CHAPTER SIX

It took Jessie a second to rip her eyes away from his crooked teeth and evaluate the situation.

On the surface, he didn’t look that different than she remembered. He still had the blond hair, shorn close to his head. He still wore the same mandatory aqua-blue scrubs. He still had the slightly pudgier face than one would expect of a man who was about five foot eight and 150 pounds. It made him look closer to twenty-five than the thirty-five years old he was.

And he still had the probing, almost stalking brown eyes. They were the only hint that the man across from her had killed at nineteen least people and perhaps twice that many.

The cell hadn’t changed either. It was small, with a narrow sheetless bed bolted to the far wall. A small desk with an attached chair sat in the back right corner beside a small metal wash basin. Behind that was a toilet, set off in the back, with a sliding plastic door for a modicum of privacy.

“Miss Jessie,” he purred softly. “What an unexpected surprise running into you here.”

“And yet, you’re standing there as if you expected my imminent arrival,” Jessie countered, not wanting to give Crutchfield even a moment’s advantage. She walked over and sat down in the chair behind a small desk on the other side of the glass. Kat took up her usual position, standing alertly in the corner of the room.

“I sensed a change in the energy of this facility,” he replied, his Louisiana accent as pronounced as ever. “The air seemed sweeter and I thought I could hear a bird chirping outside.”

“You’re not usually this full of flattery,” Jessie noted. “Care to share what has you in such a complimentary mood?”

“Nothing in particular, Miss Jessie. Can’t a man just appreciate the small joy that comes from having an unexpected visitor?”

Something in the way he said that last line made Jessie’s scalp tingle, as if there was more to the comment. She sat quietly for a moment, allowing her mind to work, unconcerned about any time constraints. She knew Kat would let her handle the interview however she chose.

Turning over Crutchfield’s words in her head, she realized they might have more than one meaning.

“When you talk about unexpected visitors, are you referring to me, Mr. Crutchfield?”

He stared at her for several seconds without speaking. Finally, slowly, the wide, forced smile on his face twisted into a more malevolent—and more believable—smirk.

“We haven’t established the ground rules for this visit,” he said, suddenly turning his back on her.

“I think the days of ground rules have long since passed, don’t you, Mr. Crutchfield?” she asked. “We’ve known each other long enough that we can just talk, can’t we?”

He walked back to the bed attached to the back wall of the cell and sat down, his expression slightly hidden in shadow now.

“But how can I be certain that you’ll be as forthcoming as you’d like me to be with you?” he asked.

“After ordering one of your flunkies to break into my friend’s apartment and scaring her to the point that she still can’t sleep, I’m not sure you’ve fully earned my trust or my willingness to be accommodating.”

“You bring up that incident,” he said, “but you neglect to mention the multiple times I’ve assisted you in cases both professional and personal. For every so-called indiscretion on my part, I’ve compensated with information that has proved invaluable to you. All I’m asking for are assurances that this won’t be a one-way street.”

Jessie looked at him hard, trying to determine how accommodating she could be while still keeping a professional distance.

“What is it exactly that you’re looking for?”

“Right now? Just your time, Miss Jessie. I’d prefer you not be such a stranger. It’s been seventy-six days since you last graced me with your presence. A less confident man than myself might take offense at the long absence.”

“Okay,” Jessie said. “I promise to visit you on a more regular basis. In fact, I’ll make sure to stop by at least once more this week. How does that sound?”

“It’s a start,” he replied noncommittally.

“Great. Then let’s get back to my question. You said before that you appreciated the joy that comes from having an unexpected visitor. Were you referring to me?”

“Miss Jessie, while it is always a delight to revel in your company, I must confess that my comment was indeed in reference to another visitor.”

Jessie could sense Kat stiffen in the corner behind her.

“And who are you referring to?” she asked, keeping her voice level.

“I think you know.”

I’d like you to tell me,” Jessie insisted.

Bolton Crutchfield stood up again, now more visible in the full light, and Jessie could see that he was rolling his tongue around in his mouth, like it was a fish on a line that he was toying with.

“As I assured you the last time that we spoke, I would be having a chat with your daddy.”

“And have you?”

“I have indeed,” he answered as casually as if he were telling her the time. “He asked me to pass along his regards, after I offered yours.”

Jessie stared at him closely, looking for any hint of deception in his face.

“You spoke to Xander Thurman,” she reconfirmed, “in this room, sometime in the last eleven weeks?”

“I did.”

Jessie knew that Kat was bursting to ask her own questions in order to try to confirm the veracity of his claim and how it might have happened. But in her mind, that was secondary and could be addressed later. She didn’t want the conversation to get sidetracked so she followed up before her friend could say anything.

“What did you discuss?’ she asked, trying to keep the judgment out of her voice.

“Well, we had to be rather cryptic, so as not to reveal his true identity to those listening in. But the gist of our chat was about you, Miss Jessie.”

“Me?”

“Yes. If you’ll recall, he and I chatted a couple of years ago and he warned me that you might one day visit. But that you would have a different name than the one he’d given you, Jessica Thurman.”

Jessie flinched involuntarily at the name she hadn’t heard spoken aloud by anyone but herself in two decades. She knew he saw her reaction but there was nothing she could do about it. Crutchfield smiled knowingly and continued.

“He wanted to know how his long-lost daughter was doing. He was interested in all kinds of details—what you do for a living, where you live, what you look like now, what your new name is. He’s very anxious to reconnect, Miss Jessie.”

As he spoke, Jessie told herself to breathe slowly in and out. She reminded herself to unclench her body and do her best to look calm, even if it was a facade. She had to appear unperturbed as she asked her next question.

“Did you share any of those details with him?”

“Just one,” he said impishly.

“And what was that?”

“Home is where the heart is,” he said.

“What the hell does that mean?” she demanded, her heart suddenly beating rapidly.

“I told him the location of the place you call home,” he said matter-of-factly.

“You gave him my address?”

“I wasn’t that specific. To be honest, I don’t know your exact address, despite my best efforts to uncover it. But I know enough for him find his way to you if he’s smart. And as we both know, Miss Jessie, your daddy is very smart.”

Jessie gulped hard and fought the urge to scream at him. He was still answering her questions and she needed as much information as she could get before he stopped.

“So how long do I have before he knocks on my door?”

“That depends on how long it takes for him to put the pieces together,” Crutchfield said with an exaggerated shrug. “As I said, I had to be a bit cryptic. If I had been too specific, it would have sent off warning signs with the folks who monitor my every conversation. That wouldn’t have been productive.”

“Why don’t you tell me exactly what you told him? That way, I can figure out the likely timetable for myself.”

“Now where’s the fun in that, Miss Jessie? I’m quite taken with you. But that strikes me as an unreasonable advantage. We have to give the man a chance.”

“A chance?” Jessie repeated, disbelieving. “To what? Get a head start on gutting me like he did my mother?”

“Now that hardly seems fair,” he replied, seeming to get calmer the more agitated Jessie became. “He could have done that back in that snowy cabin all those years ago. But he didn’t. So why assume he means you harm now? Maybe he just wants to take his little lady to Disneyland for the day.”

“You’ll forgive me if I’m not as inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt,” she spat. “This isn’t a game, Bolton. You want me to visit you again? I need to be alive to do that. I won’t be very chatty if your mentor chops up your favorite gal pal.”

“Two things, Miss Jessie: first of all, I understand that this is disruptive news, but I’d prefer you not take such a familiar tone with me. Calling me by my first name? That’s not only unprofessional, it’s unbecoming of you.”

Jessie seethed silently. Even before he told her the second thing, she knew he wasn’t going to tell her what she wanted. Still, she remained silent, literally biting her tongue in case he had a change of heart.

“And second,” he continued, clearly enjoying watching her squirm, “while I do enjoy your company, don’t presume that you’re my favorite gal pal. Let’s not forget about the ever-vigilant Officer Gentry there behind you. She’s a real peach—a rotting, rancid peach. As I’ve told her on more than one occasion, when I depart this place, I intend to give her a special send-off, if you take my meaning. So please don’t try to jump the gal pal line.”

“I…” Jessie began, hoping to change his mind.

“Our time is up, I’m afraid,” he said curtly. With that, he turned and walked over to the tiny niche of the cell with the toilet in it and pulled the plastic divider across, ending the conversation.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jessie kept her head on a swivel, on the lookout for anyone or anything out of the ordinary.

As she returned to her place, following the same circuitous route as earlier in the day, all the security precautions she’d been so proud of only hours earlier now seemed woefully inadequate.

This time around, she tied her hair into a bun and hid it under a baseball cap and the hood of a sweatshirt she bought on the way back from Norwalk. Her small backpack purse was attached in the front so that it hugged her chest. Despite the added anonymity they might have provided, she didn’t wear sunglasses out of concern they would limit her line of sight.

Kat had promised to review the tape of all Crutchfield’s recent visits to see if they’d missed something. She also said that if Jessie could wait until work ended, she’d make the drive to DTLA, even though she lived in far-off City of Industry, and help ensure that she got back safe. Jessie politely declined the offer.

“I can’t count on having an armed escort everywhere I go from now on,” she’d insisted.

“Why not?” Kat had asked only half-jokingly.

Now, as she walked down the corridor to her apartment, she wondered if she should have taken her friend up on the offer. She felt especially vulnerable with the bag of groceries in her arms. The hall was deathly quiet and she hadn’t seen anyone at all since entering the building. Before she could dismiss it out of hand, a crazy notion popped into her head—that her father had killed everyone on her floor so that he wouldn’t have to deal with complications when he approached her.

Her peephole light was green, which gave her some assurance as she opened the door, looking down both ends of the hall for anyone who might jump out at her. No one did. Once inside, she flicked on the lights and then turned all the locks back before disarming both alarms. Immediately after, she rearmed the main one in “home” mode so that she could move about the apartment without setting off the motions sensors.

She put the grocery bag on the kitchen counter and searched the place, nightstick in hand. She had successfully applied for a firearms permit before she left for Quantico and was supposed to get her weapon when she went to the station for work tomorrow. Part of her wished she had just picked it up when she stopped by to get her mail earlier today. When she was finally confident that the apartment was secure, she began to put the groceries away, leaving out the sashimi she’d picked up for dinner instead of pizza.

Nothing like supermarket sushi on Monday night to make a single gal feel special in the big city.

The thought made her chuckle to herself briefly before she remembered that her serial killer father had been given a guide to her place of residence. Maybe it wasn’t a complete roadmap. But from what Crutchfield had said, it was enough for him to eventually find her. The big question was: when was “eventually”?

*

Ninety minutes later, Jessie was punching a heavy bag, sweat pouring off her body. After finishing her sushi, she had felt restless and cooped up and decided to work out her frustrations in a constructive way at the gym.

She’d never been much of a workout fiend. But while at the National Academy she’d come to an unexpected discovery. When she worked out to exhaustion, there was no space left inside her for the anxiety and fear that consumed her so much of the rest of the time. If only she’d known this a decade ago, she could have saved herself thousands of sleepless nights, even the nights filled with endless nightmares.

It might also have saved her a few trips to see her therapist, Dr. Janice Lemmon, a renowned forensic psychologist in her own right. Dr. Lemmon was one of the few people who knew every detail about Jessie’s past. She’d been an invaluable resource in recent years.

But she was currently in recovery from a kidney transplant and wasn’t available for sessions for a few more weeks. Jessie was tempted to think she could dispense with the visits altogether. But while it might be cheaper to go with workout therapy alone, she knew there would surely be times she’d need to see the doctor in the future.

As she went in for a series of jabs, she recalled how, prior to her trip to Quantico, she’d often wake up covered in perspiration, breathing heavily, trying to remind herself that she was safe in Los Angeles and not back in a small cabin in the Missouri Ozarks, tied to a chair, watching blood drip from the slowly freezing body of her dead mother.

If only that had just been a dream too. But it was all real. When she was six years old and her parents’ marriage was on the rocks, her father had taken her and her mother to his remote cabin. While there, he revealed that he’d been abducting, torturing, and killing people for years. And then he did the same to his own wife, Carrie Thurman.

As he manacled her hands to the ceiling beams of the cabin and intermittently stabbed her with a knife, he made Jessie—then Jessica Thurman—watch. He tied her arms to a chair and taped her eyelids open as he finally cut her mother open for good.

Then he used the same knife to slice a large gash across his own daughter’s collarbone from her left shoulder to the base of her neck. After that, he simply left the cabin. It was three days later when, hypothermic and in shock, she was discovered by two hunters who had just happened by.

After she recovered, she told the police and FBI the story. But by then, her dad was long gone and any hope of catching him was gone with it. Jessica was put into Witness Protection in Las Cruces with the Hunts. Jessica Thurman became Jessie Hunt and a new life began.

Jessie shook the memories out of her head, switching from jabs to knee kicks intended for an attacker’s groin. She embraced the ache in her quad as she slammed it upward. With each blow, the image of her mother’s pale, lifeless skin faded.

Then another memory popped into her head, that of her former husband, Kyle, attacking her in their own home, trying to kill her and frame her for the murder of his mistress. She could almost feel the sting of the fireplace poker he jammed into the left side of her abdomen.

The physical pain of that moment was only matched by the humiliation she still felt at having spent a decade involved with a sociopath and never realizing it. She was, after all, supposed to be an expert at identifying these kinds of people.

Jessie switched it up again, hoping to push the shame out of her mind with a series of elbow shots to the bag near where an assailant’s jaw would be. Her shoulders were starting to shout at her in displeasure but she continued pummeling the bag, knowing that her mind would soon be too tired to be distressed.

This was the part of herself she hadn’t expected to discover at the FBI—the physical badass. Despite the standard apprehension she felt when she arrived, she had suspected she’d do well on the academic side of things. She had just spent the previous three years in that environment, immersed in criminal psychology.