Dancing in the Dark Page 25

  Which brought them back to Nate.

  Her stomach clenched again, but this time from revulsion, a shudder making its way from her shoulder blades downward. There was no way to truly contemplate the magnitude of Eric's pronouncement—a friend becoming an enemy in the space of a word.

  There was a stench to the forensic lab, a sickly sweet combination of death, chemicals, and cleaning fluid that no amount of air freshener could possibly cover. Eric supposed that if one worked there long enough, the smell probably went away. But the fact didn't do a thing to improve the olfactory onslaught he was dealing with at the moment.

  “So what's the word?” He stopped just at the edge of a lab table, not in the mood to watch Claire play with her toys.

  She looked up from a blood-spattered piece of material; chemicals had turned the stains a luminous blue. “Got something I think you're going to want to see.” She stripped off her gloves, already heading toward the door. “I'm guessing it's important.”

  “All right.” He gestured toward the door, then followed her down the hall into her office.

  Claire picked up an envelope, sliding out a sheet of paper. “We found a fingerprint at Molly Parker's.” She handed him a photographic copy. “It was on the boom box. I ran it through the system and got a hit. Guy named Nathan Stone. He's got quite a record.”

  The skin on Eric's neck prickled as he stared down at the fingerprint. “Yeah, I know. Tony's out looking for him right now. We've got a few questions for him, and this should sure as hell add fuel to the fire. Any other prints?”

  Claire shook her head. “No, not at Molly's. But we did find something else of interest. The fibers I picked up at the scene were hemp.”

  “Rope?” Eric frowned, trying to process the new information.

  Claire nodded. “The same kind we found at two of the other murder scenes.”

  “So we were wrong. Molly was tied up.”

  “I'm waiting for a call from the hospital to confirm it. I couldn't check her at the scene, obviously. Saving her life was the priority. But it seems probable that she was restrained. Anyway, the point is it couldn't have been very strong if she was able to free herself. She wouldn't have had a lot of strength.”

  “Determination has accomplished amazing things, Claire; you know that as well as I do.” Another thought surfaced.“When I asked about fingerprints you said there weren't any more at Molly's. Did you find a print somewhere else?”

  Claire nodded, her expression at odds with the gesture, almost reticent. “I'm not sure it's really worth saying anything. But we did find a partial. On one of the calipers on your car.”

  “And that's not something to tell me?”

  “Well, it's a bad print. We're working on trying to make it clearer. Hopefully then we can get enough to make a match.”

  “So you can't say if it's Nate's?”

  “I can't say if it's Jack the Ripper's.” Claire shrugged. “But we're working on it. And I promise you'll be the first to know if we find something.”

  Eric's cell phone rang, and he clicked it on. “D'Angelo.”

  “Hey, partner.” Judging from Tony's voice the news wasn't good. “Just thought you'd want to know I've hit a dead end. Best I can tell, Nate Stone has simply dropped out of sight.”

  The bathroom was warm, the steam from her shower coupling with the vanity lights to dispel some of the gloom of the afternoon. She'd told Eric she loved him. It had been a scary step, but in the aftermath all Sara felt was peace. That, and a giddy sort of joy that made her feel a lot like a teenager again.

  She combed through her wet hair, sobering as her eyes dropped to her wedding ring on the counter. Why was it that she constantly felt like she was in two places—called by the past, tempted by the future, tormented in the present? Or maybe that was overstating things.

  There were so many people who never had the chances she'd had, even with all the things that had happened to her. And she'd had Jack to watch out for her, then Tom. Now Eric. Maybe that was part of the problem. Maybe she didn't need anyone to look out for her. Maybe she was perfectly capable of standing on her own two feet.

  She reached for the ring, then drew back her hand. Or maybe she simply needed to accept that fact herself. Maybe she'd spent too much time leaning on others, letting other people carry the load.

  Maybe, and that was operative word, it was time to believe in herself.

  She chewed her lip, staring at the ring. It represented Tom's love. But it was also a tie to the past. And what she wanted more than anything was to let it go, to move on, and hopefully, in doing so, to accept her life for what it was. The good and the bad. All of it. To hold Tom and Charlie close in her heart forever, and, at the same time, to allow room for others—for Eric.

  Metaphorically, it seemed so simple. With a shaking hand, she reached for the ring, gold cold to the touch, and with tears filling her eyes, she opened her jewelry box and let it go, watching as it tumbled to a stop, bright against blue velvet.

  And despite the ache in her heart, she knew that her tears were cleansing as she sealed the past away in her heart— opening the door on tomorrow.

  Eric strode into the squad room, worry blossoming inside him. “Has anyone heard from Jenkins?”

  Tony looked up from the file he was reading, his feet propped nonchalantly on his desk. “He made his last scheduled call. Talked to him myself. He was on the front porch. Sara was taking a shower. From the flustered nature of his speech, I'd say he was fighting a hard-on.”

  The comment brought laughter from the others in the squad room.

  “I'm serious.” The tone in Eric's voice sobered everyone, including Tony, who sat up, eyes narrowed in concern.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I don't know. I just tried to reach Sara at home, and no one was there, not even the answering machine picked up. And then, when I tried to get Jenkins on the radio, there was nothing.”

  “That doesn't necessarily mean something's wrong, Eric.”Tony's expression contradicted his statement despite his attempt to be comforting.

  “Okay, then let's just say I have a really bad feeling.” Eric paced in front of the desk, trying to assure himself that he was overreacting, that everything was all right. How many times had he assured an overanxious parent or spouse about that very thing?

  And in most cases, he'd been telling the truth. Everything resolved without incident. Funny how different it was when he was the one worried. How different it was when it was Sara whose life was at stake.

  He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, to center on reality instead of his fear.

  “When was the last time you talked to her?” Tony asked.

  “I don't know for certain. No more than forty-five minutes. She said she was going home. And then she was heading back to the hospital. I'm supposed to meet her there when we finish up here.”

  “Well, I wouldn't plan on that anytime soon.” Tony's words were caustic. “There's still nothing on Nate.”

  “All the more reason to worry about Jenkins.”

  “Don't know if this will help,” another detective inserted, “but Jenkins is notorious for turning off his radio. The static drives him crazy. I rode with him for a week last summer, and he had the thing off almost the entire time.”

  “He should be written up.” Eric's words were harsher than necessary, and he knew it.

  The guy only shrugged. “He's good, Eric. Just because he isn't always plugged in, doesn't mean he isn't paying attention. I'm sure everything is fine.”

  Eric met Tony's questioning gaze. “I can't be sure until I talk to her.”

  It was Tony's turn to shrug. “Then I suggest we take a ride.”

  It was dark in the house: a product of the steel-gray day and early twilight, the gloom penetrating as if it were an invader. Sara shivered, and shrugged into a shirt, buttoning it and tucking it into her jeans, the flannel some comfort against the suddenly pervading cold.

  It was silly, really, to b
e afraid of her own house. But suddenly without the ring, without Eric, without anything except Officer Jenkins, she was frightened. Taking a deep breath, she made her way down the stairs, concentrating on the idea of getting back to the hospital. To friends and employees and a myriad of other people.

  No Nate.

  No killer.

  The idea that they could be one and the same was still not settling well. She'd thought about it a lot since she'd been home, but the concept didn't seem any more rational than it had when Eric had first mentioned it.

  Then suddenly, as if in an effort to be difficult, her mind presented the memory of Nate talking about the rose petals at Molly's. Her blood ran cold.

  No one was supposed to have known about them. She only knew because she'd been at the scene. But Eric had sworn her to silence.

  She reran the conversation in her mind. Nate had described the scene as if he'd been there. She fought against tears. Eric was right. Nate was the enemy.

  She rubbed her finger, missing the comforting touch of the ring, yet liberated by its absence. She could deal with this. Just like she'd dealt with everything else that had happened in her life. She squared her shoulders, hitting the bottom of the staircase with an even stride.

  “Jenkins? You down here?” she called. “Kyle?” The second request was more tentative. The first time she'd used his given name.

  Nothing.

  Moving more slowly now, she edged into the living room, her eyes searching for his familiar form. But the room was empty. Heart starting to rev up, she fought to keep calm, knowing that nine times out of ten there was a reasonable explanation.

  Something that they'd both laugh about later.

  But not now.

  Fighting to stay in control, she inched her way across the room, stopping in the door to the study, calling Jenkins' name again. Odds were he'd stepped out onto the front porch. Surely he had to check the perimeter occasionally. That made sense in an Alias kind of way. She should have paid more attention.

  But she hadn't. And so here she was, standing in her living room, wondering where the heck Jenkins was, and what exactly she was supposed to do about it.

  Call Eric.

  The voice in her head was loud and insistent, and she was grateful for the guidance. Walking into the study, she reached for the phone, and picked up the receiver. Nothing.

  She clicked it off and on again, with the same result.

  Dead air.

  Forcing her breath to come in even bursts, she moved from the study to the living room and the extension there. A land line.

  With a shaking hand, she picked up the receiver.

  Again nothing.

  Clicking the disconnect button she tried again, with no result. The phone lines were dead. A tree limb scratched against the window, sending her running into the hallway, cursing her own timidity. It was just the storm. With all the trees, the neighborhood lost cable and phones at the slightest provocation.

  She was jumping at shadows. She needed to find Jenkins. And her cell phone. She walked back into the hallway, trying to remember where she'd left it. Maybe the kitchen. Calling Jenkins' name again, her back to the wall, she inched her way into the hall, wishing suddenly that she had a fraction of the Alias woman's moxie.

  Not to mention experience with martial arts.

  She was losing it. But better over a television show than in real life. At the moment hers certainly rivaled anything a writer could come up with.

  A sound behind her had her spinning on heel, facing the door, heart beating a syncopated rhythm against her chest. Someone was pounding on the door.

  She froze, her mind screaming to call out for Jenkins. Her heart screaming to run.

  But it was a moot point, as neither her feet nor her voice was paying any attention, both of them unable to respond.

  The part of her mind that was still working rationally recognized the sound—Nate. Nate was at the door. Pounding. Screaming at her. Demanding entrance. She could hear his voice, and with effort she focused on the words, trying to hear them above the cadence of her heart.

  “Sara? Sara? Are you there?”

  She opened her mouth to answer and then shut it again. Backing up, freezing in a flash of lightning, praying that he couldn't see in through the frosted glass panels of the door.

  Not daring to breath she continued to inch her way backward, praying that the cell phone was on the kitchen counter where she remembered leaving it.

  “Sara? Open the door. Sara.”

  She fought the urge to answer, to yell for him to go away, her mind trotting out the image of Molly in bandages, her imagination filling in the blanks.

  The pounding increased, and Sara continued to inch backward, her mind screaming run, her body obviously not getting the memo.

  “I know you're in there.” Nate's voice was frantic now, and Sara's heart was beating so loudly she was afraid he would be able to hear it.

  Glass sprayed across the floor as the door's window shattered. Sara stifled a scream, then swallowed, her heartbeat echoing in her ears as silence reigned.

  She waited—one heartbeat, two—then turned to run,the kitchen offering her cell phone, a connection to Eric, sanctuary.

  Lightning flashed again, and she shot a look behind her, relieved to find the hallway still empty, the gaping holes in the door shining eerily in the half-light.

  Rounding the corner, she reached for the light switch, horrified to realize that the phones weren't the only thing affected by the storm. Flipping the switch once more for confirmation, she concentrated on the flash of lightning, using the momentary illumination to get her bearings.

  The kitchen counter was just ahead, the black silhouette of her cell phone beckoning. Safety in sight.

  A noise behind her made her spin around, arms raised defensively.

  Someone caught her, holding her close, and she fought against him, a scream rasping in her throat. Then common sense prevailed, his smell driving home, the sound of his voice coaxing her to be calm.

  “Sara. Sara, it's me.”

  “Ryan.” She breathed his name with relief, knowing that everything was all right, that Nate couldn't possibly hurt her now.

  Chapter 28

  “It's okay, Sara. You're safe.” Ryan's voice was soothing, but she wasn't certain she wanted to let him go.

  “Nate?” The name came out on a whisper.

  “He's been taken care of. Jenkins is with him now.”

  She nodded, working to calm her shattered nerves. “Then it's over.”

  “Yeah.” He released her, keeping an arm around her, reaching for a Starbucks cup on the counter. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

  “I should call Eric.”

  “You're still shaking. Sit here, and drink my coffee. You look like you need it a hell of a lot more than I do.” He smiled, offering the cup. “I'll call Eric.”

  The idea of hot coffee was suddenly irresistible. She took the cup, sinking onto a kitchen chair, sipping the bitter brew with a sigh. “How did you know to come?”

  “Eric called and said your phones were out. He wanted me to check on you.”

  Even in his absence Eric had been watching over her. Sara allowed herself a tiny smile, watching as Ryan dialed the number on his cell phone. Everything was going to be all right. Ryan explained the situation to Eric, then answered questions, assuring him more than once that Sara was all right.

  The conversation made her feel warm and content, drowsy even, the antithesis of terror. Almost anticlimactic.

  Ryan hung up the phone. “He wants me to bring you to the station. You up for the drive?”

  She nodded, standing up, surprised when she stumbled. “I'm just a little sleepy. Shock, I guess.”

  Ryan frowned, slipping an arm around her. “Maybe I should take you to the hospital first, make sure you're all right.”

  “No.” She shook her head, feeling as if everything was moving in slow motion. “I'd rather go to Eric. I need to see him.”
She tried to smile, but the effort was just too much. “You understand, don't you?”

  “Of course I do.” His smile was warm, but his eyes were sad, and she wondered why, but unfortunately her brain wasn't quite up to figuring it out.

  “Ryan?” she slurred, the kitchen blurring into a wash of colors. “I think maybe I'd better go to the hospital after all. Something's definitely wrong with me.” She leaned against him, grateful for the support.

  “Just hold on to me, Sara,” he crooned, helping her walk to the door. “I've got you now.”

  Eric was out of the car almost before it skidded to a stop. He ran up the walk, remembering the first time he'd come this way, not sure of his reception, hoping for so much more. This time he knew what she thought. Knew that she loved him. Only this time she might be gone forever.

  The glass in the door had been shattered, the frame still intact. “Sara?” he called, still running forward, almost tripping over the prone figure at the door. Forcing himself to stop, to treat the area like a crime scene, he knelt by the body.

  Male. Not Sara, his brain screamed.

  Automatically he felt for a pulse. It was faint, but it was there. Carefully, he rolled the body over, turning it faceup.

  Nate Stone.

  “He alive?” Tony flanked him, staring down at the man who'd led them on such a wild dance.

  “Yeah.” Eric stood up, eyes reassessing the scene. “He's got a pretty deep gash on the back of his head. That's probably what brought him down.”

  “Looks like he was trying to get inside.” Tony nodded toward the glass.

  “But something stopped him. If Sara or Jenkins stopped Nate, then where the hell are they?” Eric frowned, still trying to piece it together. “This doesn't feel right.”

  “You check inside,” Tony said, reaching for his cell phone. “I'll call it in.”

  Eric was already moving forward, gun drawn. The door was locked, which caused relief and alarm all at the same time. Reaching through the broken glass, he flipped the lock, swinging the door open, then stepped into the hallway.