The youngest member of the team, Alison, who was twenty-five and had only joined the previous year, approached still clad in lab coat and blue rubber gloves. She wrapped her arms around Clare, who was grateful for the contact.
“I'm sorry,” she said, a few wisps of red hair coming loose across her face. “At least you still have us.”
Alison's innocent comment made Clare smile. The warmth she radiated was infectious. “That's true. What would I do without my little family?”
“So there was no chance at all?”
Clare shrugged, moving across the room to her desk, where a row of folders sat on a shelf above a gray desk, bare but for a laptop and a small framed photo of her tortoiseshell cat, Steve. Clare always kept her office space logical and tidy. She flicked on the laptop, seeing an email waiting in her inbox: confirmation that she had been unsuccessful. She deleted the message without reading it and slapped the laptop closed, causing Sunny to jump. “There's only one way to advance in this place: Work with Harley.”
“Good. You aren't busy,” said a voice from the other end of the lab where Helen, the boss, presided over the team. “Clare, come join me in my office please.”
The door to Helen's office was open; Helen Cook, the detective in charge of the various Crime Lab teams had witnessed all of Clare's conversation. Her face without expression, Clare crossed the intervening space and shut the door behind her.
“Take a seat,” Helen invited, pointing at the chair opposite her own at a small round table.
Clare did as bidden. She had always loved this office. Floor to ceiling shelving held a wealth of literature, medical and otherwise. The grand, white L-shaped desk that was Helen's center of power stood unused for now. Helen only sat there on official business, so this was to be informal.
“Water?” Helen offered.
“Please. I've been parched lately.” Clare drained the proffered glass in one go upon receipt.
Helen watched her for a moment before continuing. “Are you all right?”
“What do you mean? Has my work not been up to standard?”
“No, that's never been a problem. You just appear a bit… underfed is probably the most accurate word. I need to make sure you are all performing as best you can. Beyond that, I care.”
Again Clare examined her hands. “Maybe I could eat a bit more. It doesn't seem that important lately.”
Helen leaned forward. “See that you do. You can't function if you don't eat properly. Now, tell me what happened.”
Clare attempted to calm the turmoil within her thoughts. “Would it really be any surprise to you? We all knew Captain Latchford was a man of fairly progressive views. He was taken ill between the phone call and my getting to the interview. Harley staged the whole event to show me up.”
“That's a pretty strong accusation,” Helen warned.
“You know the story as well as anybody. He's blocked me from the very first time we met. There are files out there with information about what happened to my parents, I'm convinced of this.”
“Have you considered that this fact might be the very reason you are blocked from joining the squad of the very man you are trying your best to bring down? You have aptitude and intelligence but you fight him every step of the way. It's professional suicide or at the least strongly masochistic.”
Clare frowned. “I wasn't applying to his squad. I was applying to Latchford's. I'm not afraid of him.”
“That is evident. But fear is not the issue. Andrew Harley is old world, with a network of like-minded thinkers. There is no place in his division for a woman, especially one with guts.”
“Tina?”
“Detective Svinsky isn't subject to Harley's influence in her task force, Clare. That is not the case for Worcester-based cops. I just got off the phone with an old friend. One who knows more about this precinct than most of the other officers; Devin, Captain Latchford, was causing waves among his fellows. They don't like his progressive thinking. He is seriously ill, in the ICU at UMASS. They aren't confidant he will make it. I'll tell you what that means. Harley is in charge of the detective bureau. However, he has his fingers in all sorts of pies. If the legal system didn't prevent it, he would send forensics back to the dark ages. He is a dinosaur, but one with clout.”
Clare's eyes narrowed. “You agree with me.”
“I do. However, you have to remember I can't afford to have idealism expressed in such an obvious way. You haven't been exposed to the management in such a profound manner before. You do not want to make enemies out of people who are already not fond of you.”
Clare's heart began to thump hard in her chest. Support unlooked for was always welcome and the adrenaline surged through her body. A bead of sweat began to wind its way down her neck. “You agree with me; yet, you want me to stay quiet?”
“I want you to consider what impact your actions might have if you try to cause a stir. You won't just be exposing yourself to them, but this entire department, and the advancements that benefit us.”
“Harley has bigger ambitions.” Clare mulled this over for a few moments. Corruption. How deep did it run? The promotion panel, certainly. Any appeal was out of the question in the state of Massachusetts without obvious discrimination. Were her colleagues corrupt? Clare glanced out at the lab through the window beside the door, and then back at Helen.
“He wants to be Chief. That's it, right?”
Helen crossed the room, pausing to glance at the team before she drew the blinds. “He could well end up in that position. Chief Goldsmith is far past retirement age. Promotion is likely to come from within given the network Harley has.”
“Chief Harley,” Clare spat. “That sounds like a bad joke.”
“It's been years in the making. You are on his side, or you don't have a side. That's really all there is to it.”
Clare stared in a moment of silence at her boss, a woman she had always trusted to lead the team forward, full of sensible decisions. She played the game just like the rest of them.
“I never stood a chance did I?”
“Let me give you some advice, Clare. If you continue to seek the answers here in this manner, you will find life very difficult. I only offer this to you because I am fond of you. I have protected you more than you know. However, with this turn of events, it won't be enough. Keep your head down.”
Taking a deep breath, Clare stood. “You won't want me to say anything, I presume?”
“Best not.”
“Look, it's been a hell of a day so far. I'm gonna take some time to assess my situation. I just can't stay in here right now.”
Helen didn't move. “I think that would be preferable. Don't do anything precipitous.”
Clare pushed her way out of the office. In the lab, Sunny and Alison had again stopped working, watching her.
Stopping only to grab her bag, Clare said, “I'll be back.” She refused to look them in the eye, focusing on the door to the lab. She passed through, letting the door swing shut behind her. Outside, those in the hallways scrambled to get out of her way, or stopped and stared, mocking smiles on their faces. Did everybody here know about her? There was a nervous aroma in the air, as if everybody were reluctant to be seen even standing next to her.
Clare ignored them all and walked out of the precinct, heading for her car. She glanced back. In a window near the entrance stood the janitor, watching her without moving.
Chapter Three
Still ranting under her breath Clare hunted down her car, now a scarlet '69 Chevy Impala, and wrenched the door open. Turning the engine with a harsh twist of the key, she gunned the throttle, gripping the cracked cover of the steering wheel so tight the jagged edges of the painted chrome rim threatened to cut her hands. The town of Holden was the perfect antidote to the bustle of Worcester. Twenty miles out from the city center, it was an easy commute, no more than an hour on a day of heavy traffic, half that if Clare felt liberal with the gas.
Only six miles from end to end, Holden
lay north-west of the city. It lay in a gentle bowl amid the rolling hills of central Massachusetts, the peaks crowned with groves of oak and beech in the early stages of the riot of fall colours. It made living in Massachusetts a blessing.
The traffic was light at this time of day, before rush hour commenced and gridlock ensued. Clare missed her nimble Mini Cooper. It had been logical to appropriate Dad's much larger car when her favorite toy had finally broken down for good. She loved it but it had become a money pit.
Half way home, Clare decided to stop at one of her favorite spots. Just south of Holden lay Chaffin Pond, a beautiful fishing lake. It had been a favorite haunt of her father when she was young. Throughout her childhood he would drag her along to fish for large-mouth bass and each time she'd always make a bigger catch.
Taking a left onto Gail Drive by a miniscule green road sign, Clare enjoyed the homey nature of the place: Single-story houses with ornate mailboxes and sculptured gardens. Pylons and overhead wiring jumped from side to side, somehow not looking out of place amidst the assorted conifers and pines scattered about the place.
She shifted into neutral and let the engine idle as the car rolled down the slight incline. At the end of the road, speckled with shade, Clare brought the car to a halt on the side of a turning point. Trees blocked the view of the lake. Since Clare had no need to be anywhere, she left the Impala where it was and crept through the trees to the edge of the lake.
The sight was worth the wait. Green-blue water reflected the sunlight as if trying to impress the heavens. A slight breeze caused the merest ripples atop the surface. Clare stopped for a moment, closing her eyes and breathing in the clean air. Despite the proximity to development, it was a world away from the pollution-filled Worcester streets. In the distance off to her right, Clare noted the squeaky chirrup of a small flock of bluebirds. Nearby, an insistent tapping betrayed the presence of a nuthatch as it tried to jimmy open an early-fallen acorn.
“Beautiful sight, isn't it?” said an elderly voice from off to her right.
Startled, Clare turned toward the source of the voice, finding instead the madcap nuthatch scampering headfirst down the trunk of a gnarled old oak to where an acorn was wedged in a crack. Beyond the tree, an old man waited, rod in his right hand, the forefinger of his left across his lips. They watched in silence as the bird attempted to crack the nut, before sensing an audience and flying up to perch in another branch, where, in safety, it could berate them in high-pitched and nasal tones.
Clare smiled. “It is indeed. Just the break from reality I needed. How goes the hunt?”
The old man shrugged, a flat cap full of decorated fishhooks slipping to one side of his head. He grabbed the hat before it fell to the ground. It looked as old as him. “So so. Not a lot biting in this sun.”
“Is it full of weed down here? Large-Mouth Bass don't grow so big when there's a lot of weed. It stunts their growth and makes them harder to catch.”
The old man blinked in surprise. “Local gal, are ya?”
“My dad used to bring me here,” Clare didn't want to answer his question directly.
He accepted her response with good grace. “You'd be surprised how they take if you use the right lure, cast in the right place.”
With that, the old man jerked his rod away from her, the bend indicating that he had struck.
“Fish on!” he chortled with glee and began to spar with his unseen aquatic foe. The fish was strong; several times the old man had to let line out just to prevent the tension from snapping his rod.
“The damn bugger's headed for the weeds,” he cursed and began to pull the rod up and down, winding in the line as he did so.
“Hand me that net, would you, girl?”
Clare did as bidden. Clearly used to fishing alone, he manipulated the net with one hand while holding the rod high with the other. Crouching at the edge of the lake, he reached into the net, freeing his catch from the hook. Lifting the fish up with expertise, he showed off his trophy.
“Little beauty,” he glowed. The fish was white underneath, becoming a very healthy olive green with dark speckles up higher. What stood out was the cavernous mouth, used for swallowing smaller fish, the feature that gave this species its name.
Clare reached over to stroke the smooth underbelly, the ridges of scales bumping under her fingers as she trailed her hand up along the side of the fish. “What are you going to do with it?”
He smiled, placing the fish in a larger net with care, a holding cell in which several other fish were swimming. “Dun know. Might cook some. Release the females. They're invasive, but a great fightin' fish. Smaller ones tend to taste better.
Clare leaned forward to get a better look at the haul, and the old man squinted at her. “I know you, gal. I recognize your face.”
“You do, yeah?”
“You're Ched Rosser's girl. Clara.”
“Clare,” she smiled.
He shrugged. “Meh, close enough. Don't expect you to remember me. My name's Jim. Jim Bridger.”
“Like the mountain man? I wrote a paper on him at school.” Clare referred to the legendary pioneer explorer who traversed the Rockies in the nineteenth century.
This set Jim off in a fit of laughter, a wheeze that betrayed some kind of respiratory condition. “Wish I had his constitution. I worked with your pa at Alden Research, just up the way there.”
“Retired now?”
Jim leaned back against the oak. “Only on account of my health. Knew your pa well, I did. Shame he took ill the way he did and your ma too. Lovely couple.”
On the outside they were. Clare decided to go for broke. “I'm still looking into why they died. Did you ever hear anything?”
Jim looked lost for a moment as he thought about this. “Nah. Ched looked like he lost a bit of weight before he left work, but then that's no crime.” He patted his rather ample belly. “We could all do with a bit o' that.”
Clare turned her hands over, examining them for the umpteenth time that day. “Perhaps we could.”
“You should go visit the lab. There was a whole bunch of your pa's stuff that they never got rid of. Stored it in a box somewhere, so I heard.”
“Really? I never knew. Nobody ever got in touch.”
Jim was about to elaborate when a shrieking voice pierced the serenity of the day.
“Hey, you wanna move that monstrosity from off my property? Goddamned Chevy beast parked up there like you own the place.”
Jim frowned. “Marie Small, you cease your shrieking…”
“No, no. It's all right. I'll move. Jim, thanks for the memories.”
“Be sure and stop by again sometime, girl. Maybe you and I'll have a fish-off.”
“I'd like that.”
Clare made her way back through the trees to find a rather petite old lady, silver-haired with dark eyebrows, glaring at her.
“You get gone now girl, else I'll call the cops.”
The idiocy of some people astounded her. Clare wanted to argue that she was nowhere near the woman's property, which she was not. Yet, the prospect of any of this getting back to Harley was too risky. Clare glared at the woman, got into her car, revved the engine too loud, which wasn't good for it, and drove off.
Trying to keep a lid on her temper, Clare rolled down the window of her Impala, the antique chrome handle creaking in protest at the force applied. The late September air poured in, still warm in the middle of the afternoon, overlain with the pungent scent of woodland resins. The people of Holden were proud of their town, the pride reflected in the almost-clinical approach to horticulture. Clare appreciated this; the sense of order appealed to her fastidious nature. She waved to Geraldine and Tony, the sweet elderly couple who were content to enjoy their twilight years sitting together on their sheltered porch, watching the coming and goings of the town. Such simple pleasures were so hard for Clare to come by.
Turning off the highway, she slowed to a crawl as she passed through the shady oak grove that was the
beginning of Pleasant Street, one of the less-populated streets in Holden and home to half a dozen of the oldest houses in town. In this heavily forested area, it was easy to lose track of just how close one was to civilization; the main road disappeared from view as she eased the car around the bend to the right. In a moment, she was alone in the woods.
Clare paused as she reached the railroad crossing. Known as the BB&G, the line stretched from Worcester up to nearby Gardner. The town had sprung up around a natural crossroads back in the eighteenth century, and the railroad had followed suit. No train approached from either direction, and she crept across the tracks, keeping a wary eye out just in case. An unused spur of the line extended from the mainline into the trees, partly covered with asphalt, partly overgrown with foot-long ferns that rustled against the side of the Impala as she pushed past. The track ended in a brick-walled tunnel, partially drilled into the hill behind her house, an abandoned relic of an older line, long since forgotten. Thick timber boards had slowly rotted over the years so that there were ways for the young and adventurous to gain access. She had only been in there a few times. The darkness was absolute.
Clare encouraged her car with a little gas, and it edged off the road, pushing through low-hanging branches until she reached an opening to the mulch-covered track to her cottage. A route ignored by her parents, the track had been the playground for Clare, Jeff and their friends through their childhood. Quests had been adventured, foes vanquished, all under the ancient oaks and in the shadow of the whitewashed walls of the fortress behind. The blackened timbers were strangled with twisting ropes of wisteria, the wealth of pale green leaves hiding most of the original surface. The whitewash beneath had long since faded to a dirty yellow. Clare inhaled the fresh air, seeking a trace of the scent. No perfume, just the heavy tang of earth and wood.
The track ended at a large pile of rubble, the remains of an outhouse left to gather moss over the decades. At its base lay a shallow pond, barely more than a puddle. Clare intended to bypass this as she headed toward the house, but an object at the edge of the water drew her attention. A small plastic ship rested at anchor, the white funnel atop a blue hull was wedged between two rocks. The neighbor's kids must have been playing again. Clare approved of the fact that the adventures continued even though she was now grown. A new generation worked their magic. In the distance, from beyond the impenetrable pine-covered ridge behind her house, the noise of kids playing sports filtered through, rising in volume as the sound traveled on the wind. Wachusett Regional High School lay so close, yet seemed a world away from this tiny, forested community.
The Eyes Have No Soul Page 3