The Summer Bones (33 page)

How on earth would I know?
He admitted, “No.”

“Oh.” She studiously unfolded her napkin, settling it in her lap as she sat. “That's where I've been. With my mother in Indianapolis.” She finally lifted her chin and looked at him. “I wasn't sure if you knew.”

“I didn't.” Danny picked up his glass. He refused to let the name Dale Hanson come into their conversation. “How about a toast?”

Laura put tentative fingers on her glass but didn't lift it.

“To this evening,” he said quietly. “To a lovely meal.”

She looked relieved, as if she anticipated him making assumptions about their relationship. “Tonight,” she agreed firmly and drank.

Danny had to agree with her mother. The wine tasted terrific. He began to eat, savoring each bite of the first home-cooked meal he'd had in quite some time. The richness of the wine, the herb-flecked sauce on the pasta, the hot clean taste of the bread, they all came together to make him feel quite different at the end of the meal than he did at the beginning.

“Thank you,” he said sincerely afterward when she was taking away his empty plate. They had not spoken much while eating—just a few pleasantries, both of them treading around the emotional land mines that lurked in every exchange, in every meeting of the eyes or casual remark.

“You look beat.” She sat back down and brooded at him from over the top of her wineglass. Something about her had changed; he knew that. He had sensed it immediately, from the second she had stepped out of the shower—a peace, maybe, an inner accord that had been conspicuously absent since they had moved to Mayville. It lived in her eyes and the set of her mouth.

He was wary of the change. As if she could read this errant thought, she dropped her eyes again and studied the tabletop. He said simply, “Today was pretty hard. I would say it ranks right up there with some of the worst I've had. We found evidence that Hallie's boyfriend might be involved in her death and we questioned him.” He gave her a grim little smile. “He broke down and confessed.”

“He killed her?” Laura looked sorrowful, as she always did when confronted with the grim side of his job. “That young boy?”

“He said it was an accident. That they were out parking there by where we found her body—it's pretty well known in town that kids do that on Keller's property—and they argued. They were drinking some whiskey he had stolen from his mother and both of them were a little drunk. That's what he claims.”

Danny stared at the wine in his glass but saw only the twisted, frightened features of a young man who was not quite yet a man, confessing his nightmare like lancing a festering wound. Once they'd gotten him started, once he'd admitted to hiding the clothes, he couldn't talk fast enough. It had apparently been quite a burden to carry around.

Laura said nothing, just looked at him with those incredible gray eyes, her chin resting on her fist.

He heard his voice say matter-of-factly, “They had sex. He admitted that. For the first time, he claims. She got upset afterward, worried too late about birth control, about her father, and what they'd done. Randy claims he tried to reason with her, but I get the impression he simply reminded her what was done was done.”

Laura made a sound of dismay in her throat.

“At any rate, they argued and she got out of the car, completely hysterical. He was yelling at her, telling her to get back in, especially as she was practically naked. She took off across the cornfield and he got out to chase her.”

At that point of the story, Randy had been sobbing—nose dripping, eyes running, chin wobbling. Pino had watched with unfathomable calm, knowing when to interject a question, when to simply wait into a long moment, when to shake his head or take notes. He had gotten more from Randy than Danny ever would have by himself. It rankled a little to face that fact.

“He caught up with her easily—he's a track runner—at the edge of the woods there. She was sobbing, fighting him. He claims she tripped and fell. She went down and didn't get up. She must have hit her head on a large rock; we found one where he said we would. It didn't take him long to see it was bad; she wasn't moving, there was blood everywhere, a gaping injury to the front of her head, and he panicked. Ran back to the truck and took off. He said he felt first for a pulse, but I'd bet he didn't. Not drunk and whacked out over what had happened.” Shoulders drooping, Danny reached for his wine and drained the glass.

Horrified, Laura said, “You mean she might have been alive and he left her there?”

He responded briefly. “I saw the damage done to her skull. I doubt she was alive, but I suppose it is possible. The medical examiner can sometimes tell us that, but sometimes he can't. Not with skeletal remains.”

“I can't bear to think of that. That he left her when she was still alive. I can't, Danny.” Face averted, she swallowed. “What's going to happen now?”

“He's a juvenile, which is a blessing in this case. I believe his version of what happened, besides a few minor details. The bulk of what he told us was the truth. Pino, my partner on this thing, agrees.”

“Her poor family.”

“And his.”

“Yes, I guess so. And his.”

Danny got up to put his glass by the sink. He was surprised he didn't have a headache, but that was how they went—unpredictable, unyielding as hell when they came on. “I'm just glad it's over,” he told his wife morosely. “It's an ugly little tragedy, but at least her family will know it's over.”

“What about the other case? What about Emily Sims? That was on the news in Indianapolis.”

“We have a small lead. Nothing I can talk about.”

Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would see if he'd get a crime scene team to go over the Mercedes belonging to Ronald Sims. According to the medical examiner, if he had transported a body with her injuries there had likely been blood dripping from her nose and mouth. Maybe they would find something.

Laura stood up. She moved around the table in her graceful way. She was wearing denim shorts and a thin T-shirt with no bra. His pulse gave a leap as she stepped close to him and touched his cheek, a feather brush of light fingers. “Let's forget it all, okay?” Her voice was husky. “For tonight. Remember our toast? Tonight we'll forget what you do for a living and just go to bed.”

She'd used almond-scented lotion on her skin and he could smell it vividly. He touched her hair, ran a questing finger over her mouth, and looked into her eyes.

Tonight. No questions. No memories. No murders
.
He nodded and followed her into their bedroom.

* * * *

Eleven thirty.
Damon stood in the parlor and watched a pale moon wash the cornfields into a silvery army poised at the edge of the lawn. The telephone receiver was cool in his hand and he listened to the ring on the other end punctuate the silence of Victoria's apartment. Her mobile phone was apparently turned off. This was all he had. He'd been trying for hours.

She'd left the farm right after noon. Even if she had decided to stop and talk to Gail as she had mentioned, she should have been back in Chicago by five or six. Indy to Chicago was only a four-hour drive.

No answer. He was beginning to feel desperate. He could picture her waving out the window of her little blue car as she drove off, the sunlight making gold out of her chestnut hair. The incipient fear that it might be the last time he would see her was making him crazy.
Two women,
he kept thinking dully,
had simply vanished.
Now they were both dead. Where is Victoria?

She had promised to call when she got home and for all he knew she might have while he was out working—especially now that his grandmother didn't seem to notice the ringing phone. But Victoria knew that and would keep trying.

Hanging up, he ran his hand through his hair and wondered what to do. He was reluctant to call Michael Roberts, which was a logical next step. His own feelings aside, Michael may not appreciate being disturbed at this particular hour. Victoria had not been specific about her plans to contact Michael. It was doubtful she would wait until they were together at the office to break off their relationship. Maybe they were together right at this moment.

He didn't like the idea. Jealousy was something he'd gotten used to, like breathing. The concept of Victoria visiting Michael first thing upon her return to Chicago, much less staying until this late, made him twinge with the old unhappiness. He hovered by the phone, his restlessness more oppressive in the overblown closeness of the parlor, his nerves stretching thinner by the second.

At one, he decided to go to bed. At two, he knew he couldn't sleep. By three, Victoria still wasn't answering her phone.

He waited until five to call Danny Haase at his home.

It was as if a nightmare had forgotten the perimeters of sleep and spread itself unfairly into the day. Danny sat at the kitchen table and stared into his coffee cup, trying hard not to think, not to feel. He'd woken up to the news that Victoria Paulsen was possibly missing. He'd also woken up alone.

Not entirely alone, if he thought about it. His gaze lifted and studied the pile of papers on the table to his right.
Great,
he thought with black, desolate fury,
just fucking great.
Laura had shown up last night—showered, cooked him dinner, and then made love with him like it was their first time. No, better than their first time. She now knew what he liked, knew how to drive him crazy, and had used every bit of that knowledge to make their last night together something he would remember. He had to hand it to her, as an exit, it was pretty spectacular. She must have slipped out right after he fell asleep.

Moving his hand, he picked up the top piece of paper and looked it over. She'd filed for legal separation. Divorce was the next logical step. He was supposed to sign the agreement and give it to his attorney.

He didn't have an attorney.

Hell.

The coffee tasted bitter. He forced himself to divert his thoughts. Doing the job, the job that had cost him his wife, was the only thing that could distract him from the disaster of his personal life. He frowned, rubbing his temples and pondering Damon's frantic call. He'd issued an alert for Victoria's car, but didn't know what else to do.
There
is no serial killer,
he told himself. Hallie Helms had died in a tragic accident. It was true he didn't know who had killed Emily Sims, but he had his suspicions of her husband. Victoria was most likely just out of touch from her phone and Paulsen was overreacting.

Getting up, he dumped the coffee into the sink. Most of the dishes were left from dinner, sauce encrusted like blood against the cream and gray of the china. The debris seemed to accurately represent his life; ruins among the memories. It reflected Laura as well, who wasn't particularly good at finishing what she started. He didn't pick up a dish or run the water. He simply went to the bedroom and got his gun from the drawer where it rested when he wasn't wearing it. Fitting it into his holster made him feel he was on the job. He left the house as it was, even the rumpled sheets of his bed, which he would face later.

* * * *

The world was black, with tinges of gray at the edges like a light glowing behind a dark screen. Even in the sea of pain it was easy to register the darkness and be frightened by it.

Pain.

Darkness.

Fear.

Her face was sticky. Victoria lifted a hand with effort and touched her cheek. She was laying on something hard, no softness under her head or cradling her body. Her mouth was dry. Her right shoulder ached unmercifully. She had drifted for hours, or at least it seemed hours, for she knew she had awakened at least twice before and then gone back into oblivion.

The room smelled odd. This knowledge was the first to penetrate the fog and pain. Her shoulder hurt. Her head hurt and she was lying on the floor of a room that smelled faintly of oils and turpentine.

Time passed.

She drifted.

Her surroundings solidified into pale walls and oblong skylights. If she tilted her chin just slightly she could see bare floor stretching out from where she lay. She swallowed, working throat muscles with considerable effort. This time she floated to the surface and was apparently going to stay conscious. Snippets were coming back, hazily—her discovery of Emily's briefcase, finding that tiny betraying card in the hidden pocket, leaving the farm, going to see Gail and not finding Gail at all, but instead … Ronald.

Ronald. Turpentine and oil.

Sluggishly, Victoria rolled a bit, wincing at the pain that stabbed relentlessly through her arm. Sure enough, the looming images of easels and bare floor stretched out under the ghostly illumination of skylights. She was in Ronald's studio, lying unceremoniously on the floor—damaged, sore, and alone.

There were still bits of glass stuck to her clothing. She could feel them as she shifted position.
The door,
her mind slowly confirmed for her,
we struck the glass door at Benedict and Sims Interiors and it had broken.
She faintly recalled herself and Ronald falling into disaster in a waterfall of glass and noise.

The stickiness on her face was dried blood. She knew it because she could smell that telltale-cloying odor and see the brownish stains on her blouse.

Using her left arm, she slowly attempted to push herself upright to a half-sitting position. The room swam, then settled back into focus. The floor was hard and cool against the palm of her hand.

With as much detachment as possible, she began to assess her injuries. Tiny cuts lacerated her right arm, which she cradled against her body, but nothing looked deep or serious, and there was no more bleeding. Her shoulder ached, but she could move it slightly, which she hoped was a sign that nothing was broken. The amount of blood on her clothing seemed appalling, but as she ran trembling fingers over her face and neck, she could find no severe gashes that would account for it. Upon tentative exploration, her worst injury seemed to be her throbbing temple where a good-sized lump explained the wooziness and general nausea. She had no recollection of how she had gotten where she was.