Have You Seen Her?

by Karen Rose

  Steven cupped the child’s face in his palm and gently wiped her tears with his thumb. “You did all the right things, Serena. You’re a smart girl, and a brave one. Telling me took a lot of courage.”

  “Will Sammie come home now?” she asked and Steven heard Anna muffle a sob.

  Serena was a smart child. He had no idea what her parents had told her, but he’d be damned if he’d tell this child anything other than the truth. “I don’t know, honey. All us policemen are trying our hardest to find her.”

  Her eyes filled again. “I should have told before. If I’d told before you could find her faster.”

  Mike put his hand on Serena’s shoulder. She looked up, biting her lower lip, and Steven felt his heart lurch. For the rest of her life this poor child would live with unearned guilt caused by a sadistic bastard that thrived on the misery and fear of others. Mike smoothed a lock of tear-drenched hair from Serena’s cheek. “Serena, you know I would never lie to you, don’t you?”

  She nodded. “You’re not allowed.”

  Mike smiled ruefully. “That’s true. So I want you to believe me when I say there is nothing you could have done to make them find Serena faster. God is with her, wherever she is.”

  Serena nodded, then buried her face in Marvin’s shoulder and Steven pushed back from the table. The little girl had been through quite enough tonight. He stood up and leaned over the table, brushing his palm over the little girl’s dark curls.

  Jenna’s children would look like Serena Eggleston, he thought, then physically jolted from the unexpectedness of the idea. Where had that come from? he thought, almost panicked.

  He cleared his throat and met Anna Eggleston’s eyes as he said to Serena, “You were wonderful, Serena. Your mommy and daddy are very proud of you.”

  Anna jerked a nod, then put her arms around Serena and together she and Marvin held on to the daughter they had left.

  Steven looked at Anna’s mother and the sheriff. Mrs. Braden was crying and Sheriff Braden looked like he was fighting not to. “She did great,” Steven said quietly. “I’m going to send a team over to the McDonald’s to see what we can find first thing in the morning.”

  Mrs. Braden bristled. “Why not now?” she demanded in a hushed whisper. “What’s wrong with right now?”

  Sheriff Braden put his arms around his mother’s shoulders. “It’s not a good idea to investigate a crime scene at night, Mom,” he told her. “They might miss something, or worse, destroy it because it’s too dark to see.”

  “I will make sure the area is roped off, Mrs. Braden,” Steven assured her. “And I’ll make sure nobody goes near it until dawn.”

  Mrs. Braden jerked a nod, looking very much like her daughter as she did so. “Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  You’re welcome seemed incredibly inadequate. “We’re doing everything we can, Mrs. Braden.”

  Her eyes filled. “I know.” Then she stifled a sob and turned to bury her face against the starched fabric of her son’s uniform. Sheriff Braden looked at Steven, and once again he saw helpless misery.

  Steven squeezed Braden’s shoulder. “I’ll see myself out.” “I’ll walk with you,” Mike said behind him, then added to Braden, “I’ll be right back.”

  Mike paused in the darkened hallway just outside the kitchen. “You did great, Steven,” he said, and Steven heard pride in his old friend’s voice. “That little girl was terrified, but you made it as easy as you could.” He forced a grin and threw his arm around Steven’s shoulders in a clumsy hug. “Y’done good, boy.”

  “Thanks.” Steven looked back at the kitchen with a frown, then back at Mike. “You know Sammie’s probably dead by now,” he murmured.

  Mike swallowed and his forced grin disappeared. “I know. So do they.”

  Steven sighed. “I need to go.” He stepped from the darkened hallway into the light of the living room where Jenna stood next to the sofa covered in dainty little flowers, quietly waiting. The tortured look on her face told him she’d heard every word.

  Beside him Mike stopped and Steven found his friend’s face lit with a genuine smile. “Well, hello!” Mike drawled and Steven’s face heated. “Do you plan to introduce us?”

  “There are some times I wish you weren’t a priest,” Steven muttered.

  “Steven, Steven, Steven,” Mike said, quiet humor in his voice. “Five Hail Marys for just thinking what you just didn’t say.” He stepped forward, his hand outstretched. “I’m Father Mike Leone, an old friend of Steven’s. You must be Jenna.”

  She shook Mike’s hand. “That’s right. But, um, Steven didn’t mention you.”

  Mike laughed softly. “No, I don’t suppose he would. It’s very, very nice to meet you, Jenna Marshall.” He held on to her hand, still smiling broadly.

  Jenna frowned a little. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Father Leone.”

  “Father Mike is fine. Yes, I’ve known Steven since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. Oh, the stories I could tell. Where do you want me to begin? Pick a year, any year.”

  Steven gritted his teeth. You wouldn’t, he wanted to say. Of course he would, came the reply from his more pragmatic self.

  Jenna glanced over at Steven with a look that seemed to say don’t worry, then back at Mike with a raised brow as she discreetly disengaged her hand. “Well, I’m not Catholic, but what I would like to know is why all priests seem to be named Father Mike.”

  Steven felt a rush of appreciation. She’d felt his discomfort, but instead of exploiting it, she turned the focus to Mike.

  “Probably because our mothers knew we’d be as heavenly as the archangel Michael himself,” Mike declared reverently, looking up at the ceiling.

  Jenna snorted in a delicate, ladylike way. “Your mothers had their hands full with little boys bringing home frogs from the creek in back of the school down the street from the church.”

  Mike looked impressed. “Wow, good memory.”

  “She has a Ph.D.,” Steven replied, as if that explained everything. “Well, we need to be going. I have a lot of work to do.”

  Jenna frowned again. “You have dinner to eat,” she said firmly and Steven didn’t miss the satisfied gleam in Mike’s eye. Meddling old fart. He’d have to make it six Hail Marys.

  Mike looked back at the Egglestons’ kitchen door, sobering. “I have to be getting back to the Egglestons. It was nice to meet you, Jenna. Make sure he takes care of himself, okay?”

  She nodded. “I’ll try, Father.”

  And Steven got the feeling she really meant it.

  Tuesday, October 4, 10:45 P.M.

  She’d put a frozen pizza in the oven. The aroma met Steven’s nose as he closed her front door behind him for the second time. He patted the head of whichever dog he’d just walked and looked longingly at the soft brown sofa. He’d bet a week’s pay he’d fall asleep as soon as he sat down on it.

  He was bone-tired. It had been one hell of a long day. The area behind McDonald’s near the railroad tracks was sealed off, a patrol car assigned to assure no one further contaminated the scene. Steven honestly didn’t believe they’d find anything in an open area after five days, but stranger things had happened.

  There was almost no chance they’d find Samantha Eggleston alive. He could only hope they found her dead, so at least they could find any clues the sick bastard might have left behind.

  The killer had left nothing behind at the clearing where they’d found Lorraine Rush. No hairs, no footprints. Nothing but an eviscerated body. And a fresh tattoo, half of which had been scavenged as the body lay out in the open, unprotected. The picture of Lorraine’s mutilated body flashed in his mind and he wanted to close his eyes, but knew it would only make the picture clearer. More ghastly. More real. He shivered, suddenly cold.

  Jenna stuck her head out from the kitchen, her smile a beacon in the darkness of his thoughts. “Supper’s in the oven. Do you want something to drink?”

  He stood still, just enjoying the warmth of her smi
le, which faltered when she saw his face. Sobering, she came all the way out of the kitchen. “Are you all right, Steven? You look like you’ve seen—” She broke off abruptly.

  “A ghost?” he asked, a sardonic edge to his voice, remembering the expression Melissa’s face would take when he came home late, tired, his mind full of images. Vile, inescapable images of what one Homo sapiens could do to another. At first Melissa’s smile of welcome would falter, just like Jenna’s had. Then, after one too many late nights, Melissa stopped smiling. Then came the frowning, followed by the sneering. Melissa hadn’t had what it took to be the wife of a cop. He looked at Jenna’s pensive expression. Maybe no woman did.

  “Something like that.” Jenna tilted her head. “What’s wrong?”

  Jenna watched his face change from tortured to carefully blank, watched the light in his eyes shut off, just as if he’d flipped off a switch. “Just the day catching up to me,” he answered, then added abruptly, “Do you have any scotch?”

  Jenna nodded, studying his face. He looked so incredibly tired. Worried. Consumed. She wanted to walk straight up to him and put her arms around him and just hold him until whatever images haunted him went away, but something told her that he wouldn’t accept her concern at this moment. There was a sharpness to him, an edginess that went way beyond simple weariness. An anger, deep and intense. He reminded her of a caged cat even though he hadn’t moved a muscle.

  “Neat or on the rocks?” she asked.

  “Neat,” he answered and bent down to scratch Jean-Luc behind the ears. Jean-Luc responded by flipping to his back, presenting his belly for more scratching.

  “Coming right up.” She went back to the kitchen.

  “Jenna, why do both your dogs have the same name tag?” he asked. He looked up when she approached him with his filled glass. “And why do both tags say ‘Captain’?”

  “You don’t watch much television, do you?” Jenna responded, holding out his drink.

  “Not anymore.” He absently swished the scotch in the glass. “I used to enjoy old movies.”

  Jenna stowed that common interest away for a different day. “But not sci-fi?”

  He looked appalled. “God, no.”

  Jenna chuckled. “Then I won’t even ask if you’re a Star Trek fan.”

  His mouth tipped up. “I admit I have watched a few reruns.

  I remember a green lady . . .”

  Jenna tried to look severe. “The makeup artists must have used a year’s supply of green paint on that woman,” she said. “She showed an awful lot of green skin.”

  His smile went just a shade naughty and her heart skipped a beat. “Yeah,” was all he said.

  She hugged herself to keep from throwing her arms around him and narrowed her eyes in mock ire. “Forget about the green lady and think about the captain.”

  His brows bunched as he thought. “Jim, wasn’t it?”

  Jim perked up his ears.

  “And, Next Generation?”

  Steven shrugged.

  “Counselor Troy, skintight uniforms?” she prompted and he grinned again.

  “Matt really likes her,” he said and she wanted to punch him.

  “And her captain’s name is...?”

  He snapped his fingers and both dogs sat up. He looked impressed. “That was pretty good.”

  “You should see what they do when I pop the bubble wrap at Christmas,” she said wryly and he threw back his head and laughed. And once again took her breath away.

  “The bald guy was the second captain, right? He must have been Jean-Luc.”

  Jean-Luc nuzzled his hand and Steven stroked the dog’s soft muzzle. “Sucker guess,” she said, her voice coming out a little huskier than she’d expected and he chuckled, making her feel ridiculously clever for having made him laugh. For making the worry go away for just a little while.

  “So much for the power of my honed deductive reasoning,” he said mildly, sliding his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He cast his eyes aside, scanning the items covering her walls, and once again she felt the switch go click. He was gone again. She felt dismissed and wasn’t sure if she should be taking it personally or not.

  Maybe all cops did that. She wondered if he did that at home, flicking the switch, cutting off his kids. Then again, maybe it was just her. He’d been throwing mixed signals all night, by turns hot—she swallowed, remembering the restaurant—then . . . nothing. So maybe it was just her.

  He was standing poised on the balls of his feet, hands in pockets, eyes looking everywhere but at her. She waited for him to “come back” or whatever it was he did when he flicked the switch back on, but there was only awkward silence.

  She cleared her throat. “Can I take your coat, Steven?” His eyes glanced toward her, then away again. “Sure. Thanks.” He shrugged out of the tweed jacket and she wanted to groan. Yards of muscles stretched and moved and flexed under his crisp white shirt. Take off your shirt, too, was on the tip of her tongue.

  She bit her tongue. Don’t be stupid, Jenna. She hung his jacket on the back of a dining-room chair and returned to the kitchen without another word.

  She hoped he’d follow her, but instead he released the clasp on his holster and draped it over his coat before wandering over to the wall where she kept her diplomas and awards. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers. Camel trousers that clung to the nicest ass she’d ever seen.

  “Duke for your bachelor’s and UNC for your doctorate,” he observed from the dining room. “And Maryland for your master’s degree. Why did you go all the way up there for your master’s?”

  “My dad.” The memory of her father put a chill on the heat. “My dad was sick and we lived in Maryland,” she said, still remembering the day she got the call to come home. It was the worst day of her life. At the time. “He had a stroke shortly after I left for Duke. I wanted to come home then, but he wouldn’t hear of it.” She looked over her shoulder to find him still staring at the diploma, his hands still in his pockets. “I had a scholarship and Dad didn’t want me to lose the opportunity. He had another stroke right before graduation, so one of my profs pulled some strings and I was able to get into Maryland’s master’s program at College Park at the last minute.”

  “What happened to him?” Steven asked, his voice softer, the edginess gone.

  “He died before Christmas that year,” she answered. “I’m sorry,” he said, and after a moment turned back to the frames cluttering her wall.

  In the past she’d gone more for a tasteful print here and there, but when she’d moved into this apartment, days after Adam’s death, the empty walls had mocked her. Cluttering the walls had made the place seem a little less empty. A little less...dead. At a minimum it provided distraction when she thought she would lose her mind from the loneliness. “Thank you.”

  “Who’s Charlie?” Steven asked. He was looking at a certificate Charlie had made for her birthday the year Adam was sick and no one had known what to say. But then-eight-year-old Charlotte Anne had managed where all the grown-ups failed. To the world’s greatest aunt, she’d penned in purple crayon. I love you.

  “My niece. Well, actually she’s Adam’s niece, but I’m still very close with his family. She’s eleven. She made that for me when Adam was sick.”

  “So it’s priceless,” he said, and her heart clenched a little knowing he understood. He took a few steps to where her mounted patent awards hung. “You have patents,” he said with surprise, changing the subject. He bent closer to read the fine print. “What did you do to get them?”

  “Pharmaceutical research.” She donned oven mitts and took the pizza out of the oven. “In a previous life,” she added. Bending over, she searched her lower cupboard for a pizza cutter in the box of utensils she never used.

  “I know it’s down here somewhere,” she muttered, clanging pots and pans. “Steven, this pizza is half supreme and half pepperoni,” she said to the inside of the cupboard. “Which do you want?”

  No an
swer met her ears. She put her hand on the pizza wheel and straightened, turning at the same time. “Stev—?”

  The second syllable of his name evaporated from her tongue. He stood in the open doorway of the kitchen, filling it with the breadth of his shoulders. His chest heaved inside the starched white shirt as if every breath took superhuman effort.

  Oh, my God.

  He was... interested.

  That look of his could melt solid steel. That look made her heart pound, her nipples hard, made every ounce of sensation pool between her thighs. One throbbing, aching mass of sensation.

  He took a step forward and she met him halfway, taking the leap she’d wanted all evening, throwing her body against his, feeling every incredible inch of him pressed against her.

  It was incredible. But it wasn’t enough.

  Then he was kissing her, finally kissing her, and she whimpered. His hands pulled her closer to him. His lips were hot and hard against her mouth.

  Incredible, but not enough.

  In one movement she opened her mouth beneath the pressure of his and slid her hands up his chest and around his neck. The oven mitt dropped to the floor behind him and she vaguely heard the clang of the pizza wheel against the linoleum as he thrust his tongue inside her mouth, seeking, finding a mate as she again met him halfway. Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, still closer. Her tongue tangling with his. Exploring. Learning. Harder. Deeper.

  Still not enough. More. More. More. The chant throbbed in time with the ache at her core and she lifted on her toes to get closer. Closer to the hard ridge that held the promise of satisfaction.

  Not close enough.

  Then his hands took a rapid slide down her back to flatten against her butt and pull her up into him. A wild little cry escaped from her throat and he ripped his mouth away to look down. His eyes dark and intense, pupils dilated, nostrils flared as he struggled to breathe.

  He wants me.

  I want him.

  “Please.” The single syllable was rusty, ripped from her throat. She had no idea what she was asking for, had no thought beyond more. More something. Anything. Anything was better than this terrible unmet need, the cavern that only he could fill.