Stone Maidens

by Lloyd Devereux Richards

  He placed the portrait back on the shelf. A sluggish contentment leaned him back against the bed. For a moment the comfort of the familiar took hold of him as he inhaled a long, lazy lungful of the pungent air and closed his eyes. Sleep would come easily. It always did when he was happy.

  Three hours after the positive identification of David Claremont, Jasper got in his pickup and headed south again. When he heard the special news report about the arrest, he pulled over to the side of the road and laughed out loud, pounding the steering wheel in pure pleasure. It was just too damn perfect. An innocent dumbshit arrested for what he’d done. Maybe that lady agent wasn’t so smart after all.

  He decided to turn around and find a place where he could watch the events unfold, a store or any such place where they’d have a television babbling in the background. Five minutes later he pulled into a 7-Eleven, and sure enough, the clerk was watching the news. He didn’t have to wait long before his story was on the air.

  And then Jasper felt sick to his stomach. Rage started to bubble up inside him, and it was all he could do to back out of the store without drawing attention to himself. The clerk never even glanced up.

  The resemblance had shaken him to his core. The baseball cap and sunglasses he’d fished out of the back of the truck and immediately put on couldn’t change the fact that for the first time in his adult life, he felt vulnerable. Through no fault of his own he was in danger of being found out, and he was damn angry about it. It racked him, too, that the television picture would be as close as he would ever get to see the face that had taken the fall. Then a synaptic shock wave coursed through him. This David Claremont might somehow rat on him—unless he took matters into his own hands first.

  Prusik was famished. McFaron had hoped that there’d be no annoying reporters with their poking mikes joining them at the Weaversville Chimney, and he was right. He chose a corner booth, and they ordered two glasses of Chianti and the spaghetti special. Walking to their table, Christine eyed a patron—a heavyset middle-aged man with steel-rim glasses—who was staring at her chest in an obvious way. The man winked at her as she passed by.

  “Do men always see a woman sexually first?” she asked, instantly regretting the question.

  “I guess.” A distinct flush suffused McFaron’s face. “I mean if you’re attracted to someone, yes, it can be physical, at least at first. Why else would you care to go further?”

  Prusik stifled a cry of exasperation. “Have you ever thought just maybe you might get to know someone first in the process of working together? Without the least intention of having an affair?”

  “You asked me what a man sees first,” he corrected, “not about working with a woman and developing feelings later. That happens every day. Friends of mine got married after meeting on the job and working together for a couple of years. It may sound crass, but a fine figure is pleasing, and I’m not ashamed to say it.” McFaron took a swallow of his wine, his eyes briefly catching hers before he glanced down.

  “Then why the blush?”

  “I guess you kind of took me by surprise,” McFaron said. “My mother always said I turned color easy. I guess she was right.” He looked her in the eye and smiled.

  “Must have something to hide, huh?” Prusik took a sip of the Chianti. It had bite.

  “Must have.” The back of McFaron’s hand brushed against Christine’s as they both reached for the garlic bread at the same time. A jolt of warmth suffused her body, and she looked away shyly.

  “Honestly,” he said, “I spend so much time running around by myself taking care of other people’s problems that I hardly give my own a second thought.” A hot streak shot up the sheriff’s back. He hadn’t said it right. “To tell the truth, Christine, this case has me pushing pretty hard. Everyone wanting to know whether we’re zeroing in on the killer.”

  “Oh, really?” she grunted. “Well, I can’t tell you how pleased I am with the way things are going.” She took another sip of the wine, and several uncomfortable moments ticked by.

  “Let’s drop the shoptalk, shall we?” she said finally in a softer tone, resting her chin on folded hands.

  “I like that idea.”

  They sat in silence while the waitress replenished their bread basket, and then Christine leaned forward. “I’ll tell you something not many people know about me. Before I joined the bureau, Joe, I did something really fun. I had this summer job during college working at a children’s zoo.”

  “A zoo?”

  “An honest-to-goodness zoo. I operated this zoomobile: a great big van painted with black-and-white zebra stripes, specially outfitted with portable cages for carrying exotic animals. Two trainers assisted me in going around to schools and camps, letting kids pet the animals. The idea was to make the plight of endangered species more immediate and meaningful to the communities we visited.” She grinned. “It was a blast.”

  “I never would have guessed you were an animal lover,” McFaron said. “Thought all you city slickers were too sophisticated to handle livestock.”

  “No way. I loved it. In fact, it had direct implications for my current job.”

  McFaron’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, this I’ve got to hear.”

  “You know that rolling road show of forensic science that Special Agent Howard is in charge of? My idea. Directly inspired by the zoomobile.” She shrugged. “The only real difference between it and the mobile zoo is that the workings of the forensic RV aren’t on display to the public.”

  “You amaze me, Christine.”

  Christine grinned again. “There was this spider monkey named Squeakums who used to hold on to me with his hands and feet and a prehensile tail curled around my upper arm. Anyway, Squeakums would purse his lips and let out this high-pitched howl, clinging to me so tightly I wouldn’t have to hold on to him at all.”

  “I’d like to have seen that. Christine and her little Squeakums.”

  Christine threw her napkin at him. “It was hard, dirty work. But you know what? Even with all that sweat, I loved it. Seeing the children’s excitement, hearing them giggle when Squeakums began his rutting call, clutching me.”

  Her cheeks felt warmed by the wine. “Sometimes I wonder why I even bother.” She shook her head, frowning. “The real-world grind all seems a mistake when I listen to myself go on about that summer. At this moment I can honestly say I have never relished anything so much as those three months spent with the animals and children.”

  “You impress me with your talents, Christine,” McFaron said softly.

  “Do you know what I mean, though? All the dead things we do every day, Joe?”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” He smiled wryly. “I started out at twenty-one, the youngest sheriff Crosshaven has ever known. But I haven’t had a single regret since.”

  “Twenty-one?” Prusik said. “What about fun?”

  “I take the fun with the not-so-fun right on the job, I guess. Mostly, staying busy keeps my head on straight. Too much time away from work and I get lost.” The words had just slipped out.

  Christine raised her eyebrows.

  “In a manner of speaking,” McFaron said.

  “But you don’t seem lost to me. What do you mean?”

  “Alone, lost,” the sheriff said, “what’s the difference really?”

  “To me it means more. To be lost you must know what it is to be found again,” Prusik said with conviction.

  He smiled. “Christine, foster mother of Squeakums and a great philosopher. What else are you? OK, let’s try out ‘lost.’ I am found at work, and I feel lost without it if I’m idle for too long. I guess that suits me right.”

  “You guess that suits you right? Men!” She folded her arms against her chest. “Why can’t you be a little less than totally opaque?”

  “What, and have you women see right through us? No way.”

  They ate their food slowly and with pleasure. Finishing her second glass of wine, Christine gave Joe a long, slow smile, which ended in an
even longer, slower yawn.

  Joe smiled back at her. “Tomorrow’s a big day,” he said. “You’ll need your rest for the Claremont interview.”

  She nodded. He looked away to signal the waitress for the bill, and when he looked back, she was waiting, already greeting him with her hazel eyes set on his.

  “I really enjoyed our conversation,” he said in a soft voice. “Getting to know about your love of animals, Christine, is…well…thank you for telling me about that.”

  After paying the bill, McFaron drove Prusik back to the rooming house she’d relocated to earlier, near the Weaversville Police Station. He walked her to the door. The street was quiet.

  “Meet you in the morning?” he said. “A little before eight?”

  Prusik nodded, then hesitated. “Joe? Thanks for the dinner,” she said, “and for listening.” Prusik put down her forensic case. “I mean, I really did enjoy myself, even if I was doing most of the talking. Truthfully, I can’t remember the last time I shared a meal with someone without endlessly talking shop. Maybe we could do it again?”

  “I’d like that very much, Christine. I enjoyed every minute of tonight. And we covered some good ground on the case today.”

  McFaron thought about the Sarah North interview in Parker that morning. How caring and supportive Christine had been, sitting in a chair beside the girl, leaning her head close. She had made it easy for the young witness to confide in her; the sheriff had seen that clearly. The sheriff also recalled his concentrating attention on Prusik’s back. Under her beige high-collared shirt he could see the distinct outlines of her undergarment straps, her square shoulders, the smooth tiers of muscle that fanned down her sides. On the ride over from Crosshaven she’d told him how she would often work off tension from work swimming backstroke into the wee hours at a downtown Chicago health club. Most fit women McFaron knew were tiny in comparison, almost a subspecies compared to Christine’s muscular form.

  He removed his hat, rolled the brim between his fingers. He looked at her. “You’re quite a person, Christine.”

  It contented her, hearing his awkward acknowledgment. His restrained manner reminded her of her father, and so had his willingness to help at the crime scene in Crosshaven. She placed a palm on his chest and stood on the balls of her feet. They kissed.

  McFaron looked into her eyes from a few inches away, then kissed her again, pulling her close to him.

  “What I said tonight, you know, about men and women.” Prusik broke apart, suddenly self-conscious. She smiled unabashedly at the sheriff, seeing that he was in no rush to leave. “Well, anyway, don’t pay attention to everything I say. That’s all.” She patted him on the chest affectionately, then picked up her case.

  “See you at eight, Joe.”

  He replaced his hat and tipped his head her way. “I’ll fetch you right here, Christine.”

  The residue of warm feeling lingered as she watched him slowly drive away in the Bronco, knowing he’d be waking very early tomorrow to make it on time to Weaversville from Crosshaven, a good seventy-five-mile drive. Why hadn’t she invited him to stay with her? Because she was a professional, that’s why, and she was working on a case.

  And maybe she was just a little scared.

  She walked up the stairs to the rooming house and hesitated at the front door, savoring the evening and the glow Joe seemed to light inside her. The sky was fading from a deep lapis, with just a few bright stars poking through. And then without warning the heavens blossomed out black and glinting, filled to their edges with a multitude of bright specks as though the sun itself had burst.

  At midnight, the express bus from Chicago pulled up to the Greyhound terminal in downtown Indianapolis. Henrietta Curry descended its steps gratefully, exhausted at the late hour and relieved to be able to stretch her stiff legs at last. Muggy air laced with diesel fumes wafted into the waiting room as she entered through the automatic doors, carrying her suitcase and a cookie tin wedged beneath her arm. She’d missed the five o’clock bus and had had to take the nine o’clock one instead, getting her into Indianapolis at a time she was normally asleep in bed. But she’d promised her daughter that she’d be available for three days of babysitting starting first thing in the morning, and she didn’t want to let her down. Being a working single mother was hard enough without having to worry about child care at the last minute.

  An accidental bump into someone staring up at a large television monitor in the cavernous room caused Mrs. Curry to look up, too, just in time to see a report on the arrest of Claremont earlier that day for the murder of an Indiana schoolgirl. The old woman’s suitcase thudded to the floor. The face of the arrested man on the screen was unmistakable. That very man had sat next to her on the bus from Chicago.

  He’s escaped!

  Mrs. Curry hurried forward to see if she could spot the man who had turned down her homemade cookies without even a polite word. Her best recipe, too. She peered through the tops of her trifocals, trying to connect the face on the news with the man who’d brushed ahead of the women and children getting off the bus. It was him. She was absolutely certain. She pressed her way through a crowd of arriving passengers, completely forgetting her suitcase in the process. But there was no sign of the stranger in the baseball cap and brown farm coat.

  “Hey, lady.” A redcap tapped Mrs. Curry’s shoulder, making her jump. “This your bag?” The uniformed black man had silvery sideburns and wore a red captain’s hat. He held the suitcase forward.

  “Why, yes.” She closed her eyes for a second. “I must be losing my head.” She felt in her purse and handed him a dollar bill. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” The redcap tipped the glossy brim of his hat. As he turned to leave, Mrs. Curry tugged at his sleeve.

  “Listen.” She stepped closer. “I think that man wanted for killing all those girls has escaped. He was riding next to me on the bus from Chicago.” She pointed through the waiting-room window at the TV screen, which still displayed Claremont’s face.

  Mrs. Curry pulled a crisp twenty out of her purse and pinched it between her fingers. “He got off the bus not five minutes ago. He couldn’t have gone far. Help me find him. Check the street. Come back when you spot him. I’ll keep my eyes open in here.” She flashed the money. “Spot him and this is yours.”

  The redcap smiled, looking confused. He squinted at the monitor to get a clearer view just as Claremont’s face faded and a young punk squirting cola down his throat appeared. The redcap glanced back at the twenty still clutched in the woman’s hand, then bolted outdoors and went to work, shading one hand over his eyes, scanning up and down the street. Ten minutes later he found Mrs. Curry in the waiting room and reported that unfortunately the man seemed to have disappeared.

  Mrs. Curry thanked him and handed him the cookie tin. “Here, take this for your trouble. It’s my best recipe. I’m going to call the police. I know what I saw.”

  She lugged her suitcase over to a row of phone booths against one wall and called her daughter. It was nearly twelve thirty when she finally got through to Indianapolis Police Headquarters. Obstinacy with a dash of well-placed kindness eventually got her patched through to a local FBI representative. Mrs. Curry’s description of her seatmate’s features was detailed and thorough, as was her account of how he had refused her cookies so rudely. She was certain he was the same person she’d seen on TV.

  She gave the agent her name and her daughter’s home telephone number. And she didn’t leave out the detail about the sweet girl sitting across the aisle and one row back. At one point Mrs. Curry had looked up in time to catch the man next to her turned around in his seat, eyes locked on the child. One mean stare—ten seconds’ worth of pernicious concentration—had made that poor young thing gag.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Christine shifted in her seat. The air-conditioning in the small interview room was barely functioning, and she was sweating before they’d even started. She had discussed with Bruce Howard the merits
of her conducting the interview rather than Bruce. They had learned from talking with the suspect’s parents that he had a more difficult relationship with his mother. Christine thought there may be an opportunity to possibly provoke a confession out of Claremont if she interviewed the man. Howard agreed.

  Claremont’s eyes were deep set, as Joey Templeton had reported. She noted the zygomatic arch—the bone running from the lower eye socket and cheek prominence back to the temple—was more pronounced than normal. His browridge overhung the apex of the oculus, making it difficult to see the man’s eye movements and producing an uncomfortable sensation in Prusik.

  She met Claremont’s gaze and gave him a brief nod. No time like the present. “I’m a physical anthropologist by training. Do you know what that is, David?”

  “You study bones, right?”

  “Very good. The two hundred and six bones that compose the human anatomy, to be precise.”

  Claremont nodded.

  “As a forensic anthropologist I examine victims of violent crimes. You say you’re innocent. Would you consent to a blood test?”

  “What’s my blood got to do with it?” He looked her straight in the eye without flinching. “I told you already. I’ve done nothing.” Said believably enough, but a calculating mind would practice until perfecting the look of innocence. A psychopath, on the other hand, could lie convincingly the very first try without as much as a flinch.

  “Then you’ve got nothing to hide, have you? A DNA test would clear you of all suspicion.” Assuming they were lucky enough to find some of the killer’s DNA on a victim or at a crime scene to cross-match against, she thought. “Isn’t that what you want? To be exonerated? With a clean blood test you’d be free to go.” She searched his face. “Wouldn’t you like to go home, David? Clear your name? Put all this behind you?”