Traceless

by Debra Webb

  A blunt object connected with the back of his skull, and he plunged facedown in the dirt.

  He tried to push himself up from the ground, but his body would not obey the commands from his brain.

  Hands rolled him onto his back. His eyes refused to open … his arms wouldn’t thrash against the threat. The pain in his skull throbbed, showering the backs of his closed lids with pinpoints of light.

  Suddenly he was moving. Arms tugged at his shoulders. His heels dragged in the dirt. What the hell?

  He was lifted, hefted, and shoved until his jaw flattened against fabric. His body felt crumpled in an odd position. The familiar scent nudged him. His truck? It smelled like his truck. How had he gotten into his truck? Then he remembered the hands … the tugging and pushing.

  Why couldn’t he move or open his eyes? He felt heavy.

  Head trauma … he recognized the signs. Concussion or worse. He needed to call for help. Where was his cell phone?

  Something wet dampened his shirt … his jeans. Was he bleeding?

  His mind faded. He fought the blackness edging out his thoughts. He had to hang on! Had to fight.

  Something pungent, stinging, assaulted his senses.

  Gasoline? He struggled to analyze the new intrusions against his failing senses. The sound and smell of a match lighting? Awareness was diminishing.

  Focus! Don’t let go!

  A new odor penetrated the darkness and denial swallowing up his brain … something burning … he’d smelled it before … human flesh searing … .

  He was on fire.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Valley Inn 1:20 P.M.

  The knock finally came.

  Emily jumped though she’d been anticipating it for half an hour. When she and Clint had spoken on the phone, they had agreed he would work until one so as not to draw any unnecessary suspicion.

  She hurried to the door, almost opened it, but forced herself to check the peephole first.

  Clint.

  She slid the chain free of its catch and jerked the door open. “Hurry!” She grabbed him by the arm and yanked him inside. “I’m losing my mind!” She shut and locked the door and whipped around to face him. “Tell me what you found!”

  “Do you know how hard it was to get out of there?”

  Exasperation gushed out of her on a blast of air. “Tell me if you found the files!”

  “First.” He gestured to the bed. “Sit.”

  She couldn’t read his eyes … couldn’t tell if she needed to be worried. But since he appeared determined to do this his way, she did as he asked, anticipation bursting inside her.

  He lowered to the mattress at her side. Even with grease staining his T-shirt and smudging his jaw, he looked good to her. Just having him next to her made her relax … a fraction. Beneath the smell of grease, motor oil, and hard-earned sweat, she could still smell his skin. The intimate knowledge of his body made her feel more at home than she had since … since before her life ended … that night.

  “I couldn’t get out of the courthouse with the entire box of case files.” He held out his hands and indicated the size. “So I carefully looked through the documents until I found what I figured would help us the most. Then I put everything back just as it had been so no one would know I’d looked—unless they inventoried every single page and photo.”

  She shuddered at the mention of photos. But Clint had been right to be cautions. She wouldn’t put inventorying those particular files past Ray.

  “How did you get out?” She wanted to know what Clint had found, but she needed to know how he’d managed to escape more. The whole MacGyver concept fascinated her. Only Clint was real.

  “First I had to outsmart Ray’s men.”

  “They came in there looking for you?” Damn. Ray really hadn’t believed she was lying. Not that she could blame him. She never had been a very good liar.

  Clint nodded. “But I’ve had a lot of experience in making myself invisible.”

  She wished there were a way to even begin to make that up to him. The one thing she could do was help him solve the crime that had devastated his life. But she was doing that as much for Heather and her family … and herself as for anyone.

  “Lucky for me, they searched the files room first. As soon as they moved on to another room, I got the hell out of there. I barely squeezed through one of those dinky windows. Once I was outside I wasn’t worried. They were still inside. I got back to my place just a couple minutes before Ray showed up to make sure I was in the barn.”

  A chill swept over her skin at the idea of how close he’d come to getting caught. He’d gone to work today like always. Higgins probably had orders to notify both Ray and the parole officer if Clint didn’t show. Waiting until he’d gotten off work had driven her nuts!

  “So where is it?” He hadn’t brought anything in with him. If he said they had to go someplace else she was going to scream with frustration. He tugged the front of his T-shirt from his jeans and reached underneath. His hand reappeared with what looked like a single document folded multiple times and tucked into a sandwich bag.

  “Is that it?”

  He shot her a sidelong glance. “The idea was to get what wasn’t consistent with anything we already knew.” He tapped the small plastic bag. “This is an evidence report. I kept it taped under my dash all day. I stuck it under my shirt before coming in here just in case I was being watched.”

  “Good idea.” She reached for the bag, but he held it away.

  “Let’s talk about one thing first.”

  Her patience thinned, but he obviously had a point to make. “Fine, but hurry.”

  Those intense gray eyes flashed his appreciation. “Who knew about your window? I mean, the fact that you used it for sneaking in and out at night.”

  Emily felt the weight of regret.

  “Don’t go there,” he ordered. “Leave out the emotion. Concentrate. Who knew?”

  She tried hard to do as he asked, but it wasn’t easy. “The girls. It was kind of mine and Heather’s secret, but that night the others knew because of the finagling required to get out of the house after my parents had given me strict orders to stay home with my brother.”

  “By ‘the others’ you mean the cheerleaders?”

  “Not everyone, just the seniors.”

  “None of the guys knew?”

  He meant Keith. He didn’t have to say his name. “No. We didn’t tell just anyone.”

  “You left that night, did your hazing duty, and then you came back. The window was open when it should have been closed. Do you remember anything else? Any other items outside or in the room that shouldn’t have been there?”

  She thought long and hard, made herself look at those painful recollections for a whole minute, then two. Her stomach roiled viciously; then she shook her head. “Nothing. I was too caught up in trying to escape Mr. Call and then to save Heather … in trying to get you away from her.”

  The ache in his eyes told Emily he remembered that part well. “I was told,” he began, his eyes clearing as he moved past those details, “that the only evidence recovered from the room was the knife.”

  She nodded. That was right. She’d heard the same thing in the courtroom. A typical kitchen knife. No prints, nothing but Heather’s blood. They’d used the fact that Clint had been wearing gloves against him. Given his alibi, the gloves made perfect sense. He had been in the middle of stealing a car to hold as hostage for a loan shark. Of course Clint had worn gloves.

  “Well,” Clint went on grimly, “they lied to us.”

  “What?” Emily had known Chief Ledbetter. He’d gone to the same church as she and her family had. “Chief Ledbetter lied? Maybe there wasn’t anything else, Clint.” But then he wouldn’t have made the statement. She felt cold, cold and afraid of what he might be about to tell her.

  “Read this.” He gave her the evidence report he’d taken from the sandwich bag.

  She unfolded it and started at the top, read
each line carefully.

  “Item: one gold necklace with attached gold cheerleading charms. Discovered: clutched in victim’s hand. Condition: broken chain, covered in blood. Disposition:” The word “LOST” had been stamped along the disposition line on top of whatever was written there. The large red letters drew Emily’s eyes, past the other information.

  “They lost evidence?” This was unbelievable!

  “Read the disposition handwritten beneath the stamp.”

  The information entered on each line and within each block was handwritten. Male handwriting, she decided, peering at the small, angrily slanted words that she might have labeled simply sloppy were it not for the darkness of the ink and the deepness of the indentation made by the author. Emily angled the page and tried to read between the red letters of the single stamped word that had grabbed her attention before. “Hand carried to … lab for analysis … by Deputy … R … A … Y …”

  Ray Hale.

  Her breath bolted from her lungs.

  “I don’t believe it.” The words were a scarce whisper, a thought spoken.

  “The chain was broken as if it had been ripped from someone’s neck,” Clint clarified in case she’d missed it.

  Emily tried to reason what this meant. Even as she did, her mind and body started to feel numb, as if bracing for something she didn’t want to see … definitely didn’t want to feel. She hadn’t noticed anything in Heather’s hand, but then she’d been distracted by the blood and the wounds.

  “Does that necklace mean anything to you?”

  She nodded. “All the upcoming senior cheerleaders were presented a necklace like that at the end of junior year. It was tradition.”

  “Do you think the one found in your room was Heather’s?”

  Emily’s head moved from side to side of its own volition. “That’s the part that startled me. It wasn’t Heather’s,” she heard herself say as if she were far, far away in some distant place where the pain couldn’t touch her. But it did. “I had Troy get hers for me from her room the day of her funeral so she could be buried with it on.”

  “The funeral was closed casket,” Clint countered gently.

  Emily flinched. “Yes, but I was with Troy when he gave the necklace to the funeral director. Heather’s was accounted for.” She hauled in a big, cleansing breath. “And it wasn’t broken.”

  “What about yours?”

  Her gaze collided with his, but she knew the question wasn’t accusing. “A few weeks after Heather’s death my mother packed mine away with a lot of other stuff from that part of my life.”

  “So if the necklace wasn’t Heather’s and it wasn’t yours, why was it in your room and logged in as evidence?”

  “You know what it means.” The necklace had blood on it. It was broken. Heather had been clutching it in her hand.

  That couldn’t be.

  Lunch last week with the others barged into Emily’s mind like a runaway train exploding from a tunnel. Megan had worn her necklace … . Cathy had worn hers. Violet hadn’t … . I must have lost mine.

  “This can’t be right.” Emily shook her head in denial. “There has to be a mistake.”

  “Tell me what you’re thinking,” Clint prodded softly. “I need to know.”

  She turned to him. “Megan and Cathy wore theirs at lunch the other day.”

  “What about Violet?”

  Emily looked away, couldn’t believe what she was about to say had any significance. “She said she lost hers.” This was crazy. It was just a dumb necklace.

  “On that list you made,” Clint nudged, once more pulling her away from the emotional side of this, “you noted that Violet was jealous of Heather. That she wanted to be captain of the squad. That she wanted Keith for herself.”

  Emily threaded her fingers into her hair and cradled her skull to try to ease the throbbing tension there. “That’s all true. Violet is a pain in the ass, but she wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  Would she? Did Emily know for sure Violet wouldn’t? Emily had been to a shrink enough to know that obsession could do strange things to people. She of all people knew how a single obsession could overtake one’s life. Maybe Violet’s obsession with having Keith all to herself had pushed her over the edge. She couldn’t account for her necklace … she had known the window would be open and that Heather would be sitting in for Emily that night.

  “This has to be wrong.” Emily shot to her feet, paced the room. “Violet couldn’t have been that cold.” Careful calculation was required to commit a murder and get away with it. “And even if in some twisted heat-of-the-moment episode she had hurt Heather, Violet loved her husband. She wouldn’t kill him. She wouldn’t do that to her children … she couldn’t.”

  “It’s possible the two aren’t related,” Clint suggested.

  They both knew better than that.

  “Or maybe she caught him cheating on her.”

  Emily shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Did anyone else know Heather would be in your room that night?”

  “No.” She thought about it another moment just to be sure. “No one.”

  “Did Heather have any problems with anyone in or outside school that you were aware of?”

  “Everybody loved Heather. She was the most popular girl in school. Even …” Emily swallowed back the lump of emotion. “Even Violet seemed to adore her. She just wanted the things Heather had.”

  “But you said Violet seemed to worship Keith,” Clint countered with a truth that couldn’t be denied.

  Emily sifted her memory banks, forced herself to replay images she had banished years ago.

  “Keith never paid any real attention to Violet,” she recalled after a bit. The memory came with a price. Keith had been the cutest guy in school, next to Clint. He’d been witty, charming, the all-around good guy and beloved athlete. The boy voted president of the class by his peers. Now he was dead. Murdered. Emily shuddered, still had difficulty accepting that he was gone. So young, and with a family.

  “Wait,” Clint said, drawing her attention from the painful thoughts. “We may be looking at this necklace thing with too narrow a focus. “You said it was something the senior cheerleaders received. What about the year before? There may be other people we should be considering.”

  “It was a new tradition. The years before us the seniors had received charm bracelets. Justine said we were special.”

  “Then, what do we have?”

  Nothing. Even the necklace seemed so insignificant in and of itself. “We have nothing.” Emily couldn’t accept that, but neither was she willing to label Violet a murderer. “Violet might have lost the necklace. It’s not impossible.” Motive, means, opportunity. God, how did she overlook that? “I want to talk to her.”

  Clint stood, looked skeptical. “That could be a problem.”

  Violet’s husband was dead. Violet despised Emily for faltering in her stand against Clint.

  Emily lifted her chin in defiance of her own misgivings. “I’ll just have to deal with it.”

  125 Carriage Avenue

  2:30 P.M.

  Emily wished she had called first. She’d watched cars come and go from Violet’s drive for ten minutes. Most carried casseroles or a plant. Emily stood on the porch emptyhanded. What could she possibly bring that Violet hadn’t already received?

  Emily asked God to forgive her for coming here like this with a hidden agenda. This couldn’t be right. But people were dead, including Violet’s husband.

  Emily couldn’t allow sentiment to stop her.

  She pressed the doorbell and Violet’s mother came to the door, her eyes red and puffy.

  “Hello, Mrs. Manning.”

  The older woman managed a smile. “Em, it’s so good of you to stop by.” She opened the door wider, glanced briefly at Emily’s empty hands. “Please come in.”

  Emily felt exactly like a traitor crossing the threshold into this home of sorrow and grief.

  Mrs. Manning forced a dry sound
that might have been an attempt at a laugh. “Thank God you didn’t bring another casserole.”

  The smile that bent Emily’s lips this time felt more natural. “I was feeling a little guilty that I hadn’t.”

  The older woman pressed a hand to her chest. “Please, you’re one of Violet’s oldest and dearest friends. You don’t need to bring anything except yourself.”

  She used to be one of Violet’s friends. “How is she?”

  The question was stupid but expected.

  Mrs. Manning sighed, the effort a momentous task for her petite body. “As well as can be expected.” She wrung her hands as if uncertain what to do with them since there was no casserole or plant to accept. “The children are with my husband at the park. We felt they needed a break from … all this.”

  Plants and flowers were everywhere. Emily imagined that the counters in the kitchen were loaded with casseroles that wouldn’t fit into the fridge. Cookies and cakes and breads. Enough to feed an army. It was the Southern way.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Another expected question.

  Mrs. Manning patted Emily’s arm. “Thank you, Em, but I think I have things under control for now. Why don’t you come say hello to Violet? I know how excited she was to see you the other day at lunch. You’ll be a ray of sunshine on this dark day.”

  Evidently Mrs. Manning hadn’t heard about Emily’s recent exploits or had decided not to hold them against her. Either way, Emily was glad for the reprieve.

  She followed Violet’s mother through the grand home until they reached the double doors that likely led to the master suite. Mrs. Manning rapped softly on the door. “Violet, you have company, dear.”

  The door opened almost immediately and Violet appeared looking her usual regal self.

  “Em!” She rushed to hug Emily. “Thank you for coming.” She glanced at her mother. “Would you prepare tea, Mother? Tea would be so nice.”

  “Certainly, dear.”

  “Please, don’t go to any trouble,” Emily offered.