Blood stained her gray flannel nightgown, blooming over most of her chest. She stared up at the ceiling, a look of stress and horror on her face.
“This is Edith Scott, age forty-eight,” Gideon said. “She was found about two hours ago by a neighbor who had not seen her in a couple of days. Neighbor said Ms. Scott lives a very predictable life, and suddenly her newspapers were piling up on her porch. He had a spare key and let himself in.”
“Where’s the neighbor now?”
“Back at his house. I have a uniform sitting with him.”
Bryce moved closer to the bed, noting the blood had soaked deep into the mattress. Ms. Scott’s fingers were curled, and her mouth was agape in a silent scream.
“Why’d you call me?” Bryce asked.
“Ms. Scott works at the university, and she served on the jury that convicted Elijah of arson. According to her neighbor, she told everyone that would listen that he didn’t belong here.”
“Has Elijah approached her?”
“Neighbor didn’t know, but Elijah is always cool and calm. He rarely shows his emotions.”
Bryce’s attention shifted back to the source of the blood. “How many times was she stabbed?”
“At least three, but the medical examiner will have to give the final count.”
“The three murders I’m investigating all involve stabbing.”
Gideon nodded slowly. “Thus the call. There’s no arson or facial mutilation, but the knife wounds are very similar, from what Joan told me about the Helena victim.”
Edith Scott did not fit the profile of the other three victims. Not only was she at least twenty years older, but she had been murdered in her home instead of at a scenic mountain overlook.
“I’d like to be present at the autopsy,” Bryce said.
“I’m counting on it.”
“Elijah Weston has had ten years to nurse a grudge,” Bryce said.
“I’ve seen guys like Weston before. Careful not to get caught because he never comes straight at you. He’ll catch you alone and take you out, and you’ll be dead before you even know you’re bleeding.”
The sound of new voices and the rattle of a gurney had him turning to see Joan Mason. She nodded to Gideon and shifted her full attention to the body.
“I’d heard she might be the victim,” Joan said, moving toward the bed, her face a mixture of sadness and clinical curiosity. “Do you have all the pictures you need of the body?”
Gideon looked to the technician, who nodded. “She’s all yours now.”
“Well then, gentlemen, unless you need to see anything else, everyone clear out so my assistant and I can take custody of the body.”
“I’ll call Dr. Christopher about the autopsy,” Gideon said.
“I’ve already spoken to him. It’ll be at nine in the morning,” Joan said.
Bryce and Gideon left the room and walked through the house, looking for the smallest items that could tell them something about an individual. In the kitchen the white refrigerator was covered in magnets featuring pictures of Paris, Rome, and New York City, holding up appointment cards for various doctors. He opened the refrigerator and saw the dozen cans of ginger ale, bread, and yellow American cheese. The pantry was stocked with clear-broth soups. These bits of small data told him she had loved the idea of travel but may not have had the physical stamina to accomplish it.
“Was she ill?” Bryce asked.
“I don’t know. Let me ask Joan if she’s surveyed the medicine cabinet yet.” Gideon disappeared down the hallway.
On the kitchen windowsill were several mason jars filled with water and the leafy stems of plants she was trying to root. Whatever had been going on with her, she’d planned to be around long enough to see the plants grow to maturity.
“There are some heavy-duty pain meds in the cabinet,” Gideon said. “Prescribing doctor is an oncologist.”
“Likely very ill.” They would soon know what type of cancer and her prognosis.
There were personal photos, but judging by the settings and ages of the others in the pictures, they were coworkers. No images of young children, graduation photos, or even the vacation pictures the magnets suggested. There were a few books, a collection of celebrity magazines, and a small but serviceable television.
“What else can you tell me about Elijah Weston?” Bryce asked.
“As you must know, smart as hell. In the last year he’s earned his master’s in psychology and is now a PhD candidate. I wouldn’t be surprised if he has his doctorate in a year.”
“What’s his endgame?”
“I heard yesterday that he’s bought a house close to Ann’s,” Gideon said.
Bryce did not know how honest Ann had been with her brother about the boy. “And Nate.”
Gideon’s eyes narrowed with understanding. “I love that boy like he’s my own, and he’s been through a hell of a lot this last year. This past weekend was the first time I’ve heard him laugh out loud in months.”
“I like the kid. He’s an old soul but needs protecting.” The boy had a devoted uncle, but Bryce knew in that moment he would also protect the boy.
Gideon rubbed his chin, eyeing Bryce less like a cop and more like a big brother. “What’s your deal with Ann?”
“That’s between us.”
Gideon’s stare lingered as if he’d gotten his answer. “Clarke Mead did a lot of damage. He hurt Ann and the boy.”
“And Elijah, because I think he knew they were rivals for her,” Bryce said pointedly, trying to determine what Gideon knew.
Gideon’s eyes narrowed again. “She’s told you?”
“About Nate? Yes.”
“I don’t want Elijah screwing up her life.”
“How can you stop Elijah from claiming his paternal rights? He’s not only smart, but he has a nice chunk of change to hire lawyers.”
Gideon rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I’d like to prove that he had something to do with this. Hell, I’d like to link him to the recent murders. But I won’t frame him.”
“We have determined that two of the victims were Elijah’s Fireflies.”
“Really?”
“Dana Riley, who was killed near Helena, and Sarah Cameron from Knoxville, Tennessee.”
“What about the body found near Missoula earlier this week?”
“I don’t have an identity on Jane Doe yet, but Dr. Christopher is hoping a metal plate in her ankle will supply a name. We also have a list of the Fireflies, and we’re trying to track them down.”
“I’ve got a couple of uniforms canvassing the houses,” Gideon said. “Hoping there are enough security cameras that might catch a glimpse of whoever killed Edith.”
Bryce’s mind kept tripping back to Ann. She had been the first hint of sunshine in what had been his otherwise dark and closed world. He was a master at putting one foot in front of the other and getting the job done. But he could never really claim any kind of true happiness. At the rate his life had been going, he could picture himself on the ranch with his brother, caring for broken and unwanted dogs. Not the worst of fates, but making love to Ann proved there could be more.