by Sandra Brown
She sensed that he’d ceased all movement and was standing perfectly still, staring at her back. After several tense moments, she heard the ripple of water and knew that he was resuming his bath.
“Which means that Dutch didn’t hear from me that you’re Blue. So if Dutch didn’t identify you to the FBI, they were seeking you on their own. Why, Tierney?”
“You can ask them when they get here.”
“I would rather you tell me.”
He didn’t say anything for such a long time she thought he was going to ignore her. But eventually he spoke. “That girl, Millicent Gunn. I know her from the sporting goods store where she clerks. I was in there buying socks within days—maybe the very day—of when she was reported missing. I’m sure they’re checking out everyone who had any contact with her.”
“Is that what they said on the radio, that they were checking out everyone? Or was your name the only one mentioned?”
“I may be the only one they haven’t got around to.”
That was a reasonable explanation, but if that was all there was to it, why had he become so upset about it? Also, she doubted his name would have been broadcast if the FBI wanted him only for a routine interview.
“If I hadn’t been able to etch your name into the cabinet, I suppose I could have written it in the frost on the window.”
Suddenly she realized that was precisely what she had done. Like a schoolgirl writing the name of her beau on her book cover, without even being aware she was doing it, she had printed his name in the frost.
Embarrassed and impatient with herself, she swiped the name off the glass . . . only to see, in the watery smear left by her hand, a reflection of him. Naked, backlit by the fire, his wet skin glistening.
Her lips parted on a swift intake of air. Desire, embedded deep within her center, unfurled and expanded. Unaware of her watching him, he leaned down to dip the cloth in the bucket. He wrung water from it before applying it to his chest, moving it gingerly over his bruised ribs, down his flat belly, then into the shadowy lushness between his thighs.
Lilly closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the windowpane. Her blood was pumping thick and hot. The roaring in her ears was so loud she could barely hear him when he said, “You could have done that. The oil from our skin leaves marks on the glass that last until the window is washed.”
What was he talking about? She couldn’t even remember. She raised her head and, to prevent herself from looking at him again, let the drape fall back over the window before she opened her eyes.
“Just about finished,” he said. She heard the jingle of his belt buckle when he picked up his jeans. A few seconds later, he said, “You can turn around now.”
When she came around, she didn’t look directly at him, but out of the corner of her eye she could see him pulling his head through the neck of his sweater. She moved into the kitchen. “I’ll get the soup ready.” Miraculously her voice sounded normal.
“Good. I’m hungry.”
He went outside to empty the bucket. By the time he joined her in the kitchen, she had emptied a can of condensed soup into a pan and added some of their drinking water to it.
“Thanks for the Southern Magnolia,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
“I hate asking you to do this again, but would you check that gash on my head?”
She had to touch him? Right now? “Of course.”
As before, he straddled one of the bar stools. Moving behind him, she parted his wet hair. Wet? His hair was wet? He must have dunked his head in the bucket of water, but to her mortifying shame, she realized she hadn’t noticed anything above his neck.
“No fresh bleeding,” she said, “but I probably should replace the Band-Aid strips.”
She cleaned the wound with one of the antiseptic pads, then they went through the same painstaking ritual as the night before, cutting the adhesive part of the bandage into strips with her manicure scissors, then placing them crosswise over the wound. She tried to perform the task with as much detachment as possible, but her motions were clumsy. Several times she felt him flinch and had to apologize for hurting him.
They heated the pan of soup in the fireplace and ate it sitting cross-legged on the mattress. Discovering they were ravenous, they heated another can.
Midway through the second helping, he said, “Lilly, are you all right?”
She raised her head, startled. “Why?”
“You’re being awfully quiet.”
“I’m just tired,” she lied, then went back to eating her soup.
They prolonged the meal for as long as possible, but after they had finished, they still faced hours of nighttime with nothing to do.
After several minutes of silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire, he said, “Feel free to go to sleep whenever you want.”
“I’m not sleepy.”
“You said you were tired.”
“Tired but not sleepy.”
“That’s how I feel, too. Weary, but wide awake.”
“That long nap . . .”
“Hmm.”
Another silence ensued. Finally she looked over at him. “Why were you reared by your grandparents?”
“My mom and dad were killed in a car wreck. The driver of a semi was going too fast, didn’t heed the warning signs of road construction, couldn’t slow down in time, literally ran up over them. Pancaked their car. It was hours before they could cut all the body parts out of the wreckage.”
His matter-of-fact tone didn’t fool her. He couldn’t conceal the bitterness underlying it.
“The details were kept from me when it happened,” he said. “But years later, when I was old enough to ask about it, my granddad let me read the newspaper write-up about the accident. My grandparents lost their daughter. I was orphaned. The careless truck driver walked away without a scratch.”
“How old were you?”
“When it happened? Eight. Mom and Dad had gone away for a long weekend to celebrate their tenth anniversary and left me with my grandparents.” He reached for the poker and stirred the fire.
“After their funerals, when I realized that it wasn’t a bad dream, that they really were dead, I refused to go back into our house. My grandparents took me home to pack up my things, but I pitched a billy fit in the yard and wouldn’t go inside. I just couldn’t go into those rooms again, knowing that Mom and Dad weren’t there, and never would be.”
“You loved them,” she said quietly.
He gave a self-conscious shrug. “I was a kid. Took everything they did for me for granted, but . . . yeah, I loved them. My grandparents were all right, too. Even though I must have been a huge inconvenience thrust upon them, they never made me feel that way. In fact, I never doubted they loved me.”
“Did you ever return to your house?”
“No.”
She propped her chin on her raised knees and pondered his profile. “You stay away from home now, too. You have a career which keeps you away for long periods of time.”
He shot her a wry grin. “Bet the shrinks would have a field day with that.”
“Was that a subconscious career choice? Or deliberate?”
“My wife thought it was deliberate.”
“Wife?”
“Past tense. We were married for all of thirteen months.”
“When was this?”
“Long time ago. I was barely old enough to vote, much less get married. I shouldn’t have. I was selfish and self-absorbed. Not ready to settle down, certainly not ready to account to anybody. My wanderlust was her main complaint. Among many. All deserved,” he said with a rueful smile.
The loss of his parents had continued to have an effect on him even into his adulthood, influencing decisions, impacting his marriage. What other emotional and psychological scars had that tragic event left on eight-year-old Ben? Had it warped and deformed his soul? He no longer pitched billy fits, but his pent-up anger might have sought other outlets.
&n
bsp; Was he Blue?
The ribbon, the handcuffs, his inconsistencies and evasions were too significant to dismiss. If it had been reported on the radio that Cleary police were looking for him, she could assume that one of her calls to Dutch had gone through. But the FBI? There were essential pieces missing from his explanation of their interest in him.
Yet looking at him, she asked herself for the thousandth time how he could possibly be a man who kidnapped women and in all probability killed them. Surely she would know if a psychopath lived behind his eyes. There was an intensity there, yes. Often they sparked with anger or irritation. But they didn’t gleam with the fanatic, fiery madness of a serial killer.
Most convincing of all the arguments was that he hadn’t harmed her. Indeed, he had risked his own life today to save hers. It had been his voice, raw with emotion and fear, that she had heard calling her out of that void. Then for hours, heedless of his own discomfort, he had held her in his arms, touched her with such tenderness and—
Her thoughts crystallized around a sudden realization. The caresses that she had believed part of a wonderful dream hadn’t been dreamed at all.
As though attuned to her thoughts, he turned his head and fixed his blue gaze on her. “I think it’s time we went to bed.”
CHAPTER
24
BETSY CALHOUN’S DAUGHTER HAD LITTLE TO share with Agents Begley and Wise except cups of hot tea and homemade oatmeal raisin cookies. She explained that her husband was out of town on a buying trip for their office supplies store on Main Street. She wept when she told them about the last time she’d seen her mother.
“I stopped by her house to check on her. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, and she was still in her nightgown.”
As Begley had guessed, Betsy Calhoun was suffering from clinical depression over the loss of her husband.
“She rarely left her house anymore,” the woman said. She idly stroked the yellow cat, which had moved from the windowsill to her lap shortly after their arrival. “I encouraged her to get involved in community and church activities, volunteer for charity work, do something. But without Daddy, she couldn’t be motivated to do anything.”
“If I’m not mistaken,” Hoot said, “her car was found in the parking lot of the bank.”
“That’s a mystery. She hadn’t been in the bank for months. Since Daddy passed, I’ve been taking care of all her money matters. I can’t explain why her car was there. Except she evidently took my advice to get out of the house more often.” She dabbed her eyes with an embroidered hankie. “When they found it with that awful blue ribbon tied to the steering wheel, I knew something horrible had happened.”
“Could she have met someone there in the parking lot?”
“Like who?”
“That’s why we’re asking,” Begley said with uncharacteristic patience. “In the hope of learning who that someone may be.”
“I’ve racked my brain, believe me. I can’t think of anyone. Mother just isn’t a social, people person.” Indeed, Betsy Calhoun’s circle of friends was limited to the ladies in her Sunday school class.
“With all due respect to her and your father’s memory,” Hoot said hesitantly, “is it possible she’s been seeing a gentleman friend and keeping it a secret?”
She shook her head adamantly. “Not Mother. She’s had the love of her life. She’s actually shy of other men. I don’t think she’s ever even been on a date with anyone except my father. Mother’s only outings are to the hair salon every Friday morning, church on Sundays, and an occasional trip to the market.”
To her daughter’s knowledge, she’d never had reason to go into the sporting goods store. “What in the world for?”
They asked if she knew Ben Tierney. “Who’s that?”
Hoot gave her a brief description, but she shook her head and told them she could safely vouch that her mother wasn’t acquainted with any such individual.
“I just want her to be found and brought home,” she said, sniffing into the handkerchief. “If God doesn’t grant me that prayer, at least I’d like to know what happened to her.” Looking at them tearfully, she asked, “Do you think you’ll ever find her?”
“We’re going to do our best,” Begley pledged, pressing her hand between his.
A few minutes later, as they pulled away from the cozy cottage, he remarked, “Nice lady.”
“Yes, sir.” Once again Hoot was shivering inside his coat, waiting for the sedan’s heater to warm up. He didn’t remember what it felt like to have dry, warm feet. “Whistler Falls Lodge, sir?”
“For lack of someplace else.”
Ordinarily, having to spend the night in one of Gus Elmer’s cabins without benefit of public utilities would have been a daunting and dreary prospect, but Hoot was so exhausted he actually looked forward to it. “Do you think he could put together a meal for us?”
The question about dinner didn’t register with Begley, who was deep in thought. “Here’s the thing,” he said, musing out loud, “we’ve deduced that Tierney is our most likely suspect.”
“Why else would he be keeping such close tabs on the disappearance cases, hoarding all that information we found in his rooms?”
“Precisely, Hoot. That certainly lent credibility to your hunch about him. We’ve also surmised—and accurately, I think—that his motivation is to be the savior of women in need. Correct?”
“Yes, sir.” Actually Begley had surmised it, but Hoot had agreed, and so far, they’d uncovered nothing that would invalidate that theory.
“This is my problem,” Begley continued. “Where would a shy widow lady who only went to the beauty parlor and Sunday school ever meet Tierney? She wasn’t a kayaker, that’s for damn sure.”
“No, sir.”
“Mrs. Calhoun has a small number of acquaintances, and her daughter had never heard of Tierney. So how did he get to know Betsy Calhoun well enough to select her as his next victim? Two diverse people like that, where did their paths cross?”
“I think that could be asked of all the victims with the exception of Torrie Lambert, whom he literally happened upon, and Millicent Gunn.”
“Carolyn Maddox is plausible,” Begley said. “A stretch, but plausible. Maybe he met Laureen Elliott in the medical clinic where she worked. He could have had the flu or something. But a timid widow and an adventurer?” Begley shook his head. “Doesn’t compute.”
Not in Hoot’s mind either. He mulled it over for several minutes. “Suppose Tierney read her husband’s obituary in the local newspaper. Remember the transponder he ordered from the catalog? Maybe he surveilled Mrs. Calhoun and realized what a lonely and dejected lady she was.” The explanation sounded lame even to him. Begley wasted no time shooting holes in it.
“He’s too active a man to keep surveillance over someone. Besides, that would take a lot of time, and he’s not always here. I suppose he could have bumped into her in the parking lot of the bank. Maybe her car had stalled and he rendered help. Something like that. Saw instantly her loneliness and need. She was another random selection, like the Lambert girl.” It was credible, but there was no conviction in his voice. He stared through the windshield while tapping his left-hand fingers on the console between the seats.
“Are you having second thoughts about him, sir?”
“I don’t know, Hoot,” he grumbled.
“If he’s not Blue, how do you explain all the materials he’s collected on the disappearances?”
“First thing I’m going to ask him.” He smacked his lips with irritation and muttered something about the goddamn case, and why the fuck couldn’t he get a handle on it. Hoot didn’t catch every word, but that was the gist of it.
Suddenly Begley turned to him. “Heard any more from Perkins?”
“No, sir. But trust me, he’s on it. As soon as he learns something, he’ll be in touch.”
Begley gazed up at the sky. “I hope to hell a chopper can get here tomorrow. I don’t know how long I can keep our jealous
police chief at bay.” He snorted his contempt for Dutch Burton. “However, as long as that road is blocked, he can’t get any farther up the mountain than we can.”
“And Tierney can’t get down.”
“Right, Hoot. We’ve got that going for us. And that’s the sum total of anything good I can say about this whole frigging mess.”
• • •
Wes went into the high school gym’s weight room ahead of Scott. They had to rely on the windows for light. The gloom was oppressive. There were no soft surfaces to absorb the cold. “Once you get going, you’ll warm up.” Wes’s voice bounced off the tile walls, making it inordinately loud.
Scott remained moodily silent as he shrugged off his outer coat, then unzipped the jacket of his sweat suit and took it off. Beneath it he was wearing a tank top.
Wes took a moment to admire his son’s physique. It was that of a natural athlete. He was long waisted and long limbed. His body fat was maybe ten percent, if that. Each muscle was well developed and perfectly toned, impressively delineated beneath his skin.
Wes envied Scott’s near-perfect structure. He hadn’t been that lucky. Thanks to his mother, his legs were shorter than ideal, and he had a propensity for osteoarthritis that had come to him via his old man’s family, most of them bent and bandy-legged by the time they were fifty.
But Scott had been genetically favored with the best of Wes’s and Dora’s genes. He had inherited strength and stamina from him, grace and coordination from her.
Watching him now as he approached the weight bench, Wes thought that if only he’d been blessed with Scott’s body and natural ability, he could have made it into the pros, he could have made it big.
Scott could if he wanted to, but that was the hell of it. The desire, the drive, the bloodlust for competition wasn’t automatically issued along with physical superiority. Scott hadn’t been born with the determination necessary to make a good athlete into a champion, but Wes was going to make damn certain that he acquired it. He was going to build a fire in the boy’s belly if it was the last thing he did.