River Bodies (Northampton County #1)(81)

“That, my friend, is what a forensic psychologist is for,” Rick said. “I’m more concerned with the physical evidence so we can put this guy away.”

Parker stopped pacing. “We lifted a partial print off one of the rounds that was in the clip. But it doesn’t look like this guy’s prints are in our system. Somehow, I doubt Clint or the other cops in town ever fingerprinted any of these guys.” He was already thinking about how he was going to go about getting a search warrant. He doubted any of the judges would be happy to be pulled away from their regular order of business to expedite his request. He would plead if he had to, but even a warrant to search the guy’s house, taking him in for questioning, wasn’t good enough. What he really needed was to put this guy behind bars as quickly as possible. It was the only way he was going to keep Becca safe.

Rick smiled his biggest smile yet. “Today is your lucky day,” he said and pulled a plastic bag from the inside pocket of his jacket.

“What’s that?” Parker asked.

Rick dropped the baggie onto the table in front of him. “That is a cup with John Jackson’s fingerprints.”



Parker picked up the bag and turned it over, looking at the cup and spoon inside. He recognized it as one of the cups the soup lady handed out at the farmers market. “How did you get this?” he asked.

“He threw it in the trash, and I just happened to pick it out.”

“How do you know it’s his?”

“Oh, it’s his. And it’s all perfectly legal.”

Parker picked up his cell phone from the counter. “Mara, I know you’re busy, but I need you to lift some fingerprints for me, ASAP. I think we found our match.”

She groaned, pretending to be annoyed, but she wasn’t, not really. She lived for this stuff. “Bring it,” she said.

“I’m on my way.” Parker hung up the phone. “I’m heading out,” he said to Rick. “With any luck, I’ll have an arrest warrant and this guy in custody in a few hours.”

“I’m coming with you,” Rick said.

Parker shook his head. “I need you to stay here with Becca. I don’t want you to let her out of your sight. Are you armed?”

Rick reached behind him where he kept a snub nose shoved in the waistband of his jeans. “Are you worried our guy might come after her?”

“Yes,” Parker said. “That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”

“He won’t come after me,” Becca said.

Both men turned to find her standing in the doorway of the kitchen. Her face was drawn, her skin pale. She stared at the papers strewn about, her gaze stopping on the photos of the victims’ bodies that Parker had tossed onto the counter. He quickly picked them up and shoved them into a folder. It wasn’t something she needed to see.

“He won’t hurt me,” she said.

Parker exchanged a look with Rick.

“There’s something else you need to know,” she said. “I tried.” She paused. “I tried to tell you earlier.” Before either Parker or Rick could reply, she told them about the events of the morning that had led her straight to Parker’s place, how there was another body lying at the river’s edge.

“I don’t know whose bullet hit him, or if both did,” she said, shaking. “I dropped my dad’s gun on the way here.”

Parker was too stunned to move. But Rick had listened and jotted down everything Becca had said. It was only when her shoulders started to shake violently that Parker went to her and held her. He carried her back to the couch.

He smoothed the hair from her forehead as though she were a child. “I’ve got to call this in,” he said. He needed to get his team back out to the clearing and the river. “I promise you, I’m going to get this guy.”

She nodded, too exhausted to offer much else.

Rick walked into the living room. He handed Parker the Glock. Parker touched Rick’s arm, letting him know he trusted him to stay with her and protect her if necessary.

Rick nodded.

On Parker’s way out the door, he heard Becca say again, “He won’t hurt me.”





CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

John didn’t remember how he’d come to be sitting on the stool in the barn or how the traitor’s bloody clothes had ended up in a pile at his feet. He wondered where the bloody knife in his hand had come from. And then he heard a voice, a sweet, soft sound coming from outside the barn door, a little girl’s voice, Becca’s voice. She’d been calling the name Sheba. He turned toward her, seeing her pale face and large gray eyes. And then he heard the dogs, one growling and one cowering. And whatever place he’d gone to, a place where he’d lost track of events and time, he was pulled out of, ripped away, rescued by the little girl with the face of an angel.

“Rubes,” he called and yanked on the Doberman’s spiked collar, pulling him away from the puppy, commanding him to stay before scooping the little pup into his arms. “Is this your dog?” he asked her.



John walked out of the woods, stopped next to Hap’s hog. Hap must’ve parked it outside of John’s barn sometime earlier that morning. He touched the leather seat with his fingers, closed his eyes for a second. He thought about sitting on the bike, putting the rifle to his head, ending this once and for all.