Look For Me (Detective D.D. Warren #9)(3)
The madman was still. The molten screams had ended. Now, there was just this. A final moment.
Sarah and Heidi both placed their hands on Kelly’s arm.
“I’m sorry,” Heidi mumbled again.
Sarah listened to her last gurgling breath.
“I will fear no evil,” she whispered in the ensuing silence. “I will fear no evil, fear no evil, fear no evil.”
The police finally burst through the front door. The EMTs rushed to their rescue.
“Jesus Christ,” the first cop said, coming to a halt in the middle of the apartment.
“I will fear no evil,” Sarah told the woman.
And, once more, offered up Kelly’s severed arm.
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A YEAR LATER, WHAT SARAH REMEMBERED most was waking up to the sound of giggling.
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DO SCREAMS HAVE A TASTE? Fire? Ash? Red-hot cinnamon candies, which as a little girl Sarah liked to let melt on the tip of her tongue?
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“EXCUSE ME. YOU FORGOT THIS.”
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SOUND OF GIGGLING. MOLTEN-WHITE SCREAMS.
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I WILL FEAR NO EVIL . . .
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ONE YEAR LATER, ONE YEAR LATER, one year later . . .
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A KNOCK AT THE DOOR. Hard. And then again.
Sarah bolted awake in her tiny studio apartment. Drenched in sweat, breath ragged. She lay perfectly still, ears straining. Then it came again. Knocking. Pounding. Someone demanding entrance.
Slowly, she reached for the top drawer of her nightstand. No stashed knife. She couldn’t even look at a blade. No gun. She’d tried, but her hands shook too much. So a canister of pepper spray. Meant to chase off bears when hiking in the woods and available at any outdoor gear or camping store. She had the canisters stashed all over her single-room apartment, in every bag she carried.
She drew out the canister, sliding off the mattress as the knocking started again.
She stank. Could smell the reek of her own sweat and terror. Night after night after night.
Screams did have a color. It was the only thing she truly understood anymore. Screams had a color, and she was now intimately familiar with all the shades of despair.
“I will fear no evil,” Sarah told herself as she put her eye to the peephole and gazed into the dimly lit hall.
A lone woman. Late twenties, early thirties maybe. Dressed casually in jeans and a sweatshirt, she looked like someone Sarah should know. Had maybe met once upon a time. Then again, two A.M. was a strange time for a social call.
“It’s okay.” The woman spoke up, no doubt sensing Sarah’s gaze on her. She held up both hands, as if to prove she was unarmed. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Who are you?”
“Honestly? You’re gonna have to open up to find out. That’s part of the deal. I’m here to help you, but you gotta take the first step.”
“I will fear no evil,” Sarah said, clutching her bear spray tightly.
“That’s stupid,” said the woman. “World is full of evil. Fear is what keeps us safe.”
“Who are you?”
“Someone who’s not going to stand here forever. Make your choice, Sarah. Hide behind platitudes or make the world a better place.”
Sarah hesitated. But then her fingers landed on the first bolt lock. Then the second. The third. There was something about this woman. Not what she said so much as the way she stood.
Christy, she found herself thinking. The woman stood like Christy had, once upon a time. A challenger, ready to take on the world.
Slowly, very slowly, Sarah eased open the door until she stood face-to-face with her unexpected guest.
“Nice pepper spray,” the woman commented. She strode into Sarah’s tiny apartment. Rotated a full circle, looking all around. Nodded once to herself, as if all was what she had expected.
She turned, faced Sarah directly, and stuck out a hand.
“My name is Flora Dane,” she announced. “A year ago, you survived. Now I’m gonna teach you how to live again.”
Chapter 1
PERFECT FALL DAY. That was the problem. Boston Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren knew from past experience that perfect days were never to be trusted. And yet, with her five-year-old son, Jack, giggling excitedly as he pulled on his sweatshirt, and her crime scene expert husband, Alex, all smiles as he dug out an L.L.Bean canvas bag, it was hard not to get into the spirit of things. Apple picking. One of those crazy domestic things other families did, and now she and her family would do. Apple picking first thing this bright, crisp morning, to be followed by a long-awaited visit to the humane society.
Dog.
With a capital D.
Jack had been begging for one since he could talk. In the past six months, Alex had suddenly taken his side.
“Pets are good for kids,” he’d explained patiently to D.D. “They teach responsibility.”
“We’re never home. How responsible can we be if we’re never home?”
“Correction. You are never home. Jack and I, on the other hand . . .”
Low blow, D.D. had thought at the time. Though the truth was often like that. So: Project Dog. For her over-the-moon beautiful little boy. And her quite charming and still-had-the-moves husband. Fine print: They all had to agree on the mutt in question.
Personally, D.D. had no interest in a cute, squirmy puppy that would eat everything in sight. A mature, solemn-eyed pit bull, however . . . She admired their loyalty and fierce spirit. A female pit bull, two to three years of age, she’d already decided. Young enough to play with Jack and bond with the family, old enough to understand her immediate responsibilities to serve and protect. D.D. pictured herself and this theoretical pit bull reaching a silent agreement on how to guard the boy at all times.