by Nora Roberts
the big deed. But she was romantic, like the novels she read, and had always pictured herself falling wildly and uncontrollably in love with someone exciting, rebellious, and probably unsuitable.
Ernie filled all the requirements.
He was even sort of spookily good-looking and brooding, the way Sally had always pictured Heathcliff, her favorite tragic hero. The fact that she sensed a mean streak in him only added to the mystique. It had been a simple matter to convince herself she was in love with him. And he with her.
Her mother had talked to her very frankly about sex, birth control, responsibilities, consequences. The specters of AIDS, of unwanted pregnancies, of abortion, combined with her fevered desire to go to college and study journalism had been more than enough deterrent to make her keep her head with Josh.
Ernie Butts was a different matter.
When he had taken her into his room, all thoughts of responsibility, the future, her mother's caring and practical words faded.
He'd lit dark candles, had put on music that burned in her blood. He hadn't asked. He hadn't joked or fumbled like Josh. He'd been rough, and that frightened her at first. Then he had done things, things that her mother never told her about. Things that had made her cry out and sob and scream. And hunger.
Even thinking of it now had her wet and throbbing.
She had gone back to him, night after night, with the excuse of a chemistry project she no longer cared about. Mixed with the blind, terrible need she had for him was fear. She knew, as women do, that he was cooling toward her, that he was sometimes thinking of someone else when he buried himself inside her.
She wanted reassurance. Craved it.
She parked at the pump and got out, knowing she looked her best in the skimpy shorts and tank top. Sally was justifiably proud of her legs—the longest and shapeliest in the cheerleading squad. She'd dipped into her mother's hoarded cache of White Shoulders and spent an hour wrapping her hair in Benders to turn it into a mass of spiraling curls.
She felt very mature and sophisticated.
When Ernie strolled out, she leaned against the car door and smiled. “Hi.”
“Hi. Need some gas?”
“Yeah.” She tried not to be disappointed that he didn't kiss her. After all, he wouldn't even hold her hand in school. “I'm sure glad it's Friday.” She watched him fit the nozzle into the tank, looking at his hands, his long, bony fingers, and remembering. “One more week, and we graduate.”
“Yeah.” Big fucking deal, Ernie thought.
She wiped her damp palms on her shorts. “Mary Alice Wesley's having a big graduation party. She said I could bring a date. Do you want to go?”
He looked at her in that odd, penetrating way he had. “I don't go to parties. How much gas do you want?”
“You might as well fill it.” She licked her lips. “Are you going to the parade tomorrow?”
“I got better things to do than stand around and watch a bunch of jerks walk down the street.”
She would be marching, too, and it hurt her that he didn't remember. Her grandfather was coming up, all the way from Richmond, with his video camera, to record her last stint as head cheerleader for Emmitsboro High. But she didn't feel like mentioning it now. “We're having a barbecue after, at my house. Just hamburgers and stuff. Maybe you could come over.”
He wasn't even interested enough to snicker at the idea of sitting in Sally's backyard, munching burgers and drinking lemonade. “I got to work.”
“Oh. Well, it goes on all day, so if you have time …” Her voice trailed off as she groped, humiliated. “I've got the car tonight, if you want to take a drive or something when you get off work.”
He looked at her again as he pulled the nozzle from the tank. Looked like Sally's tank was running on empty, too. He grinned. She was hot, all right. She'd probably drop to her knees and suck him off right then and there if he told her to.
“Why don't you come by around nine-thirty and see how I feel?”
“Okay.”
“That's fifteen-fifty for the gas.”
“Oh. I'll get my purse.”
As she bent in the car window, Clare drove in. Ernie forgot Sally existed. “Hey, Ernie.”
“Want me to fill it up?”
“Yeah.” She smiled, carefully avoiding glancing down at his pendant. “Haven't seen you in a couple of days.”
“Been busy.”
“I bet.” She rested her elbow on the window and pillowed her head. She'd just driven back from the hospital and another visit with Lisa MacDonald. She was tired but no longer guilty. “You must have a lot going, with graduation just a week away.”
“Your friends are still here.”
“They're going to stay for the parade tomorrow. You going?”
He only shrugged.
“I wouldn't miss it,” Clare went on. “I hear they're going to be selling fried dough. I have a real weakness for fried dough.”
“Ernie. Here's the money.” Sally walked up to stand between them. She tossed back her long fall of hair and shot Clare a cool look. “I guess you've got customers to wait on, so I'll come by later.”
Sure.
Clare watched the girl go back to her car and rev the engine. “So, who was that?”
“Sally? She's nobody.”
“Sally Simmons?” With a laugh, Clare reached in her purse for her wallet. “Christ, I used to baby-sit for her. I'd better go home and pull out the rocking chair.” She paid him, feeling a lot lighter of heart. Surely there was nothing more normal than a kid with a jealous girlfriend. “See you later, Ernie.”
“Yeah. See you.” His hand closed over his pentagram as she drove away.
They needed information, desperately. How much did the MacDonald woman know? Whom had she seen? These were questions that burned in whispers from one to the other. Fear was growing, and the one who controlled them knew that fear was a weakness that led to mistakes.
The information would be gathered, as it always was.
There were those who murmured more about Clare Kimball than about the offering who had escaped. Clare, who had interfered by taking away the woman chosen for sacrifice. Clare, who had ignored or failed to understand the warning left at her door. Clare, who as a child had broken the sanctuary of the circle and seen more than a young girl's mind could bear to remember.
And Clare, who had created an idol of the Master out of metal and fire.
Some argued for her, some against. But the outcome had already been decided.
The time of watching and warning was almost done. The time to act was approaching.
* * *
Some men might have tried roses. Cam figured clichés wouldn't work with Clare. It had taken him quite some time before he decided to try anything at all. That was a matter of pride. But there was nothing like depression to make a man kick pride aside and go for broke. It was becoming harder and harder to convince his gut that whatever was going wrong with the town was due to outside influences. Yet every time he drove through it, walked through it, stood on a corner, the idea of Emmitsboro's harboring a murderer, or worse, seemed preposterous.
But Lisa MacDonald was a reality, and his first solid lead. And he had the lab report. Not all of the blood on her clothing had been hers. Lisa was type O. Some of the blood had been type A. Under her nails had been traces of skin—male Caucasian—and some black cotton fiber.
With Bud and Mick he had combed the west end of Dopper's Woods, near the spot where Clare had found Lisa, and the three of them found the trail of blood, the signs of struggle and chase. It would require more lab work, and that meant he would have to ask the mayor for an emergency increase in budget.
He wanted a couple of hours in which he didn't have to think about evidence and procedure, didn't have to remind himself that he would have to go to the hospital again to probe and poke at Lisa MacDonald's memory.
Clare was working. He could see the light on in her garage, though it was barely dusk. He had driven by
several times over the last couple of days and seen her there, bent over a worktable. But this time, he pulled into the drive.
Alice was with her, he noted, and they were chattering over the Beatles′ “A Day in the Life.”
“Go ahead and move around. It works better when you're moving.”
“I thought people had to stand real still when they posed for an artist.” Though flattered, Alice wished that Clare had asked her to pose in something other than her waitress uniform. “Is this going to be one of those modern things where nobody'll know it's me?”
“I'll know it's you.” Patiently, Clare molded and caressed the clay. “I want it very fluid. I'll cast it in bronze when I'm done.”
“My mama had Lynette's and my baby shoes bronzed.” She glanced over and smiled. “Hi, Cam.”
“Getting immortalized, Alice?”
She giggled. “Looks like.”
Not trusting her hands, Clare took them from the clay. “Something I can do for you, Sheriff?”
Cool and slick as an ice cube, he thought, and cocked a brow. “Might be.” He wrapped a hand around her arm and hauled her up. “Come on.”
“What the hell do you think you're doing? I'm working.” She shoved a clay-coated hand at him while he pulled her down the drive and Alice watched, wide-eyed. “Look, Rafferty, I don't have to tolerate this … police brutality.”
“Don't be such a jerk, Slim.” He yanked her around to the bed of Bud's pickup. “I brought you a present.”
And there was the burl, even more spectacular than she remembered.
“Oh, God.” Before he could give her a boost, she was clambering over the side of the truck and into the bed beside it. She stroked the bark reverently. “It's beautiful,” she murmured, already imagining what she would find inside.
“It's a hunk of wood,” Alice said from the other side of the truck. She was both baffled and disappointed.
“It's a mystery,” Clare told her. “And a challenge, and a gift.” She laughed at Alice's expression. “Tell you what, in a year or so when it's ready to work with, I'll make you a bowl.”
“That'd be nice,” Alice said politely, making Clare laugh again. “Wait until Angie gets a look at this.” She sat back on her heels, stroking the burl, and sent a cautious look at Cam. He said nothing, just watched her with his hands curved lightly over the side of the truck. “This was a pretty sneaky thing to do, Rafferty”
“Desperate times, Slim. Desperate measures. I figured if I brought this along, you'd have to talk to me.” He turned his hands over, palms up. “Want me to help you down?”
“I can manage.”
But when she started to swing from the truck, he put his hands around her waist. He set her feet on the ground, turned her to face him, then waited a beat. “You've got mud on your hands.”
“Clay.” Damn it, this simple contact shouldn't make her so breathless. “You'd better back up, or it'll get all over your shirt.”
“You already got it on my shirt.” He edged closer, scenting her the way a fox scented his mate. “How have you been?”
“I've been fine.” Her heart was beating fast, entirely too fast, against his.
“I guess I'll be going.” Alice cleared her throat. “I said I guess I'll run along.”
“No!” Clare swiveled out of Cam's hold. “I mean, I'd like to get another hour in, unless you're too tired.”
“I'm not too tired. But in a town this size, it doesn't pay to annoy the sheriff,” Alice teased.
“That's some very clear thinking,” Cam said and took Clare by the arm. “Why don't we step inside and talk?”
She was trying to decide whether to laugh or swear when a car drove up, horn beeping. “Hey.” A man popped up out of the sunroof. “Can a guy get a room here for the night?”
“Blair!” Clare raced down the drive and threw her arms wide as her brother climbed out of the car. He took one look at her hands and backed up.
“God, don't touch me.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Figured I'd take in a parade. Cam.” He pulled a garment bag out of the backseat before starting up the drive. “You here for a visit, or is Clare under arrest?”
Putting her under house arrest didn't seem like a bad idea, but Cam grinned and held out a hand. “Just making a delivery.” He ran a finger down Blair's lapel. “Nice suit.”
“I worked late, didn't want to take time to change. Alice, good to see you.”
“Hi, Blair.” She cursed herself for blushing. “Clare didn't say you were coming.”
“She didn't know. So …” He tugged on his sister's hair. “How're you making out?”
Clare glanced at Cam, then away. “I guess you could say it's been an eventful few weeks. Angie and Jean-Paul are here.”
“Here?” Blair's brows shot up. “In Emmitsboro?”
“For nearly a week. I think it's starting to grow on them. Listen, why don't I go in and fix some drinks?”
“I'm right behind you.”
Cam put a hand on his shoulder before he could follow. “How about giving me a hand with this present first?”
“A present? Sure.” He set his bag next to the truck and looked in. “It's a hunk of wood.”
“Yep.”
“A really big hunk of wood.” He scowled over at Cam. “This suit is fifty percent silk.”
Cam grinned, let down the tailgate, and jumped up. “Don't be a wuss, Kimball.”
“Shit.” Blair hauled himself up and put his back into it. “What's this thing for? It's giving me splinters.”
“It's a peace offering. Clare's ticked off at me.”
“Oh?”
“It's a long story. Here, I'll go down first. Christ, get a grip, will you?” he muttered when Blair almost dropped the burl on his foot. “You might be interested in the story,” he continued as they wrestled the burl out and carted it toward the side yard.
“Rafferty, stories are my life.”
“Why don't you come by the office tomorrow after the parade?”
“Okay. Anything I should know now?”
“I'm sleeping with your sister.” His eyes met Blair's stunned ones over the round of wood as it bobbled between them. “I figured we should get that out of the way first.”
“Jesus, Cam, what do you expect me to say?”
“I guess congratulations might be a bit much. Let's put it here.” He grunted as they set the burl beside the garage. He watched Blair dust off his suit. “Want to take a punch at me?”
“I'm thinking about it.”
“Before you do, I'd better tell you something I haven't gotten around to telling her yet. I love her.”
After a long stare, Blair stuck his hands in his pockets. “Well.”
“I always said you had a real gift for words.”
Feeling baffled and foolish, Blair ran a hand over his hair. “When the hell did all this happen?”
“Beats me.”
Blair blew out a long breath. “Maybe we ought to go in and have that drink.”
“You go ahead.” Cam glanced toward the house. “She isn't ready for me yet.” He started for the truck, pausing when Blair called his name.
“Cam—she's not Sarah Hewitt.”
Cam wrenched open the truck door. “Nobody knows that better than I do.”
But it was to Sarah that Cam had to go.
Clyde's was more subdued than usual for a Friday night. People were nervous. Wives were demanding that their husbands come home