His gaze shifted to the stairs behind me, then back to me. He straightened his back. “I don’t know where ya came from, bitch, or why yer here or how ya found me, but I know one fuckin’ thing—you ain’t got the nerve to kill me!”
An eerie calm washed over me.
It was time.
“You don’t understand, do you?” I cocked the gun.
Tribe shrank back, his eyes wide. “Understand what?”
I aimed between his eyes. “Only the future is certain. The past can be changed.”
52
The blow came from behind. A split second before I was hit, an unholy animal screech shattered the cellar. The gun flew from my hand as I landed in a sprawl on the cellar floor, my head an inch from the cottage’s stonework foundation.
I was half-stunned, but my instincts kicked in just in time. I rolled to see a wild-haired woman launching herself at me. I kicked at her. My foot caught her in the stomach, but she kept coming. I had a flashing glimpse of Tribe, crawling toward us on his hands and knees, his eyes bright with malevolent glee. Then the shrieking woman was swarming over me, ripping at my face and neck with her fingernails. We rolled and wrestled until she was on top of me with her fingers around my throat. I twisted in vain to get away. She had me pinned. But my left arm was free. I grabbed a handful of dirt and threw it in her eyes. When she reared back, I punched her. It was a weak blow, and she shrugged it off. She attacked again with her claws.
I had been ready to die, but I wasn’t ready to lose a fight. I grabbed the woman’s ear and ripped it off.
She howled like a demon from hell and tore at my throat.
I caught movement to my left. Tribe had Marc’s gun. He stretched out his arm, aiming at my head.
So this is how it ended, I thought hazily.
And then my brain shrieked at me:
CLAIRE! YOU’RE NOT JANE DOE!
Frantically, I seized Tribe’s wrist and twisted.
BOOM!
The gunshot was deafening.
Time seemed to dilate … slow … stop.
The woman toppled sideways.
I rolled to my left and snatched the gun out of Tribe’s now slack fingers. I kicked the woman’s legs off my own and rose unsteadily to my feet. My right knee throbbed.
My attacker lay motionless in the dirt. A trickle of blood oozed from a bullet hole near her right temple.
Tribe crawled to her. “Doris? Doris!” He touched her cheek and started moaning. “No … No … No!”
“Tribe?” He ignored me. I left him to blubber while I took inventory. I had no broken bones, but I was bleeding from a dozen scratches and lacerations on my face, throat, and upper body. My shirt was covered in the other woman’s blood; most of it, I guessed, from her torn ear rather than from the gunshot wound.
Tribe was hunched like a ghoul over the woman’s corpse, his spidery fingers stroking her matted hair.
I prodded him with my foot. “Look at me!”
He raised his head. His face was a mess of tears and snot.
“Is this your sister?”
“Yes!” He spit the word at me.
“So, it was a lie. She didn’t die in India.” I answered his shocked expression. “Yes. We know that, too. But what we don’t know is why. Why, Tribe, why?”
His jaw started working, as if he was about to hurl himself at me. I pointed the gun at his face. “Answer me!” I yelled.
“Yeah, I took them girls, ’n’, yeah, I screwed ’em! We both did! But I never killed ’em! Not one of ’em! It was her!”
“She killed them?”
“Yeah. After she finished.”
“Finished what?”
“Her experimentin’. When she was done, she’d just up their dose.”
I felt my gorge rise. Less than ten percent of serial killers are female, and almost all of them kill for money or power. A woman who kills for sadistic pleasure is extremely rare.
But … one who employs a willing partner?
It beggared belief.
“How did you do it? No witnesses! How did you make them vanish?”
His eyes went cold. “Nobody notices a girl talkin’ to a girl. I just drove the car.”
“You were alone! Today! Stalking my … Stalking that woman!”
“Doris was coming with me tomorrow.”
My mind sighed relief.
That’s why you’re here, Claire. To save your mother.
I leaned down. “Why? Why did you help her?”
“She was my sister!” he wailed.
I stared into Harlan Tribe’s uncomprehending eyes for a few seconds and then turned away. I limped over to the stairs. As I reached the bottom step, a cramp hit me. The pain started low in my abdomen, and then sliced like a hot knife into my lower back.
I gasped.
No!
I grabbed for the stair railing. I waited. It hit me again. I doubled. I waited.
Slowly, interminably, it eased.
I waited for another.
It didn’t come.
I looked at Tribe. He hadn’t noticed. He was still sniveling over his sister’s body.
“One more question, Tribe…”
“Ain’t ya gonna kill me?”
I wanted to.
I wanted to end this vermin’s existence. One bullet through his head, and I would permanently eliminate myself from this time line. In eighteen months, I would be born. I would grow to become a different Claire Talbot. I would have no consciousness of all the young lives Harlan Tribe had destroyed.
My failure to save Victoria Chan and Mandy Jordan was like a garrote around my throat.
It would take only one bullet.
But now I knew I wasn’t Jane Doe.
Now I knew I had a daughter to protect.
“Not today,” I said.
Tribe glowered at me. “You said you got a question.”
“Who got Doris pregnant?”
He didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. His eyes told me everything I needed to know. I took the locket out of my pocket and tossed it over to him. It landed in the dirt next to him.
“That belongs to your sister.”
He stared at it, uncomprehending.
I dropped the gun on the floor. “There’s one bullet left. I suggest you use it on yourself.” I started up the steps. “I’ll know if you don’t.”
53
I was back in Archer by late afternoon. I rolled past my mother’s house and worked my way south to 147th Street. A sign warned: NO EXIT. I drove to the end of the road and stopped at a cemetery beside a small church. The road’s unpaved extension followed the south edge of the graveyard and terminated in dense brush.
I had a table knife and a grocery bag with me, taken from Tribe’s kitchen when I left. I used the knife as a screwdriver and removed the car’s license plates. Next I pried the VIN plate off the dash and scraped the build sheet off the doorpost. From my work on the Martínez case, I knew where to look for the second VIN plate. I lifted the hood. It was right where I’d expected, riveted to the top of the driver’s-side fender. I pried it off. There was still a derivative number stamped into one of the radiator supports, but I couldn’t do much about that. I cleaned out the glove box and searched the rest of the car, grabbing anything that might identify the owner. I dumped everything into the grocery bag and set it on the floor. Then I got behind the wheel and stomped on the accelerator. I was doing nearly fifty when I ran out of road. The Plymouth punched through a hundred feet of scrub before it high-centered and stalled.
I grabbed the bag, climbed out of the car, and started walking. With my bad knee, it took me nearly an hour. Along the way, I tossed Tribe’s license plates and keys into the bush at intervals along the roadside and dropped the rest into the playground trash can.
Tribe would have to explain his gunshot wounds. I remembered that when Annie had run Tribe’s name during our investigation, his only record was as a victim who had been shot during a robbery. He’d probably tell them
some perp shot him and stole his car. Next, he’d require surgery to remove the bullets. The slug in his leg was still there; the one in his arm might have gone through.
Until he obtained another vehicle and his wounds healed enough to lift a body into the trunk, he’d be forced to stash his sister’s putrefying corpse in the cellar.
It would take only one anonymous tip to send him to death row.
But Marc and I had only eleven months left, and we had a baby on the way.
As I crossed the playing field, I saw Nonie’s Chevelle parked behind Marc’s truck. The car’s doors swung open, and Marc and Nonie stepped out.
Marc took one look at my bleeding face and rushed toward me. He reached me just as my knee gave out. He lunged and managed to break my fall. He hoisted me into his arms and carried me to the truck. Nonie pulled the passenger door open so he could lift me onto the seat.
“How did you know I’d be here?”
“I didn’t. But you told Nonie where you went when you borrowed her car.”
The terrible strain of the day had visibly aged him. His eyes were rimmed with red. I felt sick with shame.
He reached behind the seat and yanked out a first aid kit.
“I have things to tell you,” I whispered.
“Later.” He opened the kit. “First we need to take care of that bleeding!”
I grabbed his hand. “Marc, I made a mistake!”
Nonie sensed she was intruding. She eased away from us and stood by her car.
“More than one, I’d say,” Marc said as he ripped open a gauze pack.
“I was so fixed on changing the past, I forgot the future is certain.”
He stopped what he was doing. “Meaning?”
“Meaning … no matter what I do, you and I will be together in the future.”
“I’ve already figured that out.”
“How?”
“Because whatever you tried today didn’t work. When I saw you walking across that field, I still remembered you.”
“I’m sorry!” I started to cry.
“I’m just thankful to have you back. Your note almost killed me.” He dabbed at a wound on my neck. “I need to know what’s coming, Claire. Please!”
“You will. I promise.”
“You’ve always held back. What’s changed?”
“What’s changed is that I now know what I didn’t know twelve hours ago. There are three of us. In the future.”
“Three of us? You mean Rebecca?”
“She’s part of our story, and I nearly lost her today.”
“Lost her? How?”
“Two ways…” I rubbed away my tears. “I’ll tell you the first part later. Right now, I need to see a doctor.”
“No kidding.” He showed me the gauze in his hand. It was red with blood.
“No, not that.” I told him about the cramping attacks that had almost felled me.
“Do you have cramps now?”
“No.”
Marc wasted no time. He called Nonie. She joined us. I reached out and took her hand. “Thank you for bringing him. And I’m sorry.”
“Least I could do, girl,” Nonie answered with mock gruffness. “You and your secrets! Have ’em from me if you want, but not from your man!”
If you only knew, dear Nonie …
It wasn’t difficult for me to look seriously chastened. “He’s about to hear all my secrets,” I told her.
“Good! Now, get moving and find a hospital!”
“On our way!” Marc replied. He hugged her and then circled the truck to the driver’s door.
“See you back at the Creek,” Nonie said as she shut the door.
We drove at high speed to Ocala. Knowing we’d need a feasible story to account for my torn flesh and multiple bruises, we concocted a fable that I’d been attacked at work by a jealous female barfly who thought I was making a play for her boyfriend.
It was after dark when we reached the ER at Munroe. Dr. LaPierre was on call. A nurse cleaned and dressed my wounds, and then I had to endure a physical while Marc paced outside the curtain.
The doctor’s enormous hands hadn’t gotten any smaller. When he snapped on the surgical gloves, I cringed.
“Any bleeding?” he asked.
“A bit of spotting. Nothing to speak of.”
“Let me be the judge of that. How long have you been spotting?”
“Just for a day, then it stopped.”
“Tissue or clots?”
“No.”
While he conducted the exam, he peppered me with more questions—was I having any backache, were my breasts sore, was I having morning sickness? To my relief, his touch was gentle.
“You’ve lost weight since I saw you last. That’s a bit worrying. You should be gaining weight.”
“I’ve been under a lot of stress. But that’s over.”
“What’s over?”
“The stress.”
“Care to talk about it?”
“No.”
“Your friend there…” He jerked his thumb toward the curtain. “Is he honorable?”
I suppressed a smile. “Yes. Don’t worry. We both want this baby.”
He sighed and peeled off the gloves. “Okay, baby’s probably okay. Have you seen the ob-gyn I referred you to?”
“Not yet.”
He didn’t look happy. “I want you to start seeing Dr. Frost. I’ll make the arrangements. No arguments! In the meantime, call me right away if you have any of the symptoms I just asked you about. You have one job, Claire—carrying your baby to term.”
And don’t I know it …
“Her name is Rebecca.”
“We don’t know the gender yet. We probably won’t know for several weeks.” He smiled. “So I hope you have an alternative name for a boy.”
“No. She’s definitely a girl.”
He stared at me. “I’d like to know where you get your information.”
“There are certain things I just know, Doc. This is one of them. Am I good to go?”
“‘Good to go’? Now, there’s a space-age expression. Yes.” He paused, regarding me appraisingly. “May I offer a word of advice?”
This time, I smiled. “You will anyway.”
“This is your first pregnancy and we don’t know how your body will handle it. You need to take better care of yourself. If you must work, I recommend you find a job that’s less … boisterous. Consider finding something where you can use your brain.”
“Care to tell me what’s really on your mind?”
“You’re clearly an educated woman. I don’t know why you’ve exiled yourself to Cross Creek of all places, and I guess that’s your business. But you shouldn’t be working in a low-life tavern where you risk being assaulted. You owe it to your baby to be more careful.”
I didn’t think he’d appreciate me telling him that I’d started the day intending to erase both our lives, so I just nodded and tried to appear suitably chastened.
“Based on the nature of the fight you were in, I’m ordering a tetanus shot. It won’t harm the fetus.” He was about to yank the curtain back.
I stopped him. “Before you go…”
“Yes?”
“Could you pass me my jacket? I have something for you.”
Puzzled, he plucked my jacket off the chair next to the bed. I dug in a pocket and found my watch. I handed it to him.
“A watch?”
“Not just any watch. It’s like my appendectomy.”
“I don’t follow.”
“It’s the only one on the planet. Keep it to remember me.”
He stared at me, then examined the watch. “It’s not running.”
“Maybe you’ll get it fixed one day.”
He looked perplexed. “Thanks, I think.” He yanked back the curtain. Marc was standing there. “Claire will be getting a shot,” the doctor told him. “After that, she’s all yours. But for God’s sake, young man, take better care of this girl!”
“I wil
l, if she’ll let me,” Marc replied.
Dr. LaPierre shook his head and left. I saw him examining my watch as he walked away.
Marc moved to my side. “I heard that. You gave him your watch. Why?”
“I’m a mystery to him. I thought I’d give him a new puzzle to solve.”
“That watch will drive him crazy.”
“If he keeps it for twenty years, he’ll be able to get it fixed.”
“Which will make him even crazier.”
“At least he’ll remember me.”
Marc understood. He stroked my hair, kissed me, and helped me get dressed.
54
“How could you think you were Jane Doe?”
We’d been sitting in our usual places on the veranda since we got back from the hospital. Now, hours later, the eastern sky was brightening with another dawn. Those hours had been filled with a monologue from me … long, emotional, and utterly necessary. We were both drained and ready for bed, but neither of us was ready to surrender.
“She was pregnant, and I’m pregnant. Your mother’s locket was found in her grave. The crab’s eye pea inside the locket was obviously a clue. It only made sense if it was a clue I’d left for myself, because it was that clue that led us to the killer. It all pointed to one conclusion: I was Jane Doe.”
“But you stood in that morgue with Terry Snead and examined her body! How could it be your skeleton if you were looking at it? That would mean two of you would be existing at the same time. You’ve already convinced me that that’s impossible!”
“Not exactly two of me.”
“What do you mean?”
“Something I remembered from high school biology … the human body is constantly replacing itself. The person you are today is not identical to the person you were yesterday. Your body replaces around two million cells every day. It happens at different rates. Some cells are replaced every few days. Blood cells, every few months. Bone cells take years.”
“Years? How does that—?”
“Those are just rough replacement rates. It’s a constant process. I figured the skeleton I viewed in the morgue was just a later version of me—at least at the cellular level. It would have been about six months older than my living skeleton. Most of the bone cells would be the same, but millions of them would be newer. I thought Jane was me, just not the same me that stood there looking at her.”
Time of Departure Page 28
