by Nora Roberts
She spared him a glance, then focused on Doc Wallace. "But I also know what I saw by the river was real. Not a dream, not a hallucination. Not figments of my fractured mind and hyper imagination. Whatever the sheriff thinks, whatever anybody thinks, I know what I saw."
"Don't get too worked up at Rick," Doc said mildly. "He's doing his job, best he can. And he does a good one for the Fist."
"So everybody says," Reece muttered.
"Still, it may be that we can help him along with it."
"Do you believe me?"
"Doesn't matter if I believe you or not. But I've got no reason not to take you at your word. Seems to me you've been doing everything you can to keep a low profile around here." Doc doused his own coffee liberally with what Reece knew was half-and-half from the little glass creamer. After stretching out his legs, he crossed the ankles of feet clad in snazzv running shoes. "I'm forced to report my attempts in this area have been a miserable failure."
"Well, reporting a murder tends to turn the spotlight on the messenger. Doesn't make much sense you'd make up a story like this and pull everybody's attention onto you." He nudged up his glasses, peered at her through sparkling clean lenses. "Besides, Brody appears to believe you, and I know him to be a tough sell. So…"
Doc set his coffee aside, picked up his sketch pad and a pencil. "I've got to admit, this is exciting for me. It's like being on Law and Order."
"Which version?"
Doc grinned. "I like the original myself. Now, Brady's told you I do a little sketching. Even got a couple of charcoals in The Gallery."
"I keep meaning to get in there."
"Ought to. They've got some nice work by local artists. Still and all, I've never done anything like this before, so I did a little research on the procedure. I'm going to ask you to think in shapes first, if you can. Think of the shape of her face to begin with. Square, round, triangular. Can you do that?"
"Yeah, I think I can."
"Close your eyes a minute, get the picture in your mind."
She did, and saw the woman. "Oval, I guess. But a long, narrow oval. Ellipse?"
"That's good. On the thin side, then?'
"Yes. She wore her hair long, and the cap—the red cap—was pulled down low on her forehead. But I got the sense of a long, narrow face. I couldn't see her eyes at first," Reece continued. "She wore sunglasses. Wraparounds, I think."
"How about her nose?"
"Her nose?" She drew a complete blank. "God. I don't think I'm going to be very good at this."
"Do the best you can."
"I think… I think long and narrow, like her face. Not prominent. I noticed her mouth more because it was moving. She was talking— yelling I thought—a lot of the time. Her mouth seemed hard to me. She seemed hard to me. I don't know how to explain."
"Thin mouth?"
"I don't know, maybe. It was… mobile. What I mean is she seemed to have a lot to say. And when, she wasn't talking—that I could tell—she was scowling, sneering. Her mouth kept moving. She wore earrings— hoops, I'm nearly sure, I caught the glint of them. Her hair was past her shoulders, wavy, very dark. Her sunglasses tell off when he knocked her down, but it all happened so fast. She was so angry. I had the impression of big eyes, but she was so angry, and then so shocked, and then…"
"How about distinguishing features," Hoc continued in the same easy tone. "Scars, moles, freckles?"
"I don't remember any. Makeup," she said suddenly. "I think she wore a lot of makeup. Red lipstick. Yes! Very red, and… it could just have been temper, but I think too much blusher. There was a vividness to her that seemed overdone, now that I think of it. Maybe temper, maybe, or too heavy a hand with the blusher. It was so far away, even with the binoculars."'
'"That's all right. It you had to guess her age?"
"Oh boy. Ah, late thirties maybe. Give or take a decade," Reece added and pressed her fingers to her eyes. "Hell."
"Just go with your first impression. Is this close?"
Reece edged forward in her chair when Doc turned the pad around.
He was better than she'd assumed. It wasn't the woman she'd seen looking out at her from the pad, but the potential of her was there. "Okay. Okay," she muttered as one of the knots in her stomach unraveled. "I think her chin was a little more pointed. Just a little. And, um, her eyes not that round, a little longer maybe. Maybe."
Reece picked up her tea again, used it to soothe while Doc made adjustments. "I couldn't tell the color of her eyes, but I think they were dark. I don't think her mouth was that wide. And her eyebrows—God I hope I'm not making this up—her eyebrows were thinner, really arched. Like she'd plucked them to death. When he yanked her head off the ground by the hair, her cap came off. Did I forget that before? Her cap came off. She bad a wide forehead."
"Take a breath," Brody suggested.
"What?"
"Take a breath."
"Right." When she stopped to take one, she realized how hard her heart was pounding, that her hands were starting to tremble enough to slosh the tea in her cup. "Her nails were painted. Maybe red. I forgot that, too. I can see the way they dug into the dirt while he strangled her."
"Did she scratch him?" Brody asked her.
"No. She couldn't. I don't think… He straddled her, and he had his knees down on her arms. She couldn't lift them to scratch at him. She didn't have a chance. Once she was down, she didn't have a chance."
"How's this? "
Reece studied the sketch. Things were missing, she thought. Things she wasn't sure she had the skill to convey or the artist the skill to invoke. The fury, the passion, the fear. But it was closer.
"Yes. Yes, it's good. I can see her in it. That's what counts, isn't it?"
"I'd say so. Let's see it we can refine it a bit. You eat one of those cookies, Reece, before Brody scarfs them all down. Dick made them. Man makes a hell of a sugar cookie."
She nibbled on a cookie while Doc asked more questions. She drank another cup of tea while she watched as he changed or finessed the shape of the woman's mouth and eyes. Thinned out the eyebrows a bit more.
"That's it." Reece set her cup down with a little rattle. "That's her. It's good, it's really close. It's what I remember she looked like. What it seemed she did. I—"
"Stop second-guessing yourself," Brody ordered. "It that's your impression of her, it's good enough."
"Not from the Fist." Doc looked up at Brody. "Doesn't look like anyone I know, not offhand."
"No. But if she passed through, someone saw her. Getting gas, supplies. We'll show it around."
"Rick can fax copies to other town authorities." Doc pursed his lips as he studied his own sketch. "Maybe Park Service, too. She doesn't look familiar to me. I've treated just about everyone in the Fist and the local vicinity over the years. Including tourists and transients, one time or another. Hell, anyone born hereabouts in the last twenty years, I'm likely the one who gave their butt its first slap. She's not one of ours."
"And if they never came through here," Reece said quietly, "we may never know who she was."
"That's what I like about you, Slim. Always thinking positive." Brady cashed another cookie. "You want to take a shot at describing him for the doc?"
"I didn't see him. Not really. Flashes of profile. His back, his hands, but he was wearing gloves. It seemed like he had big hands, but that really could be just me projecting. Cap, sunglasses, coat."
"Any hair below the cap?" Doc asked.
"No. I don't think so. I didn't notice. She was… in the spotlight, you could say. She had center stage, and then when he knocked her down, I was so stunned. And still, I guess I watched her more. I couldn't stop watching her, what was happening to her."
"How about his jawline?"
"All I can think is hard. He seemed hard. But I said that about her. didn't I?" She rubbed at her eyes, tried to think. "He was very still most of the time, and I had the impression of control. She was livid and ranting, and he just stood there, hardly mo
ved. Economical? She was all over the place, gesturing, pacing, pointing. He pushed her, but it was almost like swatting a fly. I'm projecting."
"Maybe you are, maybe you're not." Doc sketched idly. "What about build?"
"Everything about him seems big now, but I can't be sure. Taller and broader than she was, certainly. In the end, when I see him straddle her, I think he must have known exactly what he was doing. Restraining her arms that way. He could've held her down like that, worn her out until he could reason with her, then walked away. Maybe it was because of the distance, but it seemed so deliberate, so cold."
Doc turned his sketch pad around again, held it up. And Reece shuddered.
This was a full-length image, back turned, face in one-quarter profile. Because it could have been so many men, fear balled ice in Reece's belly.
"Anonymous," she commented.
"Still, you can eliminate some people right from the Fist," Doc said. "Pete, let's say. Little guy, scrawny. Or Little Joe Pierce, who's carrying around an extra hundred pounds and hypertension."
"Or Carl. He's shaped like a barrel. Wrong build." Another knot un-raveled. "You're right. And I don't think he was young. I mean, say, teens or very early twenties. His carriage, his, um, body language was more mature than that. Thanks. It clears my head a little."
"Wasn't me." Brody lifted a shoulder. "Unless I channeled Superman and flew over the Snake and back."
"No." For the first time since they'd begun, Reece smiled. "It wasn't you."
"I'll make copies, post one in my office. Most everybody's through there." Doc picked up the sketch of the woman again. "I'll take copies down to the sheriff's office."
"Thanks. A lot."
"Like I said, it's a little like playing detective. Interesting change of pace for me. Brody, why don't you take this tray on back to the kitchen for me."
And the look Doc sent Brody told Reece the doctor was in again, and she was the patient. She struggled not to resent it, not after the favor he'd just done for her. But her back stiffened as Brody left the room.
"I didn't come here for a medical consult," she began.
"Maybe you should. But the fact is, I'm an old country doctor, and you're sitting in my parlor. Your eyes are tired. How are you sleeping?"
"Spotty. Some nights are better than others."
"Appetite?"
''Comes and goes. Comes more than it used to. I know my physical health is tied to my mental health. I'm not ignoring either."
"Headaches?"
"Yes." she said with a sigh. "Not as often as before, certainly not as intense. And yes, I still have anxiety attacks, but not as often or as intense either. I used to have night terrors, but they've throttled down to nightmares. I still have flashbacks, phantom pain sometimes. But I'm better. I had a beer at Clancy's with Linda-gail. I haven't been able to sit in a bar and have a drink with a friend in two years. I'm thinking about sleeping with Brody. I haven't been with a man in two years.
"Every time I think about just driving out of town, I don't. I even unpacked last night, put everything away again."
Behind his glasses, his eyes sharpened. "You packed your things?"
"I…" She faltered a moment. "Yes. I don't remember packing, and I know that's a big X on the minus side of my mental health board, but I offset it with a big check mark by unpacking, and added another check mark by coming here. I'm coping. I'm functional."
"And defensive," Doc pointed out. "You don't remember packing your things?"
"No. I don't, and yes, it scared me. I put things in the wrong place once, too, and just don't remember. But I handled it. I couldn't have handled it a year ago."
"What medications are you taking?"
"Nothing."
"On doctor's recommendation?"
"Not really. I tapered off of this, tapered off of that, then stopped taking all of them over six months ago. They helped when I needed them most. I know medications helped me find some sense of balance again. But I can't live my life when there are meds suppressing this or coating over that. They helped me get through the worst of it, and now I want to get through the rest myself. I want to be myself."
"Will you come to me if you decide you want medical help?"
"All right."
"Will you let me do an exam?"
"I don't—"
"A checkup, Reece. When did you last have a physical?"
Now she sighed. "A year or so ago."
"Why don't you come into my office tomorrow morning?"
"I have the breakfast shift."
"Tomorrow afternoon. Three o'clock. It'd be a favor to me."
"That's a lousy way to put it," she replied. "All right. I like your house. I like that you've kept this room the way your wife liked it. I'd like to think that one day I'll have a room and someone who'd care enough to keep it for me. I'm trying to get there." She got to her feet. "I have to go to work."
He rose as well. "Tomorrow, three o'clock." And held out a hand as it sealing a deal.
"I'll be there."
He walked her to the door as Brody strolled out from the kitchen. When they were outside, Brody headed for his car.
"I'm just going to walk." Reece told him. "I want the air, and I've got a little time before my shift."
"Fine. I'll walk up with you. and you can fix me lunch."
'"You just ate two cookies."
"Your point?"
She just shook her head. "You'll have to walk back again to get your car."
"I'll walk off lunch. You do blackened chicken?"
"Can I do it. yes. But it's not on the menu."
"So charge me extra. I feel like a blackened chicken sandwich on a kaiser, with onion rings. Feeling better?
"I guess I am. Dr. Wallace has a way of smoothing out the edges." She dipped her hands into the pocket of the hooded sweatshirt she wore against the stubborn spring chill. "He pressured me, very avuncularly, to go in for a physical tomorrow. But you probably knew he was going to do that."
"He mentioned it. He's the sort that pokes his nose in. Avuncularly. He asked me if I was sleeping with you."
"Why would he do that?"
"It's his way. You're in the Fist, you're his business. So I can tell you, if that woman had spent any time here, he'd know it. Sheriff's dog's in the lake again. Rather swim than walk."
They both stopped to watch the dog paddle enthusiastically through the water, sending back a little wake that rippled through the reflection of the mountains.
"If I stay, I'm going to get a dog, and teach him to fetch a ball out of the lake like—what's her name?—Abby did with Moses there. I'll get a cabin so he can be outside when I work. My grandmother has a teacup poodle named Marceau. He travels everywhere with her."
"A teacup anything named Marceau isn't a dog."
"He certainly is, and he's sweet and adorable."
"It's a wind-up toy with a pussy name."
She snorted back a laugh. "Marceau is very smart, and very loyal."
"Does he wear cute little sweaters?"
"No. They're dapper little sweaters. And though I have great love for Marceau. I'm thinking of getting a big, sloppy dog like Moses, one that would rather swim than walk."
"If you stay."