Faces Of Evil: Traceless Part 29

If Troy needed her, she had to see what she could do to help. He was Heather's brother. Emily couldn't let him down. Maybe this would make up for the way he'd been hurt by her change of heart where Clint was concerned.

She wadded the old note she'd written to Clint, then hurriedly prepared another telling him where she'd gone so he wouldn't worry if he got back here before her.

As she drove to Troy's she kept replaying the way his voice had sounded. Definitely drinking heavy and definitely desperate. She hoped she wasn't too late.

First she went to the front door and tried the doorbell. She knocked a couple of times.

No answer.

He'd said he was home. His truck was here.

The possibility that he'd hurt himself had her going around to the end of the house where a garage door stood open.

She wove around the lawn mower, tricycles, and mountains of beer cans and made her way to the door that led from the garage into the house. The smell of oil, gas, and stale beer wasn't a pleasant mix. Cabinets and shelves lined every walla"all cluttered with stuff from Christmas decorations to old buckets of paint.

Rapping her knuckles sharply on the door, she shouted, 'Troy! It's Emily!" She knocked again and again, pausing to listen each time. Still nothing.

She should just give up, but he'd sounded so desperate. She reached up to knock again. Pain exploded in the back of her head as she slammed face-first into the door.

She crumpled onto the cool concrete steps and the blackness closed in on her thoughts.

Her mind fought the darkness. She heard the sound of a car engine starting. Heard the rasp of rubber against concrete and brakes engaging tire tread. The smell of exhaust brushed her senses.

Wake up! She couldn't.

Open your eyes! Too heavy.

She was moving... sliding across the floor. She b.u.mped something and cans rattled. Hands pulled at her, lifted her, then dropped her. Her face pressed against something soft... fabric?

What was happening?

A car door slammed. Then another. Movement. Music. The radio? Yes. The call letters of the station she always listened to as the deejay promised ten songs in a row. Emily inhaled, tried to a.n.a.lyze the smells. Her car?

Emily licked her lips. Moaned. Told herself to wake up! Open your eyes!

Her stomach roiled and bile rose in her throat. She swallowed it back. Had no idea how much time pa.s.sed with the car moving... her head throbbing with pain so sharp she had to breathe shallowly to fight it. She floated in and out of awareness.

The forward momentum ceased with jarring force.

She groaned at the ache in her head.

A door slammed. The sound reverberated inside her skull, causing ripples of pain.

Silence.

Another thump... like the trunk closing.

Water sloshed on her clothes. Emily tried to open her eyes again... tried to reach up and block the splashing but couldn't make her arms move.

Not water, her mind argued, chemical... gasoline?

Her heart stumbled.

Get up!

Her body was too heavy. She couldn't move.

But the car was moving... rolling. Or was it?

Smoke?

She smelled smoke.

Get up!

Metal smashed; something popped as she lunged forward. She flopped into the floor.

Had she crashed?

Was there a fire? She could smell something chemical... something burning. Her throat convulsed. She coughed.

"Ms. Wallace? Emily?"

Was someone in the car with her?

Was she even still in the car?

Her head hurt so bad... her lids felt too heavy to budge. Her lungs burned. The blackness tugged at her. She needed to go there... escape the pain.

"Ms. Wallace, this is OnStar. Our monitors indicate that your air bags have deployed. Can you hear me, Ms. Wallace?"

Emily tried to answer the woman, but her mouth wouldn't form the words.

"Ms. Wallace, if you can hear me, don't be afraid; we're sending help. Our monitors also indicate there may be a fire in the pa.s.senger compartment; can you move, Ms. Wallace? Can you get out of the vehicle?"

Fire?

Fear detonated along Emily's nerve endings, sending a surge of lifesaving adrenaline through her veins, urging her body to react. To move.

She forced her eyes to open. Couldn't focus. Her lungs seized and her head spun. She coughed and gagged.

"Can you hear me, Ms. Wallace? I can hear you coughing... Ms. Wallace?"

Emily couldn't answer. Her entire focus was needed to try to make her body move... to reach for the door... she had to get out of the car. It was on fire.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN.

Pine Bluff City Hall 5:00 p.m.

The interview room was becoming an all too familiar place for Clint's comfort. As usual, he'd been brought here and left alone to sweat the possibilities. This time for more than an hour. If that was what Caruthers wanted, he would be d.a.m.ned disappointed. The only thing on Clint's mind was the fact that there had been another murder.

Ray Hale was dead.

Anguish tore through Clint. No matter what Ray had done in the past, he was the only person in this whole G.o.dd.a.m.ned town who had tried to help Clint. Not once had he shown his appreciation.

Clint grabbed back control. He couldn't let his emotions run away with him like this. He was sorry as h.e.l.l that Ray was dead, but the best thing he could do for the man was find his killer. He couldn't do that in here.

Knowing that Caruthers would be watching him behind the two-way mirror on the wall, Clint sat right where they'd left him. No fidgeting, no looking around, absolute stillness. His goal was to get out of here, get to Emily, and keep her safe while finding some answers. Every time he turned around there were more questions and no answers.

The door opened. Mike Caruthers and Lee Brady, Clint's parole officer, entered the room. Brady took a seat at the table; Caruthers didn't appear inclined to sit.

"Mr. Austin," Brady began, "I would strongly advise you to have an attorney present. The questions Deputy Caruthers is about to introduce could cause you to incriminate yourself, thus violating your parole."

Clint shook his head. "I don't have anything to hide." He shifted his gaze to the deputy. "Say what's on your mind, Caruthers."

"Have you ever been to Ray's hunting cabin?"

"No. He offered it to me as a temporary place to stay after my house burned, but I declined."

"Where were you between noon and two p.m. today?"

That was easy. "At work until one. You can check with Marvin Cook and the rest of the employees at the repair shop. I left at one and drove straight to the Valley Inn. I was with Emily Wallace after that until you picked me up. The manager at the inn saw me arrive shortly after one, and Emily and I left around two to go to Violet Turner's house."

Clint wasn't sure whether it was disappointment or relief he saw in the deputy's eyes. Maybe a mixture of both.

"Can you identify these?" He placed a plastic evidence bag on the table, the contents a handful of ripped photos.

Clint studied the fragments, then said, "Torn photographs. I'd have to piece them together somewhat to be certain, but they look like some of the ones from my house. You saw the place after it was vandalized." He didn't have to remind Caruthers, but for Brady's sake he did. The memory of all his mother's damaged things squeezed his heart.

"Is there any reason Ray would have these in his possession?"

"As a favor to me, Ray took some of the pieces to a guy he thought could restore them. But I can't say whether these are any of the ones he took, not without touching them and maybe not even then."

"Once I've confirmed your alibi, you'll be free to go, but stay close to home or work. I may need to question you again. And," Caruthers glanced at Brady before proceeding and he nodded, "we're going to need to do DNA testing on any person of interest related to Keith's case."

"If you don't offer the sample voluntarily," Brady explained, "they'll get a court order. I've been made aware of the names on the list. There are several others, Mr. Austin, so don't feel singled out."

"No problem."

Caruthers turned his back and headed for the door.

Clint almost didn't ask, but he needed to know. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Caruthers hesitated but didn't look back. "We're not releasing any of the details yet. When we do, you'll read about it in the paper like everyone else."

No matter that Clint's alibi was rock solid, no way they could try to nail this on him, Caruthers didn't like him or trust him because of the past. But then, Clint had known it would be this way. There were simply some things a man couldn't live down.

Innocence would never be enough.

Valley Inn 6:15 p.m.

Clint knocked first, but when there was no answer he used the key Emily had given him and entered the room. It felt a little different, being trusted with her key. But it was only a rented room, nothing to get excited about.

"Emily?"

He checked the bathroom. No Emily.

Since her car wasn't out front, she might have decided to spend some time with her parents, but he didn't like not knowing.

He noticed the note on the dresser then.

He swore. What the h.e.l.l did she mean, meeting Baker alone?

He tossed the note back on the dresser and glanced at the clock. She'd left the time on the note. She'd been gone for an hour.

He was going over there.

410 Oak Avenue 6:40 p.m.

Baker's house was silent, but his truck was in the driveway.

Clint parked behind Baker's vehicle and got out, his senses on alert to some danger he couldn't name.

If Emily had left already, where had she gone? He supposed she could have taken a different route back to the inn.

He banged on the front door. Stabbed the doorbell a couple of times.

No answer.

Not a sound.

Well, h.e.l.l. If he was going to break into the guy's house before dark, he'd better do it from the back. His lock-picking tools had been confiscated. Maybe he'd have to try kicking the door in. As long as it wasn't steel.

At the end of the house the garage door was open, so he checked there first. The garage was cluttered with junk, lawn maintenance implements and piles of beer cans. Baker was evidently starting a collection.

Steel entry door leading into the house.

Great.

Clint tried the k.n.o.b, and to his surprise the door was unlocked.

Inside, the place was as dark as a tomb. Clint stayed still for half a minute and listened for any signs of life.