Lost

8

2:40 a.m.

Reverend George Dollar shut off the lamp and sat in the darkness of his office wanting the absolution, temporary though it was. He had yet to stop shaking, but it was slightly better than when he’d first come in and had almost knocked over the umbrella stand at the back door. Just the thought of the attention that noise could have brought from upstairs triggered a more violent shudder. No, Miriam could not know that he was the biggest sinner in his congregation. Disgusting. Doomed.

How could he have let it happen? He’d been making such progress. Had he grown complacent? Surely not.

He was being tested, he decided with a flash of revelation. Satan had sent a demon, not unlike the two that had taunted Jesus upon entering Gadara. His demon had been informed of his progress, and, like a maggot, had infested his mind and contaminated it until he’d succumbed to a fever. He’d never noticed it coming on because it was natural to feel warm at this time of year. Especially this year.

Tears welled anew behind his closed lids, and this time they weren’t only tears of remorse, but of self-pity. Why had the Lord taken so long to share this insight? For almost two hours he’d been praying and paging through his Bible, while asking for forgiveness. He’d read Psalms 130 and 139; then, when there’d been no sign from above, Psalm 143. He’d even fallen to his knees and raised his palms in supplication, and in the loudest whisper he dared—ever conscious that Miriam had the ears of a safecracker—had invited the Almighty to strike him dead if that was His will. Unfortunately, his knees gave out before getting a response, and now, sitting here in the darkness, it had come.

A test…no doubt because I’ve proven myself a worthy soldier.

The thought made him bite at his knuckles the way he had when, as a schoolboy, he’d sit outside the principal’s office awaiting a thrashing for a childish infraction. Oh, but for a return to those innocent days.

“Give me a sign to know I have Your forgiveness,” he declared in a low vibrato. Impassioned, he raised his right fist to the ceiling and pointed at it with his left hand. “Say the word, and I’ll smite this wicked limb here and now that it might never again act in weakness!”

With growing zeal, he reached for the carved-bone letter opener a member of his congregation had made for him several Christmases ago. The blade had as sharp an edge as anything in Miriam’s kitchen, and he’d already had a close encounter with it. The last time he’d invited the Lord to smite him, he’d slipped and cut himself so badly, the wound had required seven stitches—not to mention a lot of explaining to his wife.

Now, as then, the room remained silent.

The reverend smiled knowingly. “You don’t think I would do it, except by accident. And You’re right, of course. I’m as big a coward as I am a weakling.”

He replaced the letter opener in its wooden tray and covered his face with his hands. Despite having scrubbed them in the kitchen sink, they still carried the smell of sex and the earth he’d dug in.

As visions of his earlier behavior flashed again in his mind’s eye, he flung himself to the carpet and began sobbing. “Help me. Stop me. End this, damn it. End it!”

9

2:40 a.m.

The scene before him was at once typical of investigations, and yet eerie; however, Jared wasted no time climbing out of his car. “What do you know?” he asked Buddy, who was the first to come over to him. He’d parked next to the patrolman’s unit, making his the fifth vehicle in the semicircle.

About a dozen yards in front of them stood the red Firebird. A few of the cars were idling, their headlights being used to illuminate the Trans Am that was parked slightly off Pete Fite’s driveway on the grassy, sloped embankment. The driver’s door was wide open, the interior light on. There was no sign of Faith.

“Is that how you found things?”

“Exactly this way—the engine and headlights off, but the door wide open. Pete swears he didn’t touch a thing. Doesn’t look good, Chief. She’s not here.”

“Well, somebody was.” He could tell that it was Faith’s car from the license plate. But what had him placing his hands on his hips was the man who rounded the thing and leaned into the vehicle. “Who the hell is that?”

“Deputy DeFreese Adams. Sheriff Cudahy’s newest boy.”

“Where the hell did he train? Hollywood? Get him away from there before he touches anything. As it is, he’s probably contaminated the surroundings. Look where he’s standing—right where there would have been the only footprints of the driver.” He had to all but yell over the baying hounds, and he scowled at Pete’s dogs leaping and cavorting around the visibly upset man. “Why hasn’t someone told Fite to lock up those mutts?”

“I was on my way to do that when you pulled in.”

Chagrined, Buddy didn’t wait for Jared to comment further; he took off. Halfway there, he yelled something at Deputy Adams that Jared didn’t catch, but it made the lanky cop pull out of the Firebird so fast, he hit his head on the frame. His sharp curse and subsequent shuffling made Jared half tempted to reach for his gun.

“Shooting the son of a bitch wouldn’t make half the mess.”

Turning away from the pitiful scene, he came face-to-face with Deputy Roy Russell. The shorter man’s dark, somber eyes and gray, thin hair testified that he had as many years in law enforcement as Jared, and was as disturbed by Reese’s actions.

“Sorry, Chief. He’s new.”

“So I heard.” Sometimes new was good, because then people did everything by the book as though each page was tattooed on the inside of their eyeballs. Why hadn’t they been blessed with one of those? “Well, this sure is starting off bad.”

“I’ve only been here a minute, but it feels worse.”

“Yeah, Eagan tells me there’s no sign of her.”

“That’s not all.” At Jared’s questioning look, Russell lifted both eyebrows, as well. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Can’t say I gave him time to.” Actually, he’d expected his man to share anything pertinent immediately. It seemed the new guy wasn’t the only one screwing up tonight.

“Her purse is in there. At least, I’m assuming it’s hers. That’s why I was in my car. I’ve called the sheriff, told him we’re going to need John. Hope you don’t mind me making that decision before talking to you.”

“I would have done the same thing.” John Box was the new detective for the Sheriff’s Department. A transplant from the Dallas PD with fifteen years in Homicide, he’d moved his family to the Pineywoods after hearing his teenage son and daughter respond to him once too often in mall-speak. Wood County was fortunate to have him, and because Pete’s property was only partially in Split Creek, the sheriff’s people had as much jurisdiction here as Jared did. “Tell me about the purse. What makes you think it’s hers?”

“It looks like something my teenage niece would carry. You know—less than half the size of what older women carry, and the seams splitting from being crammed with brushes and cassettes and makeup. It’s on the passenger floorboard.”

“Tipped over as though the car had been stopped sharply, or as though thrown back in for…whatever reason?”

“Neither. It’s pretty much upright, kinda leaning toward the console. Looks intentionally placed there, as though that’s where she kept it. My wife keeps hers that way, too, since I told her how at city corners thieves like to bust in windows and steal purses they see on the seat.”

“Are there any signs of a struggle? Blood? Spilled liquids?”

“I wish. It’s such a stagnant scene, it gives me the creeps. But listen, I only had a quick glance around. Once I guessed what we were dealing with, I got the hell away from there.”

“Wish you’d given your cohort the same advice,” Jared replied with a nod toward Adams, who was still standing too close to the vehicle to suit him.

Roy sucked air between his front teeth. “That’s an ambitious boy, Chief. Made it clear after his second day that he wants to be the department’s second detective.”

It wouldn’t happen because of his performance on this case. “Ignore me if I’m insulting your intelligence,” Jared replied. “But if I don’t get to him first, remind Box to take print samples from Mr. Up-and-Coming so we don’t waste time on false leads.”

“I hear you.” The deputy glanced over toward the house, where Pete was penning his dogs, then back at the street, and finally the woods. “Where do you think she is?”

“Until a few minutes ago, I’d hoped at a friend’s having a good pout.”

“Spoiled type?”

“A little. More accurately, part of a struggling family. Anyone related to Buck Ramey has her work cut out for her.”

Roy’s eyes widened. “She’s that Ramey?”

“There aren’t any others in these parts that I know of.”

“I’d never seen her at the garage.”

“It’s not exactly her idea of a fun place to hang out.”

“Mike’s little sister…damn.” He eyed the Firebird with new dread. “It’s gonna be tough on Mike to see this.”

“She isn’t going to.”

That, too, won him a look of surprise. “Who else is going to tow it and keep it locked away from vandals and the curious? You know she has the contract for Split Fork—half the county for that matter. Even Cuddy would call her, seeing how close we are to town.”

True. And considering the hour, Bendix up in Winnsboro would cuss him until Sunday for hauling his butt out of bed at this hour if it meant crossing into Mike’s territory. Besides, he did want the Firebird close. But, heaven help her, Mike didn’t need this.

Once more Jared peered into the darkness toward the farm-to-market road. There wasn’t so much as a security light at the entrance to Pete’s farm. What would make Faith turn in here of all places?

“You sure you didn’t see anything or anyone while driving over here?” he asked Roy.

“Not a soul. Folks don’t frequent rural clubs the way they used to, and even less so on a weekday. It’s also too early for the milk trucks to start making the rounds to the dairy farms. I know you’re hoping the girl had car trouble and decided to walk home, but I reckon if that was the case, she’d have been more likely to grab her purse and head up to the house and ask the old guy for help.”

“Could be Pete’s dogs scared her.”

“So why not honk the horn until he came out?” He gestured toward the abandoned car. “Her keys are still in the ignition. Who leaves a vehicle like that?”

Someone who was in a hurry, or hurt…or who didn’t have a choice. Before he faced Michaele, he had to have a clue as to which it was, because one thing was for sure—Mike would demand answers.

“We have to search the woods,” he said.

With a fatalistic sigh, Roy glanced down at his shiny new boots. “Thought you’d say that. I’d hoped that since Pete’s hounds hadn’t picked up any scent, we could pretty much cancel out worrying about that.”

“With the chicken stink around here, it’s a wonder those noses can lead them to their food bowls.” He grew more sober. “Plus, we don’t know that if something is out there, it’s above ground.”

Roy stopped tucking his pants legs into his boots. Straightening, he met Jared’s unblinking stare. “I’ll keep Adams close by me,” he said quietly. “Hopefully, that way I’ll be able to stop him if he’s about to make another mistake. But I’ll tell you up front—I’d be cool if this turns out to be a waste of time.”

“Me, too,” Jared murmured as he headed to take a closer look at the car himself. “Me, too.”

10

2:40 a.m.

Garth Powers stared at the massive Southwest-style desk his wife had given him for their first Christmas in this house. It gleamed from a recent dose of lemon oil, testament to the faithful attention Jessica awarded everything in their home. He ran his fingers over and over the light pine surface, as he had been doing for some time now, when he wasn’t lifting the near-empty tumbler of scotch to his mouth. No housekeeper or cleaning woman for them, no sir. No matter how often he suggested it to her when she occasionally broke down and complained about a touch of arthritis or her overscheduled life, Jess didn’t believe anyone could care for their possessions the way she did, and he knew better than to argue when she made up her mind about something.

But they definitely would end up arguing if he didn’t get his ass up to bed. It was—he did a double take as he noticed the time—late. For that matter, where was she? It was well past time for her to be home. Had he forgotten some special thingamajig again? With all he had on his mind tonight, it wouldn’t surprise him.

He tried to remember her schedule. Wednesdays…It had been Republican Ladies night. Except that once a month she missed that session to attend Split Creek Gardeners. No, the gardening club met just a few days ago…didn’t it? Either way, no social gathering lasted this long.

Moaning, he rubbed his face. He should call her on her cellular, but how could he in his condition? She would know something was wrong straight off. He hoped to hell she hadn’t had car trouble and needed a lift. After polishing off his fifth scotch, the last thing he needed was a summons to collect her.

He was reaching for the switch on his amber-screened desk lamp when he heard a sound in the hall. Damn, he thought, self-consciously touching his sore right hand. He hadn’t even heard the garage door open.

Seconds later, Jessica tall, slim and elegant even in designer sweats, leaned in to his study. Her intelligent brown eyes immediately settled on the crystal tumbler before shifting back to him. “What’s this? You should be fast asleep by now.”

“On my way. I was just…making some notes for Commencement exercises.”

This time her gaze dropped to the cleared blotter, but her smile was sympathetic. “You always do a marvelous job, Mr. Perfectionist. I don’t know why you drive yourself crazy worrying so much.”

She waited for him to come to her, then offered her cheek. Jessica was an attractive woman at any time—forty, with vibrant hair every bit as rich as the lustrous walnut door, perfectly coiffed into a smooth swept-back style that framed a strong forehead and high cheekbones. Her somber eyes embraced him, but he didn’t miss their canniness. Jess loved hard and long—but not carelessly. Most of the time her dedication to him and his career left him beyond grateful, almost humbled. Sometimes, however, he struggled with a feeling of suffocation.

What he felt tonight, though, wasn’t her fault. No, not tonight. Not in a while. It was his doing. All him.

“How’d it go?” he asked, suddenly noticing her clothes were paint-stained. “What did you do, start early on the Christmas parade float and lose track of time?”

She lifted precisely tweezed eyebrows. “I figured you would forget—and after I only told you three times!”

“Sorry.”

“How many of those scotches did you have?”

Her Dallas-bred, SMU-educated drawl showed up most when she was ready to fuck or fight, and he gestured helplessly, wanting neither. “You threw me, that’s all. That’s not what you usually wear to a meeting of any kind.”

“I wasn’t at a meeting.”

Shit. What did I miss? “Well, Deirdre Collingwood phoned to ask about the University Women thing.” He wasn’t about to admit that he couldn’t remember squat about that one, either.

Jessica slipped her hand inside the open V of his dress shirt. “She’s been out of town. I’ll call her in the morning. What’s wrong, Garth?”

“Nothing.” But when she tugged lightly at his chest hairs, he knew evasiveness wasn’t going to work. He decided on a portion of the truth. One truth. “Waylan Ivens.”

“That’s old news. You matched that other school’s offer to Coach Ivens. Don’t tell me he’s trying to blackmail you to up the ante.”

She was his biggest fan, proud to have brought him to what had been her grandparents’ property, although they’d leveled the house and rebuilt; proud to parade her celebrated “super-jock” husband around town, and claim the prestige that won them in the community. For the past twelve years she’d made sure they built on that celebrity status, to the point where he only half joked when saying that after he died, he would be lucky if she didn’t bronze his balls to display at parades and during town elections.

With his left hand, he lifted her fingers to his lips. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Agreed. Now answer the question. Is he?”

Since it wasn’t the primary concern preying on his mind, Garth had to think a moment. “Not him. Them. The other school has made a counteroffer. No way am I going to be able to go that high. We’ll lose the bastard—and after he gave me his word that he’d stay at least five years!”

Jessica freed herself to touch his cheek. “What will you do?”

“Try to be a good sport and wish him the best.” Growing comfortable with the story, Garth shrugged and allowed some embellishment. “It ticks me off that he’s doing this to us now, though. How am I supposed to find somebody equal to his talent and reputation at the end of the school year? Hell, football practice starts again in seven weeks!”

“Something will come up. Everyone loves to work for you.”

“Obviously not.”

At his droll reply, Jessica began to mimic his earlier caress. It was then that she noticed his bruised hand. “What have you done to yourself?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Every knuckle is bloody and bruised. Your fingers will be swollen to twice their size by morning. Please tell me you didn’t do something foolish to Ivens.”

“Ah…no. Actually, it was something more asinine. When he left my office, I punched the wall.”

“You poor idiot.” She slipped her arm around his waist and directed him toward the stairs. “You need a warm shower, and then I’ll put some medicated cream on it.”

“Sounds tempting, but it’s already so late.”

“You’re tight enough to snap. You won’t sleep unless we get you relaxed.”

Despite his preoccupation and fatigue, he experienced a twinge in his groin, helped, of course, by her hand sliding down over his ass. Amazing, he thought. “What did you have in mind?”

They’d reached the top of the stairs. She directed him through the white-on-white bedroom, which in the glow of the bathroom night-light looked far more inviting than on bright summer mornings when the sun drilled him awake. The king-size bed called to him—but not as clearly as did Jess’s eyes.

“What’s my lover’s favorite thing?” she murmured, stopping him in front of the double-sink vanity in the bathroom. Not waiting for an answer, she reached for his belt.

Garth watched, bemused. Before she had his zipper opened, he was erect. “I don’t deserve you,” he said again. But he also urged her to her knees.

It was better this way, he thought. No explanations, no burdening her with his messes. Of course, he was only buying time. In the back of his mind, he’d always understood and accepted that. But as her mouth closed on him, he shut his eyes and blocked that out for one more night—blocked out everything but the pleasure.

11

4:12 a.m.

Michaele couldn’t sit for more than a minute or two at a time. Ever since Jared had left, she’d been moving from room to room, window to window, stopping every few minutes, tempted to reach for the phone to call and ask for an update. Surely it had been long enough to do that now?

She glanced at the kitchen clock and uttered a deep-throated groan. No wonder she ached all over; she’d been awake for almost twenty-four hours. But no way did she dare lie down at this stage; even if she could fall asleep—which she doubted—she would never be able to rouse herself again in time to reopen the garage.

“This has to end,” she muttered. “It has to.”

She wondered again at why Jared had cut short their conversation. Sure, she’d heard Curtis on the radio, but that didn’t mean it had been about Faith. But what other reason could he have, not to have called her back by now?

That’s it, Ramey. You’re overdosing on self-importance—

At the sound of a vehicle, she immediately dashed to the kitchen door. Yanking it open, she saw that it was indeed Jared’s patrol car. For one instant her heart lifted with hope—only to plunge when she saw the empty passenger seat. She felt a strange sense of disconnection, until he started up the stairs; then she noted his expression was as ominous as she’d ever seen it. Except the time…