Dominic wrinkled his nose. “That's awful.”
“I've smelled worse. This warehouse should be sealed until a team can come in and give it a full examination.”
“What about this guy you are looking for?”
Clare looked around the warehouse. The feeling had not lessened; someone was still watching them. “It may be nothing,” she said in an attempt to allay her fear as much as quell the antagonism she felt from without.
Dominic locked the warehouse and they drove back to the main building in silence. Unsure of what exactly it was she was supposed to have learned in there, Clare gazed at photos of herself as a child. Who was this other man in the photo? Why did a drifter show interest in her family, and if it was Roger, why would he go to such lengths to conceal himself unless there was more to it? Was there a bigger connection?
“Philly, can you show me what you found on the tapes?” Clare asked immediately upon re-entering the lobby.
“I… yeah, sure,” her old friend replied.
The black and white footage showed a figure crawling through a gap in the corrugated paneling, replacing it with care and then sorting through the various belongings. After placing them about the floor, the figure stripped and began vigorously rubbing himself down with the blankets. He appeared gross and distended, as if suffering from excessive water retention.
“He's soaked,” Dominic observed, leaning forward so that his chest rested on Clare's shoulder.
“So he is,” Clare agreed.
“But we haven't had any rain in weeks.”
“Was he in the river? If he is homeless, maybe he was bathing.” Clare waved the vial of collected water. “I'll get this analyzed. That should fill in the blanks as to whether this is our man. Look, I need to be off. I have a lot to think about. A good deal doesn't add up.”
Dominic turned to her. “Maybe later we could…?”
“Maybe not,” Clare interrupted the rest of his question. “I have to get these samples studied. Philly, thanks.”
“Anytime, babe. You stay safe and get yourself looked at.”
Clare left her friend with the perplexed scientist in the lobby. Climbing back into the Impala, she spared a glance for the road that bypassed the main building. There was movement in the distance. Someone still watched her. Uneasy, she pulled out of the lot and on to Main Street. She needed to settle her nerves with a drink. Several diners flashed at her with garish advertisements for the world's best cup of coffee. Clare ignored them all until a large red sign came into view at the intersection of two roads, the stars and stripes hanging limp beside it. Friendly's Restaurant had been a favorite of both Clare and Jeff as they'd grown up, the frozen custard a local delicacy and sweet relief to the sour stress of their parents. But Clare was not after ice cream now, just a place to think.
Pulling her car into the parking lot, she let it idle for a moment before selecting a space out of public view behind the red-brick building. Satellite dishes poked out from the gray-slate roof. The owners wanted their customers to come in, stay for entertainment, and buy; it had always worked with her.
Clare pushed through the swinging door and waved at Gus, the bald, rotund owner. He beamed a grin and beckoned her to a booth near the kitchen, the wide blue and green plaid pattern on the back of the seating very retro. Clare accepted the invitation, sitting down with obvious relief. The morning barely over and already, she was exhausted. Pulling out the photos and information, Clare spread them over the table. In moments, with a minimum of fuss, one of the waitresses had filled a mug with steaming coffee. The bitter aroma of the coffee filled her nostrils as she inhaled, and eventually Clare smiled a thank you across the restaurant.
She opened the wallet, leafing through the contents. Chatter from around the restaurant began to lull Clare into a sense of relaxation that she embraced. There was a connection between the items the homeless man, possibly Roger Bartow, had gathered and her parents. She refused to believe that it was a coincidence.
Rolling the tube of liquid around between her forefinger and thumb, Clare considered the potential ramifications of what she had done. If Harley were ever to find out, it would mean her job. If Joe Mayeux were to call the department, she was done for. Well, it was what it was.
A shadow loomed over her, blocking out the light. The most recent entrant to the restaurant now stood above her.
Scruffy jeans full of tears gave way to a black Alden polo shirt, under which hulked a serious amount of muscle. Atop this bulk was the leering face of someone else she had not seen in years.
“Jonathon… Finely?” she guessed.
His lips edged into a slow smile, more that of a cat sure of catching prey than that of anybody pleased to be recognized. Not waiting to be asked, he took the seat opposite her. His eyes yellowed from what must have been a heavy night, he continued to observe her.
“Clare Rosser,” he said at length. “I'll bet you never thought our paths would cross again.”
Jonathon had bullied everybody he could lay his hands upon from kindergarten right through high school. Clare had been no exception, at least until Charlotte and Philly had come along. But now she was alone, with only her wits and reputation as a shield. He had truly become the man he'd threatened to be and was not better for it. With stubble going gray before its time and both ears pierced, he looked a mess. Clare's intrigue as to how this would play out began overriding her fear.
“Coffee?” Clare offered, looking back down at the photos and documents.
Jonathon leaned back and laughed. “I don't drink that swill, especially from a place like this.”
“Steady now, John,” Gus warned from the kitchen.
“Or what's the consequence, old man? You gonna do what you did last time? Cower back there and call the sheriff?”
“It's fine, Gus. I can handle a bit of trash,” Clare called, bringing Jonathon's attention back to her.
He leaned forward. “I have a message for you. Stop prying into matters that are none of your concern. I followed you to tell you…”
“You followed me? You are aware of who I work for?”
That slow smile again. “I may not be one of those genius scientists, but I know what you aren't. A forensic analyst is not a detective. Stay out of it. Stay away from Alden.”
“Or what's the consequence?”
Jonathon brought two meaty fists to rest on the table between them. “Or there might be an accident.”
The barely suppressed rage in this man's body was enough to convince Clare she was outmatched. Was he using the warehouse as a refuge? Was Jonathon the person that had killed her parents? Not a chance. Clare thought for a second and burst out laughing.
This left Jonathon with a confused expression on his face. “What?” He frowned, looking around as if he were the butt of some unseen joke.
“Joe Mayeux put you up to this. He's so paranoid about his patents he would employ muscle to make sure his secrets remain secrets.” Clare gathered up the photos from her side of the table, placing them in her bag. “You can tell your boss I couldn't care less about the clandestine world of hydrodynamics.”
Clare rose to leave. Her legs trembled from lack of rest. This confrontation had not helped. There was a hunger in Jonathon that had not yet been sated. The need for violence was as strong as ever. Clare did not wish to be on the receiving end. She threw a twenty on the counter. “Get my friend some breakfast.”
Gus nodded with a muted 'see you soon' wave. She had no idea if his worried face was for her predicament or the fact she was leaving Jonathon in Friendly's with him.
Outside, Clare made for the Impala, crossing as fast as she was able past trashcans and green, paneled fencing that kept them hidden from public view. Her heart sank when she heard the door crash open behind her.
“I'm not done with you yet,” Jonathon shouted from the doorway. At least he wasn't terrorizing the restaurant any more.
Clare refused to stop moving, her steps desperate. She maintained an air
of nonchalance. “I think this situation is all played out,” she responded without turning. “Go back and have some breakfast.”
There was a thud of boots behind her. A hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her about. Clare found it hard to stay on her feet.
“What the hell is your problem?”
“I don't think you quite got the message. I'm not convinced you understand the severity of your situation.” Jonathon's eyes were fierce, poking out from beneath Neolithic brows.
“Still the bully? I swear there is a connection not quite right in your head.”
“Truth is, I enjoy it,” he purred, menace dripping from his voice. He reached back, his left hand balled in a fist. “This is so you remember our conversation.”
There was a click, the hammer of a gun being cocked. “You let that go, son; there's a trip to the lockup for you, if you make it that far.”
The voice came from behind Jonathon, who stopped and grinned. His eyes betrayed his repressed and unreleased fury; this could still go either way. “You gonna shoot an unarmed man, Sheriff Heckstall?”
“You look armed enough to me, son. Lower your fist and get outta here, or we'll see what you look like with a hole in your shoulder. Leave the lady alone.”
Jonathon's gaze settled on Clare once more. The snarl on his face indicated he had made his decision. Clare tensed for the blow.
Chapter Seven
The fist never connected. Jonathon turned away, his arm dropping in Clare's direction with one warning finger pointed at her where the sheriff couldn't see. Not over, not by a long shot in her opinion. He began moving away.
The figure beyond was tall, standing with authority; one would have respected him even had he not been a cop. Sheriff Terrick Heckstall was a rarity. The beige uniform suited him, his black skin contrasting with the clothing. He held his six-shooter in both hands, the grip sure, the aim deadly. This was a man who had fought prejudice as he worked his way up through the system. Respected by the entire town for his uncompromising stance on any crime, he had been offered the post with endorsements from the entire town council. He took the Holden Sheriff's department and made it a force to be reckoned with.
“Keep on walkin', man,” he said with a flick of his gun, his eyes piercing, rich voice strong and authoritative. “If I see you raise a hand against a lady in this town again, be prepared to lose it.”
“You don't have the balls,” Jonathon hissed. “You'd be out of a job before the wound closed.”
“No, son. This is my town.”
“Sounds like a threat.”
The sheriff gave a slight shake of his head, his dead-eye stare unwavering. “Sounds like a promise. Go.”
With a glance at Clare, Jonathon capitulated. Getting in an unmarked van she hadn't noticed on the way to her car, he revved the engine overmuch in one last act of defiance before making his tires squeal on the asphalt, rubber marks left in his wake.
The sheriff watched him leave, gun still raised. Only when the van had disappeared down Main Street did he holster his weapon. “You okay, kid? You look a bit pale and shaken.”
“I'm fine. Thank you, Terrick. I had no idea what he was going to do. It was lucky you were around.”
Terrick snorted. “Luck had nothin' to do with it. Gus had a panic button installed after the last time John tried his crap. An alert goes straight to the station. What set him off this time?”
“Alden. I was there picking up some of Pop's belongings. It looks like someone took exception to my being there. He said he had a message for me.”
“That damned Lab. Full of paranoid geniuses.” He pulled a small canister from his belt. “Take this. If you're gonna get involved with idiots like John, you'll need it sooner rather than later.”
The side read 'Mace'. “Personal protection? Thank you.”
“Of course, you would have better protection if you gave up that big city science dream and came to work for me. We both know you'd make one hell of a cop. You could work your way up in no time. If a black man can find his way to the top, why not a woman?”
“You would have me on my own with all those big burly men? I'd never get a thing done.”
Terrick sighed. “A man can dream. I'm gonna escort you home in case Mr. Finely has any further designs. I'd stay off the streets for the afternoon. I'll send a patrol car your way a couple of times later to check in. There's somethin' about that one I can't quite put my finger on.”
“Always has been,” Clare agreed.
Terrick gave her a critical glance. “You been to see Julian Strange lately? You're lookin' a bit peaky.”
“It seems everybody's looking out for me these days. I'm fine. Just a bit tired.”
True to his word, Terrick saw Clare all the way home, not moving off until she was ensconced firmly in her house. For her part, Clare grabbed a bottle of water, a good book, and Steve the cat in that order, hiding in a chair from all and sundry until weariness overcame her. Of Jonathon Finely there was no sign. Yet his eyes never left her thoughts, those yellowed orbs haunting her to sleep.
Sunday morning found Clare still curled up in her favourite chair, high-backed, deep, and plush. The cushioned mahogany was patterned with lilies in faded shades of yellow. Steve the cat had moved elsewhere during the night, and she was alone, covered by a blanket. Good thing too, early mornings could be nippy with mist nestled in the hills behind her house.
Noise from the kitchen drew her attention. Still groggy, Clare attempted to tidy her hair and straighten her clothes before Jeff saw the mess she was in. Then she figured he must have covered her up so why bother?
“Screw it,” she muttered before opening the door. The tang of bacon washed over her, the saltiness making her salivate. A crusty loaf had been sliced into inch-thick wedges. Eggs boiled in a pot, the steam causing the kitchen window to mist over.
“Morning, sunshine!” Jeff greeted her, his usual business attire replaced with jeans and a brown woollen sweater. “Slept in again?”
Hugging herself for warmth, Clare frowned. “I thought so, but I still feel like I could have another six hours. It never seems enough anymore.”
“Clare Rosser, the waking dead,” Jeff joked, and in that fatherly manner he had often assumed in the past, enfolded her in a hug. “My God Clare, there's nothing to you.”
“I haven't been eating well. It's the job. Harley. It's very stressful.”
The words were a poor excuse. Clare didn't believe them and Jeff was having none of it.
“Yeah, you have been saying that for a while. Ever since you had that virus a month or so back, you've been different. First things first, we get you fed, and then I'm calling Julian Strange.”
Clare didn't have the energy to argue and let Jeff ply her with his cooking. She gulped her coffee, scolding her throat and having to cool it with another bottle of water.
“I'm not seeing Julian,” Clare decided aloud when they had finished. She really did feel better, much more than she thought she had a right to. “What's the time?”
“Just before ten.”
“I'm gonna sort myself out, walk up to Walgreens and get a blood-testing kit. I'll have the lab look at it first. I don't want anybody round here knowing my business.”
“You still don't trust Julian after all these years?”
“No, I don't. Jeff, he knew about Mom and Dad. It's a small town, I know but he's never has offered any information about the night he called me.”
After cleaning herself up and donning her favorite walking shoes, a gray pair of Abeo Rocs, Clare set off. The Doc's house was only a mile or so away. Even tired, she wouldn't take long.
A plaintive meow caused her to stop and turn as she crossed to the road. Steve padded after her, evidently disgruntled at her leaving without feeding him. She stopped, and he ran forward, pushing up onto his back legs to rub his head against her outstretched hand.
“Go on with you.” She swatted his hind legs with a feather's touch, sending him scampering back toward t
he house, and began her walk before he had cause to follow again.
Crossing the track, Clare headed along Pleasant Street. It was warm out, a typical gorgeous Massachusetts September morning. Pretty soon, Clare had her sweater off and hanging from the strap of her backpack. With the sun not yet overhead, she stuck to the shadows, which were plentiful given the mix of pine, oak, and linden that vied for space above the road. Best of all, there was barely a sound but for the murmur in the distance of early risers on the highway into town.
“Good morning, Clare,” called a voice from the porch of a green bungalow that lay beyond a garden littered with stumps, each mounted with a small wooden bucket full of vibrant red and yellow flowers.
“Hi Rachelle,” she responded, not really wanting to spend any more time out than necessary; Jonathon Finely might still be lurking. Clare reached to check if she had the Mace at hand.
Rachelle Bishop, younger than her with dark hair tied back in a ponytail, crossed the garden to walk with her “It's nice to see you. You don't appear out as much as you used to.” It was a loaded statement. In the year Clare had known Rachelle, she had proven perceptive and insightful. She also knew a lot, full of hidden facts and quotes.
“I've been busy.”
“Doing what? Starving to death?” Before Clare could respond with what was becoming an automatic response about work, Rachelle went on. “The town committee has left it to me to round out the corners of the Holden Festival of Horticulture. I need volunteers to run stalls, raffle prizes, and sell drinks. Can I count on you?”
Caught on the spot, Clare stumbled for words. “When is the festival?”
“It's not until mid-October and it's only for three hours. There's gonna be farm animals, home-made jelly, pies, music, you can drive up and park at the lab.” Rachelle paused. “What is it?”
The Eyes Have No Soul Page 6