“What? That’s not true!”
“I’m not stupid, Kenny. I know you never got over her, that she’s the reason you still hate Mike Donahue.”
He was shaking his head. She’d made the mistake of getting too near him. He captured her hand, pulling her down on the sofa beside him. He took both her hands in his. She should pull away, but the grave look on his face made her stay put.
“I feel terrible about what happened to Chrissy, but I was never in love with her,” he said. “Sure, I liked that a popular girl like her paid attention to me, but it didn’t break my heart when she dumped me.”
He looked earnest, but Laurie was afraid to believe him. “Then why do you hate Mike so much? Why did you put that bloody towel in his trunk?”
“Whoa! What bloody towel?”
He shook his head throughout her entire explanation of what the police had found in Michael’s PT Cruiser. “I’d never do anything like that.”
“Then why did you lie to the cops about hearing him threaten to kill Mr. Coleman?” she retorted.
“Okay, you got me,” he said. “That was wrong. But Donahue will come through okay. A guy like him always does.”
“What do you mean, a guy like him?”
“Oh, come on, Laurie. When we were in high school, other kids looked up to him even after he got out of juvenile detention. Johnny Pollock was always talking him up, telling people what a great friend he was. You thought he was cool, too. You still do, with his Peace Corps job and that selfless act of his.”
“You’re jealous,” Laurie accused, instinctively knowing she was right.
“So what if I am?”
“There’s no reason for you to be jealous. You know my boss has a thing for Mike, right?”
“What’s to stop you from having a thing for him, too?”
She took a breath, then a leap of faith. “You, Kenny. I’ve only ever had a thing for you.”
A look of awe came over his face and he reached for her, but she put a hand on his chest.
“Before we try this again, we need to get a couple of things straight. One, you have to tell the police Mike didn’t threaten to kill Mr. Coleman.”
“I will,” he said.
She kept her hand planted on his chest. “And two, you need to drop that computer course and ask Will Turner for your job back. If you take classes, they should be business classes so you can own your own garage one day. You need to start believing in yourself the way I believe in you.”
He smiled at her. Valentine jumped up and down on the carpet at their feet, clamoring for attention.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“I’m thinking that even though you talk way too much, I’m never gonna stop loving you.”
She smiled back, going willingly as he gathered her more fully into his arms. There was nothing she could add that would make this moment—this reunion—more perfect.
MICHAEL REACHED the edge of the woods behind Quincy Coleman’s house and stopped as if he’d slammed into a brick wall, riveted by the sight of Sara peering through a window on the rear porch.
She stood back, her hands on her hips in what appeared to be frustration. She should have looked polished and professional in flats, wide-legged slacks and an unstructured jacket with three-quarter-length sleeves, but the aura of being in control she usually projected was gone.
When he’d gotten her call about the new piece of evidence, he was within easy walking distance of Coleman’s house because he’d remembered a cave he’d stumbled across as a teenager. He found bat droppings inside instead of Quincy Coleman.
The promise of a new clue had brought him to Coleman’s house, his hope rekindled that the missing man would soon be found. But standing here, watching Sara, he realized the prospect of seeing her had been just as much a draw as his hope.
He emerged from the cover of the trees, expecting Sara to wait for him to reach the porch, but she hurried down the steps, rushing across the lawn. The sun bathed her face, highlighting the faint worry lines that creased her brow.
He fought not to reach for her and assure her that whatever was troubling her would be okay. He’d forfeited the right to touch her when he’d lied and said he only cared about her in relation to sex.
“Has anyone seen you since I called?” she asked, not bothering with a greeting, a not-so-subtle by-product of the cavalier way he’d treated her.
“No,” he said. The professional search teams had moved on to more distant sections of the woods, and most of the volunteers had returned to their day jobs. After nearly four days with no sign of the man, most people had given him up for dead. He’d heard that tomorrow the police planned to call in cadaver dogs. “Why?”
“Chief Jackson is looking for you. He’s going to arrest you,” she said.
He listened with disbelief and frustration to her account of the bloody towel being found in the trunk of his rental car.
“I’m going to the police station to clear this up,” he declared when she was through.
“No!” She put a hand on his arm, the first time she’d touched him since he’d said those cruel things. Just as quickly, she took her hand away. “You can’t go to the police yet. We don’t know what else they have on you. It’s pretty obvious someone’s trying to frame you.”
She hadn’t asked for an explanation of how Coleman’s monogrammed towel had ended up in his trunk. She’d given him the benefit of the doubt, as she had since the moment they met. He cleared his throat, trying to camouflage how much her blind faith in him meant to him. “So you think it’s Coleman’s blood on the towel?”
“I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. But it didn’t look like a new towel, and there wasn’t a lot of blood on it. Maybe Coleman was using it as a rag. Didn’t you say Kenny Grieb’s parents live next door? Maybe Coleman cut himself when he was working in the yard, and Kenny saw the towel lying around and grabbed it.”
“That’s a lot of maybes,” Michael said.
“I know,” she said. “Even if Kenny did plant that towel in your trunk, we can’t prove it.”
“Then let’s focus on that new piece of evidence.”
She grimaced. “Here’s where I confess I haven’t found it yet.”
He didn’t understand. “Excuse me?”
“I thought—okay, hoped—the police missed something, but it looks like somebody’s already cleaned up in Coleman’s kitchen. We can’t get in the house without permission anyway.”
Her comment drove home that, as a lawyer, she was duty bound to play by the rules. “You said Chief Jackson is looking for me. Aren’t you required to bring me in?”
“We both know Coleman’s probably dead,” she said instead of answering his question. “If we don’t figure out what really happened to him, you’ll be charged with murder.”
He didn’t deserve her support, not after he’d deliberately pushed her away. “Why does it matter so much to you?” he asked, suddenly needing to know.
“It’d matter to me if any innocent man went to prison,” she answered, which was what he deserved but not what he wanted to hear. Idiot that he was, he’d been hoping she still cared about him.
“Then let’s see if the garage is unlocked,” he suggested, hiding his disappointment.
“Good idea,” she said.
He surveyed their surroundings as they walked together to the detached concrete structure, grateful not to see any lurking neighbors who might alert the police. Just in case, he wasted little time going directly to the side-entrance. The door was unlocked, as it had been the night Wojo had followed him.
“You sure you want to come in?” Michael asked, his hand still on the doorknob, worried about the possible repercussions she might face. “It could be bad news if we got caught.”
“Then we won’t get caught,” she said. “So let’s be quick about this.”
Arguing with her would be useless so he preceded her into the garage, his impressions the same as they had been the afternoon he’d
argued with Coleman. The interior of the building was just short of immaculate, the motorbike the only thing that seemed out of place.
“I’ve never seen such a neat garage.” Sara’s sigh was audible. “I don’t know if we’ll find any clues here.”
“I thought the motorbike was a clue.” Michael told her about leaving her bed to check if it was still in the garage and his theory that Coleman might have covered a lot of ground if he’d been on a motorbike instead of on foot. “But, as you can see, it’s still here.”
Sara walked over to the motorbike, running her fingers over the curved handlebars. “I wonder why Coleman has one. He seems pretty active, but I doubt many men his age ride them.”
“Chrissy used to have a motorbike,” Michael said. “It could be the same one. Maybe he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.”
“That makes sense.” She gestured to a garishly painted ceramic ashtray on one of the counters that looked like the work of a third-grader. Above it, a faded painting of a stick-figure family hung from the wall. Beside the painting were a dozen or more unframed photos. “Look at these.”
Only a few of the photos contained either of the elder Colemans. Most were of Chrissy, their only child. Michael focused on a close-up of the blond, blue-eyed girl he remembered. She was frozen in time, destined to grow no older than her teens.
“She was pretty,” Sara said quietly. “What was she like?”
Willful. Headstrong. Manipulative.
The words jumped to mind, but he swallowed them. He wasn’t about to malign a girl who would still be alive if not for him.
“She liked to have fun,” he said. “And she liked to get her own way.”
“Don’t we all?” Sara said wistfully.
Sara moved slowly from left to right, with Michael looking over her shoulder, past photo after photo of Chrissy. Chrissy in a tutu. In a cheerleader’s uniform. In a prom dress. In shorts and sunglasses. In a bathing suit.
His eyes swung back to the photo of Chrissy wearing the dark, oversized shades. It was one of the few that included Quincy Coleman. Father and daughter stood beside each other, wearing twin smiles.
Standing in front of identical motorbikes.
“Do you see that, Michael?” Sara gestured to the photo he was examining, excitement in her voice. “The Colemans have two motorbikes. You could have been on the right track the other night. Coleman could have gone into the woods on a bike.”
“They had two motorbikes,” he said slowly, his theory suddenly seeming full of holes. “Chances are Coleman got rid of one.”
“But look at this garage. It’s full of things that would remind him of Chrissy. Why dump the motorbike?”
“I only saw one the last time I was here.”
“You weren’t specifically looking for another one,” she argued. “It could have been beneath a tarp. Or in the shed in the backyard.”
“I don’t know, Sara,” he said slowly. “The more I think about it, the more far-fetched it seems. When Chrissy was alive, she and her dad used to go to an off-road track. They don’t allow motorbikes on the mountain-bike paths around here.”
“But didn’t you say Coleman was upset? That he’d been drinking? What makes you think he’d follow the rules? Couldn’t he have gone into the woods behind his house and picked up a trail?”
Michael had entertained that same scenario just a few nights ago. “That’s a good point, but the bike trails around here are well-used. If Coleman had had an accident on one of the trails, somebody would have found him by now.”
“Not if he took a wrong turn. It rained pretty heavily on Saturday. And heaven knows there’s a lot of woods to search.”
“Those paths are well-marked. It’s hard to veer off one. They even put up signs when…” His voice trailed off as he remembered a warning he and Johnny had stumbled across when they were searching for Coleman. They’d been on the outer edge of the designated search area, farther than a man could have reached on foot. “I think I might know where to look.”
DANGER: EROSION. Sara read the sign blocking off a section of a mountain-bike path that was a short hike from the spot on the shoulder of a two-lane, twisting road where Michael had directed Sara to park.
They’d spent the past ten minutes in silence while they walked under the canopy of trees, the beauty of the weekday afternoon surrounding them. With each step, Sara felt as though they were getting closer to solving the mystery of Quincy Coleman’s disappearance.
She was no nearer to figuring out whether she bought Johnny Pollock’s theory that Michael had pushed her away to protect her, and Mrs. Feldman’s claim that Michael loved her.
She wanted to believe both statements, just as she longed to believe they’d find Quincy Coleman alive, but she was afraid all of those scenarios were long shots.
“The ground’s still pretty soft.” Michael broke the silence, toeing the beaten-down path with his hiking boot. “I don’t see any tracks, but the rain might have washed them away.”
He stepped over the chain stretched across the section of path, then held out a hand to Sara. She let him help her, pretending she didn’t notice the electric moment when their hands touched.
They started along a section that was about six feet wide and level, but it quickly started ascending and soon narrowed to approximately half its width. Portions of the left side of the path had crumbled into the hillside.
“Stay as far to the right as you can.” Michael made a barrier with his outstretched arm, wordlessly promising to catch her if she stumbled.
Protecting her.
“This path is narrow even for someone on foot.” Sara prided herself on being in shape but she was slightly out of breath from the uphill climb. “If Coleman went this way, it seems he would have turned back.”
“Yeah, it does.” Michael sounded unaffected by the exertion, as though he was the runner instead of her. “Let’s go to the top of that rise. If we don’t see him, we’ll turn back.”
The increasingly difficult climb proved to be worth the effort for aesthetic value alone. With the sun shining and the grass lush from the recent rain, the view from the crest to the valley below was postcard-perfect. The world looked green for as far as the eye could see, but Sara spotted neither motorbike nor man.
“It was worth a try,” Sara said, “but there’s nobody here except us.”
“Well, we both knew it was a shot in the dark.” Michael started descending the path, holding out a hand to help Sara navigate a slick spot. She took his hand at the same moment she heard something cry out. They both froze.
“Did you hear that?” she whispered.
“Shhh,” he said, her hand still tucked in his. They stood perfectly still, only their breathing audible in the stillness of the afternoon.
“Help!” The cry was weak but unmistakably human.
“It’s coming from down there.” Michael indicated the hillside that dropped steeply from the path. He dropped her hand and ventured to the edge of the path, peering over the side.
“Oh, my God! It’s Coleman,” Michael said. “It looks like he’s hurt.”
“Give me your cell phone.” Sara waited while Michael unhooked it from the clip on his waist, then grabbed it, all the while praying he had service. One bar showed up on the screen—not much but enough.
“Hang on, Mr. Coleman! Help is coming!” Michael shouted down the hillside. To Sara, he said, “Stay here. I’ll go down and wait with him.”
The dispatcher who answered the emergency call was a local, familiar with the road where Sara had parked. Sara quickly described the direction in which she and Michael had walked, and the dispatcher promised to send help.
After disconnecting, it occurred to Sara that one of them should meet the rescue team halfway. She scrambled down the hill, following the path Michael had taken, intending to volunteer to stay with Coleman if her rudimentary first-aid skills were better than his.
Quincy Coleman lay on a tiered section of hillside about twent
y yards from the point where his motorbike had left the path. The bike lay in a mangled heap ten yards farther below. He was positioned awkwardly, with one leg under him and the other outstretched, leading Sara to guess he’d broken a limb.
Michael was crouched beside Coleman, his back to Sara, one of his large hands on Coleman’s narrow shoulders. He held the water bottle he’d brought along to Coleman’s parched lips, making sure the man took small sips so he wouldn’t get sick.
“Just bear with me a little while longer,” Michael said. “It looks like your leg’s broken and you’re probably suffering from exposure, but the EMTs will get you off this mountain and fix you right up.”
“So sorry,” Coleman croaked. Sara moved nearer, straining to hear him. “My fault.”
“Lots of people have motorbike accidents,” Michael said. “Nobody’s blaming you.”
“No, no.” Coleman shook his head, obviously agitated. “Sorry about Chrissy. Sorry I blamed you. My fault. My fault.”
He seemed on the edge of delirium. Michael must have realized that, too, because his voice gentled. “Take it easy. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“But I do.” Coleman’s voice was rusty from disuse but he kept talking, rasping out his sentences. “Lot of time to think. Told Chrissy…never wanted to see her again if she left with you. Never did.”
It seemed to cost Coleman precious energy to talk. Once again Michael put the water bottle to his lips, offering the man small sips.
“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Michael said. “You couldn’t have known what would happen.”
“Should have known. She was sad, so sad.” Now that his throat had been lubricated, Coleman’s voice sounded stronger. “She called me. Said she was unhappy and wanted to come home. I told her she wasn’t welcome. A day later, she was dead.”
Coleman’s face, white with pain and partly covered with gray stubble, crumpled in misery. If he hadn’t been dehydrated, Sara thought tears would be flowing freely down his cheeks.
The Hero’s Sin Page 18
