The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 2

by Nora Roberts

  “I’ll start by telling you I’ll do that interview sort of thing, when you have the time for it.”

  “I’ve got time now. How about you?”

  “Now? Well, I . . .” He hadn’t been prepared for it and found himself limping for an excuse.

  “Just let me get a fresh tape.”

  Noah knew when he had a fish on the line and made it fast. He came back out with a tape and two cans of Coke. “It’s not as hard as you think,” he said while he labeled the tape and snapped it into the recorder. “You just talk to me, tell me about the case. Just the way you used to. You told me some about this one. I made notes on it even back then. Tanner made the nine-one-one call himself. I’ve got a transcript of it.”

  Wanting accuracy rather than memory, Noah dug out the right file. “He called it in at twelve forty-eight. She’s dead. My God, Julie. She’s dead. The blood, it’s everywhere. I can’t stop the blood. Somebody help me.” Noah set the paper aside. “There’s more, but that’s the core of it. The nine-one-one operator asked him questions, kept getting the same response, but managed to get the address out of him.”

  “The uniforms went in first,” Frank said. “Standard procedure. They responded to the nine-eleven. The gate was open; so was the front door. They entered the premises and found the body and Tanner in the front parlor area. They secured the scene, reported a homicide and requested detectives. Tracy Harmon and I took the call.”

  For Noah, it was as if he’d walked into the house that night with his father. He felt the warm rustle of air that stirred the palm fronds and danced through gardens silvered in moonlight. The house stood, white as a wish with windows blazing gold with lights.

  Police cruisers were guard-dogging the front, one with its blue and red lights still spinning to shoot alarming color over the marble steps, the faces of cops, the crime scene van.

  More light poured out of the open doorway.

  A rookie, his uniform still academy fresh, vomited pitifully in the oleanders.

  Inside, the grand chandelier dripped its waterfall of light on virgin white floors and highlighted the dark stain of the blood trail.

  It smeared in all directions, across the foyer, down the wide hall, up the polished-oak stairway that swept regally to the left.

  The smell of it was still ripe, the look of it still wet.

  He was used to death, the violence of it. The waste of it. But his first glimpse of what had been done to Julie MacBride broke his heart. He remembered the sensations exactly, the sudden, almost audible snapping, the resulting churn of pity and horror in his gut. And the fast, overpowering flood of fury that burst into his head before he shut them away, locked them away, and did his job.

  At first glance it appeared to have been a vicious struggle. The broken glass, the overturned furniture, the great spewing patterns of blood.

  But there were patterns within patterns. The dead always left them. Her nails were unbroken and clean, the defensive wounds on her hands and arms shallow.

  He’d come at her from behind. Later Frank would have this verified by the ME’s findings, but as he crouched beside the body, he played the scene in his head.

  The first blow had gone deep into her back, just below the shoulder blades. She’d probably screamed, stumbled, tried to turn. There would have been shock along with the pain. Had she seen his face? Seen what was in it?

  He’d come at her again. Had she lifted an arm to block the blow? Please, don’t! God, don’t!

  She’d tried to get away, knocking over the lamp, shattering glass, slicing her bare feet on it even as he sliced at her. She’d fallen, crawled, weeping. He’d driven the blades into her again and again, plunging with them, slashing with them even after she was still. Even after she was dead.

  Two uniforms watched Sam in the adjoining room. As with his first glimpse of Julie, this image would implant itself on Frank’s mind. He was pale and handsome. He smoked in quick jerks, his arm pistoning up and down, up and down as he brought the cigarette to his lips, drew in smoke, blew it out, drew it in again.

  His eyes were off—glassy and wheeling in his head. Shock and drugs.

  His wife’s blood was all over him.

  “Somebody killed her. Somebody killed Julie.” He said it again and again.

  “Tell me what happened, Mr. Tanner.”

  “She’s dead. Julie’s dead. I couldn’t stop it.”

  “Couldn’t stop what?”

  “The blood.” Sam stared down at his hands, then began to weep.

  Sometime during that initial, disjointed interview, Frank remembered there was a child. And went to look for her.

  In his office, Noah typed up his notes from the interview with his father. It helped to write it down, to see the words.

  When his phone rang, he jolted, and realized that he had been lost, working for hours. The first streaks of sunset were now staining the sky through his window.

  Noah pressed his fingers to his aching eyes and answered.

  “It’s Sam Tanner.”

  Instinctively, Noah snatched up a pencil. “Where are you?”

  “I’m watching the sun go down. I’m outside, and I’m watching the sun go down over the water.”

  “You didn’t tell me they were letting you out early, Sam.”

  “No.”

  “Are you in San Francisco?”

  “I was in San Francisco long enough. It’s cold and it’s damp. I wanted to come home.”

  Noah’s pulse picked up. “You’re in L.A.?”

  “I got a room off of Sunset. It’s not what it used to be, Brady.”

  “Give me the address.”

  “I’m not there now. Actually I’m down the road from you. Watching the sun set,” he said almost dreamily. “Outside a place that serves tacos and beer and salsa that makes your eyes sting.”

  “Tell me where you are. I’ll meet you.”

  Sam wore khakis and a short-sleeved chambray shirt, both so painfully new they’d yet to shake out the folding pleats. He sat at one of the little iron tables on the patio of the Mexican place and stared out over the water. Though business wasn’t brisk, there was a sprinkling of people at other tables, kids with fresh faces who scooped up nachos and sipped at the beers they were barely old enough to order.

  In contrast, Sam looked old, pale, and inexplicably more naive.

  Noah ordered more tacos, another beer for each of them.

  “What does it feel like?”

  With a kind of wonder, Sam watched an in-line skater skim by. “I spent a few days in San Francisco, to get my bearings. Then I took a bus down. Part of me kept expecting someone to stop me, take me back, say it had all been a mistake. Another part was waiting to be recognized, to hear someone call out, ‘Look, there’s Sam Tanner,’ and run over for my autograph. There’re two lives crossed over in the middle, and my mind keeps jumping back and forth between them.”

  “Do you want to be recognized?”

  “I was a star. An important actor. You need the attention, not just to feed the ego, but to stroke the child. If you weren’t a child, how good an actor could you be? After a while, inside, I had to put that away. When I knew the appeals weren’t going to work, the cage wasn’t going to open, I had to put it away to survive. Then I got out and it all came flooding back. And as badly as I wanted someone to look at me, to see me and remember, it scared the shit out of me that someone would. Stage fright.” Sam gave a small, sick smile. “There’s something I haven’t had to deal with in a long time.”

  Noah said nothing while the waitress clunked their food and drinks down. Once she’d walked away, he leaned forward. “Coming to L.A. was a risk, because someone’s bound to recognize you sooner or later.”

  “Where else would I go? It’s changed. I got lost twice walking around. New faces everywhere, on the street, on the billboards. People driving around in big chunky Jeeps. And you can’t smoke any fucking where.”

  Noah had to laugh at the absolute bafflement in the statemen
t. “I imagine the food’s some better than San Quentin’s.”

  “I forgot places like this existed.” Sam picked up a taco, studied it. “I’d forgotten that before I went inside. If it wasn’t the best, I wasn’t interested. If I wasn’t going to be seen, admired, envied, what was the point?”

  He bit in, crunching the shell, ignoring the little bits of tomato and lettuce and sauce that plopped onto his plate. For a few moments he ate in concentrated silence, a kind of grim focus Noah imagined came from prison meals.

  “I was an asshole.”

  Noah lifted a brow. “Can I quote you?”

  “That’s what this is about, isn’t it? I had everything—success, adulation, power, wealth. I had the most beautiful woman in the world, who loved me. I thought I deserved it, all of it, so I didn’t value what I had. I didn’t value any of it or see it as any more than my due. So I lost it. All of it.”

  Keeping his eyes on Sam’s face, Noah sipped his beer. “Did you kill your wife?”

  He didn’t answer at first, only watched the last sliver of sun sink red into the sea. “Yes.” His gaze shifted, locked on Noah’s. “Did you expect me to deny it? What’s the point? I served twenty years for what I did. Some will say it’s not enough. Maybe they’re right.”

  “Why did you kill her?”

  “Because I couldn’t be what she asked me to be. Now ask me if I picked up the scissors that night and stabbed them into her back, her body, sliced them across her throat.”

  “All right. Did you?”

  “I don’t know.” His eyes shifted to the water again, went dreamy again. “I just don’t know. I remember it two ways, and both seem absolutely real. I stopped thinking it mattered, then they told me I was going to die. I need to know, and you’re going to figure out which of the two ways is real.”

  “Which one are you going to tell me?”

  “Neither, not yet. I need the money. I opened an account at this bank.” He brought out a scrap of paper. “That’s my account number. They do this electronic transfer. That’d be the best way.”

  “All right.” Noah pocketed the paper. “It’ll be there tomorrow.”

  “Then we’ll talk tomorrow.”

  Noah called Olivia the next morning, caught her at her desk at the Center. He was still damp from the shower after his run on the beach, just starting to pump up his system with coffee. The sound of her voice, brisk, businesslike, husky around the edges made him smile.

  “Hello back, Ms. MacBride. Miss me?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “I don’t believe it. You recognized my voice too easily.” He heard her sigh, certain she’d wanted it audible and full of exasperation.

  “Why wouldn’t I? You talk more than any three people I know put together.”

  “And you don’t talk enough, but I’ve got your voice in my head. I had a dream about you last night, all soft, watery colors and slow motion. We made love on the bank of the river, and the grass was cool and damp and wild with flowers. I woke up with the taste of you in my mouth.”

  There was a moment of silence, a quiet catch of breath. “That’s very interesting.”

  “Is someone in your office?”

  “Momentarily. Thanks, Curtis, I’ll take care of that.” There was another pause. “That riverbank is a public area.”

  He laughed so hard he had to slide onto a stool. “I’m becoming seriously crazy about you, Liv. Did you like the flowers?”

  “They’re very nice and completely unnecessary.”

  “Sure they were. They make you think of me. I want you to keep me right in the front of your mind, Liv, so we can pick things up when I get there.”

  “When do you plan to make the trip?”

  “One or two weeks—sooner, if I can manage it.”

  “The lodge is booked well in advance this time of year.”

  “I’ll think of something. Liv, I need to tell you I’ve seen Tanner, spoken with him. He’s here in Los Angeles.”

  “I see.”

  “I thought you’d feel better knowing where he is.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do. I have to go—”

  “Liv, you can tell me how you feel. Aside from the book, just as someone who cares about you. You can talk to me.”

  “I don’t know how I feel. I only know I can’t let where he is or what he’s doing change my life. I’m not going to let anything or anyone do that.”

  “You may find out some changes don’t have to hurt. I’ll let you know when I plan to come in. Keep thinking about me, Olivia.”

  She hung up, let out a long breath. “Keep dreaming,” she murmured and skimmed a finger over the petals of a sunny daisy.

  She hadn’t been able to resist keeping them in her office where she could see them when she was stuck at her desk and itching to get outside.

  She’d recognized what he’d done as well, and found it incredibly sweet and very clever. The flowers he ordered were all from the varieties he had in his own garden. The garden she hadn’t been able to resist. He had to know that looking at them would make her think of him.

  She’d have thought of him anyway.

  And she’d lied when she’d told him she didn’t miss him. It surprised her how much she did and worried her just a little to realize she wished they were different people in a different situation. Then they could be lovers, maybe even friends, without the shadows clinging to the corner of their relationship.

  She’d never been friends with a lover, she thought. Had never really had a lover, as that term added dimension and intimacy to simple sex.

  But she thought Noah would insist on being both. If she wanted him, she would have to give more than she’d been willing, or able, to give to anyone before.

  One more thing to think about, she decided, and rubbing the tension from her neck, swiveled back to her keyboard and began to input her ideas for the fall programs with an eye to the elementary school field trips she hoped to implement.

  She answered the knock on her door with a grunt.

  “Was that a come in or go to hell?” Rob wanted to know as he gently shook the package he carried.

  “It’s come in to you, and go to hell for anyone else. I’m just working out some fall programs.” She angled her head as she swiveled her chair around. “What’s in the box?”

  “Don’t know. It came to the lodge, looks like an overnight from Los Angeles, to you.”

  “Me?”

  “I’d guess it’s from the same young man who sent you the flowers.” He set the package on the desk. “And I say he has fine taste in women.”

  “Which you say with complete objectivity.”

  “Of course.” Rob sat on the corner of the desk, reached for her hands. “How’s my girl?”

  “I’m fine.” She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry about me, Grandpop.”

  “I’m allowed to worry. It’s part of the job description.” And she’d been so tense, so pale when she’d come back from California. “It doesn’t matter that he’s out, Livvy. I’ve made my peace with that. I hope you will.”

  “I’m working on it.” She rose, moved away to tidy files that didn’t need tidying. “Noah just called. He wanted to let me know he’d seen him, spoken to him.”

  “It’s best you know.”

  “Yes, it is. I appreciate that he understands that, respects that. That he doesn’t treat me as if I were so fragile I’d break, that I needed to be protected from . . .” She trailed off, felt a wave of heat wash into her face. “I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s all right. I don’t know if we did the right thing, Livvy, bringing you here, closing everything else out. We meant it for the best.”

  “Bringing me here was exactly the right thing.” She dropped the files and stepped over to hug him tight. “No one could have given me more love or a better home than you and Grandma. We won’t let thoughts of him come in here and make us question it.” Her eyes stormed with emotion when she drew back. “We won’t.”


  “I still want what’s best for you. I’m just not as sure as I once was what it is. This young man . . .” He nodded toward the flowers. “He’s bringing you an awful lot to face at one time. But he’s got a straight look in his eye, makes me want to trust him with you.”

  “Grandpop.” She bent, kissed his cheek. “I’m old enough, and smart enough, to decide that for myself.”

  “You’re still my baby. Aren’t you going to open the package?”

  “No, it’ll only encourage him.” She grinned. “He’s trying to charm me.”

  “Is he?”

  “I suppose he is, a little. He’s planning on coming back soon. I’ll decide just how charmed I am when I see him again. Now, go to work, and let me do the same.”

  “He comes back around, I’m keeping an eye on him.” Rob winked as he got up and headed for the door. Then he stopped, one hand on the knob, and glanced back. “Did we keep you too close, Livvy? Hold you too tight?” He shook his head before she could answer. “Yes or no, you grew your own way. Your mother’d be proud of you.”

  When the door closed behind him, she sat down, struggled with the tears that were a hot mix of grief and joy. She hoped he was right, that her mother would be proud, and not see her daughter as a woman who was too aloof, too hard, too afraid to open herself to anyone but the family who’d always been there.

  Would Julie, bright, beautiful Julie, ask her daughter, Where are your friends? Where are the boys you pined for, the men you loved? Where are the people you’ve touched or made part of your life?

  What would the answer be? Olivia wondered. There’s no one. No one.

  It made her so suddenly, so unbearably sad the tears threatened again. Blinking them away, she stared at the package on her desk.

  Noah, she thought. He was trying to reach her. Wasn’t it time she let him?

  She dug out the Leatherman knife from her pocket, used the slim blade to break the sealing tape. Then she paused, let herself feel the anticipation, the pleasure. Let herself think of him as she lifted the lid.

  Hurrying now, she probed through the protective blizzard of Styrofoam chips, spilling them out onto the desk as she worked the contents out. Glass or china, she thought, some sort of figurine. She wondered if he’d actually tracked down a statue of a marmot, was already laughing at the idea when she freed the figure.