Dark Lady (13 page)

“I know it does.” As if ready to hang up now, Farris tried to sound reassuring. “And this isn’t a big story yet. All we want is that it not become one.” He paused for emphasis. “All right?” In the silence of her room, Caroline nodded. “All right.”

For a half hour, Caroline lay on the bed and thought. A faint morning sun came through her window. The town beneath it, familiar from childhood, seemed more alien than yesterday. Yet when she picked up the phone again, it somehow felt inevitable. “Jackson Watts,” he answered crisply. “It’s Caroline,” she said without preface. “You didn’t happen to tell the Patriot-Ledger that I came to see you, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. But then that’s easy for me. My rule is not to talk to the press, period, unless there’s some compelling reason There isn’t here.” Though his tone was not angry, Caroline felt chastised. “Sorry,” she said.

“That’s all right.” A moment’s pause. “Is that why you called?”

“Not exactly—”

“Because I’ve been wanting to talk to you.” It was Caroline’s turn for surprise. “About Brett?”

“No.” His voice was low, almost reluctant. “About everything but Brett.” Caroline sat back on the bed, stretching her legs in front of her. Softly, she asked, “Is that wise?”

“I don’t plan to violate any code of ethics, if that’s what you mean.” Another pause. “When you left my office, Caroline, it felt incomplete. You were suddenly here, and then gone. With little said that wasn’t about Brett.” His voice changed. “To be reminded of you like that, and be no wiser for it …” Caroline touched her eyes. Then she said, “When. And where?”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes.” I’ll be driving up to my fishing camp tonight. I’m staying for the weekend.” He sounded relieved, almost boyish. “So, tomorrow? Maybe I’ll take you fishing.”

“Fine.” Caroline hesitated, then added, “There was something else, Jackson.”

“What?”

“The crime scene. I’d like to see it. Today, if possible.” Her voice was soft. “After all, my father owns it.”

Before going to the lake, Caroline made one more phone call. It was early afternoon when she reached the trailhead. A state trooper was parked there, and the yellow tape across it had already been cut. “He’s here,” the trooper told her. “By the lake.” Caroline drove to the end of the trail and parked by his truck. She sat in her car, looking around her. Then got out and, facing the dense stand of pines that blocked all sign of

Heron Lake, took in the dense pungency of wood, needles, decaying leaves. The smell, Caroline realized, was implanted in her senses. She could not remember being here since the last spring night with Jackson, twenty-three years ago. Her father had bought this land for her; she was to build a cabin, perhaps a home, own a piece of her past forever. She had left that past behind; because of this, in the unfathomable chain of consequence, Brett Allen had brought her lover here, to die. Slowly, Caroline stepped into the woods. Dense trees blocked the sun, filtering sunlight as though in a cathedral. Still it was not hard to find the path of Brett’s flight—a random zigzag, marked by strips of yellow tape on branches. Caroline took one in her fingers, saw on a leaf the faint streak of purple. It was blood, she was certain, left as Brett ran from the body of James Case. The woods felt close and cold. Caroline walked more quickly now. Near the edge of the trees the shafts of sunlight broadened, blue swatches of water appeared among the leaves. She took one deep breath. Emerging from the woods, Caroline saw him. He stood by the water, gazing across a mile of lake toward the fishing camp his own father had built in the thirties. He was quite still; what struck Caroline most was how erect he held himself. She stopped at the edge of the glade. Coolly, she said, “Hello, Father.” He turned to her. Without waiting for his answer, she knelt. For a strange moment, thinking of Jackson and their first inhibited loving, she recalled the stray guilt-stricken thought—haunting and irrational—that her father might watch them. And then she focused on her task. The grass seemed matted, Caroline saw. From this she could guess the location of their lovemaking and, perhaps, the body. But it had rained since the night of the murder, and there was no way to be certain.

She felt her father standing over her. “Well?” he asked. “Jackson’s quite impressive.” She looked up from the grass into his penetrating black eyes. “He claims there’s no sign that anyone else was here.” Channing’s eyes narrowed. “No trail of blood?”

“None. Except for Brett’s.” Stiffly, he knelt across from Caroline, staring down at the grass. “Of course, they’re assuming that he was soaked in blood .”

“‘He’?”

“The murderer.” Channing reached out one hand, as if cradling an imaginary head. “Suppose he knelt at the top of Case’s head and then—” With silent efficiency, Channing drew his free hand slowly across the grass, holding an invisible knife, to cut the throat that was no longer there. “That’s it,” he said softly. “He was here. The spurt of blood never touched him.” Caroline felt a chill. Quietly, she said, “Jackson also suggests there were no leaves trampled, no other path of escape.” “Why would there be? Does Brett claim to have heard anything?”

“She didn’t mention it.”

“All right.” Channing’s voice was brusque, impatient. “Then he didn’t leave through the woods.” He rose, unsteady for a moment, grimacing with distaste for his old age. Curtly, he motioned for Caroline to follow. Single file, they walked to the edge of the lake, silent. Except when it concerned Brett, Caroline realized, they would say nothing. He stopped, staring down at a patch of silt in front of him. “This is what I was looking at.” At his feet were boot prints; near them two sets of shoe prints—different sizes, more widely spaced. “The shoe prints are the police, I would guess, running to the water to look for a killer.” His voice was quiet. “The boot print might be the killer. Slipping into the water long before.”

Still Caroline did not look at him. “Moving along the shore?”

“Yes. Or even to a canoe.” It jolted Caroline from an imagined world, where she almost believed his story, to the reality where she felt grounded. “A canoe? Impossible.” Channing frowned. “We used to canoe from the fishing camp to here.” He pointed to the diving platform, his voice rough. “We had picnics there, remember?” There was a wound beneath the words, Caroline knew. Softly, she said, “I remember perfectly. And if someone else had canoed past us, we would have seen and heard him. As Brett would have.”

“Would she? Intoxicated? And at night?” Caroline shook her head. “I’m sorry, Father. But this makes no sense—a premeditated murder, by a man who paddles silently through the water, confident that a drowsy victim will offer up his throat while his girlfriend goes for a swim. Please don’t ask me to sell that to anyone.” He fell silent. Caroline turned from him, gazing along the shoreline as it curled away from them. “No, I like the escape route along the water somewhat better—if only because we don’t need to show Jackson any footprints. But how did he get here?” Grudgingly, her father faced her. “The same way he left, Caroline. Or are you only interested in quarreling with me.” It stung her. “That,” she said, “is stupefyingly egocentric. What I’m trying to do is find a defense for Brett. Preferably one that works.” Channing’s eyes glinted. “Then do try,” he snapped. Caroline looked at him steadily. “That’s why I asked you here,” she said, and turned from him to face the woods. After a moment, she walked toward a patch of dirt near the shore, separated from the glade by a thin line of trees and brush. Reaching the spot, she stopped; even after the rain, the mud was packed hard. She felt her father behind her. “In theory,” she said, “‘he’ could have waited here—no

branches to break, perhaps too hard for footprints. At least it’s something one could use to cross-examine their crime lab people.” He was silent for a time. “Then you’re back to that, are you? The defense lawyer, trying to fabricate a plausible story for a guilty client.” “Back? I was never there, except perhaps in your own mind.” She lowered her voice. “It seems quite plain to everyone but you that I shouldn’t handle Brett’s case, if there is one. Including, interestingly, my friends in the White House.”

“What do you mean?” Hands thrust in her pockets, Caroline gazed at the lake. In its glassy mirror, clouds skimmed through lapping wavelets, stirred by wind on the surface of the water. “The White House counsel called today,” she said at last. “They’d read a story in the Patriot-Ledger.”

“Yes.” His tone was indifferent now. “I saw it.”

“The point is that someone told this reporter about my visit to Jackson.” She paused. “It’s become a problem for me, Father. That is, if I care to ever become a federal judge.” Channing folded his arms. “I had some ambitions once. At least the State Supreme Court, perhaps more. But after your mother died, I forgot them. Because of you.” Caroline heard him. Softly, she asked, “Because of me? Or her?” Channing seemed to blanch. With equal softness, he inquired, “What do you think, Caroline?” She turned from the look on his face. “In either case,” she said coldly, “this is hardly the same thing.” Channing stared at her now. “Isn’t it?”

“Not to me. I can’t stand more publicity.”

“Really.” His voice held faint contempt. She faced him again. Narrow-eyed, he gazed across the water, as if impervious to her concern. You told them, she realized, to make me choose. She stood there, caught between doubt and accusation.

Quietly, he said, “What is it?”

Caroline paused, irresolute. But when she decided to speak, the question that came to her was different. “Do you

remember the knife I gave youT” His face froze. “What of it?’ “It’s not where you kept it.”

His eyes widened and then went cold; in that moment, Caroline knew that he understood the question perfectly. But when he spoke, his voice was soft again.

“There was a time, before I grew used to things, when anything associated with you was painful. A reminder of whatever hope I’d had.” His tone became indifferent. “I gave that knife away, Caroline. Years ago.”

Caroline hesitated. “Do you remember to whom?”

“No. But then that wasn’t the point.” His face grew hard. “Are we through here, Caroline?”

Without waiting for her answer, Channing Masters turned and walked back to his truck.

Caroline spent the afternoon alone.

Most of this was stalling, she knew—calling the office, checking her mail, returning messages from friends and clients congratulating her on the nomination. To Caroline’s ears, her own gratitude sounded oddly hollow, lines recited by an actress in a play. As if to reassure herself, she told her secretary that she planned to return in four days’ time.

Even as she said this, she could not take her mind off Brett.

Her purse was on the bedstand. Putting down the telephone, she reached for it.

Inside was the slip of paper with the serial numbers. She took it out. A ten-minute hunt through long distance gave her the number for the Cahill Knife Company. Another five minutes, and she was talking to the clerk who might be able to help her.

The woman sounded faintly annoyed. “What was that serial number?”

Slowly, Caroline repeated it.

There was silence. For some reason, perhaps her assessment of Jackson Watts, Caroline had the sense that she was not the first to call. In a cautious voice, the clerk inquired, “What is it that you want, exactly?”

“To see if you can trace the knife. At least to the point of sale.”

“And this is for what?”

Caroline hesitated, suddenly tense. “I’m a lawyer,” she said slowly. “This knife may end up being evidence. In a criminal case.”

“And what is your name?”

Another pause. “Masters. Caroline Masters.”

“Uh-huh.” More silence. “Well, I don’t know about tracking down the point of sale …”

“Can you at least try?” To Caroline, her voice sounded oddly pleading. “Even the year of manufacture might help me.”

“Tell you what. Give me two or three days, and call back. I may have something then.” The clerk paused, as if regretting this. “Tell me, how would the year help?”

“It’s a confidential matter, really. But the year could tell me a lot. Please, it’s important.”

The clerk paused. “Oh, all right,” she said.

Politely, Caroline thanked her, and hung up.

Caroline and Jackson Watts cruised slowly toward the middle of Heron Lake. Behind the black robber dinghy, built like a landing craft, the outboard motor made a scudding sound as it beat them through the water. The sky was startlingly blue; sunlight glistened like mica on the shimmering lake. It was a day from Caroline’s youth. They had said little. Jackson had come for her in a green pickup truck with fly rods thrown in the back. They drove to his fishing camp, its spare 1930s rectangle somewhat like her father’s own, with a neat and compact kitchen and a view of the lake through trees. He showed her about somewhat awkwardly; Caroline saw a German shepherd sleeping by the stone fireplace and, on the mantel, a framed photograph of a pretty brown-haired girl, perhaps thirteen or so. And then, in a reprise of their past, they had taken the wooden stairs down the hillside to the dinghy, put the two fly rods in, and started up the boat. It was what they once had done when they wished to be with each other and yet feel no pressure to talk until they cared to. There was no one else on the lake. With a lazy, expert flick of his wrist, Jackson cast a line into the water:, Caroline leaned back, arms draped over the sides of the dinghy, taking in the day. Pines and birch and maple trees rose from the shoreline and up steep hillsides, creating the sense of a cocoon around them. The place where James Case had died was too far away to see; Caroline sensed that Jackson would not go near it. The air was cool and still.

Jackson cut the throttle. The dinghy barely moved now; his line floated lazily in the water. “So you went there,” he said finally. Caroline gazed at the sky. “The crime scene,’ as it were? Yes. I found the whole thing very strange.” Jackson nodded. “So did I.” They fell quiet again. He had been so sweet then, Caroline thought. Too eager, of course, but considerate of her; he could not help that it was his first time, any more than Caroline could help that it was hers. Or that, when desire and fulfillment finally met for her, it was not with Jackson Watts. She watched his face now, two decades later: the crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he watched his line; the hollows beneath the cheekbones, deeper now. Remembering his old smile, quizzical and crooked, Caroline realized that she had yet to see it. “That letter,” she finally said. His face seemed to tighten. “Yes?”