by Misty Dietz
He reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear when he was sure she wasn’t going to either club him or fly to the ceiling. “Before he died, he told me—asked me—to look after Ann.” She seemed more composed now, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to reopen this wound.
“How did you get so close to the family?”
Zack’s chest squeezed further, but who was he kidding? The wound had never really healed. Probably never would. “John found me under a bridge eleven years ago and offered me a job. I repaid him by vandalizing one of his job sites. Two years later, he found me under the same bridge. He brought blankets, thermoses of soup and coffee. He told me I had choices—that I could reclaim my self-respect. He said, when I was ready, to find him. He left his business card on the stack of blankets. I still have that card. It’s the same story for a lot of the long-timers at the company. Even Ross, my CFO, came to work for John with a felony on his record. All these years later, I finally realize John was building men along with his steel buildings.” Zack turned away from her, his face hot and itchy. “Holy Christ, that’s melodramatic.”
She moved in front of him, holding his upper arms. “I wish I could’ve met him. He sounds like one of those people you never forget. I’m glad he saw the goodness in you.”
He shrugged out of her grip and walked to the sink, where he leaned his backside against the counter. Tomorrow she probably wouldn’t even remember his words. No sense worrying about it. “Ann doesn’t have any close friends, other than someone who moved to Scotland a while ago. She’s real private.”
“You must’ve rubbed off on her.” She remained silent for a long moment before she approached him again, the soft sway of her hips so feminine. So arousing. His fingers curled around the lip of the counter when she stopped mere inches away, her scent reaching out to bind his gut in tangles. Her breath on his neck made his abs contract. He ached to touch her.
Everywhere.
Her pupils dilated slightly when his eyes finally burned into hers. “That was mean…I’m…sorry.” Her fingertips trailed from her neck down to the tops of her breasts. And oh, he watched those fingers as her words came out a breathless whisper. “What should we do now?”
Lay you down in a soft place so I can spend hours learning how your body tastes.
He pushed away from the counter, careful not to touch her. He stopped in front of Ann’s desk, staring at her precise arrangement of pencils, feeling Sloane’s heated introspection on his back. Her desire and uncertainty were like radio static in his bloodstream. I’m as confused as you, Goldie. Even so, he nearly swung back to wrap his arms around her, to lose himself in her warmth.
But then her energy—that pulsing beat of life he’d come to recognize as her essence—disappeared. Like someone had yanked a cord out of a wall socket. He looked back to see her enter the garage, the tomcat on her heels.
Give her some space. As much as he wanted to follow, he needed to get himself under control. They—he—had bigger problems right now than his overactive sex drive.
He approached the answering machine. Unable to stop himself, he pressed play. The sound of his own irritation swamped the kitchen. He remembered calling shortly before the storm. Couldn’t he have sounded more approachable? He wished he’d come here earlier to find out what was bothering her. Instead, she was gone, and along the way he meets a psychic woman with whom he has an uncontrollable connection. He thought Sloane had layers? A man would have to be a geologist to figure her out.
After his message, the recording played back a second dial tone that supposedly came through at 8:14 p.m. No message. Had Ann already left by the time this second call came in, or was she screening calls?
All he knew was that she had been home around seven-thirty when she’d returned his original call. He looked down at his watch. 10:56 p.m. Almost twenty-eight hours since they’d talked. Not that much time for an adult to be incommunicado, but then… All the other indicators sucked.
Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He pivoted toward the door that led to the garage. Sloane came into view, backlit by the garage lights. He took one step toward her, then stopped, his heart a sledgehammer against his bones.
Sloane held up a cotton candy pink journal. “We found it.”
A phone began to ring. “We?” He reached for the journal, but she hugged it to her chest.
“The cat. Remember the garbage? That’s what he was trying to tell us all along. The journal was in the trash,” she said.
“The cat? That’s crazy.”
“Is it?” She pointed to his waist. “You’d better see who’s calling so late.”
What? He felt trapped in a time warp. Oh, yeah, the phone. He checked caller ID. Ross. Great. His CFO was a no news is good news kind of guy. He looked at Sloane when he answered. “What’s up, Ross?”
“An officer Janklow from the Fargo Police called here asking for you. Said he’d been at your place too. He needs to talk to you. What’s going on?”
Zack frowned. “Where’s here? You at the office this late again?”
“It’s become a habit, I’m afraid. The cops saw lights on in the building, and since the front doors were locked, they called. I’d seen multiple squad cars in the streets, so when the phones rang, I felt like I should answer. Why do they need to see you?”
Maybe they’d found her. But why hadn’t they called him directly? He’d given them his number with the report.
“We can’t afford any bad PR right now, Zack. This… This is disturbing.” Ross paused for a moment. Acid began peeling away the lining of Zack’s gut. “Have you had the radio on in the past few minutes?” Ross asked.
Zack froze. What if… No. If it was about Ann, Ross would’ve come right out with it. “No. I’ve been busy. Benjamin have a cardiac arrest in his sleep?”
“No.” Ross’s usually calm, modulated delivery betrayed a slight tremor. Zack’s eyes found Sloane’s as Ross continued. “A few kids found a body along the riverbank less than a half mile from your place. It was… My God, the body was on fire.”
Chapter Fifteen
Moody lightning cast a sinister backdrop to the crime scene as Zack pushed through the tall, dewy grasses that lined the banks of the Red River. Though it was nearly midnight, excited members of the media droned like idling planes and an owl swooped from thick branches, startled by the human intrusion, its hunting grounds no longer inviolate.
Zack focused on the boys. Three of them. The untouched six pack at their feet. A cell phone gripped in one of the boys’ white-knuckled hands.
Their tear-stained faces and horror-filled eyes.
Their innocence lost.
Zack had listened to the radio on the way. The media had already labeled the boys delinquents, but they were only children testing boundaries, trying on identities. Silently asking for someone to acknowledge their individuality.
They weren’t bothering anyone.
Not like the madman who’d savaged the still-smoking figure that lay on the ground not thirty feet away, illuminated by portable lights on rickety poles. The crime scene stretched from the edge of the road down to the riverbank and about a hundred feet on either side of the body, the best Zack could tell.
The native grass had burned to the ground around the body, imbuing the site with a sense of ritualistic offering. A sour fullness backed into his throat. He’d found a body of his own at the age of ten. The overturned chair and his father’s lifeless, opaque eyes and free swinging feet remained fixtures in his nightmares all these years later.
But this body… That inhuman form on the ground. That wasn’t Ann.
Couldn’t be. Or his failure to John would be complete.
He tried to swallow, but his throat was raw. This was someone else’s nightmare. He rubbed his chest and fought the urge to leave. To fade into the crowd, get in the car and just keep going. Going until he either ran out of gas or fear.
He looked at the crowd and then back at the uniformed officers who we
re questioning the boys. They quavered like notes from a wind chime. Why weren’t they being comforted? Zack strode forward only to be brought up short when a man cried out, rushing by to scoop all the boys into his arms. Zack felt the impact of their solidarity all the more because it was so genuine. So foreign. The man and three boys clung together, sobbing openly.
The boys were damaged, but they’d be okay. Eventually.
“Mr. Goldman, this way please.”
His name plate read Officer Miller. The same cop who’d escorted him past the yellow tape when he’d first arrived and identified himself as the one who’d put in a missing person’s report mere hours ago.
Felt like eons.
Zack looked up at the stone-colored sky made gauzy by the artificial lighting, then turned to follow the officer, a ruddy cheeked, barrel-chested farm boy whose burly presence kept the media and rubbernecks from straying beyond the secured perimeter.
As they drew near the strangely quiet circle where crime scene technicians scoured the area for evidence, Miller maneuvered in front of Zack, his dark eyes suddenly old. “Brace yourself. Close up is even worse, but maybe you’ll be able to recognize the necklace.”
Oh, God. It was a woman.
When he stepped back, the bursts of light from a technician’s digital camera stormed through Zack’s sense of the surreal. He ground his teeth together to block a surge of nausea. Surrounded by a scorched circle of earth, the body lay curled on its side, hands pulled into fists, knees drawn in as though for protection. Large patches of blackened skin remained on the skeleton like leather shrink-wrapped to bones. How fucking long would a body have to burn to turn into that?
Zack grabbed his chest and turned away, trying to breathe out of his mouth so the stench wouldn’t push his stomach into full revolt. This was so wrong. It couldn’t be Ann, could it? He thought he’d know instantly, but the thing on the ground didn’t resemble anything remotely human, much less a woman he considered a sister. And the necklace he was supposed to identify? Fused to the corpse.
His eyes watered, and he looked up to find himself face to face with an old enemy.
Detective Tony Barnaba, Head of the Crimes Against Persons division at the Fargo PD, addressed his junior officer, but never took his eyes off Zack. “Officer Miller, where in procedure does it say to bring a civilian into the crime scene?”
Miller blanched. “Detective, I thought we could save time by having him try to identify the necklace. Autopsies take time, pictures are never as easy to ID, and with missing persons, every minute—”
Barnaba’s head snapped toward Miller. “Are you telling me how to run a missing persons investigation, Officer?”
“No, sir.”
“Man your post. We’ll continue this discussion later.”
“Yes, sir.” Miller nodded at Zack before moving toward the crowd at the edge of the yellow tape.
Zack pressed the fingers of his right hand against his temple again. This was not a good time to appear weak.
Barnaba looked out of place at the grizzly scene with his tailored sport coat, starched blue shirt, and spit-shined badge. Tall and trim, he looked healthy, vigorous, and ready to kick some ass. With the exception of more salt and pepper above his ears, the detective looked the same as he had all those years ago when his courtroom testimony had hammered the nail in Zack’s coffin.
Zack made himself meet Barnaba’s eyes. “I see you’re still Mr. Nice Guy.”
Barnaba’s eyes darkened, and Zack braced for a punch, but it never came. He wished it would have. He needed to move. Walk, run, fight. Whatever.
“Your opinions don’t mean anything to me, Goldman. I need some answers for my vic. You filed a missing persons report. Could this be her?”
What was there to say? Zack couldn’t tell by clothing since the corpse had been naked when she was burned. And how the coroner was going to remove that necklace, he had no idea. He prayed the woman—whoever she was—had been dead long before the flames had devoured her flesh.
“Your house isn’t too far from here, is it?” Barnaba continued.
“What’s your point?”
“What’s the nature of your relationship with your missing person?”
“Ann’s like my kid sister. We work together at Samuel’s. I spelled it out clearly enough in the report.”
“You have alibis since she’s been missing?”
Zack tamped down the urge to take a swing at the man he’d unknowingly cuckolded all those years ago. Damned if Kasey didn’t stand between them as palpably now as she had back then. Zack had gone to prison because of Kasey’s betrayal and her husband’s need for revenge. He hadn’t been given a fair trial, and Barnaba had been to blame.
“If you want something to do, look into a local pastor. Dallan O’Neill. He’s supposed to be a real pillar of the community, but as I learned the hard way, looks can be deceiving.” Zack turned away but Barnaba’s fingers gouged into his bicep. Zack jerked his arm and squared off, ready for battle, when one of the technicians yelled out from a crouched position next to the corpse.
“Detective, we’re gonna have to tarp the body. I need more time to gather evidence, but I don’t like the look of these clouds.”
Barnaba looked up, muttering under his breath. Moisture hovered in the air as though waiting for permission to fall. After a moment, he leaned into Zack’s personal space again. “You better watch every move you make, Goldman. I’ll be happy to send you back to your boyfriends at the state lockup if I have even the slightest evidence you’re involved here.” He paused, and Zack wondered how it would feel to wrap his fingers around the man’s neck and squeeze. Hard.
“About your missing person, this Ann… I need every detail. Friends, family, places she frequents, health or medical conditions, DNA samples, photographs. Everything. You have questions about what to bring, ask my staff. I’ll be back at my office at zero-seven-hundred. If you’re not there by noon with what we need, I’ll find you. And you won’t like it.” Barnaba glared at Zack for another moment before moving on to address members of the investigating team standing in various perimeters of the sealed area.
Zack watched one of the technicians spray dirt hardener to make shoe impressions. Another vanished into a bush to search for God only knew. A plump raindrop spattered against Zack’s cheek, and the scene exploded in a flurry of activity to preserve the evidence. He scanned the faces of the snoops lining the county road, looking for Archie. Zack had called him on his way to the river. He should’ve been here by now. Hopefully Twyla was okay.
Ann, too, because that burnt offering wasn’t her.
Zack stepped through the grass toward his truck. He was getting paranoid. But what was worse? Worrying when you didn’t have all the information, or pretending everything was all right when your gut bitch slapped you with foreboding?
No more John. Now Ann? What could he do? What? And where was Sloane? She’d looked so terrified when he’d told her about the burned body. She’d turned and run from him. Out the door without even saying goodbye.
A sudden helplessness rushed through him, a flaming backdraft of despair that nearly sent him to his knees. John had once remarked that loving is easy, it’s the losing that’s hard.
Yeah.
Zack wanted to hear Sloane. See her. Touch her.
He was every kind of fool.
“Mr. Goldman.” Zack turned to find Officer Miller. “Detective Barnaba wants the name of Ms. Samuel’s dentist, as those records will be most expedient to identify the victim. Or at least rule out—”
“Zack!”
Both men looked toward a tall blonde at the edge of the yellow tape. The gentle rain sluiced down her honeyed legs, her arms, molding her shirt to her body. Relief poured through him until he registered her terrorized eyes. He swallowed hard and faced Miller. “Tell Barnaba I’ll be at the station later this morning with everything he’s requested.” Then he moved like a wooden soldier toward Sloane. “You don’t belong here.”
/> “Who is it?”
God, the look in her eyes. “Sloane—”
She fisted his T-shirt. “Tell me!”
“They don’t know yet—”
“Tori. I can’t find her!”
“What? Tori who?”
“My manager. My best friend! It’s after midnight, and she’s not home. She’s always home!”
“Shh.” He pulled her into his arms. She was shaking. He should probably take her to the ER. Shock was a bitch. He wondered when it was going to lay him low, too.
She clung for a moment before she pushed away and started to duck under the yellow tape. He grabbed her shoulders. “No, no. You can’t, Sloane.”
Lightning flashed, illuminating the hollows under her cheekbones. “I have to know. Tori. You don’t understand. She was burning, Zack. It was her, wasn’t it?” She turned, but his fingers held firm.
“What are you talking about?” He was yelling now and vaguely realized people were staring. He pulled her toward his truck, opened the door, and pushed her inside out of the rain, fists on his hips to keep them still. “Start talking.”
“I’m sorry! Please don’t be mad. I can’t stand it.” She covered her face with her hands.
“Christ! Sloane…I don’t— It’s not— Ah, hell!” He grabbed her icy fingers from her face, cupping his much larger ones around them. “I’m not mad at you. Please don’t cry. Just tell me why you’re so upset.”
She pulled her hands from his grasp to place her fingers against his cheeks, the pads of her thumbs feathering against his lips. The moment she closed her eyes, he felt a low pulse of energy storm through him, bolstering him, warming him from the inside out. When she opened her eyes, she was more composed. She brought her hands to her lap.
“I saw it. I saw this.” She gestured toward the crime scene. “Someone burning. Earlier—or, I guess it was yesterday afternoon now. I was at the store. Tori touched me, and I saw someone burning. Coming toward me. I thought I was overwhelmed with everything going on with Ann…and you.”