by Mira Gibson
Carrying the stretcher, the men couldn’t spread their weight, but Lucas could keep away from them and not be the straw to break the camel’s back.
Calmly, he stilled, breathing deeply and steadily.
“York!” It was Gibbs this time, screaming from the shore, his hands cupped around his mouth.
But Lucas couldn’t risk the rescue team’s safety. He waited, heart punching up his throat, the glare of the last LED in his eyes, and watched his men cross the threshold to the backyard where an ambulance was idling, its lights blazing red and white in manic alternation, its rear doors open, ready to transport Rose Wythe to the morgue.
Finally, he started for the shore, arching around the fractured ice and taking slow, prayer-filled steps.
“I radioed McAlister,” Gibbs told him, as he stepped onto an inclined snow bank along the shore.
“Great,” he said dryly. He would prefer to examine the body without his partner. “Where’s my medical examiner?”
“She was shot in the chest,” said Gibbs, indicating he assumed a preliminary examination might wait until morning, as if he was even remotely high enough on the totem pole for the privilege of such an assumption...
Lucas tried not to berate the young cop, as he ushered him to the stretcher and pointed at the wound in Rose Wythe’s chest. “She was shot between the shoulder blades. This is an exit wound. I need a second opinion on the caliber. I need the medical examiner.”
“I think he’s off to Shenanigan’s.”
“Get him back here,” he ordered.
“Second opinion? You can tell the caliber?”
Lucas glared at him, exercising his last shred of patience by adding, “Nice work with the LEDs.”
If it hadn’t been below freezing, Gibbs would’ve turned scarlet.
“Now, Officer.”
“Right, on it.” As he produced his cell, sent the call through, and pressed his phone to his ear, he asked, “What’s your guess?”
Indulging him, he supplied, “.48,” but didn’t elaborate.
Gibbs wandered off, sounding apologetic in his effort to summon the medical examiner.
Lucas leaned in, studying Rose Wythe’s face. Her lips were gray, her hair icicles. The skin on the tip of her nose as well as her chin were gone, those parts of her that had adhered to the under-wall of ice. He noticed a silver chain around her neck and felt blindly for the pendant that he figured had slipped around to the nape. When he set the silver heart on her chest, he resumed his examination. Her left cheek had minor lacerations, presumably where it had slid over the ice. But Lucas could see past the cuts and abrasions to the woman beneath. He could almost picture her alive, her cheeks rosy, her eyes bright. Maybe she had been the type to smile at the drop of a hat. Maybe she’d gotten more beautiful when angered. The necklace was of interest to him, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. He found the clasp and unhinged it then pocketed the jewelry, acutely aware he was risking his job.
What kind of person would shoot a woman in the back as she ran away?
A tar heart.
It wasn’t a real term. Lucas had invented it. The psychopathy of a killer, its toll on the human heart. Killers didn’t emote, not like normal people. Their capacity for empathy was limited if it existed at all. They often felt stuck, imprisoned in the obligation to be normal, pretending to be like everyone else. It weighed on them, oppressed them, heaviness black and sticky as tar. Or that’s how Lucas thought of it.
Killing brought them to life. Thrilled, perhaps electrically, when indulging in murder, the killer felt light and free. But it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t. Not if they were truly warped.
Rising from contemplation, having sensed he wasn’t alone, he found his partner, Cody McAlister rounding the gurney and angling over the body.
Like Lucas, Cody had received notoriety on a previous case, but unlike him, his partner had bounced around afterwards, moving from town to town, department to department in the months that followed the Kendra Cole case. Perhaps he’d felt suffocated by his own success or maybe he’d left the small town in search of the next news worthy crime. Lucas didn’t know for sure. Cody had never told him. They were still in the butting-heads phase of their new partnership.
“We swept for shell casings,” Cody mentioned. “Killer must have taken them.”
“How’s the sister?”
Cody frowned stiffly. “You might take a crack at her.”
He cocked his brow, curious.
Indicating the body, Cody suggested, “Let’s get her to the morgue.”
As soon as he said it, a medic appeared, creeping into view from the driver’s side and waiting in hopeful expectation for the final word.
“Don’t you want Roger to take a look?”
Dismissively, Cody shrugged, “Roger’s two beers deep at the bar,” as if he were at a loss for motivating small-town, underpaid and overworked assistants. “Tomorrow’s soon enough.”
In addition to being furious with the M.E., which he suppressed like a pro, Lucas had to admit he was impressed the man could knock ‘em back so quickly. Roger had only just left ten minutes ago. Changing the subject, he asked, “Where’s the husband?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
Sheepishly, the medic inched closer. “Final word?”
Cody didn’t glance at Lucas for confirmation, but obliged the young man. “Go ahead.”
“Would you say that’s a .48?” Lucas was pointing to the wound in Rose Wythe’s chest, preventing the medic from collapsing the gurney legs as he motioned to shove the body into the ambulance.
“I’d say a .42. The report will tell us.”
His words were friendly enough, but his tone had been adversarial.
Lucas gave him a curt nod to end the conversation and started for the house, but turned after Cody said, “Let me know what you think of the sister.”
Holding his gaze for a beat before setting off towards the porch, Lucas’s response came loud and fast but only in his mind.
His thoughts about Holly Danes were unrelenting.
Sliding the glass door aside, he entered the living room where police officers were obtrusively rummaging through drawers with little tact as though the killer would’ve possibly thought to stash the murder weapon within these four walls.
Lucas told his officers to sweep the upstairs rooms.
Seated on the couch with a mug of coffee in her hands was Holly, her right arm cradling a young boy. The kid looked conked out when Lucas flicked his eyes in their direction, waiting for his men to shuffle out and give him privacy with the woman.
He hadn’t seen her in upwards of ten years.
When the living room was quiet except for the murmuring voices of officers in nearby rooms, Lucas finally took in the sight of her.
She looked exactly the same, though her fawn-brown eyes weren’t only round but glassy, likely from balling her eyes out all night. Her pronounced features, the Grecian slope of her nose and truncated lips that reminded him of the Statue of Liberty, swept him into a time-warp—their chance encounter, the dive bar empty of customers though the bar-back had a definite presence, Lucas’s unshakable interest and her shy reluctance as she’d fished a stray olive from her martini glass.
It hadn’t been until the morning after when he’d woken alone in bed that he realized their long, sex-filled night hadn’t been the start of something exhilarating. It hadn’t been the start of anything at all. He had driven out of Center Harbor after that three-day weekend meant to clear his head and found he had managed to do the opposite, thoughts of Holly Danes cloying at him from the back of his mind. When he had put in his transfer, he had deliberately chosen the one town he hoped she still lived in.
And there she was, staring at him with stunned recognition.
Under her breath she said, “Jesus Christ,” and stiffened nervously, as he sat at the far end of the couch. Between them, the young boy jostled his feet in a fit of dreams, shuttering a rocky exhale, and then
stilled. “I already spoke with the other guy.”
“You still making jewelry?”
She smirked, but the offering was mild.
“Can you tell me why you think Benjamin Wythe isn’t here?”
Exhaustively, she supplied, “He’s probably sleeping.”
“We’d like to know where.”
“A motel? I’m really not sure. We aren’t close.”
Lucas fell silent to give her the impression her answer had been satisfactory. Pressuring her too soon, too hard wouldn’t be productive.
“I can take Tucker for the night,” she went on as if that was what he had been getting at. “Look, this is all a shock to me. I haven’t seen Rose in a few years.”
“What made you think to swing by?”
Holly sniffled, wrinkling her nose, as she freed a hand to wipe it, but to Lucas it seemed like she was stalling. “I was on the ice for awhile,” she mentioned, excusing the gesture. “Rose called me. She sounded... I thought to come over. Before she got off the phone she said she thought Benjamin had just pulled up the driveway. I already told that guy, McAlister all of this.”
What struck Lucas most was her complete lack of emotion. It didn’t seem characteristic, but then again, he hadn’t seen her in years and their night together had been just that—an unforgettable eight hours, not enough to trust he could possibly know her.
It occurred to him that though her eyes were glassy, there was no sign of puffiness or smeared mascara. “Why hadn’t you seen her in years?” he asked, wondering the impetus of their estrangement.
“We just... drifted apart,” she said vacantly. “It has nothing to do with why she was killed.”
If it had been anyone other than Holly sitting on the couch, he would’ve told them that he would be the judge of that.
“Was she wearing a necklace?” she asked, once again jumping topics.
“Not that I know of,” he lied.
She narrowed her eyes skeptically in response, but the squint was barely perceptible. “I thought I saw a thin chain around her neck.”
“I can put a call in to the morgue if you like,” he offered, carefully gauging her expression. Color was coming into her cheeks, indicating her heart rate was quickening.
“Please do,” she said in a far away voice. Her gaze softened as well and soon lowered to the boy in her arms, the mug of coffee she’d been passing between her hands, its steam waning. Then her eyes brightened and she met his gaze. “I didn’t tell the other cop about the security cameras. Benjamin had at least four around the perimeter of the house.”
He posed his question like a statement. “There are?”
“They’re above the floodlights,” she explained. “You wouldn’t notice especially at night. You’d just be blinded looking at the lights. They record to a server in the basement.”
“That’s fairly high-tech,” he commented. “What does Benjamin do for a living?”
“Hospitality,” she said easily. “But he’s been out of work.”
From outside, Cody neared the sliding glass door, stomping snow off his boots, then eased it open, letting himself in. An icy gust of wind came with him, but he quickly slid the door closed.
“Excuse me,” he told Holly and joined his partner at the door.
“There are cameras hooked up-”
“Where are the evidence logs?” Cody barked, cutting him off. “You told me you’d leave them in the passenger’s seat. The guys can’t find them.”
Taken aback, Lucas kept a poker face, wracking his brain. He couldn’t recall being asked. “I was half asleep when Tammy called.”
“You were awake when I talked to you,” he pointed out, not at all concealing how annoyed he was.
“Sorry, Cody, I must’ve forgotten.” He shouldn’t have spoken so casually using his partner’s first name instead of his last, but at least he’d held his tongue from saying what he really wanted to. Center Harbor was supposed to have more money than his former precinct and it was ridiculous that cops were expected to supply their own forms and evidence bags and latex gloves during after-hours investigations. Hire a damned night-clerk to make runs was Lucas’s feeling.
The way Cody was glaring at him made him wonder if the man even cared about the evidence logs. Typically, the officers would file them next-day. Maybe his partner was itching to get on Lucas’s case for anything no matter how insignificant.
Without thinking, he snuck a glimpse at Holly, which Cody didn’t seem to appreciate. He was gaping at him, but Lucas ignored him.
A thin trickle of blood was dripping from Holly’s right nostril.
Nearing her and fishing under the necklace in his pocket for a tissue, he said, “You might need to get checked out. I think we have a medic floating around somewhere.”
Confusedly, she glanced up at him just as blood hit her lip. She dabbed it with her finger, realizing the nosebleed. “I’ll be fine,” she said, accepting the tissue.
“Tip your head back,” he suggested.
“Really, I’m fine,” she said, declining. “Happens all the time when it’s cold out.”
He didn’t trust the statement. They had met during winter. The bar had been chilly. They’d drank whiskey to ward off the draft. Outside they’d taken a long stroll, drinking beers from paper bags and yelping when the wind kicked a flurry of snow in their faces. The motel they’d stumbled upon had been no better, its heater clanging and unreliable. Not once had Holly gotten a nosebleed. There hadn’t been any bloody tissues in the bathroom trash receptacle when he’d riffled through it in hopes of finding evidence he’d remembered to use a condom, the night having been a blur in that department.
Holly balled the tissue he’d given her and tucked it into her pocket. The nosebleed had been quick and uncharacteristic of your common, run-of-the-mill winter dehydration, which afflicted children more often than adults.
“You’ve been helpful, Holly,” he told her. “We won’t keep you here any later. Thanks a lot for your time.”
She pulled the boy against her chest, rising to her feet.
“Need help getting him to your car?”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. “You’ll let me know about the necklace?”
Quirking his mouth into a somber smile, he told her that he would and walked her to the entrance door, opening it for her.
She stepped outside, but turned, looking up at him, while the child murmured in her arms. “Will there be an autopsy on Rose?”
She seemed apprehensive.
“I don’t see the need for it. Her cause of death is cut and dry.”
Letting out a carefully measured breath and nodding to herself, she started for the steps. Lucas watched her from the doorway, as she made her way through snowdrift illuminated by stark floodlights, and got Tucker situated in the passenger’s seat. After she rounded the front of her vehicle, making brief, nervous eye contact, and climbed in behind the steering wheel, Lucas eased the door closed and leaned against it.
Cody wouldn’t appreciate Lucas making an unauthorized move, but after the punitive lecture on evidence logs he couldn’t care less. Pulling his cell from his jeans, the image of Holly nude on top of him burning into the forefront of his mind where it competed with his take on her shady behavior, he found Roger’s number.
When the line opened up to one very inebriated medical examiner, Lucas told him to run a full autopsy on Rose Wythe.
Chapter Three
The road was slick and unfolded under the shock of her Saab’s headlights. Holly had been meaning to buy new tires. The tread on her current ones were nearly bald. She could feel them skipping and spinning every so often when the rubber met with black-ice. Shifting her foot between the accelerator and the brake, she scanned the snow dunes along the shoulder where they spilled into her lane, slowing and veering around them whenever necessary.
In the passenger’s seat Tucker was jimmying his legs, watching flurries slip over the windshield, a show he seemed to enjoy. She should�
�ve asked Lucas to get the child’s car seat from Rose’s BMW, help her install it, but she hadn’t wanted to drag out her exit, spend even one minute longer with him than she had to.
But avoiding him had its consequence. When she had buckled Tucker in, the nylon strap, which should have spanned his chest, had lain awkwardly across his face, Tucker being much too small for it. He’d whined in protest until she tucked the restraint behind him. The only device protecting him should the vehicle careen off the road was the lap belt, but it hung loosely across his stomach, the nylon having been stretched to the limit years ago.
Holly was gripping the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles were white. She felt jumpy, yet exhausted as though the cocaine in her bloodstream was dissipating, but wouldn’t go down without a fight.
She shouldn’t have snorted those lines. The first had brought her to her senses, frying off the mind-bending sight of her sister beneath the ice and bringing her fully into her surroundings—sharpening her vision, heightening her hearing, she’d been able to smell the air more clearly. It had softened the surrealism of her heartache, stilled her panicking thoughts, and magnified a delusional sliver of hope that maybe she would find a way to get through this.
But one line hadn’t been enough. She’d done a second and a third until her skin was buzzing like a hive and her rationality was reduced to a child’s pragmatism—Walk outside, hide the drugs in the glove compartment, set the revolver under the driver’s seat, return to the living room, call the police, check on Tucker, wait.
Now that she was high, after years of wondering what it would be like, she realized her error. She felt like a jumpy, jittery, paranoid mess and she couldn’t wait for the coke to leave her system.
Why had she done this to herself?
But she was only asking herself rhetorically.
She knew exactly why.
Over the years she had come to the realization that she’d been too hard on Rose, that the estrangement was her fault—a self-righteous act that wasn’t good for either of them. Rose hadn’t come back into her life as a result of Holly’s ultimatum, she hadn’t cleaned up, hadn’t changed for the sake of her health or the safety of her son.