The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

  There would be no opportunities for tampering. Keep it all very official.

  She’d say nothing of what Lana had discovered so far. Jake was right, there was no point until more data was gathered.

  She would handle her personal business the same way she handled her professional business. Methodically, scientifically and thoroughly.

  Discoveries would be logged. In fact, she would write a report daily. It would help keep everything organized.

  And just to keep Douglas Cullen throttled back, she’d have Lana draft out some legal document waiving or refusing, whatever it needed to be, any claim to any portion of Suzanne Cullen’s estate.

  It was a good plan, Callie told herself. And now it was time to put it away for the night.

  She closed her eyes, opened herself to the music as she drew out Bach. The lovely, complicated and romantic notes from his Suite Number 1 in G for Unaccompanied Cello.

  Her mind could rest with the music. Flow with it. Quiet. Here was comfort, the mathematics and the art, blended together into beauty.

  For these precious moments, she had and would drag the cumbersome instrument on every plane, truck, train, to every dig no matter how problematic.

  Soothed, she set the bow aside. Following routine, she stroked her nightly moisturizer over her face and throat, blew out her candle.

  She climbed into bed.

  Five minutes after she turned off the light, she was turning it back on, getting out of bed and picking up the box Suzanne had given her.

  So she had a curious nature, she told herself. That’s why she was good at her work. That’s why she would find the answers to this puzzle and put everything back on an even keel once more.

  She opened the box, saw the letters, all in plain white envelopes, all neatly lined up according to date.

  So Suzanne was another organized soul, she noticed. Another creature of habit. A number of people were.

  She’d just read through them. They would give her a better sense of the woman, and very possibly another piece of the puzzle. Just more data, she told herself as she took the first envelope out of the box.

  She felt the same sort of anticipation of discovery when she opened the envelope marked “Jessica” as she did when brushing the soil off an artifact.

  My darling Jessica,

  Today you’re one year old. It doesn’t seem possible that a whole year has passed since I first held you. This entire year is still like a dream to me. All disjointed and blurry and unreal. There are times when I think it really has been a dream. Times when I hear you crying and start toward your room. Other times when I swear I feel you moving inside me, as though you haven’t been born yet.

  But then I remember, and I don’t think I can stand it.

  My own mother made me promise I would write this note. I don’t know what I would have done without my mother these past months. I wonder if anyone really understands what I’m going through but another mother. Your daddy tries, and I know he misses you, so much, but I don’t think he can feel this same emptiness.

  I’m hollow inside. So hollow there are times I think I’ll just crumble away to nothing.

  Part of me wishes I could, but I have your brother. Poor, sweet little boy. He’s so confused. He doesn’t understand why you’re not here.

  How can I explain it to him, when I don’t understand it either?

  I know you’ll come back soon. Jessie, you have to know we’ll never, never stop looking. I pray, every day, that you’ll be home in your own crib one night. Until you are, I pray, every day, that you’re safe and well. That you’re not frightened. I pray, every day, that whoever took you from me is kind to you, and loving. That she rocks you the way you like, and sings you your favorite lullabies.

  One day she’ll realize what she did was wrong, and she’ll bring you home.

  I’m sorry, I’m so sorry that I turned away from you. I promise you it was only for a moment. If I could go back, I’d hold you so close. No one could ever tear you away.

  We’re all looking, Jessie. All of us. Mama and Daddy, Grandpa and Grandma, Nanny and Pop. All the neighbors, and the police. Don’t ever think we let you go. Because we never did. We never will.

  You’re right here in my heart. My baby, my Jessie.

  I love you. I miss you.

  Mama

  Callie folded the pages neatly, slipped them back in the envelope. She put the lid back on the box, set the box on the floor. Leaning over, she switched off the light.

  And lay in the dark, aching for a woman she barely knew.

  She spent most of the next day on the painstaking task of uncovering the skeletal remains. It took hours, working with brushes, with dental probes, with tongue depressors to clear the dirt. But the latest find had pried two graduate students out of the university.

  She had her photographer in Dory Teasdale, a long, leggy brunette. And her finds assistant in Bill McDowell, who didn’t look old enough to buy beer but had five seasons on three digs under his belt.

  She found Dory competent and enthusiastic, and tried to ignore the fact she was the same physical type as one Veronica Weeks. The woman who’d been the catalyst, or the last straw, in the shattering of her marriage to Jake.

  It didn’t matter if Dory had a voice like a sleek, contented cat as long as she did her job.

  “Got another one.” Jake stopped by Callie’s sector, nodded toward the lanky man standing with Digger. “Itinerant, got his own tools. Name’s Matt Kirkendal. Heard about the project, wants to dig. Seems to know his ass from a line level.”

  Callie studied the newest arrival. He had a long braid of streaked gray, worn-down work boots, a tattoo of something that snaked under the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  It looked as if he and Digger were already bonding.

  “Hands are hands,” Callie stated. He appeared strong, she decided, weathered. “Stick him with Digger for a couple of days, see what he’s made of.”

  “That’s my plan.”

  He watched as she ran a string between two nails in preparation for making a record drawing for the vertical slice through the accumulated deposits in her section.

  “Want a hand with that?”

  “I’ve got it. What do you think of the new grad students?”

  “Girl’s easy to look at.” Ignoring the fact that she could, indeed, handle it herself, he attached a tape measure to the nails with clothespins. He caught the look Callie shot him, answered it blandly. “Despite the prim name—Teasdale—she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty, either. The guy—he’s an eager beaver—more eager, I’d say, because he wants to impress you. Sends you longing glances.”

  “He does not.”

  “Serious crush. I know just how he feels.”

  Now she snorted. “A crush is different from wanting to get a woman naked and onto any available flat surface.”

  “Oh. Guess I don’t know how he feels, then.”

  She refused to laugh, and only released the faintest of smiles when Jake walked off.

  The latest find had also brought more press. Callie gave an interview to a reporter from the Washington Post while she knelt beside the two skeletons, resting her back and shoulders.

  “The adult bones are female,” Callie said. “A female between the ages of twenty and twenty-five.”

  The reporter was female as well, and interested enough to scoot on her haunches a little too close to the bones until Callie impatiently motioned her back.

  “How can you tell the age without lab tests?”

  “If you know anything about bones, and I do, you can judge their age.” Using the tongue depressor, she pointed out the joints, the fusion, the formation. “And see here, this is interesting. There was a break in the humerus. Most likely in mid-childhood. Probably around the age of ten to twelve. It healed, but knit poorly.”

  She ran the tongue depressor lightly over the line of break. “This arm would have been weak, and likely caused her considerable discomfort. The break is reasonably
clean, indicating to me it was from a fall rather than a blow. Not a defensive wound as she might have received in a fight. Despite the injury she was in good health, meaning she wasn’t shunned from the tribe. They cared for their sick and injured. That’s illustrated in the way she and her child were buried.”

  “How did she die?”

  “As there are no other injuries, and the remains of the child indicate newborn, it’s probable she, and the child, died in childbirth. You can see they’re not just buried together. They were arranged here with her holding the child. This indicates compassion, even sentiment. Certainly ceremony. They mattered to someone.”

  “And why should they matter to us?”

  “They were here first. Who they are, what they are made it possible for us to be.”

  “There are some who object to the exhuming and studying of the dead. For religious reasons, or simply because human nature often decrees that those we’ve buried should remain undisturbed. How do you answer that?”

  “You can see the care we take in what we do here. The respect given. They have knowledge,” Callie said, leaning back to brush at dirt. “Human nature also demands, or should, the seeking of knowledge. If we don’t study, we’re not honoring her. We’re ignoring her.”

  “What can you tell me about the curse?”

  “I can tell you this isn’t an episode of The X-Files. Sorry, I’ve got to get back to this. You may want to speak with Dr. Greenbaum.”

  She worked another hour, steadily, silently. As she reached for her camera Jake came over to join her. “What is it?”

  “It looks like a turtle carapace. It’s tucked between the bodies. I need photos of the bones, in situ.”

  “I’ll get Dory. You need a break.”

  “Not yet. Get the documentation. Then I want to find out what this is.”

  She moved back, stretching her legs as best she could while Dory came over to take the photographs.

  She let her mind go blank while Dory’s voice and Jake’s hummed behind her. They’d gotten into an easy patter already, she noted. Then, annoyed with herself for the knee-jerk resentment, the old habit, she reminded herself he could have an easy patter—or anything else he wanted—with Dory or anyone else.

  “Got it,” Dory declared. “Not to put down the rest of the dig, but you’ve got the best spot. It’s just fascinating.” She glanced down at the skeletons again. “And sad. Even ancient remains are sad when they’re a baby’s.”

  “So we’ll do right by them. I’m going to want those pictures as soon as possible.”

  “You’ll get them. In fact, that does this roll. I can go get them developed now if you want.”

  “Great.”

  As Dory hurried off, Callie knelt down again and began the painstaking task of excavating the carapace. As she carefully lifted it free, she heard the rattle of stones inside.

  “It’s a toy,” she murmured. “They wanted her to have a toy.” Callie sat back on her heels.

  Jake took the rattle. “It’s likely her father or her grandfather made this for her before she was born. Her birth was anticipated, looked forward to. And her loss, their loss, was mourned.”

  She picked up her clipboard, carefully logged the find. “I’ll tell Leo they’re ready for the wet packs and removal. I’ve got an appointment. I’ll be back in an hour.”

  “Babe.” He tapped his knuckles on her cheek. “You’re filthy.”

  “I’ll clean up a little.”

  “Before you do, I came over to tell you Leo just got off the phone with Dolan. Dolan’s threatening to go after an injunction to block us from removing anything from the site.”

  “He’s going to look like an idiot.”

  “Maybe, or if he’s smart he can spin it so he’s against disturbing the graves of the dead and so on. He can get some backing on that.”

  “Then how does he plan to build houses?” she inquired.

  “Good question, and I’d say he’s working on it.” He rocked back on his heels, skimmed his gaze over the quiet water of the pond, the thick summer green of the trees. “It’s a hell of a nice spot.”

  “I imagine the people buried here thought so, too.”

  “Yeah, I bet they did.” Absently, he shook the rattle again. “The main thing is he wants the dig stopped. He owns the land. He can block us from removing artifacts if he pushes hard enough.”

  “Then we push back, harder.”

  “We’re going to try reason and diplomacy first. I’ve got an appointment with him tomorrow.”

  “You? Why you?”

  “Because I’m less likely to take a swing at him than you are. Slightly,” Jake added as he leaned over to touch his lips to hers. “And because I’m the anthro and can spout more nifty terms on culture and ancient societies and their impact on science than you.”

  “That’s bullshit,” she muttered as she started toward her car. “You’ve got the penis. Leo figures this guy will relate to you better because you’ve got the right equipment.”

  “That’s a factor. We’ll have a little man-to-man and see if I can convince him.”

  “Work him, Graystone, so I don’t have to beat him over the head with a shovel.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. Dunbrook?” he added as she pulled open her car door. “Wash your face.”

  Nine

  When Callie stepped out of her motel room the following morning, she saw red.

  Crude, vicious graffiti crawled over her Rover, bumper to bumper, in paint as bright and glossy as fresh blood.

  DOCTOR BITCH! it announced. Along with GRAVE ROBBING CUNT, assorted obscenities, suggestions and demands that she GO HOME!

  Her first leap was forward, the way a mother might leap to defend a child being bullied in a playground. Unintelligible sounds strangled in her throat as her fingers raced over the shiny letters. With dull disbelief, she traced the splatters on her hood that spelled out LESBO FREAK.

  Fury was only a quick step away from shock. As they collided inside her, she stormed back inside her room, grabbed the phone book and looked up the address of Dolan and Sons.

  She slammed the door again just as Jake opened his. “How many more times do you plan to slam the door before . . .”

  He trailed off when he saw her car. “Well, shit.” Though he was still barefoot, and wearing only jeans, he walked out to take a closer look. “You figure Austin and Jimmy, or their ilk?”

  “I figure I’m going to find out.” She shoved him back, wrenched open the driver’s-side door.

  “Hold on. Hold it.” He knew that look in her eye, and it screamed bloody murder. “Give me two minutes and I’ll go with you.”

  “I don’t need backup when it comes to a couple of redneck fuckwits.”

  “Just wait.” To be sure she did, he wrestled the keys out of her hand, then strode back into his room for a shirt and shoes.

  Thirty seconds later, he was cursing, rushing back out again, just in time to see her drive off. He’d forgotten she always kept spare keys in her glove box.

  “Son of a bitch. Son of a goddamn bitch.”

  She didn’t look back. Her mind was focused on what lay ahead. She’d had the Rover for six years. It was part of her team. Every ding and scratch was a memory. Was a goddamn badge of honor. And nobody defiled what was hers.

  Minutes later, she squealed to a stop in front of Dolan’s Main Street office. Breathing fire, she leaped out, then barely resisted kicking the door down when she found it locked. She hammered on it with her fist instead.

  A pleasant-looking woman unlocked the office door from the inside. “I’m sorry. We’re not open for another fifteen minutes.”

  “Dolan. Ronald Dolan.”

  “Mr. Dolan’s on a job site this morning. Do you want an appointment?”

  “What job site?”

  “Ah, the one up on Turkey Neck Road.”

  Callie showed her teeth. “Point me in the direction.”

  It took her twenty minutes, backtracking on one of t
he windy country roads when she missed the turn. None of the sleepy charm of the morning, the gilded light sprinkling through trees, the silly herald of a rooster could breach her rage.

  The longer it stewed, the more potent it became. And she had only to shift her gaze from the road to the hood to have it spiking again.

  Someone, she promised herself, was going to pay. At the moment, she wasn’t particular who, or how.

  She swung onto a private lane, over a pretty little bridge that spread over the creek, then nearly straight up the cut through the wooded plot.

  She could hear the sounds of construction. The hammers, the saws, the music from a radio. Part of her brain registered that whatever else he was or did, Dolan apparently built well.

  The skeleton of the house showed potential, and it fit well with the rocky terrain, the picturesque woods. The usual construction debris was scattered into piles, heaped into an enormous Dumpster.

  Pickups and other four-wheelers were parked willy-nilly in the mud the night’s rain had brewed. And several large men, already sweaty, were at work.

  She spotted Dolan, his work pants still pristine, his shirt rolled up at the elbows and a blue Dolan Construction fielder-style hat perched on his head as he stood with his hands on his hips, surveying the progress.

  Once again she slammed the door, and the bullet shot of it blasted through the music and noise. Dolan glanced over, then shifted his view and his body as Callie strode toward the house, boosted herself easily onto the decking.

  “Austin and Jimmy,” she snapped out. “The dickhead twins. Where are they?”

  He shifted his weight, scanned the paint splattered over her car. A small, resentful part of his heart did handsprings. “You got a problem with any of my men, you got a problem with me.”

  “Fine.” It suited her down to the ground. “You see that?” she demanded and pointed toward her Rover. “I’m holding you responsible.”

  He could feel his men watching, and hooked his thumbs under his suspenders. “You saying I painted that graffiti all over your car?”

  “I’m saying whoever did works for you. Whoever did listened to you and your asinine viewpoints about what my team’s doing at Antietam Creek.”