The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 2

by Nora Roberts

  She toyed with the wording for an ad in the Sunday paper that would include the linens she’d decided to carry.

  When her bells chimed, she looked up quickly, with the same bump in the heart she’d experienced at the sound all day.

  But the sight of Abigail Lawrence made her set down her pen and smile. “What a nice surprise.”

  “Told you I’d find my way here. Tory, this is just lovely. You have beautiful things.”

  “We have some very talented artists.”

  “And you know just how to display their work.” Abigail held out a hand as Tory came around the counter. “I’m going to have a wonderful time spending money here.”

  “Don’t let me stop you. Can I get you anything? A cold drink, a cup of tea?”

  “No, not a thing. Oh, is that batik?”

  Abigail crossed over to admire a framed portrait of a young woman standing on a garden path.

  “She does wonderful work. I have a few of her scarves in stock as well.”

  “I’ll have to take a look. I want to see everything. But I can tell you I want this batik. It’s perfect for my husband to give me for our anniversary.”

  Amused, Tory turned to lift it from the wall. “And does he want it gift wrapped?”

  “Naturally.”

  “How long have you been married?”

  Abigail cocked her head as Tory carried the batik to the counter. In all the time she’d been Tory’s lawyer, she never remembered her asking a personal question. “Twenty-six years.”

  “So you were married at ten?”

  Abigail beamed, examined a box of polished burl wood. “Shopkeeping agrees with you.” She carried the box to the counter herself. “I think this town does, too. You’re at home here.”

  “Yes. This is home. Abigail, did you really come up from Charleston to shop?”

  “That, and to see you. And to talk to you.”

  Tory nodded. “If you found out more about the girl who was murdered, you don’t have to ease me into it.”

  “I didn’t learn any more about her. But I did ask my friend to do that check on like crimes, crimes that had taken place during the last two weeks of August.”

  “There are others.”

  “You already knew.”

  “No, felt. Feared. How many more?”

  “Three that fit the profile and time frame. A twelve-year-old girl who went missing during a family trip to Hilton Head in August 1986. A nineteen-year-old coed taking summer classes at the university in Charleston in August 1993, and a twenty-five-year-old woman who’d been camping with friends in Sumter National Forest. August 1999.”

  “So many,” Tory whispered.

  “All were sexual homicides. Raped and strangled. There was no semen. There was some physical violence, particularly in the facial area. That escalates with each victim.”

  “Because their faces aren’t right. Their faces aren’t hers. Hope’s.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Tory wished she didn’t. Wished the sickness of it wasn’t so horribly clear. “They were all blondes, weren’t they? Pretty, slim builds?”

  “Yes.”

  “He keeps killing her. Once wasn’t enough.”

  Abigail shook her head, a little concerned at the way Tory’s eyes went vague and dark. “It’s possible they were killed by the same man, but—”

  “They were killed by the same man.”

  “The length of time between the murders deviates from the typical serial-killer profile. So many years between. Now, I’m not a criminal lawyer, and I’m not a psychologist, but I have done some studying up on this subject in the last week or two. The ages of the victims don’t fit the standard profile.”

  “This isn’t standard, Abigail.” Tory opened the burl box, closed it again. “It isn’t typical.”

  “There has to be a basis. Your friend and the twelve-year-old indicate a pedophile. It appears to me a man who chooses children as victims doesn’t switch to young women.”

  “But he’s not switching anything. Their ages have everything to do with it. Every one was the age Hope would have been if she’d lived. That’s the pattern.”

  “Yes, I agree with you, though neither of us is experts in this area. I suppose I felt obligated to point out the flaws.”

  “There may be more.”

  “That’s being investigated as well, though at this point, my contact assures me, none has been found. The FBI is looking into it.” Abigail’s pretty mouth firmed. “Tory, my contact wanted to know why I was interested, how I’d learned of the hitchhiker. I didn’t tell him.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You could help.”

  “I don’t know that I can. Even if they’d let me, I don’t know if I’m capable. It freezes me up inside. It was never easy. Always wrenching. And now, I don’t want to face that again, to put myself through that again. I can’t help them. This is for the police.”

  “If that’s really how you feel, then why did you ask me to find out?”

  “I had to know.”

  “Tory—”

  “Please don’t. Please. I don’t want to go back there again. I’m not sure I’d come out whole again this time.” To keep her hands busy, she began shifting items on a shelf. “The police, the FBI, they’re the experts here. This is their job, not mine. I don’t want the faces of all those people in my head, what happened to them, inside my head. I already have Hope.”

  Coward. The voice whispered the taunt in her ear throughout the rest of the day. She didn’t ignore it, she accepted it. And she was going to learn how to live with it.

  She knew what she needed to know. Whoever had killed Hope was still killing, selectively. Efficiently. And it was the job of the police, or the FBI, or some special task force to hunt him down and stop him.

  It was not up to her.

  And if her deepest and most personal fears were realized and that killer had her father’s face, could she live with that?

  They would find Hannibal Bodeen soon. Then she would decide.

  When she locked up for the day, she thought it might do her good to walk around town, through the park. She could drop by Sherry’s and speak with her instead of her answering machine. Take care of business, Tory reminded herself. Take care of yourself.

  Traffic was light. Most would already be home from work, sitting down to supper. Children had already been called in to wash up, and the evening, long and bright, would stretch out with television and porch sitting, homework and dirty dishes.

  Normal. Everyday. Precious for its simple monotony. And she wanted it for herself with a quiet desperation.

  She cut through the park. Roses were blooming and pools of wax begonias spread in crimson and white. Trees cast long shadows and welcome shade, and a few people sat or stretched under them. Young people, Tory noted, not yet stone-set in the tradition of five-thirty supper. They’d go out for pizza later, or a burger, then flock somewhere with others like them to listen to music or their own voices.

  She’d done the same once, briefly. But it seemed like decades ago. It seemed like another woman entirely who had elbowed her way into a crowded club, to dance, to laugh. To be young.

  She’d already lost all that once. She would not lose the new life she’d just begun.

  Deep in thought, she came out of the line of trees and started across the green slope that led to the apartment building.

  Bee shot across the lawn like a bullet, yapping insanely.

  “You sure get around, don’t you?” Charmed, Tory crouched and let herself be attacked.

  “She’s been inside most of the day.” Faith strolled up, pleased when her pup deserted Tory to leap on her. “She’s got a lot of energy.”

  “So I see.” Tory glanced up, pursed her lips as she straightened. “That’s not your usual look,” she commented, studying the overlarge T-shirt over Faith’s linen slacks.

  “Still works for me, doesn’t it? I spilled something on my blouse earlier. Borrowed t
his from Wade.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, I suppose you do. You have a problem with that?”

  “Why should I? Wade’s a big boy.”

  “I could say something crude about that, but I’ll let it pass.” Faith skimmed her sleek hair behind her ear, smiled broadly. “Tired of the solitude of the marsh? Going apartment hunting?”

  “No, I like my house. I’m just dropping by to see a potential employee. Sherry Bellows.”

  “Well, that’s a coincidence. I’m here to see her myself. Wade’s still tied up at his office, and he hasn’t been able to reach her all day. Her dog was hit by a car late this morning.”

  “Oh no.” Instantly the reserve fled. “She’ll be heartbroken.”

  “He’s doing all right. Wade went right to work on him. Saved his life.” It was said with such pride, Tory could only stare. “He’s not sure how well the dog’s leg will heal, but I’m betting it’ll be right as rain.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. He’s a beautiful dog, and she seems to love him so much. I can’t believe she’d go off for the day and leave him running loose.”

  “You just never know about people. Her apartment’s there.” Faith pointed. “I was around front, but she didn’t answer the knock, so I thought I’d poke back here. Her neighbor said she uses this door more than the front.”

  “Blinds are closed.”

  “Maybe the door’s open. We can slip in and leave her a note, anyway. Wade really wants to get ahold of her.” She crossed the patio, reached for the handle of the sliding glass door.

  “Don’t!” Tory gripped her shoulder, jerked her back.

  “What in the hell’s wrong with you? It’s not breaking and entering, for Christ’s sake. I’m just going to poke my head in.”

  “Don’t go in there. Don’t go in.” Tory’s fingers dug into Faith’s shoulder.

  She’d already seen. It had slapped in front of her face, jumped there almost gleefully, and the copper penny taste of blood and fear pooled in her mouth.

  “It’s too late. He’s been here.”

  “What are you talking about?” Faith gave her arm an impatient jerk. “Would you please let go?”

  “She’s dead,” Tory said flatly. “We have to call the police.”

  Hope

  “Hope” is the thing with feathers—

  That perches in the soul—

  And sings the tune without the words—

  And never stops—at all—

  —Emily Dickinson

  21

  She couldn’t go in. She couldn’t make herself leave.

  The deputy who’d answered the call had been both skeptical and annoyed, but he hadn’t been able to hold out against what he considered two overreacting females.

  He’d hitched at his belt, tugged on his cap, then had knocked loudly on the glass panel of the door. Tory could have told him Sherry was incapable of answering, but he wouldn’t have listened or understood.

  But two minutes after he’d stepped inside, he was back out again. And the irritated smirk was no longer on his face.

  It didn’t take long to get the wheels rolling. When Chief Russ arrived the scene was closed off with yellow police tape and those who moved in and out carried the tools of their trade and their badges.

  Tory sat on the ground and waited.

  “I called Wade.” Since there was nothing else to do, Faith sat down beside her. “He has to wait until Maxine comes to look after Mongo, but he’s coming.”

  “There’s nothing for him to do.”

  “There’s nothing for any of us to do.” Faith stared at the tape, the door, the shadows of men moving around behind the blinds. “How did you know she was dead?”

  “Sherry? Or Hope?”

  Faith clutched the puppy to her breast, rubbed her cheek against warm fur for comfort. “I’ve never seen anything like this. They wouldn’t let me near where Hope was. I was too young. You saw it.”

  “Yes.”

  “You saw it all.”

  “Not quite all.” She pressed her palms together, squeezed her hands between her knees as if they were very cold. “I knew when we got to the door. There’s a darkness about death. Violent death especially. And he left something of himself behind. Maybe just the madness of it. It’s the same as before. He’s the same.” She closed her eyes. “I thought he would come for me—I never considered … I never imagined this.”

  And that was the guilt she would live with now.

  “You’re saying whoever did this to Sherry killed Hope? After all these years?”

  Tory started to speak, then shook her head. “I can’t be sure. I haven’t been sure of anything in a long time.” She glanced over as she heard Faith’s name called. Wade ran across the grass toward them.

  It surprised her when Faith leaped up. It was rare to see Faith bother to move quickly. Then she watched them take each other. One long, hard embrace.

  He loves her, Tory realized. She’s the center of things for him. How odd.

  “You’re all right?” He put his hands on Faith’s face, cupped it there.

  “I don’t know what I am.” She had been all right. Everything had seemed to hold at a distance, far enough away not to touch her. Now her hands wanted to shake and her stomach jump. The same way she’d reacted after the surgery when there had been blood on her hands. “I think I need to sit down again.”

  “Here.” When she lowered to the grass, he knelt, his hand still clutching Faith’s while he studied Tory’s face. Too calm, he decided. Too controlled. It only meant when she broke, she’d shatter. “Why don’t y’all come back with me. You need to get away from here.”

  “I can’t, but you should take Faith.”

  “So you can see it through and I can’t? I don’t think so,” Faith said.

  “It’s not a competition.”

  “Between you and me? It’s always been. There’s Dwight.”

  People had started to gather in small pockets of murmurs and curiosity. Word traveled lightning fast in Progress, Tory thought dully. She watched Dwight move through the gatherings and head straight for Sherry’s door.

  “Maybe you can talk to him, Wade.” Faith gestured in Dwight’s direction. “Maybe he’ll be able to tell us something.”

  “I’ll see.” He touched Tory’s knee before he rose. “Cade’s on his way.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I called him. Just wait here.”

  “There was no need for that,” Tory said, frowning at Wade’s back as he slipped through the crowd of onlookers.

  “Oh, shut up.” Annoyed, Faith dug in her purse for a chewy bone to keep Bee occupied. “You’re no more iron woman than I am. It doesn’t make us less to lean on a man.”

  “I don’t intend to lean on Cade.”

  “For Christ’s sake, if he’s good enough to sleep with, he’s good enough to hold on to at a time like this. I swear, you just hunt up things to be bitchy about.”

  “Why don’t we all go out on a double date later? We can go dancing.”

  Faith’s smile was scalpel sharp. “You’re a real pain in the ass, Tory. I’m starting to like that about you. Well shit, there’s Billy Clampett, and he’s spotted me. That just makes it perfect. I was nearly pissed off enough, and drunk enough, one night a thousand years ago to have sex with him. Fortunately I came to my senses in time, but he’s never stopped trying to finish things off.”

  Tory watched Billy stroll toward them, thumbs tucked in his front pockets, fingers beating out a tune on either side of his zipper. “There couldn’t be enough liquor in the county for that.”

  “Finally, a point of agreement. Billy.”

  “Ladies.” He crouched down. “Heard there was some excitement ‘round here. Some girl went and got herself killed.”

  “Careless of her.” Faith didn’t shift away, wouldn’t give him the satisfaction, though she could smell his evening beer on his breath.

  “Heard it was Sherry Bellows. She’s the one wh
o runs around town with that big shaggy dog. Wears little shorts and low-cut tops. Sort of advertising the wares.”

  He took a cigarette out of the pack he had rolled in the sleeve of his T-shirt. He thought the effect made him look like James Dean. “Sold her some annuals a couple weeks back. She was mighty friendly, if you catch my meaning.”

  “Tell me, Billy, do you practice being disgusting or is it just a gift?”

  It took him a minute, but his smile went sour as old milk as he struck a match and puffed the cigarette to life. “Aren’t you Miss High and Mighty all of a sudden.”

  “Nothing sudden about it. I’ve always been high and mighty. Isn’t that right, Tory?”

  “I’ve never known you to be otherwise. It’s a bit like a birthmark.”

  “Exactly.” Delighted, Faith slapped a hand on Tory’s thigh. She took out a cigarette of her own. “We Lavelles,” she began, lighting it and blowing smoke, coolly, into Billy’s face, “are destined to be superior. It’s just stamped on our DNA.”

  “You weren’t so superior that night behind Grogan’s when I had your tits in my hands.”

  “Oh.” Faith smiled, blew more smoke. “Was that you?”

  “Ever since you grew tits you’ve been a slut. You better watch yourself.” He glanced deliberately at Sherry’s door. “Sluts end up getting just what they ask for.”

  “I remember you now,” Tory said quietly. “You used to tie firecrackers to cats’ tails and light them, and then you’d go home and masturbate. Is that still how you spend your leisure time?”

  He jerked back. There was no smile on his face now, and fear had replaced the sneer in his eyes. “We don’t need you around here. We don’t need your kind.”

  He might have left it at that, he was frightened enough to, but Bee decided his pant leg was more interesting than her bone. Billy sent her flying with the back of his hand.

  With a cry of outrage, Faith scrambled to her feet to scoop up the whining dog. “You yellow-bellied, beer-soaked, half-peckered asshole. No wonder your wife’s shopping for a new man. You can’t get it up with your own fist.”

  He started to lunge at Faith. Tory didn’t know how it happened, and it seemed to be happening to someone else. But her fist popped out of her lap and connected with his eye. The force and shock of the blow knocked him on his ass. Dimly she heard shouts and squeals and running feet, but as Billy leaped up so did she.