Lisa Jackson - Wicked Game

A young woman approached the podium next, and she filled the small church with a beautiful alto version of “Amazing Grace.” By the time the back doors were opened, Becca felt heavy with unshed tears and sorrow and practically gulped air as she headed down the front steps to the graveled lot.

Hudson was right behind her. One hand dropped lightly on one shoulder. “Hey,” he said softly.

“I know. I’m okay, really. No vision to worry about this time.” She shot him a smile meant to lighten the mood, but his blue eyes were sober.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

His hand clasped hers and she squeezed hard, feeling emotion sweep over her. As if they’d choreographed the event, they headed to their cars and Becca followed him to his farm.

Once inside the old clapboard farmhouse, they didn’t waste any time. She was in his arms in an instant and he was taking off her clothes, peeling off her blouse as she kicked off her shoes and worked at the buttons of his shirt. Hudson’s cell rang and he ignored it, turning the damned thing off and leaving it in the kitchen as they hurried upstairs, dropping clothing on the floor, kissing and touching and not getting enough of each other. They made love hungrily, as if in the act of joining they could redefine living, could push away the taint of death, the fear of the unknown.

Several hours later Hudson lazily reached for his cell phone and reluctantly switched it back on. He kissed Becca’s bare shoulder and she curled toward him as he listened to the messages. Her eyes swept over the trail of clothing their urgent coupling had left in their wake: his pants in a heap by the bedroom door; her bra clinging to the corner of the bed; one of his socks sitting atop the TV at the end of the bed.

She gazed at him through slitted eyes, afraid if she opened them wide he’d see her love reflected in their depths. She couldn’t be that transparent. Not yet, and she was certain she would be. She’d never stopped caring. All these years. Pathetic. Yes. But true, and if he knew-

Suddenly every muscle in Hudson’s body stiffened. He lifted half up, the cell phone pressed to his ear.

“What?” Becca asked, alarmed.

He clicked off the phone and made himself lie down beside her once more, staring at the ceiling.

“Who was it?”

“The Third. McNally talked to the group after the memorial service and told everyone he wants us all to give him DNA samples. All of us. Guys and girls.”

“What?” she said, sitting up. “Why?”

“He’s working on Jessie’s case, and he wants to rule out some things. Said the strangest things pop up from DNA testing sometimes. The Third asked him if the bones are really Jessie’s, but he said they still don’t know for sure.”

“Now wait a minute…why would they ask for that? I’m not a CSI authority, but the only reason they would take DNA is if they had something to compare it to.”

“Maybe they found more than they’re saying. A weapon, blood or skin samples under her fingernails. They want female DNA as well, so that must mean that there was something buried with Jessie, a clue. Maybe she fought off her attacker and blood or flesh was left. I don’t know. The Third didn’t say.”

“Did everyone agree to the testing?”

“The Third’s heading to the station now and having them swab the inside of his cheek. Says he’s got nothing to hide and doesn’t want to wait.”

All the warmth, the feeling of well-being she’d felt in Hudson’s arms had dissipated. “Were there two calls? What was the other one?”

Hudson shook his head. “It was Renee. Said she was going to the station this afternoon, then heading to the beach. She sounded…better…stronger, like she’d made a decision.”

“Good.”

“I suppose we should give up some DNA.”

Becca made a face. “I suppose.”

“But later,” he said, pulling her into his arms.

“Later,” she breathed into his mouth as it captured hers.

It was dark by the time they took Hudson’s truck to the Laurelton police station where a tech swabbed both their cheeks, labeling each vial carefully. Becca couldn’t see how giving her DNA could help. There was no way there could be any trace of DNA from whoever had killed the girl, be it Jessie or someone else, after all these years, but hey, if that’s what McNally wanted, fine.

When Becca and Hudson stepped out of the room together, they encountered McNally himself standing by the station’s front doors and looking toward someone who was just heading out to the parking lot: Renee.

“Hey!” Hudson yelled, hurrying after his sister. Becca would have followed but McNally said softly, “Have you got a minute, Ms. Sutcliff?”

No, Becca thought, but she hesitated, watching Hudson approach his sister. Renee’s body language said she was in a hurry and didn’t want to wait. Reluctantly, Becca turned her attention back to the cop and followed him down to a cubicle in a large open room where other detectives were seated at desks, talking on phones, typing reports.

She sat carefully in the chair next to his cluttered desk and noted a picture of a blond boy of about six, his big smile showing a spot where he was missing a baby tooth-a school picture. So McNally had a kid. Somehow that surprised her.

The detective gazed at her for a long moment, enough to make Becca feel uncomfortable. She wondered if this was one of those police tactics meant to intimidate criminals into spilling all. She felt like blabbing her fool head off, and he hadn’t yet asked her a single question.

“Was Jessie pregnant when she disappeared?” he finally inquired.

“Pregnant?” Becca could feel her eyes widen in surprise, her lips part.

“The bones of a fetus were found with the dead girl’s remains.”

Becca felt blood rush to her head, roaring through her ears. Pregnant? Jessie? “I…don’t know,” she heard herself say. Was that what Jessie had been trying to tell her? Was that the secret she wasn’t supposed to speak of?

She felt faint and she gazed past him to Hudson who, as if called by her urgent need, had appeared in the door to the large room. He strode purposely in her direction, and she swallowed hard as she thought that the baby McNally had told her about was undoubtedly his.

What the hell was this? Hudson wondered, seeing Becca’s white face and the shoulder she’d turned toward the detective, as if she were trying to block him out.

“I’ll let you know when I’m coming back from the beach,” Renee had called after him.

Hudson had hesitated. He’d asked her to postpone her trip. With the strange nursery rhyme notes, Glenn’s sudden death, and her sense of persecution, Hudson wanted his sister to stay within reach. But she was on a mission of her own, apparently, and wasn’t listening either to him or the feeling that something was very, very wrong.

More people were leaving the station, a group of them, and Hudson had felt like he was swimming upstream as he pushed his way to reach Becca and McNally. But he found them, Becca seated at the cop’s desk in the Homicide Department.

“Can I help you?” A tall, African American cop with a name tag that read Detective Pelligree stepped in his way.

“Lookin’ for McNally. Found him.”

Pelligree watched as Hudson made his way to McNally’s desk where Becca sat, white as a sheet, her eyes wide. Oh, hell, was she about to have one of her spells again. “You okay?”

“No,” she was saying to the detective, shaking her head, and Hudson saw that her hands were curled into trembling fists.

“What’s going on?” He looked to Mac for an explanation.

“He asked if Jessie was pregnant,” Becca said. “There was a baby…The bones of an unborn child…were there, in the maze, too.”