Jordan stoically acted as though Woody was not sitting two feet from her. It was turning into a long car ride, with both too stubborn and proud to make an effort. Jordan knew that arguing with him this much was counterproductive to winning his affection, but she had never taken well to rules and people trying to control her. It was natural instinct that made her spar with him.
For his part, Woody found himself a little too angry for comfort at the thought of Jordan and Jake. The guy was a player and had always been able to catch any girl he wanted – something Woody never seemed to have a knack for. But Jordan was no longer his business. He didn't want her to be his business. He was concerned for her well being as a friend, that was all. No need for jealousy. But she's mine…mine? Where did that come from? He tried harder to let it go, but was only rewarded with infuriating images of Jake taking Jordan out, kissing her, bringing her home…
"Damn it," Woody said suddenly, hitting the break and pulling off on a different road.
Jordan looked up in surprise and reached out to hold onto the car door as Woody made the sharp right.
"What?" she asked, startled.
"George Havisty lives down this road. He was in the war with my grandfather," he said irritably.
"I'm guessing that, despite the way you sound, this is a good thing," she said somewhat cautiously.
"I almost drove us back to the station to waste hours looking for this bastard because I can't remember enough of my own grandfather to make the connection sooner," Woody told her.
He drove them to a run down farmhouse that sat amongst a few trees. Chickens pecked at the ground, free to roam the abandoned farmland. Jordan was beginning to think that Kewaunee was worse for Woody than Los Angeles was for her. LA was big, and she had places to hide there. Here, Woody met a ghost every time he turned around.
Jordan followed Woody up to the front door, where he rang the doorbell. They heard nothing for a few moments other than the chickens clucking. Woody raised his hand to ring the bell again when they heard a shuffling sound inside.
"What the hell do you want?" a voice shouted.
"Mr. Havisty?" Woody called. "I'm Woody Hoyt, Franklin Hoyt's grandson."
There was the sound of a lock being unlatched and the door creaked open to reveal an old man in overalls and a plaid shirt - a very ornery looking old man with a shotgun in his hand. Woody unconsciously took a step back at the sight of the weapon. He blinked quickly, his heart racing for a second.
"Well, what is it, boy?" Havisty barked.
"I'm need some information, and I, ah," Woody stammered, eyeing the shotgun. Jordan saw the tension in his face and could almost feel his nerves freefalling. This was the first time he had encountered a weapon since the shooting.
"You the detective or the screw up Hoyt?" Havisty demanded.
"Uh, the de-detective."
Jordan's heart broke watching her unfaltering detective lose his composure. She felt a sudden need to protect him. Havisty was looking doubtfully at Woody.
"You sure you got the nerves for law enforcement, son?" he said.
"Mr. Havisty, we need to ask you some questions about a knife you purchased twelve years ago," Jordan stepped forward. He regarded her as though she were a child who had just said something pretentious.
"Hoyt, you better tell your girlfriend to stay out of matters that don't concern her."
"She's not my girlfriend," Woody said firmly, regaining some of his nerve. Jordan's eyes flashed at him, but he never saw the hurt they contained from being dismissed so easily. "I need you to answer some questions about a knife you bought from Eric Ferrand."
Woody held out a picture of the knife that he had paper clipped the check copy to. Havisty knocked the paper away from his face with the gun barrel. Woody flinched, but stood his ground.
"Eric Ferrand is a cheat," Havisty growled. "I don't wanna talk about anything to do with him."
"It's at least necessary for us to look for-" Jordan started.
"You won't be lookin' for anything, missy, not without a search warrant. I'm not a big fan of the police," he said this to Woody. "And you will be doin' this the right way. Come back with the documents that are necessary, and I'll be more inclined to cooperate."
Jordan opened her mouth to argue, but he slammed the door in their faces. She could hear the melodramatic locking of at least four bolts and chains on the door. She let out an irritated sigh and looked at Woody.
"Don't even look at me like that," he said. "Don't make me list the number of times you've approached a suspect the wrong way."
"Yeah, well this guy is starting to look pretty suspicious," she said. "He's practically certifiable."
"We're not gonna know for sure until we get a search warrant, which we need since we can't even link him physically to the scene."
"Unless…" Jordan said, a glint of a plan appearing in her eyes. She left the porch and started walking around the house.
"Unless?" Woody asked worriedly. He didn't like it when that look of determination was in her eyes. He followed her path. "Unless what, Jordan?"
"Would you be quiet?" she hushed him, looking at the foundation.
"Jordan, we are not breaking into his house, he's home for crying out loud," he whispered harshly.
"I know that," she whispered back sharply. "We're not trying to get into the house."
"Oh?" he replied unenthusiastically.
"No. Because if he is our killer, then he has a little chemistry set lying around somewhere. And what idiot would keep it in their house," she asked as they rounded a corner and came in sight of a cellar door, "when they know ethyl chloride is highly flammable?'
Convinced she had struck gold, she hurried over to the wooden door. A large iron lock held it shut tight. She pulled out her lock picking kit and set to work.
"No, Jordan, no, this is so not the way to handle this," Woody stopped as the lock clicked open. Jordan heaved the door up and turned on her mini flashlight. Woody glared at her. "I swear, Jordan, one of these days…"
"Pow, right in the kisser? Who are you, Jackie Gleason?"
"Don't think the idea hasn't crossed my mind," he smiled insincerely at her.
"That makes two of us then," she mimicked his look and headed into the cellar.
Woody rolled his eyes and reluctantly followed her. They walked down the wooden steps in the dark, fighting against the musty smell overwhelming the room. Jordan's light landed on a light bulb chain hanging from the ceiling.
"This doesn't exactly smell like the best environment to be mixing chemicals," Woody commented as she pulled on the chain.
Light filled the cellar, revealing shelves stocked with guns, rifles, fishing poles, and a large variety of hunting knives. Jordan's eyes widened slightly as she stood frozen in the middle of the room.
"This is not looking good for mister uncooperative up there," she said.
"Think he's a member of the NRA?" Woody deadpanned as he walked up to one of the shelves. Jordan swallowed a laugh, opting to start looking around at the other end of the room. Woody checked the hunting knives carefully, looking at every single holder and box in case it matched the right manufacturer. "You still think he's got ethyl chloride down here?"
"Not with gun powder sitting around," she replied with discouragement, holding up a box of the substance for him to see. They exchanged looks of disappointment. Without warning, the door to the cellar crashed shut, and they heard the distinct clink of the lock being put back in place. They both stared silently at the door, rays of the late afternoon sun seeping through small cracks and catching stirred up dust…they were trapped.