Eight Classic Nora Roberts Romantic Suspense Novels

by Nora Roberts

  “Yeah.” Big fucking deal, Ernie thought.

  She wiped her damp palms on her shorts. “Mary Alice Wesley’s having a big graduation party. She said I could bring a date. Do you want to go?”

  He looked at her in that odd, penetrating way he had. “I don’t go to parties. How much gas do you want?”

  “You might as well fill it.” She licked her lips. “Are you going to the parade tomorrow?”

  “I got better things to do than stand around and watch a bunch of jerks walk down the street.”

  She would be marching, too, and it hurt her that he didn’t remember. Her grandfather was coming up, all the way from Richmond, with his video camera, to record her last stint as head cheerleader for Emmitsboro High. But she didn’t feel like mentioning it now. “We’re having a barbecue after, at my house. Just hamburgers and stuff. Maybe you could come over.”

  He wasn’t even interested enough to snicker at the idea of sitting in Sally’s backyard, munching burgers and drinking lemonade. “I got to work.”

  “Oh. Well, it goes on all day, so if you have time …” Her voice trailed off as she groped, humiliated. “I’ve got the car tonight, if you want to take a drive or something when you get off work.”

  He looked at her again as he pulled the nozzle from the tank. Looked like Sally’s tank was running on empty, too. He grinned. She was hot, all right. She’d probably drop to her knees and suck him off right then and there if he told her to.

  “Why don’t you come by around nine-thirty and see how I feel?”

  “Okay.”

  “That’s fifteen-fifty for the gas.”

  “Oh. I’ll get my purse.”

  As she bent in the car window, Clare drove in. Ernie forgot Sally existed. “Hey, Ernie.”

  “Want me to fill it up?”

  “Yeah.” She smiled, carefully avoiding glancing down at his pendant. “Haven’t seen you in a couple of days.”

  “Been busy.”

  “I bet.” She rested her elbow on the window and pillowed her head. She’d just driven back from the hospital and another visit with Lisa MacDonald. She was tired but no longer guilty. “You must have a lot going, with graduation just a week away.”

  “Your friends are still here.”

  “They’re going to stay for the parade tomorrow. You going?”

  He only shrugged.

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Clare went on. “I hear they’re going to be selling fried dough. I have a real weakness for fried dough.”

  “Ernie. Here’s the money.” Sally walked up to stand between them. She tossed back her long fall of hair and shot Clare a cool look. “I guess you’ve got customers to wait on, so I’ll come by later.”

  Sure.

  Clare watched the girl go back to her car and rev the engine. “So, who was that?”

  “Sally? She’s nobody.”

  “Sally Simmons?” With a laugh, Clare reached in her purse for her wallet. “Christ, I used to baby-sit for her. I’d better go home and pull out the rocking chair.” She paid him, feeling a lot lighter of heart. Surely there was nothing more normal than a kid with a jealous girlfriend. “See you later, Ernie.”

  “Yeah. See you.” His hand closed over his pentagram as she drove away.

  They needed information, desperately. How much did the MacDonald woman know? Whom had she seen? These were questions that burned in whispers from one to the other. Fear was growing, and the one who controlled them knew that fear was a weakness that led to mistakes.

  The information would be gathered, as it always was.

  There were those who murmured more about Clare Kimball than about the offering who had escaped. Clare, who had interfered by taking away the woman chosen for sacrifice. Clare, who had ignored or failed to understand the warning left at her door. Clare, who as a child had broken the sanctuary of the circle and seen more than a young girl’s mind could bear to remember.

  And Clare, who had created an idol of the Master out of metal and fire.

  Some argued for her, some against. But the outcome had already been decided.

  The time of watching and warning was almost done. The time to act was approaching.

  * * *

  Some men might have tried roses. Cam figured clichés wouldn’t work with Clare. It had taken him quite some time before he decided to try anything at all. That was a matter of pride. But there was nothing like depression to make a man kick pride aside and go for broke. It was becoming harder and harder to convince his gut that whatever was going wrong with the town was due to outside influences. Yet every time he drove through it, walked through it, stood on a corner, the idea of Emmitsboro’s harboring a murderer, or worse, seemed preposterous.

  But Lisa MacDonald was a reality, and his first solid lead. And he had the lab report. Not all of the blood on her clothing had been hers. Lisa was type O. Some of the blood had been type A. Under her nails had been traces of skin—male Caucasian—and some black cotton fiber.

  With Bud and Mick he had combed the west end of Dopper’s Woods, near the spot where Clare had found Lisa, and the three of them found the trail of blood, the signs of struggle and chase. It would require more lab work, and that meant he would have to ask the mayor for an emergency increase in budget.

  He wanted a couple of hours in which he didn’t have to think about evidence and procedure, didn’t have to remind himself that he would have to go to the hospital again to probe and poke at Lisa MacDonald’s memory.

  Clare was working. He could see the light on in her garage, though it was barely dusk. He had driven by several times over the last couple of days and seen her there, bent over a worktable. But this time, he pulled into the drive.

  Alice was with her, he noted, and they were chattering over the Beatles’ “A Day in the Life.”

  “Go ahead and move around. It works better when you’re moving.”

  “I thought people had to stand real still when they posed for an artist.” Though flattered, Alice wished that Clare had asked her to pose in something other than her waitress uniform. “Is this going to be one of those modern things where nobody’ll know it’s me?”

  “I’ll know it’s you.” Patiently, Clare molded and caressed the clay. “I want it very fluid. I’ll cast it in bronze when I’m done.”

  “My mama had Lynette’s and my baby shoes bronzed.” She glanced over and smiled. “Hi, Cam.”

  “Getting immortalized, Alice?”

  She giggled. “Looks like.”

  Not trusting her hands, Clare took them from the clay. “Something I can do for you, Sheriff?”

  Cool and slick as an ice cube, he thought, and cocked a brow. “Might be.” He wrapped a hand around her arm and hauled her up. “Come on.”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing? I’m working.” She shoved a clay-coated hand at him while he pulled her down the drive and Alice watched, wide-eyed. “Look, Rafferty, I don’t have to tolerate this … police brutality.”

  “Don’t be such a jerk, Slim.” He yanked her around to the bed of Bud’s pickup. “I brought you a present.”

  And there was the burl, even more spectacular than she remembered.

  “Oh, God.” Before he could give her a boost, she was clambering over the side of the truck and into the bed beside it. She stroked the bark reverently. “It’s beautiful,” she murmured, already imagining what she would find inside.

  “It’s a hunk of wood,” Alice said from the other side of the truck. She was both baffled and disappointed.

  “It’s a mystery,” Clare told her. “And a challenge, and a gift.” She laughed at Alice’s expression. “Tell you what, in a year or so when it’s ready to work with, I’ll make you a bowl.”

  “That’d be nice,” Alice said politely, making Clare laugh again. “Wait until Angie gets a look at this.” She sat back on her heels, stroking the burl, and sent a cautious look at Cam. He said nothing, just watched her with his hands curved lightly over the side of the truck. “This was
a pretty sneaky thing to do, Rafferty”

  “Desperate times, Slim. Desperate measures. I figured if I brought this along, you’d have to talk to me.” He turned his hands over, palms up. “Want me to help you down?”

  “I can manage.”

  But when she started to swing from the truck, he put his hands around her waist. He set her feet on the ground, turned her to face him, then waited a beat. “You’ve got mud on your hands.”

  “Clay.” Damn it, this simple contact shouldn’t make her so breathless. “You’d better back up, or it’ll get all over your shirt.”

  “You already got it on my shirt.” He edged closer, scenting her the way a fox scented his mate. “How have you been?”

  “I’ve been fine.” Her heart was beating fast, entirely too fast, against his.

  “I guess I’ll be going.” Alice cleared her throat. “I said I guess I’ll run along.”

  “No!” Clare swiveled out of Cam’s hold. “I mean, I’d like to get another hour in, unless you’re too tired.”

  “I’m not too tired. But in a town this size, it doesn’t pay to annoy the sheriff,” Alice teased.

  “That’s some very clear thinking,” Cam said and took Clare by the arm. “Why don’t we step inside and talk?”

  She was trying to decide whether to laugh or swear when a car drove up, horn beeping. “Hey.” A man popped up out of the sunroof. “Can a guy get a room here for the night?”

  “Blair!” Clare raced down the drive and threw her arms wide as her brother climbed out of the car. He took one look at her hands and backed up.

  “God, don’t touch me.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Figured I’d take in a parade. Cam.” He pulled a garment bag out of the backseat before starting up the drive. “You here for a visit, or is Clare under arrest?”

  Putting her under house arrest didn’t seem like a bad idea, but Cam grinned and held out a hand. “Just making a delivery.” He ran a finger down Blair’s lapel. “Nice suit.”

  “I worked late, didn’t want to take time to change. Alice, good to see you.”

  “Hi, Blair.” She cursed herself for blushing. “Clare didn’t say you were coming.”

  “She didn’t know. So …” He tugged on his sister’s hair. “How’re you making out?”

  Clare glanced at Cam, then away. “I guess you could say it’s been an eventful few weeks. Angie and Jean-Paul are here.”

  “Here?” Blair’s brows shot up. “In Emmitsboro?”

  “For nearly a week. I think it’s starting to grow on them. Listen, why don’t I go in and fix some drinks?”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  Cam put a hand on his shoulder before he could follow. “How about giving me a hand with this present first?”

  “A present? Sure.” He set his bag next to the truck and looked in. “It’s a hunk of wood.”

  “Yep.”

  “A really big hunk of wood.” He scowled over at Cam. “This suit is fifty percent silk.”

  Cam grinned, let down the tailgate, and jumped up. “Don’t be a wuss, Kimball.”

  “Shit.” Blair hauled himself up and put his back into it. “What’s this thing for? It’s giving me splinters.”

  “It’s a peace offering. Clare’s ticked off at me.”

  “Oh?”

  “It’s a long story. Here, I’ll go down first. Christ, get a grip, will you?” he muttered when Blair almost dropped the burl on his foot. “You might be interested in the story,” he continued as they wrestled the burl out and carted it toward the side yard.

  “Rafferty, stories are my life.”

  “Why don’t you come by the office tomorrow after the parade?”

  “Okay. Anything I should know now?”

  “I’m sleeping with your sister.” His eyes met Blair’s stunned ones over the round of wood as it bobbled between them. “I figured we should get that out of the way first.”

  “Jesus, Cam, what do you expect me to say?”

  “I guess congratulations might be a bit much. Let’s put it here.” He grunted as they set the burl beside the garage. He watched Blair dust off his suit. “Want to take a punch at me?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Before you do, I’d better tell you something I haven’t gotten around to telling her yet. I love her.”

  After a long stare, Blair stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well.”

  “I always said you had a real gift for words.”

  Feeling baffled and foolish, Blair ran a hand over his hair. “When the hell did all this happen?”

  “Beats me.”

  Blair blew out a long breath. “Maybe we ought to go in and have that drink.”

  “You go ahead.” Cam glanced toward the house. “She isn’t ready for me yet.” He started for the truck, pausing when Blair called his name.

  “Cam—she’s not Sarah Hewitt.”

  Cam wrenched open the truck door. “Nobody knows that better than I do.”

  But it was to Sarah that Cam had to go.

  Clyde’s was more subdued than usual for a Friday night. People were nervous. Wives were demanding that their husbands come home after work, end of the week or not. If a woman wasn’t safe walking down the road, how could they know they were safe inside their own homes?

  A few of the regulars remained. Less Gladhill hulked over the bar, nursing a brew and the indigestion he’d gotten from meatloaf at Martha’s. A fight with his wife had sent him out looking for dinner and consolation elsewhere. Besides, everyone knew that Big Barb Gladhill could take care of herself and ten men besides.

  Cam studied the familiar faces as he walked to the bar. He noted not only who was there but who was missing.

  “Slow night,” he said to Clyde.

  The barman scowled. “You come in to point that out, or you want a drink?”

  “Give me a Rolling Rock.”

  Skunk Haggerty was there, in his usual corner, nursing his usual shot of Johnnie Walker while he waited for Reva Williamson to finish her shift at Martha’s. The Dopper boy, home from college for the holiday weekend, drank Budweiser and hoped he’d get lucky with Sarah Hewitt.

  Nobody played the jukebox, and the clatter of pool balls came clearly from the back room.

  Cam drank his beer while Less stood beside him and belched.

  “Friggin onions. Give me another beer, Clyde, goddamn it.”

  “Walking home?” Cam said easily.

  “I can hold my beer.”

  “Another DUI’ll go rough on you.”

  “Then I’ll sonofabitchin’ walk.” Feeling sorry for himself, he slurped up beer. God knew he got enough nagging from his old lady. Was it any wonder he went out looking for other female companionship when he was married to a damn warhorse? “It’s a fucking shame when a man can’t enjoy a beer without being hounded.”

  “Hard day?” Cam sipped, but his eyes had fixed on the bandage wrapped around Less’s right hand. “Hurt yourself?”

  Grumbling, Less turned the hand from side to side. He’d been expecting the question and had already worked out an answer. “Burned the shit out of my hand on a fucking manifold.”

  Cam hated knowing he would check in the morning to corroborate Less’s story. “That’s tough.”

  Less guzzled down beer, burped, then sighed. “I guess I’m pissed ’cause we were supposed to have a poker game tonight. Roody’s old lady won’t let him out of her sight after sundown. Skunk’s got his balls in an uproar over that skinny-assed Reva. Sam Poffenburger’s sleeping in his ex-wife’s living room until she calms down, and George Howard is patrolling his yard with his dogs, for Christ’s sake. This business has screwed everything up.”

  “Can’t deny that.”

  “That woman up to the hospital, she tell you anything you can use?”

  “If I start discussing a witness, I’ll get fired.” He drank again. “Best I can tell you is that I’ve been hitting a lot of walls.” He was studyi
ng Less like a cop, and they both knew it. “Thing is, when you keep hitting a wall, eventually you knock it down. You want to tell me where you were Tuesday night, between ten-thirty and eleven?”

  “What the hell is this?”

  “My job.” Cam held up his mug. “Sometimes it’s easier to do it over a beer than down at the office.”

  “Shit.”

  “It’s routine, Less. You’re not the first one I’ve talked to, and you won’t be the last.”

  “I don’t much like it.” He snagged a bowl of peanuts off the bar and began cracking them with his good hand. He wanted to show he was pissed but not scared.

  “Neither do I, so why don’t you tell me so we can both get back to enjoying our beer?”

  “If you got to know, I was over to Charlie Griffith’s, working in his garage on his Cavalier.” He glanced over his shoulder at Skunk. “I ain’t supposed to do side jobs, and if it gets out, I could get canned.”

  “Nobody said it had to get out. I’ll have to check with Charlie, though.”

  “Go right the fuck ahead. Now if you don’t mind, Sheriff, I’d like to drink in peace.”

  Cam took his half-full mug and wandered toward the back room. Cops lost friends—he knew it too well. It was better to lose them this way than by a bullet.

  Sarah was shooting pool with Davey Reeder, a lanky, bucktoothed carpenter with good hands and a weak brain. Over the years Davey had joined Cam and Blair and some of the others on their jaunts into the woods. He was older by a couple of years and hadn’t graduated until he was twenty. He’d knocked up one of the Lawrence girls and been married and divorced by the time he was twenty-two.

  Cam was aware that Davey was one of Sarah’s regular customers. He wasn’t sure which of them he felt more sorry for.

  “Hey, Davey.”

  “Hey.” He smiled his beaver smile and kissed the three ball into the side pocket. “Want to play for beers?”

  “Last time we did that, you got drunk and I got poor.”

  Davey whooped in the girlish way he had, then speared the four and five into opposing pockets. “I could spot you.”