Cold Cold Heart (17 page)

“Home.”

“Alone?”

“Why?”

“Mrs. Tarantino fired you last night,” Carver said. “I have to think you might have been a little angry. Or a lot angry.”

“You can tell me what this is about,” John said, “or we're done talking.”

“You shouldn't take an attitude with me, John. I'm gonna be the closest thing you've got to a friend here. The detective in charge of this case wants me to bring you in for a talk.”

“What case?”

“April Johnson was assaulted last night cutting through these very woods after work. Somebody beat the ever-living shit out of her and raped her.”

Heat flashed through John from the top of his head, down his arms, down his legs. “You're calling me a rapist?”

Carver held his hands up. “I didn't call you anything, John. I asked you where you were last night.”

Anger ran like a fire along his nerve endings. Anger and fear. This wasn't the first time he'd been accused of something. He knew how this would go. He'd get hauled in to the sheriff's office, someone would tip off a reporter. The next thing would be a media feeding frenzy, and then the public outcry.

No one would care that he was now a decorated war hero. To the people who had been here seven years ago, he would still be the boyfriend of a girl who had disappeared, never to be seen again.

There was a part of him that wanted to bolt forward and knock Tim Carver flat, then jump in his truck and get the hell out of Shelby Mills, out of Liddell County, out of Indiana.

A low growl rumbled beside him, distracting him, and he looked
down and to his left. The young dog had crept out of the woods and come to stand near him. It stared at Tim Carver without blinking, hackles raised.

Carver looked at the dog, frowning. “You'd better have control over your dog.”

“It's not my dog,” John said.

“Really? Then I'm calling Animal Control to come and get it. That thing looks mean.”

John took a step toward the dog and said, “Git!”

The dog scurried backward to the edge of the woods and stood there.

“I don't know,” John said. “Seems like he's maybe a good judge of character.”

“Ha-ha. Be glad they sent me,” Carver said. “Another deputy might have just hauled your ass in and shot that dog for a cur. I'm giving you an opportunity here, John.”

“An opportunity to what?”

“To get out in front of this thing.”

“There is no
thing
to get in front of,” John said. “I don't know anything about that girl.”

He pulled his truck keys out of his coat pocket.

Carver's eyes went straight to the damaged hand—the red, swollen knuckles, the lacerated flesh.

“What'd you do there, John? Go a few rounds with a tree trunk?”

“Something like that.”

“You gonna tell me I should see the other guy?”

“There was no other guy.”

“Sure looks to me like someone got a beating,” Carver said. “And I've got a girl lying in the hospital looks like she went the distance with Mike Tyson.”

“Then maybe you ought to go looking for him,” John said. “I haven't done anything wrong.”

“If you haven't done anything wrong, then you probably won't mind if I have a look inside the cab of your truck.”

“I mind,” John said. “You want to look in my truck, you can get a warrant.”

“That attitude's not gonna help you any, John.”

John went to the back of the truck and dropped the tailgate. As he backed away, the dog came up to investigate, sniffing, then jumped up into the bed of the pickup.

“I thought you said that wasn't your dog,” Carver said.

John closed the tailgate. “He's not, but if he's willing to stick up for me, I'll do the same for him.”

“You always were loyal.”

Which was more than he could have said for Tim Carver, who had routinely cheated on Dana Nolan their senior year of high school. But he didn't say that. It was none of his business how Tim Carver defined loyalty.

“Am I free to go?” he asked.

Carver frowned. “I can't say that you won't be hearing from the detective on this case. He's the same one working Casey Grant's case. He thinks you're a guy he should talk to.”

“Yeah? Where'd he get that idea?”

John pulled the door open and got into the truck. Carver came and stood beside the cab, looking in.

“I didn't write the history book, John,” he said. “It is what it is. You can cooperate or not. I'm just giving you the heads-up here. You'd do better for yourself if you didn't make every single thing in your life so goddamn hard.”

“Yeah, well, I guess that's just me,” John said. He pulled the truck's door shut and started the engine.

“It always was,” Tim Carver said, shaking his head. “It always was.”

Are you sure
you don't want us to drop you off at the gym?” Dana's mother asked. “Frankie's teaching classes until nine; then she'll bring you home.”

“I don't need a babysitter,” Dana said as she watched her mother dig a lipstick out of her purse and apply it, looking at herself in the entry-hall mirror. “I'm not eight years old.”

“I don't think you need a babysitter,” her mother said, looking at her via the mirror. “I thought you might not feel comfortable being home alone.”

“I'll be fine,” Dana said. “You look nice.”

In her smart tailored navy-blue suit and pearl necklace, she looked conservative and professional, like she could have just as easily been the Mercer running for state office. She turned around and smiled.

“Thank you, sweetheart. You know how I hate these political dinners. I'd rather stay home with you. We could make popcorn and watch some old movies.”

“Lynda?” Roger's voice boomed down the stairwell. “Where are my cuff links?”

“In the little jeweler's envelope on your dresser! I got them fixed, remember?” she called back. She looked at Dana and rolled her eyes, as if to say
Men!

“Got it! Thank you!”

She turned her attention back to Dana. “There's baked ziti left over from last night in the refrigerator. Just reheat it in the microwave. And there's salad. Please remember to eat.”

“I will.”

“And don't forget to take your meds,” she said as the doorbell rang. “You'll probably be in bed by the time we get home. These things drag on and on. I can't wait for this election to be over.”

Dana stepped to the side, out of direct view, as her mother opened the door.

“Wesley,” her mother said, stepping back to allow Roger's campaign manager into the foyer. “Are you our chauffeur for the evening?”

“I guess so. I want to go over some talking points with Roger on the way. The opposition is trying to bring up the gay marriage issue again.”

He glanced over at Dana and came toward her with a serious expression and an outstretched hand. “Dana, I'm Wesley Stevens. We didn't get properly introduced yesterday.”

Dana looked at his stubby hand, meeting it reluctantly with her own. Not expecting to see a stranger in her home, she had put on a long-sleeved thermal T-shirt and felt naked now without a hood to pull up and hide inside.

Stevens was in a dark suit and white shirt with a prep-school striped tie. His jacket didn't want to hang properly—too snug in the biceps and not quite right in the shoulders—a fit that suggested he worked out more than the average man.

“I'd actually like to sit down and have a conversation with you, Dana,” he said. “I'm sure Roger has told you we've had a lot of interest in you from the prime-time news magazines. They all want to do your story. You can—”

“No,” Dana said, yanking her hand back. She couldn't resist the urge to wipe her palm on her jeans. His hand was clammy and soft,
and the idea of a stranger touching her made her want to go take a shower.

Stevens bit down on his professional smile. “I'm sure you'll want some time to settle in here at home, but when you're ready—”

“No.”

Dana's mother stepped between them. “Wesley, why don't you go start the car? We'll be right out.”

Wesley looked up as Roger came down the stairs in a charcoal suit and oxblood tie, his crisp white shirt a stark contrast to his tan. He looked successful and confident. He didn't so much as glance at Dana.

“Wesley, did you bring those notes we made this morning?”

“Yes, and I made a few more.”

“We'd better hit the road, Mrs. Mercer,” Roger said, pulling a topcoat out of the hall closet. “There's a rubber chicken dinner waiting with our names on it.”

Dana's mother kissed her cheek and rubbed the lipstick off with the pad of her thumb. “Call if you need me. Or call Frankie. She can be here in ten minutes.”

“I'll be fine,” Dana assured her, following her to the door.

She watched as they backed out of the driveway in Roger's SUV and drove away. Glad to have them gone, she shut and locked the door and went to the kitchen to fix her dinner. She turned the oven on, got the ziti out of the refrigerator, put some on a plate, and stuck it in the microwave, then walked away and forgot about it as she stared out the big window.

Her mind was a kaleidoscope of the memories she had dug up that afternoon after Tim Carver's visit. Now that she had opened those doors in her mind, she couldn't seem to close them. Faces, voices, feelings, sights, sounds, all swirled around and around.

She didn't want to think about her own story, the story Wesley Stevens wanted her to present to America on prime-time television. She had spent the last nine months living that story every moment
of every day. Now that she had rediscovered her past, it was almost a relief to focus on Casey's story—a thought that came with a mix of emotions that ran the gamut from guilt to obligation. In her own mind, at least, she could turn the spotlight away from herself to her friend, whose story had lain dormant all these years.

Her mother had told her that Casey had stayed over the night before she disappeared. They had undoubtedly sat at this table and had dinner. Dana sat now and imagined the two of them at the other end of the table, eating and talking and laughing. They would have spent the rest of the evening downstairs in the family room, watching movies, braiding each other's hair, doing each other's nails. Roger had spoken to her mother over the phone that night, complaining that two teenage girls were too much for him to handle. Whatever differences she and Casey had been having that summer must not have been that bad.

It seemed stupid that they would have been fighting about the boys in their lives when their lives were poised to move beyond Shelby Mills and high school sweethearts. The boys would have been moving on as well.

While Dana had always been the more goal and career oriented, and Casey had ultimately wanted to settle down and have a family, they had always talked about going off to college together. They couldn't wait to get away from small-town life, to make new friends, to experience campus life, to spread their wings and have adventures. But that fall Dana had gone off alone . . . and made new friends, and immersed herself in campus life, and spread her wings. And Casey had been nothing but a memory. The guilt and shame that came with that thought was palpable and sour in her mouth.

Dinner forgotten entirely, Dana left the kitchen and went back downstairs to her room and brought the computer screen to life with a jiggle of the mouse. Dr. Burnette wanted her to have a direction, and Dana felt the need for it as well. She wanted the comfort of a task, something to focus on that wasn't herself. Researching a
story was something she had always been good at. Digging for details and gathering facts made her feel like she was moving toward something, like a bloodhound on a scent. If ever she had needed to feel some small sense of accomplishment, it was now.

She sat down at the desk and called up one of the old news articles about Casey's disappearance, one she had read earlier, scanning for the name of the detective in charge of the case—Dan Hardy. The photo from one of the news conferences showed Hardy, a big, heavyset man with a formidable frown set beneath a bushy mustache. What Dana remembered most about him as she browsed the articles was that he was intimidating. He had a way of looking at a person that would make them feel guilty of something even if they weren't.

Tim had said Hardy retired and another detective at the sheriff's office had taken over the case. But, while that detective would have all the files and reports, Hardy would be the one with firsthand memories of what had happened.

She grabbed her phone and stared at it while she tried to screw up her nerve—or talk herself out of it. When she was a reporter, cold calls had been an everyday task, but even as she dialed information and asked for Dan Hardy's phone number, her nerves were jangling so badly she thought she would probably just hang up if he answered. But then the phone on the other end of the call was ringing, and suddenly a low, gruff voice said, “Hardy.”

Dana swallowed hard, her mouth instantly as dry as a desert. “Detective Hardy, my name is Dana Nolan,” she began. Her heart was pounding. “I don't know if you remem—”

“I remember you. I'm retired, not senile.”

“Oh, good, um,” she stammered, embarrassed that she was nervous. “I have some questions for you. About my friend Casey. Casey Grant. The girl who—”

“I know who Casey Grant is,” he said. “You have questions. Ask them.”

Oh God. Where did she begin? “I'm having trouble remembering what happened to Casey, and—”

“We don't know what happened to Casey.”

“I mean, I don't have a clear memory of the things that went on,” Dana corrected herself. “I'm hoping you might be willing to talk to me. Or if I could read over my interview with you—”

“All right. Come over.”

“Oh. Uh . . . um . . . Thank you,” she said, surprised he had agreed so easily when he seemed like such a disagreeable person. “When would be a good time for you—”

“Now. Tonight.”

“Um . . . uh . . . ,” she stammered. “I was thinking maybe tomorrow—”

“I won't be around tomorrow. I'm here now. Come tonight.”

Unable to stammer out an excuse, Dana scribbled the address he gave her on a pink Post-it. Hardy hung up before she had a chance to thank him or put him off.

She set her phone aside and stared at the address, her heart thumping. He wanted her to come to his house. The idea brought a wave of anxiety—not because she was afraid of him. Dan Hardy was—had been—a trusted law enforcement officer. He was hard-nosed and intimidating, but she didn't think he would harm her. It was the getting to him that put a fist of panic in her chest.

If she was going to see him tonight, she had to get herself to his house. Her mother wasn't here to take her. Frankie was teaching classes at the gym. She needed to go now, before she could lose her nerve or change her mind, or before her mother could talk her out of it.

She had argued with her mother earlier in the day that she should be able to drive herself around. This was her chance to exert her independence and prove that she was capable. Her car was sitting in the garage. She hadn't driven it since the day she was abducted. But she had driven her mother's car home from Dr. Burnette's office, and
that had gone well enough. There was no reason she shouldn't be able to drive to Detective Hardy's house ten minutes away.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she entered Hardy's address into the navigation app on her phone. She pulled on a hoodie over her T-shirt, grabbed a notebook and pen off the desk, and headed for the garage.

Upstairs, turn left, go through the kitchen, go through the laundry room . . .

Her car keys were hanging on the key rack beside the door from the laundry room into the garage. She recognized the big white plastic Hello Kitty on her key chain. She grabbed the keys and went into the garage, looking for and finding the buttons that opened the big doors.

The dark-green Mini Cooper—her college graduation gift from Roger and her mother—sat in the farthest bay. It had been so long since she'd been in it that it felt strange to slide behind the wheel. She took a moment to look over the gauges and find the ignition. She started the engine and sat there listening to it purr.

Heart beating a little too strongly, she turned on her navigation app on her phone and set her mind on following the voice commands as she backed slowly out of the garage. That was all she had to do, she told herself—follow instructions—and she would get there. No big deal.

To the end of the street. Turn right. Proceed point seven miles. Turn right.

She was so intent on following the orders given by the faceless female voice, she didn't realize she was going only about twenty miles an hour. A car behind her honked and pulled out and passed her, the driver giving her a dirty look as he passed.

Dana kept her attention on the road. The disembodied voice was sending her away from town rather than toward town. She didn't like that. The streetlights ended at the next left turn. And suddenly there was no more pavement, no more planned developments, and
she was driving up and down the hills of a gravel road with heavy woods on either side, going toward the river.

Anxiety stirring in her gut, Dana began to question her impulsivity. It was one thing to get lost in town. It was something else to get lost out here. She was going to the home of a former sheriff's detective, but it wouldn't matter that she trusted him if she ended up taking a wrong turn and found herself in the secluded yard of a drug dealer.

People lived out here for a reason: because they didn't want to be bothered. There were marijuana-growing operations out in these backwoods. Abandoned hunting camps were sometimes taken over by meth dealers as cookhouses. And then there were the men who lived alone for the simple reason that it wasn't safe for other people to live with them.

The anxiety built and turned and swelled up the back of her throat. The woods seemed to loom up on either side of the road, the tree limbs reaching up and out like bony arms with skeletal fingers. Dana gripped the steering wheel until she could feel her pulse throbbing in her hands.
Turn around, go back, turn around, go back
—the words bounced and echoed inside her head.

She jumped as the voice of the navigation app said, “In point four miles, turn left.”

Another turn. How many times had she turned? How many lefts? How many rights? What the hell had she been thinking, coming out here?

But even as she questioned her judgment, she made the left turn, as instructed.

“Your destination will be on your right,” the voice said pleasantly.