Nails on chalkboard—that voice. She noticed Sunni’s accent had gotten decidedly more Southern over the years, and she suspected the woman affected it in order to fit in here. Though they’d never talked about her background, she doubted her father’s girlfriend had been raised in rich surroundings.
Neither had her mother, of course. Yet the two women couldn’t be more different. Mom was pretty, small, feisty and tough. Sunni was a walking bottle of syrup with a blond cap.
“Your daddy sure misses you. Don’t be a stranger,” Sunni added.
“I won’t,” she said, smiling politely. She kept that smile on her face for several minutes as they finished their goodbyes, went to the car, and started down the driveway. It felt stiff by the time they reached the two men standing by Richard’s limo, both of whom quickly straightened and stomped out their cigarettes when they came into view. Since the big vehicle was blocking the drive—probably to stop any big bad terrorists or Democrats who wanted to get at Richard—the driver leapt behind the wheel to move it.
“Sorry ’bout that,” the man said.
“It’s okay,” replied Gabe.
Glancing past him out the window, Olivia saw the bodyguard tug at his tight collar. Leaning over Gabe, she asked, “Has somebody brought you two down some cold water?”
“We’re okay, ma’am. Got a cooler in the car,” the man said with a broad smile. “It’d be crazy not to in this heat. I think the mercury in the thermometer’s turnin’ to lava today.”
It sure seemed that way. The idea of another few weeks of August misery was enough to make her miss Tucson. At least Arizona didn’t have the humidity.
But if you’d stayed in Tucson, you wouldn’t have even heard of Julia, wouldn’t have started working with eXtreme Investigations, wouldn’t be getting answers about Jack.
And you wouldn’t have met Gabe Cooper.
No, she couldn’t regret being right here where she was.
That thought made a smile—a real, genuine one this time—curve her lips. But as they pulled out of the long driveway onto the main road, it faded completely away, not only because there was no need to keep it up once they were out of sight but also because, considering where they were going and what she was about to do, she had absolutely nothing to smile about.
Last night, when Gabe had told Olivia she could examine the remains, he hadn’t been entirely honest with her. He’d never actually lied, but he also hadn’t come right out and told her there was a string attached to his offer. A big string. Then again, it was a pretty big offer.
She could examine the bones, touch them, do whatever she had to. But she was not going to be alone when she did it. He would be in that examination room with her the whole time.
It wasn’t only because of legal issues: If her kidnapping was connected to this murder that made her a witness. He couldn’t let her do anything that might taint the evidence. But just as important, there was also the issue of how she was going to deal with whatever happened. Even somebody who made no claims to having any unique abilities could get a little freaked out over handling human remains. Seeing a pile of charred bones that you thought belonged to a murdered kid who’d once saved your life just set up the experience to be that much worse.
He’d seen her last night, mentally reliving that awful night, like something out of a horror movie she’d never been able to escape. Even a distance of twelve years hadn’t been enough to keep her whole body from shaking, to prevent her voice from cracking, to stop tears from filling her eyes. Today could be a lot worse. So, no, she wasn’t going in there alone. Period.
Did he really think she was gonna psychically connect with this dead boy? Well, as much as he had found himself liking her the longer he was with her, no, he wasn’t ready to concede she had some kind of otherworldly powers. But he was open-minded enough to give her a shot. After all, if Sue-Ann Bowles’s theory had any basis in truth, there could be another victim out there. And a little boy at risk was worth opening up his mind as far as it would go.
He hadn’t told her about that—the possibility that her attacker’s accomplice was still out there, doing what he did best. No point until they knew more.
So, he was staying. Those were the terms; she could take them or leave them. Which was exactly what he’d told her when they arrived at the coroner’s office. They hadn’t even gotten out of the car, and he was waiting for her to make up her mind about whether she’d obey his rules.
She stared at him, her big green eyes narrowing. “You’re serious?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Her throat quivered as she swallowed. “You can’t.”
He crossed his arms. “Yes, I can. And I will. Otherwise, I’ll drive you home right now.”
“Detective—Gabe—listen to me. What I do, it’s very . . . unpleasant.”
No kidding.
“And it’s a little scary.”
“I’m a big boy. I think I can take it.”
“I didn’t mean you’d be frightened of me; more likely you’ll be afraid for me.”
He could only answer bluntly. “I’m already afraid for you, Livvie.”
Her lips widened a tiny bit, just for a second, into a sort-of smile, as if she liked hearing him call her by the nickname he’d heard her family use. He liked it, too. It was less formal, less cool and well-bred than Olivia. Yes, she was elegant, beautiful, but she had such strength in her. He’d seen it. He appreciated it. To him, that strength belonged to Livvie.
Then the smile faded. “Nobody ever stays with me. I’ve always done this alone.”
Which told him those coworkers of hers were cowards. “The clock’s ticking.”
She still didn’t move for a good minute. He didn’t sense they were involved in any kind of battle of wills here; she wasn’t pulling some kid stunt, trying to wear him down until he changed his mind. This was more like somebody trying to find the strength to do something she didn’t want to do. The fact that she had to try this hard to convince herself told him how serious she was about him not coming. Which only made him more determined to be there. If it was so awful nobody else could see it, it was awful enough that she shouldn’t have to do it all by herself.
Do it. Do what? You don’t even know that she’s going to do anything!
Funny how he kept forgetting he didn’t quite believe her. Only not funny. Not at all.
“All right,” she finally said, her voice not much more than a whisper. “I agree.”
He reached for the doorknob.
“But I have one condition, too. Whatever you see, whatever I say or do, you cannot interfere. Don’t try to talk to me, don’t touch me, don’t do anything to stop what’s happening.”
He hesitated, not liking that any more than she’d liked his terms. “What if you . . .”
“Absolutely no interference, Detective. Whatever happens, it will be over in two minutes and ten seconds, and I can take it. Agreed?”
He thought about it, cursed under his breath, then hedged, not exactly promising. “Okay.”
Getting out of the car, they headed into the building in silence. Gabe got her through security, then led her to the back, where they kept unclaimed remains. Nobody would be claiming this boy’s until somebody could identify him.
Then, all too soon for his peace of mind, they were in a small examination room. A technician had wheeled in a steel table and placed it directly beneath a strong, overhead light. A sterile white sheet was draped across the top, not settling into a body shape like it usually would. Not when there was no body, just those sad bones.
He donned a pair of sterile gloves, then handed her a pair. She eyed them, looked at him, but didn’t protest. Remaining silent, she tugged them on and then approached the table. He saw the way she trembled, though her spine was stiff and her chin upraised, determination visibly wafting off her. “Remember your promise,” she said, not even glancing over.
“I’ll remember.” The answer was a technicality. He hadn’t actually said,
“I promise,” and couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t step in if he thought she was in danger. Only a fool promised something without all the facts. It was like a man “promising” not to get mad before his wife told him her secret—that she was messin’ around. Gabe didn’t make those kinds of promises.
Livvie reached for the corner of the sheet and lifted it slowly. Each inch revealed more of the charred skeleton below, starting at the feet. A few of the toe bones, phalanges, if he remembered his science classes, had broken off and lay positioned below the metatarsals.
His stomach clenched. He’d seen bodies before, God yes. But here were such tiny little things. Some parent once counted those ten toes, tickled those plump feet. At least, he hoped so. God, he hoped this kid had had some happiness in his life somewhere along the way.
He closed his eyes briefly, reminded himself to focus, then opened them again.
Olivia didn’t make a sound. She just kept moving the sheet, careful not to touch anything below it. The bones had been cleaned since he’d last seen them, obviously for the coroner’s examination—it couldn’t be called an autopsy. It was damn lucky the means of death had been made obvious by the broken hyoid, at least obvious to the experts, not to a layman like him.
Judging by some awkward lines, bends where things should only have been straight, the boy had suffered other breaks. The skinnier bone below the right knee, he couldn’t recall the name, was awkwardly bent, as if it had been snapped and had healed crookedly. So was one of the ones in the arm. And the right collarbone looked like it had been crunched at some point. God, did he hope it had been after death, not before.
“So small,” Olivia whispered, her hand shaking as she finished removing the sheet.
“He was a young kid.” Gabe shook his head in disgust, as he had the first time he’d seen this awful sight Monday at the scene of the fire.
Olivia whispered something else. From here, a few feet away, he thought it might have been Is it you? But he didn’t ask her to speak up. Frankly he wasn’t entirely sure what to do. Olivia had not said anything about what she intended or what would happen. She just calmly—if sadly—studied the remains, making no effort to handle them.
Maybe it wasn’t going to work. Which, to be honest, sounded better and better to him the longer they stood here. He’d find another way to work this case, someone else to ID this kid.
Olivia lifted her hand to her mouth, like she feared she would be sick. He reached for her, but she jerked away, muttering, “Stay back!”
Rather than being sick, she touched her lips with one finger, her pose pensive. Then, before he could say a word, she bit at her own fingertip.
“What the hell are you . . .”
Ignoring him, she yanked her head back, tearing at the latex with her teeth. She hadn’t been biting her finger; she’d been biting the glove.
She spat the tiny piece out. Gabe realized what she was going to do about one second before she extended her index finger, a tiny bit of pink skin visible on the tip. “Don’t!”
She did. With no hesitation, she pressed her bare skin to one of the tiny finger bones dangling from what had once been the boy’s hand. It was the slightest touch, the barest of connections between flesh and bone, dead and alive.
But he knew right away it was enough.
God help her—and him—it was enough.
“Please . . . stop . . . hurts.”
The plea wasn’t screamed but barked from a hoarse, tight throat—the boy’s painfully constricted one, through which he managed to take only the tiniest sips of air.
The throat Olivia now shared with him.
Hands wrapped tight, strong fingers, the thumbs touching in the hollow, pressing, twisting, cutting off the airway. Oh, God.
The pain was bad. But the scary sensation of suffocating—breathlessness—was worse. Too familiar and, oh, so much worse.
This wasn’t just starting, the boy was already in utter agony, his organs pleading for something they weren’t going to get.
Two minutes and ten seconds of this?
Stop. It’s not really happening to you. It happened years ago, and there’s nothing you can do for him now except try to solve his murder. So keep breathing.
That voice—her own—whispered in the reasonable, rational section of her brain, and Olivia wanted to obey it, visualizing herself drawing in deep, steady breaths. But it seemed impossible while her throat was closed, crushed. And how could she allow herself to breathe when the boy’s breaths were denied to him?
In. Out. Slowly. Come on, do it.
Finally, she did. She inhaled a choppy mouthful of stale, chemical-tasting air. It tasted of the examination room—reality—where she stood before a table of bones in harsh, unforgiving light. She couldn’t see any of that, though. Couldn’t hear the tick of the big clock on the wall, couldn’t feel the warm concern of the detective she knew was watching from a few feet away.
Don’t interfere. Please.
Knowing she was being watched, she struggled to keep a part of herself separate, to remain aware of both lives she was living at this moment. Usually, she didn’t bother to try to keep herself apart from the victims, almost as if she had to give herself over to their last moments, if only to honor them for the tragedy of their deaths. But now she did, sensing Gabe Cooper would try to stop her if he thought she wasn’t all right.
You’re not all right.
But she would be. Soon.
Unlike this poor boy, who struggled, fruitlessly swinging his small fists.
Olivia held the breath for a few seconds before pushing it out. She then repeated the steps, having to mentally go through each one. It was such a strange sensation, feeling the breath fill her lungs at the same time she felt them ready to burst from lack of oxygen. The air flowed through her windpipe even while it was also tightly crushed between a monster’s massive, punishing hands.
Suddenly, all breath, all thought ceased as a voice filled his/her ears. “You betrayed us, boy. Now you gonna pay for it.”
Even as she felt the boy’s heartbeat slow, Olivia felt her own heart leap in her chest. The boy’s stomach was empty; her breakfast churned within hers. His skin was clammy, cold; hers erupted with sensation. Every inch of her went on alert, every hair on her body standing upright, reacting to the hoarse, hateful voice. Even through the thick whisper, she heard the insanity, the barely suppressed rage. Just as she’d heard it that night.
She knew that voice. She’d heard it in her nightmares for twelve years now.
“You coulda ruined us, after all we done for you. So this is what you git.”
It’s him. It’s both of them. Her would-be killer . . . and her savior.
There could no longer be any question. The child being strangled to death was Jack. Her kidnapper had come back too soon, perhaps right after Olivia had gotten away. He had realized the boy was not burying her as he’d been ordered to. And Jack had paid the ultimate price, his poor little bones all that remained to prove he had ever existed.
It was all true.
Olivia’s body began to shudder uncontrollably. Her fingers curled into defensive fists, her legs wanting to run, her mouth opening to beg for this to stop. Only there was no air. No air.
Yes, there is. Breathe it in. Let it out.
She did, sucking in oxygen between nearly closed lips, sure if she parted them farther, they’d let out the scream building inside her.
As if time itself had opened a portal between them, she suddenly realized the boy’s airway had opened a tiny bit, too. The tight grip on his throat—their throat—relaxed for a second. Enough for a gulp of air, another plea. “No, Uncle Johnny . . .”
Uncle Johnny? Who’s Uncle Johnny?
“You call him daddy, boy!” the man screamed, sounding utterly enraged.
Is someone else there? Why can’t I see?
She’d been focused on breathing, then on the voice, and hadn’t even availed herself of the most important ability—her sight. The last i
mages he’d seen in his life. Seeing the photographs of Dwight Collier after he’d died wasn’t enough. She had to look into his face, see the insanity in his eyes so she could finally overcome her fear of him.
She focused, pulling her attention off all the other senses, trying to make out the images. And she realized she was seeing—not well, not very clearly. A fine red mist appeared to be covering her vision. Their vision.
Broken blood vessels in his eyes.
But he/she wasn’t totally blind. She blinked several times in a row, finally focusing in, enough to see the shape of him. The man was close, his big T-shirt–covered chest filling his/her vision, his hot, rank breath brushing the boy’s/her face.
She saw thick, greasy, dark hair, but it hung over the angry face. He was almost too close, so she couldn’t make out any of his features, just the hair and an inch of stubbled cheek. Damn it.
His broad body was pressed against theirs, his thick leg pressing the much smaller form against something hard. The barn wall? No, too smooth. Cool. The camper?
He shifted slightly, and the vision cleared, brightening. His body had been blocking out the . . . wait. No. That was impossible, it couldn’t be right.
“You shouldn’ta done it, Jackie-boy.”
“I . . . din’t . . .”
“Don’t lie. That little cunt’s escape’s all over the news!”
Hot tears burst from his/her eyes, streaming down the cheeks and drenching the lips with salty moisture. But there was a morsel of air, and they grabbed for it greedily.
It hurt. He couldn’t quite take it in; his throat was damaged, crushed. Hers wasn’t, and she knew she was filling her lungs, though it felt as though she weren’t.
She tried desperately to make her brain work, to keep thinking, keep some part of herself lucid. She needed to make sense of this . . . what she was seeing, the impossible thing he had just said. But the coherent part of her was slipping further away as Jack’s agony continued.
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