Darkness peering (21 page)

"Oh God," he gasped, "I love you, too, Nicole."

His strange gaze flitted across her face, and they kissed for a while,
then she pushed him away and masked her deep love under an expression
of disgust. "Daddy's going to kill me."

"Don't tell him, then."

"I have to tell him, Dinger! I have to tell my mother at least, and
she'll tell Daddy, and he's going to kill me."

"No, he won't."

"Ugh! You're impossible. We have to figure this out," she said. "Help
me!"

"I'm trying."

"Try harder." The hot coffee burned her tongue and she could leel a
blister rising up on the roof of her mouth. Good. She needed this
pain to remind her of Claire; needed to be scalded, always and forever,
perpetual punishment for her stupid, happy

thoughts. "When we were little," she told him, "Claire had this trick
where she'd make Abraham Lincoln cry. She'd wet a wad of toilet paper
and hold it behind a penny and squeeze, and big fat tears would drop
down, and she'd say, "Seer Abraham Lincoln's crying.""

They sat in stony silence while the rain came down. It made a
shuddering sound on the roof of the car, like someone trying to break
in. As it Claire were lost in the rain and desperate to get inside
where it was safe and dry. Nicole looked out the window and thought
about Claire making Abraham Lincoln cry, and a sour taste came into her
mouth. Everything was a blur.

"D'you think she's dead?" Grief numbed her throat.

"I don't wanna talk about it." He smelled of mothballs and wool zipped
up too long inside a winter storage bag.

"I think the police have given up." She shuddered. Her feet were
cold. Her hands were cold. Right in front of her, raindrops clung to
the doorframe of the car, their shimmering fullness like great beads of
hope. One by one, they dropped. "I think my parents have given up."

"Don't cry, Nicole."

"Where could she be?" she demanded, eyes flashing, hair crackling.

"Maybe she ran off with somebody?"

"She didn't run away, Dinger. Why would she run away when everybody
who loves her lives right here? She could drive you nuts sometimes,
y'know? She could get kind of bossy and in your face, like she knew
better than you, but I loved her so much."

"I know." He rubbed her back and she tried not to cry.

"If anything happens to her, I'll die."

"No, you won't."

"I will. I'll stop breathing."

"Cut it out." He clutched her tight, their raincoats squeaking
together.

"I'll die." She sobbed, helium-voiced, her breath in the curve

of his neck wafting back in her face, warm and coffee-smelling. "I
swear to God, I will."

"Nicole." He shook her shoulders. "Nicole, look at me."

She blinked at him through a whirlpool of her own foul mood, her misery
and fear. "What?"

"I want us to spend some time together."

She wiped her wet face with her hands.

"We've gotta find a way to be together ... someplace where no body'll
bother us ..."

She was shivering.

"Someplace where we can hold each other for about a million years.
Don't you wanna be with me, Nicole?"

"Yeah. "An icy wind licked the back of her neck.

He kissed her. He put his hand on her breast. "Oh, Nicole." His body
trembled as he slid his tongue into her mouth.

Her stomach knotted, a wave of nausea sweeping over her. "Stop." She
pushed him away. "I'm gonna be sick." She opened the door and leaned
over the rain-soaked asphalt, but nothing happened. Rain drenched the
back of her neck as she tried to throw up but couldn't.

She slammed the door shut. "I'm okay." She lit another cigarette.

"I definitely want this baby," he said. "I want us to get married and
be a family."

Her knees were knocking. "I want to go home."

"Okay." He keyed the ignition. "I'll figure out a way for us to be
together, like maybe for an entire night, okay?

She wanted that. An entire night.

"Okay?"

"Yeah."

They drove into the darkening day.

RACHEL TAPPED HER HANDS IMPATIENTLY ON THE STEERING

wheel. The light at this intersection took forever. A stiff breeze
blew in through the rolled-down window and pushed her hair into her
face. She didn't want to admit how angry and frustrated she was. She
hardly slept anymore, and when she did, she was plagued by nightmares.
The only thing that kept her going lately was the anguish of the
grief-stricken family.

There had been twenty-nine homicides in Kerrins County this past year,
and of those, six had occurred within Flowering Dogwood's town lines.
The FDPD detective squad handled rapes, armed robberies and domestic
abuse cases, in addition to homicides. Rachel was the youngest of the
three detectives who made up the unit, but she had impressed the older
men with her investigative and organizational skills. She'd solved two
of the homicides herself--one a domestic quarrel gone bad, the other a
drug-related shooting. Both cases had been cut-and-dried, but this
kidnapping case ... her brain hurt just thinking about it.

Rachel knew everything there was to know about Claire Castillo: weight,
height, shoe size, dress size, favorite color, taste in movies, books
and CDs; she knew even' necklace Claire owned, every book she'd ever
read, even piece of mail she'd received down to the last postcard. She
knew what she carried in her purse: calfskin wallet containing ID and
credit cards; Ray Bans in a black leather case; a Mason Pearson
hairbrush; a Mont Blanc pen; a package of Vicks cough drops; a package
of Kleenex; her keys on a plastic-banana keychain; tampons; a tube of
Origins Sassafras lipstick; Sudafeds, a prescription bottle of
Benadryl, and an inhaler.

A lot of cops distanced themselves from the victims, the families, the
corpses. McKissack did. He numhed himself to every tidal wave of
grief. They'd had a running argument about her becoming too personally
involved with the victims' families, but upon graduating from the
police academy, she'd sworn she would never lose touch with the human
element, never forget that the loved ones were in exquisite pain. She
didn't want to become immune. She didn't want to be McKissack.

Rachel would never forget her first homicide. A domestic situation, a
pretty young housewife beaten to death by her husband. Neighbors
complaining about the noise. The stench of Richard's Wild Irish Rose.
He'd beaten her so brutally, she'd miscarried on the kitchen floor.
He'd grabbed an electric fan and bashed her head in. The most
dangerous place in the world, it turned out, was this woman's own home.
Rachel still got goose bumps whenever she drove past the weathered gray
ranch behind the peeling picket fence.

Pulling into Taco Bell, she drove around back where pigeons pecked at
the stray crumbs scattered around a large green dumpster. The boy was
standing over by the picnic tables, looking tall and skinny and shivery
cold.

"I'm Detective Storrow," she said with an outstretched hand.

"Hi, I'm Dinger." They shook, then selected one of the picnic
tables.

All around them, trees swept the sky with their upturned branches.
Rachel drew her coat collar around her neck. Dinger was an
awkward-looking seventeen-year-old with oversized hands and feet on
lanky limbs. A puppy-dog face on a fast growing body.

"I need to ask a few questions," she began. "Try to remember as much
as you can. You're not nervous, are your"

"No," he said, biting his thumbnail.

"Okay. Where were you the Wednesday night Claire Castillo
disappeared?"

He shivered inside his windbreaker. His hands were red and chapped,
his cheeks crimson from the cold or nerves or both. "At work."

"Until when?"

"Seven."

"Where do you work?"

"Kellum Kleaners."

"On Delongpre?"

"Yes."

"And what did you do after work?" Rachel asked.

"I dunno. Cruised around, I guess."

"Was anybody with you?"

"No."

"Where did you go?"

He shrugged. "Just drove around."

"Nicole says she didn't see you that night."

"She wasn't feeling so hot." He fingered a delicate amethyst ring on a
long silver chain around his neck.

"She told me you called her around nine."

"Yeah. I used a pay phone at the bowling alley."

"And you guys talked for about ten minutes?"

He shrugged. "Maybe less. I ran out of quarters."

"Did anybody at the bowling alley see you that night?"

"You'd have to ask them."

Rachel nodded. "Then what did you do?"

"I drove around some more."

"Past Nicole's house?"

He looked at her, chewed a ragged fingernail. "I dunno."

"You didn't?"

"No."

"Dinger," she said softly. "These questions are very important, very
critical."

He looked down at the picnic table pocked with graffiti. "Maybe," he
admitted.

"Just once?"

"I dunno. A few times. I can't remember."

"Did you drive back downtown again?"

"No." He looked at her, recognition dawning. "Why are you asking me
all this stuff?" He said it innocently, sweetly, his adolescent voice
breaking with naked anxiety.

"We're trying to establish where everybody was that night. It's
routine."

He seemed satisfied with her answer.

"Did you talk to anybody else after nine P.M.?"

He thought a beat, then shrugged. "Nobody, really."

"Did you buy anything that evening?"

"No."

"Stop for food somewhere? Fill the tank?"

"Nope."

She looked at him. He seemed like a good kid, a bit shy and awkward,
maybe, not the brightest bulb in the eleventh grade. His parents were
blue-collar workers, divorced; he had three siblings and probably had
to fight for everything he'd ever gotten. Her instincts told her
Dinger Tedesco wouldn't hurt a flea, but he had no alibi.

"So Nicole's not allowed to see you anymore?" she asked, trying a new
tack.

He cringed, looked around nervously, then pulled something out of his
jacket pocket--one of those green plastic turtles whose head bobbed
when you touched it. He put the turtle on the picnic table in front of
them and watched its tiny head bob up and down.

"Must be rough," Rachel said. "Not being able to see her."

He looked at her oddly, and she sensed that she puzzled him a great
deal. Finally, he blurted, "Yeah, it sucks."

"Do you love her?"

He glowered.

"You don't have to answer that question if you don't want to."

"What's it got to do with anything?"

"I just think people who are in love should be responsible, that's
all," she said.

He met her gaze, eyes blurring with tears, although it could've been
the wind.

"I am responsible," he said defensively.

"Okay," she said.

"I love her very much."

"Okay," she said. "I believe you."

"I'd marry her today if I could, but they won't let me."

Rachel nodded.

"I don't want to talk to you anymore." Dinger stood up. "Are we done
yet?"

"Almost."

He stepped over the picnic bench and walked to his car, a rust colored
'76 Chevrolet Monte Carlo. "I'm sorry, but it's none of your
business."

"Dinger--?"

He slammed the door and drove off.

KhRRINS COUNTY GENERAL HOSPITAL WAS A SIX-HUNDRED-BED facility that, as
its name implied, served the entire county. Rachel had followed more
than a few ambulances to the ERin order to take statements from victims
of gunshot wounds or stabbings. The waiting room was painted
robin's-egg blue and a few rubber plants were scattered around for
ambience.

Dr. Yale Castillo's cramped office on the first floor of the emergency
medicine suite was tastefully decorated with antiques. He'd been the
on-call supervising surgeon of the ERat Kerrins County

General for over thirty-five years now, and he and Rachel had crossed
paths many times, although his brusque, official manner made him
difficult to approach. He had a reputation for heing a stereotype of
the pompous surgeon, but Rachel couldn't help cutting him a lot of
slack these days. His daughter had been missing for almost three
weeks.

"Please, Detective," he said in a deep, authoritative voice, "have a
seat."

"Thank you."

Yale Castillo was one of those doctors who refused to associate with
the common people--nurses, clerks, orderlies. Rumor had it he'd ended
up in the ER, handling any and all cases regardless of surgical
potential, because he couldn't get along with the hospital's surgical
staff. He and Rachel had always had a polite but remote relationship,
and now he seemed to be masking his pain with an even more disdainful
expression than usual. "How can I help you, Detective?"

"I need to clarify the last conversation you had with your daughter,"
she said, flipping through her notebook. "You spoke with her on the
afternoon before she disappeared?"

"Yes, she called my office."

"What about?"

"She asked if I'd buy some tickets for the charity dance, a benefit for
the school. I told her I'd be happy to."

"Did she mention anything else?"

He twisted his gold wedding band around on his finger. "Let's see ...
she spoke about her rent being late. Her rent's always late." He
smiled.

"Anything else?"

"The plumber was in her apartment, fixing the toilet. She was nervous
about him being there."

"Nervous? How so?"

"Just that ... she felt self-conscious about how messy the place was.
Something like that."

IT

Rachel nodded. "Anything else?"

"Not that I can recall," He cleared his throat and his features
softened, and almost against his will he added, "Jackie and I have
called everyone we can think of. I must've driven around the
neighborhood at least a hundred times."