“We’re assuming she’s dead?” Maggie said.
Stride sighed. “Aren’t we?”
“So who is this mystery stranger? Another boy at school?”
“That’s the first place to start, Mags. Time to reinterview anyone who even smells like a boyfriend.”
Maggie groaned. “A whole day interviewing high school jocks with overactive hormones who think they’re God’s gift to everyone with a pussy. You give me the nicest jobs, boss.”
“Dress for the occasion, Mags. You’ll get more out of them that way.”
“Great,” Maggie murmured. “It’s not like I’ve got any cleavage to show off.”
“You’ll think of something.”
Maggie punched him in the arm, then turned and stalked back toward the van. Stride smiled. He started walking toward the media crowd down the road, bringing up his walkie-talkie in his gloved hand and shoving it up under his hood.
“What have we got, Guppo?” Stride asked.
Guppo’s voice boomed through the walkie-talkie. “What the hell is this place, Lieutenant?” he called. “Shit, we’ve got more crap in each grid box than I’d expect to find in a New York crack house. You had to pick this place as a crime scene?”
He heard something else, and then Maggie complained in the background. “Son of a bitch, Guppo, I’m back in the van for five seconds, and you have to do that.”
Stride chuckled. “Tell her to quit whining, Guppo. Ask her what she’s going to wear to work tomorrow.”
He heard a voice crackle in the background. “Fuck you, Stride.”
Stride transmitted again. “Look, Guppo, do we have anything that suggests a connection to Rachel?”
“Could be all sorts of things. Could be nothing. We won’t know until this stuff is tested. There’s plenty of evidence of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, but without fingerprints and blood work, it’s all speculation.”
“Nothing like a confession from a murderer tied around a rock?”
“Not yet. We’re still looking.” Guppo belched.
“Okay,” Stride said. He shoved the walkie-talkie back in his coat pocket. He approached the police cars and talked briefly with the two officers who were entrusted with the thankless job of keeping the media and spectators out. On the other side of the yellow tape, it was a mob scene, much as it had been on the night Rachel disappeared. Stride squinted as a series of floodlights illuminated him. The hum of voices escalated into a roar.
Stride pointed at one of the television reporters he knew. “Can your crew do the lights?” When the reporter nodded, Stride continued. “Okay, we’ll have one team light me up, and the rest of you, keep the flashbulbs off, all right? If I hear shouting, I’m out of here. You want to ask a question, you raise your hand, I call on you, you ask one question.”
“When did you get elected president, Stride?” Bird Finch retorted from the front of the crowd.
Stride grinned. “Listen up, everybody. Bird has already asked his one question. Move him to the back of the crowd.”
The reporters laughed derisively. A few of them tried to push in front of Bird and take his place at the edge of the tape, but the muscular ex-basketball player wasn’t giving an inch. He shot Stride an icy smile.
Stride felt the heat of the television lights burning on his face. It was the first time that day he had felt relief from the cold. Only his feet, damp and in shadow, still felt chilled. “You guys ready?” he asked. “I’ll make a brief statement, then take questions.”
He saw red lights flash on a dozen handheld television cameras. A few flashbulbs burst, despite his prohibition, blinding him.
“Let me tell you what we know right now,” he said. “Early this morning, we received a call on our hotline from a woman who had in her possession a bracelet she believed might be connected to the disappearance of Rachel Deese. We retrieved the bracelet, and Rachel’s mother positively identified it as belonging to her daughter. We believe that Rachel was wearing the bracelet on the night she disappeared. According to the witness who found the bracelet, it was behind the barn at this location. We are currently conducting a grid search of about one hundred square yards around the area where the bracelet was discovered. That’s all I have at this time.”
Three people shouted questions simultaneously, and Stride stared them down, not moving or answering. Bird Finch dramatically raised his hand. He was already a head taller than everyone else, and with his arm in the air, he looked like a black Statue of Liberty.
May as well get it over with, Stride thought. “Bird?” he said.
“Do you now believe Rachel is dead?” Bird asked. He put just enough of an edge on the word “now” to suggest that Stride had been delinquent in understanding what everyone else had known all along.
“I don’t want to speculate on anything like that,” Stride said.
Before anyone else could get a hand up, Bird injected a follow-up question into the silence. “But you are going to be searching for a body now, aren’t you?”
“We are currently in the midst of a grid search for evidence. This is an intense, highly focused exercise that will take many more hours. Our next steps will be determined by what we find here, if anything. But the full analysis will take weeks.”
Another hand went up. Bird had shown them the way, and the others followed. “When you complete this search, you’ll also be searching the surrounding area, right? Are you hoping to find a body?”
“I’m hoping we don’t find a body,” Stride snapped. “But we do plan to begin a search of the woods around this area for any other evidence we might find.”
“They’re predicting more snow. Will that slow things down?”
“Of course,” Stride said. “This is Minnesota. That’s going to make any search harder at this time of year.”
“Are you looking for volunteers to help in the search?” one reporter asked.
“I’m sure we’ll be able to use any extra help that’s offered to us. We’ll be posting details on our Web site about how volunteers can help us and where they should go. What we don’t want is people combing through the woods by themselves. All that will do is harm the investigation. If people want to help, they need to let us coordinate their efforts.”
Hands shot up. “Have you found anything else to suggest Rachel was here?”
“Not yet,” Stride said.
Another hand. “Do you have any suspects at all?”
“No,” Stride said.
Bird Finch didn’t wait to be called upon again. “You’ve been at this more than three weeks, and you have no suspects at all?”
“The evidence so far has not suggested any persons of interest.”
“What about sex offenders?” asked a reporter from Minneapolis.
“We have interviewed all individuals with any history of sexual violence in the surrounding area. But I want to make it very clear again. We have no evidence linking any specific person to Rachel’s disappearance.”
Bird again. “Are you now more inclined to see a connection to Kerry McGrath’s disappearance? A crime in which you also seem to have no suspects?”
“We have not established any connection between the two incidents. We’re not ruling it out, but there’s no evidence at this time to suggest the disappearances are related.”
“Does this break in the case leave you more encouraged that you will find out what happened to Rachel?”
Stride couldn’t even see the woman who asked the question, just her arm in the air. He hesitated, framing his words in his mind. “Yes, I am encouraged. We now have a link, a location, that may finally bring some answers. I also want to make an appeal to anyone who is watching: If you were anywhere near this area on the night of Rachel’s disappearance, and you saw or heard anything, please call us. We know Rachel was here. We want to know how she got here. We want to know what happened.”
He pointed at another raised hand.
“How long are you going to be out here?” a woman from the St. Pa
ul newspaper asked.
“It could be all night,” Stride said.
It was.
As the police finished each grid, the evidence bags came back to the van, and Stride and Maggie examined each one before filing them away in a series of banker’s boxes. Stride didn’t see anything that suggested a connection to Rachel, although he could have been looking right at it and never known. The lab would eventually tell them more.
Stride checked his watch, which told him it was nearly four in the morning. A pizza box lay on the floor of the van, empty except for two square crust pieces that remained uneaten. Stride didn’t know how Guppo had missed them. Maggie sat opposite Stride, her head nodding as her eyes blinked shut. She propped her elbows on her knees and cupped her face in her hands.
Stride, frozen and tired, allowed his thoughts to drift to Andrea. She had understood when he called to cancel their date, although he was pleased to hear disappointment in her voice. He was disappointed, too. He wasn’t sure if it was the sex or just the opportunity to be close to a woman’s body again, but he was anxious to see her. Andrea was very attractive. It wasn’t like it was with Cindy, of course, but nothing would be. Andrea was different, and he couldn’t expect her to live up to a ghost.
Stride jumped as the speaker in the van crackled. He wondered if he had fallen asleep for a few seconds. “It’s starting to snow,” one of the officers outside reported.
“Well, that’s just fucking great,” Stride said.
He pushed himself to his feet in the cramped van. His muscles ached, and he felt a twinge in his back. Normally he did a series of stretching exercises each night to keep his back limber, but for several nights he had skipped it. Now he was paying the price. His arm hurt, too, where he had taken that bullet several years back. It was always worse in the cold.
He peered through the van’s frosty rear window. In the glow of the lights they had erected for the search, he could see huge flakes floating peacefully to earth. Each one looked small and harmless, and together, he knew, they would soon bury his crime scene.
“How bad?” Maggie asked quietly.
“Bad enough,” Stride said.
Stride stared at the shadows of the forest. He tried to imagine the scene again as it must have been that night. Rachel in the passenger seat. Someone pulling a car in behind the barn. Just the luck of the draw that no one else was there. How did the bracelet get outside? They wouldn’t have had sex outside, not when it was a cold night. Maybe they simply went outside to stare at the woods, like he was doing. And then the boy tried to pull her back to the car, and the bracelet slipped off, and they struggled, and then—what?
Or maybe things started to get rough in the car, and she tried to run. He followed her. The bracelet came off in the struggle. He hit her. Strangled her. Then what would he do with the body? Take it deeper into the woods? Take the car and go somewhere else to hide her?
Stride heard the speaker come to life again.
“Any of you guys remember what Rachel was wearing that night?” one of the officers radioed from outside.
Stride and Maggie looked at each other. Maggie recited from memory. “Black jeans, white turtleneck.”
The speaker was silent. Then, a few seconds later: “You said a white turtleneck?”
Stride spoke up. “That’s what we said.”
Another pause, longer this time. “Okay, guys. We may have something.”
The triangular piece of fabric was small and jagged, about six inches in length, with frayed edges. Despite the dirt caked over it, the fragment was obviously white. Along one side, where the cloth had torn from the rest of the garment, was a reddish-brown stain soaked into the fibers.
14
Emily believed she was going insane. Not since she had attacked Rachel on that one terrible night had she felt so out of control. She was drifting at sea, alone, without hope of rescue.
She paced frantically back and forth, wearing a path in the carpet. She grasped her forehead in her hand, fingers outstretched, squeezing it like a vise. Her dirty hair spilled over her face. Her eyes were wide, her breath loud. She was hyperventilating. The pain in her head throbbed, like a tumor growing inside her.
“I’d like to show you this bracelet,” the detective had said. She took one look and screamed.
Emily never really believed the day would come. She knew what the other mother, Barbara McGrath, had told her during the broadcast. How she was afraid of that one day when the police would be at her door, somber expressions on their faces. But Emily didn’t believe it. She believed Rachel was alive. One day, the phone would ring, and the familiar, mocking laughter would be on the other end.
She believed it right up until the second she saw the bracelet. Now she knew. Rachel was dead. Someone had killed her.
It was as if the police had pulled the ground from under Emily’s feet. Hours later, she was still consumed by despair.
The quiet sounds of the porch thundered in her head. The furnace hummed, pumping warm air into the room. The wooden branches of the spirea plants outside made squeaking noises as they rubbed against the windows. The timbers in the house creaked, shifting under the weight of an unseen ghost.
And the worst sound of all, tap tap tap, was Graeme working on his laptop a few feet away, oblivious to her agony.
Tap, tap, tap.
She had never believed the two of them could sink so far. What was worse, she knew she had brought it all on herself.
“I’m pregnant,” Emily said.
She tensed, waiting for his response. She was seated on the sofa in her tiny living room, her hands folded awkwardly in her lap. Graeme was in the upholstered chair opposite her. He held a drink in his hand. It was his second since dinner, and she had already plied him with champagne to go along with the prime rib she had roasted in the oven.
Now, with both of them relaxed, she had blurted it out.
“You said you were taking precautions,” Graeme said.
Emily winced. This wasn’t what she wanted to hear. Not love, not excitement. Just vague recriminations.
“I’m on the pill,” Emily told him. “But nothing’s foolproof. It was an accident. It was God’s will.”
“I’m not sure we’re ready,” he said.
“I’m not sure anyone’s ever ready,” Emily replied.
“I mean, I’m not sure we should keep it.”
Emily felt tears welling inside her. Her breath was heavy. She spoke in a quavering voice. “I won’t kill my baby.”
Graeme said nothing.
“I won’t do it, Graeme,” Emily repeated. “How can you ask me to? This is your baby, too.”
Emily got off the sofa. She went around the coffee table and knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers.
“Don’t you want to give our baby a home together?” she asked him.
He seemed stricken for a few interminable seconds, his eyes focused over her shoulder. Then he nodded, just the barest movement of his head.
Emily felt a huge grin of relief and joy spread across her face. She threw her arms around Graeme’s neck and hugged him tightly. She kissed him all over his face. “Let’s get married now,” she said. “Right away. This weekend.”
Graeme smiled. “All right. We’ll drive up the coast this weekend and find some little small-town church. We can bring Rachel, too.”
A cloud passed briefly across her mind. She had almost forgotten her daughter in the excitement of the moment. Then it, too, passed. She felt strong and confident. This would be the right thing. For her. For Graeme. Even for Rachel. It might finally make them a family again. A family that would never have to worry about money.
“Yes, let’s do it,” Emily told him.
Emily leaned back and began unbuttoning her blouse, watching his eyes follow the movement of her fingers. As the flaps of fabric fell away, his hands reached inside, squeezing her breasts.
Graeme’s pager beeped, a high-pitched whine filling the room. Both of them jumped. Emily fel
l back on her butt, her breasts spilling out of her shirt. Graeme reared out of the chair and grabbed for the pager. He plucked it off his belt and stared at it.
“I have to go.”
Emily straightened herself, smoothing her hair and quickly attending to her open blouse. She shrugged and smiled at him. “That’s all right.”
She walked him to the door and stayed there, with the night air blowing in, while he backed his car out of the driveway. She watched the car until she couldn’t see it anymore, and still she stayed there, enjoying the breeze on her face.
Emily closed the front door quietly. She headed for the kitchen, humming to herself.
“You looked pretty funny with your tits hanging out,” she heard someone say.
Rachel was sitting on the top step of the short stairway to the second floor. Her long bare legs dangled over the stairs. She wore short shorts and a black halter top that fit snugly around her full breasts. Her black hair was wet, as if she’d just come out of the shower. Her skin glowed.
“You were spying on us?”
Rachel shrugged. “Graeme saw me. I didn’t want to interrupt your big moment.”
Emily didn’t want to get sucked into Rachel’s games tonight. She headed for the kitchen without another glance at her daughter.
Rachel called after her. “Up to your old tricks, huh?”
Emily stopped. “What does that mean?”
Rachel screwed up her face and mocked her mother’s voice. “‘I’m on the pill, darling. It was an accident. It was God’s will.’”
“So?” Emily retorted.
“So what do you call these?” Rachel said. She held up a tiny pocket-purse, then flipped it open to reveal an unopened wheel of small green pills. “They look like birth control pills to me. What happened, Mother? Did you fall a little behind?”
Emily’s hands flew to her mouth. Her face went white. Then she steeled herself, her mind working furiously. “You don’t understand.”
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