dancing through her eyes. “You’re too kind. I suspect that the only reason I even interest the local matrons is because I refuse to play their mating game.” He grinned. “They just don’t seem to understand happy bachelorhood. Anyway, it gives them something to talk about.”

Josie tsked, shaking her head. “Any man who can delve as deeply into the female psyche as you should be out edifying the Cro-Magnons this county seems to breed.” She turned to the Sheriff. “Present company excluded, of course.”

Bill smiled slyly. “I take great pride in my ability to belch our high school alma mater, thank you very much.” Nodding at them both to be seated, he took his own place at the head of the table.

“
Dr. Porter was kind enough to accept my plea for help out of professional courtesy. Now, since the two of you are obviously familiar with each other’s, er, work, I thought you might be able to put your heads together and broaden the FBI’s profile of our man. These,” he said, handing them each a packet, “are copies of Special Agent Drebin’s initial analysis. Any questions before I leave you to your own devices?”

Porter looked from the Sheriff to Josie, then asked the question foremost in his mind. “Why me?”

The Sheriff sighed, then gave his own analysis. “Josie is here because the case has distinct religious overtones. She’s the best qualified to give us the whys and wherefores on this religion. I’d like you to take a look at the autopsy report for Kimmie Ross, victim number five. We’re beginning to think that her abductor held her for some time prior to her death. She seems to have been treated well, and with the exception of speculating that she was used as a sort of sacrifice, we’ve drawn a blank. I want you to get into Kimmie Ross’ mind, tell us why a healthy eighteen year old girl would, after prolonged captivity, become her captor’s willing sexual partner.”

He held up a hand, forestalling the doctor’s initial, obvious objection. “I’ve already looked into Stockholm Syndrome. That doesn’t seem to be the case here. We can’t see where force was used at any time with the exception of death by strangulation. To me this seems more like a dissociative personality disorder, but that train of thought was just being looked into when I was in school.” He looked straight at the doctor.

“
You are one of the world’s leading experts on what makes a woman tick. We need you on this one. Please.”

* * * *

“
So, Dr. Porter, what is this dissociative personality disorder the Sheriff was talking about?” Josie leaned back her chair, comfortable in his presence.