TRACE EVIDENCE

by Carla Cassidy

  Within seconds he had all the nails out and only had to lift the top of the crate to see what was inside. He sent a silent prayer upward to the Creator of all, then slid the top of the crate off the box. Air whooshed out of him in relief. Inside was a mask made of wood about six feet long.

  He left the room, his legs feeling slightly shaky and went into the next one. It was obviously a storage area filled with cast-off furniture.

  He checked two rooms on the right and found much the same things … old furniture, stacks of newspapers, file cabinets and miscellaneous.

  There were only two rooms left and he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. What if he'd been wrong? What if Jacob had truly bought the bedspread because he'd seen his parents' and had loved the pattern? What if all this was for nothing?

  He couldn't think about that now. He went to the last door on the left side of the hall and tried to turn the knob, then spied the padlock that kept the door from opening. Once again adrenaline ripped through him. Why would somebody lock a door on the third floor of a home if not to hide something? Or keep somebody inside?

  He knocked on the door. "Hello? Anyone in there? Mom? Are you there?" Pressing his ear against the wood, he listened intently. Nothing. No sound escaped.

  He raced down both flights of stairs. Jason Sheller met him on the bottom floor. "We're all clear here," he said.

  "I've got a padlocked door up on the third floor," Clay said. "Either Kincaid gives us the key or we go through the door."

  He found Jacob on the front porch with Chief Cleberg. Clay approached them, fighting the need to wrap his hands around Jacob Kincaid's stout neck. "Where's the key, Jacob?"

  The man blinked once, then twice more. "What key?"

  "Don't play games with me," Clay said and took a menacing step forward.

  "I'll unlock the door," Jacob said.

  Clay followed him back up the stairs. Neither of them spoke a word until they reached the second landing. "Where did you get the rock that's all around your back door?"

  "What?" Jacob appeared bewildered by the question.

  "The black and white speckled rock. Where did you get it? We've checked landscaping services and quarries and you aren't on any of the lists as a buyer."

  "What does this have to do with anything? I'm an important man. Why are you doing this to me, Clay?" he said impatiently.

  "Just answer the question."

  "How dare you treat me like this," Jacob continued to bluster. "You've been a guest in my home. You've always been welcome here. We were friends."

  "Where did you get the gravel, Jacob?" Clay wasn't about to be moved by the man's words.

  Jacob sighed impatiently. "A neighbor ordered some. He had more than he could use and offered me a couple of wheelbarrows of the rock. Is that a crime?"

  Clay didn't answer, but instead gestured toward the locked door. "Unlock it."

  "Whatever you're looking for, you aren't going to find it here. This is just a small room that holds my security cameras and equipment." He unlocked the do6r and shoved it open. "See?"

  Clay wondered how many times a heart could be filled with hope only to have those hopes shattered. The room was exactly what Jacob had said it was. A small room, it held a console of monitors, all dark and apparently turned off. A large luxurious office chair sat before the console and there was nothing else in the room.

  "I told you there was nothing in here," Jacob said, a note of triumph in his deep voice. "Now, take your men and get the hell out of my house."

  He'd been so sure. It had all fit so neatly … the presence of the Dalmatian rock, the purchase of the bedspread, the nature of the man … Clay had been so certain that Jacob Kincaid had his mother.

  "Clay, I can forgive all this. I know you've been under a tremendous amount of pressure and stress." Jacob reached out to close the door.

  Clay slapped the door with his arm to halt Jacob pulling it closed, his mind whirling. Who put a bank of cameras in an upstairs room and kept it locked? And if these were really security cameras, who sat and monitored them?

  "What are you doing?" Jacob asked as Clay approached the console.

  "Just checking out your security system." Clay saw the power switch and reached for it.

  "Clay … it works fine," Jacob said frantically.

  Clay flipped the power switch and the monitors came to life. His breath caught in his throat. He was looking at what appeared to be his mother's bedroom. The bed looked the same, the spread the same, even the nightstand and the Tiffany-style mission lamp were exactly the same. On the bed was his mother … as still as a corpse, her eyes closed.

  Clay turned to Jacob and with a roar of rage he hit the older man in the shoulders and backed him up against the hall. "Where is she?" he cried. "Where in the hell do you have her?" He moved his hands from Jacob's beefy shoulders to his neck and squeezed. "Tell me where she is, you sick bastard."

  Jacob coughed, his face turning a florid color as Clay squeezed tighter and tighter. "In the basement," he managed to choke out. "There's a bookcase … behind it."

  Clay released him and he slumped down to the floor, coughing uncontrollably. He dug into his pocket and handed Clay his set of keys at the same time a handful of officers reached the top of the stairs and joined them.

  "Sheller … cuff him." Clay didn't wait around to watch the task performed, instead he raced down the stairs to the bottom level where Glen stood, his face filled with anxiety.

  "She's in the basement," Clay said and Glen followed him as he located the stairs that led down to the subterranean level.

  When they hit the basement, it took a moment for Clay to orient himself. He located a light switch to illuminate the utter darkness and found himself standing in a rec room.

  It was a room within a room, but the interior room was made of soundproof material and had a metal door.

  "Clay." Glen placed his hand on Clay's arm before he could get the key into the locked metal door. "Before you open this you need to prepare yourself. We don't know what kind of condition she might be in."

  Clay nodded impatiently. All he knew was that on the other side of the door was his mother. He unlocked the door and swung it open.

  His mother was still stretched out on the bed, her eyes closed, her beautiful features without any animation. For a split second, a sweeping pain threatened to tumble him to his knees. Were they too late?

  "E-'tsi." Mother, he whispered, unaware that he had spoken in Cherokee.

  "I'm dreaming," she said, not opening her eyes.

  "No dream. I've come to take you home." He rushed to the side of the bed and Rita opened her eyes and cried out. "Clay … my son. I knew you'd come." She got up from the bed and threw herself into his arms. Glen remained in the doorway, silent and respectful of the mother/son reunion.

  Clay clung to his mother as a dam of emotions broke loose and he wept. His mother cried as well, clinging to him as if she'd never let him go.

  Later, as he led her from Jacob Kincaid's home and to his patrol car, she walked proudly and without help beside him. "I can't believe it was Jacob," she said.

  "From what Glen told me he's making a full confession. Apparently you were the third woman he'd taken. He killed the other two."

  "Then he would have eventually killed me as well, for I would have never become whatever it was he wanted." She got into the passenger side of the car and waited until he'd slid behind the wheel.

  "Do you need to go to the hospital, Mom? Glen said you should be checked out."

  She shook her head vehemently. "I was not physically harmed and all I want to do is see my family."

  "There's been some changes, Mom," he warned her. After all, she had no idea that Breanna had gotten married and was pregnant and that Savannah was engaged.

  "I know." Rita was silent for a long moment and Clay wondered what kind of trauma she would have to overcome. He reached out and touched her hand. "You'll be fine, Mom. We'll all be fine."

  The
y traveled for a few minutes in silence, then. Rita spoke again. "I was in that room day after day and had nothing to do but think and there are some things I need to say to you, my son."

  She gestured for him to pull over to the side of the road. "I want your full attention and I can't wait another minute to speak the thoughts that have burdened my heart."

  He pulled over, cut the engine, then turned to face her curiously. She was so beautiful with her jet-black hair, dark eyes and proud features. The few lines that lived on her face had come from smiles, lines that wrinkled the corners of her eyes and proved that there had been far more laughter than tears in her lifetime.

  "Clay." She reached out and took his hand in hers. "We said some terrible things to each other the day before all this happened."

  Guilt rocketed through him and be squeezed her hand tightly. "Mom … I…"

  She shook her head to still the apology before it could leave his lips. "You were my firstborn and I fell in love with you the moment I looked at your face … so strong and so beautiful. You were my little a-ya-wis-gi, my warrior, and I raised you as such."

  She frowned. "But there were too many times when I was too much Cherokee and not enough mother to you. I was so busy celebrating our heritage, building the cultural center that I didn't listen enough to you and the turmoil my work and the world were wreaking in your life."

  "Mom, that was a long time ago," he protested.

  "Perhaps," she agreed. Her eyes were filled with such love for him he felt it inside him. "But sometimes childhood scars don't heal, they fester and make the soul sick. If you needed more of me than you got, then I'm sorry."

  Her eyes filled with tears and Clay felt the burn of his own tears. "I won't ever again ask you to participate in the cultural center events. I'll accept that this is not the path you chose and I'll respect that."

  Her words made something break loose inside Clay, a hardness that had encased his heart began to shatter. Had he needed more of his mother in those years when he'd been teased and tormented for being Cherokee? Perhaps. But years had passed, the town was different and suddenly he wasn't sure what path he wanted to walk for the rest of his life.

  "I love you, Mom." He squeezed her hand gently, then released it and started the engine. "And if I don't get you back to the ranch house immediately, Dad's going to skin me alive."

  Rita gasped and clutched his arm. "Dad? Your father … he's alive?" Deep sobs ripped through her. "I thought he was dead … all I remember was seeing him on the floor and all the blood… I thought he was dead."

  "He's alive, Mom. I thought you knew. But since you've been gone he's only been half-alive. He's still rehabilitating from the blow he took to the head, but I have a feeling the moment he sees you, he's going to have a miraculous recovery."

  "Hurry, Clay. I need my Thomas," she cried. Clay pushed the button that made a siren blare and pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

  Within minutes they pulled up in front of the house where he recognized both his sisters' cars in the driveway. But there was only a single person standing on the porch—Thomas—and he looked more handsome and stronger than Clay had seen him since the crime had occurred.

  Before Clay had brought the car to a full halt, Rita was out of the passenger door and racing for the porch. Thomas met her halfway. Tears of joy welled up Clay's eyes as he watched his mother and father embrace.

  There would be much joy in the James home tonight, but Clay wouldn't be there to share in it. He wanted to talk to Tamara, needed to tell her that with her help Rita was back home safe and sound where she belonged.

  He honked, waved, then turned the car around and headed toward his own house.

  He knew the moment he entered the house that she was no longer there. The scent of her still lingered, but the energy she'd brought with her had disappeared.

  He made a fast phone call to the station and learned that Jacob was not only confessing to hitting his father and kidnapping his mother, but he'd also confessed to two more similar crimes.

  In those two cases, the men had been killed and eventually so had the women. One of those cases was Riley Frazier's parents. At least his future brother-in-law would have final closure.

  He was on his way out of the house when he saw the two pieces of the courting flute that had belonged to Tamara still on the bookcases behind his worktable. She must have forgotten them. He took the pieces with him and headed for her cottage.

  She'd been with him through his foul moods and despair, it seemed only right that she know that his mother was home safe.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  «^»

  Home. She was home again … and alone.

  Tamara had awakened early that morning knowing that she couldn't spend another night in Clay's house. She heard him leave early, had waited until the house was once again silent, then had gotten out of bed and packed to leave.

  The heartache of loving Clay was almost too great to bear and she had known that to spend one more minute, one more hour, one more night in his home was impossible.

  By ten she'd been packed and had called a cab to bring her back here. The cabby had dropped her off and she was relieved to see that all the windows had been replaced and at least from the outside the place didn't look any worse for the wear.

  She approached the front door, steeling herself for what kind of a mess still might be inside. When she unlocked and opened the front door, she breathed a sigh of relief.

  Jeb had done well. The floor was swept clean of all breakage. The deep rents in the sofa had been repaired with upholstery thread and needle. Although the shelves that had once held her hummingbird cob lection were now bare, she knew that eventually she would be able to fill them again … just as eventually her heart would mend.

  The one thing she'd needed to do was keep busy. She had to find something, anything to do to keep her mind off Clay. Painting was out of the question. Her heart ached too deeply to feel creative.

  She spent the next several hours absorbed in the task of trying to glue back together some of the hummingbird figurines that had meant so much to her.

  As she worked, thoughts and memories of Clay continued to intrude, but she resolutely shoved them away. She and Clay had indulged in a kind of fantasy for a while, but now the fantasy was over and it was time to get back to her real life.

  She had students to teach, paintings to paint and a cottage to put back together again. She had no place in her life for a man like Clay.

  Apparently he had no place for her in his life as well. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd been expecting … hoping for a phone call from him. Surely he must know she was gone by now, but her phone remained silent.

  By five that evening, tired of gluing bits and pieces back together, heartsick and lonely, she stretched out on her sofa and looked at the sketches she had done while at Clay's house.

  The one he had seen of himself hadn't been the only one she'd drawn of him. There was a sketch of him at his worktable, one of him asleep and the one of him as a warrior that had caused their fight.

  Each and every sketch caused a rip through her heart. She jumped as the phone rang. When she answered it was Alyssa. "I just heard yesterday that you'd been staying at Clay's," she said. "I tried there this morning then decided to try you here."

  "Yeah, I'm just getting settled back in."

  "Are you sure that's wise? I mean, they still don't know who trashed your house."

  "I'll be fine here. I have good locks on the doors. Besides, I couldn't stay at Clay's any longer."

  "I don't know, Tamara, I'm worried about you." Alyssa hesitated a moment, then continued, "I had a vision of you, Tamara, you and a monster. In my vision, the monster ripped out your heart."

  A half sob, half burst of laughter escaped Tamara. "That wasn't a monster, that was your cousin, Clay."

  There was a long moment of silence. "Oh, Tamara, I'm sorry," Alyssa finally said.

  "Just please, whatever you do, d
on't say I told you so," Tamara replied, wiping at the tears that had come unbidden from her eyes.

  "I'd never do that. Is there anything I can do?"

  "No. I'll just lick my wounds for a few days, concentrate on some painting and I'll be fine."

  "Want to meet for lunch tomorrow?"

  "No, thanks. I appreciate the invite, but I'd like to spend a couple of days here getting settled back in."

  "You'll call me?"

  Tamara smiled. "You know I will." They said goodbye then Tamara hung up the phone. She curled back up on the sofa, noting that outside the window the sun was beginning to set.

  "Gv-ge-yu-hi." I love you. She whispered the words aloud, Clay's face a mental picture in her head. She closed her eyes against the tears that once again threatened to fall. How many tears could she shed over one man? A heartful … and that was plenty.

  She hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep until she awakened to the sounds of footsteps once again clattering on her porch. She wasn't sure what time it was, but she knew in her heart it could only be Clay.

  She jumped up off the sofa, raced to the door and pulled it open. A monster rushed in, shoving her backward, then standing in the doorway and growling ominously.

  The bear. The bear from the legend come alive. Although someplace in the back of Tamara's head she knew that beneath the bear fur and skull there was a human being. But at the moment rational thought was vanquished beneath shock and fear.

  As the bear roared, claws scratched high in the air … claws that appeared to be razor sharp. "I have come for you my Native princess," he said.

  It was only when she heard his voice that she recognized who was beneath the bearskin. Terry Black. Certainly identifying him did nothing to alleviate her fear.

  Terry was a big, tall, burly eighteen-year-old. She knew he had a reputation as a bully, that he enjoyed hurting people.

  "I'm not a Native princess, Terry," she said, trying to keep the terror out of her voice as she backed away from him.