Gone (18 page)

Jonathan nodded. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

With that, he left her alone.

Clare entered Jake’s office. It was colored in grays and black. On Jake’s desk was a picture of the young girl Clare had seen when she’d taken him home, Sammie, his niece.

Big green eyes. Short copper-colored hair. A wide smile that showed both front teeth missing. The girl sat in front of a cake with the words “Happy Birthday Sammie” written on it in pink frosting. There were four flaming candles. A few other smiling children stood around Sammie. Clare saw that the picture had been taken in Jake’s front yard, by the swing, and some time ago, since Sammie’s hair was short in the photograph. When Clare had seen the child two days earlier her hair was hanging to her shoulders.

It struck Clare as odd that the birthday party would be held at her uncle Jake’s, rather than at Sammie’s parents’ house. But then again, she was hardly an expert on family functions.

She booted up Jake’s computer, entered her access code, and logged onto the Bureau’s database.

* * * * *

A pain in her neck alerted her to the fact that she’d been at it for a while. She glanced at her watch. Two hours had passed.

She’d learned that Ryder had been a marine during the Gulf War who’d been commended and honorably discharged when his tour of duty ended. He returned home, applied for and was accepted by the Columbia PD, and over the years had been promoted to his current position of detective.

Jake had mentioned yesterday that they might be able to poke a hole through something that turned up, but she hadn’t found anything. Except for his stint in the Gulf, Ryder had lived all of his life in Farley. She’d traced him back to birth in very little time and nothing had caught her radar.

Clare huffed out a frustrated breath. She pushed back from Jake’s desk and sent herself and the chair skidding along the wood floor. She was getting nowhere tracing Beth. Her stomach was tight as a fist with fear for her sister.

It was time she reported Beth missing.

Clare’s eyes watered. She blinked quickly. Her hands shook as she went about filing the reports. She registered her sister’s vital information with NCIC—the National Crime Information Center—to be wired to every police department in the country and with VICAP—the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. VICAP’s computer database would compare missing persons cases from across the country to see if Beth’s disappearance could be connected to any of them. She issued a BOL—Be on the Lookout—with Beth’s description.

In the morning she’d speak with Jake and with Sheriff Petty’s office to coordinate a local investigation.

She shut down Jake’s computer. Minus the hum, she became aware of an acute silence.

She shut her eyes tight, and swallowed a lump in her throat that threatened to choke her. With nothing more to do at the moment, she left Jake’s office and went home.

* * * * *

Clare woke with a start. What was that banging noise? The front door knocker. Someone was slamming it with considerable force.

It took Clare an instant to orient herself. She was in the living room of her rented house. Moonlight spilled in through the open window, across the threadbare rug and bare floor, and the sagging velvet couch she’d fallen asleep on not long ago. She hadn’t been able to shut off her thoughts about Beth until sheer exhaustion had overcome her.

Clare pushed her tangled hair back from her face, and rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. The knocking continued. She sat, then got to her feet and made her way barefoot to the front door.

About to yank it open, she stopped herself. Could her caller be Dean Ryder? If so, she didn’t think he’d be there to shoot the breeze over a cup of tea.

She shook her head to clear the last of the sleep, and spotted her purse where she’d left it on the hall table when she’d come in earlier that night. Her service weapon was still inside.

Dean Ryder had a gun, too, she reminded herself. She should be so lucky that she’d rattled him so thoroughly that he’d take a shot at her. The thought sent a rush of adrenaline through her.

The door wasn’t equipped with a peep hole. She wouldn’t have used it now, if it had been. She retrieved her gun then took up a position to the side of the door and called out, “Who is it?”

“Jake,” came the terse reply.

Not Ryder, but she didn’t welcome Jake’s presence at her door either. Hand on the door lock, Clare debated turning around and leaving him standing out there. What he’d said to her in the bar came back to her, and with it, the hurt. His assessment of how things had been between them felt like a betrayal, but at the moment there was more; she felt battered since filing the missing person’s report on her sister and wasn’t up to sparring with him, wasn’t up to facing him.

It was that last thought—not up to facing him—that had her twisting the lock open. As she did, Jake’s words from yesterday came back to her:
When there’s a way to achieve a result that will save pain, most people take that way. Not you.

Clare pressed her lips together at his analysis of her, at his incredible gall. She pulled the door open with more force than was necessary and received a jolt to her shoulder as she stopped the door from striking the wall behind it.

“Do you know what time it is?” she asked.

Jake’s gaze remained steady on hers. Without consulting his wristwatch, he said, “Eleven-fourteen.”

He wore a dark gray suit and tie. She doubted that he’d put on business attire to visit her at eleven o’clock at night. Had he been working?

If so, she couldn’t imagine what in Farley would require the attention of the FBI this late. The thought flitted through her mind and she dismissed it. She was too wrung out to summon any interest.

Clare rubbed her eyes. “I was asleep.”

His gaze lowered, taking her in. She’d fallen asleep in the clothes she’d been wearing that day, or most of them. She’d removed the jacket but still wore a blouse and the skirt that made up the suit. Both were now wrinkled and the skirt had bunched at her waist, baring most of her legs. She realized she was giving him an eye-full of thigh, but resisted giving the skirt a tug.

“Nice sleepwear.” Jake brushed by her and entered the hall. “You want to tell me why you’re answering your door armed?”

Clare scowled and closed the door with her foot. She placed the gun on the table by her purse, ignoring his question. “What do you want?”

“I got a visit from Sheriff Petty.”

Clare crossed her arms. “And?”

“Thought you’d like to know that Dean Ryder is threatening to sue the Bureau and you personally for harassment unless you lay off.”

Clare shook her head and sneered. “I doubt he has the guts. His kind tends to stick with bullying those who can’t fight back. Like Beth.”

“What?”

“Parker Burby came by here.”

Clare hesitated, not wanting to engage Jake in conversation, but putting her personal feelings about him aside for the moment, she went on and filled him in on her talk with Parker. “When I confronted Ryder, he didn’t deny abusing Beth.”

Something lodged in Clare’s throat. She swallowed to clear it, then went on. “The big mystery is how her car got back to her place if she didn’t drive it there herself. Lil Fisher, who works at Connie Dannon’s inn, saw Beth drive away in it after work that day. Ryder said the car was in his driveway when he got there, yet no one saw Beth drive it home. No one saw Beth at all after she left the inn.”

“May not be a mystery,” Jake said. “I’ll call the sheriff’s office. Ask if they found the car abandoned someplace and notified Ryder about it.”

Clare nodded. “I can get in touch with them.”

“I’d better make that call. You’re not big on tact. What was it you said to Sheriff Petty—oh, yeah—that he had ‘good ol’ boy’ shit going on with Dean Ryder?”

“The son of a bitch. I wouldn’t be surprised if Petty knew about Ryder’s mistreatment of Beth. You should have seen him with Ryder. It was a cliché from a B movie—corrupt sheriff shielding one of his own.” Her gaze sharpened on Jake. “Wait a minute—that’s why you’re really here—you came to neutralize the situation—to try to rein me in. Let me tell you, Agent Sutton—”

Anger sparked in Jake’s eyes. “You know me better than that.”

He was right. Jake’s approach was different than hers, but she’d never known him to interfere with her methods. And she’d never known him to bow to pressure when it came to an investigation.

Her remark had been uncalled for. She sighed. “Why are you really here then, Jake?”

His tone soft, he said, “You filed a missing persons report on Beth.”

Her throat tightened. “You’re up to speed then.”

His gaze became intent on her. “Are you all right?”

She’d been primed for a fight—not his concern—and for an instant didn’t have a reply.

“Fine,” she said, after a brief silence. But her eyes began to burn. She turned away from him, and seized the doorknob. “It’s been a long day, Jake.”

He made no move to leave. Gently, as if he feared she might shatter otherwise, he folded his arms around her from behind. He drew her close against himself.

Despite her efforts to the contrary, hot tears spilled onto her cheeks.

Jake turned her toward him and she offered no resistance. He held her close, with his arms wrapped around her, and she ground her face into the scratchy fabric of his jacket, against his hard, strong shoulder, and let the tears come.

Her arms slid around him and she clutched his waist. If he hadn’t been holding her up, she would have fallen.

Jake’s head lowered, resting against hers. His lips brushed her temple. “We’ll find her, Clare.” His voice was deep with emotion. “We’ll find her.”

“Will we?” she whispered. “We both know how many people go missing, never to be recovered. Or recovered alive.” It was her worst fear, and to her own ears the words sounded wrenched from within her. Tears welled in her eyes again. “It’s been ten days. Her trail has gone cold—maybe too cold, irretrievably cold.”

“Don’t.” Jake pulled her back a bit so he could peer down into her eyes. His gaze bore into hers. His grip bit into her shoulders. “Don’t do that to yourself. This
isn’t
over. We’ll find her, Clare.
We will find her.
”