Cold Touch (11 page)

have been forming between them before he’d left the room.

“Not just yet.”

“Okay,” he said, a tiny line furrowing between his eyes, as if he were

disappointed in her answer. “Now, I’m inclined to think you might be on to

something. The description you gave then sounds a
lot
like this,” he said,

tapping the tip of his finger on the drawing.

She glanced at the artist’s rendering, which had already imprinted itself on

her mind, and then scanned her own words, trying to hear them in her young,

fifteen-year-old voice. It was like reading a book, a piece of fiction drawn out

of the dark imagination of some anonymous writer. Separate from her, not at

al a part of who she was now.

And yet she knew that when she went to work, when she did what she did, it

was this girl, this terrified, broken fifteen-year-old, who always showed up for

duty.

“I gotta say, you gave a real y good, solid description, especial y after what

you’d been through, Miz Wainwright.”

“Olivia,” she murmured, pushing the printout away with her fingers. “If we’re

going to be discussing the most personal, dark details of my life, you should

cal me by my first name.”

He didn’t respond, didn’t say her name but didn’t refuse to, either. “I know it

took a lot for you to come here and talk to me about this,” he said, his tone

gentle again, some of the bel igerence he’d been wearing like an invisible

shield since his return disappearing. “If it matters, I think you did a brave thing.

”

“Thank you.”

“Are you ready to see it al the way through? Get justice for this boy?”

Olivia tilted her head and eyed him. “I think he’s a little beyond justice, but I

can’t deny I’d like to find out once and for al what happened to him.”

“What do you mean?” he asked. “It’s never too late for justice.”

“It is for Jack. If this played out the way I think it did, it’s not as though you

can do anything to his kil er.” Seeing his confusion, she suddenly realized he

hadn’t read far down in her case record at al if he didn’t even know how the

whole thing had ended. “You obviously
didn’t
read much of that file, did you,

Detective Cooper? Why? Were you too distracted when you Googled me and

saw the name of my employer?”

He didn’t flinch at the accusation, replying evenly, “Like I said, I printed it out

but only grabbed the sheet with your description of the boy to help prompt your

memory. I figured I’d be hearing the whole story from you.”

“Sorry,” she said knowing she was being a little oversensitive. “The point is,

my case was closed long ago.”

“I could tel that much by the file name.”

“But do you know why?”

He stiffened. “Tel me it’s because the guy was caught and is now in prison

serving as some in-house gang’s blow-up dol .”

She shook her head. If only it were that easy. If she could have asked the

monster who’d taken her what he’d done with her fel ow captive, she would

have done it ages ago. “He’s not.”

Cooper was intuitive; he immediately knew what she was getting at. “Don’t

tel me.”

She told him. “The man who kidnapped me and probably murdered the boy

who helped me was kil ed in a shootout with police several hours after I

escaped.”

He muttered a curse, looking frustrated, almost angry. He ran a hand

through his thick hair. It stuck up a little, making him appear almost boyish,

though the expression on his face was anything but. He looked like a man

deprived of achieving his lifelong goal, and she sensed that he was sorely

tempted to launch out of his chair and stalk around the room.

Obviously Gabe Cooper took his cases very seriously. And some of them,

like this one, a little personal y. She wondered just how far he’d be wil ing to go

to solve one that had become so important to him.
Hmm
.

“The authorities later identified the man who’d been kil ed as Dwight

Col ier,” she added. “He was an ex-con, with a long rap sheet of minor

offenses. A loner, no known address, I guess because he was living out in the

woods with the boy.”

“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, sinking, al the anger disappearing to be

replaced by utter disappointment. “I’m sorry. It’s not that I’m not glad they

caught the bastard who did this to you. It’s just, I was happy to final y have

some kind of lead in the case.”

“I know. But this might not be over yet,” she said, her tone low. Even as she

said the words, she wondered if she was making a mistake, opening a door

she might someday regret opening. Because as desperately as she wanted

answers, a churning in her stomach hinted that maybe they would only lead to

more questions.

She plugged on, anyway. She’d never know the truth if she didn’t at least try

to push for it. “I might be able to confirm who this boy was and how he died.”

“We know how he died,” he interjected, sounding suspicious. “He was

strangled. The coroner said the hyoid bone was broken.”

She closed her eyes briefly, feeling sick. Olivia had experienced

strangulation before. Having to look directly into the face of the person who

was kil ing you made the experience beyond awful. But there were worse

things than that. Staring into the void of unresolved memory, living an eternal

mystery, waking up night after night seeing the face of someone you

desperately wanted to save but having not the slightest clue how to do it—al

that was worse. If going through with this experience gave her the answers

she needed, if it gave her peace, it would be wel worth one hundred and thirty

seconds of fear and pain.

“I stil think I can help you,” she insisted. “Part of me feels sure the remains

you found belong to this mystery boy I knew. But another part . . .”

“Is wondering about the timing?” he asked, immediately leaping upon what

had been bothering her about this whole thing.

“Yes,” she admitted, glad he’d seen the difficulty, too. “I’ve long thought

Col ier must have kil ed Jack right after he found out I’d escaped. I figured he

ditched his body, then moved the trailer where they’d been staying, went to

col ect the ransom money and was shot by police.”

“Not much time in that scenario for somebody to build a wal around the

boy’s body.”

“Exactly.” That was the only thing that didn’t fit, the only fly in the ointment to

this whole scenario she’d painted in her mind to answer al those old

questions. “The bar is close to the cemetery I stumbled into, so it wasn’t far

from his campsite. That makes me think it’s not impossible.”

She didn’t like to think
how
close that bar was to the cemetery. God,

imagine if she’d come stumbling out onto the street rather than hiding al

night? The first person she’d run to for help might very wel have been the one

she’d been trying to escape.

The thought made her sick even now, al these years later.

“But it is a long shot,” the detective said. “I mean, if he knew you’d gotten

away, why would he go through with the money drop?”

She shrugged helplessly. That was one of the many questions. “But he
had

to have found out I was gone before he went to get the money. As I mentioned,

he moved the camper. It was there when I ran, and the next day it wasn’t.”

“Did they ever find it?”

“No. The police theorized that he ditched it somewhere in the Okefenokee

and it just disappeared into the swamp.”

They’d also theorized that Jack had been in it at the time. Now, though, she

had begun to doubt that very much.

“Which makes the time line that much tighter,” he said. A muscle in his jaw

worked, like he was clenching his teeth. She had to wonder if he was

reevaluating what he’d thought about her possibly being “on to something.”

Because it sure didn’t seem very likely, on the surface.

Yet, deep down, something stil told her she was right. She couldn’t explain

the timing—yet. But she knew that face. Everything else fit, right down to the

strange, otherworldly compulsion she’d felt to go to that scene Monday

morning, as if fate itself were tel ing her she was final y coming to the end of

her twelve-yearlong search.

There was one more thing, one other possible explanation for al these

questions about the time line. That other possible explanation made it

imperative that she find out the truth, one way or another. Because for years

she’d assumed the kidnapping monster had worked alone, aside from his

poor, brainwashed sidekick.

But what if he hadn’t? What if somebody else had taken care of disposing

of Jack’s body and the camper? What if there was an accomplice out there,

somebody else who might yet face justice for what had happened to Jack

—and to her?

She had to know.
Had
to.

“Maybe he wasn’t working alone,” she whispered. “Maybe somebody else

helped him, then covered al this up after he’d been kil ed. That person could

stil be out there.”

He didn’t try to talk her out of the idea or tel her it was a crazy one.

Because he had to know it wasn’t crazy; in fact, it made a lot of sense.

Terrifying sense.

“I can help,” she told him again, hoping he’d hear only the sincerity in her

voice, not the hint of desperation she suspected was there as wel . “I’l know if

it was Jack you found in that wal . If it wasn’t, I might be able to give you some

new leads to figure out who he was. If I’m right, and it is Jack, wel , at least I’l

know for sure and won’t have to spend the rest of my life wondering about

him.”
And can perhaps find out if someone else was there, bearing witness

to his murder.

The detective was no longer frowning and frustrated; now he looked curious

and a little skeptical. “You can do al that, huh?”

She nodded.

“How?”

Swal owing and hoping her voice didn’t shake, she answered him with the

truth. “I can’t real y tel you that. I just need you to trust me.”

“Trust you to do what?” he asked, looking suspicious.

“To give me a few minutes alone with the remains.”

“You’re such a shithead. I can’t believe I cried at your funeral.”

Julia Harrington didn’t look up as she mumbled the words. She was too

busy trying to focus on her job, not on her silent business partner, who,

annoyingly, had been anything but silent since he’d arrived. He’d been trying to

talk her into leaving work and going to the beach.

As if she wanted to be breaded in sand to go along with living in the frying

pan that was Savannah, Georgia, on any August day. Yeah. Right.

He was completely unfazed. “You need to get a life.”

“No. What I need to do is finish this report,” she retorted, focusing on the

screen of her computer, not on the man leaning indolently against the closed

door of her office. He’d popped in a few minutes ago, unannounced as usual,

offering no explanation about where he’d been for the past six days. Not that

she’d ask for one. Sure, she was curious. But, no, she didn’t have time to get

sidetracked by one of his adventure tales.

“Why don’t you get a dog? That would give you something to do.”

“I have plenty to do,” she said, absently pointing at the piles of paperwork

on her desk.

“I mean other than work. Imagine a cute little puppy to come home to at

night.”

Knowing he wouldn’t leave her be until she gave him her ful attention, she

tore her gaze off the screen, preparing for the jolt that seeing him always gave

her.

Jolt
.

God, he was so gorgeous, so utterly, incredibly beautiful to look at: thick

brown hair, laughing dark eyes shot with gold, a face that should have ended

up on a movie screen rather than a police identification badge. Morgan

Raines had been the most glorious male specimen she or just about any other

woman would ever see in her lifetime.

He was stil that man, that same perfect sexy man, his looks frozen in time,

al forward momentum stopped by a madman’s bul ets: four to the chest.

If he’d been on-duty and wearing his vest, he would have survived with

bruises and a few broken ribs. Being ambushed outside a restaurant late one

night, however, he’d had nothing but a thin shirt for protection. Wel , and Julia.

But she hadn’t been enough, either.

Thank God real life wasn’t like the movies, nothing like that creepy kid

who’d declared
I see dead people.
If she had to see Morgan now the way

she’d seen him in the last seconds of his life, with those gaping wounds, the

blood pumping out of him with every beat of his heart, she would have broken

apart with grief long ago. Wel , she had broken apart with grief, at least for a

while. Then he’d returned, sort of, and put her back together again.