TRACE EVIDENCE (15 page)

Had she come directly home from school who knew what kind of scene Clay would now be processing? The very thought made his blood chill.

He turned from the window as Trey Morgan, who had been gathering evidence from the bedroom, entered the living room. "I think I got everything worth getting from the bedroom and bathroom," he said.

"You want to check and see if Burt needs help outside. I'm pretty much finished here, too."

Trey nodded and disappeared out the front door. Clay moved back to the front window and once again peered out at Tamara.

She was too far away for him to tell what kind of an expression rode her pretty features. He could easily imagine what her expression was going to be when she walked through the front door and viewed the shambles that had been her home.

It would have been easy for him to pack up his collected evidence and get to the lab, leaving it to the uniformed officers to bring her inside.

But he didn't intend to do that. He knew what had been destroyed here, and it was far more than mere furniture, knickknacks and personal belongings.

The aura of tranquility that he had noticed both times he'd been inside the house was gone, shattered beneath the violence that had taken place here. And he wasn't sure that any amount of glue and cleanup would be able to restore that special air of serenity to the cottage.

When Trey came back inside, Clay gestured to the metal suitcase that carried all the samples he'd taken. "Would you mind dropping that off at the lab when you take your samples in? I'm going to hang out here and find out what Ms. Greystone intends to do. It's obvious she can't stay here for the night."

"Sure. If there's nothing more for us to do here, Randy and I will go ahead and take off."

"We're finished," Clay replied. "Store the samples and I'll start on them tomorrow."

The two men said goodbye and Trey left. There would be plenty of items for Clay to process the next day, but no certainty that anything they collected would lead to the perpetrator. Clay wondered how many of his own hairs Trey had collected off Tamara's bed.

He walked to the front door and as he exited the house, Tamara stood up and took a few steps toward him. They had, not spoken at all since he'd arrived to begin his investigation.

As he drew closer to her, he saw that her gray eyes were somber, but there wasn't a trace of tears in their depths. Someplace deep inside him marveled at her strength.

"It's bad, isn't it," she said.

"It's bad," he confirmed. He looked at the two officers who stood nearby. "Somebody is going to have to keep on eye on the place until it's secured."

Jason, one of the two officers, nodded. "I've al ready given Jeb a call and told him we've got some work for him. He can board up the windows and secure the house until Ms. Greystone gets things back in order."

"Good." Although Clay didn't like Jason Sheller, the man had always done his job efficiently. "If Jeb is on his way, then Tamara and I can wait here for him and you two can get on back to the station house."

Clay didn't speak to Tamara again until the two officers had gotten into their patrol car and started down the lane away from the house, only then did he direct his attention back to her.

"You know you can't stay here. The exterior damage is nothing compared to the interior damage. Is there someplace you can go for a couple of nights until you can get the mess cleaned up? What about your parents' place?"

She shook her head. "My parents moved last year to a beautiful condo in
Santa Fe
and I know Alyssa has a full house right now. Don't worry, I'll think of something. Can I go inside now?"

Clay nodded, fighting the impulse to take her elbow, hold her hand, and somehow offer support as she walked through the place she had called home.

At that moment Jeb pulled up in his pickup. He'd come prepared with sheets of plywood and the tools he would need to board up the broken windows.

If Cherokee Corners had an official handyman, it was Jeb Tanner. Skilled not only in carpentry, but also in plumbing and wiring as well,
Jeb's
truck was a familiar sight around town.

Clay didn't have to tell him what had to be done, the quiet young man simply went to work, pulling plywood from the back of the truck as he nodded to Clay.

Clay turned back to Tamara. "Ready?"

She nodded and they walked side-by-side up the porch stairs and to the front door. He heard the deep breath she drew before she stepped through the threshold and into what had been her living room.

"Oh." The single expression fell from her lips as she viewed the damage. She wrapped her arms around her stomach as if the sight made her stomach ache.

He followed her gaze around the room and felt as if he were seeing it all for the first time. Stuffing hung from the sofa, spilling from knife wounds that had rent the fabric. The beautiful collection of glass and crystal hummingbirds now crunched underfoot. Plants had been overturned, books ripped apart and the walls all had the mark of the bear claws scarring them.

He followed her into the kitchen, where the same kind of damage had been done. Cabinets had been ripped open, the contents crashed to the floor. Ceramic shards were all that was left of her dishes and mugs.

Again he found himself admiring the inner strength that seemed to hold her together. Her back remained ramrod straight, her eyes utterly tearless as she silently viewed all the things that had been broken.

For some reason, her unemotional calm bothered him more than if she'd screamed and cried with each discovery of ruin. It was as if her pain was too great for tears.

As they returned to the living room, he finally broke the silence. "You should gather some things together … clothes and toiletries … whatever you'll need until this place can be cleaned up and made livable again."

"I can't believe this," she said. "This took so much unbridled energy to do all this damage." When she looked at him her eyes were dark, like tumultuous storm clouds. "This frightens me."

"It should," he more gruffly than he intended. Again he felt the need to pull her against him, chase away that darkness in her eyes … darkness he knew was the result of fear.

He certainly was no stranger to fear. He woke up with it every morning, went to bed with it as his nightly companion. The fear for his mother was a constant ache in his chest and he knew she must be feeling that same kind of uncertainty.

She picked up a torn canvas with a half-finished painting from the floor. "Nothing was spared, was it?"

Clay jammed his hands in his jeans pockets as if to stop himself from reaching out to her. "It would appear not."

"I'll just go get some things together." She started for the bedroom, but had taken only a step or two when she cried out and bent to the floor.

He couldn't see what it was that had caused her pain, but when she stood she held two pieces of something wooden in her hands and as she looked at him her eyes filled with tears. "It was my mother and father's courting flute." She bit her bottom lip as tears trailed down her cheeks. "How could anyone be so cruel?"

Clay pulled his hands from his pockets and gently took the two pieces of wood from her. Someplace in the back of his mind he knew that taking the wood was far safer than taking her into his arms. "Go get your things," he said gently.

She swiped at her tears and disappeared into the bedroom. He didn't follow her. Instead he remained in the living room and stared down at the two pieces of wood in his hand.

He could hear the sounds of
Jeb's
hammering coming from someplace in the back of the house. He assumed he was covering the bedroom windows that had been broken.

His fingers rubbed against the smooth wood of the broken flute. He remembered his mother telling him about the courting flute, that when a Cherokee man fell in love, he went to the river and searched for the perfect river cane to make into a flute. He then supposedly listened to his heart and composed a song for his loved one.

Clay knew nothing about composing songs, but he did know how important it was to follow his gut instinct, and his gut instinct was singing to him that Tamara was in danger.

She came out of her bedroom carrying a suitcase. Her shoulders now slumped and her eyes appeared reddened, indicating to him she'd shed a few more tears while packing her things.

"Tamara, it's clear to me that you are in danger," he said, deciding not to mince words. "If this is, indeed, an enactment of the legend of the bear, we both know the ending isn't exactly happy for the young Native maiden."

"I don't know what to do … I don't even know where to go."

"You can come to my place," Clay said, making the decision instantly. "I've got plenty of room and you'll be safe there. In fact we'll leave your car here, so nobody will see it around my house and know where you are."

"You really think that's necessary?" Her eyes were huge, filled with more vulnerability than he'd ever seen.

"I think you need to give us a couple of days to see if we can round up who is responsible for this. In the meantime it would be good if you kept an invisible profile and the best place to do that is at my house." He flashed her a dry smile. "Nobody ever comes to visit me."

* * *

Tamara felt as if she had been thrust onto the back of a wildly galloping horse. It seemed as if one minute she'd been standing in the ruins of her own home and the next minute she was being led down the hallway of Clay's ranch house to a spare bedroom.

She felt as if her brain had been wrapped in cloth and wasn't quite firing on all cylinders. The only emotion she seemed able to sustain at the moment was sheer, bone-aching exhaustion.

She scarcely looked around the room as Clay left her alone. All she wanted was to go to bed and wake up in the morning and realize this had all been nothing more than a bad dream.

It took her only minutes to take off her clothes and pull on her nightgown, then she slid beneath the crisp white sheets of the double bed and stared up at the dark ceiling.

It frightened her, the destruction that had been done to her home. And what frightened her more was the thought that if she hadn't gone to the ice cream parlor she would have been in the cottage.

What would have happened to her had she been home? And who was responsible? Who had done such a terrible thing? It was difficult for her to believe that one of her students was responsible. This wasn't some sort of bad prank or joke. It was something more evil than that, something more dangerous than that.

It took a while for her to fall asleep. Her surroundings were unfamiliar both in scent and in sound. The central air was hushed compared to her window unit at the cottage, although definitely more efficient. The room was void of scent, as if nobody had ever stayed here before.

She finally fell asleep and dreamed of bears. The big creatures were everywhere, hiding in her closets, slinking behind trees, watching her … waiting for her … wanting her.

When she woke up she knew instantly that it was far later than she normally slept. The sun was already high in the sky as she sat up and looked around the room where she'd spent her restless night.

The room was just as she'd remembered from the night before, clean and austere with just a bed and a chest of drawers for furniture.

She got out of bed and pulled on the short yellow robe that matched her nightie, then remembering what Clay had said about that particular attire, she grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt from her suitcase and changed into them before leaving the bedroom.

She didn't hear a sound as she followed the hallway into the living room. Living room was what the room was supposed to be, but it was more laboratory than anything. Two upholstered chairs and a television were the only items to attest that the room was perhaps occasionally used for living and relaxing, not just working.

However the rest of the room was testimony to Clay's work obsession. A stainless steel worktable stood along one wall, holding a complicated-looking microscope and high-powered lamps. There were several other pieces of equipment as well, but she steered clear from all of them.

Instead she breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped into a large, airy, quite ordinary kitchen. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, but the pot on the counter-top was empty. In front of the coffeepot was a note from Clay telling her to make herself at home and not to go anywhere.

Where was she going to go? She had no car. At the moment she had no home, at least not one that was livable. As she waited for a pot of coffee to brew she studied the note that Clay had written.

His handwriting was bold … strong, a reflection of the man himself. She pushed the note aside and rubbed the center of her forehead as she thought of her cottage. An edge of anger rose up inside her. She hated the fact that some creep had chased her away from her home.

Last night she'd been filled with fear. This morning she had more anger inside her than fear. She got up and poured herself a cup of coffee, then stood at the kitchen window and stared outside.

Clay's house was just inside the city limits on the west side of Cherokee Corners. His only neighbor appeared to be an old oil drill that stood unmoving like a frozen, mechanical giant insect.