Kitterman screwed his mouth to the side, considering. “You may be right. Along those lines, it’s feeling to me like this person has more at stake than just being identified as the 911 caller. It’s just an old cop’s gut, but I think there’s more.”
Abby said, “I’ve been assuming it was kids who weren’t supposed to be out, maybe drinking. Maybe it was even someone who was with Kyle… another motorcyclist, even. You think it’s more nefarious than that?”
“I’m just trying to equate the risks this person is willing to take with what he wants to remain secret,” Kitterman said.
“To a kid,” Jason said, “depending on the circumstance, getting caught out after curfew or underage drinking might be enough. When you’re dealing with teenagers, logic and proportional reactions aren’t involved in the equation.”
“True enough,” Kitterman agreed. Then he looked at Abby. “Tell me what you remember from the accident.”
Abby was a little surprised that he seemed to accept that she’d been asleep while driving, but she wasn’t about to question him about it. Instead, she went through what she did after waking in the van.
As she spoke, Kitterman leaned back in his chair, one hand fiddling with a pen. Once in a while he would nod slightly. Abby wondered if these nods were at things that she said that aligned with the evidence, or if he did it as a matter of course when he was listening.
When she finished, he said, “I’ve been down to the impound and checked out your van. There’s very little damage to the body, other than scrapes and a broken driver’s side headlight. I’ve also been to the scene and studied the photos taken that night. I can’t figure out how the driver’s side window got broken.”
Abby sensed Jason sitting up a little straighter next to her. He’d been interested in the broken glass, too.
Jason asked, “Was there any other broken glass on the van?”
“No,” Kitterman said. “And it takes a pretty strong sharp blow to shatter safety glass like that. It had to come from outside the vehicle because the glass was all over the inside of the van and we didn’t find a single trace on the road or along the tracks into the water.
“Ms. Whitman, you said you remembered red lights, like taillights.”
“I remembered it under hypnosis, but I can’t say that it happened with certainty. I had a dream that was very similar. And I can’t recall anything before or after that glimpse of red lights, so I’m doubting I truly saw them.”
“Has the investigation team come up with a theory about how the accident happened?” Jason asked.
Kitterman said, “It’s clear that the motorcycle and Ms. Whitman’s van were traveling in opposite directions. But the skid marks the van left on the pavement are too far from where the motorcycle left the road to indicate they were the result of trying to avoid a collision.”
She leaned forward, suddenly every nerve humming. “As in I didn’t hit him? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Or you didn’t hit the brakes until after impact,” Kitterman offered matter-of-factly.
Her heart sank like a rock in a pond.
Impact. Even the word sounded horrible.
“Are you sure the motorcycle actually did make contact with another vehicle?” she asked with guarded hope.
“Yes, of that we’re certain. We’ll need lab confirmation for the paint found on the motorcycle to know if it matches your van—it was white. There are thousands of white vehicles around. But from what I saw of your van, I don’t think it’ll be a match.”
Abby grasped that shred of hope, but didn’t allow herself to believe, not until she was certain she hadn’t killed Kyle Robard.
Jason asked, “What about the fingerprints on Kyle’s phone, any luck there?”
“There were two fingerprints on the phone that were not the victim’s and good enough quality to do us some good. They likely belong to the same person. Until we have something to compare them to—they didn’t match any in the database—they’re useless.” He leaned forward slightly and looked at Abby. “We do know they are not yours.”
Abby felt a little vindicated and hoped Officer Trowbridge had received the news and choked on it.
Kitterman tapped his pen against his chin. “The castings from the shoe imprints around the body have told us that there were at least two other people on the scene besides Ms. Whitman. The imprints near the motorcycle and body are all over each other, which isn’t unusual at an accident scene where people are disoriented or upset.”
He opened a folder and showed Abby and Jason photos taken of the castings. One shoe was smooth-soled. The other was grooved and patterned, like an athletic shoe. They were both large, so Abby assumed they belonged to men—or boys.
Jason said, “So there could have been multiple vehicles.”
Kitterman said, “That’s a lot of traffic out on that road in the middle of a weeknight. I’m betting on multiple people in one vehicle. Also, alongside Ms. Whitman’s bare footprints on the pavement where she came out of the marsh, there were muddy shoeprints from both of these shoes—also leaving the marsh.”
“Maybe they checked on me too before they called 911,” Abby suggested.
“Possibly. The castings I took by the river yesterday went to the lab today. They called a short while ago. They class-match one of the pairs of shoes at your accident scene.”
“Class-match?” Abby asked.
“They have identifiable tread markings to say they’re the same brand and size. We don’t have anything that will single them out to a particular pair of that brand and size, at least yet. The experts have yet to analyze them.”
“It can’t be a coincidence,” Jason said. “It has to be the same guy.”
“We don’t speak in absolutes until we have absolute proof, but I’d be hard pressed to disagree too strongly,” Kitterman said. “And if they do match absolutely, then the person at the accident scene is certainly the person who broke into Ms. Whitman’s house.”
“What about the other things: the phone call, the vandalism at the cemetery, and the slashed tires?”
“Likely connected, not absolutely,” Kitterman said. “The phone call came from a pay phone at the Silver Star Tavern. Of course nobody remembers seeing who made it. The fingerprints on the iPod from the cemetery are all too smudged to be of use. It does have an engraving on the back, ‘226.’ ”
Jason shook his head; those numbers were about as useless as smudged fingerprints. “How are we going to get absolutes?”
“We’re following all of the leads we can. Other than the prints—which as I said do no good without a match—we only have the prayer card from St. Andrew’s.”
“That could have come from me,” Abby said. “I was at that funeral, and I did most of the flowers.”
Kitterman looked at her. “But the fingerprints on it don’t belong to you. They match those found on Mr. Robard’s cell phone.”
Abby and Jason looked at one another. There was a very short list of people who had attended that funeral. And Abby knew most of them personally. Could someone she knew actually have tried to blow up her house, possibly with her in it?
She must have turned pale, because Jason put an arm around her, and Kitterman got up and returned with a bottle of water and set it in front of her.
He stood there, looking down at her. “I don’t have to caution you to be alert and careful until we catch this guy.”
As she unscrewed the cap on the water bottle, she shook her head. She wasn’t the only one in danger. She had to separate herself from Jason.
CHAPTER 23
Abby walked beside Jason as they left the sheriff’s office, feeling as if she had ants crawling all over her. She even caught herself absently trying to sweep them off her skin a couple of times.
“I don’t know what I was expecting,” she said. “But I don’t feel we’ve made any headway—other than the fact that I now know two people are out to get me.”
Jason tried to take her hand, but she m
oved slightly to the side, out of reach.
“If there’s one thing I’ve figured out over the years it’s that when two people share a secret, one of them is very likely to give it up. Because there was only one shoe imprint at your place, it could mean the second person doesn’t agree with what the first is doing, or may be completely ignorant that it’s going on at all.”
She thought for a moment. “Then maybe the police need to let the public know I’m being threatened. If the second person is against it, or doesn’t know… wouldn’t they be more likely to come forward?”
“It’s more likely that person number one will view person number two as a bigger liability than you are.”
She frowned. “Oh. Well, we can’t put someone else in the crosshairs.”
“He, or she, may already be. Who knows what’s happening that we don’t know about?”
“At least no one else’s house has been torched,” Abby said.
Jason didn’t say anything. Abby could read his thought on his face well enough: Not yet.
They got into Jason’s car and left the station. On the way out of town, they stopped at a Wal-Mart so she could pick up some necessities. Jason had to pay because Abby’s purse, along with her cash and backup credit card, had gone up in flames. At least Jason had escaped unscathed. For that she’d sacrifice everything she had ten times over.
It seemed now, just when she needed to put more distance between them, she’d become more dependent on him than ever. At least he hadn’t argued with her this morning when she’d said sleeping together had been a mistake. He must feel it, too.
Although it would make things easier, his acquiescence settled on her like a damp fog. She would never again experience the magic of his touch, the perfect symphony of their joining. She’d never bared her true self to anyone as she had him. He was the one person who truly knew her and accepted her completely, without excuses for the ugly truths.
She pushed those thoughts from her mind. They were only going to make her mood more morose.
It was nearly dark when they headed back to Preston. They grabbed sandwiches at the McDonald’s drive-thru before hitting the highway. Hers tasted like cardboard, but Abby forced herself to eat it. She was enough of a damsel in distress; the last thing she needed was to become a fainting flower.
As she choked down her cheeseburger, she started sorting through the practicalities of her situation.
When she’d swallowed the last bite, she wadded up the wrapper and put it back in the bag.
“I’ve waited too long to cancel the flower orders for the Robards,” she said. “Maybe some folks have already figured out the situation and called to cancel. But I need to get to the shop and start working.”
Jason stopped with a fry halfway to his mouth. “Seriously?”
“I can hardly just ignore the orders at this point. The viewing starts tomorrow.”
“No, I guess not.”
“I probably don’t have enough flowers on hand. I’ll work with what I have tonight and have more delivered first thing tomorrow. And since I’ll be working through the night, you won’t have to babysit me.”
“You can’t think I’m going to let you be out there by yourself.”
“Whoever set that fire knows I don’t have a place to stay. He won’t know I’m working. He won’t be back tonight.”
“And what crystal ball told you that?”
“Jason, sooner or later you’re going to have to leave me. You have your own responsibilities.”
“Then it’ll be later. I have an air mattress. I’ll sleep at the shop while you work.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not the one who’s being ridiculous.”
Abby huffed, but stopped arguing. It was pointless. She guessed he might well be safer at the shop if whoever was after her thought she was staying at his house. And it was just for one night.
At least that was the justification she gave herself.
While Jason went upstairs to get his air mattress, Abby used his phone to call the tire store. After having an investigator check the Explorer for evidence, Kitterman had given the go-ahead to have the tires changed. He was less definite about when her van would be released. So getting the Explorer up and running was the first step in regaining her independence.
The thought of truly separating herself from Jason brought a mixed bag of emotions, none of which she wanted to examine at the moment. So instead she focused on the giant magnolia tree outside his front window. It only reminded her of him, straight, strong, unbendable—and yet majestic in beauty. Everything about both of them spoke of strong Southern principles. Exactly the kind of man she would be looking for—if she were looking for a man.
When the voice message system answered, she was so lost in thought she was a little startled. After stuttering for a moment, she left a message asking them to replace the tires on the Explorer as early as possible tomorrow morning.
After she finished her call, she heard Jason talking upstairs. Soon he came trotting down the staircase with the air mattress box under one arm, his cell pressed to his ear.
“What do you mean you let him go out?” he said crossly. “Lucy, he skipped school today.”
He listened.
“Yes, I do think it’s a big deal. Did you even find out how he spent his day?” He paused and listened again. “I don’t care how often you skipped school when you were his age. We can’t act like it doesn’t matter to us—” His mouth tightened and his eyes grew stormy. “Don’t pull that on me. You always do that when you don’t agree with me. He’s my son, too. His being upset lately means he needs less freedom, not more. I’m going to call him.” He disconnected the call.
He looked like he’d just hit his finger with a hammer. He handed the mattress box to Abby. “Can you take this to the car?”
“Sure.” She went outside feeling just a little tweaked. She knew it was stupid. His conversations with his children were no business of hers. But he’d been there every step of the way with her; she’d like to reciprocate with a little support in his difficulties.
It was nearly ten minutes before he came out of the house and got in the car. He was still frowning.
“Everything okay?” she asked.
“Bryce didn’t answer his cell. Which means he’s in bigger trouble when I do finally talk to him.”
Jason sounded as angry as she’d ever heard him, so she didn’t question why if Bryce hadn’t answered it had taken him so long to come out.
It wasn’t quite twilight when they pulled into Abby’s lane. Spanish moss moved ghostlike in the ancient trees lining the way. The smell of scorched wood and wet ash burned her nose, a bitter reminder that she wouldn’t be going home for a very long time.
Although she was braced for it, the sight of the blackened shell of her cottage sucked the breath from her lungs. She quickly turned her eyes away.
She was glad Jason didn’t offer a litany of platitudes and promises about rebuilding and a better future. He allowed her to feel the rawness of her loss.
Once they were inside the shop, Jason knelt to inflate the air mattress. That’s when she saw the likely reason he’d been so long in coming out of his house—and probably why he’d sent her on ahead of him.
“What in the hell is that?” she said, pointing at the handgun tucked in the back of his waistband. She knew it hadn’t been there before they stopped at his house; he could not have gotten inside the sheriff’s office with it.
He stood and faced her. “I’ve had a few crazy incidents while working with law enforcement. I have a permit.”
“Who gives a shit? Why do you have it now?”
“Because it’s more effective than your attack gnome or throwing pottery at someone if they try to break in here.”
She crossed her arms over her chest. “Is it loaded?”
“Wouldn’t be much good if it wasn’t.”
“I don’t like it.”
He stepped close to her. “Neithe
r do I. But it’s here and it’s staying.”
“What if you shoot a kid?” She glared up at him.
“You mean the kid that tried to incinerate us both? The kid that destroyed your home?”
Closing her eyes, she sighed. “It just seems so… extreme.”
Jason framed her face with his hands. “I’ll do whatever it takes to protect you.” He kissed her quickly, before her emotion-burdened reflexes could avoid the contact.
Although she knew she should pull away, her mouth opened to his, her hands grasped his waist, and she buried herself in the sensations he set off in her body. It was very effective at blocking out reality.
By the time she broke from him, they were both breathing heavily. If this was the kind of restraint she had, she simply could not allow herself to be alone with him in the future.
“I’d better get to work,” she said, stepping away from the temptation to touch him again.
“Can I help?”
“No. Go to sleep.” Her work was the only corner of her life that was still firmly in her grasp. And it was a safer place to bury herself from her troubles than in Jason’s arms.
Jason lay on the air mattress watching Abby work, his gun within reach on the floor beside him. The wind was kicking up, stirring the occasional soft creak and rattle and the random tap-tap of tree and shrub branches. He tuned his hearing to the song of the old building, so he would be able to pick out those notes that didn’t belong.
The room was dark except for the light right over Abby’s worktable, where she stood in a pool of radiance, like an angel.
She’d put her hair up and her hands moved with sureness as she assembled her creations. He liked watching her when she was like this, in command. It was the way she was meant to be. After a short while, he would have bet money that she’d not only forgotten about the gun she’d been glaring at, but had completely forgotten he was in the room.
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