Traceless

by Debra Webb

  The front door closed. The sound unmistakable.

  Shit.

  She snatched up the photo and hurried to the bedroom door, then across the few feet that stood between her and having to answer a hell of a lot of questions.

  She eased the bathroom door closed, prayed it wouldn’t creak. She flushed the toilet. Turned on the water in the sink to make it seem as if she’d been doing her business.

  She needed a reason for being in here so long.

  The blood pounding in her head made it difficult to think. She set the photo aside, splashed water on her face, and rubbed her eyes hard. She turned off the water, grabbed tissues from the box on the toilet tank, and prepared to rejoin her hostess.

  The picture! Emily grabbed it off the counter. Shuddered at the images. She couldn’t possibly know these guys.

  What the hell did she do with the damned thing? If she left it behind, Justine would most likely find it. She’d just have to take it with her. She slid it inside the waistband of her panties. Gross but necessary, since she didn’t have any pockets.

  Okay. Now. She took a breath and opened the door.

  Justine was standing in the hall right outside.

  Emily yelped.

  “I’m sorry,” Justine said. “I thought something was wrong.”

  Emily dabbed at her eyes. “I guess talking about everything …” She shook her head, blew her nose. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, Em, I understand.” Justine put her arm around Emily’s shoulders and escorted her back to the living room. “Would you like a brandy or something?”

  Emily prayed the photo wouldn’t start slipping downward.

  She flashed Justine a weak smile. “I should go. Let you get to your shopping.” She grabbed her purse from the arm of the couch and tried her level best not to look nervous or guilty. “I hope I didn’t cause you to rush away your company.”

  “It was nothing,” Justine assured her. “A persistent salesperson.” She placed her hand on Emily’s arm as they walked to the front door. “I’m so glad you stopped by, Em. I’m sure I’ll see you at the funerals.”

  “Of course,” Emily promised. Her knees felt weak with relief as she crossed the threshold toward freedom.

  “Emily.”

  Slowly, Emily turned to face Justine. “Yes?”

  “Did you forget something?” Justine waited expectantly.

  Emily’s fingers tightened on her purse. Justine couldn’t know. “Did I?”

  “I need your address,” Justine said. “So I can mail you a new necklace if I locate one.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Emily gave her the address, thanked her again, and somehow managed to walk, not run, to her car. Justine waved as Emily backed out onto the street. As she drove away she passed a black car that looked vaguely familiar. Emily did a double take. Was that Misty Briggs? Too late to tell without driving past again. She damn sure wasn’t driving back that way again.

  Emily didn’t breathe easy until she had gotten back to her room at the inn. She’d had to make a stop by the office for a key, since she’d given hers to Clint.

  She took the photo from her panties, grimaced with distaste. She’d taken a hell of a risk going into Justine’s bedroom.

  And the pictures. Talk about disgusting. These women were teachers, for God’s sake! Emily was almost sure she knew one of these two guys. She peered at the photo in her hand. But she couldn’t be positive. In this one a naked, younger Justine watched two men engaged in oral sex. One had his back to the camera; the other’s profile was visible. The whole setup very similar to the other photo. Again, the blondish guy in profile looked kind of familiar. Emily shook her head. Some folks were just kinkier than others, she supposed. But it was the photographing of the activity that struck her as odd.

  What did she know? First thing to do was hide this photo. She couldn’t prove any of this was relevant, but she wasn’t taking any chances leaving it lying around. She hid the evidence of her pilfering beneath the bedside table. Her throat felt like sandpaper. She needed water. As she got to her feet, the light blinking on the telephone distracted her.

  She snatched up the receiver and went through the procedure for listening to the message. If this was Clint, that could only mean things had gone worse than expected. The voice rasped in her ear and Emily’s chest tightened.

  “Emily, this is Troy. I need to talk to you. I’m desperate, Em. I need your help.” Silence. “Please help me, Em. I’m at home all by myself.”

  Her fingers trembling, she dropped the receiver back in its cradle. She knew Troy was hurting. Keith had been his best friend. Ray had been Troy’s friend, too.

  If Troy needed her, she had to see what she could do to help. He was Heather’s brother. Emily couldn’t let him down. Maybe this would make up for the way he’d been hurt by her change of heart where Clint was concerned.

  She wadded the old note she’d written to Clint, then hurriedly prepared another telling him where she’d gone so he wouldn’t worry if he got back here before her.

  As she drove to Troy’s she kept replaying the way his voice had sounded. Definitely drinking heavy and definitely desperate. She hoped she wasn’t too late.

  First she went to the front door and tried the doorbell. She knocked a couple of times.

  No answer.

  He’d said he was home. His truck was here.

  The possibility that he’d hurt himself had her going around to the end of the house where a garage door stood open.

  She wove around the lawn mower, tricycles, and mountains of beer cans and made her way to the door that led from the garage into the house. The smell of oil, gas, and stale beer wasn’t a pleasant mix. Cabinets and shelves lined every wall—all cluttered with stuff from Christmas decorations to old buckets of paint.

  Rapping her knuckles sharply on the door, she shouted, “Troy! It’s Emily!” She knocked again and again, pausing to listen each time. Still nothing.

  She should just give up, but he’d sounded so desperate. She reached up to knock again. Pain exploded in the back of her head as she slammed face-first into the door.

  She crumpled onto the cool concrete steps and the blackness closed in on her thoughts.

  Her mind fought the darkness. She heard the sound of a car engine starting. Heard the rasp of rubber against concrete and brakes engaging tire tread. The smell of exhaust brushed her senses.

  Wake up! She couldn’t.

  Open your eyes! Too heavy.

  She was moving … sliding across the floor. She bumped something and cans rattled. Hands pulled at her, lifted her, then dropped her. Her face pressed against something soft … fabric?

  What was happening?

  A car door slammed. Then another. Movement. Music. The radio? Yes. The call letters of the station she always listened to as the deejay promised ten songs in a row. Emily inhaled, tried to analyze the smells. Her car?

  Emily licked her lips. Moaned. Told herself to wake up! Open your eyes!

  Her stomach roiled and bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it back. Had no idea how much time passed with the car moving … her head throbbing with pain so sharp she had to breathe shallowly to fight it. She floated in and out of awareness.

  The forward momentum ceased with jarring force.

  She groaned at the ache in her head.

  A door slammed. The sound reverberated inside her skull, causing ripples of pain.

  Silence.

  Another thump … like the trunk closing.

  Water sloshed on her clothes. Emily tried to open her eyes again … tried to reach up and block the splashing but couldn’t make her arms move.

  Not water, her mind argued, chemical … gasoline?

  Her heart stumbled.

  Get up!

  Her body was too heavy. She couldn’t move.

  But the car was moving … rolling. Or was it?

  Smoke?

  She smelled smoke.

  Get up!

  Metal smashed; someth
ing popped as she lunged forward. She flopped into the floor.

  Had she crashed?

  Was there a fire? She could smell something chemical … something burning. Her throat convulsed. She coughed.

  “Ms. Wallace? Emily?”

  Was someone in the car with her?

  Was she even still in the car?

  Her head hurt so bad … her lids felt too heavy to budge. Her lungs burned. The blackness tugged at her. She needed to go there … escape the pain.

  “Ms. Wallace, this is OnStar. Our monitors indicate that your air bags have deployed. Can you hear me, Ms. Wallace?”

  Emily tried to answer the woman, but her mouth wouldn’t form the words.

  “Ms. Wallace, if you can hear me, don’t be afraid; we’re sending help. Our monitors also indicate there may be a fire in the passenger compartment; can you move, Ms. Wallace? Can you get out of the vehicle?”

  Fire?

  Fear detonated along Emily’s nerve endings, sending a surge of lifesaving adrenaline through her veins, urging her body to react. To move.

  She forced her eyes to open. Couldn’t focus. Her lungs seized and her head spun. She coughed and gagged.

  “Can you hear me, Ms. Wallace? I can hear you coughing … Ms. Wallace?”

  Emily couldn’t answer. Her entire focus was needed to try to make her body move … to reach for the door … she had to get out of the car. It was on fire.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Pine Bluff City Hall 5:00 P.M.

  The interview room was becoming an all too familiar place for Clint’s comfort. As usual, he’d been brought here and left alone to sweat the possibilities. This time for more than an hour. If that was what Caruthers wanted, he would be damned disappointed. The only thing on Clint’s mind was the fact that there had been another murder.

  Ray Hale was dead.

  Anguish tore through Clint. No matter what Ray had done in the past, he was the only person in this whole goddamned town who had tried to help Clint. Not once had he shown his appreciation.

  Clint grabbed back control. He couldn’t let his emotions run away with him like this. He was sorry as hell that Ray was dead, but the best thing he could do for the man was find his killer. He couldn’t do that in here.

  Knowing that Caruthers would be watching him behind the two-way mirror on the wall, Clint sat right where they’d left him. No fidgeting, no looking around, absolute stillness. His goal was to get out of here, get to Emily, and keep her safe while finding some answers. Every time he turned around there were more questions and no answers.

  The door opened. Mike Caruthers and Lee Brady, Clint’s parole officer, entered the room. Brady took a seat at the table; Caruthers didn’t appear inclined to sit.

  “Mr. Austin,” Brady began, “I would strongly advise you to have an attorney present. The questions Deputy Caruthers is about to introduce could cause you to incriminate yourself, thus violating your parole.”

  Clint shook his head. “I don’t have anything to hide.” He shifted his gaze to the deputy. “Say what’s on your mind, Caruthers.”

  “Have you ever been to Ray’s hunting cabin?”

  “No. He offered it to me as a temporary place to stay after my house burned, but I declined.”

  “Where were you between noon and two P.M. today?”

  That was easy. “At work until one. You can check with Marvin Cook and the rest of the employees at the repair shop. I left at one and drove straight to the Valley Inn. I was with Emily Wallace after that until you picked me up. The manager at the inn saw me arrive shortly after one, and Emily and I left around two to go to Violet Turner’s house.”

  Clint wasn’t sure whether it was disappointment or relief he saw in the deputy’s eyes. Maybe a mixture of both.

  “Can you identify these?” He placed a plastic evidence bag on the table, the contents a handful of ripped photos.

  Clint studied the fragments, then said, “Torn photographs. I’d have to piece them together somewhat to be certain, but they look like some of the ones from my house. You saw the place after it was vandalized.” He didn’t have to remind Caruthers, but for Brady’s sake he did. The memory of all his mother’s damaged things squeezed his heart.

  “Is there any reason Ray would have these in his possession?”

  “As a favor to me, Ray took some of the pieces to a guy he thought could restore them. But I can’t say whether these are any of the ones he took, not without touching them and maybe not even then.”

  “Once I’ve confirmed your alibi, you’ll be free to go, but stay close to home or work. I may need to question you again. And,” Caruthers glanced at Brady before proceeding and he nodded, “we’re going to need to do DNA testing on any person of interest related to Keith’s case.”

  “If you don’t offer the sample voluntarily,” Brady explained, “they’ll get a court order. I’ve been made aware of the names on the list. There are several others, Mr. Austin, so don’t feel singled out.”

  “No problem.”

  Caruthers turned his back and headed for the door.

  Clint almost didn’t ask, but he needed to know. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Caruthers hesitated but didn’t look back. “We’re not releasing any of the details yet. When we do, you’ll read about it in the paper like everyone else.”

  No matter that Clint’s alibi was rock solid, no way they could try to nail this on him, Caruthers didn’t like him or trust him because of the past. But then, Clint had known it would be this way. There were simply some things a man couldn’t live down.

  Innocence would never be enough.

  Valley Inn

  6:15 P.M.

  Clint knocked first, but when there was no answer he used the key Emily had given him and entered the room. It felt a little different, being trusted with her key. But it was only a rented room, nothing to get excited about.

  “Emily?”

  He checked the bathroom. No Emily.

  Since her car wasn’t out front, she might have decided to spend some time with her parents, but he didn’t like not knowing.

  He noticed the note on the dresser then.

  He swore. What the hell did she mean, meeting Baker alone?

  He tossed the note back on the dresser and glanced at the clock. She’d left the time on the note. She’d been gone for an hour.

  He was going over there.

  410 Oak Avenue

  6:40 P.M.

  Baker’s house was silent, but his truck was in the driveway.

  Clint parked behind Baker’s vehicle and got out, his senses on alert to some danger he couldn’t name.

  If Emily had left already, where had she gone? He supposed she could have taken a different route back to the inn.

  He banged on the front door. Stabbed the doorbell a couple of times.

  No answer.

  Not a sound.

  Well, hell. If he was going to break into the guy’s house before dark, he’d better do it from the back. His lockpicking tools had been confiscated. Maybe he’d have to try kicking the door in. As long as it wasn’t steel.

  At the end of the house the garage door was open, so he checked there first. The garage was cluttered with junk, lawn maintenance implements and piles of beer cans. Baker was evidently starting a collection.

  Steel entry door leading into the house.

  Great.

  Clint tried the knob, and to his surprise the door was unlocked.

  Inside, the place was as dark as a tomb. Clint stayed still for half a minute and listened for any signs of life.

  Nothing.

  He flipped a switch in the kitchen and an overhead light flickered on. His apprehension mounting, Clint surveyed the room. Baker’s wife must be on strike.

  Clint moved toward the living room, then turned on a light in the short hall. Every damned blind in the house was closed tight. Baker was stretched out in his recliner apparently dead to the world. Clint watched a few seconds to make sure h
e was breathing. He looked like shit. Both eyes black, nose swollen.

  Yep.

  A .38 lay on the table by his chair. Using a dirty sock from the floor, Clint lifted the weapon and placed it on top of the entertainment cabinet out of sight and reach. Then he grabbed Baker by the shirtfront and hoisted him out of the chair. His eyes tried to open but couldn’t seem to stay that way.

  “Baker.” Clint shook him. “Wake up, you little bastard.”

  Baker’s eyes started that blinking, upward-roll thing.

  “I said, wake up!” Clint shook him harder.

  He started to struggle, mumbling nonsensical words.

  Clint hauled him into the nearest bathroom and shoved him into the shower. He turned the cold water on full blast.

  Baker screamed and cursed and tried to bolt.

  Clint blocked his path out of the three-by-three tile cubicle. “Come alive, Baker; we need to talk.”

  Baker’s eyes widened and fury blazed across his face. “I knew you’d come if I called her over here.”

  “Where is she?” Clint slammed him against the wall and held him there. He ignored the cold water.

  Confusion scrunched Baker’s face. “I … she didn’t show.” The fury made a reappearance. “But you’re here … .”

  Clint turned off the water and dragged Baker’s ass into the kitchen. He needed to speed up the process. He knew plenty of tricks. He’d learned them firsthand in Holman.

  He plopped Baker into a chair at the kitchen table. Clint searched a couple of drawers until he found what he wanted. Baker attempted to get up, but Clint slapped a hand on his head and shoved him back down. His level of intoxication made him easy to control.

  Clint sat down next to him and manacled the other man’s right hand. He flatted it on the table, palm down, and held it in place with his left. “Now, tell me where she is.”

  “I don’t have to tell you shit.”

  Using his free hand, Clint positioned the point of the knife’s long, slender blade against Baker’s hand at a strategic spot. “Tell me.”