by CJ Lyons
Sam was down there. Which meant he was dead, really dead. And if he was gone, then so was Josh.
She'd known it. But had never actually believed, truly believed, until this moment. She squeezed her eyes shut against the too-cheerful sunlight and the sting of her tears.
Maybe it wasn't Sam. Who could tell from this distance?
Logic told her not to be a fool, to surrender to the truth. Sam was the only adult reported missing on Snakehead and still unaccounted for in recent years. Sarah sat up, her vision clearing. She dropped the binoculars and grabbed the two-way radio Hal had lent her.
"Hal? This is Sarah, does anyone copy?" she spoke into the small handset.
Static answered her for a few long moments. Then Hal's voice cut through it, reassuring and calm. "You okay, Sarah?"
"I'm fine. I, uh, I found something up here you need to know about."
Another long pause. There was a clatter of silverware and men's laughter in the background. He was probably at the Rockslide, having breakfast. "What's up, Sarah?"
"I'm at the top of Snakebelly. There's a man down below."
"You want I should call search and rescue?" His voice sounded light-hearted, a bit distracted. He hadn't recognized the implications of what she said.
She swallowed hard. This might be Sam they were talking about. She hoped the Colonel was out of earshot. "No. I think you'd better call the coroner."
The speaker stuttered as if he'd started to say something then removed his finger from the trigger. Finally his voice returned. Slower, grimmer. The background noise had vanished. "I'm on my way."
She put the radio down on top of her pack and sat back on her heels. Gerald Merton, the eldest son and reigning heir to the Merton Funeral Home down in Merrill, was the current county coroner. He'd do a preliminary exam at his funeral home, package the remains for the State Police to take to their lab where a real medical examiner would perform a complete autopsy.
It would take Hal a good hour or more to pick up Gerald and drive up Snakehead. From there it would be another hour or so before they would reach her location if they hiked up the trail. Faster if Hal pulled off Rattlesnake Pike and left his truck on the side of the road. Then it would be a mere ten-twenty minute hike in, but it would mean bushwhacking through some dense forest and undergrowth.
No problem for Hal, he was used to it. But Gerald was a pasty-faced, overweight forty-something with a beer belly that made him look more like Santa Claus than an undertaker. And they'd have their hands full of gear—a stretcher, ropes, body bags, etc.
Either way, she had a wait on her hands. Sarah never was very good at waiting.
She sidled to the edge of the gorge and craned her head over it, assessing the damage the spring thaw and rockslides had done to the rock face. Not too bad. Definitely doable. She could rappel down, get the body—or what was left of it—ready to move, save them some time.
She'd done it before. Most every able-bodied adult in Hopewell was a member of the search and rescue team. Too many uncharted trails, inviting granite walls and unmapped caves on Snakehead. They were called out a few times every year to search for lost hunters, hikers, climbers and spelunkers.
Last time she'd done a body recovery had been right here. Last body she'd helped to bring out of Snakebelly was Lily, Hal's wife. Two years ago, almost to the day.
That made up her mind for her. Better to do everything she could to keep Hal's time in the gorge to a minimum. She could spare him those painful memories, at least.
Besides, she needed to know if it was Sam down there or not.
Sarah quickly secured her climbing rope, a 11 mm dry rope, to a boulder and stepped into her harness. She didn't have her usual SAR gear—no protective gloves or Vicks to deaden the smell of decay. But from what she'd seen so far, didn't look like there was a whole lot left to smell on this body.
She emptied her pack, leaving only her camera, ground cloth, duct tape, flashlight, and an assortment of plastic bags. She strapped her knife and climbing gear to her harness. No helmet. The Colonel would have a cow about that, it was against regs.
The thought made Sarah smile. Breaking regs was one of her favorite past times. It was what had brought her and Sam together to start with.
The sun was now bright and warm, radiating off the granite rock face. Sarah positioned herself, double-checked her anchor, and stepped off into space.
CHAPTER 15
Thursday June 20, 2007: Hartford, Connecticut
Less than two hours later, Caitlyn arrived at Jack Logan's new workplace: a shiny high-rise tower that promised a magnificent view of downtown Hartford. Logan's position as a security consultant for a multi-national insurance company definitely paid better than the federal government, she decided as she took in his glass walled corner office adorned with vanity shots of Logan shaking hands or playing golf with a variety of celebrities. Stars whose life he had saved, no doubt.
She gave a small snort. The job suited Logan. As did the office. Big fat bunch of lies. Strip away the facade and Logan was nothing more than a glorified travel agent and hand-holder.
She'd bet he was counting the minutes, waiting until she had time to be sufficiently impressed by his new digs. Sure enough, exactly five minutes after his secretary ushered her into Logan's inner sanctum, he burst through the door, puffed up with self-importance as he rushed to his desk, too harried to spare her a glance.
"Caitlyn, good to see you. Sorry I was tied up. Arab oil sheik wanted a new security review for his family holdings in Paris, Geneva, and Milan." He dumped an ostrich skin briefcase onto his desk and finally raised his head to look at her. "Well, you're looking good. Guess desk duty at Quantico suits you. I always figured you weren't cut out for field work."
Caitlyn wouldn't call her promotion and assignment to teach at Quantico as "desk duty." Logan might be an ass, but he knew the drill. Get your shots in first, put your mark on the defensive quick, make them react without thinking. Classic old school style of interview manipulation.
Too bad for Logan, Caitlyn was new school. Despite his bluster, he couldn't hide the sheen of sweat on his upper lip or the twitch of his eyes when he mentioned Quantico. She strolled over to his immense metal and glass topped desk and settled herself in one of the uncomfortable tubular steel chairs before it. Stretching her legs out, she crossed them at the ankle. She'd worn her cornflower blue pantsuit, it matched her eyes, and a sleeveless silk blouse that buttoned in the back, allowing the material to fit smoothly against her curves. She'd changed shoes in the car, substituting sling-back heels for her more sensible Rockports. The heels revealed just the right amount of ankle and leg.
Legs that Logan was now gazing at, slowly working his way up her body. Caitlyn smiled. Talk about old school, her distraction was as old as Mata Hari. She remained silent, waiting for him to dig himself in deeper.
He settled on the corner of the desk directly before her, swinging his foot in an arc guaranteed to bring it closer and closer to her calf. "So. What brings you here? Need help with a case? I still do consulting for the Bureau, but it will cost you, of course." He chuckled, straightening his silk tie and twisting his diamond studded watch so that the sunlight reflected off it.
"Just wanted to give you a heads up," she said, deciding it was time to put him on the defensive. If she knew Logan, he'd be more likely to make a mistake trying to cover his tracks if he thought she was on to something. "I'm re-opening the Durandt case."
His ankle twitched, jerked against the desk leg. "Really?" His voice was bland. "I thought we put that one to bed. Didn't they execute someone already, what was his name?"
"Damian Wright," Caitlyn supplied helpfully. "A few things have come up. New evidence. Wright may be innocent of the Hopewell murders."
"What kind of new evidence?" Logan asked, his gaze settled on a point past her shoulder as if he were bored and only asking to be polite.
Caitlyn smiled. "Sorry, Jack. You know the rules."
He focused on he
r face, mirrored her smile. "You didn't drive all the way up here simply to inform me that an old case was being re-opened. You want something from me. What's the game, Caitlyn?"
She remained silent, watching him carefully. His voice had tightened, taken on a new edge. The small wrinkles near his eyes Botox hadn't totally erased had deepened. Definitely hit a sore spot.
If what she suspected was true, she wasn't surprised.
"I can't help you without more information," he continued in a genial voice. The well-versed mentor showing the newbie the ropes. Roles that suited neither of them anymore.
Hadn't in a long time. Not since two and a half years ago when he'd almost gotten her killed.
He gazed out the window at the late morning sun, his ankle circling once more. "Let's see. Hopewell. Ahh, I remember now. The night you got sick on the drive down. Then you antagonized the local police chief and almost made the vic's mother collapse with a nervous breakdown." He slanted another smile in her direction. "Not your finest moment, Caitlyn."
Unlike the moment when he'd sent her backup team to the wrong location, leaving Caitlyn and her partner alone in the fight of their lives. A vision of glass breaking, the look of terror on Santore's face as they both plummeted out the window, the stomach lurching feeling of free fall, the pain when she'd hit the ground—these all raced through her mind at whiplash speed. She kept her face and her voice neutral, meeting his gaze effortlessly. "Maybe that's why I'm anxious to set the record straight."
"Hmpf. I remember the crime scene. It was raining monkeys and we had to hike half way up a mountain. The local yokels had tried to protect the scene as best they could, but the wind and the rain left us slim pickin's. But we had blood samples from the Unsub and one of the vics."
Caitlyn shook her head. "Wrong again, Jack. The blood didn't match."
He jerked up at that, acted startled, his mouth dropping open. But there was no crease in his brow, no other signs of surprise. "Really? You don't say? Whose blood was it, then?"
Caitlyn decided to let him think she knew nothing of Richland. "Some guy named Stanley Diamontes. Name ring a bell to you at all?"
He pursed his lips, frowned in thought. "Maybe, maybe."
"He testified against a Russian name of Korsakov. After that we lost track of him. It was a miracle we matched his DNA at all."
"Korsakov, yes, I definitely remember him. Who could forget? Crazy fucker, had two hobbies: making movies and torturing people. Can't say I'm surprised a witness against him took off, got lost in the mountains with a new name." He straightened up. "So, mystery solved. I can try to find my old case notes on Korsakov if you like. Free of charge for old time's sake."
He slid to his feet, began walking to the door, obviously expecting her to follow him. "Sorry I don't have more time for you, Caitlyn."
She took her time, not moving from her chair until he'd already reached the door and held it open. Only then did she stand and stroll past him, coming to a stop in the doorway. "Thanks, Jack. I knew you'd have the answers I needed. I'd definitely like a look at those files. Especially since Korsakov is getting out of prison today."
His eyes widened and tiny droplets of sweat sprouted on his forehead before he could hustle her out the door. "Fine. No problem. I'll have Margery fax them down to Quantico by the day's end."
He tried to close the door but she blocked him. "It'd be better to scan and email them to me, Jack. I'm on my way to Hopewell."
She breezed out the door and through the reception area before he could respond. He banged the glass door shut behind her, his hand mopping his brow. Idiot was so used to the fancy glass walls that he'd forgotten they were there. She watched him in the mirror above the elevator call buttons. He lunged for the phone on his desk and began dialing furiously.
The elevator chimed its arrival. Caitlyn entered, looked up for one last glance at her former boss, now huddled over his phone, his face flushed. He met her glance and startled, stood, cradling the handset between his cheek and shoulder. She smiled sweetly and waved good-bye.
The doors slid shut, and she grabbed her cell phone. "Clemens? Hey, it's Caitlyn. Could you ask one of the guys in the surveillance section to dump a phone for me?"
As Sarah worked her way down the side of the cliff, memories cascaded through her mind. Her and Sam, Sam and her—always breaking the rules, two partners in crime.
The first time she'd met him, he'd been trespassing on school property. Tap-dancing down the empty corridor, whistling as he opened classroom doors, peered inside, then shut them once more.
"Can I help you?" Sarah had asked in her best "I've got eyes in the back of my head so don't try anything" teacher's voice. His nonchalance as he straightened, removed his dark sunglasses, and gave her a slow once over was annoying.
He stepped closer and flashed her a thousand-watt smile. "I'm looking for the music room. Or the auditorium. I need a piano."
"You need a piano?" she asked, not sure if she'd heard him correctly. "Excuse me, but do you have a child who is a student here, Mr—"
He stared at her blankly for a moment, then chuckled. "No ma'am. No child. Is that a problem?"
"The only problem seems to be the fact that you're trespassing."
"Wasn't today the last day of school? Aren't the kids all gone?"
"That's beside the point." Sarah scrutinized him. Very tan, which made his dark hair and dark eyes look exotic. Definitely not from around here. His accent—or lack of one—made her think West Coast. He was trim, well-muscled, just shy of six feet, wearing a white polo and jeans that fit like...her gaze trailed down, lingered a moment too long. He twisted his head to peer over one shoulder.
"What's wrong? Did I sit in something?"
Sarah went rigid, felt her face flush with a combination of embarrassment and suppressed laughter. If it had happened anywhere but here at school, she would have acknowledged her ogling, made a joke out of it. Especially as the waggled eyebrow and over-dramatic leer he sent her way told her she wasn't fooling him.
"Let's start over. I'm Sarah Godwin." She extended her hand.
He shook it with a firm grasp, didn't push things by lingering too long. Although she did notice the way his smile deepened, wrinkling the corners of his eyes.
"Sam. Sam Durandt."
"Sam Durandt. Who is in desperate need of a piano?"
"Right. See, my keyboard hasn't arrived yet. I've got to," he rapped his knuckles against his temple, "get this song worked out before it drives me nuts."
"Oh. You're a composer, are you?"
"No, not a composer. I mean, not only music. I write songs."
Sarah pursed her lips. Was this guy for real? "Anything I might have heard?"
He rocked on his heels, looked down. "No, not yet. But," he brightened, beaming at her, "maybe this is the one. If you could show me to a piano."
She hesitated. She was alone in the building until Mr. Cole arrived to clean. He seemed friendly enough, but...
"I'll rent it from you," he blurted into the lengthening silence.
"Rent it?"
"Yeah. I don't have a lot of money, but if you let me work on my song, I'll write one just for you." He glanced up at her, his long, dark eyelashes framing even darker, larger eyes. "Please...it's a matter of life or death."
Sarah laughed. He was worse than her students. "All right. Come with me, Sam the Music Man."
Her foot brushed against the granite rock face and Sarah fell, the rope zipping through her hands much faster than she had intended. She pulled up, her harness squeezing tight around her hips. She came to a halt a few feet above a large boulder.
She hated thinking about that first day—hated it because the memory invariably led to more memories followed by traitorous thoughts.
If she hadn't met Sam, then she might have met someone else, and they would still be alive, and if they were alive, then so would Josh still be alive, only he wouldn't be Josh because Sam wasn't his father, but she would at least have one of them...
She leaned back on her rope, squinted at the bright sunshine and cursed herself for forgetting her sunglasses. Blinking back tears, she lowered herself to a standing position on the partially submerged rock. Water lapped at her boots, trying to undermine her footing.
A fall here would leave someone beat up pretty good.
Wasn't that what she'd already done? She'd fallen in love and gotten beat up for it. Battered, bruised, broken.
The words came in a staccato that swirled through her, echoing with the pulse pounding in her temples. Sam would have made a song out of it. Not a funny song or a joke like so many of his songs were.
A ballad, a dirge. A sad, sad song. One that would coax tears from the hardest of hearts.
She blinked rapidly, told herself it was the sun reflecting from the wet mirror-like granite. She reached for the shiny white lengths of bone visible above the water.
No. She yanked her hand away. Photos first. Document the scene.
Everything looked more distant, impersonal through the camera's viewfinder. Like maybe this wasn't really happening, like maybe it wasn't really Sam and if it wasn't really Sam, then maybe Josh wasn't really—
Her foot slid out from under her. She flung her weight to the opposite side before she could impale herself on the tangled tree branches jutting up against the rock. Branches the size of her wrist.
Pay attention. As she caught her breath, her pulse racing after the near-miss, she sat back and double-checked the photos on the digital screen. A few were blurry—from water spraying up from the rapids a few feet away or from her body shaking? Didn't matter, enough were clear.
With trembling hands, she put the camera away. Then she reached for the bones.
Radius and ulna, she remembered her anatomy. Gently she disentangled a layer of dead leaves and debris to unveil the remnants of three fingers and the bones connecting them to the forearm. They stretched out, now unveiled on a mat of dead hemlock, pointing, accusing her.