Charlaine Harris (30 page)

“Message received,” Art said brightly. “It's been a long day for an old man, kids. I'm going to my room, call the office, catch up on my work.”

“Sure, Art,” Tolliver said, his attention on the puzzle open before him. “If you're not flying back to Atlanta until tomorrow, you'll have to join us for dinner.”

“Thanks, we'll see how much work I have to do tonight. I may just get room service. But give me a call when you're ready to head out.”

“See you later,” I said.

When he was safely gone, I said, “What do you think he's heard?”

“I was trying to figure it out. Maybe the police think I had Tabitha's body all this time and moved it into the cemetery to prove you were a genuine sensitive.”

I gaped at him and then laughed. It was just too ridiculous.

Tolliver put down his pencil and focused on me. “Yeah, right. I don't know where I'm supposed to have stowed the poor girl's body for eighteen months, or whatever.”

“The trunk,” I said, deadpan, and after a second he smiled at me. It was a real smile, something he didn't give me that often, and I enjoyed seeing it. Tolliver hadn't been struck by lightning, and his mom hadn't tried to sell him to one of her drug buddies for sexual use, it's true, but Tolliver has his own scars, and he's not any more fond of talking about them than I am.

“Tabitha was somewhere for eighteen months,” Tolliver pointed out. “That is, her body was either in that grave, or in some other hiding place.”

“Was she there all the time?” I asked, but I was just thinking out loud. “I don't think so. The earth was disturbed. The rest of the ground in the cemetery was smooth, but this ground had an uneven feeling, and there wasn't any grass on the grave.”

“Well, we know she was buried somewhere during the last eighteen months,” Tolliver pointed out reasonably.

“No, she could have been alive for part of that time. Or she could have been dead in a freezer, or a meat locker, or a morgue. Or buried somewhere else, as you say.” I thought about the possibilities I'd raised. “But I don't think so. I still believe she's been dead since she was abducted, or very nearly the whole time. But she wasn't lying in St. Margaret's all that time. I just don't understand why she was put there, and how it happened that I was the one to find her. It's so strange.”

“In fact, it's almost…unbelievable,” Tolliver said, his voice quiet and thoughtful.

THE
morning didn't start on any more of a positive note. I turned on CNN while I drank my morning coffee, the complimentary newspaper folded open to the page that featured an old picture of Tabitha, a recent shot of the Morgensterns, and a picture of me taken when I was at a crime scene about two years ago.

The TV coverage was just as hyper as the newspaper article. The FBI had definitely had a presence at the initial crime of Tabitha's kidnapping. Now, they'd put their expertise at the service of the Memphis police, including the resources of their lab.

“We are confident in the ability of the Memphis police to conduct this investigation,” said an agent who looked like he ate nails for breakfast. “We'll have an agent in place who participated in the investigation of Tabitha's
abduction, and he'll make available any service he can offer to local officials. All we want is to get justice for this little girl and her family.”

I wondered if we'd be allowed to leave for our apartment in St. Louis—though it would be better yet if we could slip away to some unexpected destination, so we'd be harder to track. We weren't in residence at our apartment often, true, but it was our address of record, and the news media would definitely find us there.

I didn't remember what the next job on our list was, or even if we had one. Tolliver managed that side of our lives. I was already restless and bored, having finished the one book I'd brought in from our car. Ordinarily, I'd go out for a run.

There was no point whatsoever in trying to run today. Though I still felt a bit shaky from yesterday's discovery, I was definitely in the mood to get in a couple of miles, or more. But if I ran today, I'd be followed, and that was no fun.

Tolliver knocked at the connecting door, and I called to him to come in. He was toweling the wetness out of his hair.

“I went running on the treadmill in the health club,” he said, in answer to my unspoken question. “It was better than nothing.”

I hate running on treadmills. It just makes me feel stupid. I'm not really going anywhere. But this morning I was willing, since I needed activity in the worst kind of way. While he poured his own cup of coffee, I was on the elevator in my running shoes and my shorts and my T-shirt.

There were several treadmills. One was already occupied by a man who was probably in his forties, dark hair just be
ginning to turn silvery at the edges. He was pounding along, his face set and remote. He gave me an absent nod, which I barely returned.

I studied the control panel and the instructions, since I couldn't imagine anything that would make me feel stupider than flying off the back of a treadmill. When I was confident I understood what I was doing, I started off slow, getting used to the feel of the rubber under my feet. I thought of nothing, just the feeling of my shoes hitting the treadmill, and then I reached down and pressed the control to increase the speed. Soon I was going at a good clip—and though I was indoors and not going anywhere and the damn scenery never changed, I was content. I began sweating, and gradually I began to feel that welcome exhaustion that tells you you've gone just about your limit. I slowed the pace a bit, and then slowed again, and finally I walked for about five minutes.

I'd been vaguely aware Mr. Silvertip was still in the room, moving from weight station to weight station, one of the hotel towels around his neck. I headed for the stack on a table by the door as soon as I was through, and while I was patting my face dry, a voice said, “It's good to run in the mornings, isn't it? Helps you to start your day on a good note.”

I lowered the towel to appraise the speaker.

“FBI?” I asked.

He couldn't control his jerk of surprise. “You're really psychic,” he said pleasantly after a moment.

“No, I'm not,” I said. “Or only in the most limited way. Were you down here when Tolliver ran, too?”

He had dark blue eyes, and he examined me with them
very carefully. I was exasperated. He'd had plenty of time to look me over while I was running. This wasn't about him deciding I was a hunkette of burning love. This was about something else.

“I decided you were more approachable,” he said. “And you're the more interesting, of the two of you.”

“You're wrong there,” I said.

He looked down at my right leg. The top part of the leg is marked with a fine spider's web of red lines. My Lycra running shorts stopped at mid-thigh, and the web was clearly visible if you looked at the right leg with attention. That's the leg that gives out, every now and then. That's another reason I need to run, to keep that leg strong.

“What happened to you?” he asked. “I've never seen marks like that.” He was quite clinical.

“I was hit by lightning,” I said.

He made an impatient movement, as if he'd read that and just recalled it. Or maybe he simply didn't believe me. “How'd it come about?” he asked.

I explained the circumstances. “I was doing my hair. I had a date,” I said, remotely remembering that detail. “Of course, I never went out with that boy. The blast blew my shoe off and stopped my heart.”

“What saved you?”

“My brother, Tolliver. Gave me CPR.”

“I've never met anyone before who was hit by lightning and lived to tell about it.”

“There are plenty of us around,” I said, and I went out the glass door, towel still clutched in my hand.

“Wait,” he said behind me. “I'd like to talk to you, if I may.”

I turned to face him. A woman stepped past us, ready for her own workout. She was wearing old shorts and a T-shirt dingy with age. She glanced at us curiously. I found myself glad to have a witness.

“What about?”

“I was there, in Nashville, for a while. That's why I got this assignment.”

I waited.

“I really want to know how you knew ahead of time that Tabitha was in the graveyard.”

“I didn't.”

“But you did.”

“If you're not in charge of the investigation, I don't have to talk to you, do I? And I can't think of any reason I'd want to.”

“I'm Agent Seth Koenig.” He said that as if I should have heard the name.

“I don't care.” And I got into the elevator before he could, pressed the door close button, and smiled as he took a surprised step toward me, realizing I was actually leaving.

After I showered, I knocked on the door to Tolliver's room and told him what had happened.

“That bastard. That was an ambush,” Tolliver said.

“That's putting it a little strong. It was more like a strategic approach,” I said.

Tolliver recognized my description of Seth Koenig. The agent had been in the exercise room when he was, sure enough. “He thought you would recognize his name, huh?”
Tolliver said thoughtfully. “Well, let's see.” Tolliver's laptop was already plugged in. He Googled the name and got several hits. Seth Koenig had been present at a few hunts for serial killers. Seth Koenig had been a heavy hitter.

“But all those are in the past,” I said, reading the dates. “Nothing in the last four years or so.”

“That's true,” Tolliver said. “I wonder what happened to his career?”

“And I wonder why he's here. I haven't heard any suggestion that Tabitha's abduction and death was part of any serial killer's pattern. And I think I'd remember if another girl had shown up buried in a cemetery, miles away from her abduction site, buried on top of somebody else, right?” I thought that over. “Actually, other than her burial, there's nothing distinctive about Tabitha's case. That in itself is pretty awful, when you think about it.”

Tolliver wasn't in the mood to discuss the degeneration of American society as exemplified by the emergence of the serial killer as common occurrence. He just nodded.

“He's different,” I said. “Seth Koenig.”

“Define.”

I shook my head. “He's pretty intense, pretty deep. Not your regular law enforcement type.”

“You hot for him?”

I laughed. “Nah. He's too old for me.”

“How old?”

“Probably in his early forties.”

“But in good shape, you said.”

There are times when I just don't appreciate Tolliver's
teasing. “I'm not talking about his body. I'm talking about his head.”

“Can you pin that down a little?”

“I think…” I hesitated for a long moment, uneasy about putting my idea into words. “I think he's more than professionally interested. Maybe obsessed.”

“With you,” Tolliver said, very levelly.

“No, with Tabitha. Not her personally.” I struggled to express what I felt. “He's obsessed with the puzzle of it. You know, how some people spend a large part of their lives rehashing the Lizzie Borden case? How futile that is, because all the people involved are dead and gone? But there are still books appearing all the time about it. I think that's how Seth Koenig is about Tabitha Morgenstern. Look at his work record. He hasn't done anything newsworthy since he worked her case. And here he is, Johnny-on-the-spot, when she's found. Not because of Tabitha as a person, or because of Joel and Diane, but because of the mystery of it. Like some of the law enforcement people in Colorado are about that little girl who was killed in her own home.”

“The little beauty queen. You think Seth is as fascinated with Tabitha as some people are with her?”

“Yes, I think that's possible. And I think it's dangerous,” I said.

I sat beside him on the end of his bed and found myself looking at the picture he'd stuck in the mirror frame, a picture he carried with him on the road. It was a snapshot of Cameron, Mark, Tolliver, and me. We're all smiling, but not genuinely. Mark's looking down a little, his stout build
and round face distinguishing him from the rest of us. Cameron's to my left, in profile, looking away. Her light hair is pulled up in a ponytail. Tolliver and I are in the center, and his arm is around my shoulders. At first glance, you might assume that Tolliver and I were the brother and sister; we're both dark-headed and pale and slim. But if you spend any time with us, you notice that my face is longer and narrower than Tolliver's, which is practically square. And his eyes are a rich dark brown. Mine, though also dark and often mistaken for brown (since people see what they expect to see), are actually gray. Tolliver's mouth is thin and fine-lipped; mine is full. Tolliver had acne as a teen that went untreated, and he has scars on his cheeks as a result. My skin is smooth and fine. Tolliver has a lot of attraction for the opposite sex, and I don't seem to have much of that.

“You just scare them,” Tolliver said quietly.

“Was I talking out loud?”

“No, I could just follow what you were thinking,” he said. “You're the only psychic in this family.” He put his arm around me and gave me a hug.

“You know I don't like to be called psychic,” I said, but I wasn't really angry.

“I know, but what else would you call it?'

We'd had this discussion before. “I am a corpse-finder,” I said, with mock hauteur. “I'm the Human Geiger-Counter.”

“You need a superhero outfit. You'd look good in gray and red,” Tolliver said. “Tights and a cape, maybe some red gloves, high red boots?” I smiled at the picture. “After this media hoopla is over, we can go to the apartment for about a
week,” Tolliver said. “We can catch up on our laundry and our sleep.”

The apartment in St. Louis wasn't great, but it beat living in a hotel, no matter how fancy. We could open our mail (what little we got), wash our clothes, cook a little.

The constant travel was getting increasingly old. We'd been at it for five years now, at first making almost nothing; in fact, we'd gone into debt. But the past three years, as the word spread, business had started becoming regular, and we'd even turned down a job or two. We'd paid back what we owed, and we'd saved a lot.

Someday, we wanted to buy a house, maybe in Texas, so we wouldn't be too far from our little sisters—though the chances were slim that we'd get to visit with them much, thanks to my aunt Iona and her husband. But we would be on hand when we were needed, and maybe seeing us from time to time would waken better memories for Mariella and Gracie.

When we had a house, we would buy a lawn mower, and I would mow every week. I would have a big planter, one of those that looked like a truncated barrel, and I'd fill it with flowers. Butterflies would perch on them, and bees would lumber in and out. I wanted one of those big Rubbermaid mailboxes, too. You could get them at Wal-Mart.

“Harper?”

“What?”

“You had that dazed look again. What's up?”

“Thinking about a house,” I admitted.

“Well, maybe next year,” Tolliver said.

“Really?”

“Yeah, our bank account is healthy. If we don't have any catastrophes…”