Site Unseen (32 page)

Brian's offer suddenly made me possessive of my bits of clues. I was afraid that they wouldn't stand up to his scrutiny, and even if they hadn't impressed the sheriff, I couldn't bear not to have Brian's imprima
tur. I also knew I couldn't con
tinue on as I had been, chasing odds and ends in search of some resolution that was going to let me off the hook.

"Okay, first there's the map that we found at Tichnor's house ..." I ran down the list: finding the same map in the storeroom, the fact that Tony and Tichnor had also been on the site on the same day, Tony offering to go to the sheriff's department, finding the department number at Tichnor's house, the presence of the Venus figurine, Tony's sudden interest in the site, his connection with the local dive store, Mrs. Maggers's revelation that Tichnor had some sort of partner in his site-robbing endeavors. Maybe the drug-running idea was a little off, but there were just too many coincidences, including the timing of all of this. Maybe Pauline stumbled onto something that had nothing to do with looting the site.

Brian listened in silence. I knew even as I finished how weak it sounded; it was as though I just needed an audience whose opinion I instinctively trusted in order to see the gaping holes in my theory with open eyes.

"Pretty lame, huh?" I said, finally bracing myself for the truth.

"I don't know," he answered slowly. "You've got good instincts for people. Usually, right? Once you've a chance to watch them for a while, I mean. And if you think Tony's been acting strangely toward you all of a sudden, you're probably right to notice it."

My heart soared. "Right."

"Any idea why? When did it start?"

I thought about it. "After we met up in the storage room."

"But there was nothing else?"

I considered carefully. "He said some odd-sounding things about the package from Spain."

"From what it sounds like to me, you were saying some pretty odd-sounding things yourself," Brian replied. "Are you sure he wasn't just reacting to that? I mean, Em, everyone has a bad day."

"Maybe," I admitted. "You're right, he's not really given me a second thought. He hasn't acted one way or the other toward me. I mean, look at the way that Rick Crabtree acts like my presence is an insult to the department--"

"Right. So maybe you're getting the right impulse for the wrong reasons," Brian concluded. "I think what's going on, Em, is that you've got some coincidences that seem to implicate Tony Markham in Pauline's death. I think that those
are
probably just coincidences. But I think that you might be right to be shy of Tony--it's just that from what you've told me, he's a smoothy, a political animal, and that's never been your style, right? And he's been a little too chivalrous, a little too protective. What if maybe he's still smarting from you rejecting his dinner offer? Guys like that don't metabolize embarrassment easily. So my guess is that you are just mixing this up with your desire to do something about Pauline's murder. It all makes sense, it's just two different things that you need to separate."

As much as I wanted to hang on to my theory, I suddenly felt a weight tumble off my back. Not only was I not nuts, Brian made it all sound so logical. I was wrong but for the right reasons.

Still, it was with reluctance that I set my obsession aside. "I just worry that Sheriff Stannard isn't taking everything into consideration. I keep thinking that there's something I can do, something that I'm missing--"

"You can chase your own tail forever looking for something you're missing," Brian scoffed. "You'll end up at the funny farm doing that." Then his voice dropped about an octave. "But how's about I attempt to distract you from all that?"

"Okay, distract me," I said hopefully. "Make it good, Bri."

"Come out for a visit next weekend. One lousy plane ticket won't make our financial situation any worse than it already is! I miss you and it's warm out here. Don't say no."

"Sugar, keep talking!" It
was more than tempting, for in
stead of my usual levelheaded assessment of the family exchequer and my own schedule, I had already drowned the little puritan who lives in my head and was planning my escape. "I have class until two-thirty--"

"There's an American flight out of Portland in the afternoon," Brian supplied eagerly. "You can just make it if you leave straight from class. Better yet, don't risk it, can't you get someone else to take over for you?"

"I bet I could!"

"Good, do it, whatever it takes! We need this, Em." Brian sounded eager too; I kept forgetting that all this drama must be taking a huge toll on him as well. "I'm going to run out right now and buy a red silk--"

"Oh, not red, sweetie," I interrupted. "I look heinous in red."

"I was thinking for me," my darling interrupted right back. "I look
great
in red! But you raise a good point, I'll have to find you something too, in the grape-peeling oeuvre, I think--"

"You hate grapes," I pointed out. Fine, so I was on a fishing expedition. Sue me.

"You know I'm not in it for the fruit, sweet thing. You just make sure you get yourself on that plane, and leave the details to me--"

For the first time in I don't know how long, I could actually feel how tight my shoulders were. And I was just sick of feeling, well,
pursued
by all my fears and worries and suspicions, which were probably just a result of chronic self-doubt compounded by panic. Brian convinced me, and even just making that tiny little decision, I felt a ray of sunlight might be shining through a crack in that big stone wall that I had built around myself lately.

Sunday afternoon passed peaceably, not filled with morbid thoughts. The next couple of days went just fine, just how I imagined my life would be once I landed the Big Job. Okay, so Brian and I weren't currently in residence together, but we were working to chan
ge that. It would only be a cou
ple of months before we figured out about a new place together, and I could stand on my head for that long.

But anticipation made Friday afternoon seem forever away.

Early Thursday afternoon at the office I was just putting on my coat to go over to the library when I heard a knock and saw my friend and coworker Jenny Alvarez come in with a small package.

"Found this in your box, and thought I'd drop it off," the anthropologist said cheerfully.

"Thanks. No return address, no postage. Weird," I said, shaking it. The package was about the size of a shoe box and was wrapped in brown paper. "The slides I asked Chuck to have copied?" I tore the wrapping and opened the box.

"He wouldn't bother with paper, would he?" Jenny said doubtfully.

Inside I found something swathed in what was probably a black plastic trash bag. It was Scotch-taped around in three places, and I fumbled with the scissors a minute to cut through one of the bands.

"Emma, don't," Jenny said, suddenly wary.

I should have listened to her. What I found inside the black plastic was obscene, unthinkable. Someone, possessed by some revolting fancy, had placed a Barbie doll in what was now clearly meant to be a parody of a body bag. Only it wasn't just the doll, it was one that had been given a rough bobbed haircut, and worse, had been burned, until the short hair on one side had melted and curled and its poor little blackened face had blistered.

I dropped it, making a noise that couldn't escape my throat, revulsion crippling me.

Jenny reached out a hand to me, but I was already backing away. "Tony" was all I could say.

She looked confused. "Tony? Markham? What about him?"

"He sent it." I bumped into the filing cabinets and then realized I would have to walk past the damned thing if I were going to leave the room. It only slowed me down a scosh.

"Emma, he couldn't have. He left right after a meeting with me this morning. It was only in your mailbox just now--" she tried to tell me, but I was already running down the hall.

Fear propelled me out of the building and across the quad. I was hurtling up the stairs to my apartment before I even realized that I'd left my bag in the office, but luckily I had my keys in my pocket. I slammed the door behind me and threw the bolt, then leaned up against the door to catch my breath, but by then I was hyperventilating and had to sit down on the floor. As my chest heaved uncontrollably, I suddenly realized that whoever sent the doll was sending me a message: I wasn't safe. Tony sent the doll. He knew the gruesome details of Pauline's death and was letting me know that I was next.

That thought practically stopped my heart. I ran into the bedroom and grabbed my suitcase from under the bed. I dumped clean laundry out of the basket and started throwing items of clothing into the bag haphazardly. If I called the airport, maybe I could catch an earlier flight to California. I didn't want to stick around my apartment; that was too obvious, I was too exposed there.

Into the bathroom. I grabbed my toothbrush and bag of toiletries and flung open the medicine cabinet to see what else I needed. Speed was everything: The longer I waited, the more of a target I was, and it was starting to get dark outside because of the bad weather. There was nothing in the cabinet that I couldn't get in San Francisco. Move, move, move.

It was when I shut the cabinet door that I got my next shock of the day. I hardly recognized the face that stared back at me, those panic-widened eyes and two feverish patches on pale cheeks. Jesus, I looked like an animal that knew it was running into a snare.

And that was just what he wanted.

I went out to sit on my bed to consider. That thing in the box was not a subtle message, not something sly that someone like Tony might think of. It was meant to provoke a blind-running terror and it had worked just fine.

Well, to hell with that.

I emptied my suitcase and began to pack in a more orderly fashion. Folding clothing, I studied the situation. Running wasn't the answer; I couldn't just expect my problems to vanish by hiding in California. And appealing as that was, it just wasn't realistic to imagine I could just chuck everything and never come back.

The more I thought about it, the more the doll bothered me. Apart from the vulgarity of the thing, it just didn't make sense. That wasn't the way that Tony would make a threat. He was too erudite, too cagey, and this was just too .. . obvious. The only reason Tony would do something like that was if he were spooked, in a panic.

Then I must be getting close to something.

By the time I finished packing properly, I was much calmer. I knew I had to keep after this thing; the doll only underscored the fact that I was onto something. I wasn't going to dismiss my suspicions about Tony now; my instincts were right, and for the right reasons. No one's sent burned toys to Sheriff Stannard. There must be a clue that
I've
overlooked.

I got a package of frozen macaroni and cheese out of the freezer and heated it up. While I ate the comforting, gooey mess, I decided that I'd fly out to Brian tomorrow, but I'd be back Sunday night as I planned. He and I would find the key to this mess. Monday I'd hand the doll over to Stannard and let him take a crack at this. I wasn't done here by a long shot, and if Tony or anyone else wanted to scare me, well, they'd just have to come up with something a little more impressive than tortured dolls to do it.

In spite of my good intentions, however, the next morning I was a zombie. After tossing and turning all night, I finally fell asleep at five, only to have the alarm go off an hour
later. I tried to go for a run before I ate, usually a sure cure for what ailed me, but I came back limping and winded rather than clear-headed. My beloved java burned my tongue. The weather didn't help any, the oppressive low-pressure bank threatening to open up with another corker of a storm, and now it was suffocating and damp. I crossed the quad feeling thick and stodgy and was irritated to find out that the elevator wasn't working. Huffing and puffing, I had just enough awareness to be glad that I made it to my office without seeing any of my colleagues: By now word must be getting around that I was losing my mind. Jenny had agreed to take my intro class, telling me I needed to ease up on myself.

Nothing I did dislodged whatever it was I supposedly knew from the deep recesses of my brain. I was driving myself crazy to no good effect, so I did the best I could, staring at an unread book on my desk, waiting for the clock to tell me it was one o'clock and time to begin the trek to Portland. Three hours to go.

As the skies finally opened up outside, my glance fell on the scrap of paper with the Madrid archive's phone number. After all the trouble with Rick the day Tony and I butted heads in the main office, I'd forgotten to ask for it and Chuck Huxley dug it up for me later. The only thing about it that suggested a connection between Tony and Penitence Point was the fact that it was just days after he returned from Spain that he telephoned me at the dorm so suddenly. The package from Spain. The archive stamp on the photocopied map.

I'm such an idiot, I thought. Ten to one the stamp on the map is the same archive that Tony visited. They could tell me what the rest of the document was.

Oddly, though, it took me a minute to pick up the phone and make the call. This act was my very last glimmer of hope. It takes a long time to decide to play your last card when it's a deuce and the loan sharks are waiting outside. It was my last chance to play a
rational part in this investiga
tion and to understand how all these disjointed parts fit together.