Shadow Play (4 page)

She drew a deep breath and gazed around warily. “Not in the big picture.”

“
I don't know about big pictures. I'm a little confused.
”

“You're not the only one.”

Great. Last night Eve was talking to a skull. And now she was talking to herself?

Or was she? She looked down at the delicate bone structure of the skull. Poor child. But suddenly that skull didn't look as fragile to Eve as it had before. The bones were still delicate but they appeared stronger. It was as if she were changing before Eve's eyes.

Delusions and hallucinations. She had gone through that before, after Bonnie had been killed. But she had found Bonnie was not a hallucination. Just a spirit sent to comfort her.

But there was no reason to think that what she was going through now was anything but a hallucination. Jenny was not her own child as Bonnie had been. She was a stranger. Eve felt a chill run through her. This whole episode was strange and unsettling and she wanted it to go away.

“
I'm scaring you. I didn't mean to scare you. You're not ready. I thought—but I won't—I'm sorry. I won't do it anymore.
”

Eve felt as if she'd frightened a helpless doe and sent it flying away from her.

Okay, get control. What was happening? Assume it wasn't a hallucination. Stranger things had happened to her. Reach out.

“Jenny, are you trying to communicate with me?”

No answer.

“Because, if you are, we have to figure this out. I was caught off guard because this hasn't happened to me before. When I work on a skull, it doesn't usually want to have a conversation.” She shook her head. “Well, that's not quite true, it did happen to me once before, and that may be why I got a little nervous. I was working on a very nasty, vindictive man who only wanted to bring me into his world and hurt me. I had to fight to get away from him. I know that's not what you want.”

No answer.

The doe had truly fled and wasn't returning.

She should try again anyway to make sure that Jenny wasn't hesitating in the shadows, waiting.

“Look, it's not as if I don't believe that there are spirits among us. My daughter, Bonnie, comes to visit me, and she was one of the lost ones, like you, Jenny. It's just that I find it strange, and I'm a little at a loss. You'll have to help me.” She paused. “If that's your choice?”

No answer.

“Okay, maybe I blew it. I hope I didn't if you need something from me.” She sat down in her chair at the worktable. “But in the meantime, I have a job to do. I've got to return a face to these bones. I'll be doing a lot of things that will seem strange to you. Or maybe not. What do I know? You may be psychic and all-knowing and that kind of stuff, but somehow I don't think so. I measure, I stick markers in your face, then I start sculpting. You'll have to be patient.”

And so would Eve.

Still no answer.

*   *   *

“Are you all right, John?” His father's hand grasped Nalchek's shoulder as the gurney with Ron Carstairs was rolled by them to the medical examiner's van. “Anything I can do?” He grimaced. “Stupid question. You'd think after working law enforcement for more than forty years, I'd know better. But you always want to find some way to help when it's a friend. Hell, he spent Thanksgiving at our house last year.”

“Yeah.” Nalchek could feel the moisture sting his eyes as he watched them put Carstairs into the van. “He didn't want to come out here with me, Dad. He thought I was crazy to spend so much time on this case.”

“Your mom and I have wondered why you— Never mind. Water under the bridge.”

“Which means you thought I was crazy, too.”

“Nonsense. You had a rough time in Afghanistan, and it was natural that there were aftereffects that made you a bit edgy on occasion. I'm just grateful that it translated to sensitivity and not callousness.”

Nalchek watched them close the doors of the van. “I should have been with him.”

“You couldn't know there would be any trouble. Ron Carstairs could always take care of himself. Whatever happened must have been a complete surprise. You were the one in the woods and vulnerable to attack, John. Why would anyone think it necessary to go after Carstairs?”

“How the hell do I know?” Nalchek said roughly. “He didn't know anything about the case. He didn't even want to be here.”

“And how do you know this has anything to do with that little kid you dug up? It's not likely, John. Who would be hanging around eight years after a killing? The murderer would think he was safe and go on his way. You always have to ask yourself why in a homicide. You said that someone had gone through Ron's pockets and stolen some petty cash and ID from his wallet. Why are you discounting theft?”

“It looks like someone is trying to throw a red herring. Why risk killing a cop for that little cash? Everyone knows we don't make that much money.”

“Then maybe it's just someone who doesn't like cops and saw Ron out here by himself and took advantage of an opportunity.”

John shook his head. “Weak, Dad. Very weak.”

“He liked women. Maybe one of the girls he picked up in a bar got jealous and decided to—”

“No.”

His father shrugged. “Just don't ignore other possibilities. You're the only one who thinks the discovery of that little girl's body is of any lasting significance in the scheme of things.” He paused. “It's been a rough night for you. Why don't you come home with me, and we'll have a drink.”

John shook his head. “I've got to go to see Ron's sister, Clara, and break the news.”

“Later?”

“Maybe.” He doubted if he'd do it. His father wouldn't be able to keep himself from sharing his own practical experience as sheriff, and usually John listened. But not this time. Practicality had nothing to do with what he was feeling right now, it was pure instinct. He looked away from him. “Thanks for coming out here when you heard about Ron. I appreciate it, Dad.”

“What's family for?” He turned toward his truck, parked near the road. “If you need to talk, give me a call. Remember, the question is always why.”

John watched him walk away. Why? He thought he knew why Ron was dead, but he couldn't explain or give reasons. No one believed that an eight-year-old murder of a child would cause this attack. Not even his own father.

But if it had anything to do with that kid, why would anyone attack Ron? He wasn't working the case. He hadn't even gone with him to the grave site.

He'd just have to think about it, and he couldn't do that now. He had to think how he was going to break the news to Clara that her brother was dead.

He opened the driver's door and got into the car.

And that wasn't going to be easy. Clara didn't have any family except Ron, and they were close. He wouldn't be—

He inhaled sharply.

Holy shit.

He went still as he looked down at the passenger seat and the documents placed with order and clarity on the dark leather. Every page had been unfolded and was by itself so that it was readily viewed and accessible. None of the dossiers were in the folder where Ron had so carelessly tossed them.

The dossiers he had told Ron to go over when he left him to go into the woods.

And on the first page, Eve Duncan's photo stared up at him.

*   *   *

“Eve?” Joe was standing at the front door. “Okay? I tried to phone you on the way home, and you didn't answer.”

“What?” She shook her head to clear it. “I'm fine. Something must be wrong with my phone.” She was having trouble fighting her way out of the intense concentration into which she'd been drawn. “You're home early.”

“I'm two hours late.” He came toward her. “That's why I called you. I wanted to tell you I was stopping to pick up Chinese.” He picked up her phone on the worktable and checked it. “It's turned off.”

“It couldn't be.” She frowned as she took the phone. He was right, it was turned off. “I must have hit the button by mistake.”

“That's hard to do.” He was studying her. “You look … frazzled. And as if you're not quite with me. Did you have lunch?”

She tried to remember.

“You didn't.” Joe pulled her to her feet. “Breakfast?”

“I was going to fix toast and orange juice. But then I got busy.”

“I can see you did.” Joe was looking over his shoulder at the reconstruction as he pushed Eve toward the kitchen bar. He gave a low whistle. “Good God, you've already got those depth markers that look like voodoo sticks inserted on her. It usually takes you another day to get to that point.”

“Everything went smoothly. I had a little trouble with the orbital cavities but nothing major.”

“Evidently not. I've never seen your work go this quickly.”

Neither had Eve, she realized in sudden shock.

She stiffened, stopped short, and turned to look at Jenny.

As Joe had said, the depth markers looked like voodoo sticks.

Not only that, but she was almost done with the insertions. She was even further along than Joe knew to starting the actual sculpting.

There was no way she should be this far along.

Jenny, what are you doing to me?

No answer.

“Let's get some food in you,” Joe said quietly. “I'll get the plates.”

She nodded jerkily. “And I'll go and clean up a little. I'm not exactly a presentable dinner partner.” She moved quickly down the hall toward the bathroom. “Five minutes, okay?”

Seconds later, she closed the bathroom door behind her and leaned back against it. Frazzled? The woman in the mirror definitely fit the word Joe had chosen. Her cheeks were flushed, her hair mussed, and she had a streak of clay on her throat.

And she had turned off her phone.

Forgotten about even minor sustenance.

And she had been driven to work like a proverbial demon to try to get that reconstruction finished.

Driven?

She was a workaholic, and she knew about driving herself.

This didn't feel like that at all.

I believe we have to come to an understanding, Jenny.

And soon.

She stepped closer to the vanity and washed her face and hands thoroughly. She ran a comb through her hair, then turned out the light and opened the door.

“Better,” she told Joe as she started toward the kitchen. “But not perfect. That's up to you and that Chinese dinner you brought home. I'm starving.”

*   *   *

“You were hungry.” Joe smiled as poured her coffee. “At least I'm not going to have to worry about your having an attack of malnutrition.”

“You're not going to have to worry about me at all.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek before she jumped off the stool and gathered their plates and utensils. “You have your job, I have mine. Sometimes they both have a few weird quirks. We just accept them and go on. Right?”

“Weird quirks,” Joe repeated as he watched her put the plates in the dishwasher. “Odd phrasing. Would you care to elaborate?”

“Not at the moment. Perhaps after I've worked a few of them out.”

“Not accept, work them out. Opposites.” He gazed at her thoughtfully. “Do I sense a battle in the offing?”

“You sense a tired woman who is going to head for the shower, then go to bed.” She headed down the hall. “Care to join me?”

“Not going to work any more tonight?”

She stopped and looked at the reconstruction shimmering under the work light.

Waiting.

Dear God, she wanted to go back to work. The urge was so powerful, it was almost irresistible.

Almost.

“No.” She turned. “I've worked enough today. Tomorrow is soon enough.” She started down the hall. “Or maybe even the next day…”

*   *   *

She couldn't sleep.

Eve lay there in the darkness, hearing Joe's even breathing next to her.

She wanted to
work
, dammit.

No, she wasn't going to do it. What had happened had all the signs of control and manipulation. She didn't know if it was true, but she wasn't going to chance it.

But if she couldn't sleep, she could at least get a glass of water and go out on the porch until she was tired enough to try again. This tossing and turning would wake Joe.

She carefully avoided looking at Jenny's reconstruction as she passed through on her way to the porch.

“I'm not interested, Jenny,” she murmured as she went to the rail. “Maybe tomorrow.”

No answer.

There might never be an answer, she thought, as she raised her glass of water to her lips. Perhaps that contact had been rare and fleeting, not to be repeated. Perhaps it had only been imagination, which had been her first thought.

Not imagination. She had not only heard her, she had felt her as a person or entity or whatever.

But it was an entity who had driven her mercilessly today and had somehow managed to control Eve's own desires and disciplines. That couldn't happen again. She wouldn't permit it. It was far beyond what—

Her cell phone vibrated in the pocket of her robe.

Jane?

Not Jane.

Nalchek. She should ignore it. It was after three in the morning. But even Nalchek surely wouldn't call her at this hour of the morning unless there was a reason.

“Do you know what time it is?” she asked when she picked up. “If you want to check on progress, I don't work twenty-four/seven, Sheriff.”

“I was going to wait until morning,” Nalchek said. “But I didn't get the report until one, and I didn't want to— I thought I had to tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“My deputy, Ron Carstairs, was killed last night.”

His voice was hoarse, strained, and she could sense the pain.

“That's terrible. I'm very sorry.”