Depth Perception (17 page)

When she made no move get out of the truck, he touched her arm. “We need to talk about what happened."

She blinked at him as if noticing him for the first time. "I don't want to talk about it." She glanced down at her muddy clothes. “I just ... want to take a shower."

"Yeah, well, I hate to put a damper on your plans, but I've got some questions that aren't going to wait." When she didn't acquiesce, he added, "I didn't ask to get dragged into this."

"It's not like I'm a willing participant, either. I didn't ask for any of this to happen."

"I want the blanks filled in, Nat. All of them, including everything you know about my son's death," Hating those words, he scrubbed his hand over his face. "I want to know who's responsible and why it was ruled an accident. I want to know why the parish coroner thinks Ricky Arnaud died of natural causes, when you're claiming he was murdered."

''I don't know," she snapped. "Damn it, I don't have all the answers."

''I'm not going away until we talk about this."

Angrily, she flung open the door and started toward the house. Figuring it was as much encouragement as he was going to get, Nick followed her inside.

The interior of the house was an eye-pleasing mix of Victorian character and Southern charm. Bright and airy with spacious rooms, it was the kind of house where one would expect the smell of baking bread to be wafting from the big kitchen. Blues easing from a radio in the study. The blare of a TV in the living room. Shouts and laughter from boisterous children playing in the backyard.

But the house was as silent as a funeral when Nick paused in the foyer to remove his muddy boots. Nat did the same, then crossed the living room and headed toward the kitchen.

He trailed her as far as the dining room, then stopped to watch as she pulled the carafe from the coffeemaker and filled it with water from the tap. Her back was to him. but he could see that her shoulders were rigid with tension.

A wave of compassion went through him when he saw her shiver. It wasn't cold inside the house, or outside for that matter, but she'd been wet for several hours. Combine that with the lack of sleep, lack of food, and the shock of seeing that dead child, and he figured he had one mentally and physically exhausted woman on his hands.

Crossing to her. he touched her gently on the arm. "You're shivering,
chere
. Why don't you take a hot shower? Get into some dry clothes."

She turned to him, and not for the first time Nick was taken aback by the simple beauty of her face. Porcelain skin. High cheekbones. A soft, pretty mouth. But she had the most haunted eyes he'd ever seen. The kind of eyes that could break a man's heart if he was fool enough to make the mistake of caring. Nick was no such fool.

"I'd rather just get this over with," she said.

''It'll keep for a few minutes."

When she didn't acquiesce, he eased the carafe from her hands, took her by the shoulders, and pointed her toward the living room. "Go. I'll finish the coffee."

She paused halfway to the living room and frowned at him over her shoulder. "I like my coffee strong."

''I'm Cajun. I don't know how to make it any other way."

He watched her walk away, liking what he saw, disturbed by what he felt, and stirred a hell of a lot more than he wanted to admit. "
Sa vaut pas la peine,
" he muttered. It's not worth it.

Shaking off thoughts he was a fool for entertaining, he finished making the coffee, then went to the refrigerator in search of food.

Ten minutes later, he was in the process of sliding omelets onto plates when Nat appeared in the doorway. "What are you doing?"

Pleasure quivered through him at the sound of her voice, then doubled back and did it again when his eyes swept over her. She shouldn't have looked good in a pair of faded jeans and a plain white T-shirt, but she did, and Nick drank in every inch of her like a thirsty man taking in water. He knew he was staring; he knew she'd noticed and that his scrutiny was making her uncomfortable. But there were some things that were as natural to a man as breathing and, having spent the last six years locked in a cage, taking the measure of a beautiful woman was one of them.

Realizing his body was responding--that it was going to be obvious if he didn't get a handle on things real quick--he turned back to the toast he'd been buttering. "I thought you might want some breakfast to go with that coffee."

"I'm not hungry."

"You haven't tasted my omelet yet." He plopped the toast onto plates and took them to the table. "Sit down."

"You didn't have to do this," she said as she lowered herself into the chair.

"I don't want you passing out on me."

"You don't even like me."

"I like you just fine,
chere
. It's those crazy ideas of yours that give me pause." Back at the counter, he poured coffee, then returned to the dining room and set one of the cups in front of her. "Be careful; it bites."

She sipped, then shot him a grateful look. "You're becoming more tolerable by the moment."

Nick laughed outright as he took the chair across from her. He dug into the omelet, but out of the comer of his eye he was watching her. When she finally picked up her fork and began to eat, he smiled inwardly.

For several minutes they ate in silence. Two people with a lot on their minds and absolutely no idea where to begin. Nat surprised him by asking the first question, the hardest question, one he still wasn't one hundred percent sure how to answer.

"Do you believe I'm psychic? That my son is communicating with me?"

Twenty-four hours earlier, he would have laughed himself into hysterics at the notion. But after witnessing the trance writing session--after finding Ricky Arnaud's body--there was only one answer he could give. "I believe you,
chere.
"

She closed her eyes briefly, and for the first time he realized just how desperately she'd needed to hear him say that.

Nick chose his next words with care. "If your son can communicate with you and knows what happened the night he died, why doesn't he just tell you who the murderer is?"

"I pondered the same question,” she said. “The fact that he couldn't tell me who was responsible was the main reason I doubted myself. I had no way of knowing if these notes were coming from my own subconscious or if my little boy was really communicating with me."

Nick waited.

“Then I started reading about psychic phenomena and learned that a spirit guide can forewarn-"

Spirit guide?"

"A spirit guide is a being or entity or energy, if you will. A highly evolved spirit who has spent many incarnations on the earth and has grown in spirituality and purity."

Jesus Christ that sounded crazy . . .  "Kyle?" Nick asked.

She nodded. "Spirit guides will communicate when called upon, but are unable to reveal information that could conceivably change the future. It's left up to the living whether or not they want to try to change the course Fate has set for them."

“That seems a little convenient."

"Or maybe that's just the way it is." Setting down her fork, she rose and walked over to her briefcase, which was on the cooking island. Retrieving a folder, she walked back to the table and set it in front of him. "I was able to obtain this and a copy of the police report."

Nick hesitated an instant before opening the folder. A chill crept into his bones when he found himself looking at an autopsy report detailing the violent death of a child. A police report describing a horrific scene. "Jesus," he muttered.

Deeply disturbed by the clinical details, he put the report back in the folder without reading it. He could feel his heart beating heavily in his chest. Too fast. Too hard. He thought about his own son and shuddered inwardly.

Turning away from him, she walked over to her briefcase and pulled out a second manila folder. "I have the autopsy and police reports on your son's death, too."

Nick tried to deflect the quick blow of grief, but he didn't succeed. Losing his son was the most terrible thing he'd ever experienced in his life. But to read the details of what had happened, to consider the possibility that his precious child had been murdered was infinitely worse.

"Nat, goddamn it," he growled. "I don't want to see it."

"I know this is difficult," she said.

''This is a lot worse than difficult," he snapped.

"There's a discrepancy in your son's autopsy report."

He stared at her, knowing there was more coming, knowing it was going to be bad. “What discrepancy?"

Opening the folder she began paging through reports as if she was familiar with every horrific page. As if she'd done it a hundred times and knew exactly what she was looking for.

Nick watched her, aware that his pulse was hammering, that he was nauseous and sweating. He'd always considered himself a strong man, not only on a physical level, but emotionally as well. But he didn't think he could handle reading some clinical report detailing his son's death.

“The St. Tammany Parish Coroner ruled Brandon's death an accidental drowning. There was water in his lungs.”

"I already know that."

"Did you know the first paramedic on the scene noted bruises on Brandon's neck and arms?"

Nick felt the words with the violence of a physical punch. "How do you know that?"

"I did a lot of research, Nick. The Freedom of Information Act requires the autopsy and the first page of the police report to become a matter of public record. Of course, autopsy photos remain sealed. Witness reports remain sealed as well."

"How the hell did you find out about the paramedic?"

"Bellerose is a small town. I made a few calls. Anonymously, since no one would talk to me. I got a name. Everyone knew Rusty Burke had been the first paramedic on the scene. I called him. Lied to him. Told him I was a reporter and wanted to do a story. He told me he'd seen those bruises with his own eyes." She took a deep breath. "He thought maybe your wife had . . . hurt him."

She may as well have plunged a knife into his heart for all the pain the words caused him. Nick knew Tanya hadn't been a good mother to his son. He'd tried to get the State of Louisiana and Child Protective Services involved. He'd made phone call after phone call after phone call. But the system was overloaded. Because Nick had been incarcerated, no one had taken him seriously enough to do anything about it.

"I want to talk to the paramedic," he heard himself say.

"That would be a good idea if he were alive."

Nick cut her a sharp look. "What?"

"Rusty Burke was killed in a car accident two weeks after your son's death."

His mind reeled with the implications of what she was saying. "Are you saying Rusty Burke was murdered?"

"I'm saying he's not around to tell us what he saw that day."

Nick shook his head, thinking about his son. "I don't see how the police could have overlooked murder. Alcee Martin is no dummy."

"Neither is the parish coroner. I know Travis Ratcliffe. He was my brother-in-law, Nick. He's a good doctor; he cares about people. I did some checking, and he doesn't have a single mistake on his record."

"If Brand was murdered, someone missed something."

"Unless maybe the killer knows how to make murder look like an accident."

"Killers have been trying to do that and failing since Abel and Cain."

"Maybe the cops weren't looking for evidence of murder.”

"Cops always look for murder when a body shows up." His gaze met hers. "I think it's time I talked to Ratcliffe."

"I'll go with you."

Considering the ugliness he'd witnessed between her and Hunt the other night, he wondered if it would be wiser for her to stay behind. "You have a history with the Ratcliffes,
chere.
Might be more productive if I go alone."

"Travis is nothing like Hunter," she said. "He was the only Ratcliffe who stood up to his father, Elliott, when Ward and I were married."

Nick was still trying to get his brain around the idea of Elliott Ratcliffe disapproving of his son's marriage to this woman. "Why did the old man object to your marrying his son?"

"I think Elliott had some debutante in mind." She smiled wryly. "He got me."

"A homegrown girl."

"A farmer's daughter and a Catholic to boot."

"He could have done a hell of a lot worse." Their gazes held for an uncomfortable moment before she looked away. "So the entire Ratcliffe clan turned on you after you lost your husband and son?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Surely they realized you weren't capable of something so heinous, didn't they?"

"I wish I could say yes to that, but I honestly don't know. I do believe that much of Elliott's lashing out at me was a reaction to grief Everyone was so shocked, so incredibly sad. I think they needed someone to blame.”

"And you were the cops' number one suspect."

"Ward left me with a generous life insurance policy."

"The cops figured that as a motive for murder?"

"There were other factors, too. Ward and I hadn't been getting along. There was some evidence in the house."

"What kind of evidence?"

“The most damning was a window screen in Kyle's room that had been cut. At first, the police thought the killer had climbed onto the roof, cut the screen, and entered the house through the window. But Alcee sent the screen to the State Police Crime Lab in Baton Rouge, and it was discovered that the screen had been cut from the inside, not the outside. It was also discovered that the knife used to cut the screen was mine. From the kitchen drawer. The murder weapon had my fingerprints on it."

"You picked up the knife?"

"Nick, I honestly don't remember." She looked down at her hands as if expecting to see blood on them. “That night is such a terrible jumble. I must have."

"What else?"

''I was stabbed that night. The cops called the wounds superficial even though it took over sixty stitches to close them. The emergency room doctor who examined me later testified that the wounds could have been self-inflicted."

Nick grimaced, not wanting to think of what a knife would do to soft skin. "It sounds like maybe someone tried to make you look guilty."