Blind Faith (16 page)

She wanted to look away, to deny the need in his eyes, the need in her body, but she couldn't. Alan broke the spell, dropping her hand and darting to the kitchen. "Damn! My pasta Arrabbiata!"

A clamor of pots and pans followed. Sarah wandered into the kitchen. "What's going on?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise. I wanted to cook for you. It's a very special recipe I learned from a chef in Florence." He stirred a bubbling pot that threatened to boil over. Sarah inhaled, relishing the scents of garlic, fennel, basil and tomatoes. When Alan's sauce had simmered down and the crisis was averted, he turned to her with a sheepish grin. "I wanted everything to be perfect tonight. For you."

Sarah stared at him, one hand going to her hair, finding a cluster of nettles there. "For me?"

"Why not? You deserve to be happy, don't you?"

Before she could answer, he pressed a large glass of red wine into her hand. "Drink, you'll feel better. Then you take a nice bath, change into your most beautiful dress and we'll have a proper dinner."

He raised his own glass, clinking it against hers. She drank deeply, the rich, mellow Merlot soothing her nerves like a salve. Before she knew it, she had almost finished the glass. Alan topped it off again. With a laugh, he placed his hand on the small of her back, steering her toward the bathroom.

"After dinner, I have something special I need to ask you," he said as the door shut between them.

Sarah set the glass down on the table beside the bathtub and sagged against the sink. She had a pretty good idea what Alan wanted to ask her and she wasn't ready for it. Not at all.

He was a nice man; a dear, sweet man; a good friend. He'd waited two years for her. Could she disappoint him, hurt him like that? She cocked her head as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Somehow Alan had seen past the grief and the anger and every other excuse she'd cloaked herself in, refusing to return to the outside world. Somehow, despite all that, he still wanted her.

She bent over to start the bath and her vision grew dark again. The wine was already hitting her hard, her toes were tingling, and she felt as if she were floating. She knew better. What she needed was water, not wine.

No, what she needed was courage. She raised the glass to her lips again. For that, wine would do better than water.

The rush of the water filling the tub echoed the whirling thoughts colliding in her brain. She didn't love Alan. But she did like him. She couldn't bear to hurt him, not after everything he'd done for her. Maybe she should say yes, let him get close, maybe with time...

Suddenly, the hair on her arms rose as if a ghost had just walked over her grave. The window was shut, the lace curtains undisturbed, no one was here except her. Yet, she could swear she felt Sam's presence, could smell the familiar tang of his sweat. It was sharper than she remembered, as if he was afraid.

She couldn't help herself. She tugged the curtains aside and stared past the lilac bushes, past the lawn into the dark shadows of Snakehead Mountain. There was no movement in the twilight. Not even a stray deer or rabbit. She was alone. Absolutely alone.

Sarah inhaled again. And smelled only the lilac bubble bath. She sank down to sit on the edge of the tub. A wave of disappointment washed over her.
Fool, it's you that's afraid, not some figment of your imagination.

She glanced at the mirror. The steam had formed letters there. She squinted, thinking at first that she was mistaken and looked again.

Our tree, sunset—I'll explain all. I love you forever. Your MM.

Her hands clenched against the side of the tub as she stared at the letters filling her mirror. No, it couldn't be. It just couldn't. Pain stabbed between her eyes and she felt a knot tightening her throat, choking her. Her vision wavered.

She lurched up, anxious to get a closer look at the message, to show it to Alan, to prove to someone else that she wasn't crazy. She broke out in a clammy sweat. Dimly she heard the wine glass shatter on the floor as a thunderous roar overcame her. And then she felt nothing.

Caitlyn declined to answer Hal's question about her motives. Not only because she was on shaky ground since this wasn't actually official business, but also because all her attention was focused on restraining her migraine and the accompanying nausea. She rolled her window down, sucking in the crisp evening air. After an initial attempt at further conversation, Hal left her in peace.

Finally, they arrived at a large Queen Anne house complete with a round turret and wide veranda. Hal pulled around back to where there was a gravel parking lot, a gazebo and an inviting path into a garden shielded by beech and willow trees. Serenity Grove, a sign proclaimed.

Hal grabbed his cell phone and jumped out, rocking the SUV as he slammed the door. Caitlyn closed her eyes for a brief moment, composing herself, forcing the headache into retreat, then joined him at the rear door of the mortuary.

He rang a doorbell and a moon-faced overweight man in his forties appeared a few minutes later. "Hal, didn't know you were coming down tonight."

The man's attention was focused on Caitlyn. He wore a T-shirt hidden by a large rubber apron and carried a set of black, extended length rubber gloves in his hands. "And who's your beautiful companion?"

Caitlyn was surprised by Hal's frown at Merton's leer. She offered her hand and shook his. "I'm Caitlyn Tierney, Mr. Merton. Thank you for allowing me to observe."

Merton kept her hand in his as he glanced at Hal. "Observe?"

"She's FBI," Hal answered tersely. He stepped forward, forcing Merton to both drop Caitlyn's hand and concede the point. Caitlyn followed the two men through a dark corridor to a windowless room. A stainless steel table with a sink at one end sat under the bright glare of an overhead examination light. A lighted magnification unit was poised over the head of the bed. An unopened body bag lay on the table.

Lined up on the counters were embalming chemicals, surgical instruments, a corkboard with pin ups of photographs of the recently deceased when they'd seen better days, several wigs perched on foam heads, and a multi-tiered makeup kit that would rival any Hollywood studio's.

"Sorry about the smell, ma'am." Gerald's eyes glinted with a smirk that said he wasn't sorry at all, that he was eager to see how the "lady" reacted to the stench of decomp.

"No problem," she said, meeting his eyes effortlessly. "I've been around much worse."

Which was true. The smell of body decay didn't make her stomach revolt. It was the overwhelming sickly sweet scent of carnations, roses, and a chemical room deodorizer that was meant to smell like apples and cinnamon. Combined with Merton's citrus cologne, that he apparently bathed in, Caitlyn's olfactory senses reeled.

Merton's face tightened with disappointment and he turned to address Hal, ignoring Caitlyn. "Haven't started yet, Chief. No one told me this was a rush job."

"Didn't know myself."

She took shallow breaths through her nose and stubbornly refused to reach in her bag for the jar of Vicks she always carried. Her headache began a drum roll against the back of her eyes and the bright lights didn't help any, but then she saw that Hal looked pretty wretched as well. She had the feeling those zillion or so fries he'd chowed down on weren't sitting so well right about now.

Somehow the thought eased her own discomfort. Petty, she knew, but she'd take comfort where she could find it. Spotting a box of vinyl gloves on the counter, she slid a pair on, shrugged out of her jacket and set her bag down in a safe corner. Then, as the two men watched, she approached their silent partner, the unknown corpse wrapped in its body bag.

"Mind if I do the honors?" She didn't wait for their answer, but unzipped the bag.

The corpse grinned up at her with a lopsided grimace. She didn't take it personally. Rigor mortis and post-mortem changes often created that rictus. In this case, the effect was amplified by his jaw hanging to one side and his missing teeth.

Remnants of adipocere formed greasy, brown islands of fatty tissue interposed with tufts of light-colored hair and exposed sections of skull. Caitlyn carefully worked the bag to one side, exposing only the skull.

"Ruler?" she asked, holding out a hand without looking.

She slid a neck support below the head, elevating it so she could examine the entire circumference. Merton rummaged through a drawer, eventually pulling forth a white plastic T-square with large numerals on it. He slapped it into her waiting hand and danced back, ready to pounce if she needed anything.

Caitlyn adjusted the ruler. A flash and whirl of a camera told her that Hal knew his job. He circled behind her, taking photos from every angle as she positioned the ruler. She carefully combed through the corpse's remaining hair, depositing the remnants of grey algae, dead leaves and other organic debris into Petri dishes Hal held open for her.

Her headache retreated as she concentrated on the corpse. She liked the way Hal anticipated her needs, moving with her in a well-choreographed dance. The only sound in the room was the occasional sound of the camera and Merton's nasal wheezing.

Caitlyn parted the clump of hair above the man's left ear and straightened. "Bingo," she said, rolling her shoulders.

"Entrance wound?" Hal asked, shooting several close-ups.

Merton crowded against them, eagerly leaning over the table, blocking the light. Caitlyn used her arm to push him aside. "Excuse me, sir. You don't mind me borrowing this, do you?"

He shook his head silently, stepping back far enough for her to slide the magnifying lamp over. She clicked it on, centered it over the wound. "Entrance wound," she confirmed. "Look at the stellate damage to the bone. That wasn't done by any animal."

"What about a blow to the head?" Hal asked. "He was found at the bottom of the gorge. Lots of chances to hit rocks and such."

Caitlyn considered this. "Maybe. But that doesn't explain this." She grabbed a pipe cleaner from the canister on the counter and probed the wound. "Look now, can you see it?"

Hal's body was nestled beside hers as he leaned down and peered through the glass. "Damn. Is that what I think it is?"

"A bullet. Looks fairly large. I'm guessing a forty caliber."

Hal gave a low whistle. "I'm impressed, Agent Tierney. But you realize there's one problem with your theory. Forty caliber ammunition is usually reserved for law enforcement officers."

"And the military. If this is Leo Richland, then he could have been shot with his own gun. In which case, we'll have ballistics on file."

Hal cleared his throat, touched her arm. Caitlyn looked up, was surprised to see the muscle at his jaw twitching as he stared at her as if she was the one who'd shot Richland.

"Mind telling me just who the hell Leo Richland is?" he asked, his voice booming through the cramped room. "Seems the least you could do, seeing as how all the sudden I'm in charge of his murder investigation."

Sarah opened her eyes. She lay on her bed, still fully clothed, a cold washcloth draped over her forehead. Black spots danced in her vision and her head throbbed. The mattress sighed as Alan sat down beside her. His eyes filled with concern as he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers.

"Feeling better?"

She nodded and tried to sit up, but the motion made her head spin. Alan reached behind her, propped her up on a stack of pillows.

"You scared the shit out of me," he said. She glanced up at him in surprise. Alan never swore. Never. "I called Dr. Hedeger."

"Call him back," she replied, her voice as wobbly as her vision. "Tell him I'm fine." She swung her legs around and sat upright. He circled an arm around her shoulders to steady her. "Unless he has a cure for stupidity."

"It's my fault. I should have never given you that wine." His fingers drew circles on the bare flesh of her arm. "That's all it was, right? I mean, you'd tell me if there was something else going on. Wouldn't you, Sarah?"

Her stomach tightened as she remembered the words on the mirror. She felt her breath catch and had to swallow back an ambush of tears. If Sam was alive, then was Josh?

"Sarah? You okay?"

She nodded, her mind barraged by an avalanche of thoughts. Sam alive, Josh alive, why, how, where, why—or was it all someone's idea of a sick joke? No. No one knew her nickname for Sam.

She ignored Alan and stared past him, her gaze caught by the bright cobalt and white tiles of the bathroom beyond.

Maybe she had hallucinated it? Maybe the fatigue and wine and everything else had warped her mind, made her see what she wanted to see? She pushed to her feet, staggering a step or two, then moving with steady purpose to the bathroom. Alan followed.

"Sarah, what's wrong?"

The mirror was blank. Of course it was. She turned on the taps, as hot as they would go.

Alan grabbed her waist before she could step onto broken glass. "What are you doing? At least let me clean up this mess first."

Sarah leaned against the sink, her mouth inches away from the mirror, adding her breath to the steam. The mirror fogged over but remained stubbornly blank.

"Nothing." The word emerged against her will, but once said aloud she was forced to acknowledge it. "There's nothing."

Alan glanced at her sharply. "Now you're really scaring me. What were you expecting to see?" He tugged her away from the sink, reached past her to turn the water off and guided her back to the bedroom. He sat her down on the bed once more. "Look at you, you're a mess. Exhausted. You need a good night's sleep. No more climbing alone on the mountain."

She remained silent, staring at the billows of steam escaping from the bathroom. Alan knelt before her, blocking her view. He took her hands in his and finally she looked down, met his eyes. "Promise me. No more. I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you." He squeezed her hands. "Please, Sarah. Promise me."

"All right, Alan. I promise."