Dana Jo screamed the child’s name, turning in a wide circle to survey her surroundings, panic in her eyes and voice.
The moment she spotted Lou Lou, Dana Jo sprinted after her. Once, Dana Jo had been an athlete. A soccer champ.
Before her accident. That’s when the pain pills had hooked her on opioids.
He slipped deeper into the woods behind a massive oak tree and watched the sweat begin to trickle down the sides of her face. Saw the pain and terror in her eyes. She’d lost her speed and agility. One hand rubbed at her back. She hesitated a second, then inhaled and began to limp, refusing to slow down.
“Lou Lou, stop!” Dana Jo shouted.
The little girl tripped and fell in the grass. The butterfly flew on.
Dana Jo caught up with Lou Lou, scooped the crying child into her arms and hugged her fiercely. He gritted his teeth, wishing like hell the park would suddenly empty and he could take her and the kid now.
Then Dana Jo seemed to look straight at him.
His spine tingled as he remembered how soft and tempting her skin felt to his touch.
How her eyes had blurred with tears and the side effects of the drugs when he’d thrown her to the ground.
How her scream had boomeranged off the mountain, music to his ears.
He hadn’t forgotten her for a second. And soon she’d be his again.
His head throbbed with the incessant sound of the voices. He wanted to save them. He wanted to punish them. His mission would never end…
FORTY-FOUR
Mystic
The hairs on the back of Cord’s neck stood on end as he studied the pattern of the bird feathers. “Dr. Brant, did you create that artwork?”
The older man grunted. “No, I’m a scientist, not an artist. That was done by a young guy in his thirties. He calls it feather touch art. It’s actually more popular than you’d think, especially used by Native American folk artists. They make feathers into earrings, necklaces, dreamcatchers, decorative clothing, pillows and I’ve even seen lamps.” He chuckled. “You’d be surprised what different people use as a medium. I once knew a guy who used bones in his art and another one who incorporated blood.”
Cord chewed over the man’s statement. So maybe it wasn’t a lead. But it was odd to see the crow feathers in a pattern so similar to the one where Minnie was found. He’d get the artist’s name and check him out.
His phone buzzed. His coworker Milo. “Yeah,” Cord said as he answered.
“Hey, we may have found that witness you were talking about, the old man.”
“That’s good.”
“Not so sure about that, McClain. Sorry to tell you, but he’s dead.”
Cord silently cursed.
“You want to come and verify his identity?”
“I’ll be right there.”
He ended the call, asked Dr. Brant for the artist’s number then headed outside. As he got inside his truck, he pulled his phone and called Ellie to fill her in.
“Cord, I was about to call you,” Ellie said. “I looked over the case files for those other suicides and found a couple of interesting things. I think the cases are connected.”
Cord ran his hands through his hair. “Go on.”
“Well, there are feathers at all three scenes. All three girls had heavy amounts of alcohol or drugs in their systems and prior addictions. Then I studied the suicide notes. Some of the wording is almost identical.” Her shaky breath rattled out. “Each girl was apologizing for leaving their child and said they thought the child would be better off without them.”
“As if they were written by the same person?”
