TRACE EVIDENCE

by Carla Cassidy

  "Pawned. The guy who brought them in was given five hundred bucks for them."

  Five hundred bucks. They were worth four times that amount. "And who brought them in?" Clay asked. He was vaguely aware of Tamara wrapping her fingers around his forearm, as if in an effort to offer support. He recognized that on some level, he appreciated the touch.

  Lucky slid a sheet of paper in front of him. The paper was a photocopy of a valid driver's license. As Clay looked at the photo on the license, a loud roaring resounded in his brain as a startled gasp escaped him.

  Staring back at him from the paper was a familiar face and for a moment he thought he might be hallucinating. But as he checked the name on the driver's license he knew he wasn't seeing things. The man who had brought in his mother's jewelry to pawn was Samuel James … Clay's Uncle Sammy.

  * * *

  Tamara heard his sharp intake of breath, felt the tension that rippled through him like a jolt of lightning striking his body. She didn't recognize the photo of the man on the paper, but she recognized the name and her heart ached for the pain and betrayal Clay must be feeling at this very moment.

  She knew from local gossip that Sammy James, Clay's uncle, had come to town a couple of weeks ago to help take care of Thomas as he recuperated from the heating he'd received on the night his wife had disappeared.

  Clay stood for a long moment staring at the photo, then looked up at Lucky. "You're certain this is the man who brought the items in."

  Lucky nodded. "My partner wouldn't have taken them if the ID didn't match the man." He shoved the jewelry back into the brown envelope and sighed. "I suppose you'll need to take this with you, I guess I just eat the five hundred bucks."

  "I'll write you a receipt and I'll see that you get your money," Clay said. Tamara withdrew her hand from his arm, noting the muscle that ticked dangerously in his jaw. She wouldn't want to be Samuel James right now for any amount of money in the world.

  Within minutes she and Clay were again in his car and headed back to Cherokee Corners. He didn't say a word, but his anger filled the car. She made no attempt to alleviate or lessen his anger.

  She didn't want to intrude in any way, knew that she'd been along for the ride only because of the circumstance that she'd been having dinner with him when the break had come in. She had no right to invade his emotions or intrude on his thoughts.

  However, she couldn't help the fact that her heart hurt for him. She knew he'd been hoping for a clue … a lead to his mother and instead he'd discovered a family betrayal. She wished there were some way to take away his pain, but she also knew nothing she could do or say would touch the emotion that filled the car like a seething beast.

  "There was a matching ring." He finally broke the silence. "It will probably show up sooner or later at some pawnshop nearby." Once again he fell silent as the car ate up the miles toward Cherokee Corners.

  "Dammit." He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. Tamara jumped in response to his explosion. "The bastard! How could he have done something like this?"

  The anger no longer simmered, but exploded out of him with each word. "How could he do this? Steal from us … from Mom. Didn't he think we'd find out? The stupid jerk didn't even go that far from home. What in the hell was he thinking?"

  "He probably wasn't thinking," she said softly. "People who do stupid things rarely think them through, nor do they consider the consequences of their actions."

  "I'm going to show him consequences," Clay replied ominously. His fingers were so tight around the steering wheel she could see the white of his knuckles. "When I got the phone call, I'd hoped…" his voice trailed off and again Tamara's heart ached for him.

  He didn't have to finish his sentence. She knew exactly what he'd hoped, that he'd get a name, a photograph or something that would lead him to the person who had his mother. He'd hoped and possibly prayed that this was a huge break in the case.

  "He must have found the jewelry when he first arrived," he continued, his voice more steady than it had been moments before. "He must have found it before Savannah remembered to check on it and removed it from the compartment in the headboard."

  Some of the anger that had wound him so tight, that had filled the interior of the car seemed to dissipate somewhat as he talked. "At least this proves one thing once and for all."

  "What's that?" she asked.

  "There's no way in hell my mother would have voluntarily left those pieces of jewelry behind. She had to have been taken from the house against her will."

  Tamara looked at him in surprise. "Did anyone think otherwise?" She noticed that his hands had relaxed their grip on the steering wheel.

  "Everyone had doubts, except my sisters and me. Even people who knew them well thought it was possible my mom and dad had had a fight and things had just gotten out of control. They thought mom had hit dad over the head, then packed a suitcase and ran."

  "How could anyone who knew Rita think such a thing?" Indignation swept through her as she thought of the spirited, but loving Rita.

  "You have to understand, even the people who know and love my mother also know that she and my father got into fights on occasion. And they often indulged in those fights in public. Add that to the fact that a suitcase was missing from Mom's closet, and some of her clothes and personal items were gone. Some people made what they thought was the logical assumption."

  "Your mother adores your father. Anyone who's seen them together can see the love that exists between them. It's ridiculous to think that she would have anything to do with harming your father."

  "My sentiments exactly," he said as he turned onto the dirt road that led to her cottage. "I'm sorry you got dragged into all this."

  "Nobody can tell me that a date with Clay James isn't an adventure," she teased.

  "I appreciate you being a good sport about being dragged along." He pulled to a halt in front of her house. He turned to look at her and she saw the anger, although momentarily banked, still sizzling in the depths of his eyes.

  "Clay … if you need to talk or just unwind or whatever, you know where I am." She wasn't sure what she was offering him, only knew that she couldn't get out of the car and go inside without offering something.

  He studied her for a long moment, then reached out and touched the side of her face with his fingertips. "You're a nice woman, Tamara. You'd be smart to keep away from me and my troubles." He dropped his hand from her face. "Good night."

  "Good night, Clay." She got out of her car, her face still burning from his touch. Even though she knew she was a fool, his words of warning had only managed to draw her closer, made her want more from him. And that frightened her more than the vandalism in her classroom, more than the dead deer left on her porch.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  «^»

  The rage that Clay had managed to control while Tamara was in the car exploded inside him the moment she got out. Mingling with the rage was a bitter burn of despair. He hadn't realized how high his hope had been that the pawnshop might yield a clue until now, with hope shattered.

  The anger was easy to deal with, more familiar, and he allowed it to wrap around him and build inside him until it blocked out any other emotion.

  He knew it would be wise to head home. It was quarter to eleven and his father would probably be in bed asleep. But he didn't head home. Rather, he drove in the direction of his mother and father's house. His father might be in bed, but Uncle Sammy was a latenighter.

  He'd still be up to face the consequences of his actions. All Clay had to figure out was what those consequences might be.

  He could have Sammy arrested, but he didn't want his father to know how low his brother had fallen. Thomas was not only struggling with the weakness his injuries had left behind, he was also suffering from the loss of his beloved wife.

  The last thing Clay wanted to do was add to his father's heartache. But he also wasn't willing to just let this ride. Uncle or not, Sammy had to know he'd ste
pped over a line and in the process had lost any respect Clay might have had for him.

  What Clay really wanted to do was drive a fist through Sammy's face. He wanted to rant and scream, yell and curse at the man who would do such a thing as steal from his missing sister-in-law. Clay wanted Sammy to pay for raising his hopes, even for just a little while, as he'd driven to the pawnshop.

  His parents' ranch house was located on the outskirts of town, not far from the Cherokee Cultural Center that had been such a big part of Rita's life.

  The sprawling ranch had not only been where Clay had grown up, but also the place for many a town gathering. There was nothing his parents had enjoyed more than impromptu barbecues and parties with half the town of Cherokee Corners invited.

  As he pulled up front and parked, he wondered if there would ever again be a party out here, if he would ever again see his mother act as gracious, fun-loving hostess for her neighbors and friends.

  A light shone from the living room window and Clay assumed Sammy was probably watching a little late-night television. How nice, Clay thought, his anger once again knocking around inside him. Sammy was sitting on his father and mother's sofa, eating their food, watching their television, enjoying the comforts of their home after stealing and pawning jewelry that belonged to Clay's mom.

  Long, determined strides carried Clay from his car to the front door. He wanted to hammer on the door, but knowing his father might be asleep, he held his control and knocked softly.

  To his surprise it was his father who answered. "Clay … son." Thomas's features twisted into a mask of fear. "Is it … is there news?"

  "No, no, Dad." Clay cursed himself. He should have known at this time of night his father would mistake his presence here for something official. "There's no news." The fear that had twisted his father's features left his face. "I just need to talk to Uncle Sammy … privately."

  Thomas studied his son's face for a long moment, then turned and called over his shoulder. "Sammy, it's Clay and he wants to talk to you outside."

  There was a long pause, then Sammy appeared in the doorway. "Clay. What's up?"

  Samuel James was still a handsome man despite the fact that he was pushing sixty years old. He had a baby face, relatively unlined and thick black hair that Clay suspected he colored to keep away the gray.

  His eyes were blue … guileless as a young boy's, but Clay wasn't fooled by the innocence radiating from those blue depths.

  "Come on out here where we can talk," Clay said and stepped off the porch. He felt his blood boiling and reminded himself that punching his uncle might make him feel better, but would upset his father and wouldn't solve anything. Still, the thought of fist connecting with jaw was appealing.

  "What's going on, Clay?" Sammy left the porch and stood in front of Clay, his expression as innocent as a newborn babe. "Is something wrong?"

  "I took a little drive to Shadow Hills tonight." Clay watched his uncle's face closely. A flash of something crossed Sammy's eyes. "Visited a place called Lucky's. Ever heard of it?"

  Sammy sighed and swiped a hand through his hair as he took two steps backward from Clay. "Clay … I needed the money. I owed some people and they weren't willing to wait."

  It enraged Clay that the first words out of Sammy's mouth wasn't an apology, but rather a rationalization for his crime. Unable to help himself, he stepped forward and punched Sammy with a finger in the chest. "What were you thinking? How could you have stolen from her? From Dad?"

  "I was going to get them back! I pawned them, I didn't sell them. I was going to get the money to get them out of hock and figured nobody would be the wiser."

  Clay's desire to hit him … hit something … anything … consumed him. His head ached with the chaos of the emotions that battled inside him. It was bad enough that Sammy had pawned anything of his mother's, but the fact that he'd pawned things she loved only made it worse.

  Someplace in the back of his mind he knew he was angrier than the situation warranted. His subconscious mind knew that his rage wasn't just because Sammy had stolen his mother's jewelry, but was also because his father had been attacked, his mother had been taken away, and he couldn't get a handle on who was responsible.

  "Clay." Thomas's voice came from the front door, sounding as weary as it had since the day he'd come home from the hospital. "Go home, son. I'll take care of this."

  Clay stood his ground, unwilling to let his father take care of it, unable to release the anger that still swelled inside of him. "He took her jewelry, Dad. The jewelry you'd bought for her. He took it and he pawned it."

  "What difference does it make?" Thomas cried. "What damn difference does it make? She's gone. She's been gone for so long. We're never going to get her back … never." With a strangled sob, Thomas stumbled back into the house.

  Thomas's utter hopelessness was like a mule kick to the gut for Clay. He reeled backward, watching as Sammy hurried after his father into the house.

  We're never going to get her back … never. The words reverberated around and around in Clay's head. With his stomach churning sickly both with anger and despair, he turned on his heel and headed back to his car. He peeled away from the house, spewing gravel from his back tires until he hit the highway.

  He headed away from town, unwilling to do as his father had said and go home until some of the emotions inside him had quieted.

  His father's loss of hope had been the final blow that had broken him. He'd been so strong through the entire ordeal, but he didn't feel strong now. Anger still tensed his shoulders and burned in his stomach. But the anger was mixed with other emotions too raw to identify.

  He punched on his radio and tuned it to a favorite oldie station, hoping the sound of music would somehow soothe the beast inside him. But the light, rhythmic music only served to irritate him more.

  He punched it off, opened his window to allow in the night air and fought off a press of emotion so intense he felt as if he might die.

  Drawing deep breaths to steady himself, he knew that when the anger passed he'd be left with a painful, hollow emptiness.

  He needed peace, but he didn't know how to get it. He needed a respite from his thoughts, from the brutal guilt and fear that assailed him more and more with each day that passed.

  What if they never found his mother? Or worse, what if she was eventually found in a field, like Riley Frazier's mother had been … dead for months?

  What if he never got an opportunity to see her snapping black eyes again, to see her beautiful smile, to tell her that he loved her? What if he couldn't bring her home to his father … a man who would never he the same without his beloved wife by his side?

  The what-ifs could kill a man. They could slowly eat him from the inside out, like an insidious disease that can't be stopped.

  Weariness tugged at him as well. The weariness of a man who had pushed himself too hard for too long. Since the night of his mother's disappearance, Clay's sleep had been plagued by nightmares.

  In his tortured dreams his mother cried out to him, begging him to help her, begging him to find her. He ran, he hunted, he sought, but couldn't find her no matter how hard he tried.

  He awakened each morning more exhausted than when he'd gone to sleep. If he could just have a few hours of dreamless sleep, if he could just have a moment in time where he felt at peace, then perhaps he could work more efficiently, find the clues that would lead to his mother.

  He pulled his car to a halt and shut off his engine and headlights, shocked to find himself in front of Tamara's little cottage.

  What was he doing here? What crazy impulse had led him to this particular place?

  The house was dark. He glanced at his wristwatch. It was after midnight. Of course the place was dark. She was probably in bed, dreaming the dreams of the innocent.

  He should go. He reached for the keys to start the engine once again, but before he could, the porch light blinked on and the front door opened.

  Tamara stepped out on the p
orch. Clad in a yellow robe that matched the yellow scrap of silk Clay had seen flung on her bed, she looked like a vision from a dream.

  As if in a dream he got out of his car and approached where she stood. He felt no anticipation or expectation. He just felt numb … completely and utterly void of any kind of emotion.

  "I don't know … I don't know what I'm doing here," he began haltingly. "I just … I need…" he broke off, appalled by his own confusion.

  "Come inside, Clay," she said softly. She opened the door to allow him entry.

  He hesitated only a moment. He had no idea what forces had brought him here to her, had no idea what he needed from her, but as he entered the cozy cottage, he knew this was exactly where he needed to be at the moment.

  * * *

  Tamara hadn't been asleep when she'd heard his car. In fact, she'd been lying in bed thinking about him … worrying about him.

  The tension that had filled the car on the way home from Lucky's Pawnshop had been nearly overwhelming. The anger that had simmered just beneath the surface in him had made her afraid, not for herself, but for him.

  She'd recognized that he was a man on the verge of collapse, stressed by weeks of overworking, uncertainty and heartache.

  She wondered about his confrontation with his uncle, but wouldn't ask what happened. She could tell by the dazed look in his eyes as he walked inside that he had reached his breaking point.

  He stood in the center of the living room, as if unsure what to do next. He not only looked dazed and uncertain, he looked to be beyond exhaustion.

  "Come on," she said softly and took him by the arm. "You need to sleep," she said to make sure he didn't misunderstand her actions.

  She led him into her bedroom where a small lamp was lit on her nightstand. The window was open to allow in the sweet forest-scented night air and the tabletop fountain bubbled a soothing, rhythmic sound.

  "Take off your shirt," she said. The dazed expression lifted from his eyes and he raised a dark brow. "Just your shirt, then lie down on your stomach on the bed," she added.