P. Alderman - Haunting Jordan

“Okay, okay!”

“It’s easier to start than it is to stop,” Hattie explained apologetically.

“Call off the damn dog!” Ted screamed.

“Malachi, come.”

Jase shoved books aside and flipped Ted over, planting a knee in the middle of his back. He yanked Ted’s arms up and back, holding his wrists with one hand, holding out the other. “Give me the gun, and then go get Darcy’s handcuffs.”

Darcy . Jordan did as he said, then ran into the hallway and knelt beside Darcy. Blood soaked her chest, and when Jordan pressed fingers to the side of her neck, her pulse was fast and thready. Jordan felt her pockets for the handcuffs, tossing them to Jase.

“Hattie! Dish towels from the kitchen.” She grabbed her cellphone and dialed 911, praying the phone was still functional. Towels flew at her. She snagged them out of the air with her free hand and pressed them to Darcy’s wound.

“Nine-one-one operator. State your emergency.”

Jordan babbled out her address and something about an officer down.

“A neighbor already called it in, ma’am. Units are on their way. Describe the location of the shooter.”

Blood immediately soaked through the towels, and she pressed harder. “He’s facedown, in the library, cuffed.” She craned her neck, then added, “He’s crying.”

There was a moment of silence. “Crying’s good,” the operator finally said, her tone wry. “Stay on the line, ma’am, until the police arrive. Can you do that for me?”

Jordan could hear the sirens in the distance. She let out a sob, giving Jase a wobbly smile. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Amanda took that moment to come strolling down the hall from the kitchen. “Hey, there’re cop cars all over the place. What’s up?”

Chapter 18

JUST after dawn the next morning, Jordan sat in the hospital room next to Darcy’s bed, punch-drunk from lack of sleep. She, Jase, and Tom had spent the night at the hospital, helping each other stay positive while they awaited word of Darcy’s condition.

After four hours of surgery, she was stable. The bullet had entered her upper right chest, then bounced around a bit, nicking her lung and shattering a rib. After another two hours of recovery, Darcy had been moved to the ICU, and the nurse had consented to Jordan’s request that she be allowed to stay in the room, even though she wasn’t family.

A number of Darcy’s officers and administrative staff had been in and out during the long night, waiting to find out whether their police chief would recover. The mayor had even supposedly stopped by, though Jordan had been in the cafeteria at the time, trying to find coffee while she called Carol to give her the news that they’d caught Ryland’s murderer.

According to Tom, a detective by the name of Bert Park had taken over the logistics of contacting Detective Drake. Drake had made arrangements to fly to town later today, to retrieve Ted and transport him to the L.A. County lockup, to be arraigned on murder charges. Tom had told Jordan that Drake had not been pleased to find out he’d been investigating the wrong person all along.

Jordan stretched. Closing her eyes, she rolled her neck to relax the muscles that were giving her a screaming headache. Or maybe it was the fatigue and the gallon of coffee she’d ingested in the last sixteen hours. She’d seen better dawns, that was for sure.

“You’ve been a pain in the ass from the very beginning.” Darcy’s voice cracked on the words, but they were lucid.

Jordan’s head jerked up. She tried to smile but failed. “Taking out the chief of police within days of hitting town definitely constitutes a personal best for me,” she agreed, then added, “This is all my fault.”

“I was kidding, for chrissakes,” Darcy tried to shift one hand and winced. “You know that stalkers, once they reach that level of violence, can’t be rehabilitated. And the smart ones cover their tracks. There was nothing you could’ve done.”

“I could’ve recognized his pathology.”

Darcy managed to snort. “At least tell me that jerk is either dead or in a jail cell where I can get to him and beat the crap out of him.”

“It might be a while before you can do that.” Jordan held a spoonful of ice slivers to Darcy’s lips.

Darcy glared as she sucked on the ice. “Just give me a couple of days. I’m motivated,” she grumbled. “Talk to me—what’s happening?”

Jordan brought her up-to-date. “Jase demanded that Drake immediately hold a press conference and announce that I was no longer considered a suspect.”

“Good man.” Darcy closed her eyes, starting to drift.

“As I hear it, Drake was not pleased.”

“Even better.”

Tom appeared in the doorway, holding a large bouquet of flowers and looking embarrassed. “She awake yet?”

“I’m here,” Darcy mumbled. She opened her eyes and saw the flowers. “You must’ve been really worried.”

“Just shut up.” Tom placed them at her bedside. “You scared the crap out of us. Couldn’t you have gotten shot in the leg or something?”

“Hard to control the shooter’s aim.” Darcy looked at Jordan. “You tell him yet?”

“You mean about Hattie’s killer?” Tom nodded. “I told Jordan to contact a reporter with the newspaper and see if she can get a human interest story published. The community needs to know the truth about Michael Seavey. It’s not right to keep the information from Holt, either. My family can weather the hit.”

“Good.” Darcy shifted uncomfortably, wincing. “So tell me how you stopped that son of a bitch after he shot me.”

“I didn’t—Charlotte did.”

Darcy’s eyes shot wide open. “I don’t friggin’ believe it! Are you telling me I missed a teenage ghost taking out a violent stalker, just because I was out cold?”

Jordan and Tom grinned.

* * *

JORDAN parked the car at the curb in front of her house and sat for a moment with the car door open, petting Malachi. She didn’t relish the task ahead of her. It had been hard enough to explain to Tom.

“Have you told them yet?” The deep voice brought Jordan out of her thoughts. She turned to find Frank Lewis standing about ten yards away, hands in his pockets, watching her.

“You mean Hattie and Charlotte?” Jordan shook her head. “I’m headed in to talk to them now.”

“Hattie will be upset that she misjudged Seavey so badly.” Frank grimaced. “I can’t say I like that he never tried to stop my hanging, though.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call him an angel,” Jordan agreed. “It’s hard to tell from his papers, but I suspect he was responsible for more than a dozen deaths over the years.”

“Then again, if he killed Clive Johnson, he just might’ve redeemed himself for the rest.”

“There you go.” Jordan paused. “Are you coming inside? Hattie could use the company after I tell her, I’m certain. And she’ll have her hands full, caring for Charlotte.”

Frank shook his head. “My reasons haven’t changed.”

Jordan studied him. “As a psychologist, I can recommend you’ll be far healthier if you let go of all that guilt.”

“And I don’t remember asking your opinion,” Frank retorted.

“‘Guilt upon the conscience, like rust upon iron, both defiles and consumes it, gnawing and creeping into it, which eats out the very heart and substance of the metal.’” She shook her head. “That was close, anyway. And being an old-time union man and sailor, you should relate.”

He scowled. “Who said that?”

She shrugged. “Some British bishop from the seventeenth century. It’s one of my favorite quotes, actually.”

“Yeah, well, most ships in my time were made of wood, so I can’t relate all that well.”