Amanda Stevens - The Devil's Footprints

She’d told herself after his phone call that she wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t let him see how much he’d hurt her. How much seeing him bothered her. Driving by his house in the middle of the night was one thing, but here she had nowhere to hide.

And yet she found herself clinging to his gaze, remembering the intimacy, remembering every nuance and gesture, every whisper, every promise.

She caught herself then and glanced away, but almost immediately her gaze came back to him. He’d called her tonight. He’d asked for her help. She didn’t have to hide or pretend. She had every right to be here.

He came down a step or two and gave Parks a curt nod. But his gaze never left Sarah’s. “Got her here in one piece, I see.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thanks for that.”

“No problem.”

Parks headed back down the stairs as Sean waited for Sarah. When they reached the porch, he pulled her away from the congestion near the front door.

“Sarah,” he murmured.

She glanced away, unnerved by her reaction to him.

His voice turned gruff. “What the hell have you been doing to yourself? You look terrible.”

Anger tightened her jaw muscles. “It’s good to see you, too, Sean.”

“I’m serious. You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

“I was sleeping when you called.”

She could see skepticism in his face. “And how long had it been before that?”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked in exasperation.

“Doing what?” He sounded genuinely puzzled. “I told you earlier, I’m worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Sarah—”

She pulled away when he tried to touch her. “You said you wanted me to look at the victim’s tattoos. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

His features hardened, and that, too, was familiar. Sean didn’t deal well with rejection, not even the mildest rebuke. “Damn it, why do you always have to act like this?”

“Like what?”

“Misunderstood. Put upon. Like you were the only one who got hurt when we split up.”

“You know, Sean, that argument might be a little more convincing if you’d waited longer than four months before getting married. How is Catherine, by the way? Does she know you called me?”

He sighed. “I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”

“Fine. Why don’t you show me what you want me to see and then let me get the hell out of here?”

He ran his hand through his dark hair. It was longer than Sarah remembered, brushing the collar of his overcoat. He could use a shave, too, and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. She wasn’t the only one who needed a good night’s sleep.

The front door opened and a young officer hurried onto the porch. He stumbled down the stairs, took a few shaky steps into the yard, then bent over and vomited into a row of frozen camellia bushes.

A wave of nausea rolled through Sarah’s stomach. She tried to tell herself the sound of the cop’s retching had triggered the response, but deep down, she knew it was panic. Not for what she was about to see, but for the way Sean still made her feel.

“This is a bad one, Sarah.”

His voice caused her to jump.

“I don’t have any right asking you to do this. Lapierre would probably have my badge if she got wind of it,” he said, referring to the female lieutenant.

Sarah had heard Sean talk about Angelette Lapierre before. She was a tough, thirtysomething Cajun who had come up through the ranks of the detective bureau. In spite of her age and gender, she’d been recently appointed the Homicide Division commander following a scandal that had claimed badges all the way to the top, decimating an already undermanned police force.

In the wake of her promotion, rumors abounded about her past, her affiliations and an affair with the newly elected mayor. According to Sean, Angelette Lapierre had visions of grandeur and was out to make a name for herself no matter who she had to take down—or sleep with—to get what she wanted.

He rubbed the back of his neck, frustration and weariness settling into every line and groove of his face. “She’s on a tear about crime-scene contamination, which, ask any cop out here, is a joke. It’s always been a problem, but nowadays we get people walking in off the damned street to gawk. Half the time we’re so exhausted, we don’t even notice.”

“If you know you’ll get in trouble, why did you ask me to come here?”

He flexed his fingers, anxious to get back to the action. “Because I want to catch this son of a bitch. And you’ve got more insight into this kind of thing than any detective I know. The rest is just bullshit.”

That was Sean. If he had to break a few rules, exploit an old relationship, he didn’t much care so long as he got results. He was probably more like Angelette Lapierre than he wanted to admit.

“I have a bad feeling this guy is just getting warmed up,” he said. “We find another body, and all hell’s gonna break loose. You can bet your ass, Lapierre will start showing up for some face time. The chief of police, the FBI…they’ll all want a piece of the glory. This may be my only chance to show you a crime scene while it’s still fresh. If you’re willing.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

But he still hesitated. “It’s more than just the tattoos. He drew this all over the walls.” He took a piece of paper from his coat pocket and showed her the sketch he’d made. “You know about this stuff. Can you tell me what it is?”

A tingle shuttled up Sarah’s spine. “It’s an udjat. Some people call it the Eye of Lucifer.”

Sean sucked in a breath. “It’s satanic, in other words.”

“It sometimes has that connotation. It’s also called the all-seeing eye. Maybe the killer is trying to tell you that he’s watching you.”

“Or watching someone.”

The dread deepened, lifting the hair at the back of Sarah’s neck. “Did you find anything else?”

“The victim has a pentagram tattooed in her palm.”

Oh, God…“Nothing out here?”

“You mean footwear evidence?”

She turned, searching the darkness. “Any unusual prints around the house?”

“Define unusual.”

She hesitated. “You’d know them if you saw them.”

“That’s all I get?”

“For now. Are we going inside?”

He gave her an assessing look. “Yeah,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”

The front door was glossy with heavy coats of black enamel and was trimmed with a brass knocker and doorknob. Sarah paused, the metal numbers hammered into the wooden door frame catching her attention.

She put out a gloved finger to trace them, but Sean stopped her. “The crime scene techs have been out here, but once we’re inside, it’s better if you don’t touch anything.”

A draft of cold air followed them into the house and Sarah stood in the small foyer, shivering, pulse pounding as she took a quick glance around.

Like a lot of residences in the area, the cottage had been gutted and was now in a chaotic state of renovation. Paint cans and drop cloths littered the living room floor, and Sarah could smell varnish, sawdust—and another scent that didn’t belong there.

Sulphur.

Her stomach jolted as the metallic taste of fear coated her tongue. Sean hadn’t told her where the body was, but she knew. Maybe it was the muted voices echoing down the stairwell or the swish of shoe covers in the hallway above her. Or maybe she had innate radar when it came to death and violence.

Sean handed her a pair of plastic booties and she slipped them over her shoes. He put his hand on her elbow, guiding her toward the stairs. Sarah wished she could grab the banister to steady herself, but she remembered his warning not to touch anything.