He wandered the living room, then went down the hallway to his parents' bedroom. The bed was neatly made, probably thanks to Savannah, and the room looked just like it always had, but it felt different.
Instead of smelling like his mother's sweet perfume, the room smelled of his father's grief. He walked to his mother's side of the bed and stretched out on the blue floral spread.
He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up the sound of his mother's voice … not like he'd last heard it, when it had been filled with disappointment and aggravation, but rather her voice when she sang and laughed.
He'd taken for granted that he had many, many years with her. She was only fifty-five years old … still young but ready to welcome in the golden years of sharing love and life with her husband as well as her grown children.
It was the natural way of things that parents passed into the spirit world before their children, but not like this. Not stolen away and vanquished … not kidnapped and murdered … not found in a shallow grave in a field years later.
Again he was assailed with a wave of loneliness, mingling with the terror of the possibility that he would never see his mother alive again.
He sat up and shook his head, refusing to allow the tenor to take hold. He had to believe that they'd find her alive. He had to believe that this was like Riley Frazier's mother's case.
Riley's mother had been missing for a year and a half before she'd been murdered and eventually found in a field where Riley was building new homes.
Clay had to believe that same person who had taken Riley's mom had kidnapped his own mother, because that meant they might have time to find her before she was killed.
Time. He was wasting time here. He'd wasted time with Tamara. He should be working day and night, night and day to discover something—anything that would help find his mom.
He got up from the bed and was about to leave the room when a thread caught in the striker plate on the doorjamb captured his gaze. He leaned closer. Yes, it was a thread of some sort.
Under ordinary circumstances, Clay would have just assumed that his father had caught his pants or a shirt against the metal, but these weren't ordinary circumstances and Clay wasn't willing to take a chance that this single thread might not be important.
He had no bindles—the small paper envelopes that were used to collect evidence—with him. He went into the kitchen and withdrew a clean white envelope from one of the drawers, along with a spare pair of tweezers, then returned to the striker plate. Carefully, he removed the thread, placed it in the envelope, and then sealed it tight.
He checked his wristwatch, noting that it was just after ten. He had no idea how long his father and Sammy might be gone and decided he didn't want to wait around.
Carefully locking the door behind him, he left the house and got back into his car, the white envelope with the thread in it nearly burning a hole in his breast pocket. He wanted to get to the lab and check it out, although he knew better than to get his hopes up.
A single thread was little to go on. It was simply a tiny piece in an intricate puzzle. But if he got enough pieces and got very, very lucky, he might be able to put the puzzle together and find his mom.
* * *
Tamara painted all day Sunday, hoping to lose herself in the creative and lucrative work that she so loved. But the work didn't go well. She couldn't create the colors she sought, her perspective seemed off and she couldn't seem to immerse herself in the work enough to keep thoughts of Clay at bay.
By Monday afternoon she had to admit to herself that she was a bit disappointed that she'd heard no more from Clay. She knew it was ridiculous to have expected to hear from him, but somehow she had.
She told herself that he'd slept at her house, not with her, and owed her nothing. He'd thanked her Sunday morning when he left and he had nothing more to say to her.
Stifling a sigh, she checked her watch. There was still fifteen minutes of class time left. She'd given the students an assignment the moment they'd arrived. They were to pick a legend that they'd talked about in class and write a paper explaining both the legend and the student's emotional response to the legend. She intended to do the same thing with her adult class.
Maybe in reading the papers generated by the assignment she'd figure out who might be responsible for the vandalism in the classroom and the dead deer at her house.
She still figured it had all been a silly prank, but that didn't mean the person responsible shouldn't have to face consequences.
There was only a week left of summer school and she was looking forward to the rest of summer without classes of any kind, when she could focus completely on her painting until the new school year started in September.
Max had called her the night before to see how she was progressing on the new paintings for the showing in Oklahoma City in the fall. They'd chatted a bit, then had hung up.
Tamara had been grateful that they'd been able to part ways personally, yet still maintain a good working relationship with each other. She'd been able to put her bitterness and hurt behind her where he was concerned. Max wasn't the man of her heart, but he was definitely the agent she wanted representing her in the art world.
"Okay, people," she said as she checked her watch once again. "Time's up. Please leave your papers on my desk and I'll see you all tomorrow."
She smiled at each of the students as they dropped their papers on her desk, then headed out the door. She was sure all of them would be just as happy as she was to see summer school come to an end.
She gathered up the papers as the last student disappeared out the doorway, then grabbed her purse and headed out of the building.
It had to be one of the hottest days of the year, she thought as she walked across the parking lot asphalt. Although she usually went directly to her cottage after summer school classes, she decided to drive to the Redbud Inn and read the papers while she indulged in a hot fudge sundae.
The ice cream parlor was jumping, with kids coming and going with ice-cream cones or sodas. Tamara waved to Alyssa who was working behind the counter, then took a seat at one of the small round tables in the corner.
She placed the papers on the table, then went up to the counter and stood in line behind a mother with two children who couldn't make up their minds what kind of ice cream they wanted.
As she patiently waited, she couldn't help but notice the dark shadows beneath Alyssa's eyes, shadows that told Tamara that her friend's visions probably hadn't retreated, but rather were attacking her as viciously as ever.
Her attention turned to the mother and two children and their conversation about ice cream.
"I want pretty ice cream, either blue like the sky or green like the grass," the little girl said. She was a dainty little thing, all ruffles and bows, about five years old.
"That's dumb," the boy exclaimed. He was obviously the older brother by a year or two. "It doesn't matter what it looks like. It matters what it tastes like."
"Let's just make up our minds," the mother said and flashed a glance of apology to Tamara. "There are other people waiting to get ice cream."
It took another minute or two for the two to decide, peanut butter fudge for the boy and strawberry marshmallow for the little girl who proclaimed that the light pink concoction looked just like a ballerina's tutu.
As the three left the shop, Tamara watched them, a wistful want fluttering through her. She wanted children. At thirty years old it wasn't just her biological clock that was loudly ticking but it was a psychological clock as well. She'd wanted to have her children by the time she reached this age, had wanted to grow with them.
"Earth to Tamara."
She snapped her attention to Alyssa. "Sorry." Instantly her worry for her friend was back. "Are you okay?"
Alyssa nodded. "Overworked as usual, but I'm okay. Everything all right with you?"
"Fine, just thought I'd sit here in the cool and read some papers while eating one of your famous hot fudge sundaes."
"Soun
ds like a plan. One hot fudge sundae coming right up."
A moment later Tamara was seated at her corner table indulging her sweet tooth as she read papers. When she came to one written on the legend of the bear she set it on a separate stack to read later at length.
When she finished the separation process, she had five students who had chosen to write about the legend of the bear.
She was reading the second paper from that stack when there was a lull in customers and Alyssa joined her at the table.
"Want a cup of coffee or an iced tea or something?" she asked.
"No, I'm fine," Tamara assured her. For a few minutes the two women talked of inconsequential things, the warm weather, the new movie that was showing at the only theater in town and plans for the fall festival at the cultural center.
They spoke of their hopes that Rita would be back home and able to take part in the ceremonies that had been so dear to her heart. An attractive young blond woman who approached their table interrupted their conversation.
"Alyssa, I'm sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you could include a little more fruit on the breakfast menu. As you've probably noticed I never eat the eggs or bacon, but I do nibble on the whole wheat toast and I like my fruit in the mornings."
"I'll see what I can do, Virginia," Alyssa replied. Tamara had recognized the woman's delicate features, but hadn't been able to place her until Alyssa said her name. Virginia. Virginia Maxwell, the wife of Greg Maxwell who'd been the first victim of the serial slasher.
As Virginia left, Alyssa cast a pained expression at Tamara. "I feel so sorry for her and I know she's going through a rough time, but she's driving me a little bit crazy with her demands."
"She's been staying here?" Tamara asked.
Alyssa nodded. "Ever since Greg's murder. She says she just can't face going home to her silent house yet."
"It's been a while since Greg's murder. In fact, it's been several weeks since Sam McClane was found dead. Maybe this serial slasher has left town. Maybe there won't be any more murders."
Alyssa's eyes were dark … haunted as she held Tamara's gaze. "It's not over. The killings aren't over at all. They've only just begun. I know it. I feel it here." She touched her heart. "And I see it inside here." She pointed to her head. "But let's not talk about it anymore, okay?"
It was obvious the conversation was upsetting her. "Okay," Tamara agreed. They filled the next few minutes with more inane chatter, then a group of kids came in and Alyssa returned to the counter to wait on them.
Tamara tried to refocus on the papers, but her concentration had been broken and the noise level in the parlor had increased to a decibel that she knew would make further concentration difficult.
She gathered her papers, deciding to head home. She waved to Alyssa, then stepped back into the stifling late afternoon heat.
Despite the heat, a chill wiggled up her spine as she headed for her car. She knew the chill was due to Alyssa's words … that the killing wasn't over. And it didn't take long for her thoughts to segue from the crimes to the man who was attempting to solve them.
Clay. His scent had become trapped in her sheets the night he'd slept in her bed. Last night Tamara had slept with that bold, masculine scent enveloping her and she wished it had been his big, strong anus around her instead of just his scent.
She shook her head ruefully. There was definitely a touch of perversity in her soul … to want a man who had nothing to do with her dreams for her future. It was absolutely contrary of her to want to have anything to do with Clay James. And yet, perverse or not, contrary or not, she couldn't help the way even mere thoughts of him caused her heart to beat just a little bit faster.
She turned down the dirt lane to her cottage, trying to empty her mind of all thoughts. The first thing she intended to do when she got home was wash those sheets. Maybe if she could banish the scent of Clay from her cottage, she could banish thoughts of him from her mind.
As her cottage came into view, her heart slammed like a fist against her rib cage. The windows were shattered, the broken glass sparkling in the late afternoon sunshine. The front door stood agape sporting a fresh wound in the shape of the familiar claw mark. Blood shone like a garish grin.
For a long moment her mind refused to wrap around it all. She remained, engine idling in the place she had stopped, staring at the destruction before her.
Just as quickly as it had descended on her, the stunned inertia snapped. She backed down the lane as if the very devil himself was after her.
It wasn't until she pulled up in front of the police station that tears began to fall. Her home, a place of peace and serenity, had been violated.
Who was responsible? And how far were they willing to go to live the legend of the bear?
For the first time since her classroom had been vandalized, a sense of imminent danger swept through her. She got out of her car and hurried into the police station.
* * *
Chapter 9
«^»
Clay gazed around the living room. Even though he and his team had been inside for the past three hours collecting evidence, it was still a shock to see the utter destruction that had taken place.
The entire cottage smelled like unbridled rage. There appeared to be no method or control to the damage that had been wrought. It was as if a monster had gone berserk inside the walls of the place.
A monster. He remembered the vision Alyssa had told him about, a vision of Tamara being chased by a monster … killed by a monster.
He moved to the front window, which was now simply a glassless hole and saw Tamara leaning against a patrol car flanked by two officers.
She hadn't been inside yet. Nobody had been inside except Clay and his two-man forensic team. They had collected hairs and fibers, fingerprints and anything else that might have DNA or evidence potential.
He knew the officers had questioned her and she'd told them that she'd gone from summer school to the ice cream parlor.
It had been sheer luck that she'd chosen this day not to go directly home from summer school. The blood on the front door had still been tacky when Clay had arrived, indicating to him that Tamara had either just missed the perpetrator when she'd arrived here or the perp might have still been in the house when she'd pulled up.
Had she come directly home from school who knew what kind of scene Clay would now be processing? The very thought made his blood chill.
He turned from the window as Trey Morgan, who had been gathering evidence from the bedroom, entered the living room. "I think I got everything worth getting from the bedroom and bathroom," he said.
"You want to check and see if Burt needs help outside. I'm pretty much finished here, too."
Trey nodded and disappeared out the front door. Clay moved back to the front window and once again peered out at Tamara.
She was too far away for him to tell what kind of an expression rode her pretty features. He could easily imagine what her expression was going to be when she walked through the front door and viewed the shambles that had been her home.
It would have been easy for him to pack up his collected evidence and get to the lab, leaving it to the uniformed officers to bring her inside.
But he didn't intend to do that. He knew what had been destroyed here, and it was far more than mere furniture, knickknacks and personal belongings.
The aura of tranquility that he had noticed both times he'd been inside the house was gone, shattered beneath the violence that had taken place here. And he wasn't sure that any amount of glue and cleanup would be able to restore that special air of serenity to the cottage.
When Trey came back inside, Clay gestured to the metal suitcase that carried all the samples he'd taken. "Would you mind dropping that off at the lab when you take your samples in? I'm going to hang out here and find out what Ms. Greystone intends to do. It's obvious she can't stay here for the night."
"Sure. If there's nothing more for us to do here, Randy and I will go ahead a
nd take off."
"We're finished," Clay replied. "Store the samples and I'll start on them tomorrow."
The two men said goodbye and Trey left. There would be plenty of items for Clay to process the next day, but no certainty that anything they collected would lead to the perpetrator. Clay wondered how many of his own hairs Trey had collected off Tamara's bed.
He walked to the front door and as he exited the house, Tamara stood up and took a few steps toward him. They had, not spoken at all since he'd arrived to begin his investigation.
As he drew closer to her, he saw that her gray eyes were somber, but there wasn't a trace of tears in their depths. Someplace deep inside him marveled at her strength.
"It's bad, isn't it," she said.
"It's bad," he confirmed. He looked at the two officers who stood nearby. "Somebody is going to have to keep on eye on the place until it's secured."
Jason, one of the two officers, nodded. "I've al ready given Jeb a call and told him we've got some work for him. He can board up the windows and secure the house until Ms. Greystone gets things back in order."
"Good." Although Clay didn't like Jason Sheller, the man had always done his job efficiently. "If Jeb is on his way, then Tamara and I can wait here for him and you two can get on back to the station house."
Clay didn't speak to Tamara again until the two officers had gotten into their patrol car and started down the lane away from the house, only then did he direct his attention back to her.
"You know you can't stay here. The exterior damage is nothing compared to the interior damage. Is there someplace you can go for a couple of nights until you can get the mess cleaned up? What about your parents' place?"
She shook her head. "My parents moved last year to a beautiful condo in Santa Fe and I know Alyssa has a full house right now. Don't worry, I'll think of something. Can I go inside now?"
Clay nodded, fighting the impulse to take her elbow, hold her hand, and somehow offer support as she walked through the place she had called home.
At that moment Jeb pulled up in his pickup. He'd come prepared with sheets of plywood and the tools he would need to board up the broken windows.
TRACE EVIDENCE Page 10