What Burns Within by Sandra Ruttan Page A

door had a dead bolt on it and chain lock, and she didn’t see him.”
“He must have been inside.”
Craig leaned back in his chair. “If he waited in the house he must have been pretty sure she was coming home and that her husband wouldn’t be returning with her.”
“Or this guy really is just a cocky sonofabitch who’s gotten lucky so far.”
“What dates do we have again?”
Lori picked up her notebook. “June fourteenth, July twenty-fifth and August eighteenth. And now July eighth.”
“So it seemed like the third attack was closer to the second, until we got that call yesterday. The dates aren’t getting closer together.”
“Unless we’ve got women who haven’t reported yet. Knowing how reluctant rape victims are to come forward, it’s possible.”
“We need to do a nationwide search, see if there are any other open rape cases that fit the pattern,” Craig suggested. “It’s not like this guy has just popped up out of the blue. He’s meticulous, organized, confident. There’s essentially no escalation in his attacks, which is unusual. He must have raped before.”
“I agree.” She turned her eyes toward the report in her hands, twisting her chair slightly to her left as though the conversation was over.
Craig looked up. Daly was watching them from across the room. His gaze was blank, but Craig sensed he wasn’t too happy about Lori. For once he wished Daly would indulge him and give him a different partner.
     
Tain waited until Ashlyn hung up the phone. “Alex Wilson is on his way in.”
She leaned back in her chair, covered her face with her hands and groaned. “You’re kidding.”
“Why?”
“Carl Parks just called to say that we could come over and take his statement.”
Tain arched an eyebrow. “Without prompting?”
She raised her hands and shrugged her shoulders. “Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Tain. I don’t really want to keep him waiting, with what he’s dealing with at home.”
“You go talk to Mr. Parks. I’ll talk to Alex Wilson.”
“You’re sure?” Ashlyn didn’t wait for an answer. She stood and pulled on her jacket.
“Try not to look so happy to get away from me.”
“It’s not you. It’s the station. I think the fresh air will do me good.”
“Any chance of you finding out if the building is clear for us to enter?”
Ashlyn had started walking toward the door. She turned, continuing to walk backward as she pointed at him. “I’ll try to stop by the station or call Quinlan about that on my way back. Call me on my cell if anything comes up.”
“Hey, get me lunch when you’re out.”
“You don’t have time to get over to Hooters?”
“Very funny, Ashlyn,” he called after her.
     
The CD player clicked, and Ashlyn felt the smile spread across her face when she heard “Fare Thee Well Love” start. There was something about the music that went beyond the typical fluff the radios churned out and rehashed every few hours. It wasn’t that she didn’t like popular music. It was just that sometimes she wanted to listen to something that did more than drown out the silence. There was emotion in this music. She connected with it.
Not that emotion was something she lacked these days, and when the line about the lonely girl came on she wondered what she was doing listening to songs about loss as she drove through the city, on her way to Port Coquitlam, mountain shadow giving way to farmland. She hit the CD changer. “Til I Am Myself Again” came on.
When she arrived at the Parks’ home it was clear it would be a long time before Carl Parks would be himself again. Ashlyn fought to keep her jaw from dropping, tried in vain to keep the shock from registering in her eyes.
The previous day he’d been covered in soot but otherwise strong, capable, in command except for the moment when he’d lost it, when he’d heard the girl was dead. Now, he had dark circles around his eyes that had nothing to do with residue from fighting a fire, no