The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

  He shifted his attention, studied her bruised face. “Might be a good idea if you let me do it, instead of trying to do it for me.”

  “She was running.”

  “I’m not saying she wasn’t. She claims she was just stretching her legs when you jumped her. And your witnesses have conflicting observations on that. You ought to consider the fact I’m not charging you with assault.”

  “You ought to consider the fact she decided to stretch her legs when her mother called from Charlotte to warn her she’d been found.”

  “I’m going to check that out. Dr. Dunbrook, I don’t tell you how to dig up this field. Don’t tell me how to investigate a case. Best thing for you to do is go on back to the house, put some ice on that cheekbone there. Looks painful. I want everybody to stay where I can find them while I’m sorting this out.”

  “Maybe you should find out if Dorothy Spencer’s taken any trips to Woodsboro lately, because Dory didn’t do all this alone.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “Go on home, Dr. Dunbrook. I’ll be in touch when there’s something you need to know.”

  She kicked a stone as he walked away. “Calm and focused, my ass.”

  She soaked a symphony of bruises in the tub, took a Percocet and stewed. There had to be more that could be done, and she intended to do it.

  She pulled on her baggiest pants and shirt, and though she cast a longing glance at the bed, she limped her way downstairs.

  Conversation shut off like a turned tap when she walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator for a drink.

  “Maybe you should have some tea. Ah, some herbal tea.” Frannie sprang to her feet, then just stood twisting her fingers together.

  “We got any?”

  “Yeah, I could make it for you. She was running,” Frannie burst out, then shot a defiant look at the others around the table. “She was. And if she hurt Bill and Rosie then I’m glad you kicked her ass.”

  She stalked to the stove, grabbed a pot. She was sniffling as she filled it with water.

  “Thanks, Frannie.” Callie turned as Jake came in. “I know everybody’s upset and confused. I know everybody liked Dory. I liked her, too. But unless somebody wants to stand up and say they put Seconal in my jug, the Seconal that put Rosie in the hospital, that leaves Dory.”

  “Cal says Dory did it.” Digger jerked his head in a nod. “Dory did it.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” Bob shifted in his seat. “It’s not right to turn on her like this. It isn’t right to turn on one of our own.”

  “She knocked you flat on your ass,” Digger reminded him.

  “Well, yeah, but still.”

  “Was she running?” Callie demanded.

  “I guess. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. Man, Callie, she was the one who called the ambulance for Rosie. And when Bill . . . when that happened, she fell to pieces.”

  “She told Sonya Callie wanted her off the project.” Frannie blinked at tears as she set the pot on the stove. “You can ask her, ask Sonya. She said how Callie wanted her gone because she thought she was fooling around with Jake, and how Callie’s jealous of every other woman on the project, and she was just waiting for a chance to kick her off.”

  “Christ.” Matt rubbed his face. “That doesn’t mean anything. That’s just girl shit. Look, I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t think I want to. I just can’t see that Dory had anything to do with Bill. I just can’t see it.”

  “You don’t have to.” Jake opened a bottle of water. “I just got off the phone with Lana. She and Doug just landed at Dulles. The FBI is questioning Dorothy Spencer. And they’re sending an agent here to talk to her daughter. Could be they can see it.”

  Callie took her tea into Jake’s office, sat down, and looked at the time line of her life.

  “One of those events changes, everything that follows is affected.” Knowing Jake was in the doorway, she sipped at the tea, kept studying the chart. “I still haven’t figured out if I’d alter any of the events if I had the choice. If I didn’t break my arm, maybe I wouldn’t have spent so much time reading all those books on archaeology. If I hadn’t booted you out the door, maybe we wouldn’t be working on patching things up. If I hadn’t turned down the dig in Cornwall to take that sabbatical, I wouldn’t have been available for this one. Suzanne Cullen might never have seen me, recognized me. Bill would be alive, but everything Carlyle did would still be buried.”

  He sat on the worktable beside her. “Philosophy sucks.”

  “I’m almost finished brooding. You know that crap about me being jealous of Dory’s bogus, right? If I’d been thinking straight, I could’ve stopped her another way. Just called out, asked her to hold up a minute. Something. Then if she’d run, everyone would’ve seen it. But I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to stop her.” She shook her head. “Not even that. I just wanted to hurt her.”

  “Damn straight,” he agreed.

  “I should’ve figured you’d understand the sentiment.” She drank some tea and it soothed. “Now I feel sort of let down. I’m counting on the police and FBI to nail it, but it’s like I’ve dug down, layer by layer, and I see pieces of what’s under there, but I can’t seem to make the whole thing out. And something tells me the whole thing isn’t going to be what I wanted to find in the first place.”

  “A good digger knows you can’t choose what you find.”

  “There you go, being rational again.”

  “I’ve been practicing.” He picked up her hand, examined the scraped knuckles, wiggled her fingers. “How’s this feeling?”

  “Like I plowed it into bone at short range several times.”

  Still, she used it to pick up the phone when it rang. “Dunbrook. Sheriff Hewitt.” She rolled her eyes derisively toward Jake, then froze. Saying nothing, she pushed off the table, stood with the phone at her ear another moment, then lowered it. Shut it off.

  “They lost her.” She set the phone down carefully before she could give in to rage and heave it through the window. “She walked out. Just fucking walked out of the hospital when the deputy was distracted. Nobody remembers seeing her leave, nobody knows where she went or how she got there. She’s just gone.”

  Doug swung by his mother’s. The phone, he’d decided, wasn’t the way to tell her what they’d learned. He wasn’t sure what her reaction might be and knew, at this time of day, before his grandfather had closed the bookstore, before his father had made the trip from his last class across the county line, she’d most likely be alone.

  When he was sure she was all right, he’d drive to Lana’s. They’d go together to hook up with Callie and Jake.

  He pulled up behind her car.

  He wanted to box all of this up, close the lid and set it aside so they could all get on with their lives. He wanted a chance at that life. The sheer normality of it. He wanted to be able to tell his mother he was in love, planning to give her a ready-made grandchild, and he hoped more as time went on.

  He walked in the front. He hadn’t paid enough attention to the life his mother had made for herself, he admitted. How she’d built a business, created a home. The way she surrounded herself with pretty things, he mused as he picked up an iridescent green bowl from a table. The strength and will it must have taken to create even those small bits of normalcy when her spirit had been shattered.

  He regretted, very much, not only the way he’d ignored what she’d managed to do, but that he’d resented it.

  “Mom?”

  “Doug?” Her voice carried down the stairs. “You’re back! I’ll be right down.”

  He wandered into the kitchen, sniffed the air gratefully when he scented fresh coffee. He poured a cup, then decided to pour a second. They’d sit at her table, drink her coffee while he told her what they’d learned.

  And he’d tell her something he’d stopped telling her too long ago to remember. He’d tell his mother he loved her.

  He heard the click of heels on wood—quick, brisk, female. And when he
turned, nearly bobbled the second cup of coffee.

  “Wow,” he managed. “What’s up with you?”

  “Oh. Well. Just . . . nothing really.”

  She blushed. He didn’t know mothers could blush. And apparently he’d forgotten how beautiful his own mother was.

  Her hair was swept around her face, and her lips and cheeks were attractively rosy. But the dress was the killer. Midnight blue and sleek, it was short enough to show off terrific legs, scooped low enough at the bodice to give more than a hint of cleavage, and snug enough in between to show off curves he wasn’t entirely comfortable thinking about his mother having.

  “You hang around the house like this very often?”

  Her color still high, she tugged self-consciously at the skirt. “I’m going out shortly. Is that coffee for me? Let me get you some cookies.”

  She hurried to the counter to pick up a clear glass jar.

  “Where are you going?”

  “I have a date.”

  “A what?”

  “A date.” Flustered, she circled cookies on a plate, just as she had when he’d come home from school. “I’m going out to dinner.”

  “Oh.” A date? Going out to dinner with some guy? Dressed like . . . barely dressed at all.

  She set the plate down, lifted her chin. “With your father.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I said I have a dinner date with your father.”

  He sat down. “You and Dad are . . . dating?”

  “I didn’t say we were dating, I said we had a date for dinner. Just dinner. Just a casual dinner.”

  “There’s nothing casual about that dress.” Shock was slowly making room for amusement, and trailing just behind was a nice warm pleasure. “His eyes are going to pop right out of his head when he gets a load of you.”

  “It looks all right? I’ve only worn it to a couple of cocktail events. Business functions.”

  “It looks amazing. You look amazing. You’re beautiful, Mom.”

  Surprise, then tears filled her eyes. “Well, for goodness sake.”

  “I should have told you that every day. I should’ve told you I love you, every day. That I’m proud of you, every day.”

  “Oh, Douglas.” She lifted a hand to her heart as it simply soared. “There goes the thirty minutes I spent on my face.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry I couldn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you because I was afraid you blamed me.”

  “Blamed you for . . .” Even as the tears spilled over, she lowered her cheek to the top of his head. “Oh, Douglas. No. My poor baby,” she murmured, and his throat clogged. “My sweet little boy. I let you down in so many ways.”

  “No, Mom.”

  “I did. I know I did. I couldn’t seem to help it. But for you to think that. Oh, baby.” She eased back to kiss his cheeks, then cover them with her hands. “Not for a minute. Not ever. I promise you, not once—even at the worst—did I blame you. You were just a little boy.”

  She pressed her lips to his brow. “My little boy. I love you, Doug, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, every day. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you. I shut you out. I shut your father out. Everyone. Then when I tried to open up again, it was too late.”

  “It’s not too late. Sit down, Mom. Sit down.” He held her hands as she lowered into the chair beside him. “I’m going to marry Lana Campbell.”

  “You . . .Oh my God.” Her fingers squeezed his, and more tears spilled over as she began to laugh. “Oh my God! Married. You’re getting married. What are we drinking coffee for? I have champagne.”

  “Later. Later when we’re all together.”

  “I’m so happy for you. But your grandfather, he’s going to flip. Completely flip. Oh, I can’t wait to tell Jay. I can’t wait to tell everyone. We’ll have a party. We’ll—”

  “Slow down. We’ll get to that. I love her, Mom. I fell in love with her, and everything inside me changed.”

  “That’s just the way it’s supposed to be. God, I need a tissue.” She got up, pulled three out of the box on the counter. “I like her very much. I always did. And her little boy—” She broke off. “Oh my, I’m a grandmother.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “Give me a minute.” She pressed a hand to her stomach, breathed deep. “I feel good about it,” she realized. “Yes, I feel just fine about that.”

  “I’m crazy about him. I need you to sit down again, Mom. There are some other things I need to tell you. About Jessica.”

  “Callie.” Suzanne came back to the table and sat. “We should call her Callie.”

  Twenty-nine

  Where would she go?” Callie paced Jake’s office, pausing every few steps to study the time line. “No point in going back to Charlotte when her mother’s in custody. Her father’s dead. But would she risk trying to get out of the country, head down to the Caymans?”

  “There might be money there,” Lana offered. “Money comes in handy when you’re on the run.”

  “We’ve established Carlyle was ill, largely incapacitated,” Callie went on. “If they were still marketing babies, it’s unlikely he played a central role. He was old, sick, out of the country. He was dying. If they weren’t still in the business, why go to such lengths to stop me from tracking him down? From finding out? If and when I found him, if and when I gathered enough information to interest the authorities, he’d be gone. Or close to it.”

  “Logically, his connections feared exposure.” Jake continued scribbling on a pad. “Loss of reputation, possible prosecution and imprisonment. Or the business was still operating, which again leads to fear of exposure, prosecution and imprisonment, with the added incentive of loss of income.”

  “I don’t know how you can talk about it like a business.” Doug jammed his hands in his pockets. “Loss of damn income.”

  “You have to think as they do,” Callie replied. “See as they do. It’s how you understand their . . .” She gestured at Jake. “Culture, the societal structure of their community.”

  “Your own community may still be compromised.” Lana motioned toward the door that connected to the living area. “She didn’t do this by herself.”

  “It’s not one of them.” Jake pushed through papers he’d spread over his work area, checked data, went back to his pad. “She slipped in because she had a useful skill as well as forged credentials. Not that hard to pass the ID—it only required a decent hand with a computer to generate a connection to the university. A dig like this draws students, draws grads and itinerant diggers. But she had a specific skill.”

  “Photography,” Callie confirmed. “She’s a damn good photographer.”

  “Maybe she makes her living that way.” Doug lifted his shoulders. “Her legitimate living.”

  “She didn’t know that much about digging, but she learned fast. She worked hard,” Callie added. “Bob and Sonya were here before any of this started. They’re clear. Frannie and Chuck come as a set. She didn’t know a hell of a lot, but he did. No way this is his first dig. I’d say the same about Matt. He’s too knowledgeable about the procedure.”

  “We’ve had others come and go since July, and we can’t be sure about them.” Jake set down his pencil. “But this core group’s probably solid.”

  “Probably,” Doug echoed.

  “We work with speculation, based on data and instinct,” Jake pointed out. “We input what we’ve got, get the best possible picture, then take the leap.”

  He picked up a marker and, taking his pad, moved over to the time-line chart.

  “I believe the police will find her, just as they’ll track down the Simpsons.” Lana lifted her hands. “Once they do, they’ll gather up the rest. You’ve already broken the back of the organization. You have your answers.”

  “There’s more. Still more underneath. I haven’t got it all.” Callie stopped pacing to stand behind Jake. “What’re you doing?”

  “Blending time lines. Yours, Carlyle’s, Dory�
��s.”

  “What’s the point?” Doug asked.

  “The more data, the more logical any possible speculation.” Callie skimmed the new references as Jake lined them up. The date of Carlyle’s first marriage, the birth of his son, his move to Boston.

  “Big gap between the marriage and the arrival of the bouncing baby boy,” she commented.

  “People often wait several years before starting a family. Steve and I waited nearly four.”

  “It wasn’t as usual to wait this long forty, fifty years ago. And six years plus, that’s a chunk. Lana, do you have the data on his adoption practice before Boston handy?”

  “I can look it up. I brought all my file disks. Can I use your computer, Jake?”

  “Go ahead. I’m adding on the dates of your mother’s miscarriages, the stillbirth. Be interesting, wouldn’t it, to have a look at the first Mrs. Carlyle’s medical records?”

  “Mmm. You can’t be sure, yet, that’s Dory’s real date of birth.”

  “Bound to be close enough. She’s about your age, Cal. Makes her around twenty years younger than Richard Carlyle. According to my math, Carlyle would’ve been over sixty when she was born.”

  “Sexagenarian sperm’s been known to get lucky,” Callie commented. “How old’s Dorothy?”

  “Late forties, I guess,” Doug said from behind her.

  “Well into her fifties,” Lana corrected without looking around. “But very well put together.”

  Jake nodded, continued to calculate. “Maybe ten years older than Carlyle junior.”

  Doug watched them work. It was similar to watching them cook breakfast, he thought. The moves, the rhythm. “I’m not following this.”

  “Lana?” Callie studied the segments, the lines, the grid Jake was creating. “Got anything?”

  “I’m getting it. The first adoption petition I found was filed in ’forty-six. Two that year.”

  “Two years after the marriage,” Callie murmured. “Long enough. He’d been in practice, what, six years before he developed an interest in adoptions?” She stepped back, studied the entire chart, watched the pattern and connections form.