Part 8 (1/2)
Michael exchanged a look with the cops. ”Someone knew your schedule. He thought he knew exactly how long he had. You must have surprised him before he could take off with anything.”
Jamie shook her head. ”He wasn't looking for valuables. He was looking for Chris.”
Electric shocks shot through Michael's nerves. ”What?”
The uniform taking notes said, ”He kept asking where her brother was.”
Michael clutched at Jamie's arm, whirling her to face him. ”He wanted Chris? He said that?”
She nodded. ”He said Chris would remember his cigarette burns. He's the one, Michael, he's the one who hurt Chris. He must be the one who killed all those children...and your brother.”
Daniel. Michael eased his grip on her arm and rubbed at it in apology. His mind felt ready to explode. The man who killed Daniel is still here. I will find him.
”Sorry, princess.” He turned to Byers. ”You've got to contact Detective Callahan in OSP's Major Crimes.”
The cop's eyes narrowed. ”Major Crimes? Why? We've called out one of our robbery and a.s.sault detectives.”
Michael shook his head. ”You've got to contact Callahan. This is related to a murder case he's caught.”
Byers glanced at Jamie for confirmation. She nodded, still silent. ”What the h.e.l.l?” Byers asked. ”Everyone out. Out of the house now.” He stepped closer to Michael. ”You better know what you're talking about. Why the f.u.c.k didn't the two of you say something to start with?” His glare included Jamie.
Michael's hackles rose. ”Because I didn't know till she mentioned her brother, and she was in too much shock from fighting for her G.o.dd.a.m.ned life.” He challenged Byers's stare.
”I'm sorry-” Jamie started.
”Not your fault. Not your fault at all.” He rubbed his hands over her shoulders. ”Did you get a look at him?”
She nodded and then started to s.h.i.+ver.
”Christ. Let's get out in the sun. You got a coat you can grab?”
”Don't take anything out of the house yet,” Byers interjected. ”I've got a Mylar blanket in the car she can use.”
Jamie's teeth started to chatter.
”Jesus,” said Michael. ”Outside. Now.”
She couldn't get warm. She was wrapped in two Mylar blankets and in full sun, lying flat on her back in the middle of her front yard. Michael had wedged a backpack from his truck under her feet and knelt by her head, rubbing at her hands.
”Just a little shock, princess. You'll feel better in a few minutes.”
”Why do you keep calling me princess? And make them go away.” Her teeth still chattered as she glared at the circle of uniforms staring down at her. Wasn't she conspicuous enough? What were her neighbors thinking?
”Back off,” Michael directed. The cops obeyed. ”Princess popped in my head the first time I saw you. Actually, I thought you looked like a queen. Something about the way you carry yourself. You've got a regal bearing. Not snooty or stuck-up. Just...calm, kind, and self-confident.”
Regal? ”I'd call it my princ.i.p.al posture. Makes the kids listen to me.” Her d.a.m.ned body wouldn't stop s.h.i.+vering. ”I can't get warm.”
Michael leaned closer, green eyes concerned.
Jamie blew out a long breath, closed her eyes, and concentrated on making her muscles relax. The s.h.i.+vering dropped to short spurts, down from continuous attacks.
”That's better,” he said softly. ”Do you think you can talk now?”
She opened her eyes. The concern in his gaze touched her deep in her chest. She nodded. ”Sit me up.”
He shook his head. ”Not yet.” He gestured for Byers to come back.
”How much description of the guy did she give you already?”
Byers consulted his flip notebook. ”Caucasian male, probably six foot one or six foot two, medium build, late forties or early fifties, sandy-blond hair, blue eyes, navy light running pants, long-sleeved white T-s.h.i.+rt, tattoos on backs of both wrists.”
Jamie nodded in agreement. ”I think the tattoos went up his sleeves. Like they covered his arms. I could see faint patterns through the material of his s.h.i.+rt.”
”Probably why he was wearing long sleeves in the middle of July,” Michael commented. ”Wonder if the long pants were for the same reason?”
”More tats?” Byers asked.
Michael shrugged. ”Possibly.”
Jamie'd had enough of being on her back and having people speak down to her. ”Sit me up.”
Michael gently pulled her into a sitting position and steadied her with a hand on her back. And left it there. Its heat soaking into her skin felt heavenly.
”I don't recall getting a glimpse of his legs or even ankles.” Jamie mentally reviewed her struggles with the a.s.sailant. ”But he looked weird.”
”Define weird.” Michael's lips curved up on the right.
She paused. ”His eyes weren't right. The color seemed fake.”
”Lenses?” Byers asked.
She nodded slowly. ”Maybe. It was the same with the hair. The color seemed forced. Like a home dye job.”
”Christ. Vain,” Michael said wryly. ”Can't handle a little gray hair?”
”Maybe his hair was actually really dark, almost black. And he lightened it to throw her off. Same with the eyes. Maybe they're brown or hazel,” Byers theorized. ”You feel positive about the colors being changed? I mean, I had no idea my wife's been coloring her hair for the last five years until her sister mentioned it. How can you tell?”
Uncertainty crept into Jamie's brain. Maybe she was wrong. ”Women look at hair. Most men don't. It's just a gut instinct with this guy.” She fumbled about for a way to explain. ”You asked for his hair color. I pictured it and stated what I remembered, but something bugged me about my answer. I think it didn't feel accurate because I'd imperceptibly picked up that it was colored. And that didn't register till a minute ago.”
Both men stared at her. Byers's pencil hung motionless above his notebook.
”Women can tell these things,” she a.s.serted.
Byers recited as he wrote in his notebook: ”Female instinct says hair colored and colored contacts.”
Gerald crammed his latex gloves in his pants pocket. That hadn't gone well.
Rephrase that. It'd been a f.u.c.king disaster.
Sitting in his car in the McDonald's parking lot, he sucked on a c.o.ke and took inventory of his injuries. His legs were going to be bruised for a week, and he had a finger sprain that'd swollen to twice its size. d.a.m.n thing had better not be broken.