Traceless

by Debra Webb

  “Fuck you.”

  The slightest pressure and the knife pierced the skin, slid right between two bones and into the laminate tabletop beneath. Blood bloomed and slid around the wound. Baker screamed, thrashed his legs around a bit, but he didn’t dare move his hand.

  “Tell me where she is.”

  “She didn’t come! I passed out. If she came by after that, she left without trying to get me up.” His eyes were wild when they connected with Clint’s. “I swear. I didn’t see her.” His voice shook.

  Clint pulled the knife free but didn’t release Baker’s hand. The guy howled as if Clint had cut the damned thing off.

  “Why did you call her?”

  Troy glared at him. His eyes looking like road maps, his face red from consistent overindulgence in alcohol.

  “Why?” Clint repeated as he positioned the knife again.

  “Nooo!”

  “Tell me,” Clint urged. “This only has to hurt as much as you want it to.”

  “Because I wanted to get you here,” Baker cried.

  “Why?” The knife remained poised for the next intrusion.

  “I want you to pay, you sonofabitch!”

  Clint let that go. “Any other reason?”

  “My life is falling apart,” Baker cried. He started to sob. “My wife left me. She took my kids.” His whole body shook with his anguish. “My best friend is dead and it’s my fault.”

  Clint stilled. “Why is it your fault?”

  Troy wiped his face with his free hand. “What the fuck’s it to you?”

  The tip of the knife pierced skin in the next spot.

  Baker howled. It really wasn’t that bad, but the alcohol magnified everything. This technique didn’t hurt nearly as much as numerous others Clint could have used. It was the watching it happen that got to the victim.

  “We had a fight!” he screamed. “He told me that he cheated on Heather that night.”

  Clint wasn’t sure her boyfriend’s cheating was relevant to her murder but pursued it anyway. “That’s it?”

  Baker glared at him the best a drunk could. “He was fucking another woman the night my sister was murdered.”

  “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about?” This wasn’t right.

  Baker’s face fell into grim defeat. “I wanted to kill you,” he admitted. “You came back here and tore all our lives apart.” He stared at his bloody hand, at the knife Clint still held over him. “It doesn’t matter now. I’ve lost everything I care about.” He settled his drunken gaze on Clint. “You should just cut my throat and put me out of my misery.”

  “You didn’t kill Turner?”

  Long pause.

  “Why the fuck would I tell you if I did?”

  The fear and uncertainty in his eyes told Clint he wasn’t getting more than that.

  Clint pushed out of his chair. He grabbed a clean dishcloth from one of the drawers he’d looked in before and wrapped Baker’s hand.

  Before leaving, Clint picked up the receiver of the kitchen extension and punched in 911. He placed it on the counter. When no one responded a deputy would be dispatched. Baker would survive the injury to his hand, but Clint wasn’t altogether sure the guy was safe from himself … or whoever the hell had killed Turner and Ray.

  Clint wiped the knife clean and tossed it into the sink. “Sober up, Baker.”

  “He’s dead because of me.”

  Clint hesitated at the door. “Who’s dead because of you?”

  “Keith,” Baker said, his voice feeble. “I called him a coward, told him he should just kill himself and get it over with for what he’d done … or I’d make him wish he had.”

  This conversation wasn’t going to make sense until Baker was sober. But something had gone down between him and Turner before he died.

  Right now Clint had to find Emily.

  9:00 P.M.

  Clint drove around for hours with no luck. He finally returned to the inn. She hadn’t come back there, either.

  He’d gone by her parents’ house and all of her friends’, at least the ones he knew about. She wasn’t anywhere.

  Fear had his heart pumping double time. He was calling Caruthers. Emily wouldn’t just disappear like this.

  The phone’s message light blinked at Clint. He snatched it up and punched the necessary buttons for retrieving the message.

  “Clint …”

  It was Emily. Her voice sounded shaky.

  “I’m at the hospital. Can you come when you get this message, please? I need you.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Mercy Hospital 10:00 P.M.

  Emily just wanted to get out of this place.

  “You’re sure it’s okay to leave?”

  She was just about to lose her patience with Clint. “Yes. That’s why they released me. I’m fine.”

  “But you have a concussion.”

  “Let’s go, Clint.” She’d had enough trouble talking the doctor out of keeping her overnight. She had to get out of here. She and Clint were on to something and it wouldn’t wait until tomorrow. Someone had attacked her in Troy’s garage. She wasn’t ready to believe it was Troy … but she had to face the fact that he might be involved.

  Clint kept his arm around her waist as he gently guided her to his truck, then helped her inside.

  “I don’t like this,” he muttered.

  “I’m fine,” she repeated. No thanks to whoever had tried to kill her. She shuddered. Someone had tried to kill her.

  Clint looked at her a long moment, then closed the door.

  He hurried around the hood and slid behind the wheel. “Tell me what happened?” He started the engine and backed out of the parking slot.

  “Troy called.” She hadn’t been able to talk to Clint around all the hospital staff.

  “I know that part,” Clint said tightly.

  “I went into the garage to try and get into the house, since he didn’t answer the front door. Someone ambushed me. Drove me and my car out to Route Ten.”

  Clint’s silence told her he was fuming.

  “Thank God for OnStar.” She closed her eyes and fought the emotion that tried to overwhelm her. She hated to tell Clint the rest, but considering he’d had to bring her clothes there wasn’t really any way to get out of explaining what had happened to the ones she’d been wearing.

  “Someone set my car on fire with me in it,” she said finally. “When they pushed it into the ravine it hit a tree and the air bags deployed. The voice coming from OnStar helped me get out … .” She shuddered, remembered the moment when that adrenaline rush had given her the strength she needed to move.

  One of the cops had told Emily that the fire had been in the front seat and had burned itself out since so much of the vehicle’s interior was flame-retardant. What could have killed her, though, was if her clothes had flamed, since she’d been drenched in gasoline. For some reason, that hadn’t happened. Either she was damned lucky or her would-be killer had screwed up. Emily shuddered again. “I stumbled out of the car and the next thing I knew the police and fire department were there. They’re towing my car in for forensics testing.”

  “Sonofabitch!”

  Emily closed her eyes and rode out the rest of the curse words, some of which she’d never heard before. Prison slang, she supposed.

  “Feel better?” she asked when he’d finished. He shot her a look that was a definite no.

  She had no idea where her purse was, but at least she had her cell phone. She’d found it on the ground next to her car. She didn’t remember grabbing it inside the car before she got out or dropping it. Since it was her phone and the last call made on it was one she’d made and she’d obscured any possible prints, the officer had agreed to let her keep it and not log it into evidence.

  “Okay.” Clint glanced at her, his face lined with fury. “My turn.”

  He told her how the interview with Deputy Caruthers went off without a hitch. Or so it seemed.

  “When I got back and f
ound your note I went to Baker’s looking for you.”

  She tensed. “Did you find him?”

  He nodded. “He was passed out in his living room.”

  “So,” she ventured, “he wasn’t likely the one who did this to me?”

  Clint thought about that a moment. “I don’t think so.”

  Emily sagged with relief. Another thought occurred to her. She moistened her dry lips. “So, did you talk to him?”

  “Yeah. In fact, he was brought into the ER just as I got there to pick you up.”

  “You roughed him up that badly?” If Troy wasn’t the one to ambush her, then he was only guilty of the same thing she had been guilty of—blaming the wrong guy for killing Heather.

  “I didn’t put him in the hospital,” Clint assured her. “Alcohol poisoning and possibly dehydration probably did that. It’ll be better if they keep him a few days. He needs to sober up and stay out of trouble until …” He heaved a big breath.

  “Until what?” She needed him to be up-front with her.

  “Until this is over. Whoever killed Ray, and maybe Keith, may have other names on their list besides yours and mine.”

  “But why would anyone kill Troy? He doesn’t know anything about that night.” Obviously someone had used Troy … or was watching her and had taken advantage of the opportunity.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Clint countered.

  After he explained what Troy said to him about his last encounter with Keith, she had to agree with Clint’s assessment.

  “Who would Keith have been cheating with?” She started to shake her head but remembered how much it would hurt. “I don’t think it would have been Violet.” She couldn’t grasp the whole idea. “This is confusing. Keith and Heather seemed really happy that week or so before … .”

  “Teenage guys can be idiots,” Clint offered with a knowing glance in her direction.

  She shrugged, knew he spoke from personal experience. The same could be said about teenage girls. “Maybe he was having second thoughts about their relationship.” She frowned; it made her head hurt. “But he wouldn’t kill Heather for that.” She rubbed at her achy forehead, didn’t dare touch the back of her skull. “What am I saying? He wouldn’t have killed her, period. She was supposed to tell me some big secret that night after I got back. Maybe she knew he was cheating. Maybe she was going to break up with him.”

  “That’s the thing,” Clint said. “This all appears to go back to someone who wanted to hurt Heather.”

  “Maybe the other woman,” Emily suggested, since that was the only remaining loose end she could think of at the moment. “Since Keith is dead, I guess we won’t be able to find out who he was cheating with unless Troy knows and just isn’t saying.”

  Another memory crashed into her bruised brain. “Wait. Marv …” She looked up at Clint. “Heather secretly dated Marvin Cook a few times just to make Keith jealous … .” The air in her lungs escaped on the heels of her next thought. “Marv and Keith fought over her that one time … no, twice. They even stopped talking for a while … but then Heather …”

  Was murdered. Marvin and Keith became friends again.

  “Marvin Cook had a thing with Heather Baker even after she started dating Turner?”

  Emily made a wishy-washy gesture with her hands. “Not a thing. Heather used him to make Keith jealous.” She hated to speak ill of her friend, but it was the truth. “We all did stuff like that back in high school. We were stupid kids.”

  “Then I say we see what Cook knows.”

  10:40 P.M.

  Emily let her mind rest the fifteen minutes it took to reach Marv’s place. She didn’t want to form any opinions until after she’d heard what he had to say … if anything. She was certain he couldn’t have killed Heather any more than Keith could have. But Clint was right. An open mind, objectivity, was imperative.

  Clint shut his headlights off before pulling into the driveway. The double-wide trailer stood on a corner lot at the edge of the farm belonging to Marvin’s daddy.

  “You stay in the truck.” Clint shut off the engine.

  “No way.” When he would have protested, she pointed out something he obviously hadn’t considered. “He might actually talk to me, but we both know he’s not going to talk to you. And, personally, I’d like to get this done without sending anyone to the ER.”

  Clint didn’t argue.

  The temperature had dropped just barely enough to make it bearable outside without the aid of air-conditioning, but it was still muggy. Good thing, since Clint’s old truck had none, except for the windows.

  He insisted on going up the steps to the deck first. She knew he wanted to protect her, and on some level she appreciated it. Right now, though, she just wanted to get some answers.

  He banged on the door. Emily flinched, hoped Marv’s wife wouldn’t make a big fuss. What sounded like a TV game show was the only sound inside.

  “Who the hell is it?” Marv bellowed through the door.

  Emily put her hand on Clint’s arm to restrain his response. “Marv, it’s me. I need your help.”

  Clint ushered her back a step when the outside light came on and the doorknob turned. Good thing, too; the door flew open and banged against the exterior wall. Marvin’s gaze narrowed when it landed on Clint. “What the hell do you want?” Dressed in nothing but boxers and with a beer in his hand, he glared at Emily. “Are you crazy showing up here with him, Em?”

  Emily refused to let Cook make her feel like the traitor he wanted to label her. She had the truth on her side. As far as the crazy part went, yeah, maybe at one time she had been crazy. But right now she was thinking clearly for the first time in a very long time.

  “We need to talk, Cook,” Clint said. “We can do it without a fuss, or we can do it the hard way.”

  Cook pointed a finger at him. “I have to look at your fucking face every day ’cause Higgins is a fool, but I don’t have to talk to you now. Get off my property!” He directed that same rage at Emily. “And you, you’re—”

  “Careful,” Clint warned, his voice low and lethal.

  A twinge of uneasiness rippled through Emily. Maybe coming here had been a bad idea. But Heather was dead. Keith and Ray were dead. There were no bad ideas when it came to attempting to solve their murders, just desperate ones.

  “A witness has come forward to confirm Clint’s alibi,” Emily spoke up. It was past time people knew the truth. “Clint didn’t kill Heather, Marv. We sent the wrong man to prison.”

  His eyes tapered into scornful slits. “You said he did it. You were there!”

  “I was wrong,” Emily admitted, her chin high, her shoulders square, in spite of the trembling his reminder set in motion. “And for your information, since you didn’t bother showing up at the trial, I said he was in the room. I said he had blood on him. I couldn’t say for sure he killed her, though I wanted to at the time. His attorney pointed that out repeatedly.”

  “I’ve got nothing to say,” Marvin snapped, unconvinced or uncaring, maybe both.

  “If you’d prefer,” Clint suggested, “we could just take the information we’ve gathered so far to the police. After hearing it, I’m pretty sure they’ll want to talk to you.”

  Clint was exaggerating with that, but hey, if it worked.

  Marvin’s face turned fire-engine red. “We’ll talk right here.” He stepped out onto the deck and closed the door. “I don’t want Jean hearing any of this.” He gave equal time with his glare, first to Clint, then to Emily.

  Clint kicked off the conversation with, “The police never bothered to question you when Heather Baker was murdered.”

  “I wasn’t her boyfriend at the time,” Marvin snarled before taking a slug of his beer.

  Emily wondered how she could ever have thought Marvin was cute or nice. “You dated,” she reminded him, her voice sounding small after the men’s deep, angry snarls.

  Marvin looked at her as if he could rip off her head and spit down her throat. “A couple
of times. She just used me, but then you were her best friend, so you knew that. Probably laughed about it.” He folded his arms over his belly in a show of defiance.

  “She did, but that didn’t mean she didn’t like you, Marv. Heather was young. We all were. We did stupid stuff.” Talking about those days made Emily’s stomach even queasier. She wished there were another way. “But nothing she did should have cost her life.”

  Emily’s last words seemed to take the wind out of Marvin’s sails. “What do you want? Last time we talked you were accusing Keith of killing her.”

  “Keith is dead,” she reminded Marvin.

  The regret in Marvin’s eyes told her she hadn’t needed to remind him. “And so’s Ray,” he muttered before turning up his beer can once more. “Makes you wonder who the hell’s next.” He didn’t look at either of them as he said this.

  Clint ignored his comment and took the lead again. “Was Turner cheating on Heather at the time of her murder? And why didn’t the police bother to question either of you?”

  Emily frowned. “The police didn’t question Keith?” But that was absurd. Even though she couldn’t believe he was involved in Heather’s murder, logic dictated that the boyfriend would be questioned.

  Clint’s attention shifted briefly to Emily. “They had me. Why question anybody else?”

  “Wait a minute,” Marvin piped up. “You’re wrong; they did question us. Anybody who knew Heather got questioned.”

  “And what was your alibi?” Clint pressed.

  Marvin shrugged. “I was home all night.”

  “Who vouched for you?”

  Worry etched across his face. “Nobody … . I told Chief Ledbetter where I was and that was the end of it.”

  “Then you weren’t really questioned,” Clint argued. “They took your word and left it at that. The parading of Heather’s classmates through City Hall was for show.”

  Jesus. Maybe he was right. Emily vaguely recalled some of the other students saying that all they’d had to do was say what they were doing that night. No pressure. No discomfort. A mock investigation. The police hadn’t been looking for a killer; they already had Clint pegged. Just like he said.