They parked at Cord’s cabin and got out. Ellie shivered as she hurried up to the front porch.
As usual, darkness bathed Cord’s rustic log cabin, which was nestled between the oaks and pines as if it had been carved from the forest.
“I got the warrants,” Derrick said as he removed a lock-picking tool and jimmied the front door open.
Ellie scanned the front porch, then the surrounding area. The grass had been mown recently, bushes trimmed, and firewood that Cord cut himself for his stove was stacked by the house.
Derrick pushed the door open, and she flipped on the light in the entry. The sense that she was violating Cord overcame her, reminding her she’d felt the same way when she’d combed her parents’ home––now up in smoke––for evidence of Hiram.
That search hadn’t ended well. She hoped today yielded better results.
They both pulled on gloves, and stepped into the house. The minimalistic décor screamed that Cord was a loner. There were no personal photographs of family, friends or trips.
Derrick gestured to a book on plant and flower symbolism, then he flipped it open and found a page about daffodils.
His gaze met hers. “Right in line with the MO.”
“Okay, we know his background,” Ellie conceded, unable to keep the anger from her voice. “That doesn’t mean he killed those women or took Shondra. The AT has been his home––of course he’s bound to be interested in this kind of stuff.”
“Heath did some digging. He can’t find anything on McClain after he left juvie. There are years missing in his life, Ellie. Years before he met your father and started working for FEMA.” He paused. “Has he ever talked to you about that time?”
Ellie’s heart gave a pang, but she shook her head. He’d never talked about Finton either.
With a grunt, Derrick headed back to the bedroom. Ellie had been inside there once, right before she left for the police academy. The only night they’d spent together.
She tapped into her memory bank for any red flags, any warning signs. Cord had been gruff and adamant about leaving the lights off.
But that didn’t make him a killer.
While Derrick searched the bedroom, Ellie checked the kitchen. A few groceries, beer cans and whiskey, steaks. Nothing odd. Rooting through the drawers, she spotted a small wooden box in one of them. She opened it and found a key, and instinctively knew what room it opened. She strode across to the door she’d never seen open and turned the key in the lock. The door opened creakily, and she was pitched into darkness. For a moment, the world spun, like she was trapped in the coffin all over again.
Gripping the door frame to steady herself, she inhaled deep breaths to calm the suffocating sensation. Seconds passed. The blood roared in her ears. Fingers of fear crawled along her spine.
“Ellie?”
Derrick’s brusque voice cut through the fog and she swallowed hard, biting back her terror.
“What’s in there?”
“I don’t know,” she said. Suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.
Running his hand along the wall, Derrick flipped on a light. Ellie blinked as the warm light filled the room. One wall held an assortment of knives—jackknives, hunting knives, a Buck 110 folding knife with a wood grain handle and brass bolsters, and an assortment of carving knives, tools and pocketknives. She knew that Cord usually carried the Buck 110 on his hikes.
Derrick gestured toward the collection. “Laney said the lacerations on the victims probably came from a hunting knife.”
Inhaling, Ellie continued studying the room, desperately searching for some clue to help Cord prove his innocence.
One corner held wood shavings, another section a table where he must do his taxidermy. Two wild cats sat there now, tools lined up neatly next to them, along with a jar of glass eyes.
Derrick marched across the room, lifted another jar that sat on the shelves by the table and held it up to examine it.
“Blood.” His gaze swung to her. “Could be the blood he used to write on your door.” Derrick looked grim. “Shondra’s.”
Nausea climbed Ellie’s throat while Derrick opened the doors to a metal cabinet.
Inside, fixed to a cork board, were photographs of all the Weekday Killer’s victims posed on the daffodils. Four dead women so far, four gruesome images.
And there were two more pictures—of Shondra and Ellie.
Ninety-Eight
Derrick stared at the photos. Finding them here made McClain look as guilty as sin, and he was shocked to read denial on Ellie’s stunned face.
“These pictures are his souvenirs,” he said.
“I can’t believe Cord would do this,” Ellie replied, a tremble in her voice.
“He fits the profile of the killer,” Derrick added. “He lives out here alone, knows the AT, led us to bodies, has knowledge and books on the symbolism used in the unsub’s MO, and allegedly liked to dress up corpses. Evidence doesn’t lie, Ellie.” He pointed toward the shelf of taxidermy tools. The jar of eyes was downright disturbing. “Just look at his hobby. Taxidermy.” How on earth did she need convincing?
Walking over, Ellie studied the tools. “I’ve known him since I was a teenager, and he’s never seemed violent. He’s risked his life on rescue missions, carried lost hikers and children for miles to get them medical attention.” She shook her head. “It just doesn’t fit with the man I know.”
“Sometimes we’re too close to people to see who they really are. We just see what we want to see in them.”
She flinched. His comment had clearly struck a nerve about her parents.
“I know it looks bad,” she said in a low voice. “But this is all circumstantial.”
“His past suggests he’s troubled. Maybe those crimes with the girls triggered something in him––you know about the cycle of the abuse. And these photographs are of the crime scenes. He had to be present to have taken them.”
“Where’s his camera, then?” Ellie said. “And the dresses? If he prepares ahead, why aren’t those things here?”
Derrick chewed the inside of his cheek. “Maybe he keeps them somewhere else. He could have a secret place on the AT that we don’t know about.”
“The perp could have planted these pictures to frame Cord,” Ellie said.
She had her head in the sand. “Did he plant those books on symbolism, too? And what about how he grew up? And the fact that he won’t talk now?”
Ellie cut him a venomous look. “I’m calling a team to process the house.”
“I was just going to do the same thing.” She could argue Cord’s innocence all day long.
But he went by the book. Evidence told the story. And right now, it was stacked against Cord McClain.
Ninety-Nine
He’d heard those old biddies gossiping in town. One of them, that crazy-mean old Maude Hazelnut who liked to dish about everyone in town, pointing fingers here and there and airing everyone’s dirty laundry when she was nothing but a fraud herself, had gotten under his skin.
Her granddaughter was just like her.
Except she was as pretty as a peach. She knew it, too. Used her good looks to lure men into sleeping with her until she got knocked up. Then she robbed them blind.