A nightmare that might have included sexual molestation by her stepfather?
She couldn’t even bear to think about it, that poor little girl slowly turning into the helpless, desperate young woman she’d become, so hungry for escape and for love that she sought them both from any man who’d show her a little attention.
The dark thoughts churned in her mind; her stomach clenched and heaved. And in the darkest corner of her brain the images anchored and took root. Bloody images.
“Could he have wanted to shut her up?” she whispered. “Or maybe she was older, strong enough to turn him down, and he snapped?” Had that sent the man on the path of savagery the Reaper had let loose upon the world?
Her father said nothing, continuing to rock, slowly, absorbing the possibility just as Stacey was. Finally, though, he mumbled, “It’s a damn tragedy. I can’t imagine how different things might have turned out if her daddy hadn’t died in that accident.”
Stacey didn’t even want to think about how Lisa’s world had blown to bits with her father’s death and her mother’s remarriage to a complete bastard, one in a long line of mean men, if the stories about the Freeds were true. Lisa’s life might have been very different, indeed.
“I know.” Reaching over, she took her dad’s hand as gently as possible, thinking not for the first time how lucky she and her brother were. Her life might have gotten just as screwed up as poor Lisa’s had he made some different choices. Lord, when she thought about how Tim and Randy used to scheme to get their widowed father together with Randy’s widowed mother… She shuddered at the very thought of having grown up with that wicked witch of a stepmother. But her father obviously had much better taste. He’d steered well clear of Alice Covey, and all the other divorcees and widows who’d set their eyes on the handsome widower, devoting himself just to her and to Tim.
Which was one reason she was so happy he’d finally reached out and grabbed some personal happiness with Connie.
Thinking about her brother, she said, “Tim came to see me the other day.”
His mouth turned down at the corners. “I heard.”
Oh, she’d just bet. She doubted the news had come from Connie, who tried to avoid upsetting Dad as much as possible. Her brother had most likely come out here screaming at the injustice that his bitch of a sister wouldn’t help him out in his time of need. As if she and everyone else hadn’t been doing exactly that since the day he’d come home two years ago, injured and so messed up in the head that she barely recognized him.
“Dad, he’ll never help himself if we keep bailing him out. He doesn’t need his family to keep rescuing him, or his buddy to keep dragging him into trouble.”
“Randy’s been there for him.”
“I know. But a friend who encourages him in his anger and resentment, who takes him illegally out-of-season hunting, or drinking seven nights a week, is not what he needs right now. He needs to get back over to the vet hospital and talk to that shrink. He shouldn’t have stopped going after only a couple of months.”
He met her stare evenly. “I know you’re right. Logically, I know that.” His free hand dropped over hers, covering it. “But he’s my boy. I look at him and I see those scars and I think about what he’s been through and…” He didn’t ask her. Didn’t make the request out loud. But he made it just the same, with his pained eyes.
Shaking her head, knowing tough love would be the first thing her father would suggest for anybody else’s kid, she pulled her hand away. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
She wondered if he’d be thanking her if Tim never got his shit together, never emerged from the dark cloud of anger that had swallowed him up and eradicated any sign of the guy who used to play football and bass guitar. The one who used to smile.
He sure wouldn’t if he kept hanging around with Randy, the two of them getting drunk and raising hell like a pair of teenagers. Randy had gotten Tim into enough trouble when they were growing up, for stealing and fighting. She truly wished her brother hadn’t renewed the friendship when he got home.
“I should run. You’ll think about the case, won’t you? And let me know if you can come up with anything you think could help?”
“I will.” Rising, he put his hands on her shoulders and, staring at her with worry in his eyes, he said, “You be careful. Let those FBI guys take the lead on this. The last thing I want to even think about is you going head-to-head with someone so evil.”
Evil. Yes. That described the person they were after. Could Stan Freed, while a mean and possibly degenerate brute, be that evil?
“I know this isn’t what you bargained for when you came back here to take over for your old man,” he murmured, staring into her face as if looking for signs that she might break. As if he feared the violence that had followed her here to her small hometown had assaulted her personally and she’d be unable to bear the strain.
It hadn’t. And she’d bear it. Period.
“I’ll be fine.” She kissed her father on the cheek, acknowledging his right to fear for his daughter, rather than support the sheriff. Then, turning to walk down the steps, she glanced over her shoulder, smiled, and said, “Tell Connie I said good morning.”
His surprised chuckle made leaving him alone on the porch a little easier. And gave her what she knew would be one of her few bright moments of the day.
With Stacey’s office as the base of operations, Dean, Stokes, and Mulrooney headed there first thing in the morning after making a quick pit stop at the little coffee bar, where they’d all filled up on liquid fuel. Grabbing an extra cup for Stacey, he realized he didn’t know how she took her coffee. Or even if she drank it. Didn’t know a lot about her at all, as a matter of fact.
He just knew that as he entered the sheriff’s office promptly at eight thirty, his pulse picked up its pace a little in his veins. Because he wanted to see her.
She met them right at the front door. “Good morning.”
Unlike yesterday, when they’d been tromping in the woods, Stacey again wore her crisp, starched uniform. Probably because of where she and Dean were headed in a few minutes. She’d need that self-protective armor when she made the notification to Lisa’s mother.
She eyed the foam cups of coffee in his hands. “Thirsty?”
He extended one. “Wasn’t sure how you take it.”
“In this weather, usually iced. But considering how little sleep I’ve gotten the past few nights, I’ll take anything I can get.” She reached for the cup, her fingers brushing against his. “Thanks.” She sipped, then glanced at Stokes and Mulrooney. “You guys doing okay at the inn?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Jackie replied.
Mulrooney stretched, arching his back, sticking his belly out. “I slept like a baby. A baby having nightmares about a black-cape-wearing bogeyman, but a baby.”
Dean merely grunted, as usual not quite sure how to take Mulrooney’s odd sense of humor. But he had to concede that when the older man was on his game, he was pretty intuitive. And pretty brave, given the stories Dean had heard.
“Let’s go into my office,” Stacey said.
They followed her, sat around her desk; then Dean filled her in on the morning’s developments. “We got a call from Wyatt. Turns out the PD in the Maryland case had a tire print at the dump site that they just now let us know about. It’s a 7.50R16LT. Pretty standard-issue on late-model American-made light-to-medium-duty pickups and SUVs.”