Bad to the Bone

  Bad to the Bone is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Loveswept eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1996 by Debra Dixon

  Excerpt from The Redhead and the Preacher by Sandra Chastain © 1995 by Sandra Chastain.

  Excerpt from Raven and the Cowboy by Sandra Chastain copyright © 1996 by Sandra Chastain.

  Excerpt from Ride With Me by Ruthie Knox copyright © 2012 by Ruth Homrighaus.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  LOVESWEPT and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Bad to the Bone was originally published in paperback by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. in 1996.

  Cover design: Jae Song

  eISBN: 978-0-307-80459-4

  www.ReadLoveSwept.com

  v3.1

  For Shauna Summers—because she “gets” it

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Sandra Chastain’s The Redhead and the Preacher

  Excerpt from Sandra Chastain’s Raven and the Cowboy

  Excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s Ride With Me

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Literary license is a wonderful thing. It’s like permission to be wild. Why am I telling you this? Because I’ve taken a little license. Okay, Okay! I’ll confess. I’ve taken a lot, but I have wanted to shake up a fairy tale from the moment I read the first Loveswept Treasured Tale. I wanted to do something on the edge, wanted to stand my fairy tale on its head and spin it in a new direction.

  After all, I thought, my editor didn’t bat an eye at the psychic archaeologist and the midwife. She calmly accepted the idea about the ex-navy SEAL and the ice-skating nun. Maybe she’d actually let me go a little farther out on that limb I seem so fond of.

  And so it was that I called my editor one fine day.

  “I have this idea for Treasured Tales. Are you ready for this? It’s Goldilocks and the Three Hit Men!”

  Upon hearing my clever description, all she could manage was, “Excuse me?”

  Encouraged—it doesn’t take much to encourage me—I forged ahead. “This isn’t going to be an ordinary fairy tale.”

  “Fairy tales aren’t supposed to be ordinary.”

  “My point exactly!” I agreed, so relieved she understood. Then I told her, “There is something that appeals to me about innocence surrounded by predators. My Goldilocks isn’t lost in the woods, but she is alone and searching. And, of course, the bears have guns in my version.”

  My very brave editor said, “Scoot over,” and joined me on that limb. Isn’t that what fairy tales are really all about?

  Debra Dixon

  PROLOGUE

  She forced herself to stay awake in the relentless dark, clinging to a slim hope, a simple plan. Her sense of time had vanished days before. But she could still tell night from day. Night felt different, colder.

  That’s when he came. Always the same routine. He’d open the door, angle the flashlight beam at her, and throw down a sandwich in a Baggie and a carton of milk or juice. Then he’d close the door, leaving her alone in the total blackness of the small damp basement. All without a word.

  Except when he—

  Automatically shutting off the memory, she realized the whole nightmare would forever be divided not into days or nights, but into the time before he killed Jenny and the time after he killed Jenny. He’d kill her too. Maybe not tonight, but soon. No one was going to save her. No one was coming for her. She didn’t expect them to. Now that Jenny was gone, she was completely alone.

  Shivering against the cold and the fear and the aching loss, she lay on a bare mattress that smelled of mold and something worse she couldn’t name. Anxiously she raised herself to a sitting position and pulled back the corner of the mattress. A little sigh escaped her as she felt carefully with her hand, reassuring herself for the hundredth time that it was still there. She hadn’t dreamed it.

  The long shard of glass was dagger shaped with a wicked point. She had found it in the corner where it must have fallen when someone pulled out the window and bricked in the opening. Her fingertips brushed softly against the cool glass, remembering how it had been half buried in loose dirt, a treasure waiting to be discovered. That’s when the idea had come to her; that’s when she had decided to try.

  Outside she heard the faint rumble of an engine. Fighting sudden nausea, she clutched her uneasy stomach through her T-shirt. Her heart pumped the sick feeling through her body with every erratic beat. When dread threatened her resolve, she forced herself to grab the long, sharp wedge of glass. She had to be ready before he came. She might not get another chance.

  Terrified, she walked to the rickety wooden stairs which jutted out into the room and started up them. One, two, three, four.…

  She counted the steps as she climbed; she’d counted them a thousand times that day. Practiced crouching and balancing on top of the flat guardrail at the landing until her back ached and her legs screamed. But not with the piece of glass. That had been too precious to risk. Even now she was more terrified of breaking the only weapon she had than she was of what lay ahead.

  As silently as she could, she crawled onto the railing, choosing the side nearest the door hinges. Clumsily she wobbled on her hands and knees, unable to get to her feet, her nerves interfering with her balance. When she couldn’t stop shaking, she began to panic, which only made the shaking worse.

  She had to stand up. Her hands had to be free. The door had to swing all the way open without touching her. Otherwise he’d know she was waiting, and she’d lose her chance. Closing her eyes, she tried to calm herself. This railing was just like the balance beams she had made last summer, she told herself. Just an old two-by-four supported by volumes “A” and “M” of the encyclopedia. She wet her lips and tried again. This time she made it.

  With the glass held gingerly in one hand, she tried not to think about the floor below or her chances of surviving a fall like that. It didn’t matter. He was going to kill her anyway. He had killed Jenny just to make a point. She had no choice. Quickly she pulled a torn strip of T-shirt from her pocket and wrapped the wide end of the glass. She wrapped a second strip around her hand.

  Beyond the door she could hear muffled noise. Maybe the sound of a paper sack, a chair dragging across a floor. But no footsteps.

  Why didn’t he come?

  Sweat trickled down her temple and the back of her neck. Finally she could hear the thud of boots as he walked toward the door.

  One by one, four dead bolts clicked, and the knob turned. She held her breath, afraid the tiniest sound would give her away. The door swung gently open, the edge of it bouncing against the railing in front of her sneaker. Light flashed down the stairs, arrowing toward the mattress.

  Please, she begged silently, adjusting her grip on the glass-knife. One more step. So I can see you. Please!

  He took the step.

  In one a
ction she made herself drive the glass into the side of his throat and tried to shove him down the stairs. She shuddered at the feel of the glass as it slid home, but she couldn’t allow herself to pity him. Not if she wanted to survive.

  Half-turning, he grabbed for her. She screamed and lunged for the door—clinging to it, fighting for balance as she kicked him hard enough to send him plunging down the stairs. Without wasting a second, she jumped to the landing and got around the door, frantically pulling it shut and locking the bolts.

  She ran out into the night, feeling almost safe for the first time; until she realized she was in the middle of nowhere. There were no neighbors, no traffic on the road, no one to save her. Then she saw a hint of light through the trees in the distance. She didn’t stop running or screaming for help until an old man came bolting out of a country home and into the yard in front of her. He was barefoot and wearing pajamas, but he had a shotgun. “Hey now! Who are you running from? What’s this about?”

  “Please,” was all she could get out as she reached him. The words stuck in her throat.

  He grabbed hold of her arm to steady her, then tilted her chin up to the moonlight so he could look down into her face. “Oh, my God. You’re one of those little girls they’re looking for. One of the twins.” He pushed her behind him, backing her toward the safety of his house.

  Little girls? Jessie Dannemora almost laughed.

  ONE

  Sometimes Jessica would go months without the nightmare, and then she’d have it every night for a week. Always the same. Always the feeling of helplessness and terror. Always the scream that sliced through her heart and woke her—the scream no one else could hear because it was in her mind. It was Jenny’s scream—sharp and clear after all these years.

  Midnight had come and gone, but Jessica still huddled in the corner of her sofa, wrapped in an old starburst quilt and staring at a dark television screen. She shouldn’t have needed the quilt; Utopia, Texas, was warm in June. Unfortunately, the chill came from inside herself—from the fear of going to sleep and confronting the past again.

  This had been a bad week.

  Who was she kidding? This had been a bad year.

  The phone rang twice before the sound of the bell penetrated her reverie. The telephone didn’t ring often. When it did, Jessica never answered until her machine screened the call. All the same, as if compelled, her hand snaked out from beneath the quilt and snagged the receiver.

  “What?” Her less than cordial greeting clearly flustered the caller.

  Silence reigned for a second, and she thought they’d hung up until she heard an unmistakably young female voice say, “M-miss Dannemora?”

  Jessica threw off the quilt and sat up as a shiver slid along her spine, distributing alarm until the hair on the back of her neck stood up. No one was supposed to know how to find Jessica Dannemora. No one.

  Except Phil.

  She’d become Jessica Daniels years ago. That was part of the deal. No one knew the nature of their association; no one else had ever contacted her.

  “Who the hell are you?” she asked quietly.

  “Iris Munro.”

  “Iris … Munro.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Her tone was respectful, almost fearful. “Phillip Munro is my father.”

  “I see.” But Jessica didn’t see, not at all. This little girl should have been in bed asleep instead of calling her. No one should be calling her. Not anymore. “What do you want?”

  “I need to hire you.”

  Stunned, Jessica tried to find her voice and couldn’t. This obscene parody of her conversations with Phil cut sharply into emotional wounds that had only just begun to heal. She didn’t need this. She didn’t need to be reminded of what she was. Especially not by an innocent child with a shaky voice.

  “How old are you?” Jessica finally managed.

  “Twelve.” There was the briefest pause, and then the girl forged on. “Look, Ms. Dannemora, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important. I know you’re retired. I know your file—”

  Jessica’s mind reeled. File? Phil had a file on her? There wasn’t supposed to be a file. There wasn’t supposed to be a record of any kind except her name and number in a little black book.

  “—your file says no women and children but this is different,” Iris assured her. “You’re the only one who can do it.”

  “It’s never different,” she told the girl coldly. Then the black sense of humor, which had plagued her all her life, threatened to surface. Thank you for your confidence, Miss Munro, but I don’t kill people anymore. Not for the government. Not for your daddy. Not for you. It was also the truth, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe the child really wanted someone dead.

  Except—

  Iris had read about her in a file. The girl knew her real name, about the retirement, and how to find her. She was Phil Munro’s daughter. Conscience reminded Jessica that she’d hardly been any older than Iris when—

  Suddenly another explanation occurred to her. Making no effort to hide her disapproval or sarcasm, Jessica said, “I can’t believe Phil has stooped so low that he’d send a child to do his dirty work. You tell him that the answer is still no. It will always be no. I don’t work anymore.”

  “Daddy doesn’t know I want to hire you.”

  “He will soon enough,” Jessica told her grimly. “Put him on the phone.”

  “I can’t. I don’t know where he is. That’s why I need you.”

  Closing her eyes, Jessica tried to tell herself this wasn’t her problem. Then Iris made it her problem.

  “I think … I think something bad has happened to him. And I don’t have anyone else.”

  If Iris had called another night, maybe Jessica could have refused, but not tonight. Not when she remembered so clearly how it felt to be twelve years old, alone and afraid. Not when the pain of Jenny’s death was so close to the surface. Quietly Jessica began to ask questions and make plans.

  For a second Detective Sullivan Kincaid thought he had the wrong house. It was possible. He was still feeling his way around Jericho—getting used to the island’s Gulf breeze and the idea that a rash of car stereo thefts would constitute a crime wave. After double-checking his list of addresses, he got out of the car, satisfied he hadn’t made a mistake.

  From the street everything looked normal. There were no badly painted signs of upraised palms, crystal balls, or seductive gypsy women. There was nothing which indicated a psychic parlor until he stepped onto the porch.

  “Welcome to Jericho,” Sully said under his breath as he stared at the array of doorbells.

  Oh, they were all for the same occupant, but the trick seemed to be in the selection. Each was clearly marked with a small engraved plate screwed into the siding. Obviously, the visitor was supposed to ring the one that met his needs.

  The first buzzer, set with a cat’s-eye stone, was for seekers of wealth and beauty. Someone searching for healing, love, or wisdom was urged to press the jade button. A quartz crystal looked like the ticket for those attempting projection on an astral plane.

  Sully smiled at the next one. The simple black onyx button offered protection from evil. Well, hell! What a shame no one ever told him a stone was all he needed. It was too late now. The damage had been done for a long time.

  The last bell—turquoise—was for courage.

  Five choices.

  And not a damn one of them said: BURNED-OUT DETECTIVES LOOKING FOR PSYCHIC TIPSTERS. Well, he’d just have to wing it. Sully decided on turquoise and pushed the buzzer. He needed a little courage if he was going to have to spend another interview in the dark, choking on incense, and snapping the subject out of hokey impromptu trances with spirit guides.

  For a nanosecond, Sully almost missed real crime. Then he came to his senses, forcing the restless part of himself back into the corner of his soul where he kept the darkness. Walking away from Houston’s major case squad was the first sane decision he’d made in a long time. This was going to be
the year of the kinder, gentler Sullivan Kincaid. If it killed him.

  When the door opened, Sully frowned. This psychic was older—maybe sixty—and definitely a cut above the rest. Slim and well-dressed in black, she looked like Jericho Island’s “psychic to the wealthy.” Her hair was a blue-white, close-cropped with a natural wave.

  Around her neck was a commanding silver-and-turquoise necklace. The turquoise stone motif repeated in her bracelets and rings. He suspected she’d have decked herself out in jade if he’d pushed that button.

  “I’m Lillian Anderson,” she said without extending her hand. “I knew you were coming.”

  “I imagine so, ma’am. I rang the doorbell.”

  “Yes. But you rang the wrong one.”

  Sully laughed in spite of himself as he showed her his identification. “I did?”

  “Don’t worry.” She stepped back and ushered him inside. “It’s not your fault, Detective.”

  “No?”

  “I don’t have a bell for inner peace.”

  That wiped the smile off Sully’s face before he realized it was only a lucky guess from a clever pro. He admired her irony, though—a peace officer without peace. Nice touch.

  When she closed the door, she led the way into a modern living room with a stained glass panel-screen shielding one corner. A mythical dragon fought its way across the sections, fire roaring from its mouth.

  “I was expecting you,” she told him, “because Georgia Petrovich called. You interviewed her this morning, and—it seems—every other palmist, card reader, and psychic on the island.”

  “Yes, ma’am, that I have.” And I’ve got the incense headache to prove it. “I’m trying to locate a psychic who may be able to help us in an investigation.”

  “I see.”

  Behind the screen was a small oak table with claw feet. One shelving unit was filled with a dragon collection, the other with crystals, geodes, and gem stones. He was pleasantly surprised to find there wasn’t a crystal ball in sight. Lillian sat down across from him and reached for a silk-wrapped rectangle, which rested at the center of the table.