Why do you have this? And why are you asking me about it?
This couldn’t be coincidence. As far as she knew, this knife was one of a kind. “Where did you get this picture?”
“A colleague.”
Abner?
She pushed the paper away, hoping he’d remove it from sight. “All I can suggest is researching online or in a rare weapons or antique weapons book.” She stood, trying to ignore her squeamish stomach, which roiled like a pile of twisting serpents. “I can show you where those are.”
“That would be something, I suppose. You’re sure you don’t have anything more to offer?” Very slowly, the man reclaimed the picture. “Any idea where I could locate one of these treasures in person, perhaps?”
Waves of trepidation rolled over her. She forced a short laugh and began walking. “I’m afraid not. Why would you think I would?”
He followed her to the nonfiction stacks and took his time answering, suddenly choosing to speak in a whisper, although no other people were near. “Because I believe you’ve seen that knife in person.”
Her hand froze near the spine of a book.
“Come now, your kidnapping is common knowledge.”
She squirmed when she felt his breath warm on her ear.
“And I happen to know that Abner Morrow owned that knife. It’s not a stretch to imagine he used it in your presence.”
Clamping her tongue, she neither agreed nor disagreed.
His gaze prodded. “What happened to it?”
“I don’t know.” A fiber of anger worked itself into her voice. “And even if I did, I don’t think an evil knife like that is something anyone needs to have.”
“Needs aren’t subjective.”
In that case . . . “I need you to leave.”
His eyes narrowed.
She narrowed hers right back.
“You might change your mind.” He held out a business card. When she didn’t reach for it, he stuck it between her fingers. The sharp cardboard edge nicked her skin. “The name’s Horace Cain. Call me if you remember anything about the knife and where it might be now. It’s extremely valuable and I’m willing to pay generously for it. Very generously.”
He smiled a flubber-lipped, gap-toothed smile, then turned and retreated, whistling tunelessly.
Coming to her senses, she flicked the card from her fingers and walked in the opposite direction, pulling in untainted breaths and rubbing her scarred finger so furiously, it stung.
The weird encounter weighed on her mind the rest of her shift, and when she turned out of the library parking lot, it lingered still, consuming her thoughts. She drove by habit, her mind disconnected from the road.
She was barely a block from the library when flashing lights and a siren kicked into her consciousness. Seized by concern, she pulled over. The police car didn’t sail past, but stopped behind her.
Great.
She shifted to park and rolled her window down, then pulled out her driver’s license. She’d been distracted, but didn’t think she’d been speeding. Maybe one of her indicator lights was out or something.
Trying not to worry, she tapped her foot as she waited with her hands at the top of the steering wheel, tension mounting.
Eyes on her side mirror, she saw a thin officer emerge from the squad car. Gravel crunched as he strode her way. His calm demeanor and blank expression met her at her window. She waited for him to speak as she handed him her license.
Studying it, he said, “Perigard.”
She swallowed dryness.
The officer tapped her license and assessed her with cool gray eyes. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“No, sir, I don’t.”
“You rolled the stop sign back there.” He motioned with his head.
She frowned. She didn’t think he was right, but then, she’d been preoccupied, her mind whirling with thoughts of the strange man in the library. She’d also been eager to get to the hospital to see Ben.
The officer straightened. “I need you to step out of the car, please.”
Really? Shouldn’t he return to his car and write her a ticket? Trying not to appear hesitant, she obligingly slipped out.
The officer put his hand on her door before she could close it. “You don’t mind if I search your vehicle real quick, do you?”
“No, go ahead.” I’ve got nothing to hide. Still, she hovered near, feeling uncomfortable, knowing she’d agreed too readily.
She pictured Max, her twin, shaking his head. “No cop’s got a right to search your car or house without a warrant.”
I’ve got nothing to hide, she repeated to herself. And if I cooperate, maybe I won’t get a ticket.
She folded her arms against her churning stomach and watched the officer as he ran his hand over and under the seats, searched the console, then opened the glove box. He leaned closer, interested in the contents.
After a moment, he pulled out several plastic baggies. She didn’t recognize them, nor the small grayish cubes they contained. All she knew was, they shouldn’t be there.
A wave of nausea rolled over her, followed by a dreadful pang.
The officer emerged.
Charlene willed his stern lips to reassure her, to squelch her mounting fear, but instead he went for his handcuffs.
“Ms. Perigard, you’re under arrest.”
Chapter Three
Drugs? In my car? How? Charlene’s head pounded, trying to make sense of it. Impossible. It was all a huge, terrible mistake.
She tried to detach herself from the arrest process and pretend it wasn’t really happening.
Didn’t work.
She was acutely aware of her hands tugged behind her back and metal clamped to her wrists.
“You have the right to remain silent . . .” The familiar words took on a new meaning now that they were directed at her. Each word struck her like a physical blow.
She tensed as she was patted down, then ushered into the back of the squad car. The plastic seats were hard, unyielding. She eyed the clear solid partition that divided the car: the front, for the cops; the back, for criminals. And here she sat.
During the drive, she kept her neck stiff, her face expressionless, not wanting anyone—even strangers—catching sight of her. She watched the familiar town pass by, yet it felt unfamiliar, somehow, from this degrading position.
There was the church, the cemetery. She thought she saw a man standing just about where Margaret Morrow’s grave was. Who . . . ? She craned for a better view. Could it be . . . ?
No, the man was too large. Couldn’t be Clay.
Her head swimming, the cemetery flashed by, but she closed her eyes and returned to it, escaping the cop car the only way she could, into memory. And to the last time she had seen Clay. Over three years ago, at his mother’s funeral . . .
Plodding through the snow in St. Paul’s Cemetery, Charlene trailed along at the end of the short procession, her eyes at the front of the line, on Clay’s rigid back.
He hadn’t looked at her once.
Does he even know I’m here?
Of course, she realized he had the weight of his mother’s death on his mind, and she couldn’t blame him for his tunnel vision. Still, she couldn’t help yearning for one glimpse of his eyes. Just one, to know he was okay.
He wore a black suit and no winter coat—nowhere near warm enough for this January day. What was he thinking? He had to be freezing.
He stopped at the mouth of the gaping rectangular pit, a rough blight in the soft white snow. Artificial turf, too green for the dead of winter, draped the opening.
He stood stiffly, but his head bent slightly as he looked down into the depths, and her heart ached. Please, God, let this year be a better one for him.
Indeed, her thoughts were more for him than his mother. She, Charlene was sure, was at peace now, while Clay . . .
She blinked at the hole in the earth, which summoned too many horrid memories to count, memories that she shared w
ith Clay and her brother Max. Memories of evil, torture, blackness, and near-death.
Shivering, she forced the images away and tugged her wool hat tighter over her hair and ears. Inside the soft lining of her right mitten, she moved her fingers to brush gently over the cross-shaped scar in her palm. Stroking the scar had become a habit over the past year, and she couldn’t quite decide if it was a nervous or a comforting gesture. Perhaps some of both.
Once the plain wooden casket was gently deposited by the pallbearers onto the supports spanning the open grave, Father Villateshire began the graveside service. The sky pressed down like a slab of gray ice, threatening fresh snow. Meanwhile, arctic winds scraped flakes from the ground and tossed them about with spiteful abandon.
She felt a touch on her shoulder before someone whispered, “Hey, Charlene.”
Turning slightly, she saw Ben standing beside her, gentle concern clouding his blue eyes, and she offered a small smile. It was so like him to make a point of coming to the service. He must have been in church, too, and she just hadn’t noticed.
Tall and attractive, with shiny hair so dark brown it looked practically black, Ben was surely at the top of the church ladies’ eligible bachelor list. Guys these days just didn’t come this perfect. Charlene knew she should be happy that he showed such patient interest in her, but today she only felt sad.
“How are you doing?” he whispered.
For lack of sufficient words, she merely gave a little shrug. He continued standing close beside her, a warm pillar blocking the wind.
She shifted slightly and glanced heavenward, imagining Margaret free of earthly pain and suffering, her soul joyous in the radiance of God’s love.
Then her gaze returned to earth. To Clay. She saw no tears, but she suspected he was fighting them. She resisted the urge to go to his side.
Father Villateshire finished the prayers and blessing, then moved to say something to Clay before grasping his shoulder in a way that said, “Stay strong,” and departing.
The funeral director stepped forward and announced formally, “This concludes the service.”
As people dispersed and moved away, she noticed one man, thin and dressed in black, far beyond the headstones, lingering near a cluster of trees. Watching. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him at St. Paul’s before, but then he wasn’t close enough for her to see him well. She couldn’t tell if he was young or old.
Her train of thought broke as a sudden swarm of cameramen and microphone-wielding news-reporters descended on the cemetery. Her heart lurched as the crew barreled toward Clay.
“Mr. Morrow . . .” They addressed him respectfully, but their questions were invasive.
“Were you released from prison in time to speak with your mother before she died?”
“What can you tell us about your time in prison?”
“Do you think that you got a fair sentence?”
Her eyes squeezed shut briefly. Why hadn’t anyone foreseen and prevented this? The obituary had been in the paper, the funeral wasn’t private, and of course the sensation-hungry media would seize this opportunity to revive and expand on the famous Perigard kidnapping case.
Before Clay had a chance to respond, the vultures spotted her and swooped her way.
“Charlene Perigard, do you still maintain that Mr. Morrow was innocent of all charges?”
Instead of dignifying the news crew with a reply, she pressed her lips together.
Undeterred, they continued. “Has your grandfather welcomed you back yet, or are you still disinherited?”
“Are you and Mr. Morrow on friendly terms now that he’s been released from prison? Do you have any plans to—”
“That’s enough.” Ben stepped in front of her and spoke gruffly. “You’re all way out of line. This is a funeral service, people. A funeral! Where’s your respect?”
Clay, reacting belatedly because he’d likely been stunned speechless by the rude intrusion, suddenly charged forward, pushing microphones away and shoving a cameraman.
Stumbling, the cameraman cursed.
Clay brandished a fist. “Get out of here.”
The guy took a hasty step back. “Man, they should’ve kept you locked up. You’d better watch it unless you want another assault charge thrown at you.”
The charge was Accessory to Assault, Charlene silently and indignantly clarified, as if the technical distinction would make a difference in anyone’s opinion. The conviction had been very light, considering all the charges Clay had been facing—but not light enough considering the fact that he should have walked free.
“Like I said,” Ben repeated, stepping in front of Clay and facing the cameraman, “this is a funeral. You’re not welcome here.”
“We got what we needed.” The cameraman thrust his chin in Clay’s direction. Looking smug, he and the rest of the crew departed to the sidewalk and disappeared past the church.
Clay’s ears burned red as he glared after them. She studied his face, which seemed too thin; his eyes, too shadowed; and his nose still had that slightly off-kilter look. Her gaze moved to his russet hair, which was longer and more disheveled than the last time she’d seen him. That was at the sentencing back in early September, when he’d been slapped with a year and a day in prison. Since he’d already served eight months while waiting for trial and sentencing, he’d only had to finish out the remaining four.
Only, her mind scoffed.
Even one day was too long.
He’d been released a week ago—just in time to plan his mother’s funeral. God knew Margaret had hung in as long as she could in hopes of seeing her son free, but it wasn’t quite long enough. In a cruel twist of irony, she’d died the day before Clay’s release.
Charlene had wanted to visit him in prison, but he’d been adamant in his letters to his mother that he didn’t want any visitors, particularly her, and she wasn’t quite sure how to take that. She had tried to write him, but no matter how she worded the letters, they seemed so far from sufficient that she never could bring herself to send them . . .
But what did all that matter now?
She opened her eyes as the police car pulled to a stop at the station, halting her morose trip down memory lane. Her wrists shifted, clinking the handcuffs.
Lord help me, it’s not the past I need to worry about.
* * *
Nails had easily found the old obituary online, then clomped through the cemetery and found the headstone.
On the road past the church, a cop car drove by, and he smiled because he wasn’t in it. Never would be again. He’d make certain.
He grinned at the shiny headstone and pictured the kid standing here at his mother’s burial, probably crying like a baby. The image gave him some satisfaction, but not enough. Not near enough.
And that church behind him. His back muscles tightened. Catholic. The thought dredged up twenty-two years ago, life with the Callaghans. An angelic, smiling face framed in copper curls intruded into his bitter thoughts, but he severed the vision and forced his gaze to the ground.
Wrinkly brown flowers lay on the plot. Old, but not very. Figured the kid still visited like a dutiful son. Sickening.
Beloved Mother, read the stone. More sickening.
His own mother had been a screaming manic witch who ended up plunging a needle into herself to escape life. A weak woman. The only thing she’d ever cared about was finding a vein to shoot herself up. He hadn’t visited her grave since they’d forced him to the funeral.
With the heel of his boot, he ground the dead flowers into the earth, then stomped away.
* * *
The black receiver felt slick in Charlene’s hand. She stared at the silver-corded jail phone, the numbers on the dirty keypad, and willed her brother to answer her collect call.
I need you, Max.
When he didn’t answer, she willed him to sense her need, but she knew it was useless. He’d never really bought into her twin-intuition claim, despite the fact that it had helped
her come to his aid in the past.
Payback time, brother.
Not that he could do much from where he was, California, countless states away. Even if he was a professional magician. She cracked a smile. That would be quite the trick, relocating from some fancy stage to this dingy jail to perform a Houdini escape. At least he was living his dream, anyway. Good for him.
She clunked the useless phone down and wished for hand sanitizer. Then she dropped into a seat as far away from the other inmates as possible.
With Ben in the hospital, Max was the only person she could call for help. Her sheltered upbringing and introvert ways had left her rather bereft of friends. Yes, she had acquaintances, particularly from school, church, and the library, but not one person she’d be willing to call from jail.
Her gaze roved the large lounge, called a “day room,” afraid to meet the other inmates’ eyes. Everything about the room was depressing—the wall of phones, hard plastic chairs, and a TV mounted on a cinderblock wall. Doors to cells surrounded the perimeter of the room. The overhead fluorescent light hurt her eyes, and she averted her gaze.
Out of nowhere, her thoughts turned to Clay, how he had been through this, much worse than this, and she wished . . .
What?
She wished she wouldn’t think about him. Ever. She was sure he didn’t waste time thinking about her. Frustrated, she tried to grind her socked heels into the floor. All they did was slip.
If only her parents were still alive. Calling Ben’s parents crossed her mind, but she recoiled at the thought. They had enough to deal with. Calling them right now would be nothing but selfish.
Nope, it had to be Max. If she could just get ahold of him.
With a raging sigh, she dropped her throbbing head in her hands and drove her elbows into her knees. The fear and indignity of the past hours ate at her, and she choked back the urge to cry. She wouldn’t show weakness. Not here.
She stared at a scuff mark on the beige floor and rubbed her neck. She’d wait ten minutes, then try Max again. She had till ten-thirty before lockdown. The only nice surprise in this entire ordeal was that she was allowed, contrary to popular belief, more than one phone call.
After the Thaw Page 3
