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A Cerridwen Press Publication
www.cerridwenpress.com
Shadow of a Doubt ISBN #1-4199-0684-4 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Shadow of a Doubt Copyright© 2006 Karen McCullough. Edited by Briana St. James. Cover art by Willo. Electronic book Publication: July 2006
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing Inc., 1056 Home Avenue, Akron, OH 44310-3502. This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously. Cerridwen Press is an imprint of Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.®
SHADOW OF A DOUBT Karen McCullough
Trademarks Acknowledgement The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke AG Cap-Stun: Zarc International, Inc. Chanel No. 5 and Chanel: Chanel Industries Inc. Cherokee: DaimlerChrysler Corporation Chevrolet: General Motors Corporation Chrysler: Daimler Chrysler Corporation CVS: CVS Vanguard, Inc. Glock: Glock, Inc. House Beautiful: Hearst Communications, Inc. Ingles: Ingles Markets, Incorporated LizSport: Liz Claiborne, L.C. Licensing, Inc. Minolta: Konica Minolta Holdings, Inc. Nike: Nike, Inc. Poison: Parfums Christian Dior Corporation Ralph Lauren: PRL USA Holdings, Inc. Realities: Liz Claiborne, L.C. Licensing, Inc. Reebok: Reebok International Limited Shalimar: Guerlain, Inc. Southern Living: Southern Living Inc. Sprite: The Coca Cola Company Toyota Camry: Toyota Motor Corporation Trans Am: Sports Car Club of America, Inc. White Shoulders: Evyan Perfumes, Inc.
Shadow of a Doubt
Chapter One He wanted to warn the girl to run, to get away. He tried to tell her how dangerous it was to stay with him. It didn’t work. That other person refused to give voice to the words screaming in his mind. Don’t interfere, it rebuked him. She had brown eyes and a slim but well-rounded figure, though she couldn’t be more than twenty. Shoulder-length platinum hair showed dark roots, while extravagant makeup hid features that might be moderately pretty in a bland, conventional way. She batted overlong false eyelashes as she approached, a toothpaste smile stretching her mouth. Confidence oozed from her, the kind of confidence possessed only by the very powerful or the very young and naїve. No question which category she fit into. “Hey, handsome!” she said as she approached. “I hear you’re looking for company? I’d a thought someone like you would have girls all over him all the time. But—their loss. It’s kind of cool tonight. I reckon we could heat things up a bit.” He tried to yell at her, Go away, girl! Just go away! But those weren’t the words that came out. “Is this real?” He ran fingers through the silky length of silvery hair. “Hey, babe, what you see is what you get!” She giggled, working the eyelashes again. For a moment, they lay against her cheek, reminding him of the multiple legs of a spider. “You like it?” “Yeah.” The pulsing force of lust swelled. “Why don’t we go someplace more comfortable?” she suggested. “I got a room just a little ways up the street. Or…” She tried for subtle suggestion but came off sounding sly. “Your place isn’t far from here, is it?” He wanted to scream, Back off, girl! Now! But it didn’t come out. It didn’t even get close to coming out. He studied her figure, sizing up what it could offer. At his continued silence her face screwed into a frown of impatience or annoyance, though only a little of it leaked into her words. “Mister? What’s the story? You interested or not?” “I’m interested.” “Then let’s go. I suppose you got cash or do you need to go and get some?” “What’s wrong with right here?”
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“Right here? You mean, like, on the street?” Her eyes widened and she chewed her lip in a way that made her look several years younger. It took her a moment to find an answer. “It’s kind of public, don’t you think?” “There’s a secret place in back. Nobody will see us. We can get close and warm, like you said.” “I’d really rather go to my pl— Hey!” She pushed him away and stepped back. He could barely breathe. Pent-up words and emotion throbbed in his chest, pressure mounting with his inability to get them out. For God’s sake, girl, get away! The words echoed inside him but couldn’t escape. Run! While you can! The hand that closed around her upper arm could snap the fragile bone with a squeeze. She couldn’t resist when it pulled her back to the wall of dark shrubbery separating the road from the expanse of yard behind it, then dragged her through and across the lawn. “All right, all right,” she said. “Right here. But, listen, it’s gonna cost you extra. A good thing I carry spares with me. Wait a minute. Hey, wait, I said, I’m not ready…! Hey, you don’t have to get rough— Jeez, cut that out! Look, if you like it like that, it’s gonna really cost you.” The words were sheer bravado, not concealing her edge of panic. Even she knew the limits of her options at the moment. “I don’t usually do that kind of thing, you know. Hey, cut it out!” A scream followed. A jumble of emotions and sounds and images flooded him, though he tried to shut them out. Her whimpers and groans, muffled by the hands squeezing her throat, growing progressively weaker. Clothes shredding. Soft, giving skin. Her lips against his, her body around him. Cool breeze on bared flesh. And finally the culmination, offering a raw pleasure that grated his nerves, tearing at them like razor blades on tissue paper. And, a short time later, a need to move her, to get her out of the way where no one would find her for a while. He shook her but she didn’t respond, so he started to drag her across the grass. Lights flashed nearby, approaching. He dropped the arms he tugged and left her there when he ran into the bushes. “For God’s sake,” he asked, silently, “did you have to kill her? Did you have to?” She asked for it. She offered but then she didn’t come through. She wanted me to pay for it. Just a slut. “You didn’t have to kill her!” She saw my face. I’d have to get rid of her anyway. “Are you satisfied for a while, at least?” Not really. But I guess it’ll have to do. Can’t take too many chances. What would I do without you, after all?
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Chapter Two The buzzing of the telephone jerked Liz Ramsey out of a pleasant dream. She rolled over, disoriented and momentarily puzzled by the noise, then she groped for the portable she kept by the bed, thumbed the button and grunted at it, “Yeah? “ “Ramsey?” the speaker asked. “Yeah. Wes? What’s up?” Wes Drimble was the night duty officer for the Hartersburg police force. “Homicide.” His voice almost shook with excitement. Hartersburg wasn’t more than a blip on the map and didn’t have a crime problem big enough to make murder a routine occurrence. Liz squinted at the digital clock on the bedside table. One-fifteen. “Who and where?” “Caucasian female, early twenties, maybe, no ID. Multiple injuries, possible strangulation. Grounds of the Kettering Inn. Carter Street. You know it?” “I think so.” Holding the portable to her ear, Liz jumped up, stripped off her nightgown and began to search for a clean blouse and slacks. “Carter Street’s about half a mile off South Main if I remember right. Who’s on the scene?” “Kerris. Call came in half an hour ago. Someone at the Inn thought he heard a scream. Kerris checked it out and found the body.” “You’ve called the medical examiner?” “Next on my list.” “Okay.” Liz buckled her belt and slid the leather holster over her shoulder. “On my way. It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes.” She switched off the phone and bent to tie the running shoes she’d just slid her feet into. She ran a comb through her hair, dabbed on a few drops of Chanel No. 5, but didn’t bother with makeup. Traffic was thin, but she stuck the blue light on her dashboard and flipped it on. Getting up in the early hours of the morning didn’t bother her. In the two years since she’d become the police department’s only detective, she’d been roused from sleep only three times. But since she doubted she’d be getting back to bed again any time soon, she wished for a cup of coffee. Good coffee. Even if she hadn’t remembered the inn’s exact location, she’d have had no trouble finding it. Three marked units stood in the parking lot, two of them with blue strobes flashing. Lights blazed all over the rambling, three-story Victorian frame structure of the inn itself, but after pulling her equipment case from the trunk, Liz followed the sound of a commotion around the side of the building and across a broad expanse of
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well-tended lawn to the far edge, where a group of people had gathered near a shrubbery border. She had to push through a crowd of excited onlookers to approach Officers Jason Kerris and Dot Markland and Major Roy Brandon. Markland and a couple of civilians, probably recruited from the crowd, made a valiant effort to keep the gathering masses from pressing closer to the body while Brandon and Kerris set up the portable lights. One light already shone. Liz took a quick glance at the body. The slender female form sprawled on her back, limbs splayed in random directions. A tight, mid-thighlength skirt was crumpled around her hips, topping stockings of some shimmery material, shredded now and bunched at the knees and open-toed sandals with fourinch heels. Roy beckoned her to his side, and she joined him as he fitted the pole for the light into the base. “What do we know?” she asked. Major Roy Brandon, a twenty-year veteran of the force, was one of her favorite people. He’d been hired after a frantic search for a black candidate to make sure the department couldn’t be accused of racism but had proved himself more than equal to the job. Two years ago he’d been offered the position of deputy chief. He’d turned it down, insisting he preferred to continue working in the field. Last year he’d been made head of field operations. “Probably not much more than Wes already told you,” Roy said. “Kerris responded to a call complaining someone heard a scream. He checked it out, found the body. Kid had sense enough not to touch her beyond making sure she was dead and checking her pockets for ID. He didn’t find anything. Ryland’s on his way. The photographer’s already here, waiting for us to get the spots up.” Chuck Ryland’s status as medical examiner generally dovetailed conveniently with his position as head of emergency at the only local hospital. “No purse?” she asked. Ray shook his head. “We haven’t found one. No wallet or anything else.” He looked up and didn’t quite suppress a grimace. “Look who’s here.” Liz turned and sighed. Two more of their people had arrived, another off-duty officer, who began to help Kerris string yellow tape around the area, moving the crowd back in the process, and Captain Cal Dennison, the man who’d been tapped to be deputy chief when Roy had turned down the offer. Dennison was in his fifties, a small, wiry, plodding man who qualified for the job with thirty years of undistinguished experience and a solid belief in his right to it. He actually got the position because it would be a relatively safe place to park a man who could no longer work the streets and had neither the tact nor the intelligence to handle more sensitive assignments. The duties were largely administrative and the chief could keep him under her thumb. Dennison was suspicious of everyone below him in the official pecking order but reserved particular animosity for the officers who came in with college degrees, 8
Shadow of a Doubt
referring to them as “our frat boys”, and explaining as often as possible that the BS in their degree stood for a term more elementary and less classical than Bachelor of Science. Liz held a special place in his resentment. Her college degree and her FBI training only added insult, in his eyes, to the injury of allowing a female into the inner sanctum of what Dennison still firmly believed should be a male preserve. White male preserve for that matter. Fortunately for everyone, Dennison’s breed appeared to be dying out, but he held the banner and the chief wasn’t ready to stir up the kind of storm his dismissal would cause. Roy groaned softly. “He must’ve had his scanner on. I’m sure Wes didn’t call him.” “His wife says she can’t hear the TV because he has it on all the time. Let’s hope he keeps his hands off things anyway.” Roy nodded agreement. Dennison joined them. “So I gather we have a problem here,” he said, running his eyes over the body. “Somebody want to fill me in?” Roy repeated what he’d told Liz. “Take a look?” Dennison suggested, when he finished. “The photographer hasn’t finished yet,” Liz reminded him. She saw the flash of resentment in his face when he glanced at her. “I said, ‘look’, not touch.” Liz would have felt more chagrin, might even have apologized, if Dennison hadn’t amassed a significant track record for messing up crime scenes. She shrugged and they both approached the body, getting close enough for a good look without getting in the way of the photographer recording the scene. The victim was quite young. Liz thought early twenties might be an exaggeration. Her hair was bleached pale blonde and she wore far too much makeup, including one false eyelash that now rested half on her cheek. Scarlet lipstick smudged chin and jaw, partly disguising other marks that weren’t cosmetics. The low-cut, ruffled blouse of cheap, almost sheer chiffon hung open where the top two buttons had come off. One sleeve was torn at the seam. There wasn’t much blood on her or on the ground, but she had a number of scrapes and cuts on her face, arms and hands. Easy to see why Kerris had suggested strangulation. Cyanosis was pronounced, the bluish discoloration of the skin visible through the thick, streaked layers of foundation and powder. Liz and Dennison backed away when the photographer, using a video camera, finished his overview shots from each corner and moved in to record from a tighter angle. She turned her attention to the crowd, slowly scanning faces. Probably most were guests or employees at the inn. She recognized one young man from a youth program she’d worked with in the local high school. The first television crew arrived and began to set up their equipment. The rest of the onlookers were an assorted lot, mostly middle-aged or older, male and
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female. One couple still wore bathrobes, but the majority were dressed, many in clothes that showed signs of being hastily donned. One particular face in that group drew her attention. It belonged to a man, a tall man, judging by the way his head loomed above the others. The light from the portable spots threw deep shadows across lean cheeks and jaw, emphasizing the sharp angles of the bones and defining the elegant line of nose and chin. He looked to be in his early thirties, until he shifted, and the light glanced off the extensive threading of silver through hair that was otherwise dark enough to blend into the night. As if he felt her gaze on him, the man turned and met her eyes. The contact sent an unexpected jolt through her. Not recognition, per se, because she was sure she’d never met him before. She wouldn’t have forgotten a face so striking and distinctive, nor the impact of his glance as it bored into her. It seemed to search for something in the depths of her being, almost to reach in and touch something there. An awareness of some kind. A connection that took both of them by surprise. She watched his eyes narrow and flicker, as though he felt the same impact and wasn’t any happier about it. In the punctured darkness, she couldn’t tell the color of those eyes, only that they were light. His sharp gaze moved her like a magnet, making her want to join him, to find out what force stretched between them, to explore further the strange effect his concentrated attention had on her. He didn’t drop the contact, though no change of expression moved his features out of the tense, unsmilingly remote set. She wondered what he’d look like in daylight. The face, she suspected, would be handsome in a fine, hard-boned way, but cool and uninviting. Why did he focus on her like that? Did he know something about this crime? Or was the reason more personal, an acknowledgment of something that seemed to move between them? Liz dragged her eyes from the man’s enigmatic gaze and almost stumbled as she half-turned away. Whatever it was that passed between them had shaken her, and she had to draw a deep breath while she pulled herself together. But she needed to get back to the work at hand. It was grim enough to force her to put aside any personal issues. She approached the body when the photographer signaled that he’d finished. Careful where she stepped and paying attention to what marks might be visible on the lawn, she started to walk around the supine form. Nothing foreign stained or rested on the ground around the head and upper torso. At the feet, however, a faint but unmistakable set of twin lines showed where the grass had been compressed. One line ended in a smudge a few inches to the side of the victim’s right shoe, the other directly beneath the left, confirming what Liz had already begun to suspect, based on the lack of blood or signs of struggle in the immediate vicinity around the victim. She tapped the photographer on the shoulder, pointed out the lines, and told him to be sure he got shots of those marks as he followed after her. Then she switched on her flashlight and set off to trace the path of those not-quite-parallel tracks. Dennison followed behind her. “What are you doing?”
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Liz pointed to the marks in the grass. They led to a row of ten-foot high shrubs that screened the yard from the road alongside the inn. Near the line of bushes, a patch of grass showed signs of disturbance—trampled ground, stains, and, almost at the base of a rhododendron, a button nestled among dead leaves. Liz would bet money it matched the others on the victim’s blouse. Dennison reached down to pick it up, then stopped when she asked him to wait and let the photographer record its position. Roy and the photographer approached. Liz used her flashlight’s beam as a pointer to show her findings and illustrate what she needed taped. “The M.E.’s checking the body now,” Roy volunteered. “Need some bags?” “I’ve got some in my case.” Dennison went back to watch the medical examiner do his work. Liz and Roy checked the area within ten feet of the disturbed spot but found no additional clues. She got a length of cord from her case and placed it on the ground where she’d found the button, then measured out the length from there to the road at the front of the inn. One of the television reporters approached and tried to ask her questions, but she brushed him aside. When she returned to the site, the photographer had finished. Roy was working on a hand-drawn diagram of the layout. Liz handed him a waxed-paper bag when he was done and asked him to get the button. Using a sterilized tweezers, she removed a few blades of blood-stained grass from each of three spots and bagged them. She ran the flashlight’s beam in closer on the disturbed ground, searching for footprints, but wasn’t surprised not to find any. It hadn’t rained for almost a week. The ground was dry and hard. She went back up to where the victim lay and sent Kerris down to the other site with more of the yellow tape. Chuck Ryland, the medical examiner, worked over the body. Liz said hello to him but nothing more, knowing he wouldn’t want to talk until he’d finished his first examination. Officer Markland and the off-duty officer had already started working the crowd, trying to find someone who might give them more information about the crime. She scanned the ring of onlookers, searching for the face that had struck her earlier. The man was no longer there She’d have to find out who he was. A guest at the inn, perhaps? Instinct told her he knew something she would find interesting. She just wasn’t sure that something would relate to the murder. Chuck Ryland called her to his side where he knelt by the victim. “Strangulation?” Liz asked him. “You don’t need an M.D. to figure that out,” the man said, rubbing his eyes. In the last year, Chuck had acquired a perpetual squint bespeaking chronic shortage of sleep. The paramedics arrived and went off to get a gurney and body bag. Ryland waited until they’d departed before he added, “I’ll check her more thoroughly at the hospital. The way she seems to have struggled and the condition of her clothes…” “Yeah,” Liz agreed. “I’d like to know.” 11
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Chuck nodded and blinked. “Is somebody contacting the family?” “No ID.” He sighed deeply. “Not surprised.” Of all the men she’d met since college, Chuck was one of the few she could really get interested in. In his late thirties, he had a degree from Duke Medical School and a sense of humor that had survived it. He worked in this section of the North Carolina mountains, fifty miles southwest of Asheville, because he liked hiking and skiing. But he also had a wife and two kids to whom he was devoted. The paramedics returned and loaded the body to take it away. Liz scanned the crowd, which had started to disperse with the removal of the main attraction. A second TV crew had arrived and both cameras were rolling. Dennison made himself available as spokesperson. One reporter waited while the other filmed an interview with him. Liz was just as glad to let him handle that chore. They hadn’t yet learned anything that could compromise the investigation if revealed prematurely. She still didn’t see the man who’d struck her so forcefully earlier and wondered why he had disappeared, and if any of the officers had talked to him. Roy had joined Dot and the off-duty officer who were still interviewing bystanders. Her watch read three forty-five. Chuck left, saying he’d call her as soon as he had a chance to look at the body. Roy joined her. “Not much help so far from these folks,” he reported. “I talked to the guy who called it in. He heard a scream out here. He looked out the window but didn’t see anything. Swears he didn’t see anyone moving. He said it wasn’t so loud he was even sure of what he’d heard, so he debated a while before he called. Maybe ten minutes, he thinks. His wife said she didn’t hear anything. She was sound asleep. Her husband’s a lighter sleeper.” The other two officers came over after all but a few die-hards dispersed. Dennison finished or cut off his interviews to join the conference. “Got a woman who thinks she heard a scream too,” Markland reported. “Can’t place the time exactly, maybe around twelve-thirty. Her room looks out the front so she didn’t see anything.” Liz nodded and turned to Ray. “Will you get the fingerprints sent off?” “I’ll check missing persons too,” he added. It was well after four by the time they got the equipment repacked, almost five when she got home again. She debated going back to bed. Nothing at work was so pressing she had to be there early. But she was too keyed up. It would take so long to settle down enough to go back to sleep it wasn’t worth the effort. Instead, she set a fresh pot of coffee brewing, changed into her running clothes and went out for her daily fivemile trot. Inevitably, while running, her mind slipped back to the body she’d viewed a few hours earlier. Instead of concentrating on facts, though, she considered what the evidence suggested, what she could surmise or guess about the crime.
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Given the clothes and heavy makeup, the victim might be a hooker. A young one, but that wouldn’t be unusual. No doubt you could find citizens of Hartersburg who would swear the town had no narcotics, gambling, prostitution or other sleazy activities, but Liz knew better. She’d picked up more than one teenage hooker in her career. She always hoped a brush with the law would scare or startle them into reconsidering their dangerous, self-destructive lifestyle. It rarely worked. On the other hand, the victim might have been an ordinary young woman with too many insecurities and too little taste in clothes and makeup. But then, why would she be roaming the streets at midnight? And, in either case, who would want to kill her? A john she’d refused? An angry boyfriend? A pimp she’d tried to break with? Or a psychopath of some kind? Liz hoped it wasn’t the latter. Psychopaths were the hardest kind of criminal to track down since they frequently had no connection with the victim other than the crime itself. Worse yet, a psychopath meant this might not be an isolated incident. But who else? A couple of people had heard the scream. No one had mentioned hearing an argument. Didn’t mean there wasn’t one, though. The face of the man in the crowd suddenly popped onto the screen of her mind. An interesting, enigmatic face from the brief glimpse she’d had. A guest at the inn? Why had he disappeared so quickly when most of the crowd had hung around until the body was removed? Something about his expression suggested he wasn’t just the average curious onlooker. Which was as good a reason as any not to let her imagination or libido get carried away with reaction to him. When she finished her jog, Liz checked the roses growing in the small patch of garden behind her equally small house, then went inside to shower, using her Fuzzy Peach bath gel and dusting with White Shoulders powder afterward. Her coworkers teased her unmercifully about her weakness for anything with a pleasing smell, but at Christmas and her birthday they inundated her with potpourri, sachets, bath salts, fragrant drawer liners, scented stationary and anything else with an attractive aroma. At her office, she checked the stack of messages, mail and memos in her basket. Nothing looked urgent. She called to get the case number for the murder and asked to have copies of all reports forwarded as soon as they were ready. Then she called the inn, got the owner-manager and made an appointment to talk with him that morning. He promised he’d make her a copy of the register of guests from the previous evening and to try to keep people off the grounds behind the building. Roy came in as she hung up the phone. “Didn’t you go off duty half an hour ago?” she asked. “Time’s not my strong point.” He sniffed delicately and guessed, “Obsession?” “Only yours.” Everyone tried to guess what fragrance Liz was wearing on any given day. Roy knew the names of only two perfumes, the two his wife wore, but he couldn’t even tell those apart by smell.
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“You turned in your report?” she asked. “Put a number one priority on it. No ID yet. No missing persons report on anyone fitting the victim’s description.” He grimaced and shook his head. “I submitted the fingerprints, but I only reckon that at fifty-fifty.” “And that much only because of her clothes,” Liz observed. “Yeah. I’m hoping there’s someone to get worried about her.” She nodded. “Seen Dennison again?” “Hasn’t come in yet.” “We get small breaks occasionally.” She pointed at the case folder for the murder. “Got any ideas?” “None you haven’t already considered.” “Try me,” she suggested. “Girl looked like a hooker. Most likely approached the killer herself. She was roughed up a bit then strangled. Way the clothes were messed, I’d have to guess sexual assault. Wouldn’t want to say whether that was before or after. Maybe she changed her mind and tried to resist, maybe the guy got too rough or maybe it was someone with a grudge against her.” “Why was the body moved?” Liz asked. “Killer thought it was too close to the road, maybe?” Roy didn’t sound convinced by his own argument. “Too easy to find?” “So he dragged her into the middle of the inn’s yard?” “Could be he was taking her to the far end where the bushes are thicker. If he’d dumped her there, it might have been a while before someone noticed the body. Got interrupted before he got her there, though, and just hightailed it.” Liz drew a few doodling circles on her desk pad. “Makes as much sense as anything. I hope we get an ID quick.” Roy sighed and agreed. “Yeah. You gotta wonder about the family, though.” “I do.” “Still, these things happen.” “In the best of families. Cliché, Roy.” “Yeah, well, I can’t help it if the cliché’s true.” She laughed. “I don’t suppose it would be a cliché if it weren’t.” She sighed and grew serious again. “Anyway, that doesn’t help her anymore.” “No.” Roy grimaced and looked fiercely angry for a minute. “Whatever she was, she didn’t deserve to die.” “No,” Liz agreed. “And that’s our bottom line, isn’t it? She might have had a chance. She might’ve grown up, turned things around, made something of her life. But it won’t happen now. Someone took the chance from her.”
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“We’ll find him. Make him pay.” It made a good exit line, but Liz called him back as he got to her door. “Roy. You talked to some of those people looking on last night. You remember one in particular? Very tall man, on the lean side, looked fairly young except he had mostly gray hair. I saw him in the crowd, looking a bit odd, but then he disappeared. I wondered if he was a guest at the inn?” Roy threw her a startled look. “You didn’t recognize our local celebrity?” His surprise increased. “Not a guest at the inn. But I seem to recall his house is next door or near it. That was Greg Conyers.” Seeing her blank expression, he added, “The artist? You don’t remember him? Former big-time businessman, suddenly decides to cash out at the age of thirty-one and retires up here in the mountains to paint. Turns out he’s pretty good at that too. Has paintings hanging in lots of the big museums and galleries according to the newspaper. They did a spread on him a couple of years ago. He keeps to himself, lives with his mother, hardly ever goes out. Doesn’t do his shopping around here, except for having groceries sent in from the Ingles down the road. Nobody sees very much of him. He’s kind of a mystery himself.” “Oh, him. I’ve heard about him. Didn’t we used to get reports of trespassers on the property from him occasionally?” “Yup, that’s him. I wonder what brought him out to the crime scene?” “Plain old curiosity, I should imagine. Just like everyone else.”
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Chapter Three Jeff Zambrell owned and managed the Kettering Inn with his wife, Janine. The man was in his early forties, of nondescript appearance and pleasant demeanor. He had photocopies of the register pages ready when she arrived, and he’d made marks next to the names and addresses of three people who wanted to check out and two who already had. Liz talked to the remaining guests, including the man who’d filed the initial complaint. She asked him about the scream and other noises he’d noticed but gained no new information. The man had just barely heard it. He’d debated a while before calling the police. He described the noise as the sound of a woman in terror, and he put the time at around twelve-thirty. Those were the only two facts he could be sure of. He’d looked outside but hadn’t seen anything moving. Liz checked the line of sight from his window. The place where they’d found the body wasn’t visible. A second resident was a businessman passing through and preparing to go out to make sales calls. He admitted to having come in around midnight the previous night after sharing a few drinks with a potential customer. He’d slept soundly and hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary or it would have stuck in his mind. One woman thought she’d heard a scream and also put the time at around twelve-thirty. She’d heard nothing else, though. No argument, raised voices or other unexpected noises. Everyone else said they’d heard nothing at all until they’d been roused by the sounds of sirens. She described the victim to each person she talked to, but no one could identify her. Liz went back and found Jeff inventorying supplies in the pantry. When he offered her a cup of coffee, she accepted with enthusiasm. While she drank, he reeled off a long-winded tale of all he’d had to cope with the previous night before he was able to retire, which he’d done around eleven-thirty. The story didn’t add much to what she already knew. Janine Zambrell was still asleep. She’d taken the late shift, but Jeff said she’d told him she hadn’t noticed or heard anything out of the ordinary. He didn’t recognize the victim from a description, and he couldn’t remember anyone who looked like that working there or hanging around. Liz asked about his neighbors. “Not too many, really,” Jeff answered. “Got that museum next door. A couple of houses across the street. Stores in the back. On the far corner, kind of behind the museum, is the Conyers place. Hardly ever see or hear from them. I hear the old lady’s sick. Been more cars in and out the past few months, and once I saw an ambulance.” “The old lady?” 16
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“Old Mrs. Conyers. The mother. Just the two of them living there.” “You haven’t had much contact with them?” Jeff shook his head. “Meet him out walking occasionally. He nods but doesn’t stop. Won’t even say a proper hello. He can’t be bothered with the rest of the world.” Liz could imagine how frustrating an extrovert like Jeff Zambrell would find the man’s reticence. “He doesn’t encourage visitors either,” Jeff added. “Does he get a lot?” Jeff shrugged. “People ask about him. The lure of the celebrity. And he’s very goodlooking, in that dark, brooding, Heathcliff way. Seems to intrigue a lot of women. I imagine he’s had a few throw themselves at him. Plus there’s the story about how his place is haunted. That brings out the would-be ghost hunters.” “I haven’t heard the story,” Liz admitted. “Not much to hear. There were rumors the former owners heard odd noises in the house. It’s a huge old pile, looks like a mausoleum that couldn’t decide what it wanted to be when it grew up. And recently a few trespassers have said they saw some kind of spectral figure wandering around after dark. You gotta figure their imaginations were on overdrive, though.” “It might also have been Mr. Conyers’ way of spelling out that he didn’t appreciate guests.” “Also possible,” Jeff admitted, grinning. “He’s not what you’d call socially inclined, though lately there’ve been a lot more people in and out of there. Doctors and hospice people, I’d guess.” “The mother’s dying?” “That’s what I hear.” Liz nodded. “Could you draw me a rough diagram of your grounds and where the neighbors are in relation?” she asked. Jeff got a piece of paper while Liz finished her coffee. He came back and scratched a crude map on the sheet, showing the inn and surrounding yard in the center with squares representing the various buildings. He wrote names across the blocks for residences. “Thanks,” she said, when he handed it to her. “You mind if I walk around a bit?” “Not at all,” Jeff said. “Having a police officer here might reassure the guests. This is one of our heaviest seasons, you know.” Liz nodded. Late spring in the Blue Ridge mountains brought throngs of tourists to view the display of color when the mountain laurel and rhododendron bloomed. “I hope your wife will be awake when I get back so I can have a word with her,” Liz offered as she rose to go. Jeff nodded and waved. “I’ll tell her as soon as she’s up.”
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“One last question. Do you get a lot of people hanging around at night?” “This is a quiet area. There’s a place up the street, a bar, that draws crowds occasionally, but they don’t usually spill down this way.” Liz nodded, thanked him again and retreated. She went out the front door but stopped on the porch, leaning against the rail while she studied Jeff’s diagram of the area and compared it with what she could see. Two houses sat directly across the street. Because the inn was set well back from the road, with a parking lot taking up one side of the front area, and a spotlessly manicured lawn carpeting the rest, those two houses were some distance away. A third sat diagonally across the street to the right. It faced the front of a small brick building Jeff identified as a museum, the inn’s closest neighbor. In the interest of thoroughness, Liz knocked on all the doors. The few people she found at home had little to offer her. No one admitted to hearing a scream or anything unusual prior to the arrival of the police, nor did anyone recognize the victim from her description. She returned to the brick building that housed the Hartersburg Historical Foundation. She walked through two quiet rooms, skirting an enormous moonshine still in the center of one room and a spinning wheel in the second, before she finally found a gentleman who appeared to be in his late fifties seated at a large desk in a quiet corner, reading. He looked up and smiled. “What can I do for you? Got some questions? Something particular you want to see?” Liz identified herself and showed her badge. The man grinned again and nodded. “Think I’ve read your name in the paper, haven’t I?” “Probably,” Liz agreed. She told him why she was there. The man’s ready smile faded and his expression darkened as she explained about the murder on the grounds of the inn. When she was done, he shook his head sadly. “I lock up and go home at three. I live about five miles from here.” “There’s no one here at night?” “No.” Liz asked him about the young woman but he had no idea who she might be. He couldn’t remember seeing her in the area. “Do you ever come here at night? Or work late sometimes?” “I have on occasion.” “What’s the area like? Pretty quiet?” “I’d say so, for the most part. There’s that row of shops up the street. That place— Marko’s—can get kind of loud sometimes. And I’ve seen people hanging around in front of it. But I’ve never heard there’s been a crime problem there.”
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“You’ve heard the stories about the Conyers place being haunted?” She watched his eyebrows rise. “I’m not saying I take it seriously. I’m just seeing if there’s any angle to relate to why the girl was here.” “I’ve heard rumors but never anything that sounded remotely credible. Teenagers looking for a thrill, trying to scare themselves silly is my guess.” “Have you met Greg Conyers?” “I see him drive by occasionally. His driveway runs between the inn and the museum. I’ve never actually talked to him.” He had nothing else to add. Liz glanced at her watch as she left the museum, surprised to find it was only quarter to eleven. It had been a long morning already. The day was getting warm. If she followed the course she’d been on so far, she ought to talk to Conyers next. Instead she went back to the inn and walked toward the taped-off area in the back where the body had been found. A quick survey of the ground showed she hadn’t missed anything obvious the previous night. She noted one small spot of blood near the location of the body, but no others. A tour of the area didn’t turn up anything else. The wall of shrubbery between road and yard, which had loomed so dark and threatening last night, looked like a row of tall bushes in daylight. She paced the area slowly and examined the ground. The girl’s blouse had been missing at least two buttons and only one had turned up so far. She didn’t find the missing one, though she poked as far below and around the bushes as she could and searched either side of the path defined by the drag-streaks. No sign of a purse or wallet either. She insinuated herself between the bushes and crossed to the grassy edge of the road. A couple of deep holes near the curb might show where the girl’s heels had dug into the ground. A few more traced a trail to the edge of the shrubs. The young woman had walked that far. Liz couldn’t find any more holes beyond that. She went back a little ways and sighted along the line the twin streaks in the ground formed. Draw that line and extend it. The path would go to the taller, denser area of shrubbery at the far side of the yard. Extend the line farther, and it led toward where Jeff’s diagram indicated the Conyers’ place was. Liz set off in that direction. The bushes clustered more densely at the back, with several well-defined paths providing pleasant areas to stroll. A couple of benches, placed strategically for maximum privacy, invited one to stop a while. A fountain formed the centerpiece of a broad, cleared area in the midst of the vegetation. A strip of grass and beds of perennial flowers surrounded it, with another couple of benches recessed in niches in the edge of the shrubbery border. A body could easily be parked back here with some expectation of having at least a day or two of grace before it was discovered. Not surprising the murderer had tried to drag the girl in this direction. On the other hand, that also implied someone who knew the area pretty well. Beyond the fountain, another path angled in the direction of the Conyers’ place. Liz got up and walked that way. The trail led through a stand of blooming rhododendron
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and then alongside a row of spruces, decanting onto an unpaved driveway, which, according to Jeff’s diagram, led to the reticent artist’s domain. As she approached that drive, Liz felt the first small stirring of uneasiness. She attributed it to the well-honed instinct of a career police officer since she couldn’t point to any more specific reason for her disquiet. Birds chirped and swooped. A squirrel ran across the dusty track with an irritated mockingbird in hot pursuit. A faint breeze ruffled the leaves of trees that turned the drive into a shaded tunnel. She heard a car pass by on the road beside the inn, followed by a motorcycle roaring at full throttle. Instinct, subconscious or some other sense churned out warnings that coalesced into an awareness of being watched. Liz turned, sighted back along the path and made a three-hundred-sixty degree twirl. No one appeared. She told herself she was letting her imagination get out of hand. It didn’t convince her. A lot of training and experience had taught her that level of awareness picking up something now. With all systems on full alert, she set off up the driveway. The hard-packed clay curved to the left, blocking her view of what waited. The feeling of unseen eyes watching her persisted, but she couldn’t locate the source. She reached inside her open jacket and unsnapped the top of the holster for easier access to the Glock. As she rounded the curve, following the drive, the top of a building loomed ahead. The sight reminded her of Jeff’s description of the place. The little she could see of the structure suggested a massive, gloomy, brooding presence. Only the long line of tiled roof loomed over the trees, but a number of gables protruded from it, with an honest-togoodness tower appended at one end. The tower and the sides of the gables were built of gray stone, probably local granite. Sunlight reflected off the panes of windows set into the gables. Several long, narrow slits sliced through the tower, but from this distance she couldn’t tell whether they had glass somewhere in their depths or were just indents in the stone. The trees growing along the drive got progressively taller. Despite the shade, Liz began to perspire. The feeling that some hidden observer tracked her progress refused to go away. Nothing could have prepared her for her first full-front sight of the “mausoleum”, however. The reason for Jeff’s wry description jumped out at her. The house was huge, a hodgepodge of conflicting styles and materials, with windows not quite big enough to be proportional giving it a secretive, closed-in air. The long, three-story central section had vaguely Tudor lines, half-timbered with gables and bays, but the gothic tower at one end and a boxy, two-story addition at the other made the whole thing look more schizophrenic than luxurious despite its considerable expanse. Surrounded by tall pine trees interspersed with oaks and hickories, the ground immediately around the structure was densely shadowed. But sunlight reflected off the panes of glass in one of the small windows in the top of one gable, reminding her of an eye, poised and watchful, guarding its territory.
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The driveway rounded one more bend and headed straight into the boxy addition, which apparently included a two-car garage. A black BMW and an older, green Chevrolet sat in front of it. Liz angled off the track when she spotted the house’s front door, an imposingly large, heavy wood panel set in a niche between two of the gables. The sensation of being watched grew even stronger as she approached. The place itself would foster all sorts of peculiar stories. She could only wonder why there weren’t more of them circulating. Especially when she noted a further bizarre detail. All the windows in the tower and several on the end of the central part of the house nearest to it had heavy iron grates installed over the glass. Liz got to within a few feet of the door, which looked even larger as she approached, before a voice from off to her left stopped her short and made her whirl to face the tall man she hadn’t seen coming toward her. He noted her bemused expression and dipped a shoulder toward the house. “Quite a pile, isn’t it?” he asked.
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Chapter Four “Pile,” Liz repeated, turning her astonishment from the building to the man facing her. “Of what, though?” Her words startled him. Long, angled dark eyebrows rose, and a hint of a smile broke through the austerity of his narrow, harshly controlled features. The difficulty of getting even that far suggested he hadn’t smiled in a long time. His face had almost forgotten how. He was the man whose stare had so unnerved her earlier that day. “Good point,” he said. “I’m not sure any of the obvious descriptions, metaphorical or otherwise, apply.” He took a couple of steps toward her, bringing him within arm’s reach, and searched her face. For a moment, something in the depths of the man’s eyes met and fastened on hers with the same intensity she’d felt that morning. A flame in them reached out, almost touching her. A forceful communication drew her concentration into sharp focus on him. Her pulse rate picked up as she met that blazing stare. The look played on her skin with prickly fingers and made her breath catch. Another few seconds of it and she’d have reached out to touch him, the magnetism was so strong. But then, with an effort she could feel and see, he dragged his gaze away and turned his face to the ground. When he looked up again, what appeared to be his habitual remoteness was back in place. What was that? Liz wondered, shaken by the intensity of the look and her own reaction to it. Did he turn it on for everyone he met? He made sure his features were under control again before he spoke. “You’re with the police. I saw you this morning.” “Liz Ramsey.” She pulled out the folder with her badge and ID card and handed it to him. “Detective,” he said, studying the card and rolling the word around as though he wasn’t sure he liked the taste of it. His expression didn’t change as he handed it back to her. “Greg Conyers.” He rubbed his hand on the back of his jeans before extending it toward her, watching her carefully, gauging her reaction to that identification. His eyes were very light, a gray so pale they looked almost colorless. As she’d guessed that morning, he was tall, around six-three, and lean enough to make him appear even taller. He wore faded, paint-stained jeans and a grubby yellow T-shirt that clung closely to well-toned muscles on his long, slender frame. One-eighty-five to oneninety, she guessed. His handshake was firm and didn’t linger.
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Hair once black was now mostly silver, leaving just enough dark strands to indicate the original color. He hadn’t shaved that morning and the dark stubble of beard was also sprinkled with gray, though not so thoroughly as the hair on his head. Nonetheless, he didn’t appear to be any older than mid-thirties. His long, narrow face featured prominent cheekbones, sharply defined dark eyebrows and two deep grooves bracketing his mouth. It was a handsome face, in the fashion of one of the sleeker Greek statues, and revealed little more than the stone images about his thoughts and feelings. The real man lurked under the surface, and only that small, puzzling blast of emotion she’d gotten earlier hinted at the passions swirling beneath the hard, immobile surface. “I suppose you’re here to ask about that young woman’s death?” he said. “I doubt I can help you, but I’ll try.” “Thanks. And you’re right. You were out there this morning among the crowd. What brought you?” “My bedroom faces the front of the house. I heard sirens and then I saw the blue lights flashing. I was curious.” “You didn’t hear anything before the sirens?” He let some mild puzzlement show through the reserve. “I’m pretty sure the sirens woke me. Should I have heard something? Did she scream? Was there a fight?” His face changed briefly, a shade of compassion floating across it. “She was awfully young.” “I don’t know if you’d call it a fight. She certainly struggled. And a couple of people heard a scream.” He tried to smile again but his muscles couldn’t quite manage it. “The house isn’t that close. I doubt I could have heard anything like that.” “You said your bedroom is in the front of the house. Did you have the window open?” “Yes, but I’m a sound sleeper. Any noise would have to be pretty loud to wake me.” “I understand you live here with your mother?” Liz asked. “Anyone else?” “There’s a nurse with her all the time these days, but they rotate and don’t live in.” He shook his head. “No other inside help.” His lips twisted at one corner as he stared down at the pair of battered and stained leather work gloves he held. “We’re digging up part of the garden for a new flowerbed. My mother likes flowers.” He looked up but allowed no expression to show on his face. “I suppose you know she’s sick.” “I heard.” Liz hesitated, not sure what else to say. It seemed the grapevine was right again. “I gather there’s not much the doctors can do for her.” “Cancer. She hasn’t got much longer.” His gaze challenged her. “That’s got to be hard on both of you.” Liz tried to keep her voice as neutral as his expression. 23
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He shrugged, recognizing her effort. “Harder on her. Anyway, she still likes to look at the flowers, so I’ve got a couple of patches I cultivate out back.” “Would it be possible for me to talk to her too?” Conyers studied her face for a minute before he said, “She drifts in and out. When she’s awake, she’s usually lucid, but she tires quickly. Her room is at the back so she can see the garden. She wouldn’t have seen even the lights. I doubt there’s a snowball’s chance she can tell you anything useful.” Watching him and swallowing the compassion she knew he’d reject, she nodded. “Can I just pay my respects, then?” He stiffened but kept control of his reaction otherwise. “She can’t tell you anything, and I’d rather not have her upset by this whole business. She’s earned some peace.” “This is just routine checking in cases like this. Nothing that should upset her.” His lips pressed together in a tight grimace. “Murder is always upsetting. A victim who was young and defenseless is even more upsetting.” Liz admired his desire to protect his mother and wondered if there was anything more to it. Then she wondered if she was getting too cynical. “If the victim was nothing to her, there’s no reason why it should bother her very much.” His gray eyes sharpened and narrowed. “She’s always been a sensitive, compassionate woman, my mother. Too compassionate for her own good.” He hesitated, almost sighing on the words. “A murdered young woman, even a complete stranger, would upset her.” “Suppose I agree I won’t mention there was a murder? I’ll treat it like a minor disturbance and just ask if she heard anything. Would that be acceptable?” A bare frown quirked his lips. “I have your word on it?” He shrugged one shoulder at her nod. “Come around the back.” His expression lightened half a degree as he indicated the huge wooden panel that formed the front door of the enormous house. “I can hardly move that slab.” Liz followed him along the side of the house, skirting the garage. When he put a hand lightly at her elbow to guide her around a tricky bit of terrain at one corner, the contact set the skin of her upper arm tingling with awareness. He felt something as well. His eyebrows, the only moderately expressive feature on his face, rose in surprise. He dropped his arm quickly back to his side and looked away. She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or not by his reaction. He didn’t touch her again as he led the way to the back. Yet another surprise waited there. As they cleared the last corner, Conyers approached a brick patio, which featured a round table topped by a blue and white striped umbrella and surrounded by cushioned outdoor chairs. A profusion of yellow marigolds, pink cosmos, rainbow zinnias and petunias filled beds bordering the patio and flowed over boxes scattered around it. Beyond it, the land had been cleared for a width of about thirty feet and planted with grass, except for an area to the right where a well-cared-for rose garden
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was in full bloom and another patch to the left where the current digging was underway. He’d said “we” in reference to the work, but she didn’t see anyone else there. A pair of curtained French doors gave access to the interior of the house through another boxy, one-story addition protruding from the back of the house. This warm, welcoming area stood in stark contrast to the bleak, almost threatening front. “Surprised?” he asked. “You know I didn’t expect this. You do the gardening yourself?” “I have a guy who comes in to help, but I like the work. It makes a change. And keeps me in shape.” A slight inflection on the last word suggested he referred to more than just his physical condition. She looked around again, staring up at the looming bulk of the house above them. “You were working back here before I came? How did you know I was on the way?” “I didn’t. I just happened to be walking around, trying to work a kink out of my back, when I saw you.” It was smoothly done, but six years of police work had given Liz plenty of experience in spotting lies. On the other hand, she had no clue how he possibly could have known. The stains on his clothes indicated he told the truth about working in the garden. And there was no way he could have heard her approach. She’d made little noise on the drive. “Did you get a look at the victim this morning?” He shook his head. “Not much. I didn’t get that close.” “She was a young woman, late teens or early twenties, small but well-rounded, hair bleached platinum blond. Have you seen anyone like that hanging around the area before?” Sadness shadowed his eyes as he shook his head. “I’ve chased a few people off the place. Not so many in the past year or so. I have a feeling I’d remember someone looking like her.” “You haven’t seen her before?” “Not before this morning.” “You don’t know her?” “No.” “Could she be one of the nurses?” He grinned wryly. “No. “ “Seen any strangers lurking around the area lately?” “Not recently. I used to have more people come by. Some even tried to sneak into the house occasionally, but I guess word’s gotten out I prefer to be left alone.” “This is a big house for just the two of you.”
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Conyers shrugged. “We don’t use it all. I don’t think I’ve been up to the third floor more than half a dozen times in the past five years. But my painting stuff takes up a lot of space. I like to sprawl.” He led the way into a spacious, bright, airy sunroom where rag rugs lay scattered on a tiled floor and white-painted wicker furniture and a variety of house plants produced a pleasant suggestion that the garden extended inside. Two drink glasses sat on a wicker end table along with an empty bottle of beer, and newspapers were stacked on the floor next to a cushioned seat. Books lay in various places. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll see if she’s awake,” Conyers suggested. “Sure.” Liz found a comfortable spot on one of the seats. A paperback book sat open on the end table next to her. She picked it up and glanced at the cover. On Death and Dying by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. Thumbing through the pages while trying to keep the place marked, she found the index and reviewed the stages of grief outlined there. She looked up at a sound and saw Greg Conyers standing in the doorway, watching her. “I think I’ve reached the bargaining stage now,” he said. “The new flower bed?” He looked away, staring through the window in the direction of the garden, and raised a shoulder in a half-shrug that suggested agreement but didn’t confirm it. Then he sighed and some of the tension seemed to drain away with the air he blew out. “She’s awake. Remember—” He cut off the words and nodded for her to follow him. They entered the main part of the house where the light was dimmer and dark paneling dominated a formal dining room. He skirted the side of a long table and passed through an arch into a long, dim hallway. They didn’t go far before Conyers pushed open another door and ushered her into a room with a large window facing the back of the house. A translucent shade sifted out most of the sunlight. A middle-aged woman, the nurse she presumed, moved away from the bed to sit in a chair against the far wall. From there, she kept a watchful eye on her patient. Liz too studied the long, fleshless face and bony shoulders of the woman propped up against a pillow before she approached. Her appearance, the odor in the room, the row of bottles and equipment on the table spelled out the situation clearly enough. The woman was in the last stages of an illness she had fought with all the considerable resources at her disposal. “Mother?” Conyers said softly. The woman opened her eyes and looked at her son, blinking, then stared beyond him, meeting Liz’s gaze. “This is Detective Liz Ramsey.” His mother turned her attention back to Conyers when he spoke again. “She’s investigating a disturbance that happened nearby last night. She has just a couple of simple questions she’d like to ask you. Do you think you can handle that?” “Disturbance?” She directed the question at her son.
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Conyers answered before Liz could frame a reply. “Someone at the inn apparently heard a fight going on outside and called the police. Probably a couple of people from the bar up the street bringing their argument down this way, but naturally, they want to check it out.” Liz wasn’t entirely happy with his explanation but refrained from contradicting him. “This is generally a quiet town, and we’d like to keep it that way,” she added. “I just have a couple of quick questions to ask you.” Still watching her son, the woman nodded. Despite the ravages of illness, Mrs. Conyers retained the bone structure and flawless skin texture that must have made her, until recently, a beautiful woman. And a strong-willed one too, Liz decided, watching her draw herself together. Liz tried for the most gently conciliatory tone she could manage. “I’m terribly sorry to have to disturb you, Mrs. Conyers. I realize the timing isn’t very good.” “Can’t help it,” the woman answered, her voice a harsh croak. “There’s no convenient time for this sort of thing. I don’t see how I can help you, though. I don’t get out much any more.” Liz nodded. “I just wondered if you’d heard a scream or a fight or any kind of disturbance last night.” The woman tried for a laugh and almost made it. She glanced at the bottles on the table. “I don’t sleep that deeply anymore, but I have help to get me through the night.” “You don’t get many visitors here.” “No. Not that we ever really did. When we first moved here, some of the local people tried to be friendly and dropped by. And we’d get the occasional photographer or reporter trying to sneak in. Greg used to be in the news a lot, you know.” She threw a fond look at her son. “We wanted to get away from all the notoriety. That’s why we didn’t encourage visitors. Some still tried. Women wanted to meet him when word got out who was living here. And sometimes drunks from the bar up the street would wander through. That’s probably what happened last night.” She sighed deeply and her eyelids fell. They popped open again but didn’t appear likely to stay that way very long. “You haven’t made many friends among the local people?” She looked distressed but shook her head. “I do regret it, but we had so much trouble before we moved here with people refusing to leave us alone. I’ve never been very socially oriented. And then, shortly after we arrived, I learned of my illness. I spent a lot of time in hospitals.” “I see,” Liz said softly. “I don’t think I have anything more to ask. Thank you for your help. I wish you whatever comfort you can find.” Mrs. Conyers glanced at her son. “I have that. Goodbye, Detective.” Greg Conyers led the way back to the sunroom through which they’d entered the house. He stopped there and said, “Thanks for your tact. I don’t think she minds the
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dying so much as the indignity of it. I do my best to give her what I can.” He drew a breath and abruptly switched subjects, preventing Liz from saying anything further about his mother. “Would you like a drink or something before you go? A cup of coffee?” “No, thanks. I’d like to talk to the nurse who was on duty last night. She was probably awake and might have heard something.” “She’ll be back tonight, I think. I don’t have the schedule from the agency, but I’ll get it and give you a call.” He studied her face in a way that made her wonder what was going on behind the mask. Liz drew out a card and handed it to him. “My cell phone number’s on it. Have the nurse give me a call.” He nodded as he took the card, but he continued to watch her wordlessly for a few minutes. His pale eyes bored into her, not with the sensual impact of earlier, but in some kind of search. His lips quirked into an odd expression that wasn’t quite a smile but held fathomless curiosity. “You’re an unusual woman, Detective.” “We’re becoming more common, Mr. Conyers. Women can do the job.” He looked startled. “I didn’t mean that. I’d guess from the little I already know of you, you’re good at your job. What I was trying to say is you have an interesting face. Good bones, intelligence that shows, a refreshing vigor…intriguing depths. I don’t do many portraits, but I’d like to do yours. I think it would be something special.” Surprise almost jolted her out of professional thought patterns. Liz fought down the feelings his words stirred, reminding herself she was in the midst of a murder investigation. She couldn’t afford emotional entanglements. If things worked out right, there might be something here worth pursuing. Later. If this wasn’t all a ploy to redirect her attention. “I’m not good at sitting still,” she said. “I can work from photographs for the most part.” The man fascinated her. When a strand of silver hair fell across his forehead, she watched him sweep it back. His hands interested her too. They were long and sinewy, with bony knuckles and neatly trimmed nails. Despite the gloves he’d been holding earlier, his fingers bore a few smears of dirt and a couple of scratches. As he finished the motion, a grimace crossed his face. The hand he was running through his hair froze in place as if glued to his head, and his entire body stiffened into tense lines. He didn’t say anything. His eyes still looked at her but they were no longer focused. She wasn’t sure what he saw. Maybe nothing. His expression emptied into complete blankness to the accompaniment of a series of harsh, rasping breaths. His facial muscles slowly tightened into strained lines as he withdrew into either intense concentration or complete oblivion. Liz moved to his side, putting a hand on his arm, when whatever gripped him showed no sign of relenting. “Are you all right? Is something the matter?” The muscles under her fingers were tight and hard, but rippled once or twice in some kind of spasm. “Is something wrong? Are you in pain?” 28
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No reaction. His respiration hissed, more rapid and harsh than normal, and his pulse jumped. Liz debated whether to call for assistance. She didn’t have much experience with medical things and didn’t know whether this was a dangerous situation or not. An epileptic seizure, perhaps? Just as she’d decided to get the nurse from his mother’s room, it started to abate. The tension holding him rigid dissipated first. She still had her hand on his arm and felt when his muscles began to relax. His eyes closed briefly before he drew a deep breath and let it out in a kind of sigh. His fingers finished the motion of pushing his hair back and his gaze sharpened to focus again on the room. Then he became aware of her touch and turned to look at her, visibly startled by her presence. She dropped her hand away but stayed near him. “Are you all right?” she asked again. “It looked like you had some kind of spasm.” He drew himself together with an effort that showed and nodded slowly. Although his attention had returned to the present, something still shadowed his eyes. “It’s all right,” he said. “Just a cramp. It’s gone now.” That had to be one hell of a cramp to make him go rigid like that, but Liz decided not to mention her doubt. The man had enough on his plate, and whatever he’d just experienced might well be a result of grief or strain. His mother was on the verge of death, and they’d evidently been close. “Can I get you something?” she asked. “No, but thanks for the thought.” For a second time, he stared at her and she had the odd feeling he probed her, searching her depths. She felt free to do the same. But his colorless eyes, so deceptively transparent, were a mask, an illusion. They showed nothing at all. All the light was behind them, shining outward. Impossible to see in. Liz wished very much she could. She doubted he learned much from his attempt to fathom her. She had plenty of experience in hiding what she was thinking or feeling. Where had he learned the skill, though? And why? Few people were very good at concealing their thoughts and emotions from a sensitive observer. Those who were usually had good reason. He reached out suddenly and ran a gentle finger along the curve of her cheekbone. The touch sent an odd, shivery feeling down her backbone. His finger stopped at her chin, but his eyes still locked on hers. Everything else retreated into the background, a foggy haze that had no meaning. The present held only him. She detected the aroma of a pine-scented cologne along with the smell of earth clinging to his hands, and perspiration. A piercing beep from her side interrupted the reverie. They each jumped as the electronic bursts continued, shaking them out of their stupor. Liz collected enough wits to recognize the insistent blare of her pager. She shut it off and displayed the number. She looked up at Conyers, saw him struggling to bring his reaction under control before she pulled out her cell phone and dialed. “We have an ID on your murder victim,” the administrative assistant for the area told her. “The name is Allison Wannstedt. Age nineteen. Worked at the bottling plant.”
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“Who made the identification?” “The girl’s mother.” “Where is she now?” “Her minister came and took her home. I told them you’d be wanting to speak to her. The minister said he’d call as soon as she was calm enough to talk.” “Okay, thanks. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” She ended the call and turned to see Greg Conyers still watching her. A strangely worried, almost hunted look in his eyes belied the guarded impassivity of the rest of his features. “I’ve got to get back to my office.” He nodded and turned to accompany her to the door. The remoteness was completely in charge again, blanking his face to the mask-like blandness. She could feel some of the emotion he hid. Sensed or intuited it somehow. Under the surface was a disturbed, unhappy, possibly frightened man. Maybe a dangerous one as well. “I’ll be talking to you again soon,” she said, after telling him he needn’t walk back around the house with her. “Let me know about the nurse.” He tried to summon a smile and succeeded, after a fashion. The grimace he brought to the surface reflected decidedly mixed emotions. Some pleasure at the prospect of seeing her again was part of the brew, however. “I’ll do it.” He sounded more convincingly eager than he appeared. “I hope you’ll keep me informed as well.”
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Chapter Five Lunch came from the drive-up window of a burger joint. Liz didn’t make a habit of that. When she had the time, she tried to find a salad or a lighter sort of sandwich but in the midst of a case she went for whatever was most convenient. She ate the burger and fries in her car on the drive back to her office, another action she usually avoided. Crumbs on the upholstery drove her crazy. She sought out Doris Sutter, the administrative assistant, as soon as she got to the office. That wonderfully efficient woman sniffed delicately as she handed Liz a folder. “Ummmm. ‘White Shoulders’? Perfume and bath powder. And yes, I’m pretty sure I detect a bit of peach too. Shower gel?” “As always, you’re right. I still say we need to investigate the possibility of putting you in the field. If crooks have a characteristic odor, they’d never get past you.” “I don’t think I want to replace a dog,” Doris answered. “I put all the reports that’ve come in so far in the folder. I believe we’ve got all the personnel on the scene. Oh, and every reporter in town wants to talk to you.” “I’m sure. You haven’t heard from the medical examiner?” Doris shook her head. “Who went with the Wannstedt woman to ID the body?” “Novak. His sheet’s in there too.” Doris had a couple of notes to relay concerning other active cases and a few telephone messages to pass on. Liz took all the little pink sheets of paper, but it was the folder she started to flip through. “Doris? You’ve heard of Greg Conyers?” “The murder happened right next door to him, didn’t it? The man has a way of drawing attention even when he claims he doesn’t want it.” “What do you mean?” “Well, there’s this, isn’t there? And that newspaper article about him a couple of years ago. It said he’s very hot in the art world right now. All the gallery people falling over themselves to get his stuff. And the museums are clamoring too. People just can’t get enough of Greg Conyers and his paintings. I also hear he’s pretty hot stuff personally. I’ve never actually seen him, but they say he’s quite a hunk. Did you talk to him?” Liz nodded. “Well?” “He’s polite, personable and very good-looking.” Doris gave her an odd look. “I hear a loud ‘but’ there.”
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Liz sighed. “The man’s got problems. Probably nothing that has anything to do with this case, but… You know anything about his background?” “Just what was in the newspaper article.” “Get me a copy, if you would.” “Sure,” Doris said. “Is it true his mother lives with him? And she’s dying?” “Yes on both counts. I doubt she has more than a few weeks left. Maybe less.” She heaved a deep breath. “I’ve got to go dictate my own report. Hold my calls for a few more minutes, please.” “Sure,” Doris said, then looked up the hall, checking who was in earshot. Her voice got lower when she added, “Dennison came by. He wants the reports too. I said I’d make him copies. I think he sees an opportunity.” “He showed up at the scene this morning,” Liz agreed. “Assumption is he picked it up on the scanner.” She let her voice get a little louder. “Of course, we’ll see he gets copies of everything. Since the chief’s out of town, he’s the man in charge.” Doris grinned and nodded. It took Liz almost fifteen minutes to dictate her own report on the murder. After she handed the tape to Doris, she leafed through the stacks of reports and papers in the folder. She went down the computer-printed guest register, comparing the names there with the reports from the officers on the scene that morning and the list of persons she’d personally interviewed, to make sure everyone had been covered. Two names on the register remained unchecked after she’d compared the various lists. One belonged to someone who’d checked out before her arrival that morning, a Mr. B. R. Travers from Athens, Georgia. Liz got a number for him from directory assistance and left a message on his answering machine. Two reporters called while she worked on that. She gave them what information she could, confirming the identity of the victim and their current lack of suspects. A call to the inn got her a connection with Janine Zambrell. The woman didn’t have much to add to her husband’s report. She’d been on duty into the night. Her first hint anything was wrong had come when Officer Kerris showed up. She hadn’t heard a scream. Thinking back, she could recall only one person she’d seen come in late, a man Liz had already talked to. Janine couldn’t swear everyone else was in their rooms at midnight, but she thought so. She also said the other person who hadn’t been interviewed, David Barnwell from Richmond, Virginia, hadn’t checked out, so she’d leave a message for him. Liz added those notes to her narrative, then she read through the officers’ reports more thoroughly. Before she finished, however, Doris interrupted her to announce that a Reverend Miller was on the line. The man was the minister trying to comfort the murdered woman’s mother, calling to say he thought Mrs. Wannstedt was calm enough to talk with her.
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Liz left the reports on her desk and told Doris where she was going. She had to duck a couple of reporters waiting to waylay her on the way to her car. The Wannstedt house was on the outskirts of town, one of a row of small bungalows that had once been mill housing. The minister met her at the door and ushered her in. The place was neat without making an issue of it and decorated on the cheap side of conventional. A few framed photographs on a wall over a side table provided the only personal note in the living room. Reverend Miller, whom she knew slightly, acknowledged her greeting quietly and introduced her to Theresa Wannstedt. The woman stood and raised swollen, bloodshot brown eyes toward Liz. “Detective.” Her voice was hoarse. “I’m terribly sorry to have to disturb you right now,” Liz said to her. “I realize this is a difficult time. But I think you’d want us to find whoever killed your daughter and bring him or her to justice.” The woman nodded, her shoulder-length brown hair swinging forward. She couldn’t be more than forty, probably a few years less. Liz scanned the room, noting a sofa and two chairs to the side. “Can we sit down for a few minutes?” Neither Mrs. Wannstedt nor Reverend Miller said anything as they followed Liz’s suggestion. “Tell me about your daughter,” Liz requested. “Allison?” “Allison.” Tears glinted in Theresa Wannstedt’s eyes. “She was a good girl, Detective.” The note of outrage in her voice made Liz wonder what the radio report had said or hinted about the victim. “She worked hard, did her chores, went to church most Sundays. Everyone liked her. She was friendly. She’d do anything for anybody.” The words trailed off as the woman fought back more tears. “Where did she work?” “The bottling plant on Skyway Drive.” “How long?” She smoothed a corner of the tissue she held. “Six months.” “Any problems there?” “No.” “She didn’t have any enemies that you knew of?” “None.” “What about boyfriends?” The woman glanced around the room before she answered. “She had a few.” “Serious?” Theresa Wannstedt cracked her knuckles, one at a time. When she’d finished one hand, she said, “Not really.” “Had she been out with anyone in the last few days?”
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The woman swallowed and said, “I don’t know. She spent a lot of time with friends. You know, she’d go out to…places with them. I don’t know who she might have met.” “Do you know any of the places where she liked to go?” She shook her head. “She just liked to be with her friends. But there aren’t many places people can go after work around here.” “No,” Liz agreed. “When was the last time you saw Allison?” “You mean before…” She sat back in the chair, thinking. “Yesterday was Thursday. I guess it must have been Tuesday. I work the evening shift at the hospital, but Tuesday I wasn’t feeling well and came home early, around six, I think. She was getting ready to go out. I asked her… I asked her where she was going. She said out.” “Did she have a car?” “She had an old Chevy, but it was in the shop. Still is, I guess. Useless piece of junk.” “Someone picked her up, then?” Theresa nodded. “Do you know who?” “I was in the bedroom, laying down. I didn’t see.” “Did she have a fight or an argument with anyone you know of?” She hesitated a second too long. “No.” Her face began to screw up and tears spilled over. “She got along good with everyone.” “I expect the two of you argued occasionally. Most mothers and daughters do.” Theresa started and her eyes widened, but all she said was, “Sometimes. Mostly we got along okay. It was just the two of us. She was… She was all I had.” The tears ran faster. “What about her father?” “We divorced when Allison was about three, I guess. I gave up trying to get support out of him years ago. Haven’t heard from him in a long time. I don’t know where he is now.” “Could you give me names of some of her friends and places she liked to go?” Liz asked. “I don’t know. Mostly, I think she hung around with some people from work and a couple of girls she knew from high school.” The woman gave her a couple of names, which Liz wrote down. Liz worked in a few more questions about the girl’s friends, whether or not Allison had known anyone staying at the Kettering Inn, whether she’d mentioned any strangers or anyone acting peculiarly, before the woman lost control and broke down again. None of the answers gave her more useful information.
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When Liz asked if she might look at Allison’s room, her mother made no objection and led her to the door. Allison’s bedroom should have come with a warning label. Enter at your own risk. Leftover food, wrappers and cans littered the place along with discarded clothes, papers, books and accessories of various sorts. Liz had to step carefully as she walked across the floor. Of course, the girl hadn’t planned to die when she did. She probably would have cleaned it up had she known it would be invaded this way. There was a desk on the far wall of the room. Liz moved a stack of paperback books off the chair, sat down and began to thumb through the piles of papers, finding plenty of notes to friends, clippings from magazines, receipts from every store in town and notices from work, but nothing that shed any light on her death. A quick glance through the contents of the drawers produced a savings account book with a balance of twelve hundred dollars and a roll of cash in the back. Mostly fives and tens, amounting to a hundred and ten dollars. She didn’t find a wallet or checkbook. The closet produced two empty pocketbooks. When she saw Theresa Wannstedt watching her from the door, Liz asked her, “Have you seen Allison’s purse anywhere?” The woman thought a minute and shook her head. “I assume she had it with her. She carried it all the time. Hated to be caught without her makeup.” She hesitated. “You haven’t found it?” “No. It wasn’t with her when we found her.” “That’s odd.” “Agreed,” Liz said. “It might have been stolen. That could have been the motive for killing her…” Liz followed the train of thought for a moment, considering the possibilities. “But robbers don’t usually strangle their victims.” Theresa groaned and sank onto the bed, tears running again. Liz’s continued search found nothing further of any interest. Finally, she asked the girl’s mother to go through Allison’s things when she could bear to do it and let her know if she found anything unusual. She also requested she search the house to see if she could find Allison’s purse. Liz expressed her condolences again as she left and gave Theresa a card with her number on it, requesting she call at once if she remembered anything that might be significant. Doris handed her several sheets of pink message paper when Liz walked back into her office. “Dr. Ryland called,” she said, nodding at the slips. “Also…” She leafed through a stack of papers and drew out a set of photocopied pages stapled together. “Here’s the newspaper article on Conyers.” “Thanks.” Liz went back and dialed the number Ryland had left. As she expected, he was tied up with a patient, but she said she’d be in the office for the next couple of hours. She returned the call from Jeff Zambrell.
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“Thought you’d want to know,” Jeff said. “Mr. Barnwell in room eight still hasn’t returned. And when the maid went to his room to make it up, she said it looked like he hadn’t slept there the previous night.” “He didn’t leave the key? Or any word?” “Nothing.” “Let me know right away if he does come in,” she said and gave him the number to call after hours. She made a few more calls, mostly relating to other cases, then began skimming the article on Greg Conyers while she waited for Ryland to call her back. She’d discounted tales of Conyers’ success and fame as exaggeration, but if she believed the article, she was wrong. Quotes from several leading critics and art historians described the man as one of the foremost painters of the post-modernist era. Liz didn’t know what “post-modernist” meant, but the list of galleries and museums featuring his works impressed her. He had paintings on permanent display at the National Gallery and the Metropolitan among others. The authorities went on to rave about the breadth of feeling and emotion his paintings conveyed, the complexity of the emotional landscape, the subtlety in his use of shape and color, and the insight into suffering and the darker side of human experience, rare and especially surprising for a man who was still young. “He can take you from the absolute heights, the most sublime pinnacles, to depths so deep and desperate you cringe,” one of the critics had said. “From painting to painting, the experience differs in angle of view and subject, but not in intensity or sensitivity.” Reading further, she got the impression Conyers himself hadn’t cooperated much in the production of the article. Very little material about his life or his own view of his work showed up, and what there was came mostly from other printed sources. Liz learned he was thirty-four when the article had appeared two years ago, had been born in Connecticut, raised in upstate New York and attended Yale, where he majored in Economics. Ten years ago he’d moved to Maryland and started a very successful business. Then abruptly, several years later, he’d sold the business and retired to paint. His reputation as an artist had soared rapidly, and he’d made another quick transition, moving to the Blue Ridge section of North Carolina the year before. The clip included a picture, muddied from repeated copying. Still, something of Conyers’ force of personality came through the multiple translations. He stared straight into the camera so he appeared to be looking directly at the viewer. He wore the standard blank look she’d come to think of as his mask, his light eyes disdainful and challenging. He hadn’t had quite as much silver in his hair then, but still enough to contrast oddly with his youthful face. The intensity smoldering out of the picture gave her an odd pang. Did everyone get the same stunning blast of sensuality she’d experienced earlier from him? Was it just something that was an intrinsic part of him, broadcasted widely and in general?
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The blare of the telephone interrupted her uncomfortable musing. Doris informed her Dr. Ryland was on the line and put him through. “I’ve had a chance to look her over,” Chuck Ryland said, referring to the victim, after they’d disposed of the formalities. “Got a few things for you. We won’t know for sure until after the autopsy, but I’m still thinking strangulation was the cause of death. She wrestled with her assailant and was sexually assaulted as well. Here’s the good news. She left a message under her fingernails. The murderer has dark hair, type O positive blood and several scratches, probably on the face or arms. I’m saving a couple of specimens for DNA matching if you can get us a suspect. I’ll send the paperwork through channels unless you need it now.” “Nope, just the information. Thanks, Chuck. It helps.” He sounded angry when he said, “Find out who did it and nail him to the wall. She was just a kid.” “I plan to,” Liz answered. Once he’d hung up, Liz made a few more phone calls, trying to follow up with the friends whose names Theresa Wannstedt had given her. None were home. Phone calls from reporters wanting statements or updates on the case kept interrupting her efforts and slowing her progress, but she did finally reach one of the friends at her job in an insurance office. The young woman told Liz she hadn’t seen or talked to Allison Wannstedt in several months. Liz sighed and thanked her. She’d no sooner hung up when she had another incoming call, from Greg Conyers this time. “I got the nurses’ schedule,” he said, after identifying himself. “The same one will be on duty tonight. I called her to ask her to contact you, but she didn’t answer. Her shift is eleven to seven. You want to talk to her tonight?” “Is the nurse going off duty at eleven the same one as yesterday?” “I don’t— Let me check.” She heard a paper rustle, then he said. “Same one.” “Good. If you don’t mind, can I come tonight? That way I can talk to both of them.” “No problem. With nurses coming and going, we leave the lights on all the time.” “I’ll see you this evening,” she said. By then, it was five-thirty and she needed a break. She dropped a bunch of paperwork on Doris’ desk, went home and put a frozen dinner in the microwave to heat. She ate linguine with clam sauce while watching the local news. Since they were outside the immediate metropolitan area of Asheville, Hartersburg’s problems tended not to make the first few minutes of any show. Liz turned to the station with the worst track record for sensationalizing crime reports and discovered her hometown had hit the jackpot this time, getting top billing as the leadoff story.
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The report got the facts mostly correct and even quoted accurately the short bit of her statement they chose to include. But they dwelt more than necessary on the time of night when the crime had occurred and the way the victim had been dressed, and went on to speculate at some length on possible motives for the killing. Cal Dennison’s words didn’t help either. His breathless, self-important intensity turned the crime into something earth-shatteringly threatening. And, as Liz had suspected, the television reporter couldn’t resist a mention of Jack the Ripper and some of the other more sensational serial murders that had involved prostitutes. In the next breath, the coanchors assured the public there was no reason for concern or panic. Liz resisted the urge to throw something at her television screen. After dinner, she cleaned the dishes, threw away the trash and headed for the bottling plant. Getting soft drinks ready to ship was a twenty-four-hour-a-day operation. Allison’s shift wasn’t on duty at that time, but there were a couple of people who knew her. Unfortunately, none of them had been close enough to the girl to tell Liz anything useful, other than giving her the names of more people on the daytime shift to talk to. She left and went to the address of the other friend Allison’s mother had named. The girl wasn’t home and her younger sister had no idea where she might be. At ninethirty, Liz had run out of places to try until her eleven o’clock appointment at the Conyers’ place. To kill time and check out a hunch, she headed for Marko’s, the bar up the street from the inn. It was crowded and noisy on a Friday night. She took a stool at the bar, one of the few unoccupied seats. When the barkeeper finally asked what she wanted, she told him, “Ginger ale and information,” and showed him her badge and ID card. “Detective?” he said, looking around a bit nervously, checking for possible underage drinkers he might have served, she supposed. He filled a glass with ice and pulled a can of ginger ale out from under the bar before he added, “What can I do for you?” “Are you familiar with Allison Wannstedt?” she asked. He looked blank for a moment, then it hit him. “The girl who was murdered?” he asked. “You’re investigating?” She nodded. He shrugged. “I’m not the regular guy here. You want to talk to Tim. He’ll be back tomorrow.” “You don’t work here often?” “Just occasionally. I fill in.” “You ever met Allison Wannstedt?” Liz asked. “Don’t think so,” he said. “Can’t put a name with the face. Might want to talk to Sally.” He waved to a young woman with dyed red hair until he got her attention.
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He introduced Liz to Sally, explained what she wanted and went to serve another customer while the two women talked. “Yeah, I knew Allison,” Sally said. “She came in here pretty often. Sorry to hear about her.” An impersonal sort of sorrow, though, by her tone. “So, she was kind of a regular?” Liz asked. The young woman shrugged. “I guess you could say so.” “How often did she come in?” “Once, twice a week, I’d say.” “Did she come by herself?” “Usually not.” “With friends?” Sally nodded. “The same friends, generally?” “Yeah, usually.” “Can you give me their names?” Sally chewed her lip, then said, “I ain’t real good with names, if you know what I mean, and I don’t know most of their last names. But there was a girl named Chrissie and another one named Lynn that she kind of hung with.” “What about boyfriends?” Sally gave her an odd look. “Yeah.” “Yeah?” “There were boyfriends.” Liz waited for her to elaborate, and finally she shrugged. “Lots of boyfriends.” “Anyone regular?” “Are you…? Allison… She was, well, not to speak ill of the dead, you understand, but she… She swam in a lot of ponds, if you know what I mean.” “I get the picture. Was anyone more regular than others?” Sally tugged at an earlobe which had been pierced five or six times and held an assortment of studs and dangles. “No. Well, not really. There was… But he’s not exactly a boyfriend…more like…well, sort of a friend. Guy by the name of Ross.” “Ross? You wouldn’t know his last name?” Sally shook her head. “Or where he lived?” “Sorry.” Liz shrugged. “Anyone else you can think of?” Sally considered the question a moment and then said, “Nope. No one regular.” “Are any of her friends in here tonight?”
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“Are you kidding? With Allison dead just this morning? I don’t think so.” “Did you work last night?” Liz asked. Sally shook her head, making the straight red locks dance. “No.” “So you don’t know if she was here last night?” “Couldn’t tell you. Bonnie could. But she’s visiting her boyfriend in Boone this weekend. She’ll be back Monday.” “Okay, thanks.” Liz drank the rest of the ginger ale and put a couple of bills on the counter before she got up to leave. She was tired, discouraged and wished she were going home to bed now instead of heading for another interview that would probably prove as fruitless as the rest of them had all day. As promised, a number of outside lights spread a wide swath of radiance around the Conyers’ home. The garage stood open and an even brighter light illuminated a door within that led into the main part of the house, obviously intended for her use so she wouldn’t have to walk around to the back again. Greg Conyers answered the door within seconds of her knock and invited her in. He greeted her with noncommittal politeness. The garage entrance led through a mudroom and a surprisingly well-equipped laundry room, before decanting them in the same long hall she’d traversed earlier. Before they got to the door to his mother’s bedroom, though, he stopped at another and ushered her into a medium-sized room lined with bookshelves along two walls. A large desk sat on one side of the gracious space. On the other, a grouping of a loveseat and two armchairs cozied up to a fireplace. A small log fire crackled and hissed in it. The evening was chilly and most of the house was cool. At his nod, she settled into one of the armchairs. The warmth from the fire played pleasantly over her. “I thought this would be the most comfortable place,” he said. “I’ll ask them to come talk to you here.” She nodded and said, “Thank you.” He left the room while she got out her notepad and pen. The first woman who came in was just arriving for her shift and introduced herself as Jane Jefferson as she took the seat opposite. She was a tall, gangly woman with a pleasant face and gentle manner. “You were on duty last night?” Liz asked after presenting her credentials. “Yes.” “When you arrived, did you see or hear anything unusual in the area or on the grounds?” The woman thought about it for a minute, then said, “No. It was quiet and pretty deserted. Normal.” “And while you were here last night?” “Nothing unusual that I can remember.”
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Liz asked a few more questions concerning events of the previous night, inquiring if she’d heard any of the commotion. Apparently Mrs. Conyers’ room was well-insulated from noise. The nurse hadn’t even heard Greg leave or come back in the early hours of the morning. The next woman was considerably older, probably in her sixties. She was preparing to go off duty as she had the previous night at the same hour. In response to Liz’s questions, she said she couldn’t remember hearing or seeing anything unusual. Liz didn’t hear the woman leave the house after their interview either, though she did hear her car start and roll down the drive. The fire popped softly. Warmth surrounded her and sank into her bones. She was trying to work up the energy to rise from the soft, warm, comfortable seat, leaning forward and rubbing her eyes when Greg Conyers come back into the room. He carried a tray laden with teapot, cups and condiments, which he placed on a table beside her chair. “Detective? Tea?” he asked. “A soothing, herbal brew. You look like you could use it.” “That bad?” she asked. He studied her for a moment. “Not bad. A bit worn, maybe.” “Probably. I’ve been up since one-thirty this morning.” “Does that happen often?” “Three or four times a year, maybe.” He poured a cup of tea and passed it to her, then offered cream, sugar and lemon. She accepted the tea but declined the rest. “You mind if I join you?” he asked, taking a cup himself and heading for an adjoining chair. She laughed a little. “Mr. Conyers? This is your home, I believe?” His lips quirked into a crooked, short-lived grin. “Your investigation, though. And your privacy I’m invading right now. Would it be unprofessional to call me Greg?” “Only if you don’t dispense with the ‘Detective’ bit.” He sat down and crossed one long leg over the other. “I heard one of your coworkers call you Liz this morning.” “That’ll do,” she agreed. He swirled the tea in his cup and looked down into it for a moment before he said, “Is it bad form for a layman to ask how an investigation is going?” “Natural curiosity, I’d say. And technically, of course, you’re my employer.” He looked up, startled, but she didn’t have to explain it to him. “I suppose so,” he agreed. “But the police don’t tell the public everything.” “Nope. It’s always a bit of a tightrope, balancing what you owe the public against what you owe to the requirements of the job.” He nodded slowly.
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“I spent too much of today ducking reporters or talking with them,” she continued, “trying to be careful exactly what I told them. But they’re just doing their jobs too.” “I suppose every job has its share of walking tightropes.” “You ran a successful business once. I expect you know the drill.” His eyes widened and she saw surprise and a hint of alarm, quickly hidden. “You checked my background.” “Sheer, brazen curiosity,” she admitted. “And it wasn’t hard. Half the people I talked to remembered the article about you a couple of years ago.” “That thing.” His eyebrows angled a bit. “Speaking of trying to duck reporters.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I got a copy of the article. I’d say you were pretty good at avoiding journalists.” He shrugged and took a sip of his tea. “I’ve learned how to guard my privacy.” “Can I ask you a question? One that might impinge on it?” He gave her an ironic look. “You’re the detective.” “This one is personal.” “Then I don’t have to answer it.” “No one ever has to answer any questions. People with nothing to hide don’t seem to mind doing it as much, though.” He might have been reading her mind when he asked, “Are there really people who have nothing to hide?” “You’d make a good cop. You’ve got the right mindset.” “Maybe.” “What made you decide to sell the business and paint full-time? They’re so different, the world of commerce and the world of art. It’s hard to imagine a man who was happy in one being happy in the other.” “How do you know I was happy in the one?” He set the teacup aside, stood and moved to stand behind the chair he’d just vacated, leaning on the back. “Were you?” He ran a hand through his silver hair, leaving it intriguingly disarranged. “Actually, to be honest, I guess I was. When I was running Conyers Properties, I was content in my way. Driven, always on the aggressive, always looking for opportunities, chances, connections. There was purpose in it and a goal, the challenge of finding ways to succeed. It was interesting. And satisfying, in a way. But it wasn’t very deep. And after a while it was almost too easy.” He straightened and paced around the room. “There was still a thrill in it but I got tired of the effort. It was just about making more money and I already had enough. More than enough. I’d actually dabbled in art all my life, but I realized after a while that I was finding painting more satisfying than negotiating land deals. There are more interesting challenges than figuring out how to earn the next few million. And a way to
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say things I never could in business. I actually had the arrogance to believe I had something to add to the world besides new office buildings.” “I understand you’re very good at painting too.” He shrugged off the compliment. “Getting there, maybe. There are things I could do better. Some techniques I haven’t mastered yet.” He stopped in the middle of the room and turned to her. “What about you, Liz? What led you into police work?” “I don’t know. Actually, I can’t remember ever not wanting to be a cop.” “Anyone in your family?” “No. It just seems like I was always watching a detective show on television or reading mystery novels when I was growing up. I cut my teeth on Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys. Went on to Agatha Christie, Rex Stout, Spillane, Hillerman, Ed McBain, all the others. The police procedurals were my favorites. That didn’t change as I got older, I just became more practical. I badgered my parents to let me practice shooting, I took a few martial arts classes and I spent a lot of time at the gym working out. I went to college and got a degree in criminal justice. And here I am.” “You’re fairly young to have made detective, aren’t you?” “You’re pretty young to have started, built and sold a business for enough money to let you retire in state, aren’t you?” “That’s a point,” he admitted. “But you’re right. I am fairly young. And I’m female. And it creates problems. But I’ve done my time on the street, issuing traffic tickets and breaking up rowdy parties. The degree helped and the fact that I had some training with the FBI a few years ago. Plus, this being a small town meant the competition wasn’t as fierce.” “And you’re very intelligent and very competent.” She sighed and rubbed her temples. “Right now, I’m very tired and frustrated.” “It’s not going well?” “It’s not going at all. No one heard or saw anything. The people who might know something are nowhere to be found, while the people I can talk to don’t know a damn thing.” “So you talk to people tomorrow or the next day. Does it make that much difference?” “Actually it does. The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours after a murder are critical. Memories are fresh, people are still rattled, stories haven’t been coordinated yet.” She closed her eyes for a moment and leaned her head back, drinking in the soothing aromas of the wood fire and fragrant tea. She didn’t realize he’d moved in behind her until she felt his hands fall gently on her shoulders and begin to knead her tense, knotted muscles. “You’ve done all you possibly can for today. Let it go for a while.”
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What his hands were doing to her made it easier to forget about murder cases and her job and everything else but the sensation of his fingers rubbing her back and neck. She sighed. “That feels terrific.” “Good.” For the next few minutes, she let him knead, easing the tension. A small voice in the back of her mind whispered that this might not be a good idea, but even the rational part of her was hard-pressed to come up with an exact reason why it wasn’t. He stopped and came around the chair to stand in front of her and drew her to her feet. He bent over and kissed her, gently at first, then not so gently. After a few minutes, though, they split apart, almost by mutual consent. “Was that wrong?” he asked her. “It’s hard to know.” “Know what?” “Where the police officer ends and the woman begins.” “It can be a problem,” she agreed. “Sometimes I’m not sure I know myself.” He nodded, accepting. “I’d better let you go,” he said. “Both of you are tired and need your sleep right now.” Sleep didn’t come as quickly as she expected, however. Her mind kept replaying that kiss. No man have ever kissed her with the same level of gentle concern and restrained passion. No man have ever fascinated her so quickly and thoroughly, either.
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Chapter Six You complain about the women I choose? Fine example you are. Even I know better than to think about getting cozy with a cop. “Yeah, sure. You’d try to lay the head of the FBI if she had big breasts and blonde hair.” I look for women with something going for them. What do you see in that stick of a police detective? “Never much for subtlety, were you? I wonder if you’d recognize beauty—real beauty, not the tacky glitz you admire—if it smacked you in the face?” I don’t know from art. I know what I like. The sneer in the words made him angrier but he fought to control it. “Even your sarcasm is trite. Sleek, graceful lines beat overblown curves and sagging weights. Add good bone structure and intelligent conversation and it beats makeup and simpering gush any day.” Ingres versus Rubens? Amusement sharpened the derision. You’ve gone classical on me? How hideously mundane. I’ll take Baroque myself. So much more interesting. “Appropriate. You couldn’t do a clean line if your life depended on it.” Oh, worse. A purist, for heaven’s sake. The mockery took on a note of anger or impatience. Must I remind you whose paintings sell better? “‘I don’t know from art’,” he mocked. “The same people who make Stephen King and slasher flicks cultural icons.” You get more boring every day. Classicism, Puritanism. They’re all dead. Stone, cold dead. Rolling-in-the-sod-and-smeared-all-over dead. Rotting-off-the-bone— “You’ve made your point. Bad enough I have to keep putting up with you. I don’t have to listen to this rot!” Of course not. So why do you? He had no answer for that. Mocking mental laughter. You’re too afraid not to know. Must be a hellish bind. You don’t want to know, and you can’t afford not to. What a sad situation. “Don’t push too hard. I have limits.” They’ll accommodate me. She wants it that way, and you can’t refuse her anything! “She won’t last much longer.” What’ll you do then? If I go down, you do too. “There are worse things. Don’t bet too far on it.”
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Always said you were a fool. A pause followed and then a change of tone to serious, angry, dangerously on edge. Keep your hands off the cop. We can’t afford to take chances with her. “Leave her out of it. She’s not your business!” She will be if she gets too close. I’m warning you. I won’t take any stupid chances with her. Another change of tone. Maybe you’re hoping she’ll pull you out of it if you get her all besotted? The famous charm to the rescue? “She’s not like that.” A thoughtful pause this time. No, I’m afraid not. Which is why I won’t take chances with her. Make sure she stays away from here if you’re really so fond of her. “I’ve warned you once, I have limits.” And she’s one of them? I have limits too. But I don’t have your finicky scruples. Leave her alone and keep her away from here. I won’t let her dig around. “I won’t let you hurt her.” We have a problem, don’t we? Just remember who usually wins these arguments.
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Chapter Seven Liz slept until nearly nine o’clock Saturday morning, something she rarely did. Her body needed the rest, though. She woke refreshed and energized. After her morning run, shower, a liberal dose of LizSport perfume and a look at the roses, she sat down with the phone and the folder of notes she’d brought home. The first call was to check her office voice mail. Three calls were there, but only one of them related to the Wannstedt case. That was Jeff Zambrell saying David Barnwell still hadn’t returned to the inn. They’d gone to his room to see if he’d left any personal items, but had found only a few empty drink containers, pamphlets on sights of interest in the area and a used-up toothpaste tube. Liz returned the call to Zambrell and got the address and credit card information Barnwell had put on his registration slip. She made a couple more calls trying to track down Barnwell’s phone number from the address, but the Richmond phone directory listed a number of residents with that name, and none of them matched the address she had. She started down the list, phoning each, but found only three at home, none of them the one she was looking for. The next call was to the home of the second person whose name Theresa Wannstedt had given her. The girl was in and, from the sound of her voice, had just been roused from a deep sleep when she finally came to the phone. “Yeah, I heard about Allison getting… About what happened to her,” Danielle said when Liz explained the reason for the call. “That’s creepy.” “Her mother said you’d been a friend of Allison’s?” Liz made it a question. “We used to hang together back in high school,” the girl answered. “Kind of lost touch with each other lately, though.” “When was the last time you saw her?” Danielle had to think about that for a while. “Three weeks ago. About that. I ran into her in CVS.” “Did you talk to her?” Again, there was a pause. “Yeah, we, like, said hi and all that. ‘How’re you doing’? ‘What are you doing these days’? It was, like, really awkward.” “Why was that?” “‘Cause I sort of knew what she was doing, and I guess she knew that I knew, and neither of us really wanted to talk about it.” “What did you know she was doing?”
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Danielle sighed heavily. “I knew she sort of, got around. You know, was seeing a lot of guys. And doing favors for them.” “Favors they paid for.” “Yeah,” Danielle said. “But she wasn’t really, like, a… like a prostitute, I mean. Not, like, really. She…” “Did favors,” Liz supplied, wondering what Danielle’s definition of a prostitute was. “When you saw her last, how did she seem? Happy? Content? Upset?” “Pretty much like average, I guess,” the girl said. “She said she might be going to college somewhere next fall. Said she’d saved some money for it. But I wondered. She wasn’t, like… I mean, in high school, she didn’t get really great grades.” “You thought she was kidding herself?” “Yeah, maybe. Yeah, I guess so. You’d have to have known Allison. She wasn’t really a college type, you know? But she wasn’t like that, either. She wasn’t fast. I don’t know what happened—” It suddenly seemed to hit her that her high school friend was dead. “Still, she might have done it.” The girl’s voice broke. “She might have—” “Yeah, she might have,” Liz agreed. “Do you know any of the people she was friends with more recently? Anyone from your class she stayed in contact with?” Danielle sniffed a couple of times. “I don’t think so. No one I know.” Liz thanked her and said goodbye. She grabbed another glass of juice and got into her car. At the bottling plant, she talked with two employees who’d known Allison, though neither of them had been close to her. Both suspected Allison wouldn’t have been working there much longer. “She was getting careless,” one of the two, a gray-haired, older man named Joe Ventnor, said. “Coming in late a lot of the time, too many personal calls on company time, standing around talking when she should be working, things like that. Her supervisor was getting plenty aggravated.” “You think she would have gotten fired?” The man shrugged. “It’s kind of hard to fire people these days, but they might’ve cut her pay or her hours to let her know they weren’t pleased about her performance. Tell the truth, I don’t think she cared.” “Why not?” He looked around and chewed his lip. “She had other things on her mind most of the time.” “Like?” “Her evening activities. Way she saw it, I think, there were easier ways to make money than slaving here.” “Doing ‘favors’ for men, as one of her former friends put it?” He nodded. “Yeah.”
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The man gave Liz a couple of names of people Allison had hung out with. “Girl named Lynn,” he said. “She’s not going to last much longer herself. And a guy named Ross who used to work here. He quit a couple of months back.” “Ross?” The name rang bells in Liz’s mind. Sally had mentioned a “Ross” as a companion of Allison’s. “Do you know Ross’ last name.” “McKellin, no, McCormick, no McClintock. That’s it, McClintock.” “You wouldn’t happen to know an address for him?” “Not me, but the shift supervisor can probably get it for you.” “What about Lynn?” He shook his head. “Don’t know her last name.” Liz thanked him and went to look for the shift supervisor. She found the woman on the plant floor and waited while she straightened out a problem with a time card. Once she was done, Liz followed her across a noisy area, threading their way through snaking assembly lines to the accompaniment of loud thunks and screeches as cappers and other machines did their work. The relative silence of the tiny office was a blessed relief to her ears. “Loretta Chamberlain,” the woman introduced herself after Liz had shown her badge. “What can I do for you?” “I hope you can give me some information on a former employee.” She went on to explain what she needed and why. She also asked Loretta if she’d known Allison, but the woman shook her head. “Not my shift. Should be able to get the address, though,” she added and turned to face a computer on the side of her desk. She tapped a few keys and scrolled through a few pages of information. “Here it is,” she said, finally. “Ross McClintock. 10260 Wilcox Drive.” Liz made a note of it, asked for and got his date of birth and social security number as well, and then asked her about Lynn. “You know a last name?” “No. I hoped you might recognize it or have a way to find out.” The woman shook her head again. “Afraid not. But I’ll be glad to ask around and see what I can come up with. There’s probably someone here who knows her last name.” Liz had to settle for that. She gave the woman her card and thanked her for the help before she left the plant, tracking through the noise and clatter again. The highway noises outside gave respite after the racket. She stopped for lunch at a sandwich shop before going to her office. The police headquarters was quieter on a Saturday than during the week, but activity never ceased altogether. Three new messages had accumulated on her voice mail. Mrs. Wannstedt had called back and so had B. R. Travers. Greg Conyers wanted her to give him a buzz also. She returned the call to Allison’s mother first.
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“I checked Allison’s stuff like you asked,” the woman reported. “I didn’t find the pocketbook she generally uses. Didn’t find no wallet either.” “Did you find any other personal items that might help us? A note from a boyfriend, a picture or something?” The woman hesitated. “There was a piece of paper stuck in her drawer. From a Dave or Dan Simmons, asking her to meet him at ten o’clock. I think it’s kind of old, though. Detective, when can we have the funeral?” “I can’t tell you for sure how long it’ll take to get the autopsy completed. We’ll let you know as soon as possible.” The woman sobbed but said thanks and hung up. Liz tried to get Travers next but ended up speaking to his answering machine again. She promised to be in the office next Monday between eleven and twelve and asked him to return the call then. She’d saved Greg Conyers for last and didn’t want to examine her motives for doing so. She asked him about his mother after he’d answered. “Pretty much the same,” he said. “Some days are worse than others. Yesterday was a good one. The reason I called you, though. I thought you probably ought to know. The guy who’s been helping me with the garden seems to have disappeared.” “What do you mean disappeared?” “After you left yesterday afternoon, he was gone and he hasn’t come back.” “He was there when I came to your house yesterday? I didn’t see him.” “No, I know. He made himself scarce. It didn’t register with me then. I thought he was in another part of the yard or the tool shed. It didn’t occur to me there might be something odd about that until he didn’t show up this morning.” “You expected him back today?” “He was supposed to be helping me all week. I tried calling him, but got no answer.” “He lives around here? Do you have an address?” “Just a phone number.” “Name?” “Justin Sandberg.” “How long have you known him?” “A couple of weeks. Someone at the garden shop recommended him to me and gave me the phone number.” “Can I have it?” Conyers gave her the number. At her request, he also provided a general description of the man. Late twenties, five-ten, one-sixty, dark hair and blue eyes. Conyers knew little else of the man, who apparently wasn’t much of a talker. “Did he get to your place by car?” 50
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“Yes.” She got the make, model and color of the car from him, but he didn’t know the license tag number. She realized she’d seen the car in his driveway the day before. “How did you pay him?” she asked. “Cash. Usually by the day.” “All right, I’ll look into it,” she told him. “If you hear from him, let me know.” When that call was concluded, she pulled out a city directory and looked for entries for both McClintock and Sandberg. McClintock was listed under the same address she’d gotten from the plant. She found several Sandbergs in the book, but no Justins. She made a note to have Doris do a reverse lookup from the phone number on Monday. While she was still working on that, a noise at the door to her office caught her attention. Deputy Chief Cal Dennison stood there, watching her with a disquieting intensity. “Working overtime today?” he asked. “I’ve got a murder case that’s still within forty-eight hours.” “Any good leads?” He came in and took a chair beside her desk. She shrugged. “Nothing hot. Lots of possibilities, though. Couple of visitors at the inn I can’t account for, a gardener from the Conyers’ place pulled a fast exit when I showed up to ask questions and I’m trying to run down a couple of the victim’s friends who might be able to give me more information.” Dennison nodded and frowned. “We’re going to need something for the press pretty quick. They’re all over this one. Jack the Ripper and all that shit.” “I heard it last night. What’s new? We give them the standard line. ‘We’re working on the case and expect to make an arrest fairly soon.’ What’s the hitch?” “No hitch. Just plenty of heat if we don’t get a line pretty quick. You need any help running down suspects?” “Not yet.” He picked up a pen and piece of notepaper from her desk and began poking holes in the paper with the point. “It would look really good if we could get this thing resolved before Gordon gets back.” Would look especially good for you, she thought to herself. Dennison had the on-call for this weekend. “I’m always down for clearing murders as fast as we can,” she said. “I have a record to uphold.” She watched the small flush creep up his cheeks at her reminder that she’d cleared all six of the murders she’d worked since being hired as a detective. Dennison had held the position previously and didn’t brag about his clear rate. “This department has an obligation to the public as well,” he said, standing abruptly.
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“That’s why I’m here on a Saturday afternoon when I’m supposed to be off. That’s why I’ll be working for the rest of the day,” she continued, “and probably tomorrow too. Until I’ve chased down every loose thread as far as I can for now.” “Keep me posted,” Dennison said as he headed for the door. “And yell if you need help.” Liz filled out her time card before she left the office and put it on Doris’ desk to be submitted Monday morning. She headed for the address she had for Ross McClintock. The building number she sought was a unit in the middle of a row of shabby apartments. Her first knock brought no response, but she heard a baby wail from the other side of the door. After her second knock, a young girl, no more than eighteen, came to the door. The child she carried on her hip was probably about six months old. The girl didn’t do anything but stare at her for a minute, then finally said, “Yeah?” Liz drew out her identification and handed it to her. “Detective Ramsey. I’m looking for Ross McClintock. I was told he lived here.” The girl’s eyes narrowed as she handed back the folder. “Whatta you want him for?” “I just need to ask him some questions. Does he live here?” “When he’s broke and it suits him.” “You’re his wife?” The girl stared for a moment and shrugged. “Ain’t got no piece of paper. Kid’s his, though.” “What’s your name?” She chewed her lip for a moment before answering. “Brandy. Brandy Cates.” “Thank you. Is Ross here right now?” “No.” “Do you know where I can find him?” “He didn’t know nothing about Allison.” “What makes you think I wanted to ask about Allison?” The girl’s face drew in even tighter. “I ain’t stupid. What would a detective want to ask him about except someone got killed? He didn’t do it.” “I haven’t said he did. We just want to ask him some questions. I need to find out who Allison was with the night she died. Things like that.” The baby wrapped its fingers around a lock of Brandy’s hair and pulled. The girl winced and tugged his hand away. She looked around the decrepit living room, her lip curling in distaste. Finally, she shook her head and said, “I suppose so, but I can’t help you. I ain’t seen him since three days ago.” “Does that happen very often?”
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Her face changed and almost broke into tears, reminding Liz how very young she was. “Yeah, some.” “When exactly was the last time you talked to him?” Brandy shook her head in confusion and the baby grabbed at her nose. She ducked her head and slapped the child’s hand away. “Thursday, I reckon it was. Afternoon. He needed a couple of bucks.” “You gave it to him?” She rolled her eyes. “Any idea where he might be now?” “No.” “Did you know Allison Wannstedt?” “Not real well. Ross didn’t want me hanging out with them.” “You don’t have any idea who might’ve killed her?” The girl shook her head again, dodging the baby’s fingers when it reached for her ear. The baby broke into a sudden loud wail. “I reckon he’s hungry,” she said. “It might not be a good idea for you to stay here alone with the baby,” Liz said. “Is there anyone else you can go to?” Her eyes glittered. “My ma and step-pa threw me out when I got pregnant. I’m okay here. I’m all right.” Liz shrugged, asked for a phone number and jotted it down. She handed the girl a card with her own number. “Call me if you have any problems. I’ll give you any help I can. And if you see Ross, tell him it’s urgent that I talk to him. Okay?” The girl nodded. Before she shut the door, Liz asked, “What kind of car does he drive?” “Trans Am. Red. It’s about fifteen years old and looks like a piece of junk. It is too.” The girl shut the door firmly behind her. The interview didn’t do anything to improve Liz’s view of the world in general and her place in it. She picked up dinner at a Chinese restaurant and took it home. With no new developments, their murder had been relegated to a ten-second update right before the weather teaser on the six o’clock news. Liz showered and changed into fresh clothes afterward. She hesitated over her choice of perfume and finally went for Poison. The name as much as the fragrance suited her mood. By the time she got to Marko’s at eight-fifteen, the action was pretty loud. She had to park a block away from the club, almost across the street from the inn’s yard, which gave her an insight into one possible reason for the murder to take place there. While still half a block from the place, she could hear Bruce Springsteen extolling the virtues of a “Pink Cadillac”. When she walked in, she saw only one empty table and two single vacant seats at Marko’s bar. The music didn’t quite overpower the drone of various conversations, the clacking of billiard balls and the low murmur from a
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television in the corner showing a baseball game, but it tried hard. She sat down at the bar, then fended off the advance of the man on the next stool as politely as possible while trying not to be overpowered by the scent of his aftershave. She breathed a shallow sigh of relief when the bartender worked his way to her. “Are you Tim?” she asked the youngish man who asked for her drink order. He nodded and gave her a questioning look. Liz identified herself and explained her purpose, ignoring the man on the next stool who overheard and groaned, “Oh, man.” The bartender nodded. “Yeah, I knew Allison,” he admitted. “Was she in here on Thursday night?” “That was the night she got killed, wasn’t it?” Tim asked. “Yes.” “Yeah. Let me think. It was a pretty busy night for a Thursday as I recall. People getting an early start on the weekend. But, yeah, she was here. I remember now.” The man next to her still groaned his chagrin about trying to hit on a police officer. “Do you remember who she was with or who she talked to?” “With, I can do. The usuals, Ross and Lynn and Chrissie.” “Ross McClintock?” “Yeah, him.” “Is he in here tonight by any chance?” Tim glanced around the place but didn’t spot his man. “Nope. Guess he’s hanging low since Allison’s…” “Maybe. What about the others, Lynn and Chrissie?” “Don’t see them here, either.” “Do you know their last names, or where they live?” “Nope and nope. They were just customers.” “Anyone here who might know?” He thought about it. “Not tonight. Bonnie would know. She knows everyone’s business, but she won’t be back ‘til tomorrow.” “Do you remember seeing Allison with anyone particular?” she asked. “Other than Ross and the girls? Hold on a minute.” He went to get a beer for another customer. The man on the next stool, with more than a couple under his belt, turned to her again. “Listen, ma’am, you know I didn’t mean anything by it, don’t you? No harm.” “No harm,” she agreed. “It’s not a crime to try to talk to someone.” “Right.” He beamed soggily at her. “Not a crime. Hey, thanks. Can I buy you something?” His interest was getting the upper hand again. “Don’t push it too hard,” she warned. 54
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Tim came back and handed her a glass of ice and the can of Sprite she’d requested. “Been trying, but I can’t think of anyone special Allison was with.” “You didn’t hear or see her arguing with anyone?” “Not as I can recall. You really want to come back tomorrow and talk to Bonnie. She’ll know “ “All right. But Tim? Allison usually came in with her friends. Did she leave with them as well?” He gave her a long look from blue eyes that weighed carefully what he should tell her. “No. Not always.” “Not usually?” He chewed his lip and didn’t answer. She sighed. “Look, I realize you can’t control who people meet and talk with or what kind of arrangements they might make while they’re here.” Tim took a moment to absorb that, then took a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. “Obviously you already know about…her activities.” “Obviously,” Liz agreed. He shrugged. “Okay, so yeah, Allison got around. And she met people here. We get lots of visitors to the area, people passing through, guys looking for a bit of companionship.” “But you don’t remember seeing her talking with anyone last Thursday?” “Nope. Too busy. Like I said, you need to ask Bonnie. Lay you odds she’ll know.” “Okay. Thanks. I’ll stick around for a little while. If you see Ross or Lynn or Chrissie come in, let me know.” “Will do,” he agreed. But none of Allison’s companions put in an appearance. After nursing two cans of Sprite and fending off advances from a couple of different men, Liz finally gave up, paid for her drinks, left a generous tip for Tim and went back out to her car. The night was cool with a chilly breeze blowing down the valley. The fresh air was welcome, clearing the smell of beer and cigarettes out of her nose. Liz shivered as she walked to her parking place, wondering what Allison had felt when she’d made a similar walk on the last night of her life. Had she suspected the man she met intended to harm her? Was she scared? Excited? Or was it just another night’s work? Thursday night had been warmer than this, but even so, Allison’s clothes had been thin and skimpy. She’d probably shivered some too. Liz drove home in a thoughtful mood. At ten-forty, she was getting ready to put out the lights and head for bed, when the phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID but didn’t recognize the number. Local, though. She picked it up. “Liz?”
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She couldn’t place the voice. It sounded weirdly muffled, but she thought there was something vaguely familiar about it. “Yes?” “Are you still investigating that girl’s death?” “Yes. Why? And who is this?” “Not a good idea,” the voice said. “Not a good idea at all.” Then the phone on the other end was hung up. Liz quickly punched in the call-return code and waited while it rang and rang. She finally gave up and went on to bed. She could get the number on Monday.
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Chapter Eight On Sundays, Liz slept in rather than getting up early to run. She lounged in bed until eight-thirty, fixed French toast for breakfast and settled in her recliner with a mug of coffee, the newspaper and her cell phone. After skimming the paper, noting that the murder had been relegated to the third page and the story didn’t give away any untoward information, she picked up her folder of notes and began making phone calls. Her office voice mail had only one new message, from Loretta Chamberlain, giving her Lynn’s last name, Grierson, and her address, social security number and phone number. The woman must have looked it up right away since the call had come in just a few minutes after Liz had left her the previous day. No one answered when Liz called the number and no answering machine picked up. The same thing happened when she called the number Greg Conyers had given her for Justin Sandberg and when she phoned Ross’ apartment. Liz hoped Ross’ girlfriend had found shelter with a friend or relative. She called several more Barnwells in Richmond, Virginia, caught up with a few more, including two Davids, both of whom had been home in Richmond at the time of the murder and could prove it. She left messages on a couple more answering machines. She groaned aloud when the phone rang a few minutes later. But it wasn’t the office on the line. It was Greg Conyers. “Liz? Are you off duty today?” he asked. When she said yes, he continued, “I need to get away for a while. My mother had a bad night, but she’s sleeping now, so I have an opportunity for a break. I was thinking of driving up the Parkway, taking some pictures and maybe a short hike. Would you like to come with me?” She considered the other things she should be doing, then also wondered if this might be mixing pleasure with business in a way that wouldn’t be a good idea. “I just want to relax a bit and get my mind into a different groove,” he said. “I’d like to have your company.” His tone was so diffident, so calm and appealing, she had a hard time remembering why she should refuse. All work and no play… Actually there weren’t many things left she could or needed to do that day. “Okay,” she agreed. “How about if I put together a few sandwiches and odds and ends for lunch? Do you think we can find a good place for a picnic?” “I know the perfect spot. I’ll throw a blanket in the car and bring some drinks. You have any preferences?”
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“No.” She suggested she meet him at his place, fixed tuna and chicken salad sandwiches and showered with her favorite raspberry-scented gel. She debated over perfume and finally decided the occasion called for a dip into the bottle of Ralph Lauren her mother had given her for her last birthday. She left notice she’d be out of touch for the next few hours but gave the duty officer a request that all units to be alert for a red Trans Am and to hold Ross McClintock for questioning should he be found. In the interest of covering her rear, she stuck a note in the top drawer of the desk in her living room detailing what she planned to do for the day and who she planned to do it with. Greg Conyers wore jeans, scuffed Nike running shoes and a green polo shirt. He looked more relaxed than she’d seen him, his face not exactly unshuttered, but less harshly controlled, the lines around his mouth less noticeable and his pale gray eyes clear and unshadowed. “Is this lunch?” he asked, taking the basket from her. “How many people do you think you’re feeding?” “Two well-honed appetites,” she answered. “I said a short hike. I was thinking in terms of the bunny trail here. Don’t tell me you’re an exercise freak.” “I forgot to mention I run five miles a day?” He groaned. “I should have known. But, hey, this is recreation, not a workout.” “Exactly. All diets are suspended ‘til further notice.” As he took the basket from her, he looked her up and down and appeared to approve of the walking shorts, Reeboks and sleeveless blouse. Since the blouse couldn’t conceal a gun, she’d decided to leave it in her closet along with the pager. He frowned at the leather-cased canister she wore hooked to the waistband of her shorts. “Cap-Stun,” she said, following his line of sight. “Pepper mace. In case a wild animal attacks.” He paused on his way to the door. His expression grew grim and he set the basket down again. “Liz, I realize you’re a cop, you have to be careful and I’m connected to this murder, if only because it occurred next door to my house. If you don’t trust me or you’re afraid of me, you don’t have to do this. I’ll understand, believe me. I just wanted some peaceful time out, that’s all.” Liz took a step toward him and stopped. “Greg, the Cap-Stun goes with me everywhere. When I visit my parents in Raleigh. I wear it to the grocery store. I’d take it if I were hiking alone or with my best friend. There are wild animals in these hills. And dangerous, wild humans as well. Maybe my training has made me a bit paranoid, but I wouldn’t think of going anywhere without at least that much protection. No matter who I went with.”
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She held his eyes as she continued. “We live in a sorry age, and I know it better than most people. That’s who I am. If you can’t deal with it, maybe you’d better go by yourself.” He stared at her, eyes bleak, before his expression lightened with chagrin. “I hadn’t thought about it from that perspective.” He sighed and tried to smile. “If you can deal with me wanting to stop every half mile to look closer at something that interests me or to take pictures, I suppose I can work with your professional paranoia. Come to think of it, I can see the advantages in having a cop along. The ultimate in personal protection.” He picked up the basket again. “Are you ready?” His car, a brand-new Toyota Camry, was comfortable to the point of luxury. “Wow. Nice,” Liz said, sinking into an adjustable, well-cushioned bucket seat. “You like it? I’ve got a Cherokee too, but I like this one better when the weather’s nice and I’m not heading for rugged terrain. I bought it last year when I had to run my mother to the doctor every other day or so. The Jeep shook her up too much.” He went on to tell her about other cars he’d owned previously, including one of his favorites, a 1974 Chevrolet he’d bought during his senior year in college. “A big old boat. No air, no rear window defogger, no anti-lock brakes, no power windows, but that sucker had a V-8 engine that laughed as it roared up the side of a mountain.” “And you could watch the little bar on the gas gauge move across it.” “It did gobble fuel,” he admitted. “The last year or so it was drinking almost as much oil too. But it would get up to eighty-five on the interstate and hum.” He turned to look at her. “Should I be admitting that to a police officer?” “A while back you said? I think it’s safe to assume the statute of limitations applies.” He took back roads to get to the Parkway, and Liz soon discovered he wasn’t kidding about stopping every few minutes when something caught his eye. It took her by surprise the first time he pulled over to the side of the highway and parked the car for no apparent reason. Her senses went on first-degree alert. But he pointed to a dead tree as he grabbed his camera case from the backseat of the car. “Look at the shadows on that thing,” he said, removing an expensive-looking Minolta from the case. “And the shape! Can you see the bird on the limb about halfway up? I think it’s a hawk.” He fitted a longer lens onto the camera and stepped out. Liz followed his lead, closing the door on her side quietly and carefully, stepping in his wake as he tromped into a field, probably in violation of trespassing laws. Ignoring the dangers of snakes, bugs and poison ivy, he worked his way closer to the dead tree. Careful of the all the potential perils, not the least Greg himself, Liz stayed behind him. He snapped a few pictures, then stopped, leaning toward Liz to point out the way the broken limbs reached out and upward like begging arms. “It’s a skeleton of a tree, but it still stands its ground and guards its territory. See the dark hole about a third of the way up? I’ll bet there’s something living in there. It can still shelter and nurture. It’s the contrasts I really like.”
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He led the way back to the car when he had his pictures. Before he pulled out again, he took a notebook and jotted down the time and place for the set of snapshots he’d taken. They made several more stops before they got to the Parkway—to view an old, ramshackle house, a fruit stand and an abandoned tobacco barn and ancient tractor being swallowed by encroaching kudzu. He always attempted to explain what it was about a scene that interested him. Liz could generally understand, although his comments about rampant life and death where the kudzu was concerned didn’t enlighten her particularly. On the whole, the experience fascinated her. Liz had always considered herself a pretty good observer, but she tended to note things as collections of facts and details. She could describe a thing in terms of what it looked like—color, size, texture—and draw conclusions about its use or past or place in the environment. Greg viewed a scene or object and saw not just the outlines and the play of light that defined its physical appearance, but the potentials and the symbolic referents as well. His mind leapt from one conclusion to another, sometimes following obscure trails of metaphorical logic, other times playing off historical and artistic antecedents about which she knew nothing. Liz began to relax into the enjoyment of it, learning a new slant on the term “recreation” in the sense of re-creation and seeing things in a new way. She didn’t let down her guard. Too many years of training went into that defense system for it to ever be turned off. She had a few doubts about Greg Conyers. She couldn’t forget or entirely dismiss the weird spasm he’d had last Friday, or the feeling she’d gotten that he was a man with secrets and possibly severe personal problems. Which meant she’d better keep her emotions in check and an eye on her rear. A difficult act, when what was up front fascinated her so. They finally got to the Blue Ridge Parkway. Once there, he turned south and drove for a while without stopping until he got to a scenic overlook and pulled the car into the parking area. “Getting hungry?” he asked. Liz hadn’t noticed until he mentioned it, but her stomach piped up at that point to rumble suggestively. “Yes.” “Good. One of my favorite spots is just a short hike away.” She stared out along the overlook, which offered a nice view of a deep gorge between two tall peaks. “Right down the side of the mountain?” she asked. He nodded to the other side of the parking area, where a narrow trail led into the trees. “It’s not so steep that way. In fact, we only go down a little bit. There’s a shallow stream with a wide, sandy bank. It’s the most peaceful place I’ve ever found.” He took the basket she’d packed, an old blanket, a drink cooler and a smaller insulated jug out of the trunk. Liz hoisted the drink containers and let him carry the heavier basket. The cleared path wasn’t wide enough to accommodate the two of them
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walking abreast, so she let him lead. Within a few minutes of embarking, the forest closed in around them, blotting out sight and sound of the rest of mankind. They didn’t talk much as they walked, except when he stopped to point out an interesting plant configuration. She was content to follow him, enjoying the view of his lanky form, the smooth way his body moved, the fluid play of muscle and sinew, particularly in his broad shoulders. Twice he turned to check on her. She met each concerned glance with a smile. Fifteen minutes later, they crossed a narrow creek. Greg turned and walked along the shallow, sandy bank for a hundred yards or so until he reached a place where the creek broadened and the bank grew wider. He set down the picnic basket and shook out the blanket, spreading it across the sandy surface. He planted one leg well in front of the other, weight forward, and swept out an arm across the area defined by the fabric. “Your couch awaits, milady,” he said, his voice plummy with gallantry. Liz took the hand he extended to help her sit, and felt the strength of sinews in his arm as her weight pulled at him. She did her best to make a graceful seat but sudden distraction complicated the attempt. “Are you all right?” he asked when she was settled. “You looked…shocked or something. Something bite you?” “No,” she said, only half-truthfully. “I just had a thought.” Which was true, if a vast understatement. The thought she’d just had shook her right down to her toes. She’d looked at Greg offering her a seat with assumed chivalry and seen for a moment the depths of what he was reflected in his face and bearing. She couldn’t prove it in any objective way, but she’d willingly swear that the gallantry and implied concern was real and part of him. A part of the whole, extremely complicated man. A man who also had serious problems and dark edges. A man she’d known for less than a week and who intrigued her more than was possibly wise. “It must have been quite a thought,” he commented. “You look like someone just stuck a knife in your gut.” “Something like that,” she muttered. The concern and curiosity in his face forced her to shake herself out of the shock. “Sorry,” she said. “I try to keep business and pleasure separate but it doesn’t always happen. You’re right about this place. It’s marvelous.” He didn’t look happy about her attempt to fob it off, but he took her lead and let the other subject go. “I kind of stumbled on it a couple of years ago, at a time when I was dealing with some really heavy things. If you sit here long enough, the peace seeps into your bones. It’s a magical place too and full of surprises. Look at the sand closely.” Liz stuck her fist into the sand to grab a lump. She held it in front of her eyes and stared at it. “It’s got shiny little red things in it,” she said, frowning at the clot in her hand.
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“Garnets. It’s full of tiny garnets. These mountains seem to be rife with them. I came here early one morning about a year ago, and the sun was shining on the sand. Each of those little garnets glinted like it wanted to audition for the crown jewels. An amazing sight.” “A special place,” she agreed, watching the sand glitter. In her mind, this small corner of the world would always belong to Greg Conyers. After a while she sighed, brushed off her hand and opened the basket, taking out wrapped sandwiches and containers of pickles, deviled eggs, olives and sliced raw carrots. He sat beside her, stretching his long legs out in front of him. While they ate, he told her about other experiences he’d had hiking and exploring these mountains, and even, on occasion, in other parts of the world. When they were finished and had packed away the wrappers, cans and empty containers, he stretched out even further. To keep his head on the blanket, he had to hitch himself forward so his legs below the knees hung off it. Lying flat on his back, arms crossed under his head, he stared up at the sky through the leaves of the trees. “I think this is my absolute favorite way to view the world,” he said. “Probably because I get to do it so rarely.” “I feel my bones getting lazy,” Liz admitted as she let herself slip back until she rested on an elbow, half-turned so she could see him. “Why fight it?” he asked, the words slurring slightly. His eyelids drooped and blinked, finally stayed closed. Liz watched him doze for a while. His finely chiseled features didn’t relax much even in sleep. He still looked hard and withdrawn and maybe even a little dangerous, despite the smudge of dark shadow above his cheekbones. The pale gray eyes provided the only light note in an otherwise uncompromising face. The warmth of the day and the peace of the location began to work its spell on her too. After a while Liz relaxed on the blanket and let herself doze. But her disciplined senses retained a minimal level of alertness even as she daydreamed. So when Greg rolled over and sat up, she knew it, though she chose to remain still and open her eyes only the slight crack necessary to watch him. He studied her quiet form for a while, a smile almost slipping onto his face in the process. Then he looked around and turned to retrieve something out of her line of sight. She waited. A moment later, he hitched himself closer to her on the blanket, scooting across it on his rear rather than standing up. Liz willed her body not to stiffen, to remain quiet and relaxed. The hand holding whatever he’d picked up had not yet come back into her range of vision. Whatever he intended, he didn’t show any urgency about it. He settled himself on the cloth, squirming to get comfortable, placing himself so close she could smell the light, piney fragrance of the aftershave or cologne he used. His body almost filled the narrow slit of vision she permitted herself.
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She waited for his move. A trickle of sweat running down the back of her knee tickled. A mosquito bit her arm and the blanket was itchy where her cheek rubbed against it. When he finally did lean toward her, he didn’t lunge in the kind of threat that would have made her twist around and lock his arm into a disabling hold. Instead, his hand traveled toward her in a leisurely descent. She let it get within inches of her face before she opened her eyes wide and executed a quick reach up to grab his arm and freeze it. She dragged his wrist around until she could see what he held. The oak leaf that dangled from his hand had a slightly rough, prickly edge. She looked at it, then met his eyes, not more than a foot or so away. His smile, the most openly joyful and relaxed one she’d yet seen on his face, faded slowly into sadness and a pain he didn’t attempt to mask. Liz hated herself for causing that change, knowing she’d do the same thing again. Those instincts would probably save her life someday, and maybe others as well. He blinked twice and the reserve was back in place. Almost in place, anyway. Something remained in his expression, something he wanted her to see and know about, an edge that consisted of both appeal and understanding. Liz felt it like a kick to the soul. She loosened the hand around his wrist and slid it up his arm to his shoulder. Tension bunched the tight muscles there. She met his light eyes again and whispered, “Greg?” His lips quirked. “It’s all right, love.” His freed hand buried itself in her hair and gently massaged her scalp. “You warned me. It’s my fault I didn’t remember.” He leaned over and gently pressed his lips against her temple, then moved down over her cheek, trailing a row of kisses that left her face glowing beneath them, until he found her mouth. The contact was long and deep and turned her blood to fire. She’d been kissed before. Not often, in truth, but enough to recognize that this kiss was different. And totally remarkable. Heat poured through her veins and sent sparks of electricity zinging into every nerve. Even more though, she felt as though he opened himself and let her touch and feel his soul, while he found a way to burrow into hers as well. A sudden eruption of sound intruded into their privacy. A noisy exchange between a couple of children served notice of an impending invasion, giving them just enough time to pull apart before a family of four burst into the clearing near the creek and saw them. The newcomers smiled and walked on, heading further up the trail from the Parkway to the creek and beyond. Greg gave her a regretful look as they moved past. “I’m sorry.” “Why? You couldn’t help it.” “Not the interruption.” He put a hand on her arm, studying her face for a minute, tenderly tracing the line of her lower lip with a finger. “That wasn’t supposed to
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happen at all. I promised I wouldn’t complicate your life any further, and I feel sure that qualifies as a complication.” “I guess it does,” she admitted. “But it takes two to make the kind of music we just did.” He sighed and nodded toward the basket. “Shall we go? There’s one more place I want to go, and it’s about an hour’s drive up the Parkway.” The spell had shattered anyway. They gathered their stuff and loaded it all back into his car. Only the turmoil in her mind remained active as he started the motor. The look he sent to her just before he turned the key did nothing to settle things. His rueful smile tried valiantly to dismiss any cloud of regret or conflict between them. The place he wanted to take her was a garden area, where a stand of rhododendron crawled up the side of a mountain, turning it into a flower slide of deep pink. They took another, somewhat longer hike, partly climbing the side of a hill to get an even better view of the sea of blooming shrubbery. Greg took pictures and pointed out aspects of the scene she might not have noticed otherwise. Driving back in the late afternoon, Liz dozed again for a while. He turned on the radio, playing soft classic rock music in the background. She woke when he turned off the Parkway at an exit some distance from Hartersburg. She threw him a questioning look. “It’s after six and I’m ready for dinner,” he said. The restaurant they stopped at specialized in German food. Service was mediocre but the food wasn’t, so on the whole they came away satisfied from dinners featuring a variety of sausages, kraut and German potato salad. By the time they got back to his place, it was after nine. He transferred the empty picnic basket to her car and opened the driver’s side door for her. He stopped her as she turned to get in and bent down to kiss her. Nothing gentle about it this time. His lips were warm and firm but they explored her mouth with tender demand. His tongue swiped her lips, and she parted them to allow him entrance. Heat poured through her, sizzling along her veins. She pressed herself closer to him, locking her hands behind his neck. She’d kissed a number of men before but it had never felt like this. Combustible. They might go up in flames at any moment. The loud buzz of a nearby tree frog broke the spell. Liz drew back, struggling to get her breath back into rhythm. “Wow. That was…wow.” “Yeah, it felt that way to me too,” he said. She wanted to do it again, but she suspected they wouldn’t find it easy to stop, and she needed to be at work first thing in the morning. She had a murder to solve. Forcing her shaky legs to move, she got herself into the car and turned it around. Once home, she took her picnic dishes to the kitchen to unload, sort and wash. As she passed, she noticed the message light on her answering machine demanding
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attention. She pushed the button and listened to the daytime dispatcher requesting that she call in as soon as she could. His call had come in at one-fifty-six. Still, she punched in the department number and got Wes Drimble again. “That you, Ramsey?” he asked. “We been wondering where you were. Everything okay?” “Fine. Fine. What’s up?” “We found your man McClintock.” Wes paused to add dramatic emphasis. “Afraid he won’t be telling you much of anything, though. He’s dead.”
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Chapter Nine “What?” Liz heard herself yelling into the receiver and turned her volume down. “How?” “I hear Dr. Ryland said trauma to the head. Blunt instrument. He didn’t have any theories about what it was.” “When did the notice come in?” “About two this afternoon. One of the new people, Romanski, saw a place by the side of the road where the vegetation looked kind of squashed down. That struck him as odd, so he decided to take a closer look. He found the car. A red Trans Am’s kind of hard to hide. Remembered he’d heard about a bulletin out for the owner of a red Trans Am, so he called in to confirm the registration, then went looking for footprints or clues to where the driver had gone. Wasn’t much in the way of footprints, but he said there was enough beaten down and broken off plants to show the way. He almost tripped over the body before he saw it.” “Did he recognize murder?” “Hell, yes. It was broad daylight and there was a lot of blood. Even a rookie could read those signs.” “I hate to ask who investigated the scene since you couldn’t get me. Don’t tell me…please don’t tell me…” “You weren’t answering and they had to call someone.” “So they got…” “Captain Dennison took charge of the scene.” Liz knew it was unprofessional to groan out loud to a coworker. She also knew Wes Drimble wouldn’t tell. “I suppose I’ll get an earful at staff tomorrow. Thanks, Wes.” For good measure, Liz put in a call to Chuck Ryland at the hospital but was told he’d gone home. After some debate, she decided to risk disturbing him. His wife answered and recognized her voice. “You people keep Chuck entirely too busy these days. He’s got enough work without a crime epidemic breaking out.” The woman’s joking tone held enough edge to suggest a message beneath the kidding. “I know and I’m sorry. I’m hoping we can contain the outbreak before it becomes a full-scale epidemic.” “You think the two murders are related?” Sandy Ryland asked. “Ninety-nine percent sure.” “Okay. Here’s Chuck.”
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After a moment, Ryland’s voice sounded in the receiver. “I had a feeling I’d be getting a call from you. Where were you today?” “Having some time off for the first time in over a week,” she said. “God, you mean you get time off once a week? You’ll make us poor working sods jealous.” “Working sod, maybe. Not poor,” she countered. “I’ll bet the payments on that Beemer you drive are more than I make in a month.” “And they go on until I die or strike oil in my backyard,” he said. “If I have to spend half my life running to crime scenes, I at least want to do it in comfort.” “Speaking of crime scenes—” “I thought we would, sooner or later. What do you want to know? For heaven’s sake, be available next time, Liz. Dennison like to drove me up a tree with his yapping.” “I’ll do my best. If someone will give me advance warning, I’ll arrange to be around. Anyway, I gather everyone’s pretty sure the victim was Ross McClintock?” “According to the driver’s license in his pocket. The picture looked like I think the victim did before someone rearranged his head.” “How long ago do you think that happened?” “Hard to pin down precisely,” Ryland admitted. “Rigor had already passed, but the heat would speed that up. There were… I’ll spare you the grosser details right now. You can read them in the official report. Suffice it to say he’d been there at least thirtysix to forty hours. Probably more, maybe as much as forty-eight.” “Which puts probable time of death at sometime Friday afternoon or evening. I think I’d go with a fairly early time. The girlfriend he lives with hadn’t seen him since sometime Thursday. Hell, I wonder if anyone’s notified her?” The last was more a note to herself than a query to Ryland. “Early would mean he was killed in broad daylight,” Ryland suggested, “since I doubt it could have been much more than forty-eight hours. How likely is that?” “You tell me. I understand the area was pretty isolated.” “True. Could be.” “Anyway, what about cause of death? Wes said trauma to the head caused by the proverbial blunt instrument.” “Trite, I know, but those blunt instruments really do make handy murder weapons.” “Any guesses as to the identity of this particular blunt instrument?” “Not until I have a chance to clean things up and make a further inspection. It was heavy enough and wielded with enough force to make a hell of a mess. Multiple skull fractures, et cetera. May take some reconstruction. You any good at jigsaw puzzles?” Liz had a strong stomach, tempered in the cauldron of experience, but some thoughts could still give her the willies. “No, thank you.”
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She could hear children arguing in the background, a noise that grew rapidly louder until Ryland said, “I’ve got to put on my referee’s hat. I’ll get my report to you as quick as I can.” She thanked him and hung up. Before she went to bed, she called Wes Drimble again to give him Ross’ girlfriend’s address. Since it matched what was on McClintock’s license, someone had already been dispatched to notify whatever relatives could be located. Liz didn’t sleep well. Her morning run didn’t invigorate her the way it usually did, either, though she tried to keep her mind blank, instead of anticipating the events of the day as she normally would. Lineup for the day shift started at eight. On Mondays, the senior staff conference followed at nine. She had mixed emotions about the gathering. She enjoyed reviewing open cases and catching up on what others were doing, but when Cal Dennison presided, she found it a trial. If he wasn’t at his most pontificating and boring, he’d make it his business to try and needle her into losing her cool. The two murders were, of course, uppermost in everyone’s minds and at the top of the agenda. After the few items of routine business concluded, Dennison turned to her and asked her to bring them up to date on the progress in the investigation of the Allison Wannstedt murder. Liz reported all she’d learned, summarizing the medical examiner’s findings and her talks with neighbors, guests at the inn and the people in the bars Allison had frequented. “What do you see as the viable leads?” he asked. She shrugged. Dennison had already heard them, but for the benefit of the others present she recapped. “Some possibilities. There are a couple of former guests at the inn I haven’t been able to interview. A salesman from Georgia and a man from Richmond. I’ve been playing phone tag with the salesman for a few days now, and I can’t pin down the other guy. I’d also like to know more about McClintock and what he was doing the night Allison died. The Conyers’ gardener has pulled a disappearing act, as well, apparently to avoid legal entanglements.” “You have a plan from here?” She nodded. “Mostly it involves trying to catch all the people I’ve named. Plus the woman at the bar is supposed to be back tonight, the one who should know who Allison might have met Thursday night. I’m going to talk to her. And try to run down the other friend Allison was with. What turns up in the McClintock investigation will likely also have a bearing. So what’s up there?” Dennison recognized his cue. He sat up straighter and pushed his chest out. The process reminded Liz of a balloon inflating. “As you know,” he said, “Detective Ramsey called in a notice on Saturday to watch for an older model red Trans Am purported to belong to one Ross McClintock. I suppose, at that point, she had reason to believe the man was either in flight or in danger.”
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Liz nodded, silently urging him to get on with it. “At approximately one-thirty yesterday…” He consulted notes in front of him. “Officer B.R. Romanski noticed a place on the side of Old Turnpike Road that looked suspiciously like a car had passed through although there was no driveway and no nearby habitation. He followed tire tracks through the grass, found the Trans Am and recognized it as possibly the one we sought. He searched the vicinity to see if anyone else was nearby and discovered the body about five hundred feet from the vehicle.” Dennison looked up and gave her a sly look. “An effort was made to reach Detective Ramsey, who’d first raised the alert for McClintock, but since they were unable to get her, I was called to take charge of the scene.” “And?” Liz prompted. “The victim was a white male in his late twenties or early thirties. A driver’s license in his wallet identified him as Ross McClintock. It appeared he’d been dead for some time. Head was crushed, blood and other matter were dry or congealed and there were insects.” At that point even Dennison looked a little green, but Liz didn’t waste any sympathy. “Face up or face down when you found him?” she asked. “Kind of sprawled on his side. Face turned two-thirds into the ground. Anyway, we called for the photographer, medical examiner and forensics, roped off the site and checked around for footprints or other signs.” “Find anything?” “Not much. Ground’s too hard and dry to take footprints.” “How about the car?” “Didn’t see much of anything there.” “You were careful not to disturb possible fingerprints?” Liz asked, then added, “Were any of the doors open?” “Driver’s door.” He thought hard. “Come to think of it, the passenger side door might have been open too.” “You don’t know for sure?” Dennison shrugged. “The pictures will tell.” Liz restrained an impulse to roll her eyes. “Could you tell if the parking brake was set?” “No.” Dennison sounded so defensive about it Liz was sure he hadn’t made any attempt to look. “I presume you checked the area for possible murder weapons?” “We looked around,” Dennison answered. “Didn’t find anything.” “Any witnesses in the area? Anyone see or hear anything?”
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“There isn’t anyone living within half a mile of the place. Guy who owns the land is almost five miles away. I talked to a couple of people in the area, but no one heard the car go in. I don’t think we’ll get much that way.” “Has the press been informed of the possible connection with the Wannstedt murder?” Dennison shook his head. “No.” “Can we keep it that way?” “They’ll speculate on it,” another officer suggested. “Two murders so close together. They’ll be talking about a connection.” “But we don’t have to give them one,” Liz said. “No,” Dennison agreed. “Better we sit on that for a while.” She was surprised by his easy accession to her request but grateful for it also. There wasn’t any more to learn about the McClintock case until the medical examiner’s report came back and the evidence specialist went over the car. Liz asked for copies of any and all reports since the case so obviously tied into the one she was working on. From there, they went on to review the status of the other open matters before Dennison dismissed them all at ten-thirty. Doris handed out pink telephone message slips as they filed back to their offices or cubicles. She had two for Liz. One pertained to an older case, which Liz put aside to answer later. The other was from Jeff Zambrell at the Kettering Inn. Someone had found a purse belonging to Allison Wannstedt. She returned that call right away. “One of the maids found it,” Jeff said. “In a trash can. When she went to put some stuff in it, she noticed the pocketbook and wondered if somebody might have made a mistake throwing it away. So she dug it out and brought it to me. I opened it and checked the wallet to see if there was some identification. You can imagine what I felt when I saw the name on the driver’s license.” “It must have been a shock.” “To put it mildly. It was almost like a ghost patting me on the shoulder. It gave me the creeps,” Jeff admitted. “Anyway, I had a feeling you’d want to know about it.” “Where is it now?” “In a drawer in my desk.” “Has anyone else besides yourself and the maid touched it?” “No.” “Good,” Liz said. “Don’t let anyone else handle it. Is the maid still on duty?” “Yes. ‘Til three.”
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Liz explained she wouldn’t be able to get there for a few hours and asked him to make sure the maid didn’t leave, and to check which trash can she’d found the purse in and make sure no one disturbed it either. Jeff agreed to do so. She asked Doris to do a background on Justin Sandberg, knowing it would be a challenge with only a phone number to go on, and also gave her the phone number for the call Liz had received Saturday night. While awaiting the hoped-for call from B.R. Travers, she caught up on paperwork. A few items from other cases needed updating, including notes on a bank robbery to send to the district attorney for an upcoming trial. She’d nearly finished the project when the phone rang and Doris told her it was a Mr. Travers returning her call. She thanked him for responding to her message and explained why she wanted to talk to him. He was pleasant, if a bit over-hearty, and possessed of an easily verifiable alibi. Liz took down the name of his alibi, a sales prospect he’d taken to dinner and with whom he’d spent the evening, and also wrote down a couple of times during the next week when Travers would be home and available for a follow-up interview, if needed. A second call, to the man whose name Travers had given her, made it clear a follow-up wouldn’t happen. The man not only verified Travers’ story, and the fact that the two had been together for most of the evening, he could also provide the name of the restaurant where they’d been and was sure the staff would remember them. The place had had live entertainment that night, so they hadn’t left until sometime after midnight. Liz wrote the name and address of the place, thanked him and hung up. Doris brought in a slip of paper with an address for Justin Sandberg, the missing gardener, and Liz added another stop to her to-do list for the day. Lunch came from a sandwich shop across the street from police headquarters, then she headed for the Kettering Inn. Zambrell had placed the pocketbook in a plastic bag and stowed it in a desk drawer. He also called in the maid who’d found it. The woman was past middle-age and possessed an attitude that didn’t bow to authority. She was aggressively unimpressed by a police detective. “No, I don’t usually look into the trash cans before I toss stuff,” she said in response to Liz’s question. “The handbag was right on top. It caught my eye when I opened the lid. For one thing, most of our trash is bagged and this was just sitting there. For another, it looked brand-new, not all messed-up or dirty like something someone would throw away. I thought it had to be a mistake, so I pulled it out.” Liz peered into the plastic bag to look at the pocketbook. A cheap knock-off of a popular Liz Claiborne model, white vinyl with tan trim. It looked new. She followed the woman and Zambrell outside to the trash cans, where they examined the one she’d found the purse in. Everything else in the container was stuffed in white plastic bags. The bin was the fourth in a row of five fifty-gallon containers. Further questioning elicited that their trash was picked up once a week with collection day being the next day, and the maid hadn’t thought it likely the pocketbook had been there very long. After pulling on a pair of plastic gloves, Liz opened the can,
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pulled out the top bag of trash, unwound the plastic tie, looked in and found herself luckier than she had any reason to expect. The bag held bits of paper from the office, including several pieces bearing yesterday’s date. Jeff promised to ask the other two employees about whether anyone else had noticed the pocketbook or when they might have put stuff in the can. Liz thanked them, asked if they’d be willing to come down to the police office to have their fingerprints taken for comparison, then took the pocketbook, still wrapped in the plastic bag, with her. She dropped the bag at the police station. The evidence specialist was out at the garage working on McClintock’s car, so Liz didn’t have a chance to talk to her. She stopped into her office and checked with Doris, but she had no new messages, so she went back to her car and headed out again. The next stop was Ross McClintock’s place. Liz hoped to talk to his girlfriend again, but found no one home when she knocked at the door. She tried the neighbors. One bleary-eyed, elderly man barely knew the other residents and had no idea where the girl might have gone. No one answered at three other apartments she tried. She proceeded to the address she’d been given for Allison’s friend, Lynn, with the same result. No one was at home at the small bungalow-style house. Batting zero for two. She hoped for better luck at Sandberg’s address. She had some, but not as much success as she’d hoped. The address was also in a set of apartments, these much nicer than the ones McClintock had inhabited. But when she knocked at the door, the young woman who answered had never heard of a Justin Sandberg. She’d moved into the place just over a month before. But she did tell Liz that bill collectors had already come to her door looking for the former resident. Liz tried the neighbors again and finally found one who’d been friendly with the previous occupant of the apartment in question. The female former resident. But the woman recognized the name “Sandberg”. “Her dirtbag boyfriend,” the woman said. “Guy’s a leech. Good-looking leech, but a bloodsucker nonetheless. I kept telling Jacky she ought to dump him, but no way, she was like head-over-heels for this guy. Loser.” “Do you have their new address?” Liz asked. They must have taken the phone number with them when they moved, which meant they couldn’t have gone far. “Yeah, I think so. Come in, Detective, and I’ll look.” It didn’t take her long to find a slip of paper with the address on it. Liz copied it, thanked the woman and headed out again. This time she finally had a smidgen of success. Sandberg’s girlfriend, Jacky, was at home and not especially pleased to see her, once she’d been informed of Liz’s profession. “Oh, man, not again.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head while holding the door in a way that suggested she’d just as soon slam it in Liz’s face. “You people keep hounding Justin. The man can’t get any peace. How does anyone expect him to 72
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straighten out his life if you come knocking on his door every time some woman gets beat up?” “I don’t know much about Justin,” Liz said. “Why does everyone keep coming around asking questions?” “And you’re a cop?” the woman asked. “We don’t always know everything.” The woman spit out a long, harsh breath. “You better come in. Don’t want to let the flies in.” The woman didn’t invite her to take a seat, but Liz did so anyway. Her hostess prowled the small living room while answering, “A few years back, Justin had a problem with his wife accusing him of all sorts of things. Now no one leaves him alone. The bitch made up stories about how he beat her up and pushed her, just to make his life miserable. Got him arrested and put in jail.” “He was arrested for assaulting a female?” “Something like that, I guess.” “Has he ever hit you?” “Never!” she said triumphantly. “He’s really the gentlest man. The woman was just out to make trouble for him.” “How long have you known Justin?” She thought a moment. “About three months, I guess.” “And he’s been living with you?” “For most of that time.” “Does he still live with you?” Her eyes swung from one side of the room to the other in pendulum action. “Not really.” “Do you have another address for him?” She hesitated. “No. I think he said he was going to stay with one of his buddies for a while.” “You know the friend’s name?” She shook her head. “When was the last time you saw him?” Again she paused. “About a week ago, I’d say.” “You live here by yourself otherwise?” The woman gave her a suspicious look but said, “Yeah, it’s just me.” “I see.” Liz did too. She saw into the kitchen, saw the table there with two placemats and two plates bearing a few bread crusts. “The odds are good he has nothing to worry about. I just need to talk to him about something he might have seen.”
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She pulled out and handed one of her cards to the woman. “If you see him, tell him to get in touch with me. He’ll save himself a lot of trouble.” “Sure,” the woman said, following her to the door. It was the least convincing “sure” Liz had heard in a while. She stopped by the office again. She had three phone messages waiting, two from Barnwells, with numbers to return the calls and one on another case. Doris had also left her a note saying the phone call she’d received Friday night had originated from a pay phone. Liz compared the address she had with a city map. The phone stand was at a gas station a mile or so up the road from Marko’s in the direction opposite from the inn’s. The station would likely have been deserted at that time of night. She went home, had dinner, caught the news, paid a few bills, watered and sprayed the roses and headed out for Marko’s again. It was about eight-fifteen when she got there. The place wasn’t as crowded as it had been over the weekend, but still nearly half the tables were occupied. The characteristic odor of smoke, beer and a mixture of human scent, perfumes, soap, hair spray and colognes hit her like a blow when she walked in. Tim nodded to her when she sat at the bar. He signaled to a woman across the room. Bonnie was older than Liz had expected, in her early to mid-forties, but still attractive and more than willing to help when she heard what was needed. Her face twitched in a spasm of real pain. “Yeah, I heard about Allison. Poor kid. She was such a… You’re investigating?” Liz nodded. “I hope you can help me. Tell me who she hung around with, and whether she was in here Thursday night.” Bonnie’s face cleared a bit, though a shadow of grief remained in her round, blue eyes. “Yeah, easy. She was in here. And she knew lots of people, but mostly she hung with Ross and Chrissie and Lynn.” Her face darkened. “I heard a rumor that Ross… He’s dead too. Murdered. Listen, I’ll do anything I can to help you find out who killed them. Damn rotten thing. Allison especially. She was a sweet kid. Sort of mixed up.” “Thanks. Are either Chrissie or Lynn in here right now?” Bonnie looked around the room, but Liz had the impression it was more a gesture than anything else. She already knew exactly who was in there and who wasn’t. “Nope, not tonight. I’d be surprised if they were, what with everything. You know when the funeral’s going to be?” “No.” “Oh.” She sighed heavily. “Tim said Allison was in here on Thursday. With Ross and Chrissie and Lynn. Did they all come together?” “I think so. They usually do. I’d’ve noticed if they hadn’t, I think.” “Did they all leave together?”
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“No. They didn’t, generally. Lynn left first on Thursday night, then Allison and then Chrissie.” “Do you remember about what time Allison left?” Bonnie strained her brain. Liz could tell by the way her mouth puckered and her nose crinkled how hard she was working. “No. I can’t recall, I’m afraid. But she was gone by eleven-thirty. I know that.” “How about who she left with?” The woman shook her head. “Sorry.” Liz had to fight her irritation. It wasn’t Bonnie’s fault Liz had pinned so much hope on her being able to identify Allison’s companion. “Tim said you might be able to tell me who she’d talked with that evening and if anything special seemed to happen.” “I don’t remember anything unusual. She talked to a lot of different people… Men,” Bonnie added. “But that wasn’t unusual. I remember looking over once and she seemed kind of excited or enthusiastic. That’s about it.” “Did you notice if she left the building and came back in at any time during the evening?” Bonnie licked her lips. “Sometimes she did. But I don’t think she did that night.” “You couldn’t tell if she was making any kind of arrangements with anyone at any time during the night?” “She talked to a lot of different people. I don’t know.” Bonnie was doing her best, so Liz tried to keep her impatience under control. “Could you try to remember who you might have seen her talking to that night? Even if it was just a word or two?” Bonnie nodded and chewed harder at her lip. “Ross and Lynn and Chrissie, of course. Tim. Me. A couple of the regulars. Tom Jessup. He’ll probably come in in a little while. Randy Sarmento. Let’s see, there was a guy in a suit. I’d never seen him before, so I think he was just passing through. And another guy I see in here occasionally— young and redheaded. I don’t remember his name. I guess she said a word or two to Nancy. Oh, and that artist guy was in for a few minutes.” Liz’s heart lurched and skipped a beat. “The artist guy?” “Yeah. The really famous one. What’s his name? It’s right on the tip of my tongue. I’m pretty sure she talked to him for a couple of minutes.” “Greg Conyers?” “Yeah, that’s him.” “He came in here?” Liz grappled with her voice and got it under control. “Have you seen him in here before? Does he come in often?” “Not real often, but every now and again, yeah. I guess he figures he can’t go anywhere too often or people will start making a fuss. Anyway, he always comes in a kind of disguise.” Bonnie lowered her voice as though she was conveying a secret. “See,
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I know his hair isn’t really all black, it has a lot of gray in it, and he keeps it pretty short, so I’m thinking he puts on a wig when he comes here. And he always wears those dark glasses, like the Blues Brothers, even when he’s inside. I guess he doesn’t like to be recognized and have people make a fuss over him.” Liz fought her queasiness and struggled to get on with the interview. “You saw Allison talk to him?” “Yeah, but only for a minute, like I said.” “Do you think Chrissie or Lynn might be coming in later?” “Kind of doubt it. Chrissie and Lynn didn’t usually come in without Ross, so…” She let it hang. “What’s Chrissie’s last name?” “Troxler.” “Do you know where she lives?” Bonnie shook her head this time. “If I give you my card, and you see Chrissie or Lynn, will you ask them to call me?” Bonnie promised she’d do that and then departed to get back to work. Liz had to hustle out of the place before she fell apart. She felt devastated, as if someone had dropped a heavy weight on her chest. Stupid and unprofessional. She didn’t have to ask why it upset her to discover Greg Conyers had lied about knowing Allison Wannstedt. She just needed to figure out what she was going to do about it. Could she maintain enough impartiality to continue the investigation herself? By the time she got home and hit the bed, she still hadn’t worked out an answer. She rolled around, worrying about it for a while, until exhaustion took over and knocked her out.
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Chapter Ten By the time she’d run her five miles and showered the next morning, Liz had convinced herself she’d dealt with the possibility that Greg Conyers could be a charming, manipulative murderer. It didn’t make her happy, but murder in any form appalled her. No matter how attractive a killer might be on the surface, the reality was repulsive. And she’d sworn to protect the public by removing such people from the streets. At the same time, though, she had to keep in mind that that scenario was only one of several possibilities. Going to a bar, even in disguise, wasn’t a crime, and there were logical reasons for him to lie about it. No point in reading too much into it until she had more facts. She got a surprise of a more pleasant sort when she arrived at the office and saw Chief Michael Gordon sitting behind his desk as she passed his open door. Gordon noticed her and called her back. “Were you planning to brief me on the highest-profile crime we’ve had around here in five years?” he asked. Though he kept his rough-hewn, wind-and-sun-reddened face straight and forbidding, Liz had worked with him long enough to see through it. “First thing next Monday,” she said. “Or sooner if you cut short your fishing trip. What happened? Can’t bear to be away from us that long?” “Actually, Anne wasn’t feeling well and the fish weren’t biting anyway. We’d had all the peace and quiet we could stand. So, fill me in. I’ve already got Dennison’s take on it. I want to hear yours.” His dry tone suggested Dennison had jumped him the minute he’d come through the door. “You’ve read the reports? Including mine?” He nodded. “Tell me the rest.” She filled him in on her activities of yesterday, then went on to recount her conversation in the bar the previous evening. When she finished, the chief wore a frown that turned his face into a caricature of the “bulldog” Irish cop. “So we have a few possibilities.” “Nothing solid,” Liz said. “But a few leads at least.” She nodded. “I’m not sure I like where they go.” He looked surprised. “They could go some place you’d like?” “Okay, okay, it’s the Conyers connection I don’t like most.” “Oh? You’re intimidated by the reputation?”
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She shook her head. “Personal thing.” “Him?” “Chief, I… I’ve gone out with him. Before I knew there was a possibility he might be connected to the crime. He… The guy’s sexy as hell, and I’m susceptible. Where he’s concerned.” “Is this a problem?” “I don’t know yet. It could become one.” “Hmmm. Maybe I should—” “Don’t even think about it,” Liz warned. “If I can’t deal with it, I’ll let you know. I’m just warning you of the possibility.” He smiled for the first time. “Okay. Just remember you’ve got Dennison breathing down your neck. Let him get hold of something like that…” He didn’t have to spell out the rest. “Actually, I think it’s early to get bent out of shape about it. There’s nothing solid. Just because a guy disguises himself and goes to a bar occasionally doesn’t make him a criminal.” “He lied about knowing Allison Wannstedt.” “Anyone in his position would have.” “The man’s keeping secrets.” “Come on, Liz. You know the first principle. Everyone has secrets. Everyone lies.” “I know. It’s just…” “You’re so damned conscientious.” He gave her one of his rare, paternal smiles. “So, tell me where you’re going with it.” “Have a talk with Conyers. And I’m still trying to trace the missing David Barnwell and Justin Sandberg. Talk to her friends and try to find out who Allison left the bar with Thursday night or who she planned to meet. See what the evidence reports turn up about the McClintock murder. It’s got to be related.” “Looking for anything in particular?” “We’re still missing a button. There should be blood-stained clothes.” She thought about other possible physical evidence. “Allison’s killer should have scratches…” “What is it?” the chief asked, watching the change of expressions on her face. “When I talked to Greg Conyers Friday, he’d been out working in the garden. There were scratches on his hands.” “Could you tell if he’d actually been gardening?” She nodded. “He had dirt on his clothes and hands.” “So it’s probably innocent.” “Could be,” she admitted. “Keep it open,” he suggested. “I guess that’s it. But, Liz? Keep me informed. And don’t let Dennison get under your skin. It’s your case.”
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“Under his supervision.” “You know how to work the channels. Make the right moves, okay?” “Will do.” Her next move was another visit with Greg Conyers. She drove up to his house and pulled in behind a blue Chrysler. A different car probably meant another nurse on duty. She got out and looked around, feeling the same creepy tingling she’d noted before, the strong sensation of someone watching her. Different this time, though. The something was doing more than watching, more than just brooding. It regarded her as a threat. It was hostile, wishing her away. What gave her that last notion, she had no clue. She looked up, scanning the row of windows, seeking an outline or some kind of movement, but they all appeared dark and shadowed. If someone stood behind one, she couldn’t tell. The house itself loomed over her, a gloomy, brooding presence that swallowed the surrounding peace and sunlight into the black hole of its bulk. She debated trying that intimidating front door or going to the back again. Probably no one would hear a knock on the door, but word of her arrival had almost certainly gone out already. She decided to test the theory and stood by her car, waiting. It took longer than she anticipated, almost ten minutes, before Greg came around the corner and approached her. His face lit up when he met her eyes, his handsome features breaking into the kind of smile guaranteed to rip a woman’s heart out, sparking his pale gray eyes with incandescent personal warmth, while edging them with a hint of sadness or torment. The expression of a man who recognized heaven at hand, but doubted he could ever do more than look. A damned good act, if it was one. The logical part of her mind said performance, instinct said the opposite. The female part of her brain wanted to walk right into his arms, hold him tight, kiss all the shadows out of his eyes until they sparkled with joy. “I’m sorry,” he said, the warmth of his eyes echoing in the tone of his voice. “I heard your car but I was in the middle of a job.” He stared down at his hands. A splotch of deep red stained his left thumb while a purplish tint discolored the tips of three fingers on the right. Further up, a couple of long, thin scratches along the back of his hand had scabbed over. “I hadn’t even knocked yet.” She had to wrestle the words past a lump in her throat and watched the welcome die off his face as he considered her answer. Finally, he shrugged one shoulder and said, “Come in for coffee? Or would you prefer tea or a soft drink?” “Coffee, please. My head’s complaining that I was due for another dose of caffeine an hour ago.” A shade of the smile reappeared briefly before guarded watchfulness settled over his face. “If you have the time, I’ll put on a fresh pot. I could use some myself.” “I’m not in any hurry.”
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“Good,” he said, managing to sound like he meant it. “Don’t police detectives get any time off? Or is this a personal visit?” “I understood you discouraged personal visits. I suppose this better be business.” “You—” He caught himself and stopped, looking straight at her. In the bright glare of the sunlight, his gray eyes bored into her, sending all sorts of messages. A wave of that powerful, heady sensuality hit her, kicking her pulse into higher gear and making her throat tighten. But there was more, a search for something in her depths and a confused wariness that wasn’t quite fear, but its bud. “I don’t discourage people I like,” he said. “You don’t get many visitors, I hear.” His lips quirked. “High standards.” Too much self-deprecating mockery laced the words for them to sound either arrogant or offensive. “I’m sorry I interrupted your work.” He shrugged as though it didn’t matter. “Maybe I could use more interruptions.” “The galleries and museums would disagree.” “They don’t live in my skin.” A tinge of bitterness colored the words. He heard it and abruptly changed tone on the next words, straining for levity. “Don’t they say all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy?” He ushered her into the sunroom of the house and led the way through the dining room. “You don’t have to go trite on me.” He turned and gave her a brief, hard look. “No? I wish… Oh, well. I’ll try to do better next time.” They crossed the hall and she got a look at the kitchen. “Good heavens!” The sunroom and the utility room she’d seen on Friday should have prepared her but didn’t. She’d expected a dark, gloomy hole with heavy furniture and old-fashioned fixtures. Instead, she saw a setup straight out of Southern Living or House Beautiful. One thing he had plenty of was space, and he’d dedicated a lot of it to this functional area. Numerous blond wood cabinets lined two walls and included a built-in wine rack, vertical slots for trays, a pull-out cutting board and glass-fronted shelves for displaying dishes. Two stainless steel sinks, a built-in range-top with conventional oven below and microwave above, and a side-by-side refrigerator-freezer formed the perfect, efficient work triangle. A small television and radio were mounted beneath the upper cabinets. A set of barstools flanked an island in the middle of the room with a larger table on the other side. Pale blue and white tiles backed the cabinets and lined the floor. They coordinated nicely with the granite countertops and the wallpaper on the eating side of the room. “Not what you expect to find in this pile, is it? I suppose your job teaches you to jump to the obvious conclusions.”
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“In college they taught us to keep an open mind until the proof is in. Unfortunately, experience has shown that Occam’s Razor cuts through our line of work as well as science.” “It isn’t a science?” He pulled a pot out of the drip machine and dumped an inch of brown sludge into the sink. “Only on the quantum mechanical level. You can predict what people in general will do, how they’ll respond, but that tells you almost nothing about the likelihood of any given individual’s actions.” Liz hitched herself onto one of the barstools while he pulled a bag of coffee beans out of the refrigerator and spooned some into a grinder. When the coffee was powdered he said, facing away from her to pour the grounds into the filter basket, “I apologize for the condescension. My lifestyle hasn’t civilized me.” “I thought artists weren’t supposed to be civilized. They’re on the fringes. To get a different perspective, I suppose.” “And you just said you didn’t generalize. You’re right in a way. There are plenty of fringes available and some are more obvious than others. Do you take cream?” “Yes, but I’d prefer skim milk if you have it.” He nodded and went to the refrigerator again to get it. “What’s your favorite fringe?” she asked him. “Lunatic. The Red Ryder version.” He put sugar and cream on the table and got a box from the closet. He held up the small thing he took out. “Only one granola bar left. Split it?” She nodded, feeling acutely the intimacy of sharing food with him that way, wondering how far she could let this continue without betraying her duty. Or him. She took far too much pleasure in watching him putter around the kitchen. His long, lean body moved in perfectly graceful harmony, completely controlled. Their hands touched as she took half of the granola bar from him. Tingling warmth hit her where their fingers met. Greg drew a harsh breath and barely kept himself from rearing back. Instead, he turned to pour the coffee and put a steaming mug in front of each of them. He sat on the stool opposite her so he could look her directly in the eye. “How is your mother?” Liz asked him. No change in expression offered a clue to his emotions. “About the same. She gets a little weaker every day.” He pushed a lock of hair off his face sharply and changed the subject. “What brings you out here on a Tuesday morning? Not just the pleasure of my company, I presume.” “To ask a question.” She drew a sharp breath. “Why did you lie about knowing Allison Wannstedt?” She hoped that, by putting it to him so baldly, she’d surprise him into some kind of admission. His eyebrows rose and he appraised her silently. He had to be thinking quickly behind the blank look, but she couldn’t tell, certainly couldn’t read any other reaction.
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“I didn’t,” he said. “I’ve got witnesses who say you were in Marko’s last Thursday night. They saw you talking to her.” He took a long sip of coffee. “They’re sure it was me?” The man was good. He zoomed right in on the central issue. “They identified you by profession, if not by exact name.” “Are these people who know me by anything other than a picture?” “I don’t know. Maybe not yet.” “And I suppose they were all drinking soda water straight?” “Good cross-examination technique,” Liz told him. “Bad way to handle a cop. Our antennae start twanging when people answer questions with questions.” His lips pressed together and he drew a deep breath that he let out as a sigh. “Look, I’m sorry I have to smash this nice, neat little theory you’re working on. But the fact is, I’ve never set foot in Marko’s, I’ve never met that poor girl in a bar or anywhere else, and I didn’t kill her. Anyone who says I did is mistaken or a liar.” A loud thud sounded from somewhere above. Tension deepened the grooves running from the corners of Greg’s nose around his mouth and drew a line across his forehead. “You have a cleaning crew?” she asked. For a moment, his face clouded even further. “I think the nurse went up to look for something for Mother.” “Why would someone lie about it?” she asked, returning to her original line of questioning. He looked startled, then confused as he tried to catch up with her. “About seeing you in a bar, talking to the victim,” Liz reminded him. “Does someone have a grudge against you? Someone who might try to get you in trouble? Or is there someone who goes around masquerading as you? You’re a celebrity around here. People do crazy things to attract attention.” His hand jerked, sloshing coffee over the side of the cup and onto his fingers. He didn’t seem to notice. “No.” He had to draw an extra breath to get the word out. “I don’t know anyone like that.” He struggled to pull out some levity. “I didn’t think I was celebrated enough to attract that kind of idiocy.” Her mental lie detector buzzed a warning, but she couldn’t guess what he might be trying to conceal. “Do you ever wear a disguise when you go out around town? Like a wig or something?” For a moment, his lips almost framed a smile at the idea, but then something else occurred to him that thoroughly quashed the amusement and sent him reeling into a strained, thoughtful silence. He shook himself out of it. “I hardly ever go out around here at all. I don’t go bar-hopping. Unhealthy maybe, but I do my drinking alone. I buy my supplies mostly by mail order or in Asheville, and I have groceries and stuff sent in. 82
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I don’t own a wig and wouldn’t wear one if I did.” He looked her in the eye again and made another effort to take the edge off the atmosphere. “The gray hair is premature, but not necessarily unearned. I don’t try to hide it. And if you tell me it makes me look distinguished, I’ll be very disappointed.” Liz studied the man. Put him in a dark business suit, hand him a briefcase, slick the hair back from his face, and he might look distinguished. As it was… “Actually I’d say it was more distinctive than distinguished. An interesting coincidence.” “Coincidence?” “Your eyes are practically colorless and your hair is going the same way. The color’s all draining out. Do you pour that much of yourself into your paintings?” He stiffened abruptly and his light eyes widened as he focused on her face. His voice caught when he said, “I shouldn’t have worried about you offering trite compliments.” He shook himself lightly. “Maybe you’re right about the color.” He lifted the coffee mug in both hands and drained it in one long pull, suggesting that he needed its bracing effect. He hopped off the stool. “Are you finished with that?” He nodded at her nearly empty cup. “Would you like to find out? See if I’m pouring all my pigment into my paintings?” She couldn’t suppress a grin. “Come up and view my etchings?” That almost got a smile from him, though the gray eyes remained shadowy and almost bleak. “I work in pastels and oil exclusively. And I think I do put a piece of my soul onto each canvas. But I never thought about any connection with my hair changing color, I have to admit.” She drained the dregs of the coffee. “I’ve heard artists don’t like to let people see their work before it’s on display.” “I don’t, generally.” “Then I’m honored.” He put a hand on her arm to guide her down the hall. Sparks popped again. He felt it too, but he didn’t let go. Liz knew she ought to be fighting the stir of excitement and attraction, but the feeling was so enticingly different from her reactions to any man before, including a couple she’d dated seriously, that she had to explore it further. He walked so close she could feel the heat from his body. He smelled of paint and thinner with an undertone of a pleasant pine-scented masculine fragrance. A noise upstairs sounded like someone walking around, but the nurse should be downstairs again with his mother by now. “The nurse still up there?” she asked. “What? I doubt it. I think some squirrels have gotten into some of the storage areas.” Liz didn’t think he’d appreciate a joke about hundred pound squirrels so she didn’t voice it. She missed it when he dropped her arm as they went up a flight of stairs. He led her down another hall to a locked door. He removed a key from his pocket and opened
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it. When she walked into a very large studio, obviously created by knocking out walls between smaller rooms, she was surprised again by the amount of light that flooded the area, and how basically neat the place was. She thought all painters made huge messes in the creative process, but it appeared Greg Conyers didn’t. A few chairs lined one wall, with tables interspersed. A broad, tall set of built-in cabinets dominated a second wall. Covered canvases were stacked against the remaining free wall area. But the focus of attention in the room was a large easel set near the bank of windows facing the back of the house. Next to it stood a draftsman’s table, with several pieces of paper clipped to it. The room smelled strongly of paint and turpentine. A series of framed paintings hung on the near wall and Liz went for a closer look. A portrait of his mother showed the woman as she must have looked before illness took its toll, beautiful with porcelain skin and fine bones. An almost golden light suffused the canvas, giving her a saintly glow. But Liz wondered if Anita Conyers had known about her health when the painting was done. A shadowy hint of sorrow lurked in the depths of pensive blue eyes. Next to the picture of his mother, he’d hung a self-portrait. As opposed to the sunlight colors of the first painting, this one had a gray undertone, executed with a chiaroscuro effect that blended one side of his face into the background shadows. The other side provided a precise rendering of his appearance, right down to the enigmatic masking of any real emotion in his beautiful features. The pictures flanking those two were mostly landscapes, including one of the house that made it appear so alive it wanted to jump right off the canvas to devour the viewer. Other more peaceful scenes showed a panorama over the side of a mountain, done while the rhododendrons were in bloom. Those took her breath away with the sense of height and space they imparted. Two still lifes, both featuring dead or wilted flowers in the midst, were also rendered with a lush precision that made her want to run her fingers over the surface to feel the textures. He watched her, then pulled the covers off other canvases. His range was astonishing, from serene wildlife studies to raging seascapes, from decorative landscapes to a group of dark, almost gruesome scenes with tortured human figures, scattered limbs, or perverse, demonic shapes. One view showed a dark, craggy mountainside pocked with dark recesses. An unholy red light glared from those openings and small figures fled in attitudes of torment while others were dragged back. Bleached bones and skulls littered the jutting, jagged rocks around the indents. Several other canvases he displayed equaled it for perversity or gloom. Still, no matter what the subject, the paintings shared the common threads of a masterly rendering of shape and texture, extraordinarily precise delineation of the minutiae of shape, and an underlying hint of secret depths and reverberating shadows. “What do you think?”
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The paintings touched her, almost shook her in a way she’d never guessed art could or would. Did actually knowing the artist make so much difference? “When I first read it, I thought all that guff about you being a genius was just blather,” she said, still finding it difficult to frame her reaction in words. “I haven’t been so wrong in a long time.” She looked around the room again. “They’re… I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound pathetically trite. They’re extraordinary.” “I…” He seemed surprisingly moved by her reaction. “Thanks. Do you see where all the color draining out of me is going?” Liz studied the self-portrait again. “You certainly pour your soul into each painting,” she said slowly. “But I’m not sure… You soak up things too. Almost like you see more than the rest of us do. Maybe know more.” He moved to stand beside her and studied the picture as well. “I think it’s mostly a question of taking the time to look closely, trying to see the things that don’t show themselves in a quick, casual glance.” “And having the talent to translate the vision into an image on canvas.” “That too,” he admitted. She turned to look at the man. “It can’t be easy. Your pictures tell me it isn’t easy. I suspect your soul isn’t a pleasant thing to live with.” He put his hands on her shoulders. “You lay it out straight, don’t you, Liz?” She nodded. He drew a deep breath and held it. “You’re right. It’s not an easy thing to live with.” The words didn’t ask for sympathy or indulgence. An edge on them tried to keep any response of that sort at bay. He sighed again and drew her closer with a gentle pressure on her arms. For a moment, he let the shutters over his expression drop to give her a glimpse into that soul, usually hidden behind the harsh control he exerted. She hesitated to accept the invitation. The intimacy it imposed frightened her, nor could she avoid the suspicion she might regret knowing what she discovered. But, whatever had drawn her gaze to him that first morning and responded to his attraction later, compelled her to look. Ignorance might be comfortable, but it wouldn’t comfort her. She stared through the pale gray window of his eyes into the man behind them. And what she saw made her heart jerk and miss a beat, though she wasn’t sure whether shock or compassion caused the reaction. So many things roiled in the depths of his being, so many dark, conflicting emotions, she had the dizzying sensation of looking into a swirling vortex. She’d expected the standard existential angst of a sensitive intellectual and that figured in the mix. But something deeper and much more personally troubling tore at him. He felt things too vigorously and knew too intimately about violence and lust, terror and a perverted sort of triumph, even the darker sides of love, including kinds that extorted too high a price from both giver and receiver. Whether they had anything to do with the murder she investigated, Liz couldn’t tell, but she knew the secrets he guarded weren’t all innocent.
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“Troubled” understated the condition of Greg Conyers’ soul. “Haunted” didn’t begin to describe his pain. “Tormented” or “tortured” came closer to the reality. Something clawed the man, lacerating him constantly, tearing him apart from the inside out. “Greg—?” Before she could say more, he pulled her against him and pressed his lips over her mouth. A moment of fear made her stiffen in his embrace, before she recognized the need that drove him, the unacknowledged desperation for contact and the relief of sharing or temporarily blotting out his pain. She relaxed into his hold, putting her arms up and around his neck so she could run her hands through his hair, enjoying the sensuous rush of its softness over her fingers. His mouth gentled, reining in the ferocity of its demand to a softer persuasion. His lips nudged and caressed, the tip of his tongue slipped along her mouth, seeking the warmth of her sighs. Desire broke over her like a storm no other man had roused before. Her lips parted and she met his exploration with a need of her own, pressing her body closer to his. His hands moved from her shoulders up into her hair, brushing through the strands and weaving his fingers into it. His palms moved forward onto her face, warm and caressing against her skin. He drew back for a moment, so he could meet her eyes. He wasn’t masking the conflicting emotions, not trying to hide from her that he wanted her with a tormented longing, at the same time knowing it was wrong and dangerous. “God, Liz, I…” His face wound into an expression of such pain she couldn’t help but put a hand up to draw him back to her. He made no effort to resist when she took the lead in kissing him in a way that searched both body and soul. He held himself rigid for a minute, then groaned and ran his hands down her face, along her throat, and across the sensitive tips of her breasts. Liz sucked in a sharp breath. Pleasure stabbed through her at his touch, sending molten rivers of warmth through her body, stiffening muscles and twanging nerves. Her fingers dug into the hard sinews of his back as he continued to search her responses. His fingers did astonishing things to her, offered pinwheels of color and glittery explosions, sent rivers of hot joy boiling through her bloodstream. It flowed like a tide over her, rushing aside everything before it, threatening to drown her. Until his hand accidentally brushed against the hard, leather-bound bulk of the gun she wore under her left arm. He stiffened abruptly as he recognized what he’d touched. He drew back, gently loosing the arms she’d wound around him. He heaved deep breaths into his lungs before he could say anything. Liz struggled for even longer to get her body under control.
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“I’m sorry,” he said. “That was… I shouldn’t have… I mean, I know it was wrong. And stupid. I wasn’t trying to manipulate you. You’re just so lovely and sweet, I couldn’t…” “Sweet?” Liz had her reaction in hand and the word astonished her. “I’m a police detective. You have to be the first man I’ve ever met who thought I was sweet.” She was touched by it, though. “You are. You have. I don’t know what it is, but men would fight or die for it. A way to make a man forget all the pain, the trials. A well of understanding and forgiveness. Oh, Lord.” The last word twisted almost into a groan. “It’s not for me, Liz. Please understand. It can’t be for me.” She didn’t ask the obvious question. She knew the answer. Instead, she drew back and turned away from him. He wasn’t masking his feelings right then and she couldn’t bear it. “Liz,” he said, calling her attention back. He had his face wiped blank again. “Don’t let it make any difference.” She drew a deep breath. “Did you think it would?” He considered the question. “It might. You wouldn’t want it to, but it might. And it would tear you up.” She smiled and touched his face, where a muscle twitched near his jaw. “I’ve been a cop almost as long as I’ve been a woman. Maybe longer.”
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Chapter Eleven Oh, Liz, you’re so sweet, but this is all wrong! The mocking sneer raked across raw nerves, making him grit his teeth. Geez, you’ve been watching too many soap operas! Sweet, my ass! The woman’s a cop and she’s playing you like a violin. “She’s not like that. She’s the real thing.” I don’t give a damn what she’s like. She can be Mother Teresa in her spare time. But she’s a cop and she’s dangerous. Just because she’s got the hots for you doesn’t mean she won’t nail you to the wall. Hell, she’ll probably overcompensate and try doubly hard. Blasted bitch is a pain in the rear. “Watch what you call her. She’s the most attractive woman I’ve ever run across.” She’s a hot number, I’ll give you that. The woman knows how to kiss. Damn, but she lit your fire! She’s got you running in circles and panting like a dog. “That’s not your experience.” Hey! Last week wasn’t yours, but it didn’t stop you from being there. Trying to interfere too. At least I wasn’t telling your girlfriend to get the hell away! “No. I did that myself.” Only smart thing you’ve done all week. She won’t listen, though. A woman and a cop. Deadly combination. And she thinks she’s onto something here. She’ll be nosing around all the time. She knew you were lying when you said you didn’t know the girl. “I wasn’t lying.” Weren’t exactly telling the truth, either, were you? The whole truth and nothing but the truth? “As much of it as I could tell her.” My point. So quit encouraging her. We don’t need her hanging around. “I wasn’t.” Oh really? Could have fooled me when you were busy pawing at her. Look, if you won’t get rid of her, I will. “You touch her and you’re going down. Even if I go down with you. And don’t try to hide behind her. She’s hardly with it anymore. I might just decide to risk her finding out.” All right! All right! I won’t damage your pretty cop. The tone was more conciliatory now. He didn’t trust it in the least. But he didn’t have a lot of weapons to fight with, so he accepted it and decided to stay alert. “Leave her alone. I’ll keep her off it.” See that you do.
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Chapter Twelve Liz had to work hard to keep her mind on her driving as she headed for her office. She still felt dazed and disoriented. She’d dated her share of men, had even thought she was in love a couple of times, but none of them had ever affected her the way Greg Conyers did. No one had sent her into such a tailspin, making her forget everything, including the fact that she was a cop on a case and he might be a suspect. He’d as good as admitted he had something to hide, something that would cause her problems. The whole thing could be clever manipulation. He couldn’t have reached the age of thirtysix without realizing the effect he had on women. And knowing all that, she still found him the most fascinating man she’d ever met. The most attractive too, and not just physically. His sense of humor and quick intelligence intrigued her. Not good. She needed to put him out of her mind and concentrate on work. The report from forensics on the McClintock case waited on her desk. Doris was at lunch but had left pink message slips sitting there as well. Liz picked up the report first and forced herself to look at the photographs of the body. She hadn’t dealt with enough gruesome murders to be hardened to the horror of it, so her stomach churned a bit and she stared only long enough to ascertain the necessary facts before placing it face down back in the folder. The car held more interest anyway, and she gave those photographs a more thorough examination. Dennison’s vague memory proved correct in one particular. Both doors of the car stood open, confirming Liz’s basic guess there had been two people in it when it went off the road into the woods. Where had the killer gone, then? There were a couple of wider-angle shots of the car. She studied the ground around it. It hadn’t rained in a while, but enough grass and underbrush had been crushed by tires to make it obvious if more than one vehicle had been there. No extra set of tracks appeared, so how had the killer left the scene? She noted a diagram of the site and got out a larger map of the area, tracing the road markings until she located the exact spot on the bigger chart. Twisting, indirect roads made the place seem farther away from town than it really was. The terrain wasn’t easy but it wouldn’t take an expert hiker to trek the two and a half miles back to the more populous region. He’d have to cut across private property and cross two roads, but she doubted it would be difficult to remain out of sight for most of the trip. Interestingly, the report went on to note the car’s hand brake hadn’t been set, and the ignition hadn’t been switched off. The car had quit idling when it had run out of gas. Presumably Ross had known, by the time he’d pulled the car off the road, his life 89
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was in danger, but he’d chosen to run rather than fight. Two possible reasons came to mind. Either his attacker was so physically superior, McClintock had known he’d stood no chance against him, or he’d been armed. McClintock had been described as five-ten and one-sixty. Under the photographs of the car, she found a series of cards showing various fingerprints found in or on it. Most of those around the steering wheel, dashboard and driver’s side door belonged to the victim, although a couple had been matched to officers on the scene after the murder. Liz tried not to grind her teeth. A number of different prints, many just partials, had been lifted from the other side of the car. Several of those also belonged to officers on the scene, one had been matched to Allison Wannstedt and four others remained unidentified. She looked at the telephone messages and put them aside. Instead, she went downstairs to the evidence room to talk to Marti Tyler, the person in charge there. She asked about the pocketbook she’d left with them yesterday and Marti sighed. “You guys have kept me hopping the last few days. What with this and the car Dennison had hauled in over the weekend, I’ve hardly had time to draw breath. Oh, well, anyway, I guess it beats being bored.” The young woman pulled out a plastic bin and took the purse from it, picking it up with her bare hands. “It’s okay,” she said. “I’ve already dusted for fingerprints. The only ones I found matched those from the two people at the inn who handled it. I’d guess somebody wiped it clean before they dumped it in the trash can.” “Have you opened it?” Liz asked. “Yeah, I’ve got an inventory of the contents.” She pulled a piece of paper from the bin and handed it to Liz. “I dusted the stuff inside too. Got prints off a compact, lipstick, wallet, and a couple of other things, but they all belonged to the victim. Go ahead and look if you want,” she suggested. Liz dumped the contents onto a table. A makeup case held the compact, two tubes of lipstick, one a honeyed orange, the other a blinding red, several eye pencils, tubes of cover cream, eyeshadow and a spare set of false eyelashes. A comb swum loose in the mess. A packet of tissues, a pencil and pad, set of keys, a roll of breath mints, the wallet and half a dozen packets of condoms comprised the rest of the contents. Seeing Liz eyeball the packets, Marti said, “Looks like she made house calls. Or maybe she believed in being prepared for anything.” “At least she was smart enough to use protection,” Liz said. Marti gave her an odd look. “Turned out to be the wrong kind, though, didn’t it?” “Yeah.” Liz picked up the wallet and rifled through it, finding eleven dollars in cash, a bit of odd change, a couple of credit cards, a driver’s license, two video rental IDs, a library card, various other IDs and, in a side pocket, a stack of business cards, each bearing the name of a different man. Liz signed for those last and took them with her when she went back to her office.
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An hour later, she’d seriously embarrassed several of Allison Wannstedt’s erstwhile customers but had learned little. None of them had seen the girl in the last two weeks and all but one had an alibi for the relevant time. It was the kind of job that made her feel slimy around the edges. “Are you all right?” Doris asked when she walked in to put more pieces of paper into Liz’s basket. “Yeah,” she said. “Tired, I guess.” “You look like you could use a good, long rest.” “And someday, maybe, I’ll get one.” Doris paused at the office door. “Better be sooner rather than later.” “When all the murders are solved.” Liz called Barnwells again until she was down to the last two on the list and wondering if she should put in a request to the Richmond police to check them out. One of the messages Doris had left her earlier was from Ross’ girlfriend, giving a number and an address where she could be reached. But the talk Liz had with her offered her nothing new for either case. The girl had known little about McClintock’s business or movements. She couldn’t think of any enemies Ross had made or any reason why someone would want to kill him. Liz could come up with at least three without trying, but she didn’t press it with the girlfriend, who was neither terribly bright nor emotionally stable. She stopped by Sandberg’s girlfriend’s apartment but didn’t see his car anywhere. No one answered her knock on the door. At Lynn’s home, a woman just past middleage opened the door to her, admitted she was Lynn’s mother and said she didn’t know where the young woman was but she wasn’t at home. Since Liz had called the plant earlier, she knew Lynn wasn’t at work either. She left a card and tried to impress on the woman she urgently needed to talk to Lynn. Having accomplished very little for the day besides complicating her personal, emotional life, she went home to have dinner in front of the television. Just after dinner, though, she received a call from Lynn, asking if they could meet at Marko’s later that evening. The girl was in her early twenties, tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed. She looked like she’d been crying but had it under control. She glanced up as Liz approached and nodded. “You’re the cop who’s been looking for me?” she asked. Liz nodded. “You’re investigating Allison’s…” “Murder? Yes.”
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“I can’t imagine who’d want to kill her. She wasn’t the kind of girl men kill for. And she didn’t have any enemies I know of.” “A boyfriend who might have been jealous?” Lynn shook her head. “What do you mean, she wasn’t the kind of girl men kill for?” “I didn’t mean that, like, catty or anything.” Lynn sounded defensive. “Just that she wasn’t especially beautiful or bright or witty or charming or anything enough to make a man lose his head about her. She was sweet. In an average sort of way.” “You know of any arguments she’d had before her death?” “No. Allison wasn’t much for arguing.” Liz abandoned that line of questioning. “Can you tell me who Allison was with last Thursday?” “I saw her talking to a few people,” Lynn said. “But if you want to know who she was going to meet after she left… I don’t know. Ross didn’t like us to know each other’s business. He said it prevented problems.” “Could you take any guesses? I mean you probably had a better idea than anyone else.” The girl shrugged. “A few possibilities come to mind. A young guy with kind of reddish-blond hair. And there was a guy in a suit I’d never seen before. Allison talked to him for a while too, but I don’t know if they clicked or not. Especially since…” Lynn stopped and licked her lips. “She was really hot on the idea of meeting Greg Conyers, the artist, you know, when he came in. I mean, she didn’t know who he was until Ross pointed him out but then she got all excited. He’s rich and famous and handsome too. Allison was sure she’d tripped over an early Christmas present.” She glanced nervously around the room. “She wasn’t very subtle about her interest and nearly went out of her skin when he noticed her. She really wasn’t too bright, you know. It didn’t occur to her to wonder why a guy like that would be picking up a girl in a bar. I mean, doesn’t that seem strange to you? This is a guy who could have any woman he wanted from here to Boston and back. I’m not trying to put Allison down, you know. She was a nice enough kid in her way, but she’s not the kind you’d expect a rich and sophisticated artist to go for.” “Did you try to tell her that?” Liz asked. “I tried.” A waitress showed up with a mixed drink that she put down in front of Lynn. Liz smelled whisky as the girl picked it up and took a long pull. “She accused you of being jealous or wanting to clear your own path,” Liz guessed. The girl nodded and held the glass against her cheek. “I wish she’d listened to me.” “Did Allison give any indication she’d actually arranged to meet him?” “Not in so many words,” Lynn said. “I told you Ross didn’t like us to compare that way. But she was looking like the cat that got the cream for the rest of the night.” The
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girl’s eyes shifted from one side of the room to the other and back. “It’s warm in here, isn’t it? I don’t think I want to stay. It just gives me the shakes… I miss them… I don’t know what I’m going to do. I think I better go.” Her voice grew shakier, sounding like tears weren’t far off. “You live with your mother?” Liz asked. “Yeah.” “Anyone else live with you?” Lynn took another long pull at the drink. Her hand trembled so badly, she almost sloshed liquid over the side. “Yeah. My brother.” “Did you drive yourself here tonight?” She shook her head. “Took a bus from the plant.” “How about if I drive you home?” The girl thought about it. “Okay.” She drained the glass in a long swig that made Liz wince but didn’t seem to have much effect on her. “I’ll take care of the bill,” Liz offered. “First, though, about Ross… Do you know of any enemies he had?” “No. He preferred to stay in the background. Be there if we needed him, but otherwise, he pretty much left us alone.” She coughed and waved her hand in front of her face. After asking the girl to wait for her, Liz took the check to the counter to pay. She was still standing there when a scream sounded from outside. Others made for the door ahead of her, but Liz pushed past them, identifying herself as a police officer and shoving bodies out of her way. As she got to the entrance, she reached under her jacket to unsnap the top of the holster while using her shoulder to nudge open the door. Another squeal reached her, less shrill but muffled. She stopped once she got out, straining to see into the darkness with the aid of the light spilling from the windows of the building behind her. A scrape and a gurgling sound drew her attention to the left where she could just make out a pair of struggling figures in the shadows beyond the reach of the light. “Police officer,” she shouted at them. “Step apart and put your hands in the air!” Part of her training had included using her voice as a tool to take control of a situation. People she’d been talking to a few minutes ago would hardly recognize her speaking now. When the writhing shapes disregarded the order, she repeated it several times as she approached. She could hear others moving behind her. She didn’t mind potential allies but didn’t want anyone getting hurt if one of the fighters was armed, so she asked them, in a somewhat lower voice, without turning around, to stay back. The strugglers noted her arrival as she drew close enough to discern two separate shapes, one male, one female. The female turned toward her and screeched something
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unintelligible. The voice belonged to Lynn, though it sounded both hoarser and shriller than earlier. The other figure was male, quite a bit taller and slimmer. He turned toward her, scanned the area and shoved Lynn forward, hard. The girl’s body slammed into Liz, nearly knocking them both down. The man took off running in the opposite direction. Liz pushed the slumping shape of the young woman toward the people behind her and asked them to take care of her before she ran after the fleeing man, calling to him to stop, turn around and put his hands in the air. He didn’t pause but headed toward the general vicinity of the inn, until he veered to the right, crossed the road and headed down a side street. Liz wore low-heeled pumps, appropriate for a quiet evening sitting around with friends, but not conducive to foot races. Her feet kept slipping and sliding on the concrete. She couldn’t keep up. The man rounded the side of a building into an alley. Her left foot almost slid completely out from under her as she attempted the same turn. By the time she’d righted herself and entered the alley, he’d disappeared. She drew her Glock out of the holster, flipped off the safety and walked a little distance up the paved way, holding the pistol in the ready position. The area was very dark and empty, making her wish for a flashlight. She stopped and listened. A night breeze blew along the opening between buildings and a couple of cars passed on the road nearby. She didn’t hear footsteps or other sounds to betray the presence of someone nearby. Her quarry had either made it out of the area or had gone to earth in some hidey-hole. In either case, she wouldn’t locate him. Too many driveways and doors led off the passage. Reluctantly, she turned and went back to the bar, replacing the gun in the holster as she approached the place. No one remained on the sidewalk outside, so she pulled the door open and went back in. Locating Lynn wasn’t difficult. More than half the people in the bar formed a clump around her. Again, Liz pushed her way through the crowd, less urgently and more gently this time, until she stood by the side of the chair the young woman occupied. “Did you catch him?” Lynn asked when she saw Liz approaching. “He got away.” She looked at her shoes. “I’m not dressed for chasing people.” “Why didn’t you shoot him?” Lynn was entirely serious. “We don’t shoot unarmed, fleeing suspects in the back.” “How do you know he was unarmed?” “Did you see or feel a weapon?” “Well, no, but—” “I didn’t see one either.” Liz took a chair next to Lynn. “Are you hurt?” “No.” She tried for a laugh, but it came out as an unsteady giggle. “Just kind of…shaky. It was a hell of a shock. I never, ever thought…” “I can imagine,” Liz agreed. “Tell me what happened.”
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Liz betrayed no impatience as she listened to the girl’s rambling, roundabout account of events. Boiled down, Lynn had gone outside, taken a few steps down the sidewalk and been jumped by a man who’d sprung out from behind her, put a hand over her mouth after her initial scream and tried to drag her with him down the street. “Did you get a look at his face?” Liz asked. Lynn shook her head. “Too dark.” “Any idea who it was?” The girl bit her lip and took a sip of the glass of light amber liquid the bar had provided. It smelled like beer. “I think it might have been that artist guy. The one Allison was so het up about.” Liz felt her heart contract. She really didn’t want to hear her own surmise confirmed. She hadn’t seen the man’s face either, but that tall, slender physique was distinctive. There’d been something about the way he’d moved, however, when he was running, a slight hitch she’d never noticed in Greg’s movements. Still, if she’d had to take a guess herself, it would have been the same. “What makes you think so?” The girl considered it a minute. “The height I guess. And I think he was the one Allison was going to meet, so probably…” “Would you be willing to swear it was him? Are you positive?” Lynn looked at her in surprise. “No, I don’t think so. I never saw him. I just thought it was him. ‘Cause of Allison.” “Do you want to go to the hospital? Get checked out?” “Do I have to?” “Not unless you want to.” “I just want to go home,” the girl said.
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Chapter Thirteen Liz began dreading the Wednesday senior staff meeting the moment she woke up. The two murders were still at the top of the agenda. Liz got to go first, after the chief requested she bring them up to date on the progress of her investigation into Allison Wannstedt’s case. Unhappy about the necessity, Liz relayed everything she’d learned and experienced since their last meeting, including the attack on Lynn, the girl’s belief Greg Conyers was her assailant and that he’d been the man Allison had planned to meet the night she was killed. “You got a search warrant yet?” Dennison asked. “I remember you saying there were personal items of the girl’s missing and there might have been blood on the attacker’s clothes.” “No,” Liz answered. “First of all, until last night, I had no reason to suspect him. I’m not sure I do yet. Lynn’s identification was anything but positive, she only thinks it was possible Allison was planning to meet Conyers, and I’m not positive of my own identification of the man I chased. I don’t think that adds up to probable cause.” When she looked at him for his response, Chief Gordon was twirling his pencil thoughtfully. He met her eyes for a moment before he said, “You have to add in the scratches you saw on Conyers.” “You said they weren’t conclusive. I did interrupt him working in the garden, which includes a stand of rose bushes.” “Burying something possibly?” Dennison asked. “Like blood-stained clothes?” That brought her up short for a moment. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she admitted. Dennison smirked. “Still, it doesn’t seem to add up to enough,” she added. “Also, there’s a very sick woman in the house. A dying woman. I’d hate to invade her home right now. And it’s for sure Conyers isn’t going anywhere.” “But he could destroy evidence.” If anything, Dennison’s smirk grew more obnoxious. “He’s had plenty of time already. And, if he buried something in his garden, it’s probably going to stay there.” “That might have been a temporary thing, until he was sure there wouldn’t be any immediate search. Now he thinks he’s got plenty of leeway to get rid of the evidence.” “He’s had nearly a week already, and the man’s no fool,” Liz countered. “Chief, what do you think? Do we ask for a search warrant?” “You have any other evidence implicating him?”
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“No.” Her own suspicions about Greg’s possible mental problems hardly fit into the category of evidence. Again, he paused for a thoughtful minute. “Any other viable leads?” She shrugged. “A couple of possibilities. I mentioned the guest at the inn I still haven’t been able to interview, a guy from Richmond who left abruptly around the time of the murder without checking out. I’m still trying to track him down. And the missing gardener fits the general description of someone Allison was seen talking to.” Liz waited for Gordon again. He sighed and said, “Okay, as you said, a day or two probably isn’t going to make much difference now. Let’s hold off on the warrant for a bit. In light of what you’ve told me the last couple of days, I’d like to have someone else talk to Conyers to get a different slant on him.” “Yourself?” she asked. “I wish.” Gordon picked up his coffee cup and stared into it, frowning as if he didn’t care for what he saw. “I have to be at a meeting in Raleigh first thing in the morning, so I’m leaving this afternoon. Dennison, I think you’d better handle it. You don’t have to press him, just get the lay of the land.” Dennison wasn’t the most astute individual, but even he began to pick up hints of something irregular. “I don’t understand.” He looked at Gordon, then turned to Liz. Liz was sure she’d moved beyond the blushing stage, but something must have betrayed her. “Oh, my, is it possible? Our favorite detective has a crush on a suspect?” If he hadn’t been so condescending about it, Liz might have explained the situation further. As it was, she hung onto her temper with an effort and said, “This force’s only detective does not have a crush on a suspect. Getting a second opinion about a potential suspect is a good idea. Now, can we talk about Ross McClintock, please?” She turned to Chief Gordon for support. The chief nodded. “Cal, anything further on it?” “Not much,” Dennison admitted. “No witnesses. No murder weapon has turned up. You’ve seen the evidence report. I just got the medical examiner’s report. Doesn’t add anything we didn’t already know.” They discussed it for a while but there wasn’t anything new to go on, so after they covered a few other matters the chief dismissed everyone. Liz returned to the office feeling depressed and disheartened about the direction the case seemed to be heading. She read the medical examiner’s report but found Dennison was right. It didn’t tell them anything new. A few more phone calls eliminated another Barnwell, leaving her with just one. She did put in a request to the Richmond police to try to contact the missing one for her. She called the number Lynn had given her for Chrissie Troxler and left a message on the answering machine when no one picked up. After a break for lunch from a local deli, she swung by Sandberg’s girlfriend’s apartment. No one answered her knock on the door. She listened, but heard no sounds of activity from within. When another try brought no action, she gave up and went back to the office. 97
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Paperwork absorbed the next few hours until the buzz of the phone interrupted. “Ramsey?” She recognized Cal Dennison’s voice. “I just came from the interview room. Had a chat with your boyfriend. You’ve been playing cagey with us.” “First of all, he’s not my boyfriend,” Liz said. “And whatever I haven’t told people around here is my own business.” “When it involves a cop dating a suspect? Of course, I can see the attraction. Not just rich, but good-looking also. Too good to be true? Could be fishing in dangerous waters, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, he asked if he could talk to you. I told him I’d let you know he’s in B waiting for you.” On the way down from her office, which was on the second level of the building, to the interview room on the first, Liz wondered why she was getting nervous. She hadn’t felt that way about him before, even once she’d begun to suspect he might be hiding dangerous secrets. The interview room was a small, bare cubicle with just the one door out, a table and four chairs. A mirror on the side fronted a one-way window allowing interviews to be observed from an inner hallway. Otherwise no pictures or decorations relieved the stark blankness of white walls and a white tiled floor. Greg occupied a chair in the corner, head propped on his hand, his legs stretched out in front of him so they went halfway across the small area. He looked up, then stood when she came into the room, but sat again as she took a seat near the one he’d been in. The shadows almost obscured any light in his pale eyes, and dark smudges underlined them. His silver hair flopped as though he’d been running his fingers through it, and his face appeared drawn and tired. He examined her as carefully as she checked him over. “What is this about you seeing me last night?” he asked, without preamble. “You couldn’t have. I didn’t go anywhere last night.” “Can anyone vouch for that?” “The nurse saw me a couple of times during the evening.” “Between the hours of nine and ten?” “I think so.” He sighed. “I don’t know for sure.” He watched her closely. “What happened last night?” “You don’t know?” “Humor me. Pretend I don’t.” Liz explained, starting with her visit to Marko’s to find out more about Allison’s companions the night she’d died, going on to tell him about the man who tried to grab Lynn, her chasing him and how he’d gotten away. “You thought it was me?” he asked. “It was dark, but what I could see looked like you. The man I chased was tall and thin.” “I’m not the only tall, thin man in this town. How sure are you it was me?” 98
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She couldn’t hold his eyes so she turned her gaze to the floor. “I don’t know. Your build is pretty distinctive. But the man I chased seemed to move a bit differently. He had a sort of hitch in his gait that you don’t. Also…” “Also?” he prompted when she paused. “I’m doing what a cop should never, ever do by letting myself get emotionally involved. I don’t want to think it was you. And if you think that’s an easy confession, try again. Greg, do you know your blood type?” At first, he gave her a look that suggested she’d just grown an extra set of ears or eyes, but then comprehension dawned. “O positive.” She sighed, wishing he hadn’t confirmed the connection. “Can anyone vouch for where you were last Friday afternoon or evening? The nurse who stays with your mother?” She watched the emotions chase each other across his face. He wanted to be able to tell her someone could give him an alibi, and not, she thought, just to get himself off the hook. “I doubt it,” he admitted. “One thing about that house, back when they built it, they built things solid. The walls are six inches thick. The nurse can’t hear me coming and going. I usually stop in to tell her if I’m going out, so she’ll know.” “Did you go anywhere after I saw you Friday afternoon or evening?” Liz asked. “I’ve already told your friend I didn’t. He wasn’t convinced. And, by the way, why is everyone so interested in what I did Friday afternoon? Did something else happen then?” Liz considered, but the news had already hit the local paper. He might even have read about it, but if he were telling the truth, he might not recognize the name or the significance of the death. “A man named Ross McClintock was murdered sometime Friday afternoon or evening.” Greg had been adept at hiding his emotions from the first moment they met, so his lack of reaction didn’t tell her much. Still, she counted it a small point in his favor that he seemed to have no idea what she was talking about. “Who is Ross McClintock and how does he relate?” he asked. He could find out most of the relevant facts if he wanted to. “He was a close associate of Allison Wannstedt, the girl who was murdered Thursday night.” She watched him absorb the implications, tension creeping over his body and pulling his shoulders into rigid tightness. “You think he knew who she’d planned to meet that night and was probably killed to keep him quiet about it.” Liz didn’t answer. It wasn’t necessary. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but his eyes grew cold and the lines around his mouth deepened. “How?” “Someone bashed his head in.”
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Greg winced and his fists clenched the arms of the chair. “Damn,” he muttered. “Damn and damn.” He pounded a fist against the metal arm. “How did that…?” He pressed his lips together, hard enough to drive the blood from them, and looked around the room as if searching for something. Whatever he sought couldn’t be found in his immediate vicinity. His eyes glazed over, fading into the remote, unfocused look she’d seen once before. His face screwed into an intense frown that was something more than concentration yet not quite pain. For a few minutes, he retreated into contemplation that took him so deep inside himself—or so far outside—she doubted he’d notice if she hit him. Whatever he worked on, he didn’t find it easy to wrestle down. Twice, he winced, and a couple of times his lips moved, engaging in some peculiar, subvocal argument. For Liz, the performance was one of the strangest things she’d ever seen. Later, she’d swear she watched him fighting some kind of battle, with the entire conflict raging inside himself, as though one part fought another. But, about the point or object of the dispute, she couldn’t even guess. Then, in the middle of the spell, for just a second or two, his face changed drastically, taking on a completely and eerily different aspect. An evil glow burned deep in his pale eyes. Brutality or ruthlessness not part of the man she thought she knew broke through to show in narrowed nostrils and deep, harsh lines around his eyes and mouth. It changed the entire cast of his face in a heartbeat, though it didn’t last much longer. For a brief instant, she glimpsed a horribly different side of the man. She clenched her hands around the metal arms of her chair, the sweat on her palms gluing them to the slick surface. She wanted to call him, say something to drag him out of it. Instead, she sat paralyzed, vocal cords frozen with everything else as she watched some other—spirit?—take possession of his body, driving out and obliterating the personality she knew. What the hell was going on? She’d heard stories of demonic possession but had always dismissed them as either thrilling entertainment for the bloodthirsty masses or ways ignorant people dealt with the more troubling aspects of insanity and mental instability. And that could be the answer here too. But the types of mental illness she’d met and dealt with before had never had this feeling of strangeness, of total alien-ness, about them. The grotesque, malign look faded within seconds, leaving his face stripped to the essential remoteness of blank concentration, but the image had imprinted itself on Liz’s mind, shocking and terrifying her with the possibilities it suggested. If that was a glimpse of the real man showing through the layers of masks he wore, he wasn’t a normal criminal. What had leaked through was hard, implacable and capable of the kind of cold-blooded violence perpetrated by desperately sick sociopaths. The face of a monster. Her stomach churned so badly, she had to get up and leave the room.
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Liz staggered back to her own office, not hearing when Doris tried to stop her as she passed. “Hey, Liz, you okay?” Doris said, following her into her office. “You look like you just saw your own ghost.” “I’m okay,” she answered, not up to the effort to make it sound convincing. “Like hell,” Doris muttered. “I got a few messages for you. But you look like you ought to go home and have a stiff drink. It’s almost five. Sure you don’t want to talk about it?” Liz shook her head and took the slips of paper from her. “I’ll be all right. I got a bit of a shock, but I’ll recover.” Doris started to say something more, then stopped, shrugged and retreated. Liz stared out the window of her office, which overlooked the parking lot. As she watched, Greg emerged from the building and crossed to his Camry parked on the far side. He moved slowly, head bent, like a man carrying a burden he could barely manage. She wondered if the memory of what she’d seen earlier colored her image of him now. The gray hair that glowed almost silver in the sunlight and his unusual height seemed to set him apart from the rest of humanity, the physical differences marking a more significant difference under the surface. How could her judgment of him be so far off? She was good at reading people. And she’d thought she knew him from the glimpses he’d allowed her of the real man. The brief sight on Sunday when he’d helped her sit, and yesterday, in his studio, when he’d let her look deeply into him. She’d seen a soul in torment. A sort of chaos. Or had she glimpsed the monster and not recognized it? Even more terrifying to realize was the attraction she felt for him remained intact. She wanted to go to him even now. He might be a monster, but he was a suffering, tormented monster, and she had it in her power to ease his pain. He hadn’t feigned the attraction. He reacted as strongly to her as she did to him. She wanted to offer comfort and bring peace—even to the monster. God, what did that say about her own mental state? As he got in his car and started the motor, Liz turned back to her desk and glanced at the pink sheets she held. The top one was a request to call Chuck Ryland. She sat down and picked up the telephone. Amazingly he was available right then. “Sorry about the delay on this. Been a bear of a couple of days,” he said, once they’d disposed of the preliminaries. “I looked at McClintock. Can’t tell you much more than you know now. I’ve shipped him off for autopsy, but I think trauma to the head is still a safe bet for cause of death. I couldn’t find any indication of what the weapon might have been. The guys down in Chapel Hill might do better. I’d say it was something smooth rather than rough and probably not more than a couple of inches in diameter. That’s as specific as I can get. Attacked from behind, I’d guess. Body left where it fell. No sign he struggled with his assailant. You can draw the obvious conclusions.” 101
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“Yeah,” Liz said, chewing it over, trying to keep her mind on the McClintock murder. Her thoughts didn’t want to stay there. “Chuck? How much do you know about psychiatry?” A surprised silence lasted for a few seconds. “I did a course as part of my training and rotated through the ward. It’s not my specialty, not something I wanted to pursue. Why?” “Is there really such a thing as multiple personalities? I think I recall that it’s some kind of recognized psychopathology.” He hesitated again. “A Dissociative Disorder?” He paused, apparently trying to remember what he knew about the illness. “Yeah, it’s real, but genuine cases are rare. I don’t remember much about it. It’s associated with some kind of severe childhood trauma, I think. But I’m pretty sure there are well-documented cases.” “Would it be possible for one of the personalities to be seriously disturbed, even psychopathic? A killer, possibly?” “Given what I just said about the relationship with childhood trauma, I would think it possible.” “And could the other personality or personalities be completely normal?” “They might seem that way,” he answered. “I doubt it would be true. But I don’t have to tell you how deceptive appearances can be.” “No.” “Liz, is that what we’re dealing with? A deviant personality?” “Aren’t murderers always deviant?” Chuck paused. “I don’t think so. I’d say most are just normal people pushed too far, letting their emotions get out of control. It’s sad, and sick and infuriating. But I don’t think I’d call it deviant.” “No,” she admitted, sighing. “As for the other thing, I don’t know. But I think it’s a possibility.” “Then I’d suggest you haul his, her or its ass in as quickly as possible and get a psychological profile. This sounds awfully damned dangerous, Liz.” “I know. But I don’t have the grounds to haul him in yet. And there are other complications.” “Aren’t there always?” he asked. “So be careful anyway.” “Don’t worry, I will.”
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Chapter Fourteen She had another restless night. Dreams punctured her sleep, jerking her awake to a pounding heart and gasping breath more than once. In the morning, she treated herself to a liberal dousing of Shalimar after her run and shower, hoping its bracing sandalwood and herbal scent would sweeten other imagined odors hanging around her. Instead of heading straight for the police station, she decided to swing by Sandberg’s girlfriend’s apartment. When she arrived, she stopped and surveyed the neighborhood before knocking. Parked two slots down from the woman’s front door, sat the car Greg Conyers had described as belonging to Sandberg. She called for backup. Two uniformed officers arrived within five minutes. Liz asked one of them to cover the back door, while the other accompanied her to the front. She pushed the doorbell, setting off an upheaval inside as the buzz echoed through the apartment. Something clattered, feet shuffled, voices, male and female, shrill and excited, argued furiously. A loud crash sounded like something hitting the floor. “Just a minute,” the female voice called, more loudly. More sounds of people moving around followed, a door—not the front where Liz stood—opened and then closed with a bang, and a scuffle broke out at the rear of the apartment. “Back here,” the officer stationed there shouted. Liz and the other man ran around the end of the building, circling two apartments to get to the back. Right outside the rear door, beside a utility room extension, the officer struggled with a slighter man who appeared intent on leaving the area as quickly as possible. He broke free of the officer’s hold, but didn’t see the others approaching and made a bad decision to turn in their direction. When he finally looked up and saw them, he tried to do an about-face but ended up in the clasp of the first officer, who quickly took him to the ground and pinned his wrists behind him. Ignoring the fuming and fussing of his girlfriend, who’d come outside to complain about the treatment, as well as neighbors gathering to see what was going on, the officers quickly subdued Sandberg, patted him down and cuffed him. “What are you doing with him?” his girlfriend asked Liz. “You got no right to do this. What’s he done? I’m calling my lawyer right now.” “That’s probably a good idea. The way he’s been acting, I suspect he needs one. All we wanted was to ask him a couple of questions about where he was last Thursday night and Friday. I think a background check is in order, however.”
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“It’s not right,” the woman continued to rail as the two officers put Sandberg into one of the patrol cars. “You have no right to harass innocent citizens in their homes at seven-thirty in the morning.” “Innocent citizens don’t run every time a cop approaches,” Liz said to her. “He’s got a track record with you guys. No wonder he’s wary. He has reason to be.” “I’m beginning to suspect that’s the truth,” Liz answered her, letting it serve as a parting shot. “You’ve had a busy morning already,” Doris said when she got to her office twenty minutes later. “Your guy’s down in C. Since they said it was Justin Sandberg, I thought you’d want this.” Liz flipped through the papers Doris handed her. Sandberg had been the subject of several complaints by his ex-wife. Police had investigated three domestic disturbance calls initiated by Melinda Sandberg or a neighbor and had arrested Sandberg twice. Charges had been dropped once, but he’d also been convicted once of assault on a female and had served three months of a one-year sentence. “Thanks, Doris,” she said as she headed out the door. “I’m on my way down there.” Sandberg sat at the table in room C, looking sullen and sulky. According to the information sheet Doris had given her, the man was twenty-nine. Weight and an unhealthy lifestyle had already begun to drain him of what had once been boyish good looks. He looked up when she entered. “Justin Sandberg? I’m Detective Ramsey.” Liz watched him assess her and decide to try charm. “Detective.” He had a killer smile, all right, but he wasn’t bright enough to guess her job had long since conferred immunity. “Can you tell me why I’m here?” he asked, reaching for an air of aggrieved but patient confusion. “If you’ll answer a few questions for me first.” He flashed an impressive set of dimples. “Of course. I’ll do what I can.” “Good. Why did you run away from the Conyers place Friday when you heard I was there?” The smile faded fast. “Run away? I didn’t.” “No? Greg Conyers was surprised to find you gone. And then, apparently, you didn’t come back when you told him you would.” He shrugged. “I don’t have a contract with him. He pays me when I come. I come when I can. I had something else to do.” “Like what?” “Another job.” “Want to give me details?” “Details?”
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“Who you’re working for? Where?” “Oh.” He wiggled in the chair. “I don’t see why I should have to tell you. It ain’t anyone’s business.” “Maybe not. But it would allay some suspicions.” He glared at her, forgetting for the moment he was doing a charm gig. “It’s private stuff. I don’t want to talk about it.” “Your privilege. But it doesn’t make me feel any better about you and your situation.” “Are you charging me with something?” he asked. “I don’t know. Is there something we should charge you with?” “No! But I’d like to know why I’m being grilled.” Liz smiled at him. “You think this is being grilled? Mister, you don’t know what grilled is. Believe me, it’ll be a hell of a lot hotter in here if I decide to ‘grill’ you. Right now, I’m just asking polite questions and hoping you’ll give me polite answers so we won’t have to get into any of the less pleasant stages.” He wriggled again. “It feels like grilling to me.” She shrugged. “Your problem. Where were you last Thursday night?” “That was a week ago. I’m not sure I remember.” “Take all the time you need to think about it.” He did and it was an unsettling wait. “I was with Jacky. We went to a movie, then stopped by a club to have a couple of drinks.” “You’re sure about this?” “Pretty sure.” “And Jacky will confirm it if I ask her?” “She’d better.” “Why don’t you wait here while I check with Jacky,” Liz suggested. “Sure, I remember what I was doing last Thursday,” Jacky said, when Liz reached her by phone. “Thursday night’s AA night.” “Did you go by yourself?” “Yes.” “What time did the meeting break up?” “About nine-thirty, I think.” “And was Justin there when you got home?” “No, I don’t think so.” “Did you see him at all that evening?” She was quiet for a minute. “Late, as I recall. Maybe about midnight.”
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“Thanks, that helps,” Liz said. “Okay, Sandberg, let’s try again. What were you doing last Thursday night?” “I told you. We went to a movie.” “Jacky says Thursday’s her AA night.” “Oh, hell. Yeah, I forgot. That must have been Wednesday we went to the movie.” “And Thursday?” “I guess I went out by myself.” “Where did you go?” He shrugged. “A couple of places.” “What kind of places.” “Bars.” “Which ones?” “The Restless Tiger. Marko’s.” “Meet anyone you know there?” He shrugged again. “A couple of people.” “Name names.” He did, but they didn’t mean anything to Liz. However, she wrote them down to check out with Bonnie. “Did you leave alone?” “Yeah. I didn’t pick up any girls.” “What time did you leave Marko’s?” “Eleven, eleven-thirty, somewhere in there.” She looked at Sandberg’s arms. “How did you get those scratches?” He glanced at them but didn’t look guilty about it. “Helping Conyers with his garden. Damn rose bushes.” “Do you know your blood type?” “Yeah, O positive.” Liz sighed and spent a moment debating what to do next. Whatever suspicions she might have, she didn’t have enough to hold him on. “All right, Sandberg, you can go. Officer Hannaford will take you home. But a word of advice. Don’t leave town. And next time I knock on your door, don’t try to run.” “Sure.” Her first order of business after lunch was a call to Cal Dennison to get his reaction to his interview with Greg. “I wondered when you’d get around to asking,” Dennison said. “Right now,” she answered. “What did you think about him?”
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“The guy’s hiding something. Several times, when I asked him direct questions, he either hedged or refused outright to answer.” “Can you remember what he refused to answer?” “Things like why people were saying he’d been in the bar before, and why they said he’d been seen talking to the girl. He told me he’d never been to the place and never met the girl. He kept reminding me those people had been drinking, and none of them actually knew him personally, so he wondered how they could be so sure.” Dennison paused and then added, reluctantly. “He’s actually got half a point. We don’t have a single unequivocal identification and no way to tie him to the girl.” Confidence returned on the next words. “But, still, the cumulative effect is pretty strong.” “What’s your bottom line? You think he did it?” “Looks like it to me. The guy’s too smooth and plausible. I don’t trust him an inch. Besides, he hasn’t got any kind of alibi. No one in the house with him but his sick mother and a nurse. He admitted his mother was out of it and the nurse wouldn’t hear him if he went out, even if he took the car.” Liz discounted some of Dennison’s distrust. He tended to react that way toward anyone more intellectually or verbally astute than himself. Greg Conyers was both. But, still, beneath the defensiveness lurked the instincts of a man who’d been a cop for a long time and had dealt with a lot of criminals. “What about you?” he asked. “I know you’ve got a thing for the guy. Have you managed to convince yourself he’s misunderstood or maligned?” She knew Dennison would have to get his digs in and was ready for it. “I haven’t convinced myself of anything about him yet. I like to keep an open mind until I feel like I’ve got all the facts. We’re not there yet.” “Search warrant. The sooner, the better.” “What’s our probable cause? Those shaky identifications? Lack of alibi?” “Works for me,” he said. “Won’t work for a magistrate, I’m betting. And what about the publicity factor?” “That’s not our problem.” That’s why you’re not the chief and never will be, Liz thought. “I’m going to ask for a conference on it either tomorrow or the day after, whenever we can schedule it,” Liz said aloud. “By then I hope to have more facts to help clarify the situation. We’ve got another suspect I can place in Marko’s the night Allison was killed. So, right now, it’s a toss-up between them. By the way, have you got anything more on McClintock’s murder?” “Not much. A woman who might have seen a guy with a gun running across the street on a path that could have been away from the murder scene. She thought he was tall and thin but couldn’t be any more specific.” “What kind of gun?” “She didn’t know. Thought it was a rifle. She assumed he was a hunter.” 107
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“Could she identify him from a photo?” “She didn’t get a good look at the face. And it was from a distance. She couldn’t be sure of identification either.” “Nothing else?” “You saw the report from evidence on the fingerprints in the car? We’re running matches right now.” That process could take weeks without a starting place. “Murder weapon?” “Still not found. I had some guys go out and check the area for anything suspicious, but they came up empty.” “Keep me apprised,” she requested before she hung up. The next call hit the jackpot on the first try when Chrissie Troxler herself answered. Liz explained who she was and what she wanted, then waited through a long pause while the girl absorbed her request and decided what to do about it. “Yeah, I was a friend of Allison’s,” she admitted, finally. “And I was with her and Lynn and Ross that night, but I don’t know anything.” “Anything about what?” The gambit sometimes got interesting results, particularly with people who weren’t especially sharp. It didn’t work this time. “Anything about who killed her,” Chrissie said. “You know who she talked with?” Hesitation. “I didn’t see her talk with anyone. I was, er… I was tied up with my own affairs.” The girl was afraid. If she did know something—and it sounded possible that she did—she didn’t want to admit it. “Would you mind coming in and talking to us about it for a few minutes?” Again, the girl hesitated, and her voice, when it came, was squeaky with fear. “I’m really busy right now.” “I think you’d better make some time. We really need to talk to you.” Liz put all the authority she could into her voice. Her tone had its effect. “All right. Would tomorrow afternoon be okay? I really am tied up for the morning.” “Tomorrow would be fine. Around three, okay? Ask for Detective Ramsey at the desk when you come in.” Liz didn’t want to go back to that house or face Greg Conyers again yet. The places where yesterday’s revelations had hit her remained raw and painful. The depth of the ache was alarming in itself. She’d never guessed she could learn to care for someone so much so quickly.
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Still, she was cop enough that when duty called, she answered. Before she left, she called evidence and suggested they try to match fingerprints for Justin Sandberg to those on McClintock’s car. The Conyers house didn’t look any more welcoming when she pulled up than it had the other occasions. With the early afternoon sunlight almost directly overhead, the front still remained shadowed and the windows small, dark pits, like cave mouths or evil little eyes. Possibly her knowledge of what dwelled within colored her perception of the place. Right then she saw it as even more of a gothic monstrosity. In darkness, with lightning flaring behind, it would make the perfect setting for a horror movie, the kind of place where Bela Lugosi or Vincent Price in fright makeup might answer the door. Liz tried to shake herself out of her imaginative lapse. It was broad daylight and the house in front of her was just a huge, tasteless, ugly old building. She stepped out of the car and started to sweat. Late spring in the Blue Ridge mountains could get very warm, though it usually lacked the stifling humidity that would make the summer heat so uncomfortable. She flicked a bead of moisture off her temple while debating which door to try. A nervous shiver crawled down her back as the familiar tingle signaled someone or something watching her. Oddly, it didn’t seem to come so strongly from the house this time, but she couldn’t place the origin. She looked around the area. Tree limbs waved in a gentle breeze, and a squirrel scooted across the open area in front of the house. Liz unsnapped the top of her holster before she sighed, straightened up and headed for the side of the garage to walk around the back. As she moved away from her car, she thought she heard another noise, somewhere behind her. It didn’t sound like an animal or the effects of the breeze. She turned to look, but saw no other suspicious movement. A cicada sang a noisy, rasping solo nearby as she circled around the house. She moved slowly, still aware of the feeling of unseen eyes on her. On the far side of the garage, a snap coming from the trees to her left, like a twig breaking, made her stop and glance around again. As she waited, trying to spot whoever watched her, a thin, light thread of voice, masculine but somewhat falsetto, called out a word that sounded like her name. She turned and surveyed the trees in the area where she thought the call had originated. For a moment, all was still and quiet. Then a dark shape flashed across a narrow open space between trees. Liz got a momentary glimpse of a figure, masculine, tall, thin and dark-haired, cutting through the woods. Shuffling noises marked his passage, then abruptly stopped, as though waiting. Indecision held her motionless for a long second, until two separate thoughts made contact and pattern. The brief view of movement she’d received showed the figure had the same slightly uneven gait as the man she’d chased in the dark Saturday night.
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Remembering how little effect it had had that night, she didn’t bother to try to identify herself or call to him to stop. She just took off into the trees in pursuit. Her shoes were more appropriate this time. The low-heeled flats didn’t trip her every time she moved. But the terrain presented a different set of problems. Ground-hugging vines and thorny plants grabbed her feet and legs, and she nearly twisted an ankle in a hole she didn’t see until too late. She arrived at the area where she’d seen the man earlier but found no one. She turned slowly. The only living thing visible was a mockingbird sitting on a nearby branch, looking like he’d dive-bomb her if she took another step into his territory. Listening, she thought she heard movement again her left. Not too far away. A few minutes later, she stopped again when she realized she wouldn’t catch up. He not only had the advantage of a lead, he presumably knew the terrain a good bit better than she did. Liz suspected he was playing a cat-and-mouse game with her, possibly luring her away from the house. She could still see the building but realized she’d been moving away from it. From somewhere to her right, that strange, half-ghostly voice called again, and this time her name rang out clear. A move that way, toward the voice, would angle her even further away from the house. She said, “Phooey,” declined to take the bait and turned to go back the way she’d come. There were more efficient ways of catching him than this. Especially if he was Greg Conyers. She followed a semi-cleared path back toward the house, making more effort to avoid the various hazards, which included a fallen tree and a tendril of poison ivy snaking up a bush leaning over the trail. She already had one tear in her pants, so she watched out for the thorny vines. Twice she thought she heard noises not made by the native wildlife, but she refused to be lured into changing direction again. A footstep behind her gave a bare moment’s warning of impending attack, just enough to let her move aside. The heavy branch glanced off her right shoulder and skimmed down the side of her arm, rather than smashing into the back of her head as its wielder had intended. Liz dropped to the ground and rolled away from her attacker, twisting so she could see where he was. She flicked out her right leg, hooked it around his ankle and yanked hard enough to pull him off balance. He didn’t go all the way down, however, which let him recover before Liz could right herself completely. He swung the branch again and this time connected with the side of her head. Not as hard as he intended, but with enough force to stun her for a critical moment. She crashed to the ground, feeling the impact jar along her body. She tensed, ready to move if he tried again, but instead he dropped the branch and ran down the path away from her, away from the house. Bits of dirt and dried leaf clung to her face. She tried to roll over, but a thumping pain in her head urged her to wait before making the effort. She brushed hair and debris out of her eyes and tried to focus. The world tilted and swung crazily for a moment, then settled into place. She reached up to explore the lump over her left ear. Her fingers came away stained with drops of blood, but what she felt reassured her. 110
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The lump wasn’t that big, the bone seemed intact, and the break in the skin small. Her arm burned where a series of raw, bleeding scratches laced a patch of abraded skin the entire length of her right upper arm. She made a fist. It stung as it pulled at the damaged skin but didn’t hurt enough to suggest any real injury. With an effort, she pushed herself to a sitting position and waited until the world settled into normal orientation again. She got to her feet with somewhat less difficulty, though her head pounded with the movement. She patted herself down, checking that her gun was still in place in the holster under her shoulder. Her purse had fallen to the side of the path and she bent to retrieve it, holding her head to steady it. “Stupid,” she berated herself. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” Stupid to have chased a man into an unfamiliar place. Stupid to have let herself be ambushed that way. A rookie mistake. Tears burned behind her eyes. They had little to do with the pain in her head or arm, everything to do with the agony in her heart and soul. For a brief moment, as she’d rolled over on the path, she’d gotten a look at her attacker’s face. A good, close look. She stumbled and almost pitched into a pine tree, catching herself by grabbing the trunk with her hands as she lurched toward it. Rough bark scraped her palms. She pushed herself off and watched her step as she trudged along the path. Ahead of her, a patch of sunlight marked the place where the woods ended, the path spilling onto the grass around the house. The light beckoned her onward. Her car waited nearby. Well before she reached it, a shadow moved into the patch of light at the edge of the wood. With the sun behind him, Liz couldn’t distinguish features, only a tall, slender, dark silhouette. But, by now, she knew his shape well enough. He said something but she couldn’t distinguish his words. He advanced toward her. “Stay away,” she warned, her voice sounding more strident than authoritative. When he ignored the order, continuing toward her, she reached under her jacket and drew the Glock. Her fingers shook as she flicked off the safety and tried to level it at his chest. “Stop right there, Greg! I mean it!” The break and wobble in her voice probably did more to convince him she might use the gun than her shaky aim. He halted, almost in mid-stride. “Liz, what happened? Are you all right? I saw your car, but I couldn’t find you.” “Turn around and walk back to the house,” she ordered, sounding stronger and more definite, even though the hands holding the gun shook so badly he could surely see it from fifty feet away. “Keep your hands up in the air where I can see them.” She didn’t see a weapon, but she wasn’t taking any more chances. She’d already made her share of stupid mistakes for the day. “Liz, it’s all right. It’s okay, I won’t…” He drew close enough to see her face and his expression changed. “Just stay right there and turn around,” she ordered again.
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He didn’t say anything but raised his arms and turned slowly to face the way he’d just come. “Walk,” she said. “Back to the house. And don’t make any sudden moves.” He nodded and began to step along the path, moving with careful deliberation so as not to disturb her any further. His gait now lacked the slight hitch. He moved with easy, fluid grace, as he had a few days ago when she’d followed him under happier circumstances. He’d changed clothes and dispensed with the dark wig as well. Her head hurt and the heat of the day began to get to her. She dared not take a hand off the gun long enough to wipe sweat from her temple before it dripped into her eyes. It stung and made her vision blur. But she forced herself to keep putting one foot in front of the other, to shut out the pain in her head and arm and other bruised places as well, concentrating her attention on the path ahead and the man she followed. He stopped when he reached the edge of the woods and stood on the grass, waiting for her. He kept his hands in the air where she could see them, but he half-turned to look at her. As she stumbled to the end of the line of trees she saw his face change, a look of concern and horror supplanting his previous irritation and anger. “Good God, Liz,” he said, taking a step toward her. “What happened?” She steadied the gun, aimed at his chest. “Stay where you are, mister!” “Liz! Don’t shoot!” He blanked his face until it showed nothing but impersonal concern. “I won’t hurt you,” he said, his tone deliberately gentle and soothing. “But you need help. Let me give you a hand, please?” He didn’t make the mistake of moving toward her again. “Just stay away,” she warned. “You’ve done plenty already.” She stepped back, edging toward her car, dismayed when she remembered that it was locked. How was she going to keep the gun on him while she fished her keys out of her pocketbook? He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment, pain sneaking across his face but he dismissed it as quickly when he realized it showed. “What have I done?” he asked. “Take a look.” She backed up until she stood beside the car, put her purse on the hood and, using one hand to steady the gun, fished around for the keys with the other, keeping her eyes trained on him. She finally found her keys and yanked them out. Her breath came in labored gasps as her vision blurred and her head pounded. There didn’t seem to be enough air to satisfy her lungs. “You think I—?” He broke off and winced, began to reach a hand toward his head, thought better of it and stopped. Meanwhile, Liz backed up again until she stood beside the car door. She tried to jam the key into the lock while keeping her eyes on him. It wouldn’t go. Her shaking hand had trouble keeping the gun in front of her and pointed in his direction. Again and again, she tried to push the key into the slot, but it resolutely refused to slip into the lock. On the fourth try, it slid out of her fingers.
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“Liz, please,” he pleaded. “I won’t hurt you, I swear. Let me help you.” She bent to try to find the keys. The change of position proved too much for her whirling head. The spots at the periphery of her vision multiplied into a cloud of exploding light that engulfed and overwhelmed her. She felt herself falling, heard someone swearing. Her last thought was to try to keep hold of the gun, but she couldn’t feel it in her hand anymore.
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Chapter Fifteen Something tickled the side of her face, something else lay heavily across her forehead. She tried to reach up to explore the sensations. Her hand responded sluggishly, feeling too heavy, the effort to make it move almost too much. She finally got her fingers up to her face and found a bead of moisture sliding along her cheek. Further probing discovered a damp cloth dripping into her hair. Her eyes snapped open and surveyed the furnishings of a room she’d never seen before, a spacious masculine room, decorated in shades of brown and gold, with builtin shelves taking up most of one entire wall. A haphazard arrangement of books, sports memorabilia, awards and pictures cluttered that space, but the room itself was clean and otherwise neat. A pair of men’s Reeboks rested in a corner. Sunlight streamed through a window opposite the bed. Liz tried to lever herself to one elbow. Jackhammers pounded her skull. She groaned and dropped back, realizing that she was lying on a bed on top of an attractive, hand-pieced quilt. She sank into the depths of a pillow that cushioned her head gently. Footsteps approached but from the direction opposite the way she faced. Her one experiment with movement convinced her she could wait until the stranger moved into her line of vision. “Liz?” Greg Conyers’ voice. Memory returned in a rush, her arrival, the chase in the woods, his attempt to bash her head in. “Where’s my gun?” she demanded, shifting a bit so she could see him. Nothing moved in his face, his expression the normal remote mask that hid his thoughts and emotions so well. And no wonder he was so good at it, she thought, considering what she’d seen when he let things break loose. “It’s in your holster,” he answered, his voice even. “I didn’t think you’d want it left on the grass. I put the safety back on. I don’t know much about guns but that wasn’t hard to figure out. The red dot shows when the safety’s off, doesn’t it?” “Yes.” She reached to pat the area where she carried it, felt its reassuring bulk. “I hope you’ll let it stay there,” he added. “I’ve had plenty of time to finish strangling you or whatever you think I was trying to do, if I wanted to.” He looked down at the glass he held. “I figured an alcoholic drink wouldn’t be a good idea but some juice might help.” The rising inflection on the last few words made it a question. “I’ve got coffee brewing too.” She nodded and immediately wished she hadn’t. “Why?” she asked, watching him, trying to read what he was doing and failing completely. If she hadn’t seen his face so
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clearly, she’d never have believed this could be the same man who’d tried to smash her skull not long ago. Like he’d smashed Ross McClintock’s? She vowed to find out everything she could about multiple personality syndrome—or whatever it was called—as soon as she could. “Why coffee?” He set the glass down on a bedside table and pulled over a chair. “I thought you liked it.” “No. Why…?” She sighed and lifted the damp cloth off her head. “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t understand.” He moved closer. “If I help you sit up, can you drink some of this?” She let him put an arm behind her and maneuver her into a sitting position. If she didn’t move her head too quickly, the pain remained at a low, thumping level. The orange juice was cold and refreshing, slaking a thirst she realized had grown considerable. “Is this your bedroom?” she asked, surveying the rest of the room from her new vantage point. A man’s dresser took up part of the wall opposite the shelves and a desk was pushed against a window. He nodded. “It was the closest comfortable place to put you. I asked the nurse to come take a look at you. If you don’t mind?” “Seems like a good idea.” “I was ready to call an ambulance if you didn’t come around pretty quick.” “I won’t be needing it,” she said. The nurse leaned in the door. Greg motioned her to come in and nodded toward Liz. “Let me know if you think she needs to go to the hospital,” he said before leaving the room. The nurse smiled at her as she approached. She was in her early thirties, slim and attractive, with reddish hair and green eyes. “Nice guy, isn’t he?” she asked. “If I weren’t married already… Oh, well. Anyway, I’m Terry Bagwell. Greg said you’d had a nasty fall. Goodness!” The woman had picked up her arm to survey the damage. “Glad I brought this stuff.” She nodded toward the tray of gauze, bandages, antiseptic wipes, tubes and such she’d carried in with her. “How is Mrs. Conyers?” Liz asked Terry while she cleaned the abrasions on her arm. The woman sighed, shook her head. “Not good. Of course, there wasn’t much hope after the chemo failed. Quite a lady too. Sharp as a tack until recently and nice as she could be. Really tough on Greg. He’s so close to her.” “I gather there isn’t much time left?” “No,” Terry confirmed. “To be honest, I’ll be surprised if she lasts another week. At least we’re managing to keep her comfortable. And Greg sees to it she has whatever she needs or wants. She’s lucky that way. It’s not every son is so concerned, I can tell you.”
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Terry wrapped gauze bandaging around her arm after she’d cleaned it and smeared it with antiseptic. “Nothing serious there,” she said. “Keep it covered for a day or so to keep germs out, then leave it open.” She examined the lump on Liz’s head, cleaning it and putting a small dab of antiseptic on it. Then she checked Liz’s pulse, heartbeat and pupil reactions, asked a few questions, and finally, as Greg came back into the room with a tray bearing three steaming cups, she pronounced herself satisfied Liz would survive without a trip to the hospital unless she noticed any new pain, nausea or changes in vision later on. “You may have a mild concussion, but your pupils are okay and there’s no bleeding other than from the scratch. Doesn’t look like any stitches needed.” “I think it was the combination of the heat, the headache and the surprise that made me faint. Thank you for your help.” “Hey, that’s okay. I’ll put it on Greg’s bill. Anyway, it makes for a nice change. You know, a different kind of professional challenge.” She flashed a grin so engaging, Liz didn’t think to argue further. “She’s still asleep,” Greg said to the nurse, presumably with regard to his mother. “Have a cup of coffee with us.” He sat on the side of the bed near Liz’s knees since Terry occupied the only chair in the room. While they drank, Greg entertained them with stories about gallery show openings and museum receptions he’d attended in New York and other big cities. He had a quietly deadpan, mildly ironic way with a story and didn’t hesitate to laugh at his own mistakes and follies. Liz watched him warily while letting the others carry the conversation. He seemed so calm and sane right now, his deep voice steady with the kind of confidence that didn’t need violent action or loud words to get results. Just watching him brought her pleasure. His good looks, strength, intelligence, wit and humor combined into a potent package that held nearly everything she wanted in a man. In ten years of dating she’d never met anyone who attracted her the way he did. He appealed to her on so many levels, from the physical, sexual desire to the pleasure of his company. She couldn’t reconcile him with the man in the woods earlier. Until she remembered the terrible look she’d seen on his face yesterday in the office and the different aspect of his personality it had revealed. She found her pocketbook on the table beside the bed and retrieved two aspirin from a case. They all finished their coffee and Terry excused herself, saying she had to get back to Mrs. Conyers. Greg also stood. “You’re not going back to the office, are you? I’ll drive you home if you want or drive behind you.” Liz checked her watch. At four-twenty, she didn’t see any need to return to work. But, in fact, she wasn’t done yet. She’d come here for a purpose. “Not necessary. I’ll be fine. Before I go, Greg, there were a couple of questions I needed to ask.” 116
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His expression invited her to continue. “Do you own any guns?” “Guns… Like in…” His lips parted in surprise. “No. Or wait, yes, I do have a hunting rifle my uncle gave me years ago.” A small grin curved his mouth and tweaked the corners of his eyes. “I was never much for hunting, so I haven’t used it in years. I don’t even know if it’s still functional. I haven’t cleaned it in a long time.” “Do you know where it is?” “In the closet over there.” He pointed to a door in the far wall of the room. “Want to see it?” “Yes.” He crossed the room, opened the closet door and disappeared inside. A series of rattles and thumps sounded from within before he emerged again, arms empty, wearing a frown. “I could’ve sworn I stowed it in the back. Maybe it’s in the attic. I don’t remember moving it, but I might have. You want me to go look?” She shook her head. “Would you mind letting me take your fingerprints?” That killed the vestiges of the grin and stopped him so short he looked winded. “What for?” “I can’t say right now.” “Oh.” He closed his eyes for a moment and watched her steadily, his gray eyes cool and remote, while he thought. His face changed then, his expression growing more troubled. “Liz, what did you see in the woods? What happened?” She considered reminding him of her previous warning about answering questions with questions, but she felt sure he hadn’t forgotten. “I saw you running around, trying to lure me away from the house. Calling me to follow you. It worked too. I was stupid enough to go haring off after you.” He frowned and pointed to her arm. “How did this happen?” What kind of game was he playing now, she wondered. “We did a round of catand-mouse for a while, then you sneaked up and tried to clock me.” “I did? You’re sure? How do you know it was me?” “Eyes. My vision is twenty-twenty and I was three feet from your face. Unless you’ve got a doppelganger hanging around, I’d like to hear you explain it.” His eyes lost focus, examining some internal thought. “I don’t…” The lines bracketing his mouth deepened. “I can’t explain it. I can only tell you, swear to you, that I didn’t attack you.” He blinked twice, then reached out and put his hands on her arms, careful not to touch the bandaged area. His gray eyes were shadowed but his voice was even when he said, “I’d never hurt you, Liz.” She wanted to believe him so badly it twisted her stomach into an aching lump. Irritation combined with the pain in her head and arm to make anger bubble up. “Damn it, Greg! I’m sick of your lies and evasions. How can I believe that’s true when I know you’ve lied to me, been lying all along?” 117
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He sucked his cheeks in, making the bones of his face stand out more prominently. He held her eyes still, but sighed deeply. “What do your instincts tell you?” he asked. She wanted to hit him. At the same time, she wanted to run her fingers down the side of his face, to soothe away the tense, troubled lines. “My instincts tell me there’s something very peculiar going on here. Have you ever been treated for mental illness?” He jerked back as if she’d smacked him. “Oh, Lord.” Long fingers reached up to push hair away from his face. “Actually, yes, sort of. I’ve seen a couple of psychiatrists at various times. I don’t know if it’s really a mental illness. I guess it’s part of being an artist, being open to too many things or seeing too deeply into things. I have terrible dreams.” He looked away from her, moved toward the window, the jerky motion lacking his usual smooth grace, but not the uneven gait he’d displayed in the woods either. “Not many people know about this. I’d prefer you kept it to yourself if you can. I’ve had recurring nightmares for most of my life.” He moved the curtain aside to look out the window, then backed away again and paced across the room, finally returning, but propping himself on the side of the bed. “I’ve tried to get help for it. They’ve tried various therapies. Sometimes they work…for a while, at least. Sometimes they don’t.” “What kind of dreams?” He shrugged. “Nightmares. A lot of them involve being dragged into places I don’t want to go or forced to see things I don’t want to see. The kind of dreams where you want to run away but you can’t. Everybody has them. I have them constantly.” She knew hearts didn’t really hurt, but she could swear hers did. “Do you walk or move around in your sleep?” His puzzled frown drained into ironic comprehension. “Not that I know about.” “Would you let me talk to one of the psychiatrists you’ve seen?” “No.” She looked up, surprised by his bald refusal. His head slumped forward and he pressed his hands against his eyes. “I can’t say anything more. I wish…” He clamped the thought with an effort she could see. She had to fight back compassion. It made her want to sit next to him and take one of those hands in hers to hold and soothe him. The part of her that was a woman wanted him, wanted to help him bear his burdens and give him the comfort and ease he desperately needed. But she was a cop as well. And that part of her had to take priority. “Greg, how do you expect me to believe you or help you when you won’t tell me the truth, you won’t let me take fingerprints and you won’t let me talk to your doctors?” He heaved a long breath, dropping his hands to his side and straightening his spine. “I don’t.” He stood slowly and met her eyes again. “I’m sorry, Liz. I didn’t realize what this would do to you. Or maybe I did and I thought…somehow we could get around it. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have let things go this far. It was selfish of me. I think it would be better if we just left things the way they are. You’re a
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cop and I’m a suspect. We both have problems. Constraints on us. I don’t think there’s any way to find a compromise, so we’d better keep apart for as long as we can.” He struggled to maintain the harsh control over his face. Emotions pounded against it, slipping past in a painful twist of his mouth. “I’m sorry, Liz. I never wanted to put you in this position.” He turned toward the door. “Are you ready to go?” She bit the inside of her cheek to keep her face from breaking apart. The pressure of tears burned behind her eyes and she couldn’t speak without betraying herself, so she just nodded. As he drew closer, she stopped, turned to him and put a hand on his arm, just under the short sleeve of his polo shirt. She met his eyes through a sheen of tears. “I want to help you,” she said, her voice almost breaking. “You know I do. I don’t have to tell you, do I?” She drew a deep breath. “I want it so badly. But I can’t do a damn thing without cooperation and help.” His face mirrored her agony. “I know and I can’t give it. All I can say is this. If you’ll wait for a little while—not long, I hope—I’ll be able to give you all the answers you need. But not right now. I need time. Not much, but I need it badly. I can’t take any risks.” She shook her head. “I’d better go.” To keep from breaking down entirely, she concentrated on the details of her surroundings, checking the pattern of the quilt on the bed, seeing the different shades of brown and gold, studying the paintings on the wall, a pair of mountain landscapes he’d done himself, the texture of the rock so real she could feel it drag at her skin. As she passed beside the desk, she noted the very neat top, the pristine blotter, the marble pen holder and pen with neat little indents for paper clips and such. One of the indents held nothing but a button. She stopped, staring at it, struck initially because it wasn’t the kind of button you’d find on a man’s shirt, and then by the realization she’d seen one like it in the recent past. “Where did that come from?” The words came out sharper than she intended. “What?” He came to her side to follow her pointing finger. “I don’t know.” He sounded puzzled. “I’ve never seen it before.” How good an actor was he? The confusion seemed genuine. “Maybe the nurse found it and thought it might be from something of my mother’s?” She heard the change in tone over the words as he recognized the significance of her interest. “It isn’t, though, is it?” A kind of sick, shocked horror accompanied the comprehension. He watched her draw a tissue from her pocketbook and use it to pick up the button. “Crap,” he said, quietly, almost under his breath. He backed away, moving blindly until his legs hit the edge of the bed. He sagged against it. She turned to him. “There’s a way to prove you didn’t kill Allison Wannstedt,” she said to him. “An absolutely foolproof way.” “How?” “DNA test.”
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“You’ve…” He closed his eyes for a moment, shoulders tensing. “Maybe it doesn’t matter. How long does it take to get results?” “Depends on where we send it. If it goes to the SBI, it’ll take months. A private lab will get us results within a couple of weeks.” “A couple of weeks?” The tone was hollow, almost abstracted. “At least.” “Can you force me to do it?” The knot twisting in her stomach tightened another painful inch. “I think I can.” His hands clenched into fists as his eyes fastened on the button she still held wrapped in the tissue. For a long minute, he didn’t say anything, but his breathing was harsh and labored, the air having to push past the tension in him. He bit his lip and rocked where he sat on the bed. Or possibly it was tension making him shake convulsively. His eyes skittered around the room, jerking from one side to the other as if seeking something. He didn’t find it. He closed his eyes, clenching his lids tightly together. His lips twitched and turned white with tension. Liz stepped away, poised to reach for her gun if it became necessary. She remembered what he’d said about the thickness of the walls. Screaming wouldn’t bring her any help if she needed it. His harsh breathing grew more rapid. The fingers of his large hands spread on the quilt, rigidly, tips digging into the fabric. His face drew into a prolonged wince and then smoothed suddenly to an almost frightening blankness, as though all personality and animation had abruptly deserted him. He opened his eyes, but his gaze was unfocused, fixed on a point somewhere beyond the room. He gave no indication of being aware of her presence. She called his name softly, then again louder. He didn’t notice. He remained still, completely unmoving other than a periodic light shudder. She wondered if he’d suffered some kind of seizure or attack. But, as she took a step toward him to check, his face began to change again—not just his expression, but something in the underlying fabric of muscle and sinew. It transformed his features into a complex mask and his flesh into a different cover over the same set of bones. A wicked, unholy light glowed in eyes darkened to the shade of a stormy sea. Liz felt herself start to shake. Terror rose like a wave through her stomach and chest, but not the ordinary, mundane fear of criminal attack. She’d met that a few times. It was normal and usual. She could handle it. This wasn’t anything normal. She had no idea what she faced here, but even the possibilities were enough to send waves of cold shivers through her body and make icy perspiration break out on her temples. If he’d made a single move toward her, she would probably have drawn the gun and shot him on the spot. But he remained seated on the bed, body held rigid while his
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face moved through a variety of attitudes and expressions. Lips twitched occasionally as though he held some kind of private conversation or argument. Most frightening of all though was the way his eyes flickered in differing permutations of emotion. Not just plain anger but several varieties of it flashed across his face, a cold, cutting fury, followed by a violent rage, segueing into petulant irritation, wiped away by a surge of leashed power that sat over and on the fury to control it and even beat it down. Other emotions, some in flashes so brief they barely registered at all, figured in the stew. She recognized varieties of fear and deep, tragic sadness, momentary manic laughter and a terrible, frightening, fierce hatred. The whole episode probably lasted no more than five minutes, but to Liz the eerie display seemed much longer. At some level she knew she needed to think about what she was seeing, to analyze what was going on, but her brain seemed paralyzed or frozen, unable to do more than watch and register, waiting to see if the bizarre show developed into anything more threatening. After the stream of emotions chased each other around his face, she saw a struggle develop with the personality she knew as Greg asserting control again. For a while, it looked like an even match, with that other, or maybe it was others, fighting back, making forays and gaining some kind of advantage once or twice. Eventually it became clear Greg would win as the calm, tight control he exerted over brilliant but shadowed features commandeered his muscles and directed his sinews into his own lineaments. His harsh breathing calmed and became even. His eyes gradually narrowed their focus until he began to notice his immediate surroundings again. Some of the rigidity left his body, but he sagged without its support and lift, shoulders hunching forward and his neck curved as though his head weighed too much. The face and expression were wholly Greg’s again, but not quite the same as before. He looked tired, drained, almost sick and ravaged. Hopelessness and despair dragged at his body and spirit. A flash of insight told her the battle he’d fought and won was just another skirmish in some vicious ongoing war, one he might be winning but at such cost he couldn’t survive many more attacks. It didn’t take a huge leap to suspect the forces he wrestled with—whatever they might actually be—had been responsible for at least one, and probably more, murders. “Greg?” she said, softly, asking for more than just his attention. His head jerked and his eyes widened. “Liz!” He shook himself, literally, and straightened, forcing down the other visible effects of his struggle. “God, I did it again.” He sought her confirmation before he went on. “I probably scared you to death.” She crossed the room and sat next to him on the bed. His hand moved minutely toward her, then stopped. She finished for him, reaching out to wrap her fingers around his. His hand felt warm and damp, trembling slightly in her hold. “Yes. What was that?” He heaved a deep breath and let it out on a sigh, looking straight at her. “I can’t tell you. Yet.” He tugged her fingers to bring her around again when she tried to turn away.
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“Liz, please try to understand. I need time and then I’ll give you everything. All the explanations you need, all the evidence you need. They tell me it won’t be more than a couple of weeks.” “You did kill her.” He shook his head, slowly, sadly, more a denial of his willingness to answer the question than the fact itself. “Can you give me some time in return for a promise I’ll give you a case?” “I can’t make deals like that. It’s against all procedure. It isn’t safe. Greg, we’re talking about a killer on the loose. Two people have died already. Can you guarantee there won’t be any others?” “There won’t be any others. I promise.” She considered what to do. “There’s an easier way to make sure of that.” “No.” His hand clenched her fingers, but he didn’t notice. “It won’t work. It won’t protect anyone. You’ll all but guarantee more murders.” “And you can guarantee there won’t be if I let you have the time?” “I’ll do my damnedest,” he promised. “I’ll fight with everything I have to prevent it. I can guarantee that. And I’m the only one who has a chance of stopping it.” She sighed and said, “I shouldn’t.” A calculating expression passed over his features. “You should. First of all, because you don’t have a strong enough case to go against someone with my money and influence. You can arrest me, but you don’t have the evidence to make the charges stick and the publicity won’t be pretty. Secondly, some part of you knows I’m telling you the truth. Not all of you, but enough to know I’m the only one who can prevent more murders from happening.” She had to fight the surge of irritation at being manipulated this way. She didn’t like the corner he pushed her into. He might be right, but she’d have a hell of a time explaining why to anyone else. Another aspect of the man… “You can be a real son of a bitch when you want to be.” Anger flared, not the obscene permutations she’d seen earlier, but a simple smoldering glare that was pure Greg. “That’s the one thing I’m not,” he said, his words tight and thin. “You can call me any name you want and most of them will be justified, but that’s the one thing you can’t call me.” It took her a moment to figure out that he heard the phrase in its most literal sense. It wasn’t the slight to himself that annoyed him. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry, Greg. It’s just an expression.” He relaxed abruptly. “I know. I know it’s stupid to get bent about it too. It’s just…” He shrugged and decided not to continue. Instead, he studied her face, searching for a different answer. “What are you going to do?” “I don’t know yet. I haven’t decided. Will you give us a blood sample for DNA testing?”
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“I’ll think about it. Maybe.” Liz hesitated before asking, “Is she worth it? The risk? And what it’s doing to you?” Shock held him rigid for a moment. He shrugged. “To me, yes. Emphatically, yes. You can’t know… And right now I can’t tell you. She’s suffered more than anyone will ever know. She deserves a hell of a lot more.” “Do you deserve what you’re getting?” “Hell, yes.” Bitterness turned his words into a curse. Or a sentence. “I wonder,” Liz said. “Don’t wonder too hard. It’s not worth it.” The bitterness remained, overlaid with an enduring despair that added a note of wistfulness to his next words. “It won’t be much longer anyway.” “And then?” “It’ll be over.” He sounded like a man looking forward to putting the finishing touches on a long, complicated project. “And where will it leave you?” The gray eyes looked lighter and clearer. “I don’t know. For a long time, I’ve hoped it wouldn’t leave me anywhere at all. There are…factors. I don’t think I’ll be able to…” He sighed and shrugged. “But there’s you now, and that’s a complication I never anticipated. Still, I don’t think it can make much difference in the long run. And that’s no slight on you. Or what I feel for you.” “I know.” She held his hand silently for a few more minutes. She wanted more and knew he wanted it too. They both restrained themselves. Finally, she rose from the bed. “I’d better be going. You have things to do and so do I.” He nodded and stood to accompany her out. Liz stopped as they approached the door and turned, bringing her body against his as he followed her. She stared at him, then lifted herself on her toes so she could kiss him. For a moment, surprise held him still before he put his arms around her and drew her closer. The kiss was persistent, taking them both out of the present and into a place where only the two of them existed, where only their love mattered, where nothing and no one else could intrude. But reality refused to go away and eventually she pulled back. Tears burned hot streaks down her cheeks. “I shouldn’t say this,” he said to her, tracing the outline of her lips with a gentle finger. “But maybe, somehow, it’ll help you to know it. I love you. I wouldn’t say it, but I think you can handle it. You won’t let it make any difference.” She nodded and kissed him lightly again, then backed off and started to turn away. “I love you too, Greg. I’ve never said that to another man. But even so, the next time I see you, I may have a warrant for your arrest.”
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Chapter Sixteen The first thing she did the next morning was to take the button, along with her badge case and pocketbook, to the evidence room to be dusted for fingerprints. Marti matched the button against the others on file, verifying that it appeared to come from the murdered woman’s blouse. The she filled out forms, checked the other things, took pictures and cleaned everything off before returning all but the button to Liz. She got a list of the items Liz wanted fingerprint comparisons with and promised to have results by lunchtime. She admitted she hadn’t had time to run the prints against Sandberg’s but said she’d check that too, right away. Doris looked up as she passed to get to her office, sniffed twice, and asked, “What’s the occasion?” “Occasion?” “Are you going to see Greg Conyers again or something? Hey! Whoa! Sorry. What did I say? I just meant the perfume. That’s Design, isn’t it? You’ve only worn it a couple of times and one of them was the Christmas party. Calm down.” Liz sagged into the chair at the side of Doris’ desk. “Overreaction. Sorry. The rumor mill’s grinding, I take it?” “Well…” Doris hesitated. “Yeah. Haven’t had this much juicy grist for a while. There’s a story circulating that you’ve got a thing for the guy.” “What kind of ‘thing’ is that?” “The usual kind. A couple of the girls down in records saw him the day before yesterday when he came in to talk to Dennison. They were still drooling over the coffee pot this morning. Ready to vote him ‘hunk-of-the-year’ or something. But I wondered. You talked to him too, didn’t you?” Liz nodded. “And it was after that chat you came back looking like lightning had picked you out for a pin cushion.” “I suppose Dennison’s behind the rumors? He seemed to think he’d made some kind of great discovery during senior staff Wednesday morning.” Doris shrugged. “Probably. What’s the smoke behind this fire, though? That sure didn’t look like clouds of rapture you were on Wednesday afternoon.” “No.” She thought for a moment. “Doris, I need to talk to somebody and my mother wouldn’t understand. Wouldn’t even begin to. But can you keep it under your hat?” She was pretty sure Doris would or she’d never have let the conversation go this far. She’d told Doris things in confidence before and the confidence had been respected. “It’ll probably kill me,” Doris admitted. “But, for you, babe, sure.” 124
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Liz looked around to make sure no one else stood within earshot. “Have you met him or seen him?” “Don’t I wish? Just the pictures.” “They don’t do him justice. He really is handsome. More than handsome, he’s magnetic. Lots of charisma or charm or whatever you want to call it. Extremely intelligent. But he’s also complicated. Very, very complicated. There’s some kind of darker side to the man. Possibly a very serious dark side.” “You think he might be the murderer we’re looking for?” Liz met Doris’ frank stare. “Yes.” “Whoa, boy. And how does this force’s best detective feel about the man?” She bit her lip and looked away. “She’s falling in love with him.” “Even if he’s a murderer?” She nodded. Doris pursed her lips in a silent whistle. “Serious complication.” “Really,” Liz agreed. “Are you ready to arrest him?” “Not yet. I’m waiting for the results of some tests. Getting close, but, even with those, I’m not sure. I’m wondering if my emotional involvement may be clouding my judgment.” “Then I’d say you’d better take it to the chief and get his opinion before you make any move.” Doris gave her a sober stare. “But, frankly, Liz? I’d bet on your judgment any day.” “Right now I’m not sure I would. But thanks anyway. You’ll keep this on the QT?” “Of course. I do have a question, though. Is it reciprocated?” Liz drew a deep breath. “He says so. But he has his own agenda, and I don’t think his emotions will make much of a difference to what he thinks he has to do.” “Sounds like you’re two of a kind at least.” She wasn’t sure Doris had meant it that way, but she hadn’t considered it from the perspective of marking an odd sort of compatibility between them. They both had a high regard for duty and the call of loyalty. “I suppose so.” She looked at Doris’ desk, trying to assess the amount of work piled there. “Are you very busy right now?” “Not really. I’m helping the girls catch up on some backlog.” “Put it aside for a bit. I want you to do something else. Get me every bit of information available on Greg Conyers. Every piece of background you can dig up, FBI, SBI and any other databases you can think of. Any kind of public records. Birth, baptism, school, anything at all.” Doris nodded. “Can do. You got a birth date or social security number?” “‘Fraid not.”
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“Never mind. I can get them from DMV. I’ll work from there.” Doris looked up at her again. “It might take a while.” “Take what you need.” She grinned. “As long as you get me that information as soon as possible.” “Right, boss lady,” Doris said. “Hey, before you go, here are your messages.” Liz took the pink slips into her office and flipped through them. Although none pertained to the present case, she answered two that needed to be dealt with right away. David Barnwell called shortly thereafter, the one who’d been staying at the Kettering Inn the night of Allison’s murder. He apologized for not getting in touch sooner, but he’d been out of town. A call informing him his father had suffered a major stroke had caused him to leave Asheville in such a hurry on Thursday night he’d forgotten to check out or leave the key at the Inn. He’d thought since he’d left a credit card there wouldn’t be a problem with the bill and he was sorry he’d forgotten the key but he’d send it back. He’d been with his father in a hospital in Ohio. His father had passed away on Saturday and he’d stayed for the funeral on Tuesday. Barnwell provided the name of the hospital and the phone number for his sister, with whom he’d been staying. He hadn’t realized anyone was trying to get in touch with him until he’d gotten back home and found all the messages on his answering machine. Liz offered her regrets and thanked him for getting back to her. For the next hour, she tried to concentrate on the paperwork that always seemed to pile up faster than she could dispose of it. As promised, Marti called back from the evidence room just before noon. “Got some interesting results,” she reported. “First of all, there was no match on Sandberg’s prints. I lifted a couple of clear prints from your pocketbook and some partials from the case that were more smudged. Interesting results on your purse, though. A near match to a set from the car.” Despite the words, Liz heard something in her voice that suggested either doubt or puzzlement, and she was pretty sure it wasn’t wishful thinking on her part. “What do you mean a near match?” she asked. “Not exact, but similar enough to raise flags.” “I don’t get what that means. Are they or aren’t they a match?” “I don’t know,” Marti said. “They’re too similar to ignore, but not close enough to say they’re the same.” Liz sighed. “Where were the prints on the car?” “Passenger door.” Marti hesitated. “It may be different fingers on the same person. They certainly came from different hands.” “Why?”
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“Well… The person who picked up your purse used his left hand. It’s a pretty big hand, so I’m assuming we’re talking about a man.” Liz remembered Greg handing her a cup of coffee and scribbling notes. “He’s lefthanded,” she confirmed. “I thought so. The prints on the car door are from the right hand.” “Oh! But, wait. You usually open a car door with the hand nearest the handle, don’t you? I’m right-handed, but I open the driver’s door with my left hand when I’m driving.” “When you’re inside,” Marti answered. “I’ll bet you don’t you use your left hand to open it when you’re getting in.” Liz tried to visualize what she herself did and thought Marti was probably right. “You mean the right hand prints are on the outside handle?” “Both inside and outside.” “So you’re saying the same person used their left hand in one situation and the right in another?” “Looks that way.” “But you think it was the same person? Even though you’ve got prints from different hands?” “Can’t say definitely. Maybe seventy percent. You know fingerprinting is an exact science only in theory. What I’m telling you is the patterns are close, but not so close I could swear they’re from the same person.” “Okay.” Liz thanked her and hung up. She made a note that when she looked up the information on multiple personalities to find out whether it was possible for one personality to be right-handed when the other used the left. Chrissie Troxler arrived at ten after three. Liz met her and escorted her to the smaller conference room, where she set up a recorder and asked the girl if she minded their conversation being taped. Chrissie didn’t indicate any objection. She was a large young woman, a good three or four inches taller than Liz’s five-feet six-inches, and built on generous lines, but she carried herself well and dressed to make the best of her flamboyant figure. Liz tried to put her at ease by starting off with general, polite pleasantries and untaxing questions about her family, work and friends. She used the last as a launching pad into the questions that concerned her. “You were out with friends the night Allison Wannstedt was killed, weren’t you?” The girl nodded, wariness creeping over her face. “And Allison was one of the party you were with?” “Yes, but I didn’t talk to her very much.” “Why not?”
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Chrissie drew a deep breath and looked down at the straw pocketbook she held in her lap. “We weren’t really friends, exactly. Acquaintances is more like it. We had friends in common, that was the link, but she and I didn’t really hit it off.” “You didn’t like her very much?” “I didn’t dislike her, we just weren’t… We didn’t have much in common.” “But you were both in Marko’s the night she was killed.” Again, the girl nodded sullenly. She began to fiddle with the catch on her purse. “Did you happen to see who she talked with that evening? Chrissie, this is important. We have reason to think she met the man who killed her at Marko’s that night and arranged to see him again later.” The girl looked up, eyes wide with surprise. Since Liz doubted the facts she’d just presented had caused the reaction, she concluded Chrissie didn’t realize how much they already knew or suspected. “I wasn’t watching her. I had— I mean I had people I wanted to see and talk to myself. Not the same people she was with.” “But you must’ve crossed paths occasionally. Or looked up and spotted her. The place isn’t that big.” Chrissie shrugged. “Maybe. I can’t remember.” She tried to make it sound convincing, but Liz recognized the evasion. “You don’t remember seeing her at all?” “I… I suppose I did. I didn’t take any notice. I had my own concerns.” “You didn’t notice her with any one specific individual?” The girl avoided meeting her eyes when she shook her head. “What kind of mood was Allison in?” Chrissie’s eyebrows squeezed together, carving a deep crease over her nose. “I don’t know. The usual I guess. She was always kind of…bouncy.” “Did you hear her talk about making arrangements to meet anyone?” “No.” She picked at the catch on her pocketbook. “Did you talk to Ross about it at all?” “No.” Liz sighed but tried not to let Chrissie hear it. “You heard Lynn was attacked outside Marko’s last weekend?” “Yeah, she told me about it.” “She told you why she thought it happened?” Chrissie nodded. “You were the cop who drove the guy off?” Liz nodded. “Is that what you’re afraid of? Someone might try the same thing with you? Maybe succeed this time?”
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“I’m not afraid.” Chrissie didn’t believe it herself and didn’t expect anyone else to, either. “You don’t need to be. You’ve noticed Lynn hasn’t been attacked again.” The girl didn’t answer, but her query was written on her face. “We’re onto him,” Liz said bluntly. “That’s why you don’t need to be afraid anymore. He knows we’re watching him now, so he doesn’t dare make a move like that again.” Chrissie ran fingers down a hank of her hair as though seeking comfort from it. Her expression was troubled. “Did Lynn tell you what she told me Tuesday night?” Liz asked. “Yes.” “That’s another reason she hasn’t been bothered since,” Liz pointed out. “Once she told us everything she knew, the killer had nothing left to gain and a great deal to lose by attacking her again. It would only confirm what she told us.” Chrissie frowned. “I’m not sure I…” She twirled the hair and rubbed the clasp on her pocketbook. “I think I… I need some time to think. I’m just not sure… Can you give me some time?” “Why don’t we say twenty-four hours,” Liz suggested. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow.” Chrissie nodded slowly, still visibly unhappy. She fixed the clasp on her purse back in position and got up to go. “Chrissie?” The girl stopped on her way out and turned back toward Liz. “Be careful. Okay? Don’t go to Marko’s again for a while. Or any other bar.” Chrissie tried for a smile as she nodded but didn’t get beyond the grimace stage. The girl turned and left without another word. Liz waited until she was sure Chrissie was out of earshot before she pounded a fist on the table. She didn’t want Greg to be a murderer. It hurt to think the man she loved might be harboring that kind of monster within him. But, increasingly, the thing driving her crazy was not knowing, the lack of certainty about everything. All she had was a mass of suspicions based on suggestive but, ultimately, inconclusive evidence. On Saturday she slept until eight, then drove up to Asheville. After several hours in the university library, she knew a good bit more about Multiple Personality Disorder or Dissociative Identity Disorder as it was now called, than she had when she’d started. She just wasn’t sure how it helped. She read articles in psychiatric journals, skimmed a couple of books, checked the entry in a dictionary of psychology, and absorbed a number of case histories. The information fascinated her, presenting an area of human behavior that was astonishingly bizarre and intriguing.
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She learned the condition formerly known as Multiple Personality Disorder wasn’t as rare as she’d thought, but it wasn’t common either. Nor was it particularly well understood, though more research had been devoted to it in the recent past. In fact, Dissociative Identity Disorder was the most extreme and peculiar variety of a group of mental illnesses classified as “Dissociative Disorders”, in which a piece of a personality apparently broke off from the rest and took on a quasi-life of its own, becoming a secondary personality, or in extreme cases, secondary personalities that could, on occasion, commandeer the body shared with the primary. Stevenson had painted a pretty accurate picture of the condition in his story, Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde. Frequently, the attitudes, feelings, emotions and thought processes of the secondary personality were quite different from those of the primary, leading to conflicts ranging from minor disputes over picking out clothes to major struggles when one personality tried to do away with the other or with the body that contained them both. Secondary personalities had been known to despise and threaten the primary’s spouse, children and choice of profession. Scientists theorized that secondary personalities were created in childhood out of the stress of dealing with situations that clashed too violently with the training youngsters had received in dealing with the world, or as a result of events that simply overwhelmed them with emotional intensity. As Chuck Ryland had told her earlier, childhood trauma often figured into the mix. Abuse seemed to be a factor in some cases. One method of coping with frightening emotions like anger and hatred involved spinning them off onto another separate person who could be safely locked away within. Unfortunately, the alter ego tended not to remain tucked away. The most innocuous and probably most common form of the problem was the childhood “secret friend”. Unacceptable feelings, responses or behaviors could be sloughed off onto the “secret friend”, who became the mouthpiece for the child to say and do things that wouldn’t be otherwise tolerated. In fact, to some extent, everyone had a multiplicity of personalities dwelling within, some of them working for some occasions, while others coped with different circumstances. Liz had always had a strong sense of herself as two different people, the cop at times and the woman at others. Problems developed when the pieces of the personality began to assume independent life of their own. A lesser “Dissociative Disorder” involved a condition known as “fugue”, where a separate personality emerged suddenly, took over for a time and then disappeared, usually leaving the victim amnesic about the time lost and frequently confused, if not in more serious trouble. In genuine cases of Dissociative Identity Disorder, two or more separate personalities coexisted in the same body, each taking over the physical entity for a time. They might or might not be aware of the others’ existence. A couple of case histories related situations where as many as sixteen different personalities had emerged from one body. In general, the personalities tended to be strikingly different, from the primary or first personality and also from each other. Some of them were fierce and 130
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aggressive, some passive, some silly, some extremely intellectual and some childish or even babyish. Some were in good health, while others in the same body experienced frequent illnesses. In one of the best known of all cases, that of “Sybil”, a couple of the personalities had thought they were boys. Extroverts coexisted with introverts, clever artistic types with plodding number-crunchers and even criminals with upstanding, law-abiding citizens. Those last gave the legal system fits. In North Carolina, a few cases had come to the courts involving multiple personalities. Results were mixed. At least one murderer diagnosed with a borderline Dissociative Identity Disorder had been convicted and given a life sentence. In general, the information she found seemed to confirm the possibility that Greg Conyers suffered from the disorder. It was more common than not for the primary personality to be unaware of the existence of the secondary or secondaries. If a woman’s secondary personalities could consider themselves boys, and one personality be subject to illnesses that another resisted, differing dominant hand preference didn’t strike her as particularly out of order. One could certainly move with a somewhat different gait. And one might be sensitive about graying hair and wear a wig to cover it. But a few details didn’t fit exactly with the pattern. The fact that Greg appeared to be aware of something peculiar happening and even seemed able to fight the emergence of the other personality wasn’t common. She wondered if there’d been some kind of childhood trauma in his life and remembered him saying his mother had suffered a great deal. Whatever had become of his father? Could there be some tragedy there? The prognosis for a cure, if he did suffer from that sort of mental illness, wasn’t bright. Although many people did recover with the help of psychiatric treatment aimed at reintegrating all the personalities into one whole, it nearly always took many years and involved a number of apparent “cures” that didn’t hold up. In one of the more famous cases, the woman whose story had sparked The Three Faces of Eve, the presented successful conclusion did not, in fact, last. The real Eve experienced many more years of trouble, including the emergence of a number of new personalities, before she achieved a lasting integration. And Greg might not get that opportunity should he be arrested and tried for murder. On the other hand, he said he’d already seen a couple of psychiatrists, so it was possible he was already in treatment. And he could afford the best lawyers. But what would it do to her to have to mount a witness stand and testify against him, knowing she might be sending him to prison for the rest of his life or even to his death? When she got back, she tried to call Chrissie Troxler from home. The answering machine picked up and Liz left a message reminding the girl she was waiting to hear from her. She heard nothing on Sunday, so she spent the day catching up on household chores and wondering what Greg was doing. She debated calling him to find out but ultimately decided against it.
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When the telephone interrupted her dreams for the second time in less than two weeks, the insistent buzz yanked her out of a nightmare. She woke to an awareness of shortened, gasping breath and racing heartbeat, though she couldn’t remember the reason. She fumbled for the phone, found it, pushed the button and grunted into it as she squinted at the lighted dial of the clock. Two-forty-two. “Liz? Is that you?” “Yes.” The voice was familiar. “Greg? What’s the matter? Did something happen?” “I wanted to talk to you.” The voice was his, though with an odd, husky or throaty rasp she’d never noticed before. Still, if he’d been awakened as abruptly as she, that could account for it. “In the middle of the night?” “I was worried.” He didn’t sound worried. His voice carried a suppressed excitement edged with a peculiar lacing of humor. “About what? Is something wrong?” “I’m not sure. Maybe.” The humor died, replaced by concern or an attempt to sound frightened. “What is it? Your mother?” “She’s okay. I think.” “You think? What is this?” The conversation was giving her a peculiar shivery feeling. “Is this really Greg?” “Who else would it be?” Damn, but it was Greg’s voice. It just didn’t sound like Greg’s mind behind it. “I don’t know.” She sighed. “Can this wait until morning? I need my sleep.” “I need your help.” He sounded more serious. “How?” “I’m scared. I’m afraid something’s going to happen.” “Like what? “I don’t know. Something awful. Could you come over here?” Liz drew in a sharp breath. “It’s almost three o’clock in the morning, for heaven’s sake! If you’re really afraid of something, I can send a squad car to check things out.” “No… No, I guess not.” He sounded fearful but it didn’t quite convince her. “I just thought… I thought you’d care enough to come.” “Who is this?” “It’s me. Who’d you think?” “Greg? What’s going on?” A long pause. “You’re sure you won’t come over and keep me company?” “Unless it’s an emergency, no.”
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“Oh, it’s some kind of emergency.” “What kind?” “Take your pick. Earthquake, fire, lightning. You never know what might happen. You might even find a murder weapon.” “A what? Where? Where might I find it?” “Will you come over here if I promise to tell you?” “No.” “Oh, well, it was worth a try. Anyway, a check of the residents’ closets would probably be interesting.” “And what would I be looking for?” “Hell, lady, you’re the cop. I can’t do all your work for you.” “This isn’t Greg. Who are you?” “Who else would know where to look?” A click sounded, followed by an empty silence and then a dial tone. She looked for the caller ID number on her phone. It had been blocked.
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Chapter Seventeen She stared at the buzzing phone whose shape she could barely discern in the dark room. Had she really just had that bizarre conversation? Or was she dreaming? Was she still dreaming? The buttons lit up when the machine was on. She pressed a familiar series of numbers, got Wes Drimble, and asked him to have a car check the area around the inn and the Conyers property periodically during the night. Then she settled back down in the bed. After a while, she fell asleep again. She woke in the morning still wondering whether the conversation had been real or not. The experience had certainly felt real enough, but the words coming out of the phone had had a dreamlike logic and discontinuity. And how seriously should she take the business of searching closets? Greg had said he couldn’t find the gun in his closet. Was he lying? Not that it mattered. If they did get a search warrant, it wouldn’t be on the basis of an anonymous tip, and closets would be logical places to check anyway. Who had she talked to? The voice had belonged unmistakably to Greg. The personality might not. She’d never heard that mocking note in his voice. But which one of them was the killer, if either of them was? The clue about the closet suggested it was Greg, and this personality, whatever he called himself, knew about it and wanted to let her know. That wouldn’t be out of line, based on her research yesterday. Secondary personalities seemed to be aware of the activities of the primary much more often than the reverse. Then again, it was also quite common for a secondary personality to be hostile toward the primary and try to get him into an embarrassing or worse position. She didn’t realize just how frazzled the call and the break in her sleep had left her until she woke at quarter to nine and realized she’d turned off the alarm and fallen back asleep. By the time she got to the office, she’d missed the Monday senior staff meeting, which caused her few pangs of regret. Doris looked up as she came in, sniffed and made a face. “Are you all right? What are you wearing?” Liz couldn’t remember what she’d put on, if anything. “I’m not sure.” Doris shook her head. “It smells like you got your peach oil mixed up with something else. Maybe Realities. Sad waste.” “Bad night,” Liz said by way of explanation. “Is it totally intolerable?” “It’ll wear off. Overslept? You look like someone who’s short a couple of jolts of caffeine. Complications getting to you?” “The complications keep getting more complicated. Have you got anything back on him yet?”
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“Not much. Turnaround times are a real pain. The SBI didn’t find anything, and the DMV says he’s got a clean driving record.” Liz grinned as she remembered his comment about getting his new car up to eighty-five on the interstate. Evidently he didn’t make a practice of that. “Yale confirmed he received his degree there,” Doris continued. “Majored in Economics. Weird choice for an artist. They wouldn’t say anything further about his record, academic or otherwise. I talked to one gallery owner who deals with him. Nothing but praise and commendations. Still a lot of inquiries out, though.” “Thanks. Keep on it,” Liz requested. “I’m on my way to rectify the caffeine deficit.” She wasn’t terribly fond of the office coffee but resorted to it anyway to help clear the fog. It didn’t improve her disposition when several people gathered in the break area gave her peculiar looks as she walked in, and at least one conversation stopped abruptly with chagrined glances in her direction. Liz nodded to a few people and ignored others, especially Ronnie Bartlett, a uniformed patrol officer who doubled as human grapevine. He tried to flag her down and invite her to join him at one of the three small tables. She had no doubt he wanted to pump her for all the glorious juicy details he could and then spread them around the office. Liz nodded but said she was expecting to meet someone shortly. Which was true, but not quite as urgent as she’d suggested. The real urgency for her involved getting out of the room without making new enemies. She tried to call Greg, but, after four rings, the voice mail system picked up. She left a message asking him to get back to her as soon as possible. The paperwork had managed to accumulate while she was gone the previous afternoon. Liz contemplated the pile as she wrapped her fingers around the styrofoam coffee cup and tried to convince herself the contents would solve all her problems. To her surprise, Greg returned her call within fifteen minutes. “Sorry I missed you,” he said right after he identified himself. “I was with my mother.” His tone was low and intense, conciliatory but confident. This wasn’t the Greg she’d talked to during the night, the mocking stranger. Evidently, the primary personality was in charge again. “How is she?” Liz asked. “Not good. We had a bad night.” “I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?” He sighed heavily. “Thanks, but I don’t think so. No one can do much of anything at this point. They had to increase the pain killers again last night. It’s been pretty tense. Anyway, that’s not what you called about. What can I do for you?” “I’m not sure. Why did you call me last night?” “Last night?” His bewilderment sounded genuine. “Actually, it was early this morning. About two-thirty.”
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“I called you? No. I don’t remember that. At two-thirty, I was just getting to sleep. Finally. What made you think it was me?” “It sure as hell sounded like you, Greg. And the person more or less said he was you.” She heard him mutter something under his breath. “What did he want? Or say?” The change in his tone suggested some conclusion had been reached. He didn’t acknowledge it however. “He wanted me to come to your place to see him.” He sucked in air with a hiss. “Liz, I can’t explain right now, but it wasn’t me. I hope you’ll believe that. It wasn’t me who called you last night.” “Then who was it? You know, don’t you, Greg?” She could still hear him breathing on the other end so she knew he hadn’t hung up or put the phone down. The silence seemed to go on forever. “I know,” he admitted at last. “But I can’t tell you about it right now. Soon, though. I promise.” “You’d better come through. My rear is starting to hang out here, and I have a feeling it’s going to get chillier before we’re done.” “Just give me a little more time, please.” He sounded worn and tired, sad and depressed, more than a little on edge. It tugged at the piece of her heart he owned. “I’ll try, but I can’t make any definite promises. Things are looking grimmer all the time.” “I know. I can’t tell you how much I hate putting you in this situation. But it won’t be for long.” “All right,” Liz said. “Try to take care of yourself.” He sounded momentarily surprised by the concern. “I will, thanks.” Cal Dennison intercepted her as she walked back to her office, stalking up to her and frowning like a man who didn’t have pleasantries on his mind. “You missed the staff meeting this morning,” he said. “Deliberately? You’ve been holding out on us. I got a report from evidence says you got prints off something you brought in that match a set on McClintock’s car. You haven’t identified the owner of those prints. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out where they came from though, does it?” By a thread, Liz kept herself from retaliating. She wanted to point out that, if it took any kind of a genius to figure out, Dennison never would have. Instead, she said, “I wanted to talk to the chief about those prints before I did anything further.” “Why don’t we do it right now?” he asked. “I think it’s time to nail the guy. Before something else happens.” “I don’t think anything else is likely to happen.” “You got some kind of written guarantee on that?”
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“A verbal one.” “You know how much that’s worth?” “I think I do.” The chief was out of the office but expected back later that afternoon. The respite gave Liz time to collect her thoughts and arguments before she had to present them. She got out a piece of paper, drew a line down the middle vertically, and labeled the two columns, “For” and “Against”. At the top of the “For” column, she wrote the words “Presumption of Innocence” in large letters and left it at that for the moment. In the “Against” column, she started with the strongest evidence she could think of, the fingerprints on the car, but noted in parentheses, “Is it a match?” and “hand anomaly?” Next she noted the button, had a thought about it, and dialed the number for the evidence room. When Marti answered, Liz asked her about fingerprints on the button. After a minute of looking for the information, Marti came back and said, “We got fingerprints from it. A definite match to the fingerprints from the car. Possible match with the ones on your pocketbook. I need a right fingerprint from whoever that was.” “Possibly from different hands again?” “That’d be my bet. How did you know?” “Just a guess. Thanks.” She made ditto marks under the hand anomaly notation beside the button. Then she added a line about the scratches on Greg’s wrist the first time she’d seen him, the sample from the victim indicating the killer had dark hair and type O positive blood. He was mostly gray on top, but the hair on Greg’s arms was still black. Below that, she noted several witnesses had put him in Marko’s on the night of the murder, and he’d been seen talking with the victim. She added Lynn’s guess that Allison had arranged to meet him later, then followed it up with Lynn’s and her own tentative identification of him as the man who had attacked the girl outside Marko’s. Her final words in the column specified, “No alibi”. The more she looked at it, the less convincing it seemed. No single fact put him, indisputably, at the scene of either crime. Any decent defense attorney would dispute the credibility of the fingerprint match, and argue the ones on the car could have been made days or weeks before the crime actually occurred. And the button could easily be something he or someone else had picked up while walking. The other things meant even less. The scratches could have come from gardening. Plenty of men in Hartersburg had dark hair and type O positive blood. There were even more than a few tall, thin ones. Her hand hovered at the bottom of the sheet then wrote down, “Psychopathology?” in the “Against” column. Balancing it on the other side, she noted, “Long-term treatment” and underneath, “No prior record”.
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She studied the list, then balled it up in her fist and threw it at the trash can. It bounced on the rim and dropped in. Liz went to get lunch. Afterward, she stopped by the address she had for Chrissie Troxler, another faceless apartment building where no one answered the door when she knocked. She spent most of the afternoon catching up on other cases, hoping it would clear her mind and help her gain some perspective on the problem haunting her. Whether she’d found any or not wasn’t clear when Liz joined Chief Gordon and Cal Dennison in the chief’s office at four-thirty that afternoon. The chief looked tired. Networking with other law enforcement officials was part of the job description, but it wasn’t the part he liked most. Dennison dove right in and explained why they were there, though he couched it in terms of a dispute between himself and Liz over whether they should pursue the apparent connection between Greg Conyers and the murders of Allison Wannstedt and Ross McClintock. Liz started to remonstrate, but Gordon held up a hand and asked her to wait. He asked Dennison about the evidence for a connection and listened while the deputy chief set out the basis for his suspicions. He recapped most of the points on Liz’s list, but he neglected to mention the blood type match. He probably had no way to know since Liz hadn’t written Greg’s confirmation into any report as yet. Dennison stressed the match of the fingerprints on the car with those on her pocketbook, while not mentioning the problems with it. She felt sure he hadn’t grasped the extent of the anomaly. He concluded by noting Liz hadn’t officially named the owner of the prints. Gordon listened with every indication of patience. When he concluded, the chief turned to Liz. “Whose prints are on your purse?” “They belong to Greg Conyers,” Liz confirmed. “I hoped it might clarify things.” No comprehension marred Dennison’s intent features, but when she turned to the chief, she saw his lip curl in sardonic amusement. “Did it?” he asked. Liz sighed. “No.” She pointed out the problems inherent in the fingerprint evidence. “Anything else?” the chief asked. “Maybe.” She added the blood type match to the list. Gordon thought about it silently for a minute. “It’s not ready for a jury yet, but I think we’ve got probable cause to get a search warrant.” He looked steadily at Liz. “Why the hesitation?” “This isn’t as straightforward as it looks.” Gordon’s eyebrows rose almost to meet his very high hairline. “You call this straightforward?” “Compared to what I’m going to tell you? Yes.”
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Gordon muttered something under his breath that he probably would have said aloud if Liz hadn’t been present. He sighed loudly and said, “Lay it out.” “Have you ever heard of Dissociative Identity Disorder? It used to be called Multiple Personality Syndrome? It’s a kind of mental illness.” “I saw The Three Faces of Eve on the late movie. Are you…? Greg Conyers? Give me a break, Liz, He’s a world-famous artist.” “Hiding in a backwater town like this and living like a virtual hermit with only his mother for company. Doesn’t that make you a little suspicious to begin with?” “Hell, you’d better tell me the rest,” he said, slumping in his seat, bracing himself to deal with a set of complications he hadn’t anticipated and didn’t want to acknowledge. Liz gave him the whole picture, with just a few omissions. She didn’t tell him about the attack on her at Greg’s home. Nor did she relate the early morning telephone call she’d received with its ominous tip about where to find a murder weapon. Anonymous tips could direct attention to a particular place, but they didn’t constitute probable cause for a search warrant, so she wasn’t withholding anything particularly relevant to the current conversation. At least, that’s how she rationalized it. When she finished with her explanation and reasons for it, Chief Gordon sighed and pushed the little bit of sandy hair remaining on his head back away from his face. He rolled a pencil around in his fingers and finally said, “It’s interesting, Liz, but when all’s said and done, it doesn’t really make that much difference to us. Our only question is—is there solid reason to believe this particular person, and I’m talking ‘person’ in the most bodily sense here, might have committed murder? What’s your answer based on your reading of the evidence and the man himself?” He wanted more than a simple yes or no answer. Liz shut her eyes and chewed her lip for a moment, before she said, on a sigh, “I’ll see about getting a search warrant first thing in the morning. At least I can tell you this for sure. As long as his mother hangs on, he isn’t going anywhere.” “You’d better be right about that too.” The chief straightened up. “I guess that does it.” He glanced at his watch. “Quitting time, people. I, for one, am glad to put this day behind me.” Dennison left, a triumphant smirk pasted across his face. He made sure Liz took note of it as he passed her going to the door, and she barely restrained herself from sticking her tongue out at him. When she started to follow him through the door, the chief called her back. Gordon gestured toward the door and made a questioning face. Liz glanced down the hall at Dennison’s retreating back and nodded. “Good,” he said. “Liz, do you want me to step in? Nobody would think anything of it, given who and what we’re dealing with. Especially who. In fact, when word gets out, they’ll be surprised I haven’t.”
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“I know. I appreciate the offer, and the fact that it was an offer. But I’d like to see it through. Just one thing, though…” “Dennison?” Gordon rolled his eyes up toward the heavens. “I’ll make sure he has something else to do. I would anyway. This calls for the kid glove treatment. I’ll leave it to you. But, now, go home and get some sleep. You look like you could use it.”
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Chapter Eighteen “Stupid of me to let you have access to a phone. It never occurred to me you’d use it. Least of all to call her.” Don’t know me as well as you thought? Must put a dent in your confidence that you can keep me, what was the phrase?”under wraps”? “Just reminds me how careful I have to be.” No doubt. You can’t be careful enough. “Maybe. Maybe not.” Not. You have to sleep occasionally. “Not all that often. And it won’t be much longer now.” You’re a fool. She’s not worth it. “My decision. And I say she is.” You can’t expect me to share your enthusiasm. “Believe me, I don’t.” Hey! Huffy! You might feel the same way in my place. “Maybe. I wouldn’t bet on it. I share those memories, remember?” You didn’t live them. “I was with you for every minute of them.” Such a comfort it was too! Your gentle touch. You know how much it helped ease the pain. Why did she take so long to do something about it? “We’ve been through this. It wasn’t easy. She tried, believe me.” She left me, abandoned me, all those years. She knew what he was. But she did it anyway. “She didn’t have a choice. When she found out what was going on, she did everything she could.” She should have known. Should have anticipated. “We all wish we could anticipate the future. A lot more people would be richer, happier and more comfortable. But we can’t. So we do the best we can.” Crap! Crap! Crap! Moralizing sentimentality. She let it happen. I can’t mourn for her. “Or show any pity. For her or anyone else. Especially females.” They’re only good for one thing, and they’re not always very good at that. “You’re starting to sound like him.” Better than sounding like her. Like you.
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“Anyway, she’s dying. And it hasn’t been easy. How much more revenge do you want?” Care to take a look? He let down the little bit of guard between them. “Good God! How have I missed that all this time? You’re even sicker than I realized.” Smarter too. “Your clever little notion of telling Liz about the murder weapon in my closet?” He felt the other’s mental start of surprise. “Outsmarted yourself again. I wondered if you’d done something like that after the button incident. Thanks for letting me see it. In this case, forewarned is definitely forearmed. Or maybe disarmed is more accurate.” You told her it was there. How will you explain its disappearance? “I’ll think of something. Don’t let it worry you.” I won’t lose any sleep. Before you get too complacent about how clever you are, though, you might want to ask yourself if that was likely to be the only rabbit in my hat. Mocking mental laughter. Oh, no. I’m not falling for that again. You’ll just have to wait and see. Having a little trouble sleeping yourself?
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Chapter Nineteen Liz knew she wasn’t dealing with the situation and her own emotional reaction very well. For one thing, she was staring at a television screen showing an inane sitcom. She rarely watched television other than the news and she hated sitcoms. She despised canned laughter and idiotic, embarrassing or trivial crises that unraveled in half an hour’s time. On the other hand, she hadn’t a clue what the current screen crisis was. She hadn’t heard a single word any character had said for the last ten minutes. The knot she couldn’t unravel, knew she wouldn’t unravel since better minds than hers had wrestled with it to no particular conclusion, was the extent to which Greg might or might not be responsible for the crimes he’d apparently committed. A clever lawyer—and he could afford the best—would certainly work an insanity plea. If Greg was guilty he was also mentally ill. In North Carolina, that meant he could be free again fairly quickly should the doctors deem him recovered at some future time and decide to release him from the hospital. But the legal issue would belong to the district attorney’s office once she concluded her investigation. The moral issue troubled her in a much more immediate and personal way. To what extent did a man have to take responsibility for the person he was? Even if he didn’t know he had or couldn’t exert control over a murderous side to his being. Stevenson, Dostoevsky and others had taken the issue and wrestled with it, but their conclusions left room for endless ambiguities, even without the consideration of the more morally certain times they’d lived in. And how did she reconcile her personal reaction with that? How could she, of all people, be in love with a murderer? A handsome, sexy, charming murderer. She’d met the type before and managed to remain unmoved. Had she lost her grip on some basic element of her own sanity? Liz drifted around the apartment, unable to settle to doing any of the various chores that needed attention. She changed into her favorite soft, swirling red caftan, poured herself a glass of wine, put one of her favorite CDs on the stereo and tried to wipe her mind free from all thought. Just when she’d started to succeed, the telephone buzzed, pulling her out of the brittle calm. She groaned as she levered herself up from the couch and crossed the room to answer it. “Liz?” The voice belonged to Greg, though she couldn’t tell right away which Greg. “Yes,” she answered carefully. “I need to talk to you,” he said.
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The words reminded her of their conversation early this morning. She still couldn’t establish which persona the voice belonged to. “Has something happened?” He sighed lightly. “My mother slipped into a coma.” It sounded like the Greg she knew. No mocking tone laced the solemn words. “It’s not likely she’ll wake from it.” “I’m sorry.” “No need.” He was either very tired or very depressed. “It’s time. She’s had enough and she’s ready. We’re both ready. I hope that doesn’t sound cold. It isn’t, really. It’s just…she wouldn’t want it to go on and on.” “I understand, believe me. I know how hard this is on you.” “Harder than you imagine. But, Liz, I need your help.” “What can I do?” “I can’t explain over the phone. I need to see you. I know it’s late and it’s an outrageous imposition, but I’m desperate.” His tone testified the truth of his words. “This is the first opportunity I’ve had to think, let alone get away. Please, can I talk to you?” “You want to come here?” she asked. “Or I’ll meet you somewhere public, if you prefer.” This was the Greg she knew. Or was it? Could it be the other one, putting on a good act? She didn’t think so. There was an underlying difference in attitude with the other one. “You might as well come here,” she said. “Thanks. About fifteen minutes?” “Fine.” Her treacherous body insisted on getting hot and bothered at the prospect of being close to him again. Emotions she thought well controlled suddenly spun into wild elation. Almost exactly fifteen minutes later, her doorbell rang. Greg followed her into her living room, and she exclaimed aloud when she saw him in the light. Tension and fatigue had printed their marks on him, stamping dark shadows beneath his eyes and weighting down his lids over gray eyes streaked with red. His shoulders slumped in a way she’d never seen before. He normally held his tall frame very straight. He was beyond tired and well into exhaustion. There was more, though. Something other than worry and grief burdened him, although those figured strongly in the mix. He smiled as he returned her stare, a small bubble of genuine pleasure welling up past the fatigue and strain. His lips quirked and a brief dazzling light shone in his eyes. That quick glimpse not only blinded her momentarily but left her gasping for breath and struggling with a racing pulse.
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It pushed her over an edge she hadn’t realized she was close to. The edge of loving him, of realizing that he was the first man she wanted so completely she’d sacrifice almost anything for him. Almost anything. “Why don’t you sit down?” she suggested in a voice that didn’t sound quite normal. “How about a glass of wine? I know you said you preferred to drink alone, but I think the occasion demands an exception. You look ready to fall over.” “You’re always good for a man’s ego.” “Everyone has limits.” She surveyed him again, noting the way his long limbs seemed to sag as he collapsed into a chair. “I suspect yours would leave a lot of other people gasping.” He laughed harshly. “I take it back.” He shook his head, lips curling into a rueful grin. “It’s no wonder I love you.” Liz almost dropped the bottle of wine she’d pulled from the refrigerator. She poured two glasses without responding and took them into the living room. Greg had his eyes shut and was rubbing the back of his neck. He looked up when she approached to hand him the glass. “Why?” she asked. “Why did I come?” “Why do you love me?” For the life of her, she couldn’t keep the doubt out of her voice. “You need to ask?” He stared into her eyes. “I didn’t think your ego needed that kind of help.” “I meant why me? You’re a rich, handsome, famous, sophisticated, worldrenowned artist, for heaven’s sake. You could have any woman you want. I’m a smalltown cop, not the most beautiful woman, even in this town, or the smartest, or the most sophisticated.” He grabbed her wrist when she started to back away. His hold wasn’t tight or painful, but it kept her by his side. She went down on her knees beside the chair, facing him. “You underrate yourself,” he said. “You think I’m playing games with you. Trying to manipulate you.” He shook his head slowly, solemnly. “No, Liz. Not you. Not ever.” He sighed and trouble clouded his light eyes. “I don’t suppose it would occur to you how special you are. How unique and different.” His face took on an aspect both totally serious and sincere. “You’ve got so much going for you, beauty, grace, charm, integrity and intelligence. But there’s more. Something that makes you one of a kind.” His hand slipped up her arm to her shoulder and on to her face, leaving a trail of super-sensitized skin where his fingers traced. “I don’t—” “I know. And in a way, I hate to tell you. You might not see it the way I do.” “You’d better give me a try.”
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He grimaced. “All right. But I hope… Anyway, you said you were a small-town cop. True. But even small towns have their share of vice and corruption. There’s evil enough to go around. And you’ve seen your share, probably more. You’ve faced the darkness, felt the breath of it on your back and your face. You’ve looked into its depths. And you’ve managed to remain the person you are. You’ve examined it, learned its face, taken its pulse, accepted that it is and come back from the edge, not necessarily unchanged but intact in all the ways that count.” Liz tried to pull back. “You’re saying I’ve learned to live with evil? That I accommodate it?” He tightened his hold on her wrist as it started to slip from his fingers. “No! Just the opposite.” He tugged her arm until she moved closer. “You’ve learned to deal with it, without letting it touch you personally. You can’t imagine how rare that is.” “How do you know I haven’t been touched by it?” “Remember when I showed you my paintings?” His eyes sharpened their focus on her face. “I let you look at me, look into me. Liz, you can’t look that deeply into someone else without giving away what’s in you at the same time. I’m an artist. I’m supposed to be able to see things other’s don’t. To see more clearly, or at least more accurately. And some people have said I’m pretty good at it.” Small creases fanned from the corners of his eyes while deeper ridges drove down around his mouth. She wanted to run her fingers over them, smooth out those lines of strain. At the same time, she wondered if she should be reaching for her gun or slapping handcuffs on him. “You love me because I can look at evil and not be touched by it? First of all, you’re wrong. I am affected by it. I don’t like it, but no one can spend so much time dealing with the dark underbelly and not be touched. Second of all… Hell, Greg, how am I supposed to respond to that? What can I say? It sounds like a damned oxymoron or some kind of logical paradox. What do you want me to do?” He let go her wrist and moved his hand to dig his fingers into her hair, smoothing it back from her face. “That wasn’t a confession. I was just trying to answer your question. And it’s not an oxymoron either. You know well enough that no one is all good or all bad. Everyone’s a mixture. And you’ve already seen what’s in me. You don’t have to ask if I have a closer acquaintance with evil, a more intimate knowledge than most people. But you of all people can handle it.” “What makes you think I want to? What do you want from me?” He sighed and slowly shook his head. “Probably too much. In the long run, anyway.” He leaned over the side of the chair, at the same time placing his hand behind her head and pulling her face toward his. Lips met and clung. His were warm, urgent and demanding. She opened her mouth to his probing tongue, let it meet and wrestle lightly with her own. His hands on either side of her face held her firmly but gently while the kiss went on and on, igniting a surprising flame that sent rivers of burning need through her system. Her legs started to sag, her lower body supported by the side
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of the chair, her upper body surging forward to get closer to him. She reached for his arms and let her fingers creep up to his shoulders, exploring his hard, tense muscles, running along his neck until they buried themselves in his silvery hair. A few breathless minutes later, she pulled away. It cost her a wrenching effort. He roused a need in her, a hunger her body had never known before but found difficult to deny. Liz had never thought of herself as a clingy woman, but she wanted to throw herself against him, to hold his long, strong frame close, to feel the heat from him, to rejoice in the warmth they generated together. She found it difficult to fathom why he could consider her someone special, but he was unquestionably the most exciting and fascinating man she’d ever met. He was also a suspect in a two nasty murders. What the hell was wrong with her? He might well be manipulating her. Hell, he probably was. But she’d still swear this Greg was an honorable man. But not necessarily an innocent one. She put her hands over her face and let her head sink against the arm of the chair. She groaned aloud and felt gentle fingers thread through her hair, caressing her scalp. After a minute, she steeled herself to meet his eyes. They still wore the haunted, troubled look, overlaid with exhaustion. The gray depths were clear enough in the light from a lamp across the room, but what she saw there didn’t improve her mood. “What do you want, Greg?” she repeated. The words sounded almost despairing. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. “You were told you’d find a murder weapon in my house. Why haven’t you gotten a search warrant?” “You— You know about the phone call.” He shook off the accusation. “Why haven’t you searched the house?” “Why should we? Obviously we won’t find anything now.” He didn’t react to her wry bitterness. “Were you going to?” “That’s official business. You don’t know about it until we show up.” “Do you have a warrant? Are you going to come?” His hand reached for her arm. She pulled back. “I told you—” “Please, don’t.” “Don’t what?” “Don’t come.” He closed his eyes briefly and pushed a hand through his hair. “That’s what I wanted to ask you. Hold off on the search. Just for a day or two. Please.” He was pleading with her, not happy about doing it, resenting the necessity, but driven to it. She sucked in a sharp breath. “Do you know what you’re asking?” “Yes. God, yes.” Bare, undisguised agony stretched his words. “I know. And I hate— I can’t tell you how I hate it. What I’m asking of you… I don’t have any right. I know that. It’s outrageous.” He brushed a hand over his eyes, fingers rigid with the
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same tension that pulled his shoulders tight and etched deep lines around his mouth. “But I have to, I have to ask.” His breath rasped as he struggled to force the words out. “Just a day or two. She won’t last any longer. Maybe not even that. But I need those couple of days.” Her throat hurt and the blood pounded agonizingly in her head. It tore her apart to hear him, to see him doing this. A proud, sensitive man trampling his pride and crunching his standards under a metaphorical foot. It was burning him inside, halfkilling him. All to protect a dying woman. Liz wondered how it would feel to be the object of such devotion and loyalty. Possibly as much of a burden as an honor. It would demand so much in return. Or was it all an act? Could anyone be that good an actor? She’d developed a good set of antennae for truthfulness over the past few years, but it might not be proof against a cool and clever adversary. And, if she’d ever met a candidate, Greg would be it. She wanted so badly to believe him. That could betray her. “Liz, please? I know it’s a lot to ask. But could you?” “I don’t know. I’ve dithered so long already— You’ve promised you’ll tell me what’s going on when it’s over, but how do I know—?” She stopped as a thought crossed her mind. “Maybe I could, if you’d help me cover a few bases.” “How?” “Give me a blood sample. The results will take a while, but they’ll be unquestionable.” He drew a ragged breath. “They’ll be wrong.” “DNA matching is accurate to a high degree— Oh.” He’d admitted he’d seen a psychiatrist, so very likely he did know about his alter ego or egos. “That’s more of a philosophical question, isn’t it?” “Is it? I don’t think so.” He chewed his lip while he considered the problem. “All right.” The words were a painfully defeated sound. “You’ll get your blood sample. Is this some kind of a deal?” “I suppose so.” He sighed, the exhalation taking some of his tension and depression with it. It made his exhaustion stand out even more. He seemed to fade into the chair, melting into its depths. “I hope it doesn’t put you in too much of a bind. The doctor swears it won’t be more than a couple of days.” He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving some of it falling across his face. “Greg.” She put a hand on his arm again. “I’m sorry. About everything.” He gave her a sharp look, eyes boring into her face. Did he wonder how much she knew or had figured out? He took a long drink of the wine. “I am too.” He sounded more calm and reflective. “About getting into this mess in the first place. And involving you.” He sighed and closed his eyes briefly while his lips pressed into a frown. “God, I’ve made mistakes.
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Big ones. Some wrong decisions. I wanted to do the right thing. I thought I was at the time. I considered it so long, debated and tried… But now… What’s the right thing? Is there a solution?” Bitterness twisted his last few words. “How do you tell?” “You can’t always. You just try.” The despair in his eyes raked her nerves. “But what if you’re wrong?” he asked. “How do you live with it?” She sighed. “You learn. You have to. I know.” She looked at him and wanted more than anything else in the world to ease his suffering, if only in the smallest of ways. “Greg, listen. I haven’t told this to many people. Three years ago, just before I became a detective, I arrested a kid for breaking and entering. Caught him on the premises. Fifteen years old. His mother came down and got him out of jail on a ‘promise to appear’. I don’t know what was going on in his head. The kid went home, put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.” She stopped and drew a deep breath. “I spent a long time afterward asking myself what I could have done differently. If I’d talked to him more when I hauled him in, tried to find the root of his problem, or if I hadn’t entered a charge, would he still be alive today? Would he have turned his life around? Or would he have continued committing crimes, maybe eventually taking other lives?” She expelled a long harsh breath. “I don’t know.” “You did what you were supposed to.” Greg put both hands on her arms and gently tugged her to her feet, then drew her closer until she was sitting with him in the chair. “You did what you thought was right.” “Didn’t you?” Liz challenged. He stared into her eyes for a moment, then looked away, searching the far wall of the room. “I don’t know. I thought I did.” He played one hand across her hair, testing the softness of the strands he finger-combed. “My situation wasn’t as clear-cut, and I had serious doubts at the time.” “You’ve been tormented by those doubts ever since.” She felt more than saw the lift of his shoulders as he shrugged. “If I have, it’s no more than I deserved.” “Greg? What will you do when it’s over?” He was silent for a moment before he admitted, “Tell you the whole sorry story.” She waited for him to continue and prompted him when he didn’t. “And then?” “I won’t put a gun to my head.” “But?” “I don’t know. It’ll depend on what your district attorney decides to do.” “Whether he wants to charge you with murder?” She moved away, trying to get up. He held onto her, but not hard. She could have broken the clasp if she wanted. “I didn’t kill them.” “You keep saying that. Then you backtrack.”
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“Liz, I know.” He moved his hands to her face and turned her so she looked into his eyes. They were troubled and shadowed, but met hers openly and without guilt. “I’ve never killed another human being in my entire life. Except, maybe, indirectly.” Liz reached out to trace one of the deep grooves running from his nose to his mouth. She studied his face, seeing the imprint of the struggles, the grief and the despair in the tense, unhappy lines of his temple and cheeks, the tightness of his lips. “It goes against all my training and every bit of evidence. But I believe you.” “Thanks.” Something in his expression twisted or flickered, a joy or gratitude that took him by surprise. It wasn’t much, but enough to give her a pang. His hands shifted again, one finger running across her lips in a sensuous caress. It sent a shaft of liquid heat right through her. Her breath suddenly stopped in her throat, which grew tighter as she looked into his eyes and saw the fire lacing the sadness, melting some of the harshness and coolness from the gray depths. “Liz, you just don’t know…” Words stopped as his lips came down over hers, seeking their softness and comfort. The kiss started gently, but a sudden bolt of energy seemed to strike them both at the same time. He nudged her mouth open and plundered her depths with exquisite searching care. The rasp of beard stubble against her chin blended with the lingering aroma of his aftershave to create a sensual river that washed her away. Time ceased moving. The world held only the two of them and the torrent of emotion engulfing them. Greg’s hands moved down the side of her neck, to her throat and farther, rubbing slowly, maddeningly along her breasts, teasing their tips in passage, then retracing his path and repeating the journey. Mirroring his action, Liz explored his throat and worked at the buttons of his shirt until she could trace the hard curves of his chest muscles, glorying in the warmth and satiny texture of his skin. He kissed her lips again, then trailed a series of slow nips and caresses along the side of her face and down her throat, where he lingered, tasting, exploring, tantalizing, until she was squirming and moaning for him. One part of her mind sounded a warning alarm, urging that this was stupid and wrong and crazy. The man was a suspect in her investigation. He’d as much as admitted he was guilty in some degree. She’d be out on her ear if the department ever found out about this. But Greg was a man at the end of his tether, exhausted in soul and spirit, bordering on despair. She had some small measure of comfort to offer. How could she refuse someone she loved so much? And how could she resist when his very presence excited all her senses in such manic fashion, and his touch made the Earth move around her? She ran her fingers over his face and head, studying the graceful lines, testing the texture of his straight, soft hair, absorbed by the contrast between the strands of silver and black. She was still engrossed when he pulled back and stared at her, eyes bleak and sad again.
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His voice wasn’t quite steady and his breath rasped a bit as he said, “This isn’t a good idea. What would they say at headquarters about this? It would put you in a terrible position with your job. I can’t do that to you.” “Do you want to?” Liz asked. His laugh was harsh but held a small thread of real humor. “Want to? Can’t you feel how much I want you?” Since she was practically sitting on his lap, Liz could indeed feel how his body responded. “More than that.” His voice actually broke. “It would be heaven to be with you, close to you, to feel you surrounding me.” He shook his head slowly. “It’s a heaven I don’t deserve.” Liz reached up and very deliberately caressed his lips with her own. “Have you ever heard of grace?” she asked. “As in ‘Amazing’?” “That’s the genre. It’s blessing freely given, unearned, undeserved, granted out of love.” He held her away when she tried to kiss him again. “You’re making this harder than hell for me.” He sounded stretched to the breaking point. “And I’m trying to be noble. This could ruin you professionally. I don’t want that on my conscience. God knows it’s carrying enough baggage already. Liz, please! My love wouldn’t be worth much if it took this from you at the expense of the career you’ve worked so hard for.” “Would you promise me, solemnly and on your oath, never to tell anyone about it?” she asked. “Would you agree in return that you won’t let it make a difference when it comes to doing what you have to do later?” “It wouldn’t, but you can have the promise. Yours?” His smile was sad and wry and rueful and deeply, heart-deep, grateful. “You’ve got it.” He surged to his feet, slipped an arm around her and lifted her into his arms. “This chair isn’t an appropriate venue. Which way?” Liz pointed down the hall toward her bedroom. He stood her beside the bed, loosened the buttons at the top of the caftan and drew it over her head. He stood for a moment, transfixed, admiring. “Lord,” he said, the word barely making it out of his throat. “You knock me over.”
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Chapter Twenty Greg held her for a long time afterward as they lay exhausted on her bed. He didn’t move except to kiss her in a low-key, almost worshipping fashion. When she drew back far enough to see his face, she found some of the lines smoothed out, his expression calmer and more at peace. His fingers stroked gently across her lips and cheeks as though he couldn’t get enough of her. “Liz,” he said on a long exhalation of breath. “That was like nothing that’s ever happened to me before in my life.” She grinned, running her hands down the smooth skin of his back. “I don’t believe you’ve never done this before. You’re awfully good at it for a beginner.” He tugged gently at a lock of her hair and kissed her lips hard. “I’ve never loved or been loved like this.” He looked around and sighed, then kissed her again and pushed himself away. “It would be so easy… I wish I could stay here and make love to you for the rest of my life. As it is…” He sat up on the side of the bed. “It’ll help me through the next few days. More than you can imagine.” “I hope so.” She watched him gather his clothes, loving the way his lean, hard body moved, the fluid grace of muscle and sinew, the exciting form of broad shoulders and narrow hips. This might be all she’d ever have of him. The thought was a hot pain starting in her throat and spreading around her body. If it was all she ever had, she rejoiced to have been granted so much. Whatever it might cost her later. He disappeared in the direction of her bathroom and returned a few minutes later, fully dressed. “I’ll let myself out,” he said as he sat on the side of the bed and leaned over to kiss her again. Liz had to fight the urge to reach up and grab him, to drag him back to her. She could do it but it wouldn’t be fair. This was hard enough on him. She could tell by the lines of stress beginning to reclaim their places on his face. His lips printed one last brand on her, spoiling her for any other man. Then he left. To her surprise, she slept. She woke at her usual time and went out to run. She felt good, energized and ready for the challenges of the day. The first thing she did on arriving at the office was to send a message to Roy Brandon asking to see him. He showed up ten minutes later since he was already in the building, posting reports before going off duty. “Mmmm?” He sniffed the air as he arrived at her office. “Chanel?” “Only on Sundays,” Liz said.
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He shrugged and took the seat near the side of her desk. “Gonna get it right one of these days. Law of averages. What can I do for you?” “Arrange to have someone keep an eye on the Conyers place around the clock.” He nodded slowly, studying her face. “There’s truth to the rumors?” “Which rumors?” “Actually, there are two biggies going around. First that Greg Conyers is the prime suspect in the Wannstedt girl’s murder. This is gonna look like mighty strong confirmation.” “I’m not confirming anything for the record,” Liz answered. Concerned brown eyes bored into her. “Liz, you know I think the world of you personally, and I respect your work. But if this other rumor’s got as much truth, you could be working yourself into a bad corner.” “You think I don’t know?” He looked troubled. “I never figured you for the type to get into this kind of mess.” “I’m human.” “We all are, but we’re paid to think with our heads and not our hormones.” “Roy, do you think you’ve developed good instincts about people and situations working this job?” He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “Yeah, but I won’t say I ain’t never gonna be wrong.” “But we go with them because they’re the best we’ve got to work with.” “If we don’t have enough real evidence.” She sighed. “My head’s not being brainwashed by the hormones. There’re just a lot of factors.” After a moment, he nodded. “I told you I respected your judgment. Anything particular you’re looking for at the Conyers place?” “I just want to know if and when he leaves. And where he goes if he does.” Roy stood and smiled a tired grin. “I’ll back you as best I can. I’ll get word out before I go.” “Thanks. For everything.” She found a note on her calendar to try Chrissie Troxler again. A machine answered yet again when Liz tried, so she left another message, reminding the young woman they needed to talk further. When her phone rang ten minutes later, she assumed it was Chrissie returning her call. She was wrong.
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“I just wanted to tell you again that last night was the best thing that’s happened to me in the last twenty years,” Greg said. “And I wanted to find out where to go to give this blood sample you need.” Liz gave him directions and said she’d phone the lab to tell them he’d be coming and what was needed. Then she asked, “Are you all right?” “As good as can be, under the circumstances. Better than I’d be without…” “How’s your mother doing?” “About the same. The nurse said her respirations were slowing, but that seems to be it.” “Call me if there’s any change. Please.” “You’ll be the first to hear,” he promised. “I’ll try to get by the lab this morning.” An hour or so later, she was recording the results of a series of phone conversations she’d made concerning other cases, when the buzzing interrupted her again. The duty officer let her know Chrissie Troxler was there and wanted to see her. Liz went down to meet her. The girl didn’t look any happier about being there than she had been before. She wore several pieces of chunky jewelry with her green slacks and silk tunic top and fiddled with them compulsively. Heavy makeup didn’t quite conceal the signs of a restless night. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot since we talked,” the girl announced as soon as Liz set up the recording equipment. Liz interrupted her just long enough to get her consent to the taping, then prompted her to start again, “It?” “He must be sick,” Chrissie said. “I mean like, mental. Why else? I mean, why would he…? I don’t understand it.” She paused and blew out a puff of air on a long sigh. “You know, sometimes it just doesn’t seem fair. Some people have everything handed to them. Everything. Looks and brains…money, talent, charm. And some of us…” Her lips pulled into a twisted, bitter grin. “I don’t suppose you know what it feels like.” She ran that surprisingly knowing, jaundiced eye over Liz’s slender frame and gleaming hair. “You’re one of them. The shining ones, as my ma used to say. If I had your looks and your brains, I’d be thanking God every single day.” “Instead, we take it for granted and bitch and moan about the problems we do have,” Liz answered. “We all focus on the negatives, on the things we don’t have.” The girl’s eyes and mouth opened wider for a second before she controlled her surprise. “My ma used to say that if I’d just stop eating so much, I could be goodlooking too.” Her laugh was harsh and bitter. “Like I didn’t come from a long line of people with big bones and stringy hair and not enough sense.” She shook herself and twisted a large metal bracelet around her wrist. “Anyway, as I was saying, I decided it must be a sickness with him. ‘Cause it ain’t like he had to go out and pick up a woman
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in a bar if he wanted one. But then if she was too much of a tease… Allison could be like that, you know.” “Like what?” “She was real good at getting attention, like hooking a body’s interest, but then she’d jerk them around some, just to see how they wiggled.” Chrissie looked up and met Liz’s eyes while she twirled the bracelet even faster. “Yeah, she did it with me too. With him. She knew I was kind of interested, even though a guy like that’d never give me a look. She, like, rubbed it in my face when she thought she’d got him.” “Him?” Liz pinned the girl with her most authoritative stare. “Chrissie, we’ve got to stop beating around the bush. It’s time to name names and you’ve got to be the one to say it first.” The hand fiddling with the bracelet stopped and her face expression sagged. “I have to?” The words sounded pained. “You know who I’m talking about. You said you did. You said you had some other proof about him. But just ‘cause she arranged to meet him later, that doesn’t mean he killed her, does it?” “By itself, it doesn’t prove anything,” Liz answered. “Maybe he didn’t do it?” “We don’t judge, we just collect the evidence and see where it leads.” “I don’t understand it,” Chrissie repeated. “I don’t either.” “Will he have to know about it?” “About what?” “What I say?” “Not unless it goes to trial. Then, yes.” “You’ll give me some kind of protection?” “All we can,” Liz agreed. “But you’ve got to give me a name.” “You know who I’m talking about.” Chrissie sighed again. “Greg Conyers.” His name hit her like a jab to the stomach, but Liz kept her face clear and her voice level when she asked, “What did Allison tell you about him?” “She… I’d seen her flirting with him and I guess I said something about her chasing after a celebrity. That’s when she said she wasn’t just chasing him, she’d caught him. Not those words exactly, but something like it.” “Did she explain what she meant by ‘caught’?” “She said she’d be meeting him later. That he’d asked her.” “You’re sure she was referring to Greg Conyers?” “She said his name. He must be crazy.” “Quite possibly. Did you actually see her with him?” “No.”
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“Did you see him there the night Allison was killed?” “Yeah.” “Did you see her talk to him?” “No.” “Did you see her leave?” “No. I was… I was involved with someone else by then.” They went over everything Chrissie could remember about the evening and her conversations with Allison at considerable length, several times, but the only definite thing Chrissie could say was that Allison had boasted she was going to meet Greg Conyers later that evening. Before she left, Liz thanked the young woman for her help and reiterated her warning to stay away from bars, especially Marko’s, and dark streets for a while. Liz had to struggle with her face and voice to keep from betraying the depression the conversation had caused her. Not that any of it was unexpected. It just added another weight to the pile of evidence pointing to a conclusion she didn’t want to draw. She took a couple of aspirins during lunch to relieve the ache starting to pound behind her eyes. It didn’t help her headache or her disposition when Cal Dennison poked his head around her door an hour later, interrupting her attempt to write out a coherent report for the DA on another case. “Got it yet?” he asked. Her mind still roiled with the details she was trying to sort out for the paper in front of her. “What?” “The search warrant? You haven’t forgotten about it?” “That. I hadn’t forgotten. It’s in progress.” “In progress?” One of Dennison’s bushy eyebrows rose. “What does that mean? What’s the hold-up?” “I’m working on it.” “How hard?” Liz almost lost it. She stood sharply and slammed her pen down on the desk. Before she said anything, though, she caught herself and bit back on her temper. “I get the feeling you’re not too eager about getting that warrant,” Dennison continued. “I’m working as hard on this case as I do on any other,” she said, the words thinned by the tension in her jaw. “If and when it goes to court, we’ll have all the evidence we need.” “Will it ever go to court?” “If it looks like he’s guilty.” “And how are we supposed to figure that out if you won’t get the damned warrant!” “He’s agreed to give me a blood sample for DNA matching.” 156
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That stopped Dennison for a moment while he absorbed it. He wasn’t so dull that the obvious problem escaped him, though. “Results will take weeks at best. What’s to stop him from hopping a cruise ship to the Bahamas in the meantime?” “He won’t leave his mother.” “What I hear, she won’t last more than a few weeks.” “More like a few days now. And he promised me the whole story when she died.” Liz longed for a bar of soap to wash the look off Dennison’s face. “You’ve really got it bad,” he said, the smugness and false pity in his tone making her grind her teeth. “I hate to see you letting him get to you like this. You’ve had such an impressive record here.” “I haven’t lost my mind or my job yet,” she reminded him. “And this is still my case. Whatever the outcome, I’ll take responsibility. “Part of it is mine too,” he reminded her. Technically, that wasn’t true, of course. McClintock’s murder should have been referred to her. But since Dennison had taken charge of the scene, the chief had let him keep the case. That was the easy out, made even easier since Liz was investigating the Wannstedt murder and the odds were so strong the one had caused the other. “I’m working on my case,” Liz said. “What kind of progress have you made? Got any new leads?” “Not really,” he admitted. No one else pushed her on the warrant for the next two hours, though Doris gave her odd looks as she went by. Liz only nodded and shrugged in response. The other woman got the message that she didn’t want to talk about it. By three, Liz needed a cup of coffee to keep awake. Braving the gossip gauntlet in the break room didn’t give her any thrill either. A pair of women from the records office looked up with guilty blushes when she walked in, leading Liz to conclude she’d been the topic of conversation. And how many others? She stopped to chat with only two other people, both officers in on break, and both too discreet to ask her about the rumors. Instead, she caught up on other interesting activities around the town. A sheriff’s deputy had stopped the president of a prominent local civic organization for driving while intoxicated. A city employee had an argument with his wife and tried to strangle her with a plumber’s snake. Liz took a twisted sort of comfort in knowing she wasn’t creating the only scandal in the area. To cover her bases as much as possible, she filled out the paperwork for the search warrant, getting it ready to go to the magistrate’s office should she decide she needed it. The exercise occasioned some soul-searching on her part. Was she letting her emotions get in the way of her better judgment? Could she really trust Greg to fulfill his end of the bargain?
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She called the lab she’d referred him to earlier and learned Greg Conyers had indeed been there. That was a help, but it didn’t answer the more pressing question of what he’d do once his mother was no longer around to hold him here. At four, the chief asked to see her. Liz felt like a school kid summoned to the principal’s office. Walking down the hall, her hands grew just as sweaty as they would have twenty years ago. When she got to his office, Gordon asked her to shut the door and waved her to a seat. “Dennison said you haven’t followed through on the search warrant,” the chief said. “The paperwork’s all drawn up.” He waited a second, then said, “And the rest of the story?” Liz drew a deep breath. “I made a deal. I traded Greg Conyers some time for a promise that I’d get the full story. On the record.” “You— How much time?” “As long as it takes to let his mother die in blissful ignorance. She’s in a coma now. Probably no more than a day or two.” “You made a deal with a murder suspect?” “We make deals all the time.” “In situations like this? If the public gets wind of this, our asses are fried.” She shrugged, trying to convey more confidence than she felt. “He’s had plenty of time to dispose of any evidence, for heaven’s sake. It was a judgment call—my judgment—and if we have to eat it, I’ll do it myself. I’ve got some covering fire.” “Like what?” “Greg donated a blood sample this morning for DNA matching. That was part of the agreement. And I’ve asked Roy to have the field officers keep an eye on his place.” “Some help,” Gordon agreed. He rubbed at an eyebrow, a sign of how upset he was. “You’re really trusting him not to run out? Or worse?” “Worse?” “Liz, it’s not just the department’s rep or your career I’m worried about. You’re going one-on-one with a man who’s already killed two people. I’m concerned about you!” She didn’t hear from Greg again for almost twenty-four hours. The next day she’d planned to take some comp time to catch up on chores that had been hanging fire too long. She needed time away from the office. After sorting mail, paying bills, doing laundry and general cleaning, she rewarded herself for the effort by going out to work in the garden for a while. The roses needed dead-heading as well as feeding and spraying. The annual patch had grown a new crop of weeds. Gardening usually had a
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positive effect on her. It was so real and elementary, it provided a healthy counterpoint to her job. But she couldn’t keep her mind from wandering to the Conyers household and wondering what was going on there. Which led directly to more personal issues. Was she doing the right thing? She believed in her instincts, which told her Greg would keep his promise, but, like Roy, she suffered no illusions of infallibility. To what extent could emotion take over and subvert her professionally honed instincts? Was she endangering herself? Or, worse yet, innocent citizens? That evening there was a movie on television she’d been wanting to see for a while, but even it couldn’t completely distract her from the restlessness that kept her jumping up and feeling dissatisfied. When the phone rang, she didn’t even swear at it or resent the intrusion. She hoped it would be Greg. He sounded odd, his voice a bit hoarser and shakier than she was used to, but under the circumstances that hardly surprised her. “Liz?” he asked. “Could you come over here? I need you.” “Has something happened?” “Please?” His voice nearly broke on the word. “Is it your mother?” “Not yet. But it won’t be…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. “It would help if you were here. I know it’s late, but…” “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she said. At nine-thirty, there was still plenty of traffic to keep her company on the road. But when she pulled into the Conyers’ long driveway and the trees began to close in after she passed the side of the inn, she realized how shadowy and eerie it was. From long habit, she drove with the car windows open unless the weather demanded use of the heater or air conditioner. The silence struck as too deep to be natural. A gentle breeze rustled through the branches, occasionally rising to a high whistle or making a branch creak and groan. Leaves and limbs swayed, creating odd, unrecognizable disturbances in the shadows. Liz shivered and applauded herself for the decision to bring the Glock. An animal ran across the drive, causing her to brake sharply. For a moment, the creature stopped to stare back at her, eyes catching and reflecting the glow from her headlights before it sauntered to the other side and disappeared into the shrubbery. She shook herself and waited for her pulse to settle again. After years of night duty as a field officer, she shouldn’t have any heebie-jeebies left. Except that she’d never liked tramping around in the woods after dark. You never knew what you might trip over, what sleeping creature you might disturb. She was a city girl by birth and upbringing. Not that a city street after dark was any less dangerous. It was probably more so. But she knew and understood those dangers. A dark wood was an environment basically hostile to non-nocturnal creatures such as herself.
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The surroundings grew darker as she neared the house, driving slowly lest any other creatures decide to challenge her car. Only one window showed any light in the side of the house facing the road. The rest of the structure hid in an even deeper blackness until the glow of her headlamps struck the side of it, throwing a crazy patchwork of shadows and glare against the brick and concrete surface. Liz stopped the car and turned off the engine. None of the outside lights were on. A soft moaning cry rippled around her, making her shiver, even as she recognized the call of a bird. She put out her headlights, letting darkness settle over the area again. The one illuminated window on the second floor peered like a searching eye through the gloom. Sudden movement, a shadow gliding through the night, whipped her head around to the left. Instinctively, her right hand moved for her gun, but stopped short of actually drawing it from the holster. The moving form drew closer until she could discern the shape of a tall, thin man. She loosed a long breath and let her right hand drop to the seat of the car. She opened the door and got out. The shadow closed in on her and she took one step forward into his arms. He drew her hard against his lean body. She felt the tension vibrating through him, the racing beat of his heart. He rested his chin on the top of her head and buried his fingers in her hair, letting them run through it over and over. “Liz.” The word came out as a hoarse grunt. For a few minutes, she just clung to him, offering whatever minimal comfort her presence and touch could provide. Then she heard him sigh, though none of his tension dissipated. “I’m sorry,” she said. He stiffened. “Sorry?” “About your mother. I realize it’s a welcome release in some ways, but I know you’ll miss her.” He mumbled something and tightened his arms around her. For another long stretch of time, they held each other, forming a private circle that, for a few minutes at least, had the power to hold the rest of the world at bay. He felt warm against her and excitingly alive. Liz had never before understood how much safety and protection the embrace of a strong man could convey. An odd feeling for a cop. She relaxed into it, though, letting her senses blot out rational thought. Then bits of reality began to intrude into their shared peace whether she liked it or not. The breeze sang in the pine trees above them and raced over her bare arms, raising goose bumps. His hands rubbed down her sides and back and started a familiar fire. She lifted her face for a kiss, but felt one of his hands meet the bulk of her gun and begin to fumble around it. She brushed the hand away. “Don’t.” “Sorry. Didn’t realize you were so touchy about it.” But he did know. Greg had been very careful about handling it the day she’d fainted. Something about the texture of his clothes drew her attention as well. Every
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time she’d seen him, he’d worn either a cotton T-shirt or cotton knit sports shirt. The fabric under his windbreaker felt smoother and slicker, like polyester. The way it glided over her fingers disturbed her. “Greg?” “Hmmm?” The voice still had that hoarse, grating quality she didn’t normally associate with him. She pushed away and tried to look up into his face. A baseball cap shadowed most of his face, making it even more difficult to distinguish his features in the darkness. The lean jaw looked like Greg, but the total effect… “What’s going on?” He stiffened but didn’t release her. “What do you mean?” “Who are you? You’re different.” “Different? What are you talking about?” Even the tone of his voice varied in subtle ways from Greg’s usual inflections. “You aren’t Greg!” “No?” The mocking note reminded her of the night she’d spoken to someone pretending to be Greg on the phone. “Who else would I be?” She had to fight incipient nausea. “Another person using his…” “His what?” “His name and face. His body.” His laugh mocked her. “Come on, lady.” “No. I’m right. You’ve done it before. In fact, I’d guess you make a hobby of it.” He all but roared. “A hobby? You’re kidding, right?” “I’m one hundred percent serious. You’re not Greg. At least, not the Greg I know.” “The one you slept with?” Incredibly eerie how such small variations in stance, tone of voice, the play of muscles around the face and body could change a person. The frame and flesh were undoubtedly Greg’s, but the personality wasn’t. “My relationship with Greg is none of your business.” He snickered, “Dream on, lady,” and tightened his grip on her arms when she tried to pull away. The illusion of warmth and safety shattered. His touch repulsed her, and she fought an urge to struggle against his hold. “I suppose it is your problem since you used Greg’s body to murder at least two people.” “You’re so sure I did it and not him? Did it ever occur to you that saintly old Greg might not be quite the upstanding citizen he appears?” “I wouldn’t describe Greg as saintly.” “You’ve seen another side of him. Have you considered there might be others?”
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“I’m sure there are. But none of them are murderous. Except in the sense that you represent that particular aspect of him.” “Whew! Getting deep. I can’t handle it.” His hands slid off her arms and flashed up toward her throat. She still couldn’t see his eyes, couldn’t see much of his face at all, but the intent of the motion was clear. It was also an easy hold to break, even for a woman facing an opponent nine inches taller and sixty pounds heavier. Before his hands had snaked around her throat, she reached inside his arms and fastened her right hand over his arm in a “wrist out” position, simultaneously kicked him in the shin and used the momentum of his own recoil to whirl him around, twisting his wrist until she had it pinned against his back which was now toward her. He called her several impolite names while she used the leverage to push him to his knees in front of her. Now she faced a more difficult problem in deciding what to do with him. She had no handcuffs or other restraints with her. Her radio and cell phone were in the car. It would be a tricky maneuver to keep him under control while getting hold of one of them, but she could do it. Did she want to arrest him, though? She’d made a promise to Greg to give him the time he wanted. Of course, he’d also promised her there would be no more incidents. Or rather, he’d said he would do his best. Some things were likely beyond even his control. Like the need for sleep. The baseball cap had come off in the scuffle. His hair looked longer, coarser and darker, reminding her of Bonnie’s belief that he wore a hairpiece when he visited the bar. Liz suspected vanity motivated the attempt at disguise. This personality didn’t like having gray hair. She leaned down next to his head. “I’m going to free your arm in a minute,” she said. “But first we’ll get a couple of things straight. When I release you, you go straight to the house and stay put. Try to attack me again and I’ll shoot you. There are officers watching this place. If you set foot off the grounds before morning, you’ll be arrested and charged with assault on an officer and attempted murder. You might want to leave a note for Greg, warning him, if you can’t tell him directly.” She released his arm and backed several steps away, reaching for her gun in case he did decide to attack again. Without turning to look at her, the man pushed himself to his feet and walked around the side of the house. Liz didn’t follow. Instead she got back in her car, called in a request for continual surveillance of the place until morning and started the car. She took the driveway at a pace that was neither slow nor careful. She wanted out of there as quickly as possible.
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Chapter Twenty-One Morning didn’t bring any surge of enlightenment or even a whimper of increased understanding. The fear, the anger, the confusion all still roiled inside her, abated some by time and distance but strong enough yet to push her to action. While doing her morning run, Liz debated what to do. Duty, instincts, training all urged her to get over to the place and arrest Greg Conyers, which was what she should have done as soon as she’d realized the significance of the button she’d found in his bedroom. He hadn’t denied the DNA test would connect him to the murder of Allison Wannstedt, only that the results would be accurate. It wasn’t her job to determine the complexities of good and evil imprisoned in separate personalities within the same body. Her responsibility was to get that body contained and constrained before it harmed anyone else. The human side of her made a different but equally compelling argument. Greg Conyers had tried to level with her, had promised her the truth as soon as he could give it without compromising the peace of mind of a woman he loved and respected. He was a man burdened and hounded. A gifted, talented man, sensual and loving, basically honest and beset with demons haunting him to the verge of despair. And she loved him. At least, she loved the part of him that struggled so hard with the dilemma of conflicting duties, a part sufficiently complete and complex to make a whole, wonderful man she could respect and desire. By the time she’d showered and dressed, she still had no answer, just a certainty she had to do something. She couldn’t reconcile either her conscience or sense of duty to letting that loose cannon run free. Liz stopped by the office long enough to check in and leave word where she was going, then headed for the Conyers home. She didn’t wait for anyone to note her arrival and come to greet her this time, but got out of the car, warily, hand clenched around the canister of Cap-Stun, and started toward the back door. As always, she had a strong feeling of some unseen observer following her progress. No wonder the place had acquired the reputation for being haunted. It felt like the house itself had eyes. She shook it off and knocked at the door to the sunroom, wondering if anyone would hear. There was a button off to the side. She pressed it. The echo of a buzzer sounded inside somewhere. Footsteps approached and Greg opened the door. His face pulled into a painful attempt at a smile when he recognized her, his expression dying again when he noted her lack of response. For her part, Liz studied him, trying to decide if she could be sure this was the real Greg, the normal or close to normal one. The silver hair was in evidence and his stance didn’t look threatening, but she’d mistaken him once before.
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“Liz? Or is it Detective this morning? What’s…? Why don’t you come in?” “It’s me. Detective Liz.” He stepped aside and she walked past him into the room. She turned after a few steps to watch him close the door behind her, struggling to hold onto her anger and outrage against a surge of unwilling compassion. This had to be the real Greg and he wasn’t in good shape. The strain which had showed all too clearly two nights ago was devastating him. His eyes were red-rimmed, sunken and deeply shadowed, skin gray with fatigue, and his lean jaw shadowed with the salt-and-pepper stubble of beard. He’d lost weight, making the bones of his face even more prominent, the hollows in his cheeks carved even deeper. He held his body with a rigidity that suggested the effort he made to keep control. She wondered if he’d slept at all since she’d last seen him. “How is she?” Liz asked. “Holding on. I don’t…” He shrugged instead of finishing the sentence. He stared at her, searching her expression. “What happened?” “I got a call last night. You told me your mother had died and asked if I’d come.” He already knew, but the hand that pushed falling hair off his face shook anyway. “It wasn’t me.” “I know. I came. I had a meeting with your alter ego. It was… explosive. He tried to strangle me.” She hated what she was doing, especially when he shut his eyes, pinching his lips together and she saw how much she was adding to the burden he already bore. “Are you…?” He dragged his lids up and examined her throat. “You’re not hurt?” “I’m trained to handle situations like that. And I was lucky. He telegraphed his intentions. It might not have come out so well if he’d taken me by surprise.” “No.” Greg moved toward her, eyes narrowed, with pain rather than anger, hands reaching out to bracket her face. He leaned forward, bending his neck, bringing his forehead against hers. His gray eyes were dark and drawn with torment. “Lord, Liz, I don’t think I could stand it. “ A shudder ran down his body. His lips met hers gently, with contained passion, while his fingers moved over her temples and cheeks, tracing, memorizing the feel of her. His touch sent small sparks and rivers of awareness radiating from each site. He groaned and pulled away. He sat down in the nearest wicker chair, hard, without his usual grace. His fingers wrapped around the sides, tensing and flexing alternately, before he raised one hand to his face and swiped it over his eyes. “I’ve got to get some sleep. I’ve been trying so hard… But I can only go so long.” He looked up at her. “What can I say? It sounds pretty lame, but I’m sorry it happened. God that sounds weak. I’d kill him for it if I could. I wish I’d…” He sighed deeply. “Do you know a private detective or security guard I could hire on short notice?” “Don’t bother. I’m going to put a police officer here ‘round the clock.”
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A flash of distaste slid across his face, replaced immediately by acceptance and a hint of relief. “At least she’s too far gone to know.” “I’d like to talk to the nurse on duty too.” His eyes reflected surprise but he nodded and dragged himself to his feet. “I’ll get her.” He went out to the hall and turned the other way. Liz pulled out her cell phone, made her call and the necessary arrangements, then went back to the sunroom to wait. Five minutes passed before Greg returned with a short, gray-haired woman, a different nurse from the others she’d met. Greg introduced her to Lilah Comerford and excused himself to get coffee for everyone. The nurse shook her head, watching after him as he left. “I hope, for everyone’s sake, it doesn’t go on much longer. At least she’s not suffering anymore, poor lady, but he’s just about out on his feet.” “I know. I’ve got a police officer coming to keep an eye on things so he can get a few hours of sleep.” The nurse gave her a sharp look. “I heard there was a murder not far from here last week. I didn’t know he’d need protection.” “Just for a couple of days. How is Mrs. Conyers?” The woman shook her head. “Near the end. Probably be over in the next twentyfour to forty-eight hours. If that long. It’s really tearing him up.” Before Liz could answer, Greg returned with a tray bearing three cups of coffee. He’d added milk to the nurse’s cup, left the other two black. “That won’t keep you awake?” she asked him as he settled in a chair with it. “You get someone here to keep watch on the place and nothing on Earth will keep me awake. That is…” He turned to the nurse. “You’ll wake me if anything…if there’s any change.” “Of course,” the woman answered. The coffee was good, brewed strong but not bitter, pleasantly sharp on the tongue. Liz asked him about funeral arrangements and he explained that his mother had wanted things kept simple. That topic led into a discussion of religious beliefs, which carried them through the process of drinking their coffee. The crunch of car tires churning gravel as they approached the house coincided with her draining the dregs, so Liz went out to meet the newcomer. Trev Watterson was a rookie, a big burly young man with a pleasant manner and a hesitant, stuttering voice that blended oddly with his size. Liz explained as much as she thought he needed to know about the situation and had Greg suggest the best place for him to stand watch. The nurse said goodbye and went back to his mother’s bedroom. Liz walked with Greg toward his room, then stopped when they were out of sight of everyone else. She closed the distance between them, moving into his waiting arms as though it were the most natural thing she’d ever done. He was everything she wanted in the
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world right now, being close to him the nearest thing to heaven she could imagine. The feel of his lips as they covered hers churned a wave of joy nothing else had ever brought her. His kiss was more a promise of passion than real urgency, a measure of just how exhausted he was. It was hard to push him away, but he needed rest desperately. For a moment, her wayward libido took over and she was tempted to join him in bed—just to massage away his tension, of course. Common sense reasserted itself before she could make the suggestion. Holding his shoulders, she stretched up to plant one last, brief kiss on his mouth. “Get some sleep,” she said, nudging him toward the door. He nodded and went, but looked back one last time before he went into the room. His shadowy, ravaged gray eyes sent a plethora of messages, love, hopelessness, pleading, reassurance, gratitude and many more things she couldn’t sort out. Then he was gone. While driving back to the office, Liz couldn’t help drifting into considerations of what the future held for her. Or, more accurately, she brooded over the possible outcomes to the present knot. None of them offered her much hope. How had she gotten herself into this kind of desperate situation? Why had she been stupid enough to let herself care for the man? But then how could she have avoided it? She couldn’t imagine meeting Greg Conyers and not falling in love with him. The man just did that to her. It was the way he was. And the way she was. Something worked, clicked, gelled between them, compelled them toward each other. Still, she put the odds on a satisfactory outcome to this affair at somewhere between slim and none. He’d be charged with murder once his mother passed on and he made his confession. He’d as much as admitted the DNA test results would be incriminating. His best chance of avoiding a murder one conviction probably lay in an insanity plea. A good lawyer could pull it off, but that would leave him committed to a mental hospital for an undetermined, but probably lengthy, stretch of time. Alternatively, he might decide not to stick around once his mother was gone. He was smart enough to evade any guard they put on him, short of physically restraining him. Which would leave her in the soup, her reputation in shreds, her career finished, possibly even facing charges herself. Her sticky palms stuck to the steering wheel, impeding her efforts to make a right turn into the office parking lot. What was choice D? There had to be another possible outcome. She made herself face facts. There was no way she was going to get a happy ending out of this, so she’d better prepare herself. She’d be lucky to end up with nothing worse than a broken heart. Given her state of mind at the time, the last thing she needed was to meet Cal Dennison in the hall on the way to her office. She wanted to duck into the nearest open
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doorway when she saw him approaching but he spotted her before she could manage it. “Trying to avoid us?” he asked. “Guess what? Chief had something to do yesterday so senior staff got moved to today. Got the search warrant yet?” “Won’t need it.” The man’s eyebrows rose a good inch and a quarter. She’d never seen skin stretch like that and watched in fascination. “No?” He prompted when she didn’t respond. “Why?” “We’ll talk about it in staff.” “You better believe it,” he warned. “Mrs. Conyers probably won’t last another twenty-four hours. Once she’s gone, Greg Conyers will give permission for a search.” Liz looked around the table to see how the others reacted to her explanation. Greg hadn’t actually promised that, or even offered it, but Liz knew it to be true anyway. “If he’s still around when she kicks off,” Dennison argued. “He hasn’t lit out so far. Why would he do it now?” “Is the old lady conscious?” “No.” “Likely to wake up again at all?” “No.” “I rest my case,” Dennison said. Liz drew a deep breath. “I guess you’ll just have to trust my judgment that he won’t run.” She scanned the ring of faces surrounding her at the table in the conference room. Most of the expressions weren’t encouraging. The one she cared about most, on the face of Chief Gordon, didn’t tell her anything at all. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Dennison said. Implicit in the words was the reverse meaning. He’d love to see her humiliated and disgraced. “I’m willing to give Detective Ramsey the leeway to conduct this case as she thinks best,” the chief finally added. “She hasn’t let us down yet.” Undergirding his show of support was a plea that she repay his trust. Liz didn’t have to work hard to restrain a smile, though she appreciated the vote of confidence. She had enough doubts about the situation already. “What about the McClintock murder?” the chief asked, moving on to the next piece of business. “Got anything new?” “Another witness who saw a man hiking away from the site Friday afternoon carrying a rifle.” “You’re sure it wasn’t a hunter?” Liz suggested.
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“It’s not deer season.” “That stops people around here?” “Usually.” Liz didn’t push it any further. “How good a look did she get?” “Pretty good. Gave us a pretty specific description. Tall man in his thirties, thin, dark-haired. I’m trying to get up a photo lineup for her. You wouldn’t happen to have a photograph of your boyfriend?” “He’s not my boyfriend, and I don’t have a picture. Or wait, yes, I do. Not a great one. Newspaper clipping. You can have a copy, but it’s already been reproduced too many times. That’s the best I can do.” “Get me one.” “Please?” Liz muttered, under her breath. Doris stopped her as she passed by on her way to her office. “Things didn’t go well?” “Not great.” “I hate to make a bad situation worse, but you’d better look at this.” She held out a sheaf of papers toward Liz. “What is it?” “Read,” Doris said. Liz took the stack of papers back to her office and dropped them on her blotter. She didn’t look at them for a few minutes, didn’t do anything but drop her face into her hands, fighting an urge to cry, as she struggled with her reaction to the scene at the staff meeting and her own feelings about the hopelessness of the situation. Despair wouldn’t accomplish anything, so she finally drew a deep breath, bracing herself, and plunged into the sheaf of reports. Most of them were replies to queries or requests for information Doris submitted. Several were completely negative. No prior arrests from the FBI, the SBI or the New York authorities. The DMV gave him a clean bill of health as did the IRS. Just as Liz was starting to wonder what Doris had been referring to, she found it. How Doris had come up with this bit of information she couldn’t imagine. It was a facsimile of an article from a Maryland newspaper, dated almost five years ago. The story mentioned that a well-known area artist, gaining a national reputation for his paintings, had been questioned in connection with a local murder case. Liz felt a sharp pain in her midsection, but continued reading. The case in question involved the brutal beating of a young woman who’d been picked up in a bar. The girl had been sexually assaulted as well as murdered. After a few minutes of staring blankly at the wall, Liz thumbed through the rest of the papers, making sure no further bombshells lurked. The rest were innocent, but the damage was already considerable. Not that the clipping told her anything she didn’t 168
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already know. Or maybe it did. How long had Greg known he harbored a murderous side to his personality? The buzz of the telephone interrupted her uncomfortable meditation. The chief was on the other end and he wanted to see her. Right away. Liz dropped the papers and headed down the hall, telling Doris, “I saw it,” as she went by. “Just how sure are you he won’t break and run?” the chief asked when she was seated in his office. Liz sighed. “Not one hundred percent, obviously. Say seventy, eighty percent.” “I don’t like those numbers.” “I didn’t either. That’s why I’ve got an officer in the house and a request that all field units be advised to check on the place.” “Is there a good reason not to swoop in?” “I think so.” “Not just wanting to help out a friend.” “More than that,” Liz suggested. “Think how it plays in the press if we go in and arrest a man whose mother is within hours of death. Suppose the woman dies while we’re fingerprinting him? The media’s all over us the minute word gets out.” She stared at her hands. “There’s this too. I’m still not sure we’ve got a strong enough case. We have no eyewitnesses, no one who can reliably place him at the scene of either murder, and no clear-cut evidence that proves it, either.” The chief rocked back in his chair. “Dennison may have one for the McClintock murder.” “Even if she does pick him out of the photo lineup, it only places him in the vicinity, not at the scene. A good defense attorney will rip it to shreds.” “You said he promised you a DNA sample.” Liz nodded. “He’s already supplied it. I checked with the lab.” “Take a guess at what it’ll show?” “It’ll probably match the blood found under Allison Wannstedt’s fingernails.” She grimaced. “A good defense attorney—and he can afford the best—will cop an insanity plea. Likely make it work too.” Gordon picked up a pencil and tapped it against a piece of paper on his desk for a minute, finally leaned back in his chair and sighed. “It’s starting to feel like a no-win situation.” “Worse, maybe,” Liz said. “The part of him I know best is a decent man, an honest and responsible one.” “You also know that part isn’t always in control.” “I repeat, that’s why we’ve got someone inside.”
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The chief picked up the pencil again, rolled it around in his fingers, dropped it, and said, “Damn it,” but didn’t bend down to pick it up. “We’re playing with fire. No. Worse. Dynamite. Liz, for God’s sake, be careful. I don’t like it. At all. We’ve got an admittedly unstable person, stressed out by the impending death of his mother, the person he’s closest to in the world, and being squeezed into a tight corner. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” Liz was feeling pretty uneasy herself, and it didn’t get better when a call came in from Greg at three-thirty. “I just wanted to thank you,” he said, after identifying himself. “I got six solid hours of sleep. I really needed it.” “Glad to hear it.” It sounded like the Greg she knew, but she’d been fooled before. His alter ego didn’t just know Greg very well. He had access to the same intelligence. “Feeling better?” “Much. More like I can handle things.” “How’s your mother? Any change?” “Still holding.” He paused. “Listen, Liz, I really appreciate your help with getting this guy in to keep an eye on things while I was asleep.” “Our needs dovetailed.” She recognized the double-entendre and laughed. “Not for the first time.” “No.” He didn’t hear the joke or wasn’t up to levity. “You don’t have to keep him here anymore. I can handle things now. And I know you’re always short of manpower.” Liz sighed. “We’re okay for personnel at the moment. And I’d rather have someone on the premises for now. It’s little enough insurance against the risk I’m taking.” He still sounded tired, or it might just be depression. “I understand. I’m grateful for all you’ve done. I’d better get back to my mother.” “Yeah. Greg? Take care of yourself.” “You too, Liz.” She hung up the phone, but sat thinking about it for a while. The thing that unsettled her the most was the realization she still wasn’t sure which Greg she’d been talking to. She didn’t want to admit, even to herself, that she shared the chief’s worry about an impending disaster. She’d been telling herself the worst possible outcome was that she’d either lose her career or her heart, possibly both. But there were other scenarios, and a couple of those made her physically sick. If he were to escape, he would almost certainly kill again, or at least try. Some of the police officers assigned to keep watch on the place might try to stop his escape and end up injured or worse themselves. And it would be her fault.
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The various scenarios haunted her as she waited for the notice that would announce the final chapter being played out. She had a long evening, wondering and worrying about what might be going on at the Conyers’ place. She called the office to assure herself that a man was still on duty at the house. She considered calling Greg but decided against it. He’d call if he needed her. She just hoped she’d be able to figure out which one of them it was when he did.
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Chapter Twenty-Two The call came at just after five the next morning. The phone roused her from a shallow, nightmare-ridden doze. For a moment, even after she’d realized what it was, she didn’t reach for the phone. Fear or dread paralyzed her. But training reasserted its claim and she reached to grab the phone and switch it on. “Liz?” The word was ventured tentatively, but she recognized the voice. Greg’s. Which one, she couldn’t tell. “I wasn’t sure if I should call now or wait for morning,” he continued. “After he called the last time.” It might still be a trap. The man was clever in either personality. “I debated. But I’d promised I’d let you know as soon as anything happened. It has.” His tone as much as the words told her what the news was. “Your mother?” “Twenty minutes ago. It was peaceful. She never regained consciousness, just gently stopped breathing.” His voice shook and he stopped. “I’m leaving as soon as I get dressed. I’ll be there as quick as I can.” “Thanks. Oh, and Liz, be careful. He might… I don’t know what…but take care.” Light was just breaking over the horizon as Liz got into her car and joined the trickle of dawn drivers on the roads. Normally, she’d just be getting up and preparing to run at that time of day. Passing a busy waffle house reminded her she hadn’t yet had a cup of coffee. She debated stopping, but willpower won out. She still wondered which Greg had called her, which one she was going to meet. It sounded like the man she knew, but every encounter with his alter ego had diminished her confidence in her ability to tell them apart. The long driveway was particularly unsettling at this hour of the morning. The sun peeked through the foliage in small piercing stabs of light, leaving most of the way dim, dappled by shadows waving in rhythm with the breeze. Birds sang cheerful songs that failed to lighten the gloom below, even heightened it by contrast. Liz wondered if Greg had called the doctor and the police. Possibly he thought asking for her would fulfill the latter necessity. It would, in fact, under other circumstances, but this time she wasn’t going to do the paperwork herself. Two other cars sat in front of the house but she didn’t see anyone else around. The structure itself looked even uglier by dawn light, the agglomeration of styles and textures highlighted by the sun’s direct gaze on this offending side. The low-angled rays reflected off the panes of glass in the upper story windows.
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She got out of the car, wary, even nervous about what would come. She started to go around the side of the house, heading for the back, when a quick flash of light reflecting from a second story window, where no shine had previously been visible, caught her eye. She looked up and understood just in time. The bullet whined over her head as she dove to the ground, flattening herself in the grass, squirming and crawling to the shelter of the car. Crouching behind its relative protection, she drew the Glock from her holster, flicked off the safety and crept to the side so she could peer around the fender toward the house. Her radio was on the front seat on one side, her purse with the cell phone on the other but since the car faced straight at the house, she couldn’t get to either door without exposing herself to another shot. Still, she decided to try inching her way out, just to see what would happen. Once again sunlight flashed off the barrel of the weapon as he moved it to aim, giving her enough warning to draw back. The second shot whistled past her ear, far too close. He was a good marksman. “Liz!” The shout drew her attention away from the second story window and toward the heavy front door, which now stood open. Greg had just left that way and called her name as he ran across the yard toward her. She looked up. The butt of the rifle still protruded from the opening. “Get down!” she shouted, heart leaping to her throat. She leaned across the other side of the car and fired a shot toward the window to cover his crossing of the open area. No more bullets came. It felt like time enough for three nervous breakdowns before he threw himself the last few feet and joined her in the shelter of the car’s rear bumper. “Jeez, are you crazy?!” she shouted. “Are you okay?” he asked at the same time. “All right. I saw the gun just before he fired. What the hell were you doing in the open like that? Trying to get killed?” “I heard the shots and I knew…” He struggled to draw a breath. “Knew he’d try something. I saw you lying here bleeding or… I had to come.” His eyes flew toward her temple, which she now realized had begun to sting. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?” She reached up to feel the abraded area of her face and winced. “Skidded a bit over the turf getting back here. It’s nothing. Was this all a setup? To trap me?” “No.” “You warned me—” “I knew he’d try something desperate. I didn’t know what. He managed to hide that from me.” “He—” Liz turned to study Greg’s face, meeting his gray eyes, still shadowed and haunted in the early light, but returning her gaze fearlessly. Guilelessly. “I thought— Who the hell is that up there?”
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“My brother. He—” Other sounds interrupted the explanation. A mechanical hum and scraping noise drew their attention to the garage where the door had begun to rise. The roar of a motor igniting was muffled somewhat by the building. “My car!” Greg’s outrage would have been comical under other circumstances. “He’s taking my car.” She couldn’t dispute it. The Camry screeched back from the shelter, swung sharply in the open area, narrowly missing one of the other two cars parked there and veered around, heading for the driveway. In the quick glimpse she got, the person behind the wheel appeared to be an exact duplicate of Greg except for his longer, black hair. Liz ran for the driver’s side door of her car and had the engine started before she even settled in the seat. She paused just a moment after putting it in gear, since Greg had already yanked open the other side. As soon as he had most of his body inside, she stomped the accelerator, lurching and bouncing as she traced a wide circle to follow the Camry. Keeping one hand on the wheel, she groped for the radio stuck between the front seats, calling for backup and assistance when she got the button thumbed. “Unit Twelve special. I’ve got a ten-thirty-seven. Subject vehicle, 2002 Camry, emerging from driveway onto Carter Street, cross street Sullivan, heading…” She leaned forward to watch which way the car turned. “West. The driver is armed and dangerous. Probably psychotic. Approach with extreme caution.” “Ten-four, Unit Twelve,” the dispatcher responded. “What’s your present location?” “Right behind the Camry. I need all available units.” “Ten-four.” She and Greg were both whipped to the side as she spun out of the driveway, following the Camry, steering with one hand. She dropped the radio, leaving it on so she could hear the dispatcher send out the open call while she grabbed her blue strobe light, flipped the switch to turn it on, and put it on her dashboard. Fortunately, it still lacked half an hour until the morning rush hour. Traffic was light. The Camry accelerated sharply. Liz pressed the pedal as well, watching for other cars. She had no siren. “See if you can grab my seatbelt and fasten it,” she asked Greg. He reached behind her to get the belt and managed to draw it across her body with minimum interference with her driving. He fastened his own as soon as hers was clicked. By that time, they were doing close to fifty in an area marked for thirty-five. The car ahead continued to accelerate. “Any idea where he’s going?” Liz asked. “No,” Greg said. He went abruptly silent and Liz looked toward him. His expression focused in tight concentration. The Camry bore sharply left at a fork in the road and Liz swung the same way. The needle on her gauge climbed to sixty. “He
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doesn’t know where he’s going,” Greg said suddenly, as she was picking up the radio to report her current position. “He’s just running.” “You think so?” “I know,” he answered. “How?” Liz tried to listen as she swung the car through a series of bends. The highway they were on headed out of town and currently rose along the side of a fairly steep upgrade in a series of switchbacks and hairpin turns. A siren, blaring louder as it approached, marked the arrival of a squad car behind her. “We’re twins,” Greg said. “Identical, though everyone who knew us well could tell the difference. But there was something more. Between us, I mean. We’re linked in a peculiar way. You know how some Siamese twins share an organ? We kind of share…a brain. Or more like a psyche, maybe. Something, anyway, I’m not sure—” They both held on as Liz took a steep curve at a speed that nearly sent them skidding off the side of the road and down a sharp drop. The Camry pulled out, roaring away as it hit a straighter part of the road. “Damn,” Liz muttered, glancing at her own speedometer. Just below fifty-five, way too fast for these conditions. “If I let him get ahead, can you tell where he is? Through this link or whatever it is?” “Probably.” She eased off the accelerator, watching the Camry draw further ahead. “Keep telling me where to go.” Behind her, the cruiser slowed as well. Through the radio, she heard the driver behind talking to the dispatcher, giving their present location. She looked closely at Greg for the first time as she waited for him to give fuller directions. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair that morning. He might have slept in his clothes. The tension she’d seen in him all along strung him even tighter, carving deep hollows under his cheekbones. He’d lost more weight. A muscle twitched at the side of his clenched jaw. His attention was focused inward at that moment, shutting out his present circumstances and company. One hand was latched around the handle of the door in a death grip. “He’s running,” Greg muttered. “But he’s still got some kind of plan. Things didn’t work out the way he’d expected. He was sure he could take you out.” In a different tone, Greg added, “Overconfidence was always one of his weaknesses.” He settled into the softer, more pensive reporting again. “He’s still got something in mind, some way to get out of it.” “He really thought he could get away with shooting a cop?” Liz asked. “He probably would have.” She shook her head. “No way. Kill a cop and there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.” Greg turned to look at her then, his gray eyes sharp, almost fierce, reflecting the early rays of sunlight. “Nobody would have been looking for him.”
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“They… oh.” She needed that cup of coffee she’d missed. It had taken her far too long to put it together. “We have the same DNA,” Greg said. “He was going to let you shoulder the whole load.” Greg seemed to blink out of the conversation for a moment, just a brief time, before he shook himself and said, “There’s an intersection coming up. For him. I think he’s going to turn.” “State road 89 crosses a mile or so ahead. Which way?” Again he slipped into the concentration and out of it before he said, “Left.” Liz called in the change to the dispatcher and asked, “How many units are in pursuit now?” “Three including you,” the answer came back, almost obscured by static. “Plus twotwo-eight is approaching from the west. Might be able to cut him off.” “Ten-four,” Liz said to the radio. “I’ll keep you informed.” She turned to Greg. “That murder in Maryland you were questioned about a few years ago—that was him too? How long have you been sheltering him?” “Twenty-five years.” The words sounded infinitely tired, hopelessly weary. “Twenty-five years? That would be most of your life.” He nodded. “Since we were kids. Since we got him back. At first… It wasn’t until what happened in Maryland that I realized how damaged he was.” They’d reached the intersection where Greg said the Camry had turned left. She swung around too, but saw no sign of another vehicle ahead. “You’re sure he turned here?” She couldn’t keep a note of suspicion from her voice. If what he said was true, protecting his brother was a lifelong habit. “I only did it while she was still alive.” Greg answered her unspoken doubts. “No more. He’s still ahead of us.” “Have you always been able to…whatever it is you do?” “For as long as I can remember. Even when we were hundreds of miles apart.” The road straightened for a short stretch, so Liz accelerated. The car behind her did as well. If they kept on this road, unit two-two-eight, approaching from the west, might be able to intercept him. As she topped a rise and got a look at the territory around them, she saw the Camry negotiate a bend well below. She called in her current position again and asked about the other unit. “Two-two-eight’s on road 14 headed in your direction. He thinks he can get to the intersection with 89 in time to head him off. I’ve also got one-three-two coming your way, a couple of minutes behind two-two-eight.” “Ten-four,” Liz responded. “Tell two-two-eight to pick it up. Suspect’s half a mile from the intersection now.” The dispatcher came back a moment later. “Two-two-eight says he’ll make it.”
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“We’ve got him then,” Liz said. “There’s no place to turn off between here and the intersection with 14.” “I think…” Greg retreated for a second. “He knows you’re closing in.” “What’ll he do?” She didn’t have to wait for Greg’s answer. Her car rounded a bend and she saw for herself. Well below them, the Camry pulled to the side of the road, spraying gravel as it braked sharply on the shoulder. The driver jumped out, surveyed the area quickly and dashed into the heavy woods, in a direction away from the road and the cars closing in. Liz swore and picked up the radio again to call in the changed circumstances. “Get a canine unit from the sheriff,” she suggested. “And whatever manpower they can get over here.” The dispatcher acknowledged. Liz pulled her car in behind the Camry, turned off the engine but left the blue strobe blinking. The marked unit parked behind her and did the same. She waited for Officer Dave Cristick to catch up and explained the situation to him. The man looked Greg over when she said the suspect was his identical twin. He nodded. “How much do you know about the area?” Liz asked. “Born and raised in this county,” Cristick said. “You’re pretty sure he headed for the ridge going west northwest? Pretty steep slope. There’s a couple of square miles of heavily wooded ground up there. Highway 14’s about a mile west, then 211 cuts across it to the north.” “A lot of room to lay low,” Liz said. “If you know what you’re doing. We can get cruisers to patrol the highways around, kind of shut him in.” Cristick looked up the hill. “It’s not easy going. He won’t make progress fast.” “We can follow him.” Liz looked to Greg to confirm that supposition. Cristick crooked an eyebrow. “You got Indian blood?” “Better. I’ve got an identical twin with some kind of telepathic link to the suspect.” The other man rolled his eyes up and grimaced. “And I’m a voodoo priest. You’re kidding, right?” “One hundred percent serious. Call in the surveillance request, then we’re going after him.” A state patrol car and another city police unit pulled up. She asked the state patrol officer to wait for the others to arrive and fill them in, then got Cristick and the other city cop to go with her when she headed into the woods. She wasn’t wearing hiking or running shoes, but at least she had flat heels. Still, her footing on the uneven, littered ground would be chancy. “Which way?” she asked Greg after they’d gone a hundred yards or so into the underbrush. She’d already nearly tripped once when she stepped in a hole. He stopped and closed his eyes, rolling his head from one side to the other in a slow, sightless scan. “That way.” He sighed and pointed. 177
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It was uphill and a fairly rough climb in places where trees and underbrush grew thickly. Occasional large rocks created additional obstacles. Silence wasn’t possible, but Liz had warned the others that their quarry was armed, so she wasn’t the only one to unbuckle a holster and keep a hand near the pistol. Progress wasn’t rapid as they tried to stay under cover in case their quarry started shooting again. They stopped a few times to listen and let Greg find their direction. Once, they were able to anticipate Greg’s suggestion when they heard the sound of a scrabbling passage above and off to their right. Liz tripped over limbs and vines more than once. They all had to push through stubborn shrubbery, leaving them covered with scratches. She hoped there wasn’t any poison ivy. She’d be itching madly by dinnertime. Although the tree cover kept them shaded and it was still fairly early in the morning, Liz found herself panting and sweating. And she’d thought she was in good physical shape. One of the other officers was a large man in his late thirties with too many home-cooked, fatty meals under his belt. He grew quite red in the face, making Liz worry about things like heatstroke and heart attacks. Greg had grown increasingly remote as he worked to stay in tune with his brother. Liz watched him, noting the signs of strain in his face and stance, and worried about how he’d handle it when they actually caught up with the other man. How would he react? Greg wanted an end to the situation but was this an end he could tolerate? Would he try to interfere with it in some way? One thing she didn’t worry about. He had less trouble keeping the pace than the rest of them, partly because he wore rubber-soled tennis shoes that gave him better traction, partly because he was too distracted to notice the demands the terrain made on his body. He grabbed at her arm one time when her foot slid on a slick patch of mud by the side of narrow stream and kept her from a messy fall. She thanked him and asked, “Are you all right?” He gave her a strange look, his light gray eyes blazing with some bright emotion she couldn’t identify. “No. But okay for right now.” Liz didn’t know what to make of that but didn’t have time to worry much about it either. Again, they stopped and listened and heard their suspect moving. A little farther ahead this time. He could move more quickly than their group, which had to stop periodically, keep to some level of cover and wait on lagging members. A hundred more yards and their way angled into a narrow footpath leading toward a steeper, twisty passage up the side of the ridge. It appeared to go in the direction their quarry was heading. Greg stopped for a moment, then confirmed that his brother was on the path, going wherever it would take him. In one way, the going became easier on the path. It was clear of most obstacles, though narrow enough to force them into a single-file procession with Liz in the lead and Greg right behind her. At one point they passed a break in the trees where she could look down on the road they’d left behind and see the official vehicles gathering.
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Several more had arrived since they’d set out. They’d climbed more than a hundred feet up but were no more than a quarter mile actual distance from their starting point. Then they reached the steep part. Liz used branches to pull herself upward. Stones and roots formed rough steps in some places. A trickle of water ran down the side of the hill, following the same course, sometimes spilling over onto the path itself, making the footing even more treacherous. For several minutes, they battled gravity, the terrain, thorny plants and mosquitoes, while trying to exercise caution, watching for obstacles and potential ambushes. Liz’s clothes were soaked with perspiration, her hands, face and arms were scratched and her lungs burned with the effort to draw air. Her leg muscles went rubbery. When she was beginning to question how much longer she could continue, they arrived at a place that had to be near the summit of the peak. The path covered a hundred feet of steep, treacherous ground, then twisted around a large outcropping of bald rocks. She hesitated and turned to Greg again. “What’s he doing now?” Greg sighed and paused, closing his eyes for a moment. “He’s at the top of the ridge. The path goes along it for a while.” Taking his word but exercising caution anyway, Liz stopped in the shelter of the large rocks and peered around while the others remained a few steps behind. “The summit’s right up ahead,” she reported quietly. “It’s mostly clear of trees. I don’t see him, but he could stop and try to pick us off.” The other two officers nodded and followed her again. The path smoothed out, running between low shrubs and a spread of level grassy ground, leading to a section where the land on the right fell off sharply into a steep down-slope. The trail skirted that edge, continuing along the top of the hill for some distance, winding out of sight a few hundred yards ahead. She turned around to address Cristick. “You know where this goes?” she asked. “Haven’t been here in years,” he said. “But I recall some of the guys in high school talked about a path to the top of the ridge where there was a great view over the city. They used to bring beer and girls up.” They approached the bend where the path turned into a small patch of trees, obscuring the view ahead. When their route curved again, decanting from the small wood, they could see another open area in front of them, a patch of level, rocky ground. The trail led to that open area and stopped. A makeshift campsite lay directly ahead. Liz turned to the others. “Spread out and take—” Something heavy crashed into her from behind, interrupting her words and bearing her to the ground, where she found her face buried in dirt and dried leaves. At the same time, she heard a crack, like a truck backfire. Breath went out of her with a whoosh and for a moment surprise and lack of air kept her still. Then she managed to inhale and struggled to free her hand and get it to the holster under her shoulder to draw her gun out. “Rocks over there,” the body on top of her said. “Crawl.”
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“Go,” she urged, her voice hissing because she still couldn’t get enough air in. Greg grabbed her free hand. Scrambling on hands and knees he half-pulled her with him to the shelter of a large rock. Another shot cracked and a bullet whined by, running into the ground not far behind them. Liz aimed the Glock in the general direction and fired, not expecting to hit anything but covering their dash. On her left, another shot told her one of the other officers was making the same effort. They reached the relative safety of the rock. Liz looked out from beside it, searching for movement or some other clue to their quarry. The path ended here. Beyond the ring of stones that served as makeshift benches surrounding an ash-filled pit, the land appeared to drop off, affording a good view of the valley below where the city of Hartersburg nestled. The suspect crouched behind one of the two biggest rocks at the far side of the firepit. “He’s trapped,” Greg said. “He thought… But there’s nowhere to go except back. He won’t do that.” “What will he do?” “Make a stand here. Try to shoot his way past us and out.” “Any chance he’ll give up without a fight?” “Surrender? No. He feels like he’s been in prison all his life. In a way, he has. He saw freedom… It’s that or nothing. He doesn’t think he has much to lose.” “Can you talk to him?” “And say what? ‘Give it up, Grant. We’ll only let them put you away for the rest of your life’?” Liz sighed. “Any other ideas?” Greg put both hands over his face, rubbing his eyes with his long, slender fingers. “Don’t ask me. And don’t tell me what you’re going to do.” “He can read you too? It goes both ways?” Greg nodded. Liz swore and said, “Stay here.” She fired two quick shots and darted out of cover to another rock to her left where Cristick crouched. She dove the last couple of feet, assisted by the other officer, who offered a hand to pull her into shelter. “Greg doesn’t think there’s any point in trying to talk to him. He won’t give up.” “You’re sure you can pin a murder rap on him?” Cristick asked. “Yes.” The other man nodded. “I guess I wouldn’t surrender either.” “I don’t want to hurt him if we can avoid it,” Liz said. “I’m going to move back to the right and try to draw his attention. I have to at least try to negotiate. You go around to the left and see if you can get behind him.” She glanced at the other officer who
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crouched, red-faced and still puffing, behind a rise in the ground. “Better leave him here. I doubt he can move quietly. Can you?” “Yes, ma’am,” Cristick said. “Good. Do it. If you can get him without using deadly force, do so. But don’t take any risks. If anyone ends up hurt, it better be him and not us.” Cristick nodded. Liz dove back across the open stretch to the rock where Greg was still sheltered. “The others think we should at least try to negotiate with him,” she reported. “I want to get a little closer. See if there’s any possibility of talking to him. Can you relay that to him?” Greg’s eyes showed an anguished jumble of emotions as he looked at her, trying to assess the situation. “He doesn’t believe it. He knows it’s a trick.” “Tell him I really just want to talk for a minute. His name’s Grant?” Greg nodded, his eyes shifted and closed for a second, then opened and turned to her again. “There’s not much point in it. He’s… I’m not sure how to describe it. He’s not really thinking, exactly… He’s beyond it.” “I have to try.” Liz pointed to a larger rock off to their right some twenty feet away. “I’m heading for that. It should be close enough so we can hear each other.” Greg nodded again. Liz jumped out of the safe shadow of their current shelter then headed for a nearby tree instead of going straight to the other rock. The rifle cracked again, the bullet whining by on a path that might have hit her had she kept to her announced intention. She waited and looked around to see if she could make eye contact with the second officer. She gestured for him to cover her. The man nodded, raised his pistol and fired off a couple of rounds as she dove from the tree to the next rock. After a moment of regaining her breath, she called, yelling at the top of her voice, “Grant, I want to talk with you. We can work this out without anybody getting hurt. Especially you. There’s no way out. You’re surrounded and we have more people arriving. If you give yourself up, put down the rifle and come out empty-handed, we’ll do everything we can for you. I promise that. Greg doesn’t want any harm to come to you. He can afford to hire the best lawyers.” A harsh laugh stopped her. “My brother hates me.” The voice—Greg’s voice, made distinct by a rough edge of anger and malice—gave her the shivers. “He only protected me for her sake. He’ll be damned glad to get rid of me.” “No.” Greg stood up from the rock where she’d left him. “You’re the other half of me. I can’t hate you.” Liz yelled at him to get down. Simultaneously, the rifle cracked again. Greg disappeared in a cloud of dust and stone chips. Liz’s stomach twisted as she wondered if the bullet had hit him. “Greg?” she called.
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Grant shouted again, drowning out her plea. “But I can hate you. You’ve kept me penned up for years. No more. If this is the only way I can buy freedom, then so be it. But I won’t go alone.” Where the hell was Cristick? “Grant,” she yelled again, “you will go, and all by yourself, if you don’t give it up. But we can help you. Someday, you might even go free again. Put the rifle down and come out with your hands on your head. You don’t really want to die here, do you?” A long spell of near complete silence had her heart hammering against the wall of her chest while sweat dripped down her temples and soaked her blouse. “Why should I trust you?” Grant asked at last. “Because Greg cares for you. And I care for him.” “Not good enough. I want a sign of good faith. Put your gun down where I can see it and stand up.” “If you put the rifle down where I can see and stand up yourself,” Liz countered. “All right,” he agreed. She looked out. The barrel of the rifle poked out from behind the rock where Grant hid, sliding gradually forward along the ground. She put her Glock down and pushed it out into the open. “Stand up and let’s talk,” she said. “Liz!” An agonized shout from Greg distracted her attention for a moment as she rose to her feet. “Don’t.” She whirled back, despite his warning, to face the other figure rising past the top of the biggest of the stone benches. Seeing him gave her a real pang and a lurching sense of disorientation. Aside from his longer, coarser black hair, she couldn’t have distinguished Grant from Greg. For a while, she’d thought they were the same person. That hesitation almost proved fatal. Grant had put down the rifle but he hadn’t disarmed himself. As he rose and his hands came into view, one held another gun, a small pistol that he pointed in her direction. Liz dropped as he pulled the trigger. The bullet hit the top of the rock with an explosive sound, splattering chips of stone. One raked across Liz’s hand as she reached forward to retrieve the Glock. She turned to survey the rest of the scene, saw Greg stand up. He walked toward his brother. Grant turned the pistol on him. Liz heard herself scream “No” as she lunged for her gun. Another series of shots rang out as she aimed and fired herself. Grant jerked and staggered. Red splotches appeared on his shirt and pants. He reeled around the rocky area for a minute, still waving the handgun, then took several steps back, until his foot hit the edge of the precipice where it dropped off. He wavered for a minute, hanging over the edge, arms churning in a desperate struggle to right himself, then he collapsed and slid over the side.
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Chapter Twenty-Three Cold. It’s so cold. Freezing. And dark. Help me. Please Help. There’s nothing. So alone. And cold. Don’t let me go. It’s dark and it’s pulling me! Tugging, sucking me in. Down. Oh, God… Into the cold. Away. Don’t leave me alone. Please, please! Don’t let me go! Stay with Me! Softer, almost tender, so he couldn’t resist the sweetness of the appeal. You remember? The way it used to be. When we were young? While I was still with him? Remember how it was after he… Hurt me? You’d stay with me, in my mind. We played game. Invisible maze. And visualize. You made me forget how much it hurt. Greg, it hurts now! The cold. Eating me up. You’d never leave ‘til I was asleep. Did you leave even then? We flew kites… In our minds. We laid out… Model railroad. You made me hang on. Promised. Be better. Promised. Don’t let me go now. The noise. Roaring… Like wind. Swirling. In the darkness. Scared of the darkness. Emptiness. It’s taking me. God, it’s taking me! Don’t let go! Stay! Scared… Hold on. Don’t go! Greg! Please!
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Chapter Twenty-Four Liz retrieved the Glock and ran past the rock circle to the side of the hill. The slope didn’t plummet straight down but the descent was steep. Grant had fallen some two hundred feet, squashing or tearing out shrubs and small trees in his passage, to end up huddled against the bole of a large old oak. Cristick was already looking for a way down, but Liz doubted he’d find safe passage without belaying equipment. She considered the edge herself and a couple of ways that might offer access, but finally reached the same decision Cristick apparently had. Better to wait for more personnel and equipment. Not likely the man had survived being shot several times and falling such a distance. Greg might know for sure, though. She looked up, heart leaping again as she realized she hadn’t heard or seen Greg since the shoot-out. She didn’t see him now. When she asked the others, neither of them knew what had happened to him. All their attention had been focused on his brother. No one remembered seeing Greg move. Liz walked back to the rock where he’d been sheltering.. He wasn’t there. Nor did a quick survey of the area reveal his whereabouts. She called his name, loudly, several times. No answer. For the first time, it occurred to her to wonder what Grant’s death might do to Greg. Terrifying thought. The link between them had been a powerful force. She looked along the edge of the precipice again. No sign of Greg there. She debated quickly, finally sent the large officer back to get help from their colleagues, asked Cristick to remain to keep an eye on things and set off herself in search of Greg. The woods grew thick and dense on either side of the clearing at the summit. Greg might have gone into them but Liz thought at least one of their group would have heard him trying to make passage through the underbrush. Instead she headed back in the direction from which they’d arrived. Beyond her, somewhere down the slope, scrabbling noises, the shuffle of rocks and an occasional loud puff marked the passage of the large officer, making a rapid descent to the road and help. When Liz stopped to listen, it was all she could hear at first, other than the usual woods noises of breeze and small animals and bird calls. But then she thought she could hear another set of sounds that didn’t suggest local wildlife. It sounded from away to her left, off the path. Again, the footing grew chancy as she ventured into rougher territory. She had to take considerable care where she stepped. But the sounds grew clearer. She picked up speed. Her stomach twisted into anxious knots as the day grew hotter, the air thickening into a density that made it hard to breathe. She called his name a few times but drew no response other than the sounds of movement. 184
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It didn’t take much longer before she saw a tall, lean figure ahead, moving slowly, aimlessly, paying no attention to surroundings or footing. She watched him stumble, go to his knees and rise again, moving like an automaton. “Greg!” she called. The figure kept moving, not noticing or perhaps not caring about her summons. She ran then, ignoring roots, holes and vines grabbing at her ankles, shrubbery that whipped stinging branches across uncovered skin. She caught up with him and called his name. He didn’t turn or notice. He stumbled again and this time he remained kneeling. Liz closed her hands on his shoulder when he still failed to look at her. His eyes were open, staring fixedly at nothing in particular. “Greg!” She shook him gently and waved a hand in front of his face. No response. She moved her fingers to his cheeks, shocked to find his skin cold and clammy on this hot day. When she couldn’t think of anything else to try, she leaned over and kissed him firmly on the mouth. His lips were as cool as the rest of him and just as unresponsive to her touch. “Greg!” She tried to demand his attention, shaking his shoulders even harder. When that didn’t drag him out of it, she slapped him hard across the face. A red flush spread over his left cheek, but it didn’t pull his eyes back into focus or bring any expression back into them. She didn’t know what to do. “Greg, please,” she begged, putting her hands on either side of his face, rubbing gently down the side of his neck, trying to will him back. The emptiness in his unseeing eyes tore her apart. It was just the shock, she told herself, hoping desperately that was the right answer. He’d lost his only two relatives in the space of a few hours. It could be shock. It had to be. But another possible answer tormented her. She remembered Greg telling her how close he was to Grant. She’d used the link, or whatever it was, to track his brother’s movements. Greg had said he’d shared something like a psyche with his brother. Grant was dead now or dying. Could that bond drag Greg with him into the abyss? Or, just as bad, could Greg survive the severance of the link? Hot tears gathered in her eyes, blurring her vision for a moment until she blinked them away. She threaded her hands through hair that gleamed silver in the sunlight, letting her love fill her, flow out and over them both. She kissed him again, struggling to extract some response, some hint that the man was still there. He might have been an image carved from stone for all the reaction she drew. She stepped back and heaved a deep breath. She couldn’t leave him here, but wasn’t quite sure how she was going to move him, either. Go for help? First, she had to see if she could get him to cooperate at all. She put a hand around his waist, got her shoulder under his armpit and used the position to hoist him upwards. Evidently, resisting her took more effort than going
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along. He got to his feet but made no further movement until she used her arm around him to nudge him forward. He took a step, then another, not showing any interest in or awareness of what he did. He looked neither left nor right, up nor down. He stumbled on a rock and nearly dragged them both to the ground again. With an effort, she righted them, but he leaned heavily on her. The strain of supporting him, guiding him and moving herself had her wondering how long she could continue. The day was growing hotter as it approached noon. Her clothes clung to her body, hair stuck to her temples and drops of sweat rolled down her cheeks. They made slow, wobbly, stumbling progress. Liz knew she’d never be able to get him all the way back to the road at this pace, but kept at it. Rescue came in the form of a party of officers passing nearby on their way to the summit to help retrieve the body. Liz saw one very welcome familiar face. “Roy,” she called. The word came out so weakly, she had to repeat it before he heard. The entire group turned toward her. Major Roy Brandon stepped out from the others and approached. She waved for the rest to go on when several others would have followed. “What is it?” Roy asked, eyeing her companion curiously. “Isn’t this—?” “Greg Conyers,” Liz confirmed. “Injured?” He reached for the radio on his belt to summon an ambulance. “No.” Liz shook her head to stop him. “Shock, I think.” “Isn’t he the—? What’s wrong with him?” “He’s unresponsive, but I didn’t see any blood or bruising. Roy, the killer was his brother. An identical twin. Nobody even knew there was one. But there’s a body up there… Shot. By Cristick. And me. We had to, he was shooting at us. The dead man looks just like Greg.” Roy got on the other side of Greg, lending a second shoulder to the effort, and took most of Greg’s weight off Liz. “There’s another ambulance on the way. He doesn’t seem to be in great shape.” “I want them to check him out. But not to transport, unless they find a real physical problem. I don’t think a hospital can do anything for what’s wrong with him.” “What is it?” Roy asked. “I’m not sure.” She explained the circumstances. Roy took the explanation with considerable skepticism, tempered only by his respect for her. “It sounds mighty weird to me,” he said. “What can you do that a doctor can’t?” “I’m not sure,” she admitted. “But I have a better understanding of the problem. Everyone else he cared for in the world died this morning. I’m all he’s got left and he won’t survive if I can’t figure this out. His problem isn’t medical, at least, not at its root, and neither is the cure. If there is one. I’ve got to try to find it.”
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“Taking a big risk,” Roy pointed out. “If he… If you lose him, it’s going to play badly in the media.” “I’ve got to try,” she repeated. “Told you before I trust your judgment,” Roy said. With his help, they made rapid progress. In a matter of fifteen minutes, they emerged from the woods to the side of the road where nine or ten official vehicles now gathered. Several people noticed their approach, including Cal Dennison, who immediately ran to join them. “You need handcuffs?” he asked. “I need a paramedic.” Fortunately, Liz was too tired to follow her more aggressive inclinations. “It wasn’t Greg. The killer’s dead. Recovery efforts for the body are underway right now. Roy?” Brandon nodded and helped her maneuver Greg past an open-mouthed Dennison to where a pair of medical technicians unpacked bags from the side of an ambulance. At her request, one of the paramedics took Greg’s vital signs, listened to his chest and shined a light in his eyes. The man making the examination finally turned to Liz and said, “No abnormal pupil action. Respiration’s normal. Pressure’s low, but not serious. No obvious injuries. All systems check out. We probably ought to transport him, though. Something’s obviously wrong.” “No,” she said. “I don’t want him in a hospital.” He gave her a dubious look. “Ma’am, his condition’s not normal. You might be taking a chance if you don’t.” “I’d be taking an even bigger chance if I did.” The man shrugged. “Your call.” Roy Brandon helped her get Greg’s catatonic form into her car. When Liz went around to the driver’s side, Dennison followed her. “What’s going on here?” he asked. “Where are you taking him? What about—” “Roy, fill him in,” Liz asked as she turned the key. “I’ll be into the office as soon as I can to take care of the paperwork. Make sure everybody understands that Cristick made the right decision. The killer was shooting at us. Lethal force was justified. Now, get him out of my way, please.” Dennison was still mouthing protests when Roy drew him aside and let Liz pull her car away from the area. She forgot both of them as soon as she was away from the scene, the whole of her agonized mind and will bent on finding a way to reach Greg. Again, she debated the wisdom of seeking medical attention and rejected the notion. It was a risk, but leaving him in others’ hands looked even chancier. She diverted every bit of attention she could spare from the road to watching Greg. He grew visibly paler. A hand on his wrist confirmed that his skin was cooling as well. She sought for a pulse and found it, but thought it both weaker and slower than it should be.
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Liz had a moment of sheer, blind panic. Greg was fading beside her, dying under her hands and she didn’t know how to stop it. A near-collision with a pickup truck coming from the opposite direction reminded her of the necessity of keeping her wits about her and paying attention to her driving. Several deep breaths helped restore a superficial sort of calm. It occurred to her she’d made no conscious decision about where to take him. Without realizing it, she’d set off in the direction of her home. A moment’s thought confirmed the choice. There were only two real possibilities other than the hospital, her home or his. Right now, his place didn’t seem like a great idea. Greg had only been in her home once. His associations with it should be pleasant, at least. On the way there, she prayed steadily for help and guidance. She pulled into her own driveway and parked. Extracting him from the car and guiding him up the steps to the door and into the place took considerable effort and finesse. His skin felt icy and his responses were noticeably more sluggish than earlier. She had to fight off another wave of panic. Liz took him straight through to the bedroom and sat him on the side of the bed. He toppled over onto his side. His eyelids slid closed. She reached for his wrist, groping with shaking fingers until she found his pulse. It still beat, but not convincingly. She put a pillow under his head, ran her hands over his unresponsive body, and bent to kiss him over and over, scattering caresses along his face and throat. She loved him so much, so completely, she couldn’t stand to lose him. Not now, especially now, when they had a chance to build a life together, without the shadow of deception and fear marring their relationship. There would never be anyone like him in her life. But how to hold him? She was trained to fight with guns, with her body, her voice, a variety of other weapons. She had no idea how to fight an enemy she couldn’t see, touch, taste, hear or feel. What weapons did she have for such a battle? Only her love. First she had to overcome a sense of despair that nearly crumpled her when she watched the way his features seemed to sink into the remote stillness of death, a gray pallor washing every bit of color from his face, his chest barely rising in the shallowest respiration. She couldn’t afford to give in to hopelessness. Not while he still lived and there might be a chance. Following an instinct whose genesis she could never explain, she wrapped her hands over his cool, limp fingers and squeezed, while at the same time she closed her eyes and built a mental image of the man as she remembered him the night they’d made love right here in her bed. She visualized the way he’d looked when it was over, seeing his strength and integrity, his intelligence, and the vibrant intensity of the man tempered in the aftermath of passion to a loving warmth. To that view she added every other facet of his character she could recall, his generosity, his sense of humor, his unique view of the world, his ability to find hidden depths and subtle beauty, his courage and unfathomable loyalty, even his loneliness and complexity, the too-close
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and too-personal understanding of the demons that had driven his brother to commit horrible crimes. She considered his sureness against all convention that had led him to shelter a murderer, opting to place himself as a shield between the world and that monster. He could have, probably should have, let the authorities do it for him, but that would mean his mother would learn what had become of the son she’d unwillingly abandoned. By his own admission, he was a man who’d made serious mistakes and paid a grim price for them. Keeping that view of him uppermost in her mind, letting it overlay the limp, cool reality, she began to kiss him again. She brushed her lips across his face to his ear and down his neck to stroke the weak pulse at his throat. She spoke his name, over and over, not demanding his attention, but letting him know how much she cared for and wanted him. She told him softly of her love, whispering that he meant everything in the world to her. His body remained still and unresponsive when she undid the buttons of his shirt and pulled his arms out of the sleeves, lifting his torso to yank the fabric out from under him so she could toss it aside. She untied his shoes, removed them and his socks, stroking his bare feet. Kissing him again, she let her lips stray over his chest this time. She stroked her tongue across his hard masculine nipples, stopped to suck gently and tease with light flicks across them. Her hands stroked down his sides, over his hips and along his thighs. When she undid the snap at the waistband of his jeans and slid the zipper down, she thought she felt a small jerk of response in his body. She kissed him again and worked her hands over him but couldn’t draw any further reaction. It took a considerable struggle to roll his jeans down his legs and pull them off, taking his briefs at the same time. Hot tears dripped off her face onto her hands and his legs as she struggled with the denim until she worked it out from under him. She stopped only for a moment to admire the grace of his long, lean, beautifully formed body before she tore off her own clothes, disregarding buttons and seams in her haste to rid herself of every barrier between them. Once she too was bare, she crawled onto the bed next to him, carefully stretched herself out and rolled so she sheltered and warmed his body with her own. Her tears continued to drip, marking the passage of her kisses along his chest. She struggled to keep in mind the image of the living, vibrant man as she handled his limp, passive husk. He still had pulse and breath. The spirit was still within reach if she could only find a way to touch it and draw it back. Trying to keep her body in contact with his as much as possible, she began a mission to learn every inch of him with every sense available. When her lips weren’t doing anything else, they called his name, but mostly they explored and tasted. Her fingers ran over every inch of him, even when it meant curling herself into odd contortions to reach some extremity without breaking touch. Her hair dripped over him, the tips of her breasts teased and pleaded.
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It was like making love to a stuffed doll, but she couldn’t let herself think of him that way. She had to keep the view of the living man in the front of her mind. That was the Greg she wanted, the one she sought to coax back into this empty shell. She kissed him again, working her mouth over his for several long, frustrating minutes. The tears flowed even faster now as she struggled against despair. She rested one damp cheek against his, feeling the prickle of beard, trying to replace his chill with her warmth. She ran her hands down his stomach and closed her fingers over the core of his masculinity, struggling not to compare this with their last time together when he was alive and aroused, restraining himself with an effort long enough to give her equal pleasure. Inching herself down his body, she let her mouth follow the trail blazed by her hands, using her lips to explore in greater depth the secrets of his manhood. This was Greg and she loved him, but she had a terrible battle to keep going as the chill of his flesh seeped into her skin and bones. She moved back again, letting her face fall onto his chest. She kept a hand on him even while terror and hopelessness washed over her, drowning her in regret at her failure to draw any kind of living response from him. Tears pressed hard at her eyes and she began to weep in earnest, mixing his name and other pleas with her sobs. “Greg, please, come back to me. Don’t leave me. I need you! Let go of him. He’s gone, and you don’t need to follow. You can’t protect him anymore. Let him go. He’s the past. You did what you could for him, but it’s done now. Over. I’m your future. Greg, I love you and, dammit, you said you loved me too.” She had no more will for further attempts to make love to an empty body. Her head rested on his chest while her hand stroked up and down his side, more to get a last feel of him than in any further effort to draw a reaction. Under her ear, she heard the fading beat of his heart. She felt when that rhythm collapsed—a jerk and a harder thud and then a couple of seconds without a beat. But then there was another beat. And another. And again, a little stronger. And beneath her hand, a muscle twitched. Liz lifted her head, looking up fearfully. His eyes were open, not focused or seeing, but with a shadow of life in their nearly colorless depths. She kissed his lips again, and this time there was a bare hint of movement under her mouth, the faintest of responses to her pressure. “Greg?” she whispered, hardly daring to believe there might yet be a possibility of success. He didn’t answer, but one of his hands twitched, trying to reach up. The movement didn’t get any more coordinated. She let her mouth wander again, and, this time, there was the unmistakable jerk of muscle contractions running up and down his body. Her fingers resumed their earlier exploration. His flesh felt less chilly, less limp. “Greg!” She sobbed as dawning strength tightened muscles and pulled ligaments into living shape. She worked her mouth down his stomach and lower still. His body
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roused and took notice of her efforts. A soft, sighing breath from his parted lips signified some level of awareness of her efforts. Encouraged by those signs of returning spirit, Liz worked over him with increasing fervor, touching, rubbing, plastering her body against him. His face still wore no expression, but the emptiness dimmed in his eyes, and without a doubt his male hormones were resuming their designated functions. She put her hands on either side of his warming face and kissed him with rampant fervor. No mistaking it this time. His lips moved under hers and his tongue met and circled her own. Beneath her, his heart roused from sluggish rhythm to stronger pounding. She was so concentrated on his face, she didn’t see his hand move, didn’t realize it had until a light tentative touch of fingers danced up her arm and across her shoulder. She drew back just far enough to look in his eyes without dislodging his hand. He wasn’t quite there yet, his gaze still unfocused. But there was a dawning awareness, a hint of reviving spirit. His mind might not yet recognize his surroundings, but his body was already aware of and responding to the situation. She heard his shallow respirations lengthen, deepen and speed up to a tense pant. He gasped as she pressed herself against him but moved to cooperate with her effort. As she slid down onto him, his left arm crept to join the other in a tentative exploration of her shoulders and back. She kissed him again, then ran her lips over his cheek, across the bristly area of beard to his throat, and nuzzled against him there, feeling the strong rush of pulse with wonder and gratitude. He began to move of his volition, following the rhythm she set. His hands tightened on her, began stroking with more purpose. They circled around, rubbing down her sides, then creeping between their chests to touch lovingly, carefully on her breasts. He cupped them, squeezed gently, explored their tips with careful fingers. Liz heard herself gasp as shafts of exquisite pleasure, mingled with profound gratitude, shot through her body. Heat and tension rose in her loins as the pace of their combined motion picked up. His hands moved from her breasts to her face, closing on her cheeks, fingers pushing into her hair, and he gently pulled her down to kiss him. He initiated the action this time, his mouth moving hotly, tantalizingly on hers, tongue exploring and rousing the fires to even greater fever. The climax, when it came, was an explosion that rocked them both, leaving them limp, gasping and unable to do more than cling to each other for several long minutes. For Liz, the greater joy of having him alive and aware subsumed the lesser but real pleasure of what had just passed between them. She rested against him, exhausted, more tired than she could remember being in a long time, yet content. After a while, she felt small movements. “Liz?” he asked, the word quiet, a little confused, wondering.
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She pulled back so she could meet his eyes. A light shone in those depths, the soul and spirit of the man back in place. He levered himself up on one arm to look around. “Your house?” She nodded. “How?” He ran his free hand through his silver hair, pushing it back from his face. “I remember… The last thing I remember was being dragged down into the darkness. He wouldn’t let go. I used to threaten to take him down even if I had to go with him. He nearly made me keep that promise. Then I woke up here. In your arms. From death to the most sublime sort of life. You pulled me back?” “I don’t know,” Liz admitted. She told him what had happened since Grant’s death, how she’d brought him to her home and done the only things she could think of to hold onto him. “But I don’t know what really did it. I was just so afraid of losing you. I prayed for guidance and acted on instinct. I don’t know if, maybe, I forged some other kind of psychic link when I visualized you the way you were, or maybe I used one we’d already established. It could be that making love to your body pulled your spirit back. Or maybe it was something else entirely. Whatever it was, I thank God for it.” “I do too. I thought… It was so cold and empty where he was. And he was so terrified.” Liz saw the shadow of horror spread over him and kissed him gently. “You can’t do anything more for him. He’s in other hands now.” Greg nodded and attempted a smile. “Wiser ones than mine. I wouldn’t know how to render justice in this case, how to judge what he did. I don’t think he was truly evil. How can I? We were practically the same person. The same genetic material, molded differently by experience. Our parents divorced when we were very small. I barely remember my father. But he was a violent and vindictive man. He wanted revenge on my mother for leaving him. So he kidnapped one of her sons and abused him vilely. Grant and I were linked even then, even hundreds of miles apart, so both Mother and I knew what that man was doing to him. I can’t tell you how horrible it was. It took her years to find Grant and get him back. We were smaller, then, and not as aware of where we were, so she couldn’t use the link the way you did to find him. By the time we did get him, he was warped. I can’t help but wonder if I wouldn’t be in the same condition if it had been me rather than him.” He sighed and held her tightly but his eyes looked at something else for the moment. “My mother worked so hard to find him. She suffered so much, knowing how her son was being treated. She spent every cent she had, called every resource she had to find him and she was so thrilled when we finally did rescue him. When I realized how it had affected Grant, I couldn’t let her know. It would have destroyed her. So I covered up for him and kept it from her, while I did my best to keep him from having free access to the world at the same time. I did pretty well for long stretches, but sometimes I’d get distracted…” “Like when your mother was in the final stages of her illness?”
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He nodded. “It shouldn’t have happened. If I’d managed to be more alert, that girl would still be alive.” “How did you keep anyone from knowing about him?” “When we were twenty-four, he beat up a girl outside a bar. Instead of letting him go to prison, I arranged for him to go to a mental hospital. He hated it but went along with the program so he could get out as fast as possible. Two months after they released him, he nearly killed a man in a fight. They sent him back to the sanitarium. After six months there, he was desperate to get out. I made a deal with him. I arranged for him to be released, but he had to agree to my terms. He couldn’t leave the house after dark and he couldn’t go out at any time without me.” Greg shrugged. “We both got into painting in a big way after that and neither of us wanted to go out much. It worked fine for several years. My mother was thrilled that Grant finally seemed to have recovered and adjusted. Then while we were living in Maryland, there was another incident and a woman died. I should have let the law have him then, but I honestly believe it was mostly an accident. The woman fell when Grant pushed her and hit her head. The police there suspected me, of course, but there wasn’t enough evidence to file charges. They found out I had a brother too, but I told them he’d left years ago and we hadn’t heard from him since. Given Grant’s history of mental illness, they bought it. I’m not proud of that lie.” He shook his head. “One of the many mistakes I’ve made. But my mother had just been diagnosed with cancer and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her what had happened. So we moved and I made Grant agree not to go out at all. Again it worked for a while.” He drew a deep breath. His gray eyes, not colorless now, but dappled with odd shadows, were worried. “Liz, I’m not a killer, but I’m not exactly innocent in the eyes of the law, either. At best, I’m an accessory to murder. And I won’t deny it anymore. I’ve lived with lies and deception too long. Since it looks like I do still have a life—thanks to you!—I want what’s left of it to be straight and on the level. Whatever that means.” He ran a hand through her hair, gently smoothing and caressing. “I just don’t want you to be hurt by it. That’s the one thing I can’t handle.” She touched his shoulder, reveling in the warmth and smooth texture of his skin. “Nothing you do now will hurt me, unless it involves cutting me out of your life. I’ll stay with you and hurt for you, if necessary. I’ll stand by you whatever you decide, and wait for you if I have to.” She let her fingers stray along his throat. She doubted she’d ever get enough of touching him. “There’s a lot of stuff to be mopped up from this whole business. I’ve got a zillion pages of reports to write. And we’ll talk to the district attorney about possible charges. To be honest, though, I doubt they’ll charge you with anything. You didn’t actually do anything to cover up a crime or interfere in the investigation except by concealing his very existence. You didn’t put the pocketbook in the trash, did you?” Even before he answered, his puzzled expression told her the truth. “What pocketbook?” he asked.
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“The victim’s. It was found in a trash can beside the inn. Fingerprints had been wiped off it.” He shook his head. “Grant.” “I figured. Everything else could be explained by concern for your mother’s peace of mind. To prove you knew he’d killed someone, they’d have to delve into that link between you. And that’s a can of worms they’re not going to want to open. Believe me, it would bring up too many sticky issues.” She leaned over to kiss him gently. “I think they’ll be content to create a sensation with the revelation that Greg Conyers is really two people and one of them was a murderer, now deceased. The publicity is going to be messy and unpleasant for you, but I think that’s the worst you’ll face now.” He shrugged, looking remarkably unconcerned about the possibilities of scandal and criminal charges. “Messier than you know. I’ve been selling Grant’s paintings as well as mine under my own name for years. So I suppose I’m technically guilty of fraud. It was the only way they could be sold, and he agreed to it since the alternative was not selling them at all. In fact, his paintings did better than mine. So there’s probably the piper to pay there as well. But if you can stand to be part of it, I can handle whatever comes now. It’s amazing. I can’t tell you how much lighter and freer I feel. Odd too, because there’s a horrible pain where it feels like I’ve lost part of myself.” He sighed deeply, a sound dredged from the depths of his soul. “It was a diseased and painful part. I’m better off without it. But still…” His eyes closed for a moment, and when they opened again, there were no shadows in their depths. “I feel like an entirely new man. Reborn.” He hesitated and looked almost shy. “Liz, God only knows what my life is going to be like now. But it won’t be worth anything without you. Please, you will marry me, won’t you? And wait for me if you have to?” She squeezed him. “Hell, no, I won’t wait for you. In the unlikely event you do end up in prison, look for me to sneak into your cell every few days. But really, I’d rather just jump into your bed every night.” She shook her head and kissed him again. Hard. “Of course, I’ll marry you.” The expression in his eyes, a joy and hope she’d never seen, lighting his gray depths with brilliant flashes of silver, nearly made her cry. He reached for her and dragged her back against him, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world to him. “Come here, you wanton, impatient woman. We’re already wasting good sack time.”
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About the Author
Karen welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.cerridwenpress.com.
Cerridwen, the Celtic goddess of wisdom, was the muse who brought inspiration to storytellers and those in the creative arts. Cerridwen Press encompasses the best and most innovative stories in all genres of today’s fiction. Visit our site and discover the newest titles by talented authors who still get inspired—much like the ancient storytellers did, once upon a time. www.cerridwenpress.com