Cry Mercy (28 page)

“No,” she whispered. “Here. Now.”

He tugged her skirt up over her hips and his fingers were inside her, stroking her nearly to insanity.

“Nick.” She gasped, tugging at his waistband and finding his zipper, pulling it down as far as she could.

“Right.” He swallowed hard. “Here. Now.”

She parted her legs wider to welcome him, and
sighed with pleasure when he entered her. Her hips rocked in rhythm with his, together gathering speed and intensity like a runaway train. When the crash came, it was mighty and swift and overwhelming.

“I think the top of my head just blew off,” Emme said when she could find her voice.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured. “I usually take a little more time than—”

“If you apologize, I'm going to have to hurt you,” she told him, her breath still uneven.

He laughed and started to say something, but as he rose up on one elbow, his attention was drawn to the top of the slope.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “We have company.”

“What?” She bolted upright, closing the front of her shirt and pulling down her skirt.

From somewhere behind them she heard the barking of a dog.

“Shit.” Nick grumbled and pulled his cutoffs up, zipped the zipper and pulled on his T-shirt. “When Herb said one of the carpenters would be stopping over, I didn't think he meant
today.”

He looked down at her with concern. “Are you all right?”

“Other than the fact that I'm half-undressed and there's a stranger about to slide down that embankment, yeah, I'm fine.”

“I'll head him off,” he told her, pausing to lightly kiss the side of her face before standing and taking off up the slope.

What in the name of God has gotten into you?
her inner voice demanded as she gathered their partially eaten lunch.

She began to smile, cutting off the voice and offering no explanation for her uncharacteristic behavior. Every decision she'd made over the past four years had been strictly for Chloe. Today she'd made one strictly for herself. She'd be damned if she was going to make excuses for it.

She folded the quilt and slipped her feet back into her sandals and started up the hill. She was whistling when she arrived at the drive, where a big, brown lab sat next to a pickup truck, and a tall, thin man stood talking to Nick.

“Emme, this is Greg. He's going to take a look at the barn,” Nick told her. When Greg turned to greet her, behind him, Nick rolled his eyes. “He thought since he was out this way, he'd stop and take a look at that back wall.”

“Great.” She smiled and offered her hand to the dog to sniff before patting him on the head. “Good timing.”

“That's what I was just thinking,” Nick agreed.

“Oh, yeah,” the carpenter nodded. “You got a weak back wall there, no telling when it's going to come down.”

“I'll be in the front hall,” she told Nick. “Nice to meet you, Greg.”

“Likewise.”

She left the grocery bag on the kitchen table and went upstairs to find a bathroom. On her way back down, she paused at the landing overlooking the driveway. Nick and the carpenter were nowhere to be seen, so she assumed they'd gone into the barn. Well, it spared them from having to come up with after-sex talk, she reasoned. She'd never been real good at that.
It was just one of any number of reasons she hadn't been good at relationships.

She poked into the remaining boxes and decided to finish up the clothes to get those all out of the way. She sorted through a half-dozen pair of jeans and found the bottom of the box contained notebooks. She flipped through several, reading the subjects on the colored tabs.

“Genealogy,” she read aloud with a laugh. “Now, if I were going to …”

The packet of folded papers, held together with a small black and chrome clip, fell into her lap. She opened them flat on the floor and let out a yelp.

She took them into the kitchen and sat at the table, ironing out the folds with her hands, and began to read. A few minutes later, Nick came in through the back door.

“Em?” he called.

“In the kitchen,” she told him. When he came into the room, she smiled and said, “This is your lucky day.”

“Boy howdy, is it ever.” He leaned over to kiss her neck.

“No,” she laughed. “I found the paperwork we've been looking for.”

“You're kidding,” he paused, his lips still at her throat.

“Here, take a look.” She handed him the stack.

“Where?”

“In her genealogy notebook.”

“Of course. Where else?” He breezed through them, shaking his head. “I have no idea what any of this means, all these columns of lines and letters.”

“Neither do I. But we can find someone who knows what to do with it all, and with luck, they're going to lead us to Donor 1735. And hopefully—eventually—we'll find your niece.”

“You still think we will?”

“I think we will find the answer to what happened to her,” she replied, choosing her words carefully. “For better or for worse.”

“But I should probably prepare for the worst.”

She nodded slowly. “It's always good to be prepared, Nick.”

“Right.” He straightened up and handed her the sheaf of papers. “So let's get on with it. For better or for worse, let's see where this leads…”

H
e lay back against the grass and watched the sun come up. He couldn't remember when he'd felt more alive.

Ali had been a joy, a treasure, from the moment she realized that he wasn't her good friend and her brother, Henry, and that her dear sister, Lori, wasn't there to save her. Too late, she'd recognized him, and only the chloroform had subdued her. He really hated to have to resort to that, but she'd been winding up for a good long scream, and in that neighborhood, screaming was bound to bring someone running.

He'd arrived at the college early to scout out the best location—that is, the location where he could remain in the shadows for the longest period of time without appearing to be trying to hide. It was, he reasoned, a very fine line. He found the perfect spot on Yarrow Street, just past a building that had a very gothic air—it looked like some type of theater—across the street from a prep school that looked deserted now that classes were over for the summer. There was a wooded area right past the main building that would give him a buffer, in case someone was
about, and the gothic structure sat by itself near the road and was obviously closed. Just beyond it the road dipped down nicely, and as a bonus, a wide grass stretch surrounded it. He parked well past the streetlight and dialed her cell phone.

“Hey, we're here,” he told her when she answered.

“Where's here?” She sounded out of breath, as if she'd been walking fast.

He described the surroundings.

“Oh, you're all the way over there. I should have told you to stay straight on Morris for a bit.” She paused as if debating. “I think it would be easier for me to find you than for you to drive around trying to find me.”

He smiled to himself. “Are you sure? Because if it's too far for you—”

“No, no. It's fine. It'll just take a couple of minutes. Is Lori with you?”

“Yes, she's here. She just took a little walk down the street to look around.”

“Yeah, it's a nice neighborhood over near the theater. I'll be there soon.”

He got the towel ready, then stepped out of the car and leaned back against the driver's door, his heart pounding. He tried to remain cool and calm, but really, how could one when anticipating such pleasure? Deep inside him, the beast pawed impatiently.

He saw her step into the light from the one street-lamp at the end of the walk near the theater. She appeared to pause, her steps hesitant. He stepped into the street and waved to her. Seconds later, his phone rang.

“Yes, it's me,” he said, trying to inject a lightness into his voice.

“Why are you parked all the way down there?”

“Lori wanted to get a better look at this old house down the street and I didn't want to park in front of it ′cause I didn't want the owners to think we were casing the place. Keep walking, Ali. I'll call Lori and tell her to come back to the car.”

“Oh, okay. I just wanted to make sure it's really you.”

“It's really me.”

“I'll be there in a minute.”

He kept the phone close to his head as if speaking to someone while he opened the car door. In one hand he held the towel he'd prepared, and he kept his back to her until the last possible minute.

She was a few feet from the car when she called out, “Henry, you didn't tell me you got a new car.” and he spun around in a flash, like a dancer.

It took several seconds for her to realize that he was not Henry, but by then he had the towel to her face and was dragging her quickly to the passenger side where he taped her hands, feet, and mouth, and strapped her in to the seat.

He talked to her as he drove through the night, explaining to her what he was going to do to her and why, then turned on the radio and sang to her for the last few miles before turning off the main road and heading for his special place. He'd had no trouble hiding the car behind a stand of trees, nor had it been a problem for him to carry her through the field. The moon was high and bright and he knew the way. He'd
laid her on the ground and stared into her eyes, drinking in her fear and panic until the beast swelled within him. He was invincible then, and knew that nothing could stop him from having her.

Nothing had.

M
allory sat in her office, nervously tapping a pen on a file that sat open on the desk. She'd been bothered since the day Emme had blasted out of the drive, then later came slinking back, slipping into her office as if she didn't want anyone to know she was there.

Something was just not right with that woman.

Something had been nagging her since their conversation on Sunday afternoon. A quick look at the documents she'd received from Silver Hill and it hadn't been hard to spot.

Why was Emme lying about her background? Why had she gone on about having been abandoned at birth—in a church, no less, where she'd be found by nuns!—when her file clearly indicated that she'd come from a long line of law enforcement personnel? One of the recommendations that had been submitted to the Silver Hill department when she applied for the job was from a member of the California legislature who wrote about her family's “fine tradition of public service, from her great-grandfather all the way to her younger brother, who was a decorated member of the California Highway Patrol.”

What the hell?
Mallory thought.

She lifted the phone and dialed the number for the Silver Hills PD, then asked to speak with Chief Jenkins when the call was answered.

“I'm sorry, Chief Jenkins is out of the office,” she was told. “This is Sergeant Whitaker. Would you like to leave a message?”

“My name is Mallory Russo. I'm with the Mercy Street Foundation in Conroy, Pennsylvania. I spoke with Chief Jenkins a few weeks ago about Emme Caldwell. I have a few more questions.”

“Oh.” He sounded surprised. “Anything I can help you with? I was Emme's partner on the street for a few years, when we first started. I knew her real well. Still miss her.”

“I'm sure she'd be happy to know that, Sergeant.” She knew better than to get into a discussion about Emme with anyone other than the chief. “Please let Chief Jenkins know that I need to speak with her as soon as possible.”

“Sure thing.”

Mallory gave her cell and office numbers, then said good-bye.

Still miss her
. It struck Mallory as an odd thing to say. She returned the phone to the base. Emme only left Silver Hill a few weeks ago, hadn't she?

•

Carl Whittaker finished writing the note for the chief and left it on her phone where she'd be sure to see it when she returned from vacation. He went back to his desk and closed the right-hand drawer, the one where he kept his crossword-puzzle books. It was another
relatively slow morning in Silver Hill, and the chief wasn't expected back until Monday. He was working on a particularly vexing puzzle when the phone had rung. He'd been planning on going right back to it, but now there was something more pressing on his mind. He went to his favorite search engine and typed in
Mercy Street Foundation
.

In seconds the site's home page filled his screen. He'd seen the press conference that had run over and over again on the TV news stations for almost a week after Robert Magellan had made his announcement. He'd even heard about an officer from L.A. and another from San Diego who'd applied, and several more who were thinking about it.

Why would someone from the Mercy Street Foundation be asking about a dead cop from Silver Hill?

He clicked on the sidebar and waited while the Staff page loaded. There was a picture of Mallory Russo … she's the one who called. Pretty girl. He smiled to himself. Course, you couldn't use “girl” anymore. It's un-PC. But pretty woman didn't have the same ring. Besides, that was that movie about a—

Hello
.

Under Mallory Russo's picture was an empty square captioned “Check back later for a photo of our newest hire, our first full-time investigator, Emme Caldwell, who comes to us with seven years of law-enforcement experience.”

He stared at the screen, his eyes narrowing. Maybe there was another Emme Caldwell who'd been a cop somewhere else for seven years. Could be a really weird coincidence. It's a big world.

But Russo said she'd already spoken to Chief Jenkins
about Emme. Wouldn't Steffie have told her that
their
Emme was deceased?

A very odd picture began to form in his mind, but he was having a real hard time getting it to focus.

Steffie. Ann.

Emme Caldwell.

The thought came like lightning. His mouth went dry and his fingers began to shake. He didn't like what he was thinking. He got up and walked outside, past the cars parked behind the building and across the street to the deli. He went in and ordered a large fountain soda in a take-out cup.

“Hey, Sarge,” the woman behind the counter greeted him. “What's the count down to now?”

“Sixty-two days, Elsie.” He met her at the cash register and paid for his drink. “Sixty-two more days.”