Traceless (2 page)

He
was there. His hands on Heather's throat, blood all over him. Emily had tried to pull him off, but he was too strong. Beyond the horror in her room she had heard the sirens in the distance ... so damned far away. Finally she'd managed to push Clint Austin aside and then she'd seen the other wound on her friend's throat. Nothing Emily had attempted had stanched the flow pulsing from that fatal gash ... all that blood had just kept seeping out around her fingers.

And then the police were everywhere ... the paramedics had urged Emily out of the way. Everything had happened so fast and yet it was all loo, too late.

Heather was dead.

The room tilted and Emily's stomach churned violently. Moving with extreme caution, she stood, her legs trembling, then walked stiffly, slowly, to the ladies' room.

Fortunately, all three stalls were empty. Having anyone bear witness to her breakdown would only lead to questions. Questions she couldn't bear to answer. She went into the first stall, closed the door, and dropped to her knees in the nick of time. Her stomach heaved viciously. She vomited until there was nothing left before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and collapsing on the cold tile floor.

She couldn't be sure how much time passed, but she cried until no more tears would come, until pain had gathered in a fierce band around her skull. Each breath proved a monumental task with the weight of guilt crushing against her chest.

She had failed.

Her friend was dead. Emily hadn't been able to save her all those years ago and now hadn't been strong enough to keep her killer behind bars.

Emily had failed her friend twice.

A decade's worth of rage lashed so abruptly inside Emily that she twitched with the force of it. The fury obliterated the weaker emotions in an instant. She sat up straighter and leaned her throbbing head against the wall of the stall.

He was out.

How the hell could she sit here wallowing in self-pity like this? There was more she could do. More she had to do.

The law could set him free, but that didn't mean she had to give up for one second on proving what she knew in her heart.

He
was guilty.

He would pay for what he'd done. A mere ten years wasn't nearly compensation enough. There had always been the possibility that this day might come. All she had to do was be strong. It wasn't over until she said it was over.

Emily braced a hand on the toilet seat and levered herself to her feet. Still feeling a little unsteady, she flushed the toilet and pushed out of the stall. She washed up and headed back to her office, mentally ticking off the list of things she would need to do before leaving: clear her desk, transfer her calls to the switchboard, and divide up her workload between two of the file clerks in her department.

In a few hours she could be on her way to Pine Bluff to do what had to be done.

Clint Austin would not be free for long.

CHAPTER TWO

Jackson County

11:18 a.m.

Clint took in the familiar passing landscape like a starving man introduced to an all-you-can-eat buffet for the first time. A hell of a lot had changed in ten years, but the closer they got to Pine Bluff the more things looked the same, as if the hole-in-the-wall that was his hometown had been frozen in time. Equal parts dread and anticipation coagulated low in his belly.

"You listening to me, Clint?"

Clint aimed one of those cold stares that had backed down more trouble than he cared to recall at the driver. "Yeah, sure."

Three hours on the road and Chief of Police Ray Hale had tried initiating a conversation several times, but Clint had no desire to talk or even to make the effort. The idea that Ray was likely the only friend Clint had should have but didn't arouse the necessary motivation.

He and Ray hadn't actually ever been friends, just acquaintances. Ray had graduated from high school the year before Clint. He'd been a green recruit on the Pine Bluff police force a decade ago, but now he was the chief and, truth told, he was probably the main reason Clint was free.

He was free.

He inhaled deeply. Even the air smelled different outside those damned prison walls. Gone was the heavy stench of days-old sweat and perpetual fear. A shudder rocked through him before he could stop it. He was never going back there.

"I know it isn't fair, Clint," Ray went on in spite of the lack of interest from his captive audience, "but the folks around here are going to expect a man filled with remorse and humility. Do you think you can handle that for a little while?"

Like Clint gave one shit what people in this damned town expected. Ray should give it a rest. No way was he going to make Clint feel what he wanted him to feel.... Ray couldn't make Clint say what he wanted him to say.

"Mr. Higgins is offering you a job at his repair shop, and your mama's place is ready to move into."

Guilt broadsided Clint and he flinched. His mama was dead. Six years now. His request to attend her funeral had been denied by the warden. Clint's fingers fisted into tight balls of contempt. That was one son of a bitch if given the opportunity Clint was pretty sure he could kill and never feel the slightest guilt.

But he couldn't let anger rule him. He'd done that at first and he'd paid the price. Prison wasn't the place to go with a chip on your shoulder, especially if you didn't possess the necessary skills to back it up. What the hell did a nineteen-year-old kid who'd thought he was a tough guy back home know about surviving prison life with hard-core criminals?

Not a damned thing.

"Everything's pretty much set," Ray went on, determined not to let the one-sided conversation lull. "Be sure to keep in mind that a job is one of the conditions of your parole."

Clint surprised himself and said, "I'll talk to Higgins about the job." His voice sounded rough and unfamiliar, even to his own ears, but then there hadn't been a lot of need to talk where he'd been.

Ray made the final turn that would take Clint home. The house, weathered barn, and plot of land his mama had owned sat five or so miles outside Pine Bluff proper, surrounded by nothing but woods and mountains and dusty dirt roads going nowhere.

"You've paid your debt to society," Ray added, as if he hadn't said enough already. "Start clean from here, Clint. Don't be looking back." His gaze shifted to Clint's as he came to a stop in the driveway. "Looking back will only create problems you'll regret."

The naive police chief had no idea. Regret was something Clint had learned not to feel, along with a host of other emotions. As if to contradict him, his heart started that fierce pounding that made him feel out of control. He had to concentrate hard to make it slow. That was the thing about prison; there wasn't much a man could regulate outside his own emotions. Getting real good at that kind of control had been Clint's only escape.

But he was home now and with that came baggage he couldn't hope to dismiss with the usual techniques. Adjustments would need to be made to ensure no one got too close. He couldn't afford to let that happen.

His gaze settled on the place he'd called home before his life had gone to hell. The aged, peeling paint left the small frame house a ghostly shade of silvery white. The yard was freshly mown, probably Ray's doing. Even the perennial plants Clint's mother had cultivated year after year were in bloom. He felt his chest expand with air. He hadn't realized until then that he'd stopped breathing.

He was back.

"Power's on," Ray said. "Well's working fine. The ladies from church came over and did a little cleaning. I stocked the kitchen so you wouldn't have to worry about that for a few days." He propped his elbow in the open window of the driver's side door. "You'll need to go into town to meet with, Lee Brady, your parole officer. Be best if you did that today. Other than that, you might want to take some time before running into any unnecessary... situations." He shrugged. "I know it'll be tough for a while."

Situations
. Ray meant before showing his face around town any more than necessary. Before coming into contact with the folks who'd stolen a major portion of his life for a crime he hadn't committed.

Clint shifted his attention from the house to the man sitting behind the wheel. Anger whipped through Clint before he could stop it. "I don't need your pity or your advice, Ray." He knew he should have simply said,
Thanks
, but he didn't.

Ray let go another of those heavy, exasperated sighs. "That attitude won't help," he offered in response to Clint's edict. "Most folks don't want you back here. But, with time and patience, it'll all blow over."

Clint stared at the house he hadn't set foot inside in over ten years. "I don't give a damn what they think."

"That may be," Ray countered, "but your anger won't keep you from feeling the shame. You might think it will, but it won't."

Clint didn't remember the last time he'd laughed at something anyone else said, but the words prompted the strained sound from his throat. "That's where you're wrong, Ray. There isn't a damned thing these people can do that will make me feel anything at all."

Clint opened the truck's door and Ray put a hand on his arm, making him hesitate before getting out and sending a new surge of tension through him. He didn't like being touched, but he let it go this once.

"You have every right to be bitter, Clint. But what the hell good is your freedom if all you're going to do is wrestle with a past you can't change?"

Clint didn't answer. He got out of the truck, didn't look back or say good-bye as he strode forward. Ray's well-meaning counsel was something he didn't need. He didn't need anything or anyone. He wasn't wasting the effort pretending. He had his own agenda, and nothing or no one was going to get in his way.

He walked up the steps and across the front porch to the door; his hand shook as he unlocked it. Gravel crunched as Ray drove away. The silence settled around Clint and still he hesitated before going in, waited for permission the way he'd been trained—like a dog—to do. That automatic reaction renewed the anger simmering deep inside him. He didn't need anyone's permission to enter his own goddamned house.

He crossed the threshold, elbowed the door closed behind him, and trembled as a flood of memories washed over him. The house still smelled like her. Felt like her. His chest ached. Same old worn-out furnishings. Same framed photos scattered about, glimpses of his history. Such as it was. He'd graduated from high school by the skin of his teeth, but he hadn't cared. His future had been all mapped out. He'd owned a fast car, had a slick job, women begging for a date with him, and was the envy of the town's male population. Life had been full of promise.

But that happy-go-lucky arrogance had deserted him hard and fast as he lay facedown on a cold concrete floor his first night in prison.

Pushing aside the memories, he walked to the fireplace and picked up the porcelain music box that sat amid the other cheap knickknacks on the mantel. At seventeen he'd gotten his first decent-paying job. Sylvester Fairgate had paid Clint fifty bucks to deliver a message to a scumbag who owed him money. That had been the beginning of Clint's tough-guy reputation and his barely legal career. No one could believe he'd driven to Decatur and waltzed into Frank Dennison's TV repair shop that fronted a small-time bookie operation and passed along the warning issued by Fairgate.

Lots of balls, not nearly enough brains.

Afterward Clint had gone straight to Treasures Gift Shop and bought the music box. He'd seen his mama stop many times at the big trinket-filled window to admire the porcelain image of a red-haired beauty in a flowing gown playing a baby grand piano. When he'd given his mama the present, she'd cried and insisted he take it back. He'd refused. She'd cried some more before finally accepting his gift and thanking him again and again. That silly music box had meant the world to her.

The mistakes he'd made had hurt her. Maybe even worse than those of his no-good, low-down daddy. That bastard had taken off when Clint was four years old. Just another bad-luck chapter in the life and times of Clint Austin.

He wandered through the house, feeling restless and wary. If he'd been smart, he would have headed anywhere but here. But no one had ever accused him of being a rocket scientist.

He pushed open the door to his room and felt a ripple of surprise. His mother had painstakingly put everything back just exactly as it had been before the police had ripped it apart looking for evidence. Evidence they hadn't found.

Hatred seared him. He'd been at the wrong place at the wrong time. They'd had nothing on him, except bad timing, stupidity, and the testimony of one person.

Emily Wallace.

Jaw clenched, he picked up his senior yearbook, still prominently displayed atop the dresser. He wondered how many times his mother had thumbed through it wishing for happier days. He paused on the page showcasing the varsity cheerleaders. There she was, all smiles alongside her best friend, Heather Baker.

He had thought Emily was the prettiest girl he'd ever seen. No matter how many girls he dated, she was the one he fantasized about in bed each night during those final minutes before drifting off to sleep. But she'd been out of his league, a good girl from a well-to-do family.