by Nora Roberts
a sigh, he leaned back on his elbows. “I'm not big on the crime beat. I'll take graft and corruption over murder any day.”
“When are you going back?”
“Soon. My editor wants me to follow up on what's happening here, since I'm a hometown boy. But once the body's identified and I can file the story, I'm out of here.” There were people he needed to talk with, face-to-face. As long as there was a chance of a cult—one his father might have been tied to—he would dig. Since digging meant leaving Clare, he was putting all his faith in Cam. “You going to be okay?”
Sure.
He studied the metal frame she'd designed. “Reproducing the Statue of Liberty?”
“No. Possibilities.” She studied it herself, comforted by it. “I want to show that sometimes your reach doesn't have to exceed your grasp.”
“It looks like you're planning on the long haul.” Dropping her chin on her knees, she studied the marigolds glowing orange in the yard across the street.
There was a dog barking deeply, monotonously. The only sound on a balmy afternoon.
“It wasn't such a long trip back from New York after all.”
“What about the trip from here to there?”
She moved her shoulders. “You can hold off on finding tenants for a while.”
He was silent a moment. “Cam's nuts about you.”
“Oh, yeah?” She looked over her shoulder.
“I never would've figured the two of you together.
But… I guess what I want to say is that I think it's great.”
She leaned back on her elbows and watched the puffy clouds glide across the sky. “So do I.”
Cam paced the pale green corridor outside the autopsy room. He'd wanted to go in—no, he hadn't wanted to go in, he corrected. But he'd felt he should. Dr. Loomis had politely but firmly requested that he wait outside. And keep out of the way.
The waiting was the worst. Especially since he knew in his heart, in his gut, that he would be putting in that call to the Jamisons in Harrisburg before the day was over.
He had an itch for a cigarette and opted to scratch it despite the signs thanking him for not smoking. He didn't see how the residents could be offended.
Morgues were quiet places, even peaceful in a businesslike way. And a business was just what it was, he thought. The business of living, followed by the business of dying. For some reason, they never bothered him the way cemeteries did.
Here, people were still people somehow.
He couldn't say he cared for the smells, the scents of pine cleaner and heavy antiseptics not quite hiding something nasty underneath. But he could think of this as a job. Someone was dead, and he had to find out why.
Loomis came through the swinging doors, still drying his pink and scrubbed hands. He wore a lab coat with an identification tag, and a surgical mask dangled by strings from his neck. All that was missing, Cam mused, was a stethoscope. But then, it wasn't Loomis's job to listen for heartbeats.
“Sheriff.” Dr. Loomis tucked the paper towel neatly into a waste can. He gave Cam's cigarette a mild look of disapproval, but it was enough to have Cam extinguish it in the dregs of the coffee in his plastic cup.
“What can you tell me?”
“Your Jane Doe was a Caucasian between fifteen and eighteen years of age. My estimate is that she's been dead for about a month, no longer than two.”
They were six weeks past the first of May, Cam thought. Six weeks past May Day Eve. “How?”
“Death was induced by a severed jugular.”
“Induced.” Cam tossed the cup into the waste can. “That's quite a word.”
Loomis merely inclined his head. “The victim was sexually assaulted prior to death. By all indications, violently and repeatedly. Her wrists and ankles had been bound. We're running tests on blood types. I can't tell you, as yet, if she had been drugged.”
“Put a rush on it.”
“We'll do our best. You've sent for dental records?”
“They're on their way. I have a missing person, but I'm holding the parents off.”
“I think that's best under the circumstances. Could I buy you another cup of coffee?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
Loomis led the way down the corridor. Meticulously, he counted out change and slid coins into a vending machine. “Cream?”
“I'm taking it black these days.”
Loomis handed Cam a cup, then pushed more coins into the slot. “Sheriff, this is a very shocking and difficult case, and I realize that it also has some personal connection for you.”
“I played in those fields as a child. I baled hay with my father where that girl was found. And my father died there, crushed under his own tractor on a pretty summer afternoon. Yeah. I guess that's personal enough.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Forget it.” Annoyed with himself, Cam rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I've got evidence that my mother's husband had held that girl in a shed. That girl, and maybe others. Now it looks as though he raped her, killed her, and tossed her body in a field.”
Whatever Loomis thought was a secret behind his mild eyes. “It would be your job to prove that, but it's mine to tell you that the body was not in that field for weeks.”
Cam stopped with the cup partway to his mouth. “What do you mean it wasn't in the field?”
“It was certainly found there, but it was put there fairly recently.”
“Wait a minute. You just said she'd been dead a couple months.”
“Dead and buried, Sheriff. That body has been in the ground for several weeks. My estimate is that it was exhumed and placed in that field no more than two or three days ago. Perhaps even less.”
He wanted to take it slow. “You're telling me that someone killed that girl, buried her, then dug her up again?”
“There's no question of it.”
“Give me a minute.” He turned to stare at the green walls. It was worse somehow, worse than her abduction, her rape, and her murder that someone had violated her even after death. “Sonofabitch.”
“Your stepfather may well have murdered her, Sheriff, but as he's been dead for several weeks himself, he wasn't the one who put her in the field.”
Cam's eyes narrowed. He drank coffee now without tasting it. The muscles in his stomach hitched as he turned back to face the coroner. “Whoever did wanted her to be found, and to be found there.”
“I'm forced to agree. From my viewpoint, it was a very clumsy maneuver. But then, your average lay person might not be aware of the scope of forensic medicine.” Loomis sipped delicately from his cup. “It's highly possible that it was assumed the evidence would be taken at face value.”
“Your profession is underrated, Dr. Loomis.”
Loomis gave a small smile. “Sadly true.”
* * *
When Cam came out of the hospital, the sun was setting. It was nearly fourteen hours since he had gotten the call from Chip Dopper. He wasn't just tired, he was drained. When he saw Clare sitting on the hood of his car, he stopped, waiting for her to slide off.
“Hey, Rafferty” She walked to him, put her arms around his waist, and hugged. “I thought you could use the sight of a friendly face.”
“Yeah. Yours is the best one. How long have you been here?”
“Awhile. I went up and visited Lisa. I rode in with Blair.” She eased back to study his face. “He wanted to interview the coroner.” Dozens of questions raced through her mind, but she couldn't ask them, not now. “You look beat. Why don't you let me drive you home?”
“Why don't I?” He took the keys out of his pocket, then squeezed until the metal scraped his hand. His eyes changed from weary to furious in the space of a heartbeat. “You know what I want? I want to beat the hell out of something. Pound the shit out of it.”
“We could wait for Blair to come out. You could kick him around.”
With a half laugh he turned around. “I gotta walk, Slim.”
“Okay, we'll walk
.”
“Not here. I want to get the hell away from here.”
“Come on.” She took the keys. “I know the place.”
They drove in silence, Cam with his head back and his eyes closed. Clare hoped he was asleep as she juggled her memory for direction. When she stopped the car, she continued to sit, saying nothing.
“I haven't been here in a long time.”
She turned, studying him in the soft evening light. “I always liked coming to City Park. We'd bring a bag of Saltines and feed the ducks. Got any crackers?”
“Fresh out.”
Inspired, she reached for her purse and searched through it. “Let ′em eat cake,” she said, holding up a spare Twinkie.
There was a pond in the center of the park. Clare remembered how they would float a tree out on a raft at Christmastime, where it would twinkle mystically over the water. She had come there with her parents, on school field trips, with dates. Once she had come there to sit alone on a bench, overcome with pleasure when one of her sculptures had been placed on exhibit at the nearby art museum.
As they walked, fingers linked, the big leafy trees insulated them against the sound of traffic.
“Smells like rain,” she murmured.
“By tomorrow.”
“I guess we need it.”
“It's been a pretty dry spring.”
She looked at him. They both smiled with the easy understanding of lovers. “Want to try politics next?”
He shook his head and, putting an arm around her shoulders, drew her closer to his side. “I'm glad you were there when I came out.”
So am I.
“It's funny, I didn't think about cruising by the nearest bar. First thing I thought about was getting in the car and driving fast, maybe finding some asses to kick.” On her shoulder his fist curled, uncurled, then settled. “It used to work.”
“So what works now?”
“You do. Let's sit down.” He chose a bench and kept her close while he watched the water. Ducks paddled, noisy and optimistic, to the edge. Clare unwrapped the Twinkie and began to toss small hunks. The light gentled to purple.
“Was it Carly Jamison?”
“Yeah. The dental records came in late this afternoon. Her parents … there wasn't much I could do for them.”
She watched the ducks scramble and fight. “They're here then?”
“They came in about an hour ago. I can't sit.”
She got up with him, walking, waiting for him to speak again.
“I'm going to find out who killed that girl, Clare.”
“But Biff—”
“He was part of it. He wasn't all of it.” He stopped, looked down at her. She could see the anger in his eyes and, beneath it, a pain that wrenched at her own heart. “Somebody tossed her into that field. My field. Like she was nothing. I'm going to find out who it was. Nobody's going to do that to young girls in my town.”
Looking out to the water, she wiped her sticky fingers on her jeans. “You still think that this is part of some kind of cult.”
He put his hands on her shoulders. “I want you to make that sketch. Clare, I know what I'm asking, but I need you to remember everything, every detail of that dream, and write it down.” He tightened his grip. “Clare, she was killed somewhere else. Just like Biff. She was killed somewhere else, then put there, where we'd find her. Maybe you can help me find out where.”
“All right. For whatever good it'll do.”
“Thanks.” He kissed her. “Let's go home.”
Chapter 27
SHE DIDN'T WANT TO REMEMBER. Clare knew it was cowardly, but she didn't want to call it up in her mind. For more than twenty years, she'd tried to block it—through force of will, the occasional tranquillizer, and hours of therapy. Never once had she deliberately recreated the picture in her mind. Now she had been asked to put it on paper.
She'd procrastinated, making excuses to Cam and to herself. At night she lay awake, fighting sleep, afraid her subconscious would rear up and accomplish what she was stubbornly resisting.
He didn't press her, not out loud. But then, he'd been so swamped with the investigation, he'd had little time to be with her at all.
The rain had come, as Cam predicted. It had fallen solidly for two days and two nights. Still, at the market, the post office, down at Martha's, people talked about the water table and the possibility of water restrictions again this summer. When they weren't talking about that or the Orioles′ chances at a pennant this year, they were talking about murder.
Clare's outdoor sculpture was put on hold. She piddled around the garage as she hadn't for weeks, unable to settle on a substitute. She moved listlessly from project to project, studying sketches, making more. In the back of her mind, her promise to Cam continued to nag.
It was just that the house seemed so empty. At least that's what she told herself. With Blair back in D.C. and the rain falling and falling and falling, she felt so isolated. So alone.
Why hadn't that ever bothered her before?
Because she'd never jumped at shadows before. Never checked and rechecked her locks or analyzed every creak and groan of a board.
When she caught herself staring out her window at the skeleton of her sculpture yet again, she swore and snatched up the sketchpad she'd tossed on the sofa.
She would do it and do it now. Get it out of her mind.
Her pencil in one hand and the pad on her lap, she sat with her eyes closed and tried to take herself back.
She could see her father puttering around his roses. Tapping the stakes, the garden stakes, into the softened ground.
She could see him lying on the terrace, impaled by them.
Clare shook her head, gritted her teeth, and tried again.
On the swing now, soft summer night. Gliding, her head resting on his arm. The scent of sweet peas and grass and Old Spice.
“What do you want for your birthday, cutie pie? A girl deserves something special when she turns thirteen.”
“I want my ears pierced.”
“Why do you want to put holes in yourself?”
“All the other girls have pierced ears, Dad. Please.”
Further back, she had to go further back. Autumn. Planting tulip bulbs. Spicy smoke from leaves burning. A pumpkin on the porch ready to carve.
“Clare Kimball!” Her mother's voice. “What are you doing outside without a sweater? For heaven's sake, you're eight years old. You should have more sense.”
Her father winking at her, running a fingertip down her chilled nose. “You run in and get one. And don't track any of this mulch in the house, or your mother'll put us both in the doghouse.”
Still further back. She could almost hear Dr. Janowski telling her to relax, breathe deeply, let her conscious mind surrender to her subconscious.
“But I want to go. You never take me with you. I'll be good, Daddy. I promise.”
“You're always good, cutie pie.”
Crouching down to scoop her up and kiss her on the neck. Sometimes he would swing her around and around. She liked that, the giddy dizziness. Fear and excitement. Don't let me go. Don't let me go.
“This is just boring stuff, for big people.”
“But I want to go. I like to see the houses.” Pouting. Bottom
