TRACE EVIDENCE

by Carla Cassidy

  "You've known from the beginning who I am and what I believe. Science … that's all that matters to me," he said.

  "You hide in your science," she scoffed, surprised to feel the heat of tears coursing down her cheeks, tears bred in heartbreak. "Because you have nothing else in your life … because you've turned your back on the man you could be."

  "You're the one who talks about how important it is to remember the nature of the beast," he retorted, "but somehow you forgot my nature."

  "I didn't forget it, Clay." She swiped at her tears impatiently. She hadn't wanted him to see her cry. "I know that inside you is that warrior, proud and strong and stubborn, but he's been blanketed with so much baggage you've lost touch with him."

  "I know who I am and I'm not that man." There was pain in his eyes as he held her gaze. "And I can't be the man to share the future you see for yourself."

  She drew a tremulous breath, unable to staunch the tears that swam in her eyes. "You're right, Clay. The man I eventually marry will be proud of his roots. When we have children it will be as important to him that we take them to the cultural center, where they can share in the extended family that's there and learn wisdom from the elders by listening to their storytelling. I want my children to be proud of their Cherokee blood and the strength and grace of the Cherokee people."

  The pain she'd felt when she'd left Max had nothing on the wrenching heartache that tormented her now. She'd never really believed Max had loved her for anything other than her talent as an artist. But, Clay … she knew when she gazed into his eyes that he loved her, not as an artist, but as a woman.

  "You know the really sad part about all this? I believe you love me as much as you're capable of loving, but even if you wanted a future with me, it wouldn't be enough." His eyes narrowed, but he remained silent and she continued. "As long as you hate who you are, you'll never be able to truly love anyone else."

  With these final words she turned and ran. He didn't try to stop her and she knew it was because there was nothing more to say.

  She ran into the bedroom where she'd been staying, half-blinded by the tears that seemed to be burning hotter, flowing like a river down her cheeks.

  He was right about one thing. They had both been fools, sleeping together, eating together, spending quiet time in the evenings together. They had been indulging in a pretend marriage of sorts.

  The only thing she was left with was a very real broken heart.

  * * *

  When Rita thought of her husband, she couldn't stand the pain. Even if she managed to escape from this prison, or was found and rescued, what would her life be like without her Thomas?

  From the moment she'd met him when he'd been a handsome police officer, she'd known he was the man for her, the man who would father her children and share her dreams.

  That momentary glimpse she'd gotten of him before she'd been drugged and carried from their home had devastated her. There had been too much blood and he'd been too still to think anything but the worst.

  And her poor children, not only coping with her disappearance, but also with their father's death. Her heart embraced them all … Breanna, who had been so wounded when the man who fathered little Maggie had left her. Savannah, who had lost her husband in a tragic car accident. And Clay.

  She lay on the bed on the familiar bedspread and thought of her eldest son. She'd had little else to do but think while in this place and with thinking came regrets.

  She needed to tell her son some things, share with him some insight she'd gained. She hoped she got the opportunity.

  A clang of metal resounded and then the wide slit in the metal door opened, revealing another box like the one she had previously received.

  Scattered on the floor around her bed were the pieces of the first dress that had come in such a box. The dress had terrified her, as if whoever held her captive wanted to dress her up like a doll.

  This box terrified her, too. Did it hold another dress, or something to punish her for ripping up the last one? Should she open it or leave it be?

  She dragged a hand across her chest, trying to still the frantic beating of her heart. What worried her most was the fact that she knew she was in the middle of some sort of psychological game. She was terrified that eventually, if she was found and rescued, it would be too late … she'd already be stark, raving mad.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  «^»

  The words they had exchanged the night before had been inevitable, Clay thought as he sat at his desk the next morning. It was too early to begin calling stores to find out about the bedspread and too late to stop the flood of emotions that had spewed out of Tamara last night.

  He could have stopped it. He could have stopped it at any time from the moment he'd met her. He'd allowed his attraction for her to blind him to the truth—that they were headed for disaster.

  He should have never allowed her to move in with him, and he sure as hell should have never made love to her. Even now, the thought of her warm, willing body in his arms stirred him and at the same time the memory of her tears pained him.

  "You're in unusually early."

  Clay looked up to see Glen Cleberg standing in his doorway. Clay rose to his feet, not returning the smile that the chief offered him.

  "Tell me something, Chief, knowing that I was hunting down people who had landscaped with Dalmatian rock in my parents' case, why in the hell didn't you tell me you've got that rock at your house?"

  Glen frowned. "I thought I did tell you."

  "No, no you didn't." Clay heard the sharpness in his tone.

  "Clay, I've got a serial killer stabbing the young men of this town. I thought I told you, if I didn't, then I apologize. I've had a lot on my mind."

  "It's kind of a big thing to forget to tell me."

  Chief Cleberg eyed him curiously. "You think I had something to do with what happened to your parents, Clay? I'll admit your father and I haven't always seen things eye-to-eye, but I like arguing with the stubborn old man. Half my energy is spent trying to best the records of old Chief Thomas James. And as far as your mother … I've got a wife and three single daughters. Why in the hell would I want another woman in my house?"

  It was the longest impromptu speech Clay had ever heard Glen speak. "I'm sorry if I sounded accusatory," he said.

  Glen's gaze was sympathetic. "I know how tough this has been on you, Clay. But we ran into a dead end with your parents' case long ago."

  "I might have something new… It's too soon to tell if it's going to be important or not," Clay said.

  "You know if anything comes up, we'll move heaven and earth to get your mother back to you," Glen said.

  "I know that. I'll keep you posted if anything breaks."

  A moment later Clay was once again alone in the lab. He returned to his desk and back to thoughts of Tamara.

  She was the first woman he'd ever spent any time with that had made him wish for more, made him believe that marriage and children would have been nice … if he'd been a different kind of man … if she'd been a different kind of woman.

  He rubbed his forehead where a headache threatened to take hold. He'd slept little the night before. What he'd wanted to do was go into her room, take her into his arms and kiss away the tears that had washed down her face. What he'd wanted to do was take her into his bedroom, hold her in his arms through the night and wish the night would last forever.

  Enough, he commanded himself. He had plenty to do besides sit at his desk and pine for a woman who would never, could never be his.

  He quickly made phone calls to both his sisters and gave them each four stores to check for the bedspread. He didn't tell them what he needed the information for, only that he needed to know who might have bought a spread like the one that their mother had owned.

  He'd kept five stores for him to check out himself and the minute ten o'clock arrived and he knew the stores were open, he began his calls.

  He was interrupted o
ff and on, but by noon he'd made all the calls and had come up empty. None of the stores on his list carried the Select Bedding brand.

  The nature of the beast. He wasn't sure why but that catch phrase haunted him. What nature of beast hit a man over the head then stole his woman? What nature of beast took a mother away from her family? He had no idea what the answer was, but felt it was important that he discover it.

  By noon Savannah had checked in. Her investigation of the stores on her list had yielded the same result as Clay had with his list. Nothing.

  Bitterly disappointed, Clay waited for Breanna to check in. Last night when he and Tamara had made the startling realization that the spread they were examining was not the spread that had been on Rita's bed before the crime, for the first time in weeks hope had welled up inside Clay.

  Maybe they'd get lucky, maybe this was the key that would unlock the mystery, and maybe there really was a chance that they'd get his mother home safe and sound and where she belonged.

  But with each minute that ticked by, that hope was growing harder and harder to sustain. As that hope seeped away, the pain of Tamara seemed to grow substantially.

  Along with the heartache of Tamara was the responsibility to find whomever it was that had tormented her with her legend. All the students, both young and old, had been questioned concerning the vandalism both at the school and at her cottage. The few that had not been able to provide an alibi for the afternoon of the attack on the cottage were unlikely suspects to begin with.

  He'd never felt so impotent … so inadequate. He couldn't find his mother. He couldn't finger a serial killer. He couldn't find a vandal. And he couldn't be the man who Tamara would spend her life with.

  You've brought childhood hurts into adulthood and allowed them to dictate the man you've become. That's what she had told him and he refused to consider if there might be any validity to her words. It didn't matter.

  It was almost three when Breanna came into the lab, her pretty features taut with tension. "I hit pay dirt," she said without preamble. "Evans." The name was of an upscale local store that specialized in home furnishing. "They had the brand and the name and it just so happened that particular pattern, Blue Wisteria, was sold three months ago. He paid cash for it."

  "He?" Clay jumped up from his desk. "How do you know it was a he?"

  "The saleslady specifically remembered the sale. She told me the gentleman knew just what he was looking for and had told her that wisteria was one of his favorite flowers."

  "Did she get a name?" Clay felt his pulse pound at his temples. "Did she know the man who bought it?"

  Breanna stared at him in bewilderment. "Clay, what's this all about?"

  "Just tell me who it is, Breanna, that's all I need to know."

  "Jacob Kincaid."

  Clay stared at her as if she'd just spoken some strange foreign language. "What?" He needed her to repeat it, to make certain he'd heard what he'd thought he'd heard.

  "Three months ago Jacob Kincaid went into Evans and bought a Select Bedding bedspread in the pattern of Blue Wisteria. I guess he saw Mom and Dad's spread and liked it."

  Of course, it was impossible for Breanna to see anything evil. After all, they were talking about Jacob Kincaid, respected banker and best friend of the family. But Clay's blood ran cold at the implications.

  "Go home, Breanna. Go home and stay by the phone."

  "Tell me what's going on, Clay."

  He placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'll tell you what's going on as soon as I know."

  "But surely you don't think Jacob had anything to do with what happened to Mom and Dad? He's our friend, Clay. He even put up a reward to help find Mom."

  "I know, Bree. I'm just trying to figure some things out. I'll let you know what's up when I have all the information I need."

  Minutes later, after Breanna had left, Clay got into his car and headed toward the Kincaid mansion. He knew Jacob would be at work. He also knew that he could do nothing to compromise the integrity of the scene … if there was a scene.

  At the moment all he had was a bedspread bought a month before the crime had occurred … hardly a crime in and of itself. What he needed was something more … something to take to Glen that would galvanize the entire force.

  There was a huge part of Clay that found it almost impossible to consider that Jacob could have anything to do with his mother's disappearance. Clay had been in Jacob's house, had sat in the kitchen and drank coffee since Rita had disappeared.

  He clenched his fingers around the steering wheel. Yes, it was almost impossible to believe that Jacob would have anything to do with all this … almost.

  Tamara's legend came back to haunt him. The nature of the beast. A man stays true to his nature. And what was Jacob's nature? Clay had always believed it to be one of benevolence, a kind man who liked nice things. A lonely man who loved his collection of fine items.

  Was it possible at some time in his life Jacob had been collecting women? The thought made a hot anger and an icy chill race in Clay's veins.

  There was no car parked in front of the three-story mansion. Clay got out of the car, for the first time looking at the place with the eyes of a cop instead of the eyes of a friend.

  There were lots of rooms in the house Clay had never been invited into. What secrets might those rooms hold? Did one of them hold his mother?

  It took all the willpower he possessed not to storm the front door, break it down and rush inside. If he did that and he was wrong, then he'd wind up jobless and probably behind bars. If he did that and he was right, then any evidence that was found in the house would be thrown out and no matter what Jacob had done, he'd skate on a technicality.

  He walked around the perimeter of the house, looking for something, anything that might yield a search warrant. It was just a feeling … a gut feeling, but he sensed his mother's presence. He knew in his gut that she was in the house.

  He found what he was looking for at the back of the house. French doors led to a large patio area complete with brick barbecue grill. But that wasn't the only door at the back of the house. A small door led from what Clay assumed might be a mudroom and directly in front of that door in a semicircle pattern was Dalmatian rock blend.

  Guilty. The word screamed through Clay's head. Two clues and both of them pointed directly to Jacob Kincaid. With his heart racing, he ran back to his car and headed back to the station.

  * * *

  "What's going on here?" Jacob demanded as he got out of his car and stared at the police officers that were awaiting his arrival. "I was in the middle of an important meeting at the bank when Chief Cleberg called and told me to get home." His gaze landed on Clay. "Clay, would you please tell me what's going on?"

  Bitter betrayal coursed through Clay as he looked at the man he'd considered a favorite uncle, a confidante, and a friend. He held out the folded paperwork that Glen had obtained for him only fifteen minutes before. "This is a search warrant, Jacob. We figured we'd extend you the courtesy of being here while we execute it."

  "A search warrant?" Jacob frowned. "But why? What on earth are you looking for? Clay, I'm sure this is all just a terrible misunderstanding. Tell me exactly what you want and we'll get this straightened out before you have your men traipsing all through my house."

  A bead of sweat worked its way down Jacob's face. It could have been the punishing four o'clock heat or it could be a sign of guilt. In any case, it galvanized Clay into action. "It's all in the warrant," he said curtly. "You want to unlock the door for us or would you prefer we bust it down?"

  Jacob gasped, apparently thinking of his ornate front door splintered by force. He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. "I don't understand this. This is a huge mistake," he muttered as he unlocked the door. He opened the door then stepped back to allow the officers inside.

  "Sheller, Malcolm and Bailey, you take this floor. Rogers, Creighton and Stanley, you take the second floor. I'll take the third," Clay said. "Zeller, you
stay here with Mr. Kincaid, see to it that he doesn't go anyplace."

  As the men began to move, Clay looked at Jacob once again. "I hope I'm wrong, Jacob. I really hope I'm wrong." Jacob didn't reply.

  Heart pounding, adrenaline rushing, Clay turned to make his way to the stairs. As he passed the glass display cabinets that held all the things Jacob had collected over the years, his mind raced with possibilities.

  Jacob had told him he'd never married because he'd never found the perfect woman. Had he been collecting women until he found the perfect one, disposing of the ones who had not been deemed flawless?

  Were they already too late? Had he already disposed of his mother? Grief ripped at him at the very thought. Savannah and Riley believed that the person who had kidnapped his mother had held her for at least six months before killing her. He prayed that for his mother it wasn't too late.

  He'd never been to the third floor of the mansion. Jacob had shown him around the second floor where there were several guest bedrooms a long time ago, but he'd never invited Clay to view the top floor.

  A narrow staircase led from second to third floor and as he climbed it Clay's heart felt as if it might pound right out of his chest.

  When he reached the landing he looked down the long hallway. There were three closed doors on the left and three closed doors on the right. He touched the butt of his gun in his holster. He was certain he wouldn't need the gun, but it was comforting to know it was within quick reach.

  He went to the first door on the left and opened it. Inside was a room filled with African artwork. A body-size wooden crate lay in the middle of the room and as Clay approached it he breathed shallowly from his mouth, his nerves taut with tension.

  Nails held the top of the crate in place. What was inside? What if he pulled the top off and found his mother's body stuffed inside? He spied a hammer nearby and picked it up. His hands shook as he walked over to the crate.

  In the distance from the downstairs area he could hear other officers talking to one another, but the buzzing in his ears muted their voices. Using the back of the hammer, he pried out the first nail, then a second.