The Bones Will Speak (19 page)

“Yes.”

“I did receive a subpoena.”

He didn't speak for a moment. “Do you have a child? A daughter?”

I gripped the phone tighter. “Why?”

“I heard about the dump site and young girl on television, did some calling around, then drove down from Medicine Hat, Alberta, to talk to you. But not over the phone. Not to sound melodramatic, but you and your daughter are in great danger.”

I leaned on the desk, my legs suddenly weak. “Why can't you tell me over the phone?”

“I need to give you something.”

“Put it in the mail. Or UPS. Or FedEx.”

“You wouldn't get it in time. And time is something we don't have.”

“Where and when?”

“Tonight. Ten thirty. There's an all-night restaurant north of you on Highway 93. A town called Florence—”

“I know it.”

“Country Inn. Make sure you aren't followed.”

“How will I know you?”

“I'll know you.” The line went dead.

My hand shook slightly as I hung up. “Could you keep Aynslee a bit longer tomorrow? It could be a late night, but I may get some more answers to our questions.”

“Sure. And since I won't see you before church, you be careful at that service tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” I explained what I had planned for the following day.

“Are you taking your gun tonight?”

I made a wry face at her. “My choices are a bit limited right now. I can go into the café with a pink camouflage rifle and be laughed out of the building by the locals, or I can be Barney Fife and take my SIG Sauer with the single bullet.”

Before Beth could answer, Aynslee entered with a backpack. “Mom, Beth, if we're going to eat before the movie . . .?”

I checked my watch. “I didn't realize it was so late.”

“I've put my notes on your desk,” Beth said.

“Thanks, Beth.” I trailed after the two and locked the door behind them. The house suddenly felt cold and empty. I retrieved an old, snaggy sweater from my bedroom
.

Returning to my studio, I clicked on the radio for company, then continued to work on the facial reconstruction. Measuring down nine millimeters from the frontozygomatic suture, I placed a dot. A second dot on my paper marked the lacrimal crest. I drew
a line between the two points to place the eye, then used a circle template to draw the iris.

I calculated the upper and lower lip thickness by measuring the teeth, and marked a point between the first premolar-canine junction. Sketching in the wings five millimeters outside of the nasal aperture, I roughed in her nose. Her face took shape under my rapidly moving pencil. A face I knew very well.

She looked like my daughter.

“The signature, Dave!”

Dave held the phone away from his ear to keep from going deaf.

“There's absolutely no doubt of it,” Gwen said. “I know his signature.”

“Whoa, hold on, Gwen. You don't need to shout. I appreciate yours and Beth's research, but you're not becoming a rookie sleuth and trying to solve this on your own. I told you I'd take care of it.” He took a sip of the tea, then quickly spit it into the garbage.

“But there's another body that looks like Aynslee. I need to interview Mattie Banks. She's the key, and I'm the only one who can draw the face of this killer. I just finished sketching the woman in the grave at the McCandless farm—”

“Wait, stop right there! Who authorized you to reconstruct that face?”

“Well—”

“And why are you even thinking about Mattie Banks?”

“Because—”

“Both those cases are under Missoula's jurisdiction for now. Under no circumstances do I want you within a country mile of Mattie or anything to do with the McCandless farm. Do I make myself clear?”

Click
, then a dial tone.

Dave dry-washed his face, stood, and moved to the display. He removed the original sketch of the Jane Doe from the cow pasture, slipped it into a large envelope, and wrote Craig's name on it. Craig could work on the girl's identity. After looking up the number, he dialed Jeannie. The call went to voice mail. He left a message to call him.

Tugging out the duty roster, he checked to see who he had to work the torchlight parade. The answer was grim. He didn't have a spare officer to keep an eye on Gwen. He'd have to convince her to find a safe place to stay until Monday. Otherwise, she was on her own.

CHAPTER TWENTY

AFTER COPYING THE RECONSTRUCTION
, I TUGGED another piece of foam core from the closet, took it to my office, and taped up the sketch. I added duplicates of the other drawings across the top of the board, a photo of Aynslee, then sat at my desk. I'd attached my county map to the display I'd given Dave, but I might have a second one. Tapping a pencil against the drafting table, I searched my brain.

I'd used a county map when I did the art show.

Returning to the studio, I moved to the center of the room and stared at the bookshelves against the wall. Below were cupboards containing art supplies.

Map. Flat. With miscellaneous papers? I opened a cupboard and pulled out a black zippered portfolio underneath a stack of cut mats. A map was in the second divider. I took it to the office, opened it, and taped it to the foam core.

Someone knocked at the front door.

I jumped, knocking a tray of drawing tools off the desk and
to the floor.
Doggone it!
I'd just shattered the graphite in every pencil. Leaving the mess, I charged to the door and peeked out.

Robert.

The hot flash shot up my neck and onto my face. I leaned against the wall until it passed.

Robert knocked again, harder.

I fluffed my short hair, then yanked open the door. Robert froze, arm still raised to knock again. “Well. Hi. I wasn't sure you heard me.”

He looked good. He'd had his hair styled, and his shoulders looked fuller, as if he'd been working out. His nails were professionally trimmed, and he smelled of expensive cigar.

I put my hands behind my back. “Come in.”

Robert sauntered to the center of the room and slowly turned in a circle, staring as if he'd never seen the furnishings before. Aynslee'd left a half-filled glass of soda on the rustic end table. The sofa, a massive leather monstrosity Robert fell in love with years ago, showed stains where I'd dropped a glass of red wine last year. My torn gray sweatshirt draped over an antique Eastlake chair, and muddy shoes peered from under the battered cedar chest that served as a coffee table. “What do you want, Robert?” My voice sounded strained. “Are you back for the last of your stuff?”

“No, I got it all last time. Besides, the access door to the attic is broken.”

I strolled to the hall and looked up at the ceiling. “Nice to tell me this now. Were you going to fix it?”

“No. It's not my problem.”

“So how will I get the Christmas ornaments—”

“I'm not here about the attic or ornaments. We need to talk.”

“Aren't we doing that now?”

“You know why I'm here.”

“No.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Don't play stupid. You're far more clever than that.”

I tapped my head. “Maybe it's my chemo brain.”

“Gwen—”

“You know, you wrote about it in your tell-all book. Damaged goods. Isn't that what you called me?”

“Can you just put all that behind you and move on?”

“I have moved on.”

Robert ran a hand through his hair. “I didn't come here to argue.”

“Good, then get to the point. I have work to do.”

Robert held up a Missoula newspaper. “I saw the photo of the girl Winston found. She looks like Aynslee. A lot.”

A hot flash burned across my face. I waited until I could speak in a normal voice. “She has a slight resemblance to our daughter. So?”

He ignored me and moved to the studio, stopping dead when he saw the original photograph of the girl in the cow pasture still on the light table. His face blanched. “So.” He cleared his throat. “Another one.”

“That's a case I'm working on and none of your business.”

Robert spun on me. “None of my business? There's a serial killer murdering less than half a mile from our home, and his choice of victims looks like my daughter.” His voice rose. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Aynslee!”

“She's safe. She's with Beth. You're the one who wanted to see me alone—”

“Don't change the subject—”

“I'm not.” I placed a piece of paper over the mauled girl's face. “This woman was killed by wolves. It's a coincidence that she looks like Mattie Banks.” I turned and jabbed a finger at him.

“Liar.”

I couldn't meet his gaze. “Why are you calling me a liar?”

“Gwen, I was married to you for sixteen years. I listened to you when you gave your deception programs. Your pointing finger came at the wrong time, after your statement, not before, then you had a significant pause, followed by a question.”

“So what?” I sounded like a truculent child.

“So, I'm not leaving Aynslee with you while you try to catch this guy.”

“I have a gun, you know. I'm capable of protecting her.”

Robert pivoted and raced from the room. I followed. He entered my bedroom, opened the closet, and pulled down my SIG Sauer.

“Put that back,” I said.

He checked the clip. “Just as I thought. One bullet. Did you bother to buy more?”

“Bullets are expensive. Put it back.”

Robert returned the pistol to the shelf, then turned to me. “I'm taking my daughter away from here.”

I didn't want to be in my bedroom with Robert. Turning, I left the room and strolled to the living room. “Aynslee's been trying to call you for the past few days. You weren't home, or at least not answering your phone.” I put my hands on my hips.

“See? She wants to be with me.”

“Hardly. She wanted to go to some movies in Missoula. Vampire stuff. I said no.”

“At least you got that right.”

“Why are you suddenly so fired up to see your daughter?”

Robert ticked the reasons off on his fingers. “Number one, because she's my daughter. Number two, there's a killer loose. Number three, I have someone she needs to meet.”

“I'm not going to let you take her under some stupid pretense of safety just so you can parade her in front of your adoring readers—”

“I want her to meet my fiancée.”

My legs became weak and I reached back to find the sofa, then sank down. “Your fiancée?” I said faintly.

“Yes. I'm getting married.”

I didn't know what to do with my hands. I finally laced my fingers together and stared at them. “Isn't this rather sudden?”

“Not at all. I've known her for several years.”

I looked at him. “
Several
years? We've only been divorced for a year and a half.”

Robert shrugged. “I'll pick Aynslee up tomorrow.”

“You can't do that!” I jumped to my feet.

“Sure I can. Every other weekend. She can come for Sunday, at any rate.”

“But it's not your weekend to have her.”

“I missed a few. Remember the clause where it said I could make up weekends or days if my work took me out of town?”

“Your work?”

“Book signings, you know.”

“Not really. Are you planning on spending the day with her? All day? Just the afternoon? Every minute? What are you going to do if she hates your girlfriend?”

Robert glanced away. “Fiancée.”

“Whatever. Unless you are going to sit at home with her, or take her with you if you decide to socialize with your . . .” I couldn't say the word. “She needs to be with me.”

A blood vessel pounded in Robert's forehead. “You're less than half a mile from where that girl was found.”

“And you live in Missoula, where Mattie was abducted!”

“If I have to, I'll get a court order.”

My hands ached, and I made an effort to loosen my fists. “You know I can't afford a lawyer.” I took a deep breath. “The best way to keep her safe is to find the killer. That's what I'm doing—”

“See? That's what I mean. You're
looking
for this guy. You seem to think that just because no one has taken revenge on a forensic artist in the past, you're safe. But you're lying to yourself. All I have to do is tell the court about how much danger Aynslee was in just seven months ago when that madman—”

“That was an isolated incident!”

“Hardly. What about that serial killer in Spokane?”

“What are you talking about? That was years ago, and I was never in danger . . .” Something tugged at my memory. Something I needed—

“You had to leave home to work on the case. What are you going to do if you have another case where you need to be gone? Park Aynslee back in a juvie school? Kennel her like Winston?”

“Get out!” My voice shook.

“I will. But I'll be back.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

MY HANDS WERE STILL SHAKING AS I WATCHED
the taillights of Robert's Porsche disappear around the driveway. So, Robert was getting married.

I should have seen this coming. Robert wasn't one to go solo long, but I thought his casual affairs with beautiful women, designer clothes, and an ultramodern bachelor's pad would keep him busy.

Leaning my head against the living room window, I took a long, shuddering breath. The poignant sound of Kenny G's “Going Home” floated from the radio.
You told Beth there was no way you'd ever reconcile with Robert.

“That's true,” I whispered. “But why does it hurt so much?” Swallowing hard, I pushed away from the window. “Stop it!” I raced into the studio and snapped off the radio. I wanted to throw it on the floor and stomp it to electronic smithereens.