Stone Maidens (27 page)

She brushed past him, banging the forensic case against his right leg, and headed straight toward the Bronco.

Waiting for McFaron in the truck, she reviewed her notes of the interview. The cell phone trilled in her jacket pocket. “Special Agent Prusik.”

“Congratulations, Christine!” Thorne sounded thrilled. “I understand from Howard that the Claremont arrest is a clean wrap.”

“Not quite, sir. Yes, he’s been arrested, and he’s in police custody. I’ve conducted a preliminary interview. Mr. Howard’s men are in the process of searching the farmstead for incriminating evidence. I don’t really think it’s a done deal.”

“You’re too modest, Christine. Congratulations
are
in order. In fact, I’ve already notified Washington of the killer’s arrest.”

“Isn’t that a little premature, sir? I’m certain that the killer is right-handed, and David Claremont is a natural lefty. That’s one thing, and another thing is that—”

“I’m confident Howard will gather whatever we need to make it stick,” Thorne said, cutting her off. “Good going to you. And you see?” Thorne continued without pausing for breath. “It’s all worked out fine. Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow and reading your full report or a synopsis at least.” He clicked off.

Prusik eyed Howard through the windshield of the Bronco. He was facing her, but she couldn’t tell if he was watching her or not, thanks to the aviator glasses.

McFaron opened the driver’s side door, startling her.

“Where have you been?” she snapped.

He looked at her, puzzled. “I had a call to make. What’s eating you?”

“I’m sorry.” She closed her eyes and groaned, massaging her temples. “Please excuse me. Can we just leave?”

McFaron scanned the parking lot, saw Howard laughing with the troopers, and guessed what was bugging her. He pulled out of the lot without another word.

A few blocks from the police station she breathed easier. She studied Joe as he drove in silence and was taken by surprise at the depth of gratitude and appreciation she felt welling up inside her.

“I’m sorry, Joe. It’s not your fault.”

McFaron was silent as they passed an old stand of oak trees lining the road; the tops of their roots broke through the edges of the asphalt surface.

“I need to go to the airport. But I hate leaving before things feel right with this case.”

He grunted.

Christine squeezed his shoulder. “And before things feel right with us, too. Now I’ve gone and offended you, and all you’ve done is help me. Really, I’m truly sorry, Joe, for lashing out like that. I didn’t mean it.” Prusik nudged him with an elbow. “Hey, don’t go all quiet on me.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek, then drew herself closer to the sheriff and rested her head on his shoulder.

McFaron pulled over and cut the engine. He kissed the top of her head and then her forehead and finally her lips. Like magic, he broke into a wonderful grin. “See, I’m not going quiet on you. I was just thinking. What do you make of Claremont’s accusation?”

“Well, aren’t you the romantic one?” She couldn’t help but grin back. “But what accusation are you talking about?”

“Claremont’s blaming it all on this other guy in his head. I don’t buy it one bit.”

Christine sat up straight in her seat. “The mind is a hard thing to judge, Sheriff, especially when it’s under extraordinary pressure.”

“So he’s got a guilty conscience, right?”

“Of course, that could be true. That might explain it. It’s why I hammered away at him so much.” She gazed out her side window. “To be honest, I’m not at all sure what’s happening with Claremont. If this were the first time he had mentioned this alter-ego maniac I might agree with what you say. But it isn’t. Dr. Walstein’s file is filled with disabling visions and incidents Claremont has experienced and reported on in great detail. There are at least three separate entries, distinguishing events, and we’ve found three bodies.”

“Couldn’t that be just as easily explained as a sick mind’s way of crying out for help? A way of confessing?”

“It could be. But I think it’s a little more intricate than that. And this business about going to Chicago—it’s truly remarkable timing, bewildering really, when you consider he’s a virtual recluse, rarely setting foot off his parents’ property. OK, yes, he did say he painted his neighbor’s barn. And we confirmed that he did. These mysterious jaunts to Chicago aside, he usually tells them where and when he’s going and returns when he says he will.”

She maneuvered one of the air-conditioner vents to blow coolness directly into her face. It felt good against her hot skin.

“Howard’s men should be able to help clear the air.” He glanced over at her. “No offense. And I don’t mean to suggest that what you’re saying isn’t—”

“None taken. Believe me, I’m resigned to the fact that I was never cut out for management. Thorne was right to take the lead away from me.”

“I disagree.”

Christine mustered a smile for him. Right or wrong, Thorne’s decision hurt. And his praise now was ill founded and disorienting. And just when she was getting to like the sheriff, she was having to go back to Chicago, which depressed her. He was a
good man, McFaron. Solid. Trustworthy. He wasn’t full of himself, like so many of her FBI colleagues were. She often wondered if that was a job prerequisite for male FBI agents—being full of themselves.

She sighed. She wanted to stay, to get to know this lanky, unprepossessing law enforcement officer a little better, but right now her responsibilities lay in Chicago.

At the small commuter terminal Christine climbed out of the Bronco with her gear, shuffled around to the sheriff’s side window, and leaned through, the sun cooking her shoulders from high overhead.

“Look,” she said, “it’s been a whirlwind few days.”

Before she could get another word in, he kissed her, cradling the back of her head in his left hand. She let her bags drop on the sidewalk and kissed him back.

“I don’t really want to leave, Joe. I confess it.” She studied his brown eyes with her own hazel ones. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve valued exchanging ideas with you. And I had such a great time at dinner last night.”

A cab pulled in front of the Bronco. People got out, talking loudly.

“The pleasure was mine, Christine.” The edges of his top teeth showed in a broadening smile. “I think you know that. And I don’t want you to leave, either. I would like to stay in touch, and not just about the case.”

Her heart quickened, hearing him say that. She leaned her head farther inside his window to escape the sidewalk chatter. Feeling more confident, she said, “You know, Sheriff, I’m not always the bitch you may think I am.”

“Never felt you were really, Special Agent.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. Even in broad sunlight she could see the
growing flush descend from his cheeks down his throat. “I mean Christine.”

“Well, anyway, I was wondering about my invitation.”

“Invitation?” He looked at her, puzzled. “Oh, you mean having dinner together again?”

“Never mind. I just thought if you were ever coming to Chicago...it’s no big deal.” She moved to pick up her forensic case.

Gently he tugged on her forearm, still resting on the windowsill. “I meant what I said—I’d like that a lot.” He didn’t blink when he spoke but looked straight into her eyes. “Just tell me when, and I’ll be there.”

“You’ll really fly up?”

“You mean now?” His voice went up an octave.

She laughed and bumped her forehead against the top of the window frame.

“Well, maybe not
right
now.” She shook her hair out of her face, feeling a blush coming on. “Maybe soon?”

“Now look who’s turning color.” He laughed. “Aside from spending all my waking hours on this case, my calendar’s pretty much clear to go.”

“Ever try Ethiopian cuisine?” she said, her mind humming.

“Shermie Dutcher always serves up Ethiopian on Thursdays, didn’t I tell you?”

“I’ll reserve a table at Ashanti’s,” she said, laughing. “Just let me know for when.” The warmth of his hand, which still rested on her sleeve, radiated up her forearm. She made no effort to leave; she allowed herself to bask in the pleasurable sensations that were suffusing her body.

“I’ll pick up the tab. Even show you a little of the town, Joe.” She thought of the chaotic piles in her small apartment. She’d have to neaten it up, make it inviting. When would she have time to? She’d make time.

“Sounds like too good a deal to pass up. I’d like that very much, Christine.”

She shifted her stance, not wanting the moment to end, not knowing what else to say. The awkward small talk between them was inconsequential; her heart knew otherwise. So did her kisses. And his. She would have said yes had he offered to drive her back to Chicago. Privately she wished he would, knowing full well his duties as sheriff would prevent it.

“Consider it a done deal then,” he said, his face only inches from hers, drifting closer. “I’ll give you a call,” he said, softly as a whisper.

“OK then.” They kissed one last time. Christine leaned down and picked up her cases.

“Have a safe flight,” McFaron shouted after her before she disappeared through the terminal’s automatic glass doors. She turned and waved back at him. He didn’t drive away until she was past the security gate and out of his sight.

Later that same afternoon, Prusik topped off the gas. She’d driven the maroon sedan from the West Street garage that served her office building an hour east to the Portage, Indiana, truck stop where Betsy Ryan had last been seen alive. A cold wind whisked off the lake, tumbling loose trash across the broken pavement into a hedge across from the all-night restaurant. Accumulated refuse hung up in the bushes. Her gaze rested on the blinking emergency lights of a semi pulled onto the shoulder near the highway on-ramp. Weedy undergrowth next to the parked semi swayed violently in traffic-made wind. What a desolate place to end a life, she thought.

Prusik lingered beside gas pump number two under the blazing lights of the truck plaza, where the truck driver who had given the young runaway a lift said he’d waved good-bye to her and then watched as she’d hoofed it in the direction of the dunes. In the distance, over the drone of interstate highway traffic, Prusik detected
the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore. She wondered if the peaceful sound of the tide had lured the girl to her death.

Prusik had driven here to immerse herself in the atmosphere of a place where the killer did his hunting. She’d been here before, of course, back when Betsy Ryan’s body had been discovered, and it had been determined that the truck driver was the last person to see her alive. But she’d felt a need to visit again, to see how David Claremont might fit into the picture. To see what else the asphalt and the gas pumps and the water and the sky might tell her.

The Ryan girl had been dropped off at around this time, dusk. The plaza was well lit, in contrast to the surrounding vegetation—mostly thickets of scraggly brush and long-blade grasses that stretched all the way to the national lakeshore boundary. The victim had probably planned to sleep out among the dunes where no one would be likely to see her. Normally, Christine guessed, it would be a safe enough bet. But the bright-lit recesses of the truck plaza had also made her an easy mark from a parked pickup. No one would take notice of a man sitting in a truck at a truck plaza. He must have waited until only her silhouette was visible moving over the sandy soil through the low-lying brush. And then he’d made his move. He’d submerged the victim’s remains afterward, and they’d been flushed by underwater currents until they snagged on an anchor chain like so much flotsam.

Prusik stood silently next to the car, carefully observing the comings and goings of the drivers and their vehicles. Yes, she concluded, that’s how the killer would have done it. And it would have taken time. If Claremont were the killer, he would have had to make the four-hour drive to Portage, wait for the right opportunity, do the deed, clean up, and then drive back to Weaversville. But it was well established that he was a homebody, and that his parents always knew his whereabouts—with the exception of those two trips to Chicago.