Into the Fury (BOSS, Inc. #1)(56)
Rolling onto his back, he listened to Val’s deep breathing, knew she had drifted back to sleep. She’d been amazing last night, giving and taking, pleading and demanding. It occurred to him that the depth of sexual gratification they’d shared was new to her. If he were honest, the emotional attachment he felt made it new to him, too.
He refused to consider what that meant. He wanted her; she wanted him.
One thing he knew: Val had deep sexual needs and he was just the man to satisfy those needs. For now that was all that mattered. In the meantime, there were other things more important than pleasure.
There were murders to solve and people to protect. It was his job. That job wouldn’t end until this was over, no matter what Matthew Carlyle said.
He kissed Val’s temple and rolled from the bed, padded naked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. It was Saturday, a well-deserved day off, at least for Val. Once he was dressed, he would check his e-mail, see if he’d gotten a reply to the message he’d sent Sadie. He’d get his work done and let Val sleep.
At least for a while.
Dressed once more in jeans and a T-shirt, he sat down in front of the sofa, opened his laptop, and pulled up his mail. Sadie’s reply popped up, along with an attachment.
Thursday night, as he’d worked through possible leads and tried to keep his mind off Val, he’d had an idea. During his cop days in Dallas, he’d stumbled across a group of local psychologists who conducted an interactive online forum once a month. They gathered to discuss unusual cases, get feedback between group members, though no patient names were ever disclosed.
He’d discovered the group when a female doctor named Helen Burk had helped him track down a dangerous schizophrenic who had murdered his parents. In the beginning, Helen had been reluctant to break doctor/patient confidentiality, but as the evidence mounted, along with fear the guy might kill someone else, she finally came forward.
Ethan had no suspect this time. Helen Burk wouldn’t give him squat. Which was the reason he had e-mailed Sadie.
He opened her message.
Morning, hotshot. Did a little digging. (Find docs attached.) As you conned me—as usual—into doing, I went back through the chat sessions of the shrinks’ monthly meetings for the past two years. I condensed them down so even a slow learner like you could get through them. They ought to keep you busy and out of trouble at least for a while.
His mouth edged up. He thought of the beautiful naked woman in the bedroom and arousal slid through him. Too late, Sadie. I’m already in major-league trouble.
He looked down at his e-mail. He had also given Sadie a profile of the man he believed he was looking for: a loner, someone off the grid, a guy who had probably been raised out of the city. Home-schooled. No vaccinations. Parents likely never took him to a doctor.
He read the words on the screen.
Oh, did I mention, I can probably save you the trouble of reading all that crap? I think I found your guy. Or at least where to start looking for him. When you get this, call me.
Sadie was such a smart-ass. Probably why he liked her so much.
He took out his cell. On Saturday, the fifty-year-old grandma, world’s most unlikely computer genius, was usually working in the office. He punched in the number, then her extension.
She answered on the second ring. “Hey, hotshot. Figured I’d hear from you earlier. Bet I don’t have to ask if you had a female keeping you company last night.”
He smiled. “It’s none of your business, Sadie. Now tell me what you found.”
He heard her rustling around, probably putting on her reading glasses. “Okay . . . on a group chat six months ago, a doctor named Carl Weatherby mentioned a patient, a twenty-five-year-old male he’d been treating for a couple of weeks. He wasn’t schizophrenic, according to Weatherby. But during the group chats, the doctor talked about the guy’s violent tendencies, his wild mood swings, his fantasies about killing women—sinful, lustful women—those were the patient’s words, according to Weatherby.”
“I’m listening.”
“The man only showed up at Weatherby’s office a couple of times before he quit coming, but here’s the kicker: The guy’s Amish, Ethan. Or was. Left the community when he was fifteen. Weatherby figured his folks threw him out. Shunning, they call it.”
“I’ve heard of it. As I recall, the Amish live mostly in Pennsylvania.”
“Well, see, that’s the interesting part. You’ve got a couple of small Amish communities right there in Texas. One about a hundred miles southwest of Dallas, the other down near Beeville. You can Google their locations.”
He felt a familiar rush. All the pieces clicking into place, the certainty he was on the right track. “Sadie, you’re a gem.”
“Don’t forget those two tickets.”
“I haven’t forgotten. This lead pans out, I’m also buying your dinner.”
She chuckled. “Take care, Ethan. Give the lady my best.” Sadie disconnected and Ethan shoved the phone back into his jeans.
He Googled the Amish communities in Texas and found their locations. Sadie was right. The one near Beeville was over three hundred miles away, but the one out by Stephenville was a fairly easy drive. He’d head there first.
Pulling up a map on his iPhone, he bookmarked the directions, then went back to work on the Internet, digging up as much information as he could on the Amish in general and particularly those in Texas.