by Kylie Brant
Zach smiled humorlessly. “He was right. He doesn’t have a son.” And he continued out the door. His relationship with his father had always been strained, but the reading of his grandfather’s will seven years ago had severed it completely. No big loss. Jarrett Wellen Bodine III was a fuckup of monumental proportions. The best day of Zach’s life had been when he’d gone to live with his grandfather for good when he was twelve. The old man had been hard, set in his ways, and difficult to please. But that had been infinitely better than being subjected to his father’s erratic behavior and drunken rages.
Letting the screen door slam behind him, he continued down the walk and rounded the corner to the parking lot. Thoughts of his father worsened his mood.
Maybe he just needed to get laid. He gave brief consideration to driving over to Shellie Mayer’s place. Thought better of it. A woman who’d called him an emotionally unavailable bastard just a couple weeks earlier probably couldn’t be counted on to roll out the sexual welcome mat, even if he’d agreed with her description. Especially since he had.
He unlocked his Trailblazer and got in. It wasn’t Shellie Mayer on his mind, at any rate. He had a mental flash of Caitlin Fleming’s expression before she’d walked out the door. Mocking. Daring him to . . . what?
Zach started the vehicle and shoved it into gear with a bit more force than necessary. It wouldn’t do to start reading things into her expression. Into her words. Wouldn’t do to start convincing himself that she was the kind of woman he could take to his bed and not end up with a truckload of regrets afterward.
But knowing that didn’t stop him from nosing his Trailblazer in the direction of Ketchers. Just to be sure she hadn’t done something stupid and headed over to the tavern despite his warning.
He didn’t see her vehicle in the rutted gravel lot around the tavern. But as he was passing by, a body flew out of the front door. A stream of men followed, trading blows and curses he could hear through his rolled-up windows. The thought of Cait mixing it up with the lame heads in there was difficult to picture.
What was getting increasingly easy to picture was the image of her stretched out in his bed. Beneath him. Over him.
He shifted uneasily. Because that train of thought wasn’t going to make it easier to spend the day with her tomorrow. Wasn’t going to make it easier to ignore the way she moved or the unwilling fascination about her lodged in his mind that he couldn’t shake loose.
Zach clenched his jaw and drove in the direction of home. He had a feeling sleep was going to be a long time coming tonight.
He’d used duct tape to shut her up, and he didn’t feel sorry for it. Not one bit.
There were still faint noises coming from the locked room, though. Metal clanking against stone. She must be using her feet somehow to slam the lawn chair against the wall.
Gritting his teeth, he adjusted the light and peered more intently at the sketch he was making. Barb Haines was a horrible, nasty woman. Unappreciative and foulmouthed. Never had it been this difficult to wait. To do things right. Respectfully . She wasn’t making things easy for him. For herself.
But the easy way wasn’t necessarily the right way. He’d learned that for himself when his mother had died.
Get a shovel boy. Start digging.
He flinched. He could still hear his father’s voice. Still feel the sting from the careless blow that had accompanied the words. But the old man couldn’t hurt him anymore. Couldn’t hurt anyone. He’d made sure of that.
But far, far too late to help his mother.
The memory burned, so he thrust it away. Tried to concentrate on the pleasant fifties melodies on the iPod. His mother’s favorite music. When his father wasn’t around, they’d listen to the radio for hours while they worked in the garden or did chores. But whenever his father came home, the music always stopped.
The night they’d buried his mother had been a night much like this one. Clouds covering the moon and stars, as if their glow had been doused out of mourning. He hadn’t been allowed to mourn. Tears were another excuse for a beating. And digging his mother’s grave in the middle of the night had left him too exhausted to feel anything at all. At least at the moment.
When his hand trembled, he paused, took a deep breath to calm himself. He needed absolute steadiness for the close work of the sketches. The sooner he got done, the sooner he could be rid of the woman in the next room.
But the sneaky slivers of memory wouldn’t be banished. He was nine again, shivering in the night air despite the sweat that slicked his body. Watching in the dim light let by the lantern as the old man rolled his mother’s body into the shallow grave.
Fill it in. And not a word to anyone about this. Remember? What’s the story?
The shovel handle had caught him across the back hard enough to leave a bruise that would last for weeks.
She ran off. She ran off and left us.
And uttering those words had been the ultimate betrayal to the woman who’d shielded him as best she could until then.
Don’t think about that. He drew in a deep breath. Blew it out slowly. He had all her best qualities. Hadn’t she always said so? He was sensitive and artistic and perhaps too compassionate for his own good.
The thought steadied him, so he picked up the pen again. Began drawing swiftly, surely, the final panel for the woman in the next room. It wouldn’t do to draw what he wanted, what best depicted his impression of Barb Haines. That would be an image of a she-demon, horned and fanged, complete with monstrous features. It might be true, but it wouldn’t be respectful.
The drawing soothed him, as it always did. But it would be good to get done with this last guest so he could return to the sketching he most enjoyed. He flicked a glance around at the superhero comics he’d drawn and taped to the wall. An artist needed his space to create. And he never felt closer to his mother than when he was engaged in the drawing she’d always encouraged.
That sound came again. Metal against stone. Faint but unmistakable. And fury bubbled up with a startling intensity.
“Shut up, you fucking bitch! Shut up shut up shut up!” The pen snapped in his grip, and he hurled the pieces across the room to bounce harmlessly off the door. He tried to draw a breath through a chest that had gone tight. His vision had grayed at the edges. He couldn’t hear his mother’s voice whispering in his ear anymore. But he could hear his old man laughing. Louder and louder until it echoed and rang in the small space, hurting his ears and filling his brain until there was nothing but that painful sound.
Moaning, he clapped his hands over his ears and rocked back and forth, battling to push the noise from his head.
He didn’t know how much time passed before the voice subsided and he took his hands away. The silence in his head was reflected in the next chamber. The woman had gone silent.
Calmer now, he got up to gather the pieces of the pen he’d thrown. He liked to keep his area neat. Tossing them in the trash, he sat down at his worktable again. Got out another pen and resumed sketching with a renewed sense of purpose. He’d finish the sketches tonight no matter how long it took him. Then the scalpel would need sharpening. He’d noted that last time but hadn’t gotten around to it yet.
Making plans always calmed him. He hummed along with the song playing on the iPod. Something about a car accident and rain and a last kiss.
Barb Haines wasn’t going to get a last kiss. She was only going to get a few last hours.
Because when he was done with his work tonight he was going to go into the chamber and snap that bitch’s neck.
In a feat of supreme irony, Lydia Regatta managed to get in the last word, after all. At least in Cait’s subconscious. Snippets from the past replayed in short Technicolor fragments in her dreams, melding and reforming with perfect accuracy memories she’d never waste time considering in her waking hours.
There was the heat of the lights again, the glare turning her skin to a sheen of perspiration. The excruciating ache of muscles held in one position f
or hours, waiting for the photographer to get the perfect shot. And always, always, her mother’s voice superimposed over every shoot. Every decision.
I want a different photographer. The last time she worked with Paolo he made her look like a cow. He never gets the right angle.
Cait shifted in the bed, burrowing her head deeper into the pillow. But she couldn’t shut out the movie replaying in her head. There was a much younger version of herself, jaw clenched, squaring off with her mother in their ongoing battle.
Later, darling. Your tutor says you’re excelling on all your class work. There will be plenty of time for school after this. Do you know how many girls your age would kill for the opportunities you have? And this is exactly what your father would have wanted for you.
The figures wavered at the edges. Melted away to form a new scene. Lawyers facing off across a long polished mahogany table. The smell of old books and rich leather filling the air. And her mother’s tight expression. Her voice clipped with disapproval.
Your father would be so disappointed in you, Caitlin.
So disappointed.
So disappointed.
Lydia’s voice rang like a knell in her head. The dream scene changed. A different office this time. But instead of a table, there was a desk. And an eight-year-old Cait sitting on her father’s lap. Inhaling the scent of cherry tobacco and peppermint that never quite masked the smell of the nasty brown stuff in the bottle he kept in his bottom drawer.
You have to be daddy’s big helper, Caitie. Can you do that?
His voice raspier, shushing the sobs she couldn’t seem to contain. The sense of impending doom that a child’s mind couldn’t fully comprehend.
Put the gun in the special place I showed you. No one will ever find it there. And Caitie . . .
His hands gripping hard—too hard on her thin shoulders.
... you can never tell anyone the truth. Not ever, Caitie. It’s our secret. Forever and ever.
It had been their secret. Because she’d done exactly what he’d told her that rainy evening.
And she’d never told a soul.
Her body twisted on the bed, caught in the desperate state between wakefulness and sleep, trying unsuccessfully to shrug off the mantle of slumber.
The scene shifted yet again, a dizzying blur of faces. The detective with the kind brown eyes who’d coaxed her out from beneath the desk. The lady with the old-fashioned dress and pinched-up mouth that’d asked her questions over and over again. The people moving through the funeral home, a parade of sympathetic faces and avid eyes, all speaking with hushed voices.
I heard it was a burglary gone wrong? How terrible for you, and poor little Caitlin.
Such a tragedy . . . why, she could have been killed, too!
Crimes like this are an outrage. No one’s safe in their own home anymore!
At least you have Gregory’s service pension. And the insurance policies . . .
The scene shifted again. They were in the lady’s office. The one with all the questions. Her mouth got smaller and smaller the madder she got. And she was very angry at Lydia.
Surely you’re going to get the child some help? After all she’s been through? She needs therapy to get over this. You can’t pretend it didn’t happen. You can’t . . .
The lady’s phone was ringing. Ringing and ringing and ringing, drowning out her sharp words as it rang and rang and . . .
Cait’s eyes opened to focus on the ceiling above the bed. A giddy sense of relief swept over her. Only a dream. One she hadn’t had in months.
In the next moment she turned her head, winced to discover it was still pounding. Her cell phone gave a final jangle before falling silent.
Jesus. Gingerly, she sat up in bed, reached for the phone. Caller ID showed Barnes’s number, so she called him back. The clock on the bedside table said five fifteen.
“Yeah, I figured I’d wake you.” The deputy’s voice sounded in her ear.
“Have to thank you for that,” she muttered. With one hand, she swept the hair back from her face. “Did something break yesterday? I couldn’t get you or Andrews all day.”
“Yeah, it was a real shit storm. But nothing to do with the case.”
Now that Cait was more awake, she could hear the exhaustion in the other man’s voice.
“We had a domestic dispute. Turned into a hostage situation. Guy finally blew his wife away a few hours ago before giving himself up.”
“Hell.” She rubbed her eyes. “Kids?”
“No. And that’s about the only positive thing about the mess. Anyway I’m just now heading home for some sleep. You have any luck yesterday?”
“None. I’m meeting Sharper to start again in less than an hour.”
“Okay, keep us posted. Oh, I almost forgot.” The words were spoken around a yawn. “State lab got our results on the bags. We’ve got one clear thumbprint on one of them. They ran it through IAFIS and came up with zip. We need to do an elimination match on anyone who came in contact with it, including you and your tech.”
It was all she could do to keep from snapping at him. She and Kristy were too well trained to touch evidence without gloves. But, she supposed, he’d claim the same for himself and his officers. “All right.”
“Get a sample from Sharper today, too.”
Her brows rose. Had she been first on the scene when they’d brought the bones out of the cave, she’d have collected elimination prints from everyone working the area. Especially the guide who’d admitted going down in the cave’s chamber first. But it would do no good to point that out, so she said only, “Okay. And you’ll do the same for the officers who worked the scene?”
There was a pause. Then, “Of course.”
She couldn’t prevent a huge yawn. And even that movement worsened the pounding in her head. “Anything else about the bags themselves?”
“Just that they’re biodegradable, which could be a plus for us. How many companies could there be putting out black biodegradable garbage bags?”
Cait glanced at the clock again. She still needed to shower and talk to the clerk about paying for another night. “Several, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. Well, I can continue on that lead. I’m shot. Need some rest before I fall down.”
“Go to bed, Barnes. I’ll let you know if we come across anything.”
Without further urging from her, the man signed off. Cait slipped from the bed, staggering a little as she headed to the bathroom. She hoped the General Store opened early. She wouldn’t make it through the day without buying some more pain reliever.
She could deal with a headache or with Sharper. But she was pretty sure she couldn’t handle both simultaneously.
He was feeling just surly enough to make a comment about her being late, even if it were only by two minutes. But when Cait slipped out of the vehicle and stalked by him toward the store without a word, the caustic remark he was about to make died on his lips.
The shades she was wearing weren’t needed to block the sun at this time of the day, and her skin was even paler than usual. Since he knew she hadn’t tied one on in JD’s last night, or gone to Ketchers, she likely didn’t have a hangover. He spent the next few moments debating whether to follow her inside. On the one hand, he was curious. He did, after all, have to spend the rest of the day with her. On the other hand, if this were related to a female thing, he had a male’s natural queasiness about too much information.
Pursing his lips in consideration, he decided to see what she was up to. PMS would only make Caitlin Fleming more dangerous. In which case it would pay to be forewarned.
But by the time he stepped inside she was already at the counter with her purchases, a couple granola bars, a hefty-sized container of Tylenol, and a bottle of water. And when she looked in his direction, he could feel her piercing glare behind the shades, even if he couldn’t see it.
Ignoring her, he headed to the cooler and got himself an orange juice and then snagged one of the hot breakfast sandwiche
s from the warmer. When he got outside she was already in his front seat, washing down a handful of pills with a long gulp of water.
He unwrapped the sausage and egg muffin and took a large bite before pulling out of the parking lot onto Highway 126.
“I can hear your arteries slamming shut in protest. They know you shouldn’t eat that thing, even if you don’t.”
Taking another healthy bite, he chewed and swallowed. “Concerned about me? I’m touched. But you’re the one who looks like a strong breeze would blow you over.”
With slow careful movements she leaned against the headrest. “Why don’t you just say I look like shit and be done with it?”
That almost surprised a laugh from him, but he was smart enough to squelch it. “If I thought that, I would. You don’t.” But she did look . . . fragile, somehow. Like she’d shatter under a careless word. An ungentle touch.
Which was absolute bullshit, because from what he’d seen so far, Caitlin Fleming was about as delicate as a pit bull on steroids.
“I had one too many beers to sleep last night. What’s your excuse?” He slowed near their turnoff, checking the light traffic before turning on to the secondary road.
“I had a conversation with my mother. Always conducive to pleasant dreams.”
Zach subsided. As crappy nights went, she probably won. Not that he had a mother, but just the mention of his father had been enough to keep him up to the wee hours working out his frustrations by hanging new sheetrock. And he hadn’t even talked to Jarrett. “How bad’s the headache?”
“On a scale of one to ten, with one being the fat opera tenor singing me lullabies in Italian, and ten being a dozen demented dwarves jack-hammering in my skull, I’d rank it a twelve.”
Since she was still coherent enough to be sarcastic he figured she’d last the day. But maybe not without making his absolute hell. “We could put this off a few hours. Let you get some more sleep.”
