The Novels of Nora Roberts, Volume 3

by Nora Roberts

  “I could use the help. And I might even be willing to give you a down payment on that bill.”

  “Babe.” His lips hovered a breath from hers, then retreated. “Don’t worry. I trust you.”

  When he walked away, Callie shook her head. “Just another mystery story,” she concurred.

  Bill McDowell got a little drunk. It didn’t take more than a single beer to manage it, but he had two, just to be sure he’d stay that way awhile.

  He’d seen the way Jake had moved in on Callie. And worse, he’d seen the way she’d moved in right back.

  She wasn’t going to come back to the site that night to hang out, to talk. To let him look at her.

  He wasn’t stupid. He knew what was going on, right now, right this minute while he was sitting out here drinking that second beer and listening to that local jerk Matt play some lame version of “Free Bird” on the guitar.

  Lynyrd Skynyrd, for Christ’s sake. Talk about your artifacts.

  Right now, while he was drinking beer under the stars, listening to “Free Bird” and watching the fireflies go nuts in the dark, that goddamn Jake Graystone was putting it to Callie.

  She was too good for him. Anybody could see that. She was so smart and pretty. And when she laughed those three dimples just about drove him crazy.

  If she’d just give him a chance, he’d show her how a guy was supposed to treat a woman. He sucked his beer and imagined whipping the shit out of Jacob Graystone.

  Yeah, that was going to happen.

  Disgusted, he got to his feet, stood swaying and struggling to focus.

  “Easy there, Poncho.” Amused, Digger took his arm to steady him. “How many those brews you got in you?”

  “ ’Nough.”

  “Looks like. Where you off to?”

  “Gotta piss. You mind?”

  “Don’t mind a bit,” Digger said cheerfully. “Want to use the john in the trailer?”

  “I wanna walk.” Unwilling to be befriended by any associate of his nemesis, Bill jerked free. “Too damn crowded around here.”

  “I heard that. Well, don’t go falling in the pond and drowning yourself.” Deciding a bladder break was a fine idea, Digger wandered toward his trailer.

  Bill staggered away from the tents, away from the music and company. Maybe he’d just get in the car and drive out to the house. What the hell did he want to stay out here for when Callie was there?

  He didn’t know she was in bed with Jake. Not absolutely. Maybe she’d wanted to come out to the site, he thought as he circled into the trees. Maybe she’d wanted to come, and Jake had strong-armed her.

  He wouldn’t put it past the son of a bitch.

  He could go on out there, stand up to the bastard and get Callie away from him. She’d be grateful, he mused as he relieved himself.

  Oh Bill, thank God! I’m so glad you came. He’s crazy. I’ve been so afraid.

  Yeah, that’s how it could be. He’d just drive on out there and take care of everything.

  He imagined Callie clinging to him, imagined her lifting her face, those dimples trembling as she smiled at him.

  And imagining that first hot, grateful kiss, he didn’t hear the sound behind him.

  The blow had him sprawling facedown. He moaned once as he was rolled toward the pond, but was already sliding under the pain when his head slipped under the water.

  Okay, here’s the basic grid.” Jake used drawing paper while Callie manned the computer.

  After some debate, they’d agreed to work in his office. For the first two hours, they worked against the noise from the action movie one of the team had rented. Now the house had gone quiet around them, except for the sound of Leo’s gentle snoring from the living room sofa.

  She looked over from the screen, studied what he’d done. She had to admit, the man was good.

  He had her as the central point, with her parents on one side, the Cullens on the other. Out of each set, relevant names were connected.

  Henry Simpson, Marcus Carlyle, Richard Carlyle, the Boston pediatrician, the names of their known staff were listed in sections on her parents’ side.

  The names from the lists Suzanne and Betsy Poffenberger had provided were arranged on the other side.

  “You’re the single known connection,” he began. “But there must be others. That’s what we need to find. Over here’s your dateline. The stillbirth, your date of birth, the first appointment your parents had with Carlyle and so on.”

  “We fill in known data on each one of these names,” Callie added.

  “And we find the connections. Did you eat the last cookie?”

  “I did not eat the last cookie. You ate the last cookie. And you drank the last of the coffee. So you go make more coffee, and I’ll type in the known data.”

  “You make better coffee.”

  “I also type faster.”

  “I don’t make as many typos.”

  “I’m sitting in the chair.”

  “All right, have it your way. But don’t give me a rash of grief when it tastes like swamp water.”

  She smirked as he stalked out. He hated making the coffee. Just one of those odd personal things. He’d wash dishes, cook—as long as it was some form of breakfast. He’d even do laundry without much complaint. But he always bitched about making coffee.

  Therefore, whenever she finagled him into it, she felt a nice glow of accomplishment.

  They were falling back into old patterns, she thought. With a few new and interesting variations. They weren’t fighting as much, or certainly not in the same way. For some reason one or both of them seemed to ease back before it got ugly.

  They certainly weren’t jumping between the sheets at every opportunity. That . . . restraint, she supposed, added a sort of appealing tension to the whole thing.

  They still wanted each other—that part of the pattern would never change. Even after the divorce, when she’d been thousands of miles away from him in every possible way, she’d wanted him.

  Just to roll over in the night and have her body bump against his. And the way he’d sometimes hooked his arm around her waist to keep her there.

  She’d ached for that, for him.

  She hoped he’d ached for her. She hoped he’d cursed her name the way she’d cursed his. And suffered.

  If he’d loved her as much as she’d loved him, he’d never have walked away. He would never have been able to walk away no matter how hard she’d pushed.

  If he’d ever told her what she’d needed to hear, she wouldn’t have had to push.

  When she felt the old resentment and anger begin to brew she shut it down. That was over, she reminded herself. That was done.

  Some things were better off left buried.

  She ordered her mind to clear so she could concentrate on the data she was bringing up. Then she yawned as she noted the article on Henry Simpson.

  “What the hell good is a stupid fluff piece on some charity golf tournament?”

  She started to bypass it, then made herself stop. Just like sieving the spoil, she reminded herself. It might be grunt work, but it was a necessary step.

  “How long does it take to make a damn pot of coffee?” she wondered and propped her chin on her elbow as she read the article.

  She nearly missed it. Her eyes had moved on before her brain registered the information. Her finger jerked on the mouse, then slowly scrolled back.

  “We’re out of milk,” Jake announced as he came back in with the coffeepot. “So no matter how bad it is, you drink it black.”

  He lowered the pot as she turned her head and he saw her face.

  “What did you find?”

  “A connection. Barbara Simpson, née Halloway.”

  “Halloway. Barbara Halloway. The maternity-ward nurse.”

  “It’s not a coincidence. Funny she didn’t mention working at the hospital where Suzanne Cullen’s baby was born. Funny she didn’t mention living in the area when that baby was stolen.”

  Jak
e set the pot down. “We’ll want to verify it.”

  “Oh, we will. Poffenberger was rambling on about her. ‘Cool,’ she said. ‘Snooty redhead just out of nursing school.’ That bitch was part of it, Jake. Simpson connects to Carlyle, Halloway connects to Simpson, and so to Carlyle. Simpson and Carlyle to my parents. Halloway to Suzanne.”

  “We’ll verify,” he repeated. “Find out where she went to school. Dig the next level.”

  “We sat in their house. We sat in their house and they dripped shock and sympathy, and she served us goddamn lemonade.”

  “We’ll make them pay.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, gently. “I promise you.”

  “I need to go to Virginia, face them with this.”

  “As soon as we get the rest of the data on her, we’ll go. We’ll go together.”

  She lifted a hand, closed it over his. “He held my mother’s hand. He used my father’s grief. I’m going to hurt them.”

  “Damn right. Let me take over there for a while.”

  “No, I can do it. I need to do it,” she said, gripping his hand when she saw the shutter come down over his face. “I need to do it for my parents, for the Cullens. For myself. But I don’t know if I can if you step back.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  This time she took his face in her hands. “There are a lot of ways of stepping back from someone. I could never make you understand that. You close up, and I can’t find you.”

  “If I don’t close up, you slice me in two.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never hurt you.”

  “You broke my heart. For Christ’s sake, you broke my goddamn heart.”

  Her hands fell limply to her lap. “I did not. No, I didn’t.”

  “Don’t tell me.” More furious with himself than with her, he spun away, paced to the door. “It’s my heart. I ought to know.”

  “You . . . you left me.”

  “Bullshit.” He whirled back. “That’s bullshit, Callie. You’ve got a damn convenient memory. I’ll tell you exactly what happened—fuck!” He balled his hands into fists as the phone on his desk shrilled.

  He snatched it up. “Graystone.” He’d lifted a hand to rake his fingers through his hair. They froze. And Callie got shakily to her feet as she saw his expression. “Name of God. How? All right. All right. Keep everybody calm. We’re on our way.”

  “What happened?” she demanded. “Who’s hurt?”

  “Bill McDowell. He’s not hurt, Callie. He’s dead.”

  Eighteen

  Callie sat on the ground at the edge of the fallow field just beyond the dig. The sky was fierce with stars, each one of them sharply clear, as if they’d been carved with a laser on black glass. And the half-moon was a white globe cleaved with a honed ax.

  The air held the faintest chill when the breeze fluttered. Fall, it seemed, was already moving into the mountains.

  She could hear the whine of insects in the grass, and the occasional throaty bark from the dog across the road as the nighttime activity disturbed his routine.

  Mr. and Mrs. Farmer, as she thought of the dog’s owners, had come out to see what the ruckus was about. Though they’d gone back inside now, the old farmhouse blazed with lights.

  She’d rushed out of the house with Jake minutes after the phone call, with Rosie and Leo right behind them. They’d beaten the police to the scene by ten minutes. But they’d still been too late for Bill McDowell.

  Now she could only watch and wait.

  Sonya sat beside her, weeping pitifully against her own knees.

  Other members of the team sat or stood. The initial chatter born of shock and panic had passed into a kind of dullness that precluded words.

  She could see the lights spearing through the trees where the police worked, and occasionally a voice would catch the air just right and carry over to the field. Every once in a while someone nearby would whisper.

  What’s going to happen?

  Not how could this happen, though that had been the first question. They’d moved beyond that already, into the what now?

  She knew they looked to her for the answer. With Jake in the trailer with Digger, and Leo over by the woods with some of the police, she was the only one in authority.

  But it was just one more answer she didn’t have.

  “I don’t think I can take it. I don’t think I can stand it.” Sonya turned her head, her cheek resting on her updrawn knees. “I don’t see how he can just be dead. Just like that. We were sitting here talking a few hours ago about stuff I don’t even remember. I didn’t even see him go over to the pond.”

  “I did.” Bob shifted his feet. “I didn’t think anything of it. He and Digger had a couple of words about something, then Bill went off toward the woods. Figured he had to, you know, take a leak. I didn’t think he was that drunk or anything. I just didn’t pay any attention.”

  “Nobody did,” Dory put in. “God, I was half asleep and thinking about crawling into the tent. And I . . . I heard Digger say something like, ‘Don’t fall into the pond and drown.’ I laughed.” Her breath caught on a sob. “I just laughed.”

  “We were always laughing at him. Goddamn, he was such a schmo.”

  Dory swiped at her cheeks. “It’s not your fault,” she said to Bob. “We wouldn’t have found him so soon if you hadn’t wondered where he was, remembered he’d gone that way. He’d still be in the water if you . . .”

  “I want to go home.” Sonya began to weep again. “I just want to go home. I don’t want to do this anymore.”

  “You go back to the house.” Callie put an arm around her shoulders. “As soon as the sheriff says it’s okay, you go back to the house for the night. See what you want to do in the morning.”

  She glanced toward the trailer, then over at Dory. She pointed to the ground beside Sonya, then rose as Dory sat, put both arms around Sonya.

  Let them cry together, Callie thought. She just didn’t have any tears.

  In the trailer Jake set another cup of coffee in front of Digger. “Drink it.”

  “I don’t want any damn coffee. God, Jake, that boy’s dead.”

  “You can’t help him. You can’t help yourself if you don’t sober up and start thinking.”

  “What’s there to think about? I let him walk off, half shitfaced so he could fall in the fucking pond and fucking drown. I was in charge here. I should’ve gone with him.”

  “You’re not a baby-sitter, and you’re not responsible for what happened to McDowell.”

  “Aw, Christ, Jake, Christ.” He lifted his burnt-raisin face. “Most of them are just kids. They’re just kids.”

  “I know it.” Jake pressed his forehead to the cabinet, fought to steady himself, then eased back and got out another cup.

  How many times had he needled that kid? Deliberately baited him over Callie. Just for the hell of it.

  “But he was old enough to be here, old enough to drink. You’re not here to run herd on them, Dig. You’re here to make sure nobody disturbs the site.”

  “Pretty fucking disturbed when a kid’s floating facedown in the water. Where are my smokes?”

  Jake picked up what was left of a crumpled pack on the counter, tossed them over. “Drink the goddamn coffee, suck down a cigarette, then tell me exactly what happened. You want to cry over it, cry later.”

  “I see Mr. Sensitivity’s hard at work.” Callie shot Jake a disgusted glare as she came in.

  “He’s just trying to straighten me up,” Digger replied. He yanked out his bandanna, blew his nose heroically.

  “Yeah, and if he pushes your face in shit, you’d say it was to improve your complexion.” She stepped around the little pedestal table and did something she’d never done in her life, or expected to do.

  She put her arms around Digger’s bony shoulders and stroked his long, tangled hair.

  “I came in here to use the john, then to pull out the bed. Was going to put on some music in case I could talk Sonya
into screwing around. I knew he was half drunk. Barely finished a second beer and he was half drunk. I watch out for them, I swear to God. Just to make sure they don’t get stupid. Seemed to me like everybody was settling down.”

  He sighed a little, rubbed his cheek against Callie for comfort. “Matt was playing the guitar. Can’t play worth shit, but it’s always nice to have somebody playing something. Those two from West Virginia? Frannie and Chuck? They were making out. Bob was writing something. Had a damn flashlight wired around his hat like a freaking miner. Dory, she was half asleep already, and Sonya was singing. ‘Free Bird.’ She kept messing up the words, but I liked hearing her anyway.”

  He closed his eyes. “It was a nice night. Clear, just cool enough. Lots of lightning bugs, and the cicadas were still carrying on. I saw that boy get up, swaying like he was on a ship in a storm. He was a little pissy with the drink. Usually he’s got that goofy grin on his face. Except with you,” he added with a half smile at Jake. “Didn’t like you one bit, figuring you were beating his time with Callie.”

  Jake said nothing, just drank coffee and focused on Callie’s face.

  “I said how if he needed to whiz, he could use the trailer, but he gave me a little push, told me he wanted to walk. Figured he wanted to tell me to fuck off, but even drunk he wasn’t up for that. So I said . . . Jesus, I told him not to fall into the pond and drown himself. But he did. That’s just what he did.”

  Because they were watching each other, Callie saw the emotion run over Jake’s face. The shock, the horror, then the pity.

  “How long before someone went to look for him?” Jake asked.

  “I don’t know, exactly. I was in here for a while. Figured if I was going to get lucky, I’d better straighten the place up a little. Picked out some music, put it on the CD player there. Got out those candles. College girls like a little romance, right, Cal?”

  “Yeah.” She hugged him tighter. “We lap it right up.”

  “I cleaned up some. I guess I was in here about fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. I could still hear the guitar. Then I went out, started putting the moves on Sonya. Bob’s the one who asked after Bill. Somebody—can’t remember—said how they thought he’d gone on to bed, and somebody else said he’d gone to take a leak. Bob said how he had to take one himself, so he’d see if Bill had passed out in the woods. Couple minutes later, he was shouting, running back. We all went down there. All of us.