by Nora Roberts
lip trembling. Sometimes it worked.
“I'm going to show a big one on Sunday afternoon, and you can go with me. You and Blair, too, if he wants.”
“Why can't I go now?”
“Because it's too late for little girls to go outside. It'll be dark soon. Look at you. You've already got your nightgown on.” Carrying her into her room. Dolls and colored pencils. “Come on now, be a good girl and kiss me good night. When you're bigger, you can be my partner. Kimball and Kimball.”
“Promise?”
“Promise. Sweet dreams, Clare.”
The door closing. Nightlight glowing. Getting up to listen. Daddy's talking to Mommy. Quiet, very quiet. Putting a doll in the bed and creeping downstairs. Out the side door and into the garage.
Wouldn't he be surprised to see she was big enough? She was good enough? Hiding in the backseat and holding back giggles with her hands.
The car starting, rolling out of the drive.
They drive and drive and it's getting dark. Hunched on the floor of the backseat, she sees the stars begin to pop out of the sky. Daddy drives fast, like he does when he's afraid he's going to be late.
The car slows, bumps. Stops. Daddy gets out of the car, opens the trunk.
Holding her breath. Holding it as she pulls up the handle. Peeks through the crack. He's walking away. The house must be there, in the trees. Hurrying after, silent in her bunny slippers.
It's dark in the trees, and he doesn't look back.
But there isn't a house. Just a place. A place with no more trees where the men stand in their black robes. Daddy takes off his clothes—that makes her giggle—and puts on a robe like the others. They wear masks, so maybe it's a party. But it's not trick-or-treat. Scary masks, like bulls and goats and mean dogs. But Mommy told her that masks are just for playing pretend, so she isn't scared.
They stand in a circle, like a game. Ring-around-the-rosy She giggles at that, the idea of the men dancing in a circle and falling down. But they stand very quietly, not speaking at all.
A bell rings.
Clare jolted up. Heart racing, she stared around the living room. Both pad and pencil lay on the floor where she had dropped them. Maybe she was too good at this, she thought, pressing the heel of her hand to her brow. When the bell rang again, she bolted out of her seat before she realized someone was at the door.
She blew out a breath, a long one, before she went to answer. When she opened it, she saw a woman starting back down the steps. “Hello?”
“Oh.” A dark-haired woman stood hesitating in the rain. “I thought you weren't home.”
“I'm sorry. Come on in, you're getting soaked.”
“I was just— Did I wake you?”
“No.” Clare got a better look at the face under the wet hat. Mid-thirties, she judged, quietly pretty with big, dark eyes as the outstanding feature. “Rocco's, right?”
“Yes. I'm Joleen Butts.”
They were both pale, for different reasons, and both tried to smile. “Would you like to come in?”
“I don't want to disturb you. I just … Yes, yes, I'd like to come in.”
Inside, Joleen looked around for a moment. Clare had already started to fill the hallway. There were tables with bowls and flowers, prints and posters on the walls she'd picked up at yard sales and flea markets. The floor where Joleen stood, dripping, was bare.
“Let me take your coat.”
“I'm sorry to disturb you in the middle of the day. You're probably working.”
“Actually, the rain's got me down.” She took Joleen's coat and hat and laid them over the newel post. “Would you like some coffee, tea?”
“No, no, don't bother.” Joleen twisted the long strand of colored beads she wore. “I, ah, noticed your work outside.”
“It looks pretty strange right now.” Feeling a little as if she were guiding a child, Clare showed her into the living room. “The noise isn't bothering you, is it?”
“Oh, no. No, it's interesting to see—what you do. I'm afraid I don't know very much about art.”
“That's okay, I don't know much about making pizza. You make a great one.”
“Thank you.” Joleen stared around the room, wishing with all her heart that she had never come. “It's an old family recipe. My maiden name's Grimaldi.”
“That explains why Ernie has Italian eyes. Sit down, please.”
Joleen lowered herself slowly to the sofa. “You know Ernie, then?”
“Yes. We got to know each other when he was modeling for me.”
“Modeling? Modeling for you?”
“Didn't he tell you?” Joleen's long, silent stares were making her uncomfortable. Clare reached for a cigarette and lighted it before continuing. “I used his arm for a clay piece.”
“His arm?”
Clare blew out smoke. “Yes, I liked the look of youth and virility. It turned out very well.” I—I see.
“I wish he'd told you. Actually, I wondered why you didn't come take a look. I have some pictures. I take them of my work for my portfolio, but it's not quite the same as seeing the sculpture itself.”
“Miss Kimball, are you having an affair with my son?”
Clare choked, coughed up smoke. “What?” Eyes huge, she pounded on her chest. “What?”
“I realize you might think it's none of my business, but Ernie's only seventeen. He'll be eighteen in November, but I feel I have a right to know as long as he's a minor—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Clare held up a hand. “Mrs. Butts, Joleen, I sculpted Ernie's arm, talked to him, gave him a couple of soft drinks. That's it. That's absolutely it. I don't know where you got the impression that—”
“From Ernie,” Joleen interrupted.
Staring, Clare leaned back on the couch. “That's just crazy. You're saying that Ernie told you that he and—that we … oh, God.”
“He didn't tell me.” Joleen rubbed her chilled hands together. “He wrote it down. I was cleaning his room.” Looking away, Joleen pressed her lips together. She didn't lie well. “And I found some things he'd written. About you.”
“I don't know what to say. I really don't. Except that I never …” She dragged a hand through her hair, wondering how to put it. “I realize you don't know me, and as Ernie's mother you would be inclined to believe him before me. But I swear to you, there was never anything physical, romantic, or sexual between your son and me.”
“I believe you.” Joleen looked down at the hands twisting in her lap. She couldn't control them—just as she had come to realize she couldn't control her son. “I think I knew all along. I told myself I was going to come over here to protect my baby, but I …” She looked up again, damp-eyed and defeated. “Miss Kimball—”
“Clare,” she said weakly. “I think you should call me Clare.”
“I want to apologize.”
“No.” Staggered, Clare rubbed at her temple. “Please don't. I can only imagine how you must've felt, thinking that I … I'm surprised you didn't break down the door and rip my eyes out.”
“I'm lousy at confrontations.” Joleen swiped at her wet cheeks. “I guess I'm lousy at motherhood, too.”
“No, don't say that.” For lack of something better, Clare gave her shoulder a helpless pat. “Ernie's just confused.”
“Could I have one of your cigarettes? I gave them up, but—”
“Sure.” Clare picked one up and lighted it herself. At the first drag, Joleen shuddered.
“It's been five years.” She took another, greedy. “Clare, I wasn't cleaning Ernie's room. I was searching it.” She closed her eyes. The smoke made her a little dizzy, but it helped loosen the knots in her stomach. “I swore I would never invade my child's privacy. My mother used to look through my drawers, under the mattress. She thought it was her duty to be sure I wasn't up to something. I swore when I had a child, I would trust him, give him space. Yet I went up to his room twice in the last week, going through his things like a thief. I was looking for drugs.”
>
“Oh.”
“I didn't find any.” Joleen smoked in long, hungry puffs. “I found other things.” Things she couldn't speak of. “What he wrote about you … I think you have a right to know. It was very explicit.”
The chill started in Clare's stomach and worked its way from there. “I don't suppose it's unusual for a boy to develop a fantasy or even a kind of fixation on an older woman.”
“That may be. You might not be as kind if you'd read this stuff.”
“Joleen, have you thought about counseling?”
“Yes. I'm going to talk to Will, my husband, tonight. As soon as we can find a therapist, we're all going in for counseling. Whatever's wrong with Ernie, with our family, we're going to fix it. They mean everything to me.”
“The pentagram that Ernie wears. Do you know what it means?”
Joleen's eyes wavered once, then steadied. “Yes. We're going to take care of that, too. I'm not going to let him get away from me, Clare. No matter how hard he tries.”
Cam came home after dark, his steps dragging. He'd been a cop long enough to know that paperwork, repetition, and monotony were often the biggest part of the job. But it was hard to be patient when he felt that he was right on the edge of breaking through.
He was grateful to see Clare's car in front of his house and the light in the window.
She was dozing on his couch, a paperback novel on her lap and the stereo up too loud. Cam pressed a kiss to her hair and thought how nice it would be to curl up beside her and tune everything out for an hour.
When he turned the radio down from blast to mellow, she sat straight up, looking like an owl who'd been startled by a beam of sunlight.
“I guess I made too much quiet,” he said.
“What time is it?”
“Little after nine.”
“Mmm.” She rubbed her eyes. “Did you eat?”
“That's a very wifely question.” He sat beside her, changed his mind, and stretched out, laying his head in her lap. “I think I had a sandwich.” On a long, long sigh, he let his eyes close. “God, you smell good. How was your day?”
“You go first.”
“Long. The rest of the tests came in on Carly Jamison. She'd taken—more likely been given—barbiturates. Loomis released her body to her parents.”
Knowing small comforts were sometimes the best, she brushed at the hair over his brow. “I wish there was something I could do.”
“I went out to see Annie again. Got nowhere.” He curled his fingers around Clare's. “I can't seem to find anyone who saw that girl in or around town, just like I can't find anyone who saw Biff on the night he was killed.”
“Maybe you should let it go for tonight. Start fresh tomorrow.”
“The longer it takes, the colder the trail.” He opened his eyes. “Clare, you know I've been looking into the land deal your father was involved in. And I've found out something strange. Most of the paperwork is missing.”
“What do you mean?”
He sat up and rubbed his hands over his face. “I mean it's gone. There's a deed from the Trapezoid Corporation to E. L. Fine, Unlimited.”
“I don't understand.”
“Trapezoid was the company that originally bought the land, through your father. They sold it again, within a month, to the developers. Then Trapezoid was dissolved. I can't find any names.”
“There have to be names. Who owned it?”
“I haven't been able to find out. All the documentation is gone. The deed was signed by an agent in Frederick, and he's been dead for five years.”
“What about the other company, the one that owns it now?”
“Solid as a rock. Holdings all over the East Coast, specializing in malls and shopping centers. The transaction was handled over the phone and by letter. Almost immediately after the grand opening, it came out that your father had bribed inspectors and two members of the planning commission. And that he had misrepresented the deal to his client by claiming the land was sold for seven hundred an acre, when it had actually been sold for twelve hundred. With the Trapezoid Corporation folding their tents, Kimball Realty took all the heat. Your father wasn't around to confirm or deny.”
“What are you saying?”
“I'm saying it's strange that all the paperwork on Trapezoid seems to have vanished. That there's no record of who worked with your father on the other end. Kimball Realty's records were confiscated during the investigation, but no one, no one at all from Trapezoid was ever implicated. Doesn't that strike you as unusual?”
“It struck me as unusual that my father would be involved in anything illegal.”
“It's hard for me to buy that he was involved alone. Clare, cults form for several basic reasons. The biggest is power. Power requires money. At five hundred an acre, somebody made a lot of money on this deal. Were you in trouble financially when your father started drinking?”
“No, the business was doing very well. We were talking about taking a family vacation to Europe. Both Blair and I had college funds, substantial ones. No.” She shook her head. “Kids know when their parents are worried about money. Mine weren't.”
“Yet your father risked his business, his reputation, his family's security on this one deal. He'd never done anything unethical before. Why then?”
She rose. “Don't you think I've asked myself that same question for years? It didn't make sense. It never made sense.”
“Maybe he did it for a reason other than personal gain. Maybe there was outside pressure. Maybe he wasn't given a choice.”
“I appreciate what you're doing. What you're saying. But would you think this way if it was someone else's father?”
It was a question he had already asked and answered for himself. “Yes. Because it doesn't add up.” His eyes followed her as she wandered the room. “I'll tell you what I figure. He was involved with something, maybe out of defiance toward his upbringing, maybe out of curiosity. Whatever, he was in over his head. Something made him pull out, and he felt strongly enough about it that he went back to the church. But you can't just pull out, because you know names and faces and secrets. So you continue to do what you're told to do, and you start to drink.”
“You're circling right back around to the cult.”
“That's the root. You, Clare, see something you weren't meant to see, twenty years ago. A few years later your father juggles a deal that everyone who knew him would say was totally out of character. And when he's dead, he's the only one the finger points at. Parker's the sheriff, which makes it pretty handy.”
“Parker? You think Parker was in on this whole businessr?”
“I think he was in on it right up to his fat neck. Maybe his conscience started to eat at him or maybe he just couldn't think straight when the blood drained out of his head into his dick, but he tells Sarah Hewitt things best kept to himself. He's losing it, and he packs up, leaving his cushy job, his home, his security. A few months later, he's dead.”
“Dead? You didn't tell me he was dead.”
“I'm telling you now. What do we have since then? A kid hitches the wrong ride a couple miles outside of town, and she's dead. Somebody kills Biff and dumps her body in the field so it looks like he did it all by himself. And he's not around to say different. Lisa MacDonald is attacked. Sarah Hewitt disappears, after she drops hints to me about Parker.”
“And the books,” Clare murmured.
“Yes, the books. I can't see Biff and your father having the same taste in reading material without a reason.”
“No,” she said faintly. “No, neither can I.”
“And if they were both involved, others are, too. Carly Jamison was murdered, Clare. I don't think she was the first, and I'm dead scared she's not going to be the last.”
Saying nothing, she got up, went to her tote bag and took out a sketch pad. She brought it to the couch and handed it to him. “I did these this afternoon.”
Cam opened it. The first page was a drawing of robed figures standing
in a circle. It was almost reverent. He wondered if she knew. In silence he turned the pages, studying each one. A woman spread on a slab of wood, a cup between her naked breasts. A single figure, robed, with the mask he recognized from his research as the Goat of Mendes.