by Rachel Grant
“This is a state park—not city. None of my people patrol here.” He buttoned up her dress. “Now I’m tormented by a new question. Does your underwear match?”
She smiled and gathered the skirt of her dress with her fingertips, pulling the fabric up inch by slow inch. Before the hem reached the top of her thighs, he took her hands and placed them on his chest. She could feel the steady thud of his heartbeat. “I have to get up early tomorrow, and I still don’t want to rush our first time together.”
“Okay. Tomorrow night. Six o’clock.”
“Wear red.” He kissed her again, softly this time, and then entwined his fingers with hers and resumed walking the beach.
A euphoric mood enveloped her. This was the feeling people sought when experimenting with drugs, the highest of natural highs.
“How is your report coming?” Mark asked.
Libby came crashing back to earth. She’d forgotten about the box. She had to tell him. “I got a lot done today. Angela’s research is vital. My report will be based entirely on her work.” His hand tightened around hers.
“I told you to leave Angela’s boxes alone.”
“You didn’t tell me I couldn’t photocopy the pages of research I’d already found.”
“I didn’t say that, but I should have. There could be fingerprints on those pages.” He dropped her hand.
“As I was making copies of the transcripts of her oral interviews, I realized that I hadn’t found any of the tapes. Those tapes could become the cornerstone of my report—publishable accounts of Lyle Montgomery’s treatment of the tribe. They could give Rosalie what she wants so the Corps won’t block Jack’s permit.” She paused. “I needed those tapes.”
He took a step away from her. “You opened the boxes.”
“Only one box. I could hear the tapes inside when I shook it.”
“Dammit, Libby!” He turned away and walked faster toward his car. “Don’t you know what this means? You were tampering with potential evidence. You could have destroyed a clue that would have led me to the killer.”
She ran to keep up with him. “The stuff in those boxes would have been gone through by the police in 1979. What makes you think there could be a clue in them now?”
He swung around and faced her. His eyes were cold. “Are your archaeological methods the same now as they were in 1979? Did you use ground penetrating radar back then?”
“No.” Her heart sank.
“There have been changes in police work, too. We can lift fingerprints from surfaces that we couldn’t before—including better technology for lifting from paper. And the technology for breaking apart audio recordings is worlds ahead of what it was then. Those tapes could be vital.”
“All I’ve done is copy them. How does that hurt your evidence?”
“You opened the box and played the tape. It could be argued you tampered with it, altered the contents.”
“All I did was copy it. I was given those boxes by Jack and Jason for the purpose of going through them to find what I need to write my report.”
“You opened a box after I asked you not to.”
“The boxes were mine to go through. If you think they’re so important, why didn’t you take them yesterday?”
“Because I trusted you. That was a mistake.”
She felt his words as the slap he’d intended. “For all I know, the bones we found could be someone else. If she isn’t Angela, then this whole thing isn’t an issue. You yourself said we only know when she disappeared; we don’t know if she’s even dead.”
“Don’t split hairs, Libby. We both know you guessed the identity of the victim. I don’t have DNA yet, but the dental records indicate a match. Don’t you want Angela’s killer to be found?”
“Of course I do. But Rosalie Warren specifically asked me to use Angela’s research for my report. She wants closure, or maybe vindication for the tribe. I can’t give that to her without Angela’s notes. Many of the people Angela interviewed are dead now.”
“So what Rosalie wants trumps justice for Angela?”
“I didn’t say that, and I don’t think the two are mutually exclusive. I’m not doing this just for Rosalie. It’s for Coho.”
“You can tell yourself that, but really you’re doing it for your own business and reputation.”
“Of course the business comes into it, but that’s not my only reason. I wouldn’t sacrifice justice for Angela for the sake of my job, and I don’t believe I have.” Tears of frustration threatened her composure. This was going so much worse than she’d imagined. “If I’d opened that box yesterday, you would have no right to question my actions.”
“But you didn’t open it yesterday, did you?”
“No.”
“How many boxes are left unopened, three?”
She nodded.
“I’m taking them.” He opened his car door and climbed inside.
She opened the passenger door. “Can you do that without a warrant?”
“If I have reason to believe evidence will be lost or destroyed, I can seize it now and get a warrant later. It’s called exigent circumstances. I should have taken them yesterday. I won’t make that mistake again. Get in.”
“Maybe my research will help your investigation.” She knew she was grasping but wanted to find common ground.
“Get in the car, Libby.”
She continued to stand in the open door. “I know her subject, and I know the history of the property where she was found.”
“The property belongs to Jack. That tells me plenty.”
“Listen. How Jack came to own that particular parcel of land could be important.”
“Then get in the car and tell me.”
She climbed in.
Twilight had ended and it was now fully dark. The car’s headlights illuminated only the narrow dirt road that cut through the forest. The world felt small, enclosed. Anger radiated from Mark in waves.
“In 1857, the Kalahwamish signed a treaty with the US government, which set up the current reservation,” she began. “One Indian family refused to move to the reservation and remained on a parcel of land just outside the boundaries—land that the ancestors had occupied for thousands of years. White settlers harassed them, but they didn’t give up. Eventually the land was granted to them. Other provisions in the treaty weren’t enforced, so the tribe essentially got nothing. The Kalahwamish were forced to give up their language, the potlatch, their religion. In return, they got a small reservation and a promise that the whites would stop trying to kill them. They were granted fishing rights that they are still—one hundred fifty years later—having to fight to retain.”
“Get to the point.”
“The land that one Kalahwamish family fought to keep was passed on, eventually going to George Warren. In 1976, George sold five hundred acres to Jack and Angela Caruthers. But there’s no explanation why George sold a white couple that land, when there weren’t plans for the property at the time of the sale. When I asked Jack why he bought the land, he said Angela wanted it. She never told him why.”
She had his attention now. “Even more curious is that George Warren absolutely hated the Montgomery family. The mill store had a sign in the windows until 1970 that said ‘No Credit for Indians—Do Not Even Ask.’ Lyle would follow Indians around his store as if they were thieves. Why on earth would George Warren sell his sacred land to Lyle’s granddaughter?”
“The answer isn’t so George could bury Angela in it several years later. Don’t waste my time. I’m taking those boxes.”
“Dammit, Mark! You can have the boxes, but listen. Last week, I found out Angela was an anthropologist. Jack never mentioned her studies. Whenever someone finds out what I do for a living, they immediately tell me about anyone they know in the same or similar profession. If their cousin’s friend’s brother’s godson is a paleontologist, I’m expected to be his drinking buddy. But Jack forgets to tell me that his wife was an anthropologist? And, even more strange, she was w
orking on a dissertation on the Kalahwamish—the very tribe associated with the site. So Jack doesn’t know why Angela wanted the land and he didn’t see the significance of what she was studying to the Cultural Center dig? That seems odd to me.
“Even more strange is the fact that Angela was granted unprecedented access to the Kalahwamish and now Rosalie Warren is granting me—forcing upon me, really—the same privilege and I’m not even a cultural anthropologist—who Indians at least tolerate. I’m an archaeologist—from an Indian point of view I’m the worst sort of anthropologist—a grave desecrater. In fact, I was in the process of doing just that—at least that’s what everyone thought at the time—when Rosalie demanded that I write this report for her. I’m not a cop, but I find all this curious. Why did Angela want that land? Why didn’t she tell Jack? Is Jack lying? Why did she choose to study the Kalahwamish? And why did the Kalahwamish trust her?”
“You could have told me all this before.”
“I’ve just been piecing it together. Today I made a list of questions while I was copying her research. You have to admit that my perspective is different than yours would be.”
“Which is the only reason I’m listening to your attempts to justify this.”
“If I don’t do my job, there won’t be a Cultural Center.”
“I’m not fool enough to believe that the Corps of Engineers will hold you to your deadline. If they have problems with your report, explain the hang-up and give them a copy of the warrant.”
“You have no idea how important Rosalie is. She’s the most revered living elder in the Pacific Northwest. There’s no telling what they’ll do if Rosalie Warren dies before she reads my report.”
“Well, I suggest you call your contact at the Corps ASAP and brace him because I’m taking the three unopened boxes tonight, then I’m coming back with a warrant for the rest.”
“I’d like to finish making my copies first.”
“Hell no! It’s now evidence. If there was a signed confession in one of those boxes your actions have tainted it, and it would now be inadmissible.”
“I hardly think you’re going to find a smoking gun in one of those boxes. I’ve been through eight of them. They aren’t that interesting.”
“You need to understand you’re a part of this case. You excavated the body. Your client is the victim’s husband. You’re staying in a house that belonged to her. You’re even following up on her research. You are not an unbiased investigator. My job is to collect evidence to find out who killed her. That evidence will then be used in a court of law with the goal of sending her killer to prison. If there’s anything in those boxes that exonerates or implicates Jack, then a judge will have a serious problem with the fact that you had access to them first.”
“I’d like to remind you that you yourself helped carry those damn boxes into the house. You didn’t have a problem with me having access to them then.”
“That was before we had her body and an investigation. After that point, the fact that her papers had been saved in sealed boxes became important.”
“If Jack did kill Angela, he’d be the idiot of the millennium to bury her on his own property then hire me to dig her up. And I hardly think he would store incriminating evidence all these years.”
“People have done stupider things. I see it all the time.”
They neared the Shelby house. They were no closer to bridging the chasm that separated them. She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. She knew he’d be upset, but had never considered his reaction would be this extreme. She’d been clueless to the consequences of her actions. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.
He didn’t even look at her.
“Mark, will you ever be able to understand my actions from my perspective?”
“I don’t know.” He pulled up in front of the house and turned to face her. “Are you sorry because I’m angry, or do you regret what you did?”
She didn’t want to answer that.
“Tell me. If you’d known exactly what my reaction would be, would you still have opened that box?”
“I needed the tapes.”
“It never occurred to you that I could give you copies of her research?”
“No.”
“You should have asked.”
“I’ve always found it easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission.”
“Not this time.”
Tense silence filled the space between them. Finally, Mark opened his door and climbed out. She followed. At the front door, she didn’t look at him as she handed him her keys.
He took the stairs two at a time. She waited in the living room while he made three trips to his car. Boxes loaded, he returned to the living room. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. I’m going to wake up a judge and get a warrant for the rest. Do you want to give me the keys now, or will you be here when I come back?”
“I’ll be here.”
“Good.”
The door closed behind him and she locked it. She went to the stereo system and flipped through the shoe box full of cassettes. She had copies of the four most important tapes: the Frances and George Warren interviews. A bitter laugh welled inside her. She’d sacrificed a relationship with Mark, but at least she had four tapes to show for it.
She ejected the last cassette from the tape deck and replaced it in the shoebox. She went upstairs. At her desk, she pulled out a clean notepad and copied the names and dates written on each cassette. Then she flipped through the stacks of papers she hadn’t photocopied and added that information to her list before she repacked Angela’s boxes.
She didn’t cry, but she had to fight the urge. Her pride wouldn’t let Mark see her as a swollen-eyed blubbering mess.
Mark was the most interesting, exciting, attractive man she’d ever met. And he’d wanted her. But she’d screwed up royally. Simone would say she’d sabotaged their relationship on purpose, and Libby wondered whether that was exactly what she’d done.
When he arrived with the warrant, she’d hold her head high.
She finished packing the boxes and carried the first one to the living room. She’d hand them over to him through the front door and then head to Simone’s. She no longer wanted to talk to him. Her hurt had changed to anger. Nothing like leaving a woman alone for an hour in mid-argument to let righteous indignation set in. She carried the rest of the boxes down one by one and lined them up by the front door.
Mark had been gone for forty-five minutes and could return at any time. She’d kill time with a glass of wine. She passed through the dining room on the way to the darkened kitchen and then groped along the wall of the pitch-black room for the switch. Panic shot through her as her fingers touched another hand, holding the switch in the off position.
Something pricked her on the back, just below her shoulder. A jolt passed through her body that had nothing to do with fear. A thousand tiny needles ripped her apart from the inside. Her legs buckled. She dropped to the floor.
She lost all sense of time and place. Pain from the needles continued. An endless agony.
Abruptly, the pain ceased. The sensation of being stabbed internally disappeared. Her ability to think returned. A cloth bag covered her head and tape covered her mouth. She tried to regain her bearings. Where was she? She rolled to her side and bumped into a cabinet. She reached out and touched the familiar wood. She was in her kitchen.
Someone grabbed her and pulled her arms together. From the iron grip on her wrists, she suspected her attacker was a man. He wrapped tape around her wrists. She kicked blindly, but her ankles were bound, and her thrashing was ineffective.
Mark, please come back.
The searing pain returned. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t move. All she could do was feel the agony of being shredded from the inside. He must be using a Taser on her.
Again, after seconds, minutes, or hours, the pain stopped. She tried to hit her attacker, but he moved out of reach. She could hear him. He was still in the room. Footstep
s mixed with the sound of liquid splashing against the floor. She smelled gasoline. Oh, God…
Pounding—the noise sounded as though it came from the front of the house. Mark?
“Libby, open up. I’ve got the warrant. I’m here to collect the boxes.”
Thank God.
She moaned in the back of her throat and rolled toward the cabinet. She kicked the cabinet repeatedly with her bare feet. Another Taser jolt tore through her. Tape over her mouth blocked her screams as the burning pain speared her again and again.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
MARK STOOD NEXT TO OFFICER Lance Edelson as he pounded on Libby’s front door. Lights were on upstairs, but the ground floor was dark. She said she’d be here. She was too smart to play games. The warrant gave him the right to enter the premises. Mark tried the door, but the deadbolt was set. He pounded again. “Libby, open up.”
Nothing.
Lance shined his flashlight into the windows. The living room was empty. Mark could see the boxes lined up by the door, ready for him to take possession. In his gut, he knew she would answer the door if she could. The anger he’d harbored for the last hour evaporated and was replaced by fear.
“Police!” Mark yelled. “Open up!” He nodded to Lance, and they both pulled their weapons. Lance smashed the glass pane in the door with his flashlight. Mark reached in, unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.
He heard a sound coming from the back of the house and ran to the kitchen. Lance’s flashlight revealed Libby on the floor, a pillowcase over her head, secured with a belt around her neck. Her hands were bound with the roll of duct tape still attached at her wrists. She was kicking a cabinet with taped-together legs.
Mark knelt beside her. “I’m here, Libby.”
She stopped kicking and turned toward his voice.
Lance turned on the lights. The back door was open. Mark nodded to Lance and the officer stepped out into the darkness, weapon drawn.
“Whoever did this to you is gone.” Mark began to loosen the belt around Libby’s neck, relieved to be able to place two fingers between the belt and her throat. The belt wasn’t what prevented her from speaking.
