Gone

by Karen Fenech

  Jake was quiet for a moment, mulling that over. “Any theories?”

  Clare recalled her conversation with Gladys. “Mrs. Linney thinks Beth is afraid of her husband.”

  Jake frowned. “What makes her think that?”

  “Nothing concrete, but she believes that to be the case.” Clare rubbed her brow. “Jake, I’d like access to your office.”

  “Yeah, I got your message. Let me know when and I’ll do my best to accommodate you. I’ll be in tomorrow if you want to come in. We can run Ryder through the system. Strictly for background, I think. I don’t expect that we’ll find anything against him. We’ll see if we can poke any holes in what does turn up.”

  “Or we could run that check now.” Clare shifted position in impatience.

  Jake studied her for an instant then picked up a cloth that was draped across the top rung and wiped his hands with it. “I’ll need to see if my neighbor can watch Sammie first.”

  “Sam-mie?” Clare repeated the name slowly. For some reason, it struck a familiar chord.

  “Samantha. My niece.”

  His niece, not his daughter. Clare had forgotten that he had a niece. They’d been together when his brother’s daughter was born. Jake had taken some vacation time to fly out and visit his new niece. He had invited Clare along but a conflict at work had kept her from accompanying him. Jake had returned one week later.

  In her kitchen, she turned the dial on the oven to three hundred to heat the lasagna she’d made for them. She’d set the tone for a romantic evening and when she’d opened her front door to him, Jake had greeted her with enough enthusiasm that left no doubt that his plans matched hers.

  The moon was high in the sky by the time they’d finally gotten around to thinking about dinner. While the food reheated, Jake poured glasses of wine, then he’d proudly shown her a photo of the newborn.

  “She looks a little like me. Around the eyes,” Jake had said.

  Clare couldn’t see a resemblance, and couldn’t resist teasing him. She smiled. “I noticed it right away.”

  He must have heard the laughter in her voice, and laughed himself. It was obvious he was crazy about the little girl, and awed by her. Clare leaned against him and kissed him softly. “I’m happy for all of you.”

  Jake slid an arm around her waist and held her close at his side. “That little girl.” His voice lowered. “She’s what it’s all about.”

  “For some people,” Clare said softly.

  Jake raised an eyebrow. “Do I hear a ‘not for you’ in that statement?”

  Clare’s stomach clenched. “I don’t want children.”

  “Not now?”

  She shook her head slowly. “Not at all.”

  “So certain, Clare? Why?”

  Children were important to Jake. She loved him. Would not mislead him. He deserved to know there would be no children with her.

  Her throat tight, she faced him. She shrugged and said simply, “I suppose I don’t have the gene that makes women want to become mommies.”

  A lie. How badly she wanted to have a child of her own. Wanted to have Jake’s child. Her breath held as love surged through her.

  She would not tell him of her past. Of her fear that she’d turn on a child of her own one day, as her mother had. Clare shuddered. Better that he believed she didn’t want children, than know she feared turning into a monster.

  The memory left Clare chilled to the bone.

  Jake’s cell phone rang. He took it from the top of the ladder and answered the call. Clare was about to turn away to give him a degree of privacy, but his gaze flicked to her and held.

  He glanced at his wristwatch. “I can be there in about four hours.” He listened once again to his caller then said, “Yeah. See you then. Appreciate the call, Steve.”

  Before he’d flipped the phone closed, Clare took a step closer to the ladder. “What?”

  Jake remained silent.

  He was deciding what to tell her, she thought. “I already know that call had something to do with me. Now, what?”

  Jake climbed down then stepped off the ladder and stood in front of her. “Let’s go inside for a minute.”

  She gripped his arm. “What?”

  Jake ran a hand back through his dark hair. “When you called me about Hoag’s claim that Beth hadn’t left town with him, I made some calls. I gave out Beth’s description to law enforcement officers I know in neighboring towns and cities. Unofficially. I didn’t give out Beth’s name. I put out the word to call me if anyone matched.”

  The implication was alive or dead. He’d just gotten a call he hadn’t wanted to tell her about and despite the hot sun beating down on her, Clare shivered.

  Jake cupped her shoulders in a tight, strong grip. He remained silent. It became apparent that he had no intention of saying more.

  “The rest,” she said.

  His gaze on her grew intent. His grip that already felt as if he were pressing to the bone tightened. “A body of a woman was found about a week ago in Russellville, a town in Georgia. No ID. She’s been in the Kenton county morgue tagged as a Jane Doe. She matches the description I gave out for Beth.”

  Clare shuddered.

  “I’m going to drive down there. Once I know something, I’ll call you.” He crouched so that their gazes were level. “Clare, I will call you as soon as I know.”

  Clare’s throat had dried and she swallowed several times before she could speak. She shook her head. “I’m going with you.”

  “No.”

  She broke his hold on her and stepped away from him, headed for her car. “See you in Kenton County.”

  He reached out and snagged her by the elbow. “You don’t want to go down there.”

  She faced him. “Do you really think I could wait here?”

  He held her gaze, then exhaled deeply. “I need to make arrangements for Sammie. Give me a few minutes.”

  * * * * *

  Thirty minutes later Clare joined Jake in the front seat of his SUV. He hadn’t shaved, a day’s growth of stubble darkened his lean jaw, but he’d washed up and changed into clean jeans and a shirt and topped off the outfit with a sport jacket. As he shifted his arm to the steering wheel, Clare glimpsed his shoulder holster beneath the jacket.

  He started the engine. The radio was tuned to a fifties rock station and Elvis, singing “Jailhouse Rock.” Jake reduced the volume and backed out of the driveway.

  Clare sat tight-lipped, looking out of the windows at the houses they passed. People sat on verandahs, waving paper fans and sipping from tall glasses and bottles. All was normal, yet here she was on her way to view a body that might be Beth.

  Jake left Farley and steered his vehicle onto the interstate. Nausea roiled in her stomach and she felt a little dizzy, the feeling enhanced as the SUV picked up speed and the traffic outside her window blurred.

  For the most part, they drove in silence, exchanging the odd monosyllabic word, letting the radio and the whoosh of oncoming vehicles provide sound.

  Jake had had the presence of mind to bring along a couple of bottles of water. He uncapped one, held it out to her. She shook her head, afraid that even water would prove too much for her unsettled stomach.

  After about three hours of driving, Jake pulled out his cell phone and made a call.

  “Steve, we’re about thirty minutes out. Beth Ryder’s sister is with me.” Jake fell silent while he listened to the man on the other end of the line. “Okay. See you there.”

  Clare didn’t ask for a summary of his conversation. It wasn’t hard to put together that Jake had made arrangements to view the body with the cop who’d alerted him earlier.

  All too soon, yet not soon enough, he pulled into the Kenton County Morgue parking lot.

  The morgue was in the basement of a small hospital. Steve Sumner, a lanky man with a receding hairline and a full red beard, met them in the short corridor. Jake made quick introductions. Clare supposed she muttered an adequate response, though she could
n’t remember what it was she’d said.

  “We don’t have a camera to view the body,” Sumner said. “Not in the budget at this time. Clare, you’re going to have to take a look at it up close.” Sumner tugged at his tie. “The body was found in a dumpster. It’s pretty banged up, including the face.”

  “I’m making the ID,” Jake said.

  Since Jake had never met Beth, he couldn’t legally identify a body as hers. Neither could Clare for that matter; the last time she’d seen her sister, Beth had been an infant. If the body was believed to be Beth from photographs they’d both seen of her, Dean Ryder would be notified for an official identification. The legalities sprang to Clare’s mind and then faded away like bubbles. At the moment, legalities meant nothing to her.

  Neither did Jake’s insistence that he view the body himself.

  Voice tight, Clare addressed Sumner. “I want to see the woman.”

  Sumner nodded, then opened the door to the morgue and led them inside.

  The morgue was like the thousand others Clare had been in, crypt cold and wreaking of disinfectant. Unlike the others, however, she’d never gone into one fearing the body she’d view was her sister’s. Her stomach clenched tight as a fist and goosebumps pebbled her skin.

  A male attendant nodded to Sumner and went to one of the drawers.

  Clare’s heart thumped. Jake’s hand settled on her shoulder, big and heavy, while his other arm wrapped around her.

  Clare held her breath.

  The attendant slid the drawer open. A wave of cold air rose. He drew the sheet down to the body’s neck.

  Clare stared at the face. Bruises discolored the left side. A cut sliced across the jawline. Despite the damage to the features, Clare could see that this woman wasn’t Beth.

  Clare shook her head.

  * * * * *

  Back at his vehicle, Jake stood at the driver’s door, facing the opposite side of the street. It was twilight now. Neon lights lit up a small white-washed structure with a marquee that proclaimed the place Mack’s Bar.

  Jake regarded the marquee. “We could use a drink.”

  “I’d rather we went back to Farley.” She did not want to linger here. She tried for a firm tone. Instead, her voice came out thin.

  Jake eyed her and his jaw tensed. “Got a hot date?”

  Before she could summon a response, he crossed to the passenger side where she stood and seized her hand. He waited out two cars driving through the intersection then towed her across the street.

  The onset of evening hadn’t dispelled the heat, but for the first time since she’d come to the south, Clare didn’t mind the temperature. She was bundled in Jake’s jacket. He’d put it on her in the hallway of the morgue when she began to shiver. The jacket was still warm from his body and she huddled into it.

  There were few people inside the bar. A couple sat together on the same side of a booth. Two men racked up balls at one of the pool tables. A film of cigarette smoke circulated in the conditioned air. A big screen TV mounted high on one wall was tuned to a sports channel.

  The bar stools were unoccupied. Jake steered her to one of them, then took the seat beside hers.

  He ordered a beer and a gin from a bartender with the build of a Sumo wrestler, and when the drinks arrived, set the gin in front of her with a curt, “Drink.”

  Clare would have objected to his high-handed tone, but just then her stomach did a flip-flop and she gagged. She slid off the stool onto legs that felt as sturdy as wet noodles.

  “Clare—”

  She clutched her stomach. “If you don’t want me to be sick on you, stay out of my way.” She spotted the restrooms and rushed by him.

  When she returned to her seat moments later, Jake stood leaning against the brass railing of the bar, facing the door she’d gone into. His eyes narrowed as she approached. She caught her reflection in the mirror behind the bar. She had less color in her face than the poor woman she and Jake had just viewed.

  When she picked up her drink, to her dismay, her hand shook. Jake wrapped his fingers around hers, steadying her grip. Together, they lifted the glass to her lips and she took a gulp. A fire ignited in her throat and stomach from the alcohol, but she welcomed the burn.

  Once they lowered her glass, Jake released her. He raised a bottle of beer to his own lips and drank deeply, as he downed half the liquid.

  She took another large swallow of the gin, then a third, finishing the drink. Jake signaled to the bartender for another, but she shook her head. The gin had already achieved the desired effect of warming her, and that was all she wanted from the alcohol at the moment. She wanted to remain clear-headed, though why she would want that, given that the gruesome image of the woman she’d just seen hadn’t dispelled, she couldn’t imagine.

  Someone fed the jukebox and Willie Nelson crooned about all the girls he’d loved before.

  Clare set the glass on the bar. “I’m okay now. When you’re done, I’m ready to go.”

  Jake’s jaw tightened. He didn’t answer, but continued to nurse what had to be the last remaining swallow or two of beer in the bottle. She found his unwillingness to abandon the last drops unusual. He’d never been particularly fond of beer.

  Some time passed; he didn’t respond to her statement or finish his drink.

  “Jake, if you’re done, I’m ready to go,” she said.

  He turned to face her then. “Are you? You should take a look at yourself.” He pointed with the neck of the beer bottle to the mirror behind the bar. “See what I’m seeing.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” It occurred to her that he was angry with her. “Are you mad at me?” Her tone held outrage, but due to her recent bout of nausea lacked the usual punch.

  He raised the bottle once again, this time in a toast. “You got it in one. Give the lady a prize.”

  She turned her head to face him fully, and caught her reflection. Indignation had put two spots of red on her cheeks now. It wasn’t a flattering addition. The red looked ghastly, garish against her still chalk-white face.

  “Jake, what is your prob—”

  He thumped the beer bottle on the wooden bar top. “You could have waited in the hallway of the morgue. Not only was there a possibility that the woman was Beth, but Sumner warned you that the woman had died hard. It was going to be ugly. Your first glimpse of your sister in twenty-five years would have been of her bruised and beaten and laying on a cement slab. You didn’t need to put yourself through that. You didn’t need to, but you did anyway.”

  “I needed to see for myself that the woman wasn’t my sister.”

  “Was that it, Clare? Really? Or, was it you just didn’t want to be weak—let yourself for once in your life give in to a moment of weakness?” The anger in his eyes was now joined by frustration. “When there’s a way to achieve a result that will save pain, most people take that way. Not you. You have this need to test yourself—to push yourself to impossible levels of endurance. If there’s a way for you to punish yourself, you’re first in line to do that. Just what the hell are you punishing yourself for?”