Find Me (29 page)

"Lots of things are nice, Lex," she returned. "But working with you in any capacity isn't one of them."

Sarah left him standing there. She didn't look back. Conner was behind her. She could feel him. Her body tingled as she recalled hot, slippery sex in the shower that morning. But the feelings that overwhelmed all else were those confusing ones from the way he'd made love to her last night. So sweetly, so tenderly. No one had ever made her feel that protected, that secure.

She shook off the feelings and memories. She had to focus.

Though she was glad Lex had cleared the way for her to stay, she understood he had a motive. Whatever his agenda, she wasn't going to allow him to manipulate her reactions again.

Outside she and Conner took the usual route to an out-of-the-way parking spot. The press was still camped out front in force.

"Hey."

She hadn't realized she'd been moving so fast until Conner had to hurry to catch up to her.

"Yeah."

"So this thing with you and August," he asked, choosing his words carefully, "what kind of thing was it?"

She rounded the hood without answering, got into the passenger seat of his Jeep. That seemed to be a habit of late. He ended up driving her most everywhere.

Conner slid behind the wheel. "What kind of thing?" he repeated.

"A relationship." She pulled her seat belt into place. "You know, living together."

"Were you…" He pulled out onto the street. "Engaged or something?"

"No. Just long-term sex partners."

He braked at a stop sign. "Where are we going?"

The chief certainly hadn't given her any part of the assignments he'd doled out. "West Street."

Conner's brow furrowed in confusion.

"Matilda Calder's house. I have some questions for her."

She wanted to speak to the innkeeper and the reverend. But right now she needed to see Matilda.

Conner drove another few blocks.

"Do you still have feelings for him?"

He didn't have to specify which him. She knew exactly who he meant and the idea was a joke. "Not at all."

"There sure as hell seemed to be some tension between the two of you." He shrugged. "I know you were mad as hell yesterday, but he seemed to be trying to make nice today."

Sarah stared out the window. "What you witnessed yesterday is called hatred, Conner. This morning was tolerance, We both want to work this case, so we tolerate each other, Unless he gives me reason, I won't kill him or anything."

Conner chuckled. "I'm not too sure you would kill anyone. Even if they gave you reason."

He just didn't understand. She turned to face him. Wanted to make sure he really got it. "I'm my mother's daughter, her DNA is fifty percent of my genetic makeup."

He laughed outright then. "You think because she was a killer you'll end up a killer."

"That's scientifically possible."

"Well." He braked for the turn onto West. "That's where we see things differently, Sarah. You believe in science. I believe in people." He looked at her. "I believe in you."

She stared at his profile. Too handsome. Too sweet.

Everything about him made her flaws all the more glaring.

"I hope I don't disappoint you."

He pulled to the curb in front of a rundown shack of a house. "I'm not worried." He flashed her a smile then got out.

What the hell was it about this guy that made her not want to fail… him?

Forget about it, she ordered.

For now, anyway.

The house should have been condemned ages ago. The entire structure leaned to one side. Three, no four, dead cars had been left unburied in the yard. A dog lay on the porch. Sarah didn't see how he kept from freezing to death.

His tail flopped as they climbed the rickety steps.

"Good fella," Conner said gently before banging on the door.

The house backed up to the woods. Considering the wooded areas between here and the location of the cemetery, it would be easy for Matilda to slip back and forth without being spotted.

"It's quiet in there," Conner said. "Maybe no one's home."

"Knock again."

He banged a little harder this time.

Sarah listened; heard some bumping around. "Someone's up."

Conner beat his fist on the door a third time.

The door flew open. "What the hell is it?"

A woman with stringy black hair and dressed in nothing but a T-shirt glared from Conner to Sarah. But the eyes were the same as Matilda's. This unfortunate being was her mother.

"Is Matilda home?" Sarah summed up the woman in one word. Druggie. Too skinny. Splotchy complexion. Bad teeth. She couldn't have been more than thirty-five. A serious user.

"Who knows?" The woman flung the door open wider. "See for yourself. I'm going back to bed." She eyed Conner once before putting word into action.

Conner entered before Sarah. Another of those protective male gestures.

The living room had few furnishings. A ragged couch and a couple of tables. The mainstay of the decorating was garbage. Empty pizza boxes. Beer cans. Newspapers. Dirty clothes.

"Nice place," Sarah murmured. Poor kid. Living in a dump like this… with a mother like that. As crazy as Sarah's mother had been, she'd kept a clean house and she'd taken care of Sarah most of the time.

The kitchen was even worse. Dirty dishes filled the sink, covered the countertops and table. A couple of black flies that miraculously survived the cold crawled around on the window above the sink.

Conner led the way down the hall. As she'd promised, mother was sprawled in bed, most of her ass showing. Some dirtbag lay partially under her. A filthy bathroom was the next door they encountered.

The final door was closed. Sarah knocked but there was no answer. The room beyond the door was quiet. She grasped the knob and turned. The latch released and the door opened.

Unlike the rest of the house, Matilda's room was neat. A white pentagram had been painted with what appeared to be spray paint on the wood floor. Other symbols of her religion hung on the walls. The one bookshelf was mostly empty, Sarah remembered Matilda saying that she'd hidden her stuff.

Her great-great-grandmother's spell books.

The bed was made. The covers old and tattered.

The closet had a couple of T-shirts hanging inside and not much else.

The window that faced the woods was open a crack.

Sarah walked over and peered through the dingy panes. "So this is your way in and out." The girl could avoid running into her mother and her friends and seek the safety of the places she felt safe.

The woods.

And the cemetery.

Sarah turned to face Conner. "Let's go to Bay View Cemetery."

He shook his head. "No kid should have to live like this."

And, the saddest part was that none of the God-fearing, compassionate folks in his village seemed to notice or care.

That was Sarah's cynical side talking. But it was true.

Somehow she would find a way to help Matilda. It was the least Sarah could do for a kindred spirit.

The drive to the cemetery took only three or four minutes.

Sarah opened her door as soon as he'd shut off the engine. She scanned the cemetery. No sign of Matilda.

Sarah had taken only one step from the Jeep when she stopped dead. She stared at Mattie Calder's headstone.

Sitting there watching Sarah… or maybe waiting for her to arrive… were three black crows.

Noon

In just one hour the special afternoon prayer service would begin.

Deborah Mahaney stared out the window over her kitchen sink and peered next door at the church's towering stained-glass window. The beautiful rendering of Jesus ascending to heaven gave her comfort even now, in this tragic time.

Today Christopher had a brief, faith-building sermon planned for their grieving congregation.

Evil had struck again and taken another of their sweet children.

Deborah's gnarled hands ached. She rubbed them together.

The memorial service would be tomorrow morning at eleven. Poor Rachel couldn't bear the thought of going through the service days from now. She wanted it behind her.

The ache in Deborah's heart went soul deep. Such tragedy.

As much as she grieved for the Gerards and the Apple-tons, Deborah had problems of her own, too.

The FBI agent was coming this afternoon. He'd come once already to question Christopher about his discovery of poor Alicia's body. But this time was different. Like that awful Sarah Newton, he wanted to talk to Christopher about Valerie.

Dear God, what am I to do
? Deborah closed her eyes and prayed hard. How could this be happening? So much time had passed and there had been no trouble. Why now? Poor Valerie was dead. What difference would it make now?

All the difference in the world, Deborah feared. Her crippling arthritis worsened every year. Poor Tamara was just about to graduate high school. She would be going off to college. That took money. Deborah's medicine and mounting doctor bills took money and insurance. If Christopher's secret were discovered… God, what would she and Tamara do? Tamara had suffered far too much already. Deborah understood that even if the police didn't find that dirty little sin,
she
would. Sarah Newton had a reputation for finding what others missed. She would not stop until she had ruined them.

If Deborah continued to wait… it might be too late. She had watched for a sign, but nothing came. God often expected his sheep to think for themselves. Perhaps this was one of those times. She had to make a plan to save herself and Tamara from Christopher's terrible, terrible sin.

He apparently did not possess the courage to act. Deborah went to the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. She picked up the prescription bottle, turned it in her fingers.

Yes, she had to do something very soon.

Cliffside Care Facility
, 2:20 P.M.

Barton clasped the bag in his hand and forced his feet to walk, not run, down the corridor.

Two more doors… there.

He walked into the room, closed the door that stayed open when no visitors or facility staff were present.

For a moment he could only lean against the door, his heart pounding harder with each breath.

Was he making a mistake to bring this up?

It wasn't like he would gain anything.

But he had to do it. He could keep this misery to himself no longer.

Barton moved away from the door. The television, he noticed, was muted.

In the long narrow hospital bed, his father lay, the covers tucked neatly around him, his frail eyes staring at the images on the television screen.

Barton moved past the foot of his father's bed. Those faded blue eyes followed him around to the side of the bed. Barton lowered himself into the chair he always selected when he visited. For a long time he simply sat there, unsure how to approach what he needed to say.

Finally, when he could bear the tremendous pressure no longer, he leaned forward and peered into his father's watery eyes.

"Why did you do it?"

Thin lids blinked.

Barton didn't know why he bothered to demand an answer. His father hadn't been able to speak in twelve years. He'd lain in this very bed since his stroke. Unable to move even a finger or to utter the slightest sound. Whether or not he could hear or understand was unclear. He was kept alive with a feeding tube and intravenous fluids. Would he never die?

The thought filled Barton's eyes with tears. How could he be so heartless? He loved his father. Had always loved him. But after the stroke, this… this god-awful thing had become Barton's personal burden.

His father was eighty years old. Living on sheer willpower.

What could they do to him? Nothing.

He was a mere fragile shell of a human with only a glimmer left of the man who once was trapped inside.

But what would they do to Barton for concealing evidence?

How could he protect his family? He reached out and clutched his father's cold, feeble hand. "What am I going to do?"

Closing his eyes, Barton fought the overwhelming emotions.

Today at four the profiler from Quantico wanted to see him.

What if he had somehow learned the truth?

Barton opened his eyes.

The agent couldn't know the truth. Barton squared his shoulders, gathered his courage.

There was no way anyone could know.

Not yet.

Barton would be strong for the interview with the federal agent.

But
she
… she was a different story.

She was not bound by the same laws as the agent. She could dig and sneak around until she discovered Barton's secret.

He clasped the bag closer. It was his curse.

He had to make sure she didn't find out. He had to make her go away.

All of his efforts so far had failed. When she'd gone over that ledge he'd been certain he'd killed her. He shuddered. Had to be losing his mind. He hadn't meant to push her… but the impulse had overwhelmed him.

This
was what he had been reduced to!

He had to be brave. Perhaps there was a way without going to such an extreme. Whatever it was, he had to find it. He had to find something that scared her enough to send her running.

No one was immune to fear.

All he had to do was find her one true fear and then he could make her afraid.

Then she would leave.

His burden, his secret, would be safe.