The Summer Bones (24 page)

It was the color that caught her eye. At first she thought it was a bird, but the speck of brilliance seemed to be lodged in a tangle of yellow thistle and swamp candles about ten yards along the curve of the bank. The grass was long, impeding a clear view.

Craning her neck in mild curiosity, Victoria peered from the very edge of the path to the house, reluctant to brave the possibilities of snakes and insects. Her shoes were clutched in one hand.

She wasn't thinking about death or life. She just wondered what could be there, of that color, by the bank.

The object didn't move. Shrugging, she looked back at the house, and then slipped on her shoes. She gingerly started forward, curiosity winning out over caution.

It was red, floating brightly at the edge of the shore. She parted the long grass with careful hands and reached down to the edge of the water to pull it out. Surrounded by lilies that spread flat leaves on the water like open palms, she wasn't sure what it was until she held it, dripping, in her hand.

A shoe.

Victoria frowned. It was streaked with mud and slime, but obviously new—a red shoe. A high-heeled pump, once expensive and shiny, but beginning to disintegrate. The heel was pulling loose from the leather sole.

Dressed to the teeth … red suit … new red pumps …
the words whirled upward, in a maelstrom of recollection.

According to Gail Benedict, Emily had been wearing red shoes on the day she disappeared.

Victoria's hand began to shake. She saw that tremor, the quivering fingers, the violently dangling heel that threatened to come off at any second, with a detachment that kept her distant from the moment. She opened her nerveless hand and the shoe fell downward, landing on the slick grass. Small specks swam upward into her line of vision as she struggled to breathe. The heat, the smell of damp grass and water, the hum of the outside world, this all receded into some dark little place. She was motionless, floating, free and light.

What is Emily's shoe doing in the pond?

Her eyes skittered to the smooth expanse of water. Her chest heaved in denial. Muscles unlocked, letting her stagger backward away from the weed-choked edge.

She turned and ran.

Up the path between the slender walnut trees, the overgrowth on the sides tearing at her legs, ripping her nylon stockings to shreds. She dimly saw the opening in the fence, her brain pounding with fierce rejection, the horror of her suspicions crawling over her skin in prickly waves, her mouth dry as dust.

She pushed through the narrow opening. Her dress caught on a bit of wire, the material tearing as she heedlessly jerked away. She moved toward the house as if in a dream.

They were all still there. Uncle Jim had finished his basketball tirade and moved down off the porch to stand with Damon and Michael. Her father and grandfather were sitting on the porch swing. Jeff, Rachel's colorless husband, was perched on the railing like an awkward scarecrow, his legs hanging free.

Please.
It was a sob, a prayer. To what god, she didn't know. She stumbled once on the uneven ground and fell to her knees, jarring her wrist as she automatically broke her fall. Heads turned.

She pulled herself up. They were all staring now, falling silent. She threw herself forward across the gravel of the lane, sending bits of white rock flying. Her breathing was raspy, loud in her ears, filling the afternoon.

Refuge
. She sought refuge like a lifeline—a safe place. Comfort. It was a mindless, needy, selfish longing.

She crossed the lawn. Her wrist had begun a dull thumping ache. One of her shoes had come off in that headlong flight. She saw the sea of male astonished faces before her—mouths opening, eyes wide with question, heads turning. But there might as well have only been one person standing there, one destination.

Damon caught her as she threw herself at him. His arms folded around her and she heard him say her name.

* * * *

“What the hell's the matter?” Jim Paulsen bellowed the words. He stared at his niece's bent head, her face buried against his son's white shirt.

Damon barely heard his father's bewildered question. Victoria was trembling; small inner quakes of involuntary movement. She had flung herself into his arms with such force that he had almost lost his balance and sent them both backward onto the grass. Right now, she was pressed so tightly against his body that he could feel every curve, every breath.

He had seen her coming, they all had—Uncle Richard first, who had mumbled something about not seeing her leave the house. Following his gaze, Damon had turned and glanced toward the barn in time to see her running along the path. She had fallen, then picked herself up without pause, flinging forward again. Her legs were scratched. Her dress was torn. Aside from a streak of dirt on her cheek, she was ghostly pale. He had felt his heart tighten in an ominous frisson of foreboding and dread. But though his gaze raked the path behind her, the sapling woods, the walnut trees, he could see nothing to inspire such headlong flight and distress.

“Tori?” His hands moved, smoothing her hair, sliding down her back, circling her waist. She shook, clinging to him, still not lifting her face from his shoulder. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” it was a whisper.

Michael Roberts stood not two feet away, arms at his sides. He didn't move a muscle or say a word; he just stood staring. No one else spoke either.

“What is it?” He moved his hands to her shoulders, speaking softly as one would to a child, “Please … tell me. What is it? What is it?”

She shivered and at least tried. “Damon.”

His arms tightened. Her voice was so thin and high he could barely hear it.

“I found her shoe,” she whispered.

“What?” He leaned closer, smelled the soft scent of her hair. Saw the jerk of muscles in her throat as she swallowed. “What shoe?”

“Emily's shoe. It was in the pond. A red shoe, like she was wearing the day she disappeared.” The words tumbled out, incoherent but clear enough to make him grow cold inside. Victoria didn't lift her head, mumbling against his chest, “I think I've found her, Damon. I think she's there, in the pond.”

He closed his eyes. The sun still blazed against his lids in a reddish haze.

“What'd she say?” his grandfather demanded harshly.

Danny Haase took an antacid tablet out of his pocket and popped it into his mouth. He chewed reluctantly, wanting the relief but hating the taste. Unless nutritionists the world over decided to change the four basic foods groups to grease, nitrates, nitrites, and artificial coloring, he was going to have to stop eating at the Dairy Twist every day. The chili dog he had consumed for lunch sat like lead in his stomach.

Pino poked at the edge of the weeds, his head tilted to the side, more thinking than looking for anything. Sharp dark eyes scanned the serene expanse of water, but his face revealed nothing. They had already taken photographs of the red high-heeled pump and it was bagged and labeled. Since Victoria Paulsen had admitted to pulling it out of the water, the pictures probably wouldn't mean much anyway.

“Thirteen days,” Danny spoke abruptly. “Emily Sims was last seen thirteen days ago. You and I both know the body would have risen to the surface by now. According to Elmer Paulsen, this pond is only about twelve feet at the deepest point, though that seems hard to tell because it's so damn murky. The water is fairly warm; that's why there's so much suspended algae. Decomposition rates are hard to figure in water, but I'd guess that anyone who went in there”—he crooked a finger at the shimmering surface—”would be a floater in roughly a week.”

Detective Pino spoke. “Unless, of course, they went in like Jimmy Hoffa. A little cement goes a long way.”

It didn't seem likely that anyone would dispose of Emily Sims' body that way when there were so many places to hide or bury a body in the area. Still, the pond was not close to the house and, of course, there was the shoe. Grimly, Danny scanned the bank, his gaze moving slowly across the weed-choked edges of the water, his stomach churning. Then he glanced back to where the bulk of an old and enormous barn practically hid the house from view.

“Shit,” he muttered. The glare from the water was giving him a headache to go along with his upset stomach.

Pino straightened, wiping his hand on his uniform trousers. “What?”

“Nothing,” Danny sighed heavily. “What do you think?” He almost hated to ask, since he was pretty sure he was going to get back an echo of his worst fears. In the past days of working with Cal Pino, he had learned to expect emotionless and concise feedback.

Pino didn't hesitate. “I think that this”—he pointed to the spot where Victoria Paulsen had found the shoe—”is a damned funny spot for some nice lady to drop an expensive new shoe. Look around, there's no trash, no other debris. This is private property and someone from the family is missing. Emily Sims was wearing red shoes on the day she disappeared. I say if we found her shoe next to the water, then we should look in the water.”

Danny shook his head. The sun glinted downward. The water moved slightly in liquid grace, lapping at the shore, reflecting the image of the two of them—uniforms, sidearms, gray faces. It smelled clean there, like his memories of childhood—grass, warm earth, water, and sunshine. He still couldn't see why Laura didn't want to grasp it, to live it, like he did.

Laura.
He would have to think about her later.

“I'm afraid you're right,” he told Pino. He ran his fingers through his short hair, felt the sweat and ache seep deep into his bones. He wanted nothing less than another dead girl.

“I'm very afraid you're right,” he repeated softly.

“Hate to tell you, Haase, but I got a sixth sense about shit like this. And this stinks to high heaven.”

* * * *

It was like being in a bad play—the general air of disorganization, of people not knowing where to sit, or how loudly to speak, or what to say. Overall, too, was the aura of consternation, the waiting for the end to come with both anticipation and dread. Only there was no audience, the stage was the lives of ordinary people, and the players were simply part of a family who were afraid their worst fears were going to be realized with a macabre twist they never dreamed.

Seventeen rescue vehicles crammed the lane. Victoria counted them—ambulances, fire trucks, police cars, and volunteer emergency trucks and cars with small blue lights perched on the roofs. Two vehicles, if she understood properly, were from the Indiana Conservation Department. A diving team, Michael had explained reluctantly, trained to find bodies underwater.

Wonderful.
The sarcasm had stuck in her throat. She struggled, as the afternoon wore on, to maintain composure in the face of deteriorating nerves. By five o'clock she sat and numbly watched out the kitchen window as men moved to and from the cars scattered all over the drive. It was impossible to clearly see what was going on at the pond. The trees were simply too thick.

“Drink this.” Aunt Kate handed her a cup of coffee.

Wrapping her fingers around the handle, Victoria could smell the rich warm aroma mingled with something fragrant and heady. “Brandy?” Her attempted smile was faint and strained. “The cure for all ills.”

“Can't hurt.” Kate leaned on the counter next to her and followed her gaze. “We'll know soon enough, honey. I say no news is good news.”

The sun had meandered measurably toward the west. The slanting rays gave the afternoon a peaceful look, an ebbing of the heat and day. The corn lifted browning stalks in worship. Victoria said woodenly, “Emily wouldn't have drowned in the pond. It's not possible.”

“No.”

“She was an excellent swimmer. This is probably all for nothing, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Kate moved a slim hand sympathetically and touched Victoria's arm.

“Besides, the body would have been seen, wouldn't it?” She watched as a county sheriff's deputy approached his patrol car, reached in the window, and began to talk on his radio. “That's how it works, even I know that much. The body floats to the surface. I've been out to the pond several times since I've been home. I went out there with Damon last Monday night when I arrived. There was nothing.”

“I can't answer your questions. I just don't know what to say.” Kate took a long, hot sip from her cup and shuddered. “Jim and Damon are out there. They know we're waiting.”

It was awful. The waiting. Michael was out there, too. As was her grandfather. Once again, the thought occurred with a jag of cynicism, the women were inside, huddled together like the survivors of a wagon train massacre—the weak, the terrified, the protected.

“I'm going out,” Victoria declared. She set her cup unsteadily on the counter. Coffee slopped over the rim and onto her fingers and she wiped it off thoughtlessly on her dress. Her wrist still ached, but she welcomed that distraction, that pain. From the table, Rachel lifted her head and said tartly, “You'll be in the way, Tori. For God's sake, stay here.”

For God's sake.

“What about for Emily's sake?” she asked coldly. “I'm going.”

She left Kate standing there with troubled eyes and a half-empty cup, and went out the back door. The air was still hot, but calm and not as humid. The porch steps creaked as she went down them.

It turned out she didn't have to go far. Danny Haase met her halfway across the lawn. His shirt was soaked, his hands muddy. They had spoken earlier, when she had detailed her finding of the shoe, and he had looked strained, as if the situation was personally distressing.

He stopped when he saw her coming. He stood, hands at his sides. More people were moving beyond him, like a wave of activity, spurred by something that surpassed even the heat of the afternoon.

Now, Danny looked more than distressed. He looked positively pale. Sweat glistened on his forehead and across his upper lip.
He'd been
headed toward the house,
she realized with dread.