LITMIR.BIZ

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wiped a hand across his forehead. Sweat already dampened his cropped hair. A sign of nerves that McCaskey would no doubt interpret as guilt. “I haven’t talked to Meredith Unger for ten years.”

      “There are a lot of coincidences here, Turner. Coincidences I’m having a hard time swallowing. Meredith Unger. Eddie Trauten.”

      Cord let out a breath. He couldn’t deny the apparent connection between him and Kane through his attorney. He couldn’t deny his own connection to Eddie Trauten. But maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe those connections were the point. “I don’t know what you think of me, McCaskey, but I’m not a stupid man.”

      McCaskey narrowed his eyes. “Go on.”

      “If I wanted to help someone like Dryden Kane escape from prison, I wouldn’t set up my own cellie to do it. The prison yard is a big place. There are a lot of punks I could recruit for the job. Punks that would force you cops to at least break a sweat before you tied them to me.”

      “I’m listening.”

      “I don’t want Dryden Kane out. The only thing he is to me is a threat. A danger to Melanie. And a danger to my son.”

      McCaskey watched him with sharp, nearly black eyes. A slow, agonizing minute ticked by before he finally pushed back from the table, the legs of his chair screeching across the linoleum tile. He glanced at Detective Valducci and then back to Cord. “We’ll be back.” He stood and walked out, Valducci in his wake, letting the door thunk closed behind him.

      Cord forced a breath of stale air into his lungs. He was probably over his head on this one. Hell, he’d been over his head since before he was born. Unfortunately, unlike the gang bangers he’d hung out with as a kid and the cons he’d done time with, he was smart enough to recognize the fact that he was drowning in sewage.

      Just not smart enough to do anything about it.

      The door opened and McCaskey entered alone. “I just heard from the officers searching your apartment.”

      He let silence lie between them as if waiting for Cord to acknowledge something incriminating they’d found in an effort to explain it away.

      Too bad nothing like that existed. “They found the invitation I told you about?”

      “They did.”

      “And the note threatening Melanie Frist?”

      “Yes.”

      “You’ve looked through my apartment. I’ve told you everything I know. So am I under arrest?”

      “No. You can go.”

      Cord nodded but he didn’t let himself feel relief. Not yet. “Will Melanie and Ethan be protected?”

      McCaskey drilled into him with that black gaze. “You have my word.”

      Cord slumped against the back of his chair. A trickle of sweat ran over his temple and wound around his ear.

      McCaskey might have thrown him a life preserver this time, but Cord had the feeling this ordeal was far from over.

      CORD STOOD IN THE OPEN DOOR of his apartment and looked at the mess the cops had made of his place. In the joint, the inmates were obsessed with receiving respect. The smallest slight, like one of the dawgs failing to say “what up?” in the yard was an affront to one’s manhood. It was times like this that made Cord grateful he didn’t have that respect/disrespect hangup. Life as a con and an ex-con was easier once you acknowledged you didn’t much respect yourself. At least then it wasn’t a bitter pill when others didn’t respect you, either. “Cord Turner?”

      He spun around, expecting to see a cop coming back for a second try at strewing his belongings over every inch of floor. Instead a bookish man with a smart-ass smile and wire-rimmed glasses peered at him from the hallway.

      “Who the hell are you?” Cord asked.

      “Aidan Powell. I’m with the Capital Times.”

      A reporter. Cord almost groaned out loud. “Why are you here?”

      “I’ve heard from a reliable source that you are the son of Dryden Kane.”

      Cord felt sick. He knew reporters would eventually unearth that fact. With the building media frenzy over the serial killer, it was inevitable. But he’d hoped it would take longer than this. “Who told you that?”

      “Is it true?”

      He grabbed the door. “If you insist on answering my question with a question, you can do it through a closed door.”

      He held up a hand, blocking the door. “Wait.”

      “You’re going to tell me who is spreading this crap?”

      “I heard it the same place I heard that Kane also has a grandson. A kid by the name of Ethan Frist.”

      Cord pushed the door aside. Reaching out, he grabbed the reporter by the shirt. “Where did you hear that?” Heat crept up his neck. Pressure built in his head.

      “Does Kane know?”

      “Tell me where you heard it.” He hadn’t even known he had a son until a few hours ago. But a reporter knew? A reporter who would write about it in his rag for Dryden Kane to see. If the monster didn’t already know he had a grandson, he would now. Cord gave the guy a shake.

      The guy’s glasses flew, landing somewhere in the mess strewn over Cord’s apartment’s floor. His eyes widened, as if he had finally figured out he’d made a mistake. “Hold on.”

      “I want an answer,” Cord demanded.

      “Hey, back off.” Powell’s voice trembled along with his chin. “Everybody knows. Not just me.”

      “Everybody?”

      “The TV news crews have had it for the past half hour. I’m the only one who cared enough to get a confirmation.”

      A half hour? After Cord had left the police department, he’d had to hop a bus back to Mel’s house to get his police-rummaged truck. He’d driven back to his apartment in silence, unable to stomach anything but the worries being broadcast in his own mind.

      He tightened his grip on the reporter’s shirt, pulling the crisp cotton taut around the little worm’s throat. “Did you hear this from the police?”

      The reporter’s eyes flared.

      Bingo.

      “Who in the police department gave you the information?”

      “I can’t tell you that.”

      “What do you mean you can’t tell me?”

      “I promised confidentiality. I can’t reveal my source.”

      The guy was scared to the point of pissing his pants. But he chose to protect his source instead of his hide?

      Maybe there were idealists left in the world.

      Cord released the reporter’s shirt, letting him fall back against the door like a sack of laundry. “This isn’t just some kid. This is my son. When this hits the airwaves and newspapers, Kane could see it. And if Kane knows about him…” What would the monster do? Cord didn’t know. But he sure as hell didn’t want to find out.

      Aidan Powell picked himself up, straightened his shirt and put on his glasses, then swallowed a few times before meeting Cord’s eyes. “That’s not all Kane will find out.”

      “What else?”

      “The boy and his mother are staying at a hotel on the west side of town. The TV cameras are over there now.”

      Staying in a hotel? They weren’t merely staying. They were hiding. Hiding from Kane.

      And now the serial killer only had to switch on a television set to find out where they were?

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