Blind Faith (11 page)

"Hmpf. I remember the crime scene. It was raining monkeys and we had to hike half way up a mountain. The local yokels had tried to protect the scene as best they could, but the wind and the rain left us slim pickin's. But we had blood samples from the Unsub and one of the vics."

Caitlyn shook her head. "Wrong again, Jack. The blood didn't match."

He jerked up at that, acted startled, his mouth dropping open. But there was no crease in his brow, no other signs of surprise. "Really? You don't say? Whose blood was it, then?"

Caitlyn decided to let him think she knew nothing of Richland. "Some guy named Stanley Diamontes. Name ring a bell to you at all?"

He pursed his lips, frowned in thought. "Maybe, maybe."

"He testified against a Russian name of Korsakov. After that we lost track of him. It was a miracle we matched his DNA at all."

"Korsakov, yes, I definitely remember him. Who could forget? Crazy fucker, had two hobbies: making movies and torturing people. Can't say I'm surprised a witness against him took off, got lost in the mountains with a new name." He straightened up. "So, mystery solved. I can try to find my old case notes on Korsakov if you like. Free of charge for old time's sake."

He slid to his feet, began walking to the door, obviously expecting her to follow him. "Sorry I don't have more time for you, Caitlyn."

She took her time, not moving from her chair until he'd already reached the door and held it open. Only then did she stand and stroll past him, coming to a stop in the doorway. "Thanks, Jack. I knew you'd have the answers I needed. I'd definitely like a look at those files. Especially since Korsakov is getting out of prison today."

His eyes widened and tiny droplets of sweat sprouted on his forehead before he could hustle her out the door. "Fine. No problem. I'll have Margery fax them down to Quantico by the day's end."

He tried to close the door but she blocked him. "It'd be better to scan and email them to me, Jack. I'm on my way to Hopewell."

She breezed out the door and through the reception area before he could respond. He banged the glass door shut behind her, his hand mopping his brow. Idiot was so used to the fancy glass walls that he'd forgotten they were there. She watched him in the mirror above the elevator call buttons. He lunged for the phone on his desk and began dialing furiously.

The elevator chimed its arrival. Caitlyn entered, looked up for one last glance at her former boss, now huddled over his phone, his face flushed. He met her glance and startled, stood, cradling the handset between his cheek and shoulder. She smiled sweetly and waved good-bye.

The doors slid shut, and she grabbed her cell phone. "Clemens? Hey, it's Caitlyn. Could you ask one of the guys in the surveillance section to dump a phone for me?"

As Sarah worked her way down the side of the cliff, memories cascaded through her mind. Her and Sam, Sam and her—always breaking the rules, two partners in crime.

The first time she'd met him, he'd been trespassing on school property. Tap-dancing down the empty corridor, whistling as he opened classroom doors, peered inside, then shut them once more.

"Can I help you?" Sarah had asked in her best "I've got eyes in the back of my head so don't try anything" teacher's voice. His nonchalance as he straightened, removed his dark sunglasses, and gave her a slow once over was annoying.

He stepped closer and flashed her a thousand-watt smile. "I'm looking for the music room. Or the auditorium. I need a piano."

"You need a piano?" she asked, not sure if she'd heard him correctly. "Excuse me, but do you have a child who is a student here, Mr—"

He stared at her blankly for a moment, then chuckled. "No ma'am. No child. Is that a problem?"

"The only problem seems to be the fact that you're trespassing."

"Wasn't today the last day of school? Aren't the kids all gone?"

"That's beside the point." Sarah scrutinized him. Very tan, which made his dark hair and dark eyes look exotic. Definitely not from around here. His accent—or lack of one—made her think West Coast. He was trim, well-muscled, just shy of six feet, wearing a white polo and jeans that fit like...her gaze trailed down, lingered a moment too long. He twisted his head to peer over one shoulder.

"What's wrong? Did I sit in something?"

Sarah went rigid, felt her face flush with a combination of embarrassment and suppressed laughter. If it had happened anywhere but here at school, she would have acknowledged her ogling, made a joke out of it. Especially as the waggled eyebrow and over-dramatic leer he sent her way told her she wasn't fooling him.

"Let's start over. I'm Sarah Godwin." She extended her hand.

He shook it with a firm grasp, didn't push things by lingering too long. Although she did notice the way his smile deepened, wrinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Sam. Sam Durandt."

"Sam Durandt. Who is in desperate need of a piano?"

"Right. See, my keyboard hasn't arrived yet. I've got to," he rapped his knuckles against his temple, "get this song worked out before it drives me nuts."

"Oh. You're a composer, are you?"

"No, not a composer. I mean, not only music. I write songs."

Sarah pursed her lips. Was this guy for real? "Anything I might have heard?"

He rocked on his heels, looked down. "No, not yet. But," he brightened, beaming at her, "maybe this is the one.
If
you could show me to a piano."

She hesitated. She was alone in the building until Mr. Cole arrived to clean. He seemed friendly enough, but...

"I'll rent it from you," he blurted into the lengthening silence.

"Rent it?"

"Yeah. I don't have a lot of money, but if you let me work on my song, I'll write one just for you." He glanced up at her, his long, dark eyelashes framing even darker, larger eyes. "Please...it's a matter of life or death."

Sarah laughed. He was worse than her students. "All right. Come with me, Sam the Music Man."

Her foot brushed against the granite rock face and Sarah fell, the rope zipping through her hands much faster than she had intended. She pulled up, her harness squeezing tight around her hips. She came to a halt a few feet above a large boulder.

She hated thinking about that first day—hated it because the memory invariably led to more memories followed by traitorous thoughts.

If she hadn't met Sam, then she might have met someone else, and they would still be alive, and if they were alive, then so would Josh still be alive, only he wouldn't be Josh because Sam wasn't his father, but she would at least have one of them...

She leaned back on her rope, squinted at the bright sunshine and cursed herself for forgetting her sunglasses. Blinking back tears, she lowered herself to a standing position on the partially submerged rock. Water lapped at her boots, trying to undermine her footing.

A fall here would leave someone beat up pretty good.

Wasn't that what she'd already done? She'd fallen in love and gotten beat up for it. Battered, bruised, broken.

The words came in a staccato that swirled through her, echoing with the pulse pounding in her temples. Sam would have made a song out of it. Not a funny song or a joke like so many of his songs were.

A ballad, a dirge. A sad, sad song. One that would coax tears from the hardest of hearts.

She blinked rapidly, told herself it was the sun reflecting from the wet mirror-like granite. She reached for the shiny white lengths of bone visible above the water.

No.
She yanked her hand away.
Photos first. Document the scene
.

Everything looked more distant, impersonal through the camera's viewfinder. Like maybe this wasn't really happening, like maybe it wasn't really Sam and if it wasn't really Sam, then maybe Josh wasn't really—

Her foot slid out from under her. She flung her weight to the opposite side before she could impale herself on the tangled tree branches jutting up against the rock. Branches the size of her wrist.

Pay attention
. As she caught her breath, her pulse racing after the near-miss, she sat back and double-checked the photos on the digital screen. A few were blurry—from water spraying up from the rapids a few feet away or from her body shaking? Didn't matter, enough were clear.

With trembling hands, she put the camera away. Then she reached for the bones.

Radius and ulna, she remembered her anatomy. Gently she disentangled a layer of dead leaves and debris to unveil the remnants of three fingers and the bones connecting them to the forearm. They stretched out, now unveiled on a mat of dead hemlock, pointing, accusing her.

Her breath drew shallow as if there wasn't enough air. Despite the ozone charge of the fast-flowing water spraying around her.

It was a man's right hand. Sam always wore his watch on the left. Didn't he?

Or was she merely trying to talk herself into that?

She took more photos. Up close there were tiny teeth marks on the bones. Gingerly she moved the large, interwoven mat of debris from the other end of the arm.

A man's head, grotesque, swollen, yellow, bobbed up from the water, breaking the surface, its mouth open in a gaping grimace.

Sarah slipped. Skittering back along the boulder, unable to regain her balance, her feet flew out from under her. Dead leaves and twigs scattered through the air. She slammed back against the rock face, cracking her head. One foot slid into the water, into the grasp of slimy, decomposed vegetation that tried to suck her down.

Her rope stopped her from tumbling completely into the water where she'd be at the mercy of the current. She lay there, her left leg bent against the boulder, her right one immersed up to her knee, cold water surging in to fill her boot, her head throbbing, her vision flickering with bright lights. At first she couldn't breathe, it was as if all the air had been sucked out and her lungs collapsed.

She made an effort and drew a deep, long draught of sparkling crisp air that burned her lungs. The muscles along her right chest wall voiced their protest and she knew she'd find bruises there by morning. At least she'd live to see morning.

The river seemed to cackle at her as the water sprayed up into her face, warning her that it was always there, ready, waiting for her to screw up again. She took another deep breath and steadied herself on the rope, hauling her water-logged leg free from the mire. Her boot stayed on, thank goodness.

She flopped back onto the boulder, not caring about the water soaking the rest of her. Then slowly she sat up, focused on her gruesome discovery. Her pack had gotten slammed against the rock when she fell, but her camera seemed to be working fine.

The head was misshapen, giving it the appearance of being swollen. The lower jaw hung by one side only. The flesh, eyes, tongue were all gone as were several of the teeth, leaving a gaping hole behind. The bone was exposed in a few patchy areas but most of the skull was covered by greasy yellow-brown adipocere tissue and algae interspersed with tangles of hair.

The man's clothes were intact—which explained why his remains hadn't totally disarticulated and scattered at the river's whim. Beneath a black windbreaker, he wore what once had been a light blue shirt with a buttoned down collar.

Did Sam have a shirt like that? Maybe, probably. It was the kind of shirt that every man had hanging in his closet, even a work at home dad like Sam.

Her stomach clenched, acid bit the back of her throat as she breathed through her mouth. Not because of the smell, although now there was enough debris stirred up to create a sweetly-sick stench. Her vision darkened and she realized she was hyperventilating.

She turned away from the head and forced herself to focus on the river. Down here, right at its surface, it looked deceptively innocent, playful. White water rushed past, breaking against the boulder she had claimed, then moving back out to the center of the current. The side of the chasm blocked her view of the falls, but she could hear them, feel them rumbling, shaking the earth.

Her breathing under control, she bent forward, her face mere inches away from the wristwatch bobbing on the water's surface.