Gayle Wilson - Bogeyman

“I know what you told me.” He lowered his hands, resting them on the edge of his desk. “Now I’d really like to know why you’re so interested in a murder that happened twenty-five years ago.”

“Cold cases catch the public’s attention,” she said, repeating Ada’s words. “And maybe editors’.”

“So you’re thinking of a book deal?”

“I really haven’t gotten that far. Besides, there may be nothing there—”

“There’s plenty there. For the curious. There’s just no evidence. Certainly not enough to lead to an indictment. And no way you’re going to be able to come up with the murderer.”

“I’m sorry?”

“What kind of story would you have without a conclusion?”

She relaxed a little, believing that she understood his objection. “I’m not trying to solve the case, Sheriff Jackson. I don’t have the skills to do that. I assure you I’m interested in doing exactly what I said. Writing an article. Preferably one I can sell,” she added.

There was another of those thoughtful silences. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

When Cade began the sentence, she had believed he was about to apologize for giving her a hard time. By the time he finished it, she realized that he had connected John’s death with the article. He obviously believed she needed the money. Which was the truth, she acknowledged.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll have Jerrod get you the file. There’s an office across the hall you can use. I can’t let you take anything out of course, but there’s a copier in the reception area.”

Cade stood, indicating that their conversation was over. Except she hadn’t asked him anything she’d come here to find out. She had been morbidly fascinated by the Comstock murder, and it had provided an excuse for her research, but what she really needed to know…

“Are there any other…” She hesitated, unsure how to phrase what she wanted to ask.

“Murders as gruesome as Sarah’s?”

Again she sensed his disapproval. “Acts of violence,” she said, finishing her interrupted question. “Other incidents of violent death.”

“A few brawls and farm accidents. Are those the kinds of things you’re looking for?”

“Not really. Someone mentioned that something violent had happened in the house I’m renting. It’s the two-story frame house at the end of Wheeler Road.”

“Not that I’ve ever heard of. However, your grandmother or Hoyt would be a better source for that kind of information than I am. Both have lived here all their lives.”

“You’re right,” she said, finally getting to her feet. “I’ll check with them. Thank you for your time.”

She turned and walked through the door of his office, aware that he was following her. The kid watched as they came into the reception area. She smiled at him as she passed the desk.

“Jerrod, would you get Ms. Wyndham the file on Sarah Comstock, please?”

Realizing that she had been about to walk out without looking at the material she had professed to want to see, Blythe turned, making a point of glancing down at her watch. “Actually…” Again. “Would it be all right if I come back another day and read through the material? I’m late picking up my daughter. They’ll be wondering what’s happened to me.”

“Of course. Whenever Ms. Wyndham is ready, Jerrod.”

“Yes, sir,” the deputy said. “Anytime, ma’am.”

“Thank you. Thank you both.” She started to the door.

“Good to see you again,” Cade said. “And since I didn’t say it before, welcome home.”

She smiled her thanks. A smile he didn’t return. Cutting her losses, she opened the door and escaped those considering blue eyes by stepping out into the cold twilight.

Her first thought was it was too soon. It had been only four nights ago that Maddie’s screams had awakened her, and now—

Not screams. Whatever she was hearing didn’t follow the normal pattern of the nightmare. And then, in a blood-chilling flash of recognition, she knew the sound for what it was.

Smoke alarm.

There was only one, located at the top of the stairwell. She’d meant to buy another for the kitchen, but with everything involved in the move and with what had been going on since—

She threw off the covers and leapt out of bed, adrenaline flooding her system. She was halfway to the door of the second bedroom before she encountered smoke. As she ran, her mind analyzed the possibilities. None of them were comforting.

It was thicker in the hall, but she didn’t slow. As long as whatever was burning didn’t keep her from getting to Maddie, she wasn’t concerned with it right now. Once she had her daughter, she’d think about the terrifying reality that in the middle of the night her rented house was filled with smoke.

As she neared the door to the main bedroom, where Maddie had been sleeping since Blythe had heard the tapping on the window, she fought her panic, reassuring herself that despite the density of the smoke there was enough breathable air….

The little girl was sitting up in bed, her eyes wide as the alarm continued to sound its warning. “Mama?”

Blythe threw back the quilts and scooped her up off the bed. Maddie clung to her neck, her legs automatically wrapping around her waist.

She carried Maddie into the hall, heading toward the stairs. In the darkness, framed by spindles at their top, she could see the glow of flames, already licking up the stairwell.

The most immediate danger was the smoke, which was already thick in the upstairs hall. Toxins would be released by the burning furniture, and the smoke itself would rapidly eat up the life-sustaining oxygen.

How long did that give her? Blythe wondered, reversing course. How long would there be air for them to breathe? How long did she have to try to find a way out?

Running now, she carried Maddie toward the window at the end of the short hall. One look at the two-story drop below it made her rethink that solution. She turned away, glancing over her shoulder at the glow from the stairwell.

Mentally she reviewed the windows on this floor. The one where she’d heard the tapping overlooked the roof of the screened-in porch. And apparently the fire had started on the other side of the structure….

She hurried into what had been Maddie’s bedroom. She leaned over the secretary, putting her forehead against the cold glass. Below stretched the gently peaked roof of the addition.

She bent, setting Maddie on the floor. “Lie down and stay down,” she ordered, in her I-mean-it voice.

She jerked the desk away from the wall as if it weighed nothing. Even if she decided the drop to the roof below was too great, once she opened the window, they would at least have fresh air.

She turned the metal latch at the top of the sill and then tried to push up the sash. No matter how much pressure she applied, the window refused to budge, not even when she bent, using the muscles of her thighs and buttocks. Either moisture had caused the wood to swell or it had been painted shut.

She looked back toward the hall, which was now thick with smoke. There had to be another way. Another window. Some other access to the roof.

Even as she mentally sought other possibilities, she knew there were none. The other windows on this floor offered a straight drop to the ground two stories below. And there was no guarantee that any of them would be easier to open than this.

Her eyes fastened on the small desk chair that had been shoved into the keyhole of the desk. When she’d moved the secretary, it had carried the chair with it.

Coughing, she jerked the chair free, holding onto the back of it with both hands. It seemed incredibly light, far too fragile to accomplish what she needed it to do.