by Edie Claire
Moonlight on chrome. Wheels in mud.
On the count of three, we head straight in. Keep running until you can’t go anymore. Don’t let it fall over! All right?
Concentrate. Keep it upright.
Three!
They had run down the steepest part of hill, plunging heavily into the stagnant water. Had the slope been more gradual, the bike would have bogged down before it was covered, but Dee had thought of that. Instead, their speed had propelled the grim load well past the shallows, sucking them along with it into the quickly deepening water.
Okay, Dee had sputtered. Let go!
Sarah struggled to find a footing in the shifting silt. She pushed her wet hair from her face, only to feel some slickness departing onto her forehead. Was it mud…or blood? She had whirled away and immersed every inch of herself in the dark water, scrubbing at her face, her hands. So much blood. She would never get it off.
She rose and took a breath. Dee was talking to her.
It’s sinking, Sarah! Look at it!
She had submerged herself again. Underwater, it was quiet. Underwater, she could pretend she had left the insanity of the other world. Underwater, she was—
Underwater, she was with him.
Sarah had burst back above the surface. She had scrambled up the pond’s muddy banks and dry heaved into the cattails.
It’s going to be all right, now. Dee’s hand had rested gently on her shoulder. No one is ever going to know anything about this. Do you hear me?
No one.
Not ever.
Sarah’s eyes remained glued to the survey map.
Fifteen yards.
She stood with a jerk. She crumpled the faxed pages into a ball and propelled them into the trash can.
There’s no hope now.
Of course there is!
They’re going to find him.
Not necessarily. Maybe they’ll just fill the pond in—bring in a load of dirt and dump it. Then no one will ever find him.
Sarah put her hands to her face. The warring voices would drive her insane, if she let them. She had to stay focused, stay on course. The first answer she’d gotten might not have been what she wanted. But there were plenty of other questions, and thanks to Melissa’s fortuitous absence from the office earlier, Sarah still had the weekend.
The technician who had removed the Holter monitor hasn’t asked specifically whether Sarah had passed out again, so Sarah hadn’t offered that information. Nor had she bothered to inform Adam that she hadn’t actually talked to a doctor. Without a rush on the results, Melissa wouldn’t get a report until Monday at the earliest. Whatever therapy might be prescribed then, Sarah would be willing to cooperate, even if it meant time in the hospital. But not yet.
Not until she had explored every option.
She bent over and retrieved the construction book from the floor, then thumbed back to the table of contents. Site Preparation. She turned to the appropriate page. She took a deep breath. She started reading.
She didn’t have to read for long.
Whole pages described the difficulty in working with wet ground. Ground that had too much clay, held too much water. It was unstable; it had to be properly compacted. Pockets of water required drainage. Trenching. Pumping. The work area had to be firm.
The pond was fifteen yards from the edge of the concrete. It was in a low spot. The whole area would have to be regraded.
Every drop of water would be drained.
Sarah closed the book again. Her brain felt spent. She reached up and rubbed at the itchy patches the monitor tape had left on her chest. Then she carried the book back to her room, returned it to the pile, and headed for the shower.
***
The tape had left red marks on her skin. She lathered her washcloth with soap and scrubbed at them. Rivulets of warm, soapy water ran down her body while steam filled the tile-walled bathroom like a cloud. But inside, she was frozen solid.
They’ll find him. It’s only a matter of time.
There seemed no point in questioning it. The body would be found, and soon. There was nothing she could do to stop it.
You could get it out. You’ve got money.
She smiled at the lunacy, even in her despair. How exactly did one go about advertising for the sort of person who could relocate a corpse? She could know half a dozen mob bosses, and it still wouldn’t solve her problem. Right now, she was the only person alive who knew the truth. Letting others in on the situation would at best result in perpetual blackmail; at worst, provide additional evidence against her.
She needed to face the facts. Rock Rockney’s body was about to be discovered. Plan A was no longer tenable. It was time to formulate Plan B.
Nine years had passed. Nine years of boiling hot Southern sun and humidity. Would there be anything left to find?
She had tried to answer that question earlier in the week, but she had not succeeded. The only forensic pathology books in her library either covered basic techniques, described real-life cases, or both, and the internet had been no more helpful. Decomposition was an inexact science, and water added an infinite number of variables to the equation. She had managed to identify one book she thought might help, and she had promptly ordered it through interlibrary loan. But she had no idea when it would arrive.
She needed it now.
The heat in the shower made breathing difficult, and she opened the glass door just long enough to let a wave of cooler air rush in. She wasn’t ready to end the shower yet. She couldn’t bear to leave its warmth.
They’ll know who it is.
Sarah’s jaws clenched. Whatever Plan B rested on, it could not be Rock’s anonymity. The motorcycle would be found too, license plate and all. Would the number still be readable? It hardly mattered. There would be other clues, like engraved serial numbers on the engine, not to mention the potential for plastic ID, which he could have had either in his pocket or in some storage compartment on the bike.
What she had to focus on was the timing. She had found no reference to him on the internet; there seemed a good chance that he was never reported as missing. Dee had insisted that he was a drifter with no close kin, just extended family he dropped in on from time to time. A sudden loss of contact would hardly raise red flags with those who knew him, even if they had cared. And if the attitude Tommy Martin had displayed at Dee’s funeral had been any indication, no one did.
It could have happened after Dee had died and Sarah had left. How could anyone prove it hadn’t? The farm was abandoned; anything could have taken place out there. Who was to say Rock hadn’t gotten drunk and driven the bike into the pond himself?
With bungee cords?
Maybe it was a suicide.
Sarah turned off the shower. Nausea swelled.
It felt wrong, looking for a way out. She should call the police herself, right now, and get it over with.
And then what would happen?
Shivers rocked her body as she toweled off. She could feel the moist heat of the room against her skin, but it had no effect. The chill was inside.
What could she tell them? That she had only been a teenager, that she wasn’t responsible for her own actions? She could see now how foolish her decisions had been, but back then, she couldn’t see anything. All she knew was that the one person she cared most about was falling apart, and that if she didn’t do everything she could to pacify her sister, she would wind up completely alone.
The worst had happened anyway. All of Sarah’s efforts had failed, except one. Her word. She had promised her sister that she would never tell anyone about the rape, ever. Dee had preferred taking her own life to the horror of living with what had happened that night, and her last request was that she be allowed to rest without the shame of it.
It had all happened a long time ago, true. But the years that had passed would only make the story more prurient, more sensational. If the truth were to surface now, the legacy of Deanna Elaine Landers would no longer be a tasteful tombsto
ne, but a full-blown media blitz dripping with gory details of rape, murder, and abuse of corpse that would resonate with the community for decades to come.
And it would all be Sarah’s fault.
No.
No matter what happened when the body was found, the whole truth could never be known unless she let it. She could think of something else, another explanation, that would fit the evidence just as well.
Just as soon as she knew what the evidence was.
She walked to her closet and began to reach for a sleepshirt. But when she saw the furious trembling of her arm, she drew it back.
Enough.
She could not do this anymore. Not tonight. She couldn’t think, couldn’t plan, without remembering. If she had any hope of sleeping tonight, she would have to switch gears now; distract herself. She would have to compartmentalize the past, as she had done so many times before, and concentrate on the present.
But that was harder now. The threat was real, and the images were vivid. No mere novel could pull her mind out of its spiral. Soothing her soul would require a far more powerful remedy—something interactive, something vital. What she needed tonight was Adam.
She turned and reached instead for a regular shirt and shorts. She owned nothing that could be classified as sexy, but the shirt in question had a relatively low neckline, and it had shrunk a lot in the wash.
In a matter of days, it would all be over. She would figure out a way to deal with the consequences she had wrought without breaking her promise. What would happen after that, she had no idea. But one thing was for sure. She would not have much time left with Adam. No matter what version of the truth came out, he would soon want nothing more to do with her.
In the meantime, she could only make the best of it.
Chapter 24
Adam saw Sarah coming the moment she walked out her door. He rose immediately and moved closer to the window.
What was she doing? Only an hour ago she had seemed desperate to be rid of him. He had obliged her, again. But not without reservation. Particularly not given his theory as to why she wanted privacy in the first place.
He had tried to get a good look at the fax she was so anxious to collect, but she had stuffed it into her purse as hastily as she could—with her back to him. Nevertheless, it had taken only the briefest of glances to confirm his suspicions. She had indeed managed to finagle a copy of the construction diagrams. And she had done it amazingly quickly.
What had she found out?
She reached his front porch, but didn’t need to ring the bell. He opened the door as soon as she approached it. "See there?" he said lightheartedly, even as his pulse pounded. "I knew you’d miss me."
Sarah smiled back at him and walked inside. Her shirt was tight and her shorts were short. He began to break out in a sweat.
"I changed my mind," she said quietly. "After I took a shower I decided that some pizza might be nice after all. My treat. Unless you’ve already eaten."
He studied her face. She seemed drained, somehow. Almost defeated. Her shallow smile seemed designed to conceal that, but it failed.
"No, I haven’t eaten. Pizza would be great. What kind do you like?"
He took her noncommittal answer; converted it into a large half-pepperoni, half-sausage pizza order; and settled her comfortably on the couch in his basement.
Still, she seemed unusually somber.
What was he supposed to do? Confronting her again would be risky, but perhaps now was the time. Had she not, for once, sought him out?
"You’re obviously upset, Sarah," he said from his position on the recliner several feet away. He didn’t trust himself any closer than that. "Are you worried about passing out again, or is it something else?"
She paused before answering. She didn’t look at him. "Isn’t passing out enough?"
Her voice was thin. She looked so fragile as she sat there, still as a statue, her face ghostly pale. As he watched, her hands began to tremble.
He couldn’t bear it. He got up and moved to a position beside her on the couch. He refrained from touching her, but even the close proximity made him feel warmer; he hoped it had the same effect on her.
"Why don’t you tell me what’s really bothering you?" he suggested gently. "I already told you, I’m a great listener. And whatever it is, it won’t leave this room."
Her trembling seemed only to increase. She turned to face him. "I don’t want to talk about it," she answered, her voice barely above a whisper. "But I would like it if you would hold me."
His eyes widened. She couldn’t have asked him for anything easier—or more difficult. Keeping his touch platonic was nothing short of torture, but declining a direct request from a trembling woman was beyond him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him, and she nestled her head against his shoulder.
"You’ve been so good to me," she murmured. "Thank you."
He made a desperate attempt to lighten the mood. "I have invested in you pretty heavily as a neighbor. But don’t worry, I’m expecting a big payoff. Mail collection when I’m on vacation, fish feeding, that sort of thing. Oh, and it’s important that no one at the church find out about my mob connections, either. Can you handle that?"
He could feel her smiling.
She didn’t answer, but after a moment, she asked a question of her own. "Do you still want to debate theology?"
He blinked. The woman never ceased to surprise him. "Sure, any time. What would you like to start with? The Methodist social principles are topical, or would you prefer something heavier, like the nature of divinity?"
Her voice was impassive, almost deadpan. "Actually, I was wondering if you believed in hell."
Adam swallowed. Anxiety swelled. Though she was trying not to show it, he could tell the question was not an idle one. She was asking for a reason.
He drew in a breath. He tried to keep his voice casual. "If you mean a real physical hell, with fire and demons and pitchforks, then no, I don’t."
She lifted her head and met his gaze. "Then what do you believe?"
Looking into her tortured blue eyes, he felt suddenly ready to explode with frustration. Sarah was afraid she was going to die, and she felt horribly guilty about whatever had happened in Alabama. She wanted his help, but she wouldn’t help him. She wouldn’t tell him the truth. It was as if she had tied both his hands behind his back and was now informing him, oh so calmly, that she was drowning.
"I believe that hell is a state of being," he began, quoting his well-worn position with half his brain, thinking a step ahead with the other. "A separation from God. It’s not a punishment people have foist upon them. It’s a decision they make themselves."
Sarah was quiet a moment. Then she settled back into his shoulder. "So you’re on the liberal side of Methodism," she said thoughtfully. "My grandparents went the other direction—completely off the scale. They were into some wacko charismatic church that messed up my dad so bad he practically became an atheist. We had no contact at all with them when I was growing up. They showed up at his funeral just long enough to tell Dee and me that he was with Satan now, and that if we wanted to escape the same fate, we should acknowledge our depravity and come and live with them."
Adam’s stomach soured. At least that answered one question. Sarah had come by her cynicism honestly. But if she knew enough to know that he was on the liberal side of Methodism, she had managed to educate herself despite her biases.
"And what about you?" he asked. "What do you think hell is?"
She said nothing for a long time. "I don’t really care," she said finally, determinedly. "I think it’s more important to live in the present." Then she shifted her position, bringing her eyes level with his, her face close.
The clang of warning bells in Adam’s head was deafening. Sarah was frightened, vulnerable, and miserable. She was curious about his opinion of her fate, but she had no interest in give and take. All she wanted from him, as she was making apparent, was physical comfor
t. Why she would seek out male attention after being raped, he had no idea. Nor did he know how much comfort—and of what type—she had in mind. But he had a hard time believing her choice of such a snug, low-cut shirt was an accident. And if it wasn’t, he was in trouble. In trouble on so many fronts, he couldn’t begin to count them.
He moved away from her and stood up. "The pizza should be here any minute. Should we go back upstairs?"
Sarah didn’t move. Her perceptive blue eyes stared him down. "I know you don’t believe me, Adam," she said softly. "But I told you the truth. I was never raped. You’re looking for a problem that isn’t there."
He could think of nothing to say. Every fiber of his being wanted to believe her—wanted to believe there was one chance in a thousand that eventually, things could be right with her. That she would open up and be honest with him. That she would let him help her work through her past, her fears. That her health problems could be treated. That she would begin to look at him as more than just a convenience. That she could come to terms with and respect everything that was important to him in life. That she could commit herself to him for the long haul.
Or that the planets would align the day after tomorrow, the rain would turn pink, and the daffodils would sing Ave Maria.
It wasn’t going to happen. And no matter how much he wanted her, he couldn’t settle for anything less. He had set his course on that score a long time ago, and he wasn’t changing direction now.
No matter how good she looked in that damnable shirt.
"I’d like to believe you, Sarah," he answered. "But we both know that honesty isn’t your strong suit. If you want my unconditional trust, you’ll have to earn it."
She stared at him curiously. She didn’t seem offended so much as intrigued. To his surprise, she stood up and faced him. "I really would prefer not to lie to you anymore," she insisted. "But I can’t answer the questions you want me to answer."
He met her gaze. "Can’t? Or won’t?"
