Waking the Dead Part 13

Moaning, he clapped his hands over his ears and rocked back and forth, battling to push the noise from his head.

He didn't know how much time pa.s.sed before the voice subsided and he took his hands away. The silence in his head was reflected in the next chamber. The woman had gone silent.

Calmer now, he got up to gather the pieces of the pen he'd thrown. He liked to keep his area neat. Tossing them in the trash, he sat down at his worktable again. Got out another pen and resumed sketching with a renewed sense of purpose. He'd finish the sketches tonight no matter how long it took him. Then the scalpel would need sharpening. He'd noted that last time but hadn't gotten around to it yet.

Making plans always calmed him. He hummed along with the song playing on the iPod. Something about a car accident and rain and a last kiss.

Barb Haines wasn't going to get a last kiss. She was only going to get a few last hours.

Because when he was done with his work tonight he was going to go into the chamber and snap that b.i.t.c.h's neck.

In a feat of supreme irony, Lydia Regatta managed to get in the last word, after all. At least in Cait's subconscious. Snippets from the past replayed in short Technicolor fragments in her dreams, melding and reforming with perfect accuracy memories she'd never waste time considering in her waking hours.

There was the heat of the lights again, the glare turning her skin to a sheen of perspiration. The excruciating ache of muscles held in one position for hours, waiting for the photographer to get the perfect shot. And always, always, her mother's voice superimposed over every shoot. Every decision.

I want a different photographer. The last time she worked with Paolo he made her look like a cow. He never gets the right angle.

Cait shifted in the bed, burrowing her head deeper into the pillow. But she couldn't shut out the movie replaying in her head. There was a much younger version of herself, jaw clenched, squaring off with her mother in their ongoing battle.

Later, darling. Your tutor says you're excelling on all your cla.s.s work. There will be plenty of time for school after this. Do you know how many girls your age would kill for the opportunities you have? And this is exactly what your father would have wanted for you.

The figures wavered at the edges. Melted away to form a new scene. Lawyers facing off across a long polished mahogany table. The smell of old books and rich leather filling the air. And her mother's tight expression. Her voice clipped with disapproval.

Your father would be so disappointed in you, Caitlin.

So disappointed.

So disappointed.

Lydia's voice rang like a knell in her head. The dream scene changed. A different office this time. But instead of a table, there was a desk. And an eight-year-old Cait sitting on her father's lap. Inhaling the scent of cherry tobacco and peppermint that never quite masked the smell of the nasty brown stuff in the bottle he kept in his bottom drawer.

You have to be daddy's big helper, Caitie. Can you do that?

His voice raspier, shushing the sobs she couldn't seem to contain. The sense of impending doom that a child's mind couldn't fully comprehend.

Put the gun in the special place I showed you. No one will ever find it there. And Caitie . . .

His hands gripping hard-too hard on her thin shoulders.

... you can never tell anyone the truth. Not ever, Caitie. It's our secret. Forever and ever.

It had been their secret. Because she'd done exactly what he'd told her that rainy evening.

And she'd never told a soul.

Her body twisted on the bed, caught in the desperate state between wakefulness and sleep, trying unsuccessfully to shrug off the mantle of slumber.

The scene shifted yet again, a dizzying blur of faces. The detective with the kind brown eyes who'd coaxed her out from beneath the desk. The lady with the old-fashioned dress and pinched-up mouth that'd asked her questions over and over again. The people moving through the funeral home, a parade of sympathetic faces and avid eyes, all speaking with hushed voices.

I heard it was a burglary gone wrong? How terrible for you, and poor little Caitlin.

Such a tragedy . . . why, she could have been killed, too!

Crimes like this are an outrage. No one's safe in their own home anymore!

At least you have Gregory's service pension. And the insurance policies . . .

The scene shifted again. They were in the lady's office. The one with all the questions. Her mouth got smaller and smaller the madder she got. And she was very angry at Lydia.

Surely you're going to get the child some help? After all she's been through? She needs therapy to get over this. You can't pretend it didn't happen. You can't . . .

The lady's phone was ringing. Ringing and ringing and ringing, drowning out her sharp words as it rang and rang and . . .

Cait's eyes opened to focus on the ceiling above the bed. A giddy sense of relief swept over her. Only a dream. One she hadn't had in months.

In the next moment she turned her head, winced to discover it was still pounding. Her cell phone gave a final jangle before falling silent.

Jesus. Gingerly, she sat up in bed, reached for the phone. Caller ID showed Barnes's number, so she called him back. The clock on the bedside table said five fifteen.

"Yeah, I figured I'd wake you." The deputy's voice sounded in her ear.

"Have to thank you for that," she muttered. With one hand, she swept the hair back from her face. "Did something break yesterday? I couldn't get you or Andrews all day."

"Yeah, it was a real s.h.i.t storm. But nothing to do with the case."

Now that Cait was more awake, she could hear the exhaustion in the other man's voice.

"We had a domestic dispute. Turned into a hostage situation. Guy finally blew his wife away a few hours ago before giving himself up."

"h.e.l.l." She rubbed her eyes. "Kids?"

"No. And that's about the only positive thing about the mess. Anyway I'm just now heading home for some sleep. You have any luck yesterday?"

"None. I'm meeting Sharper to start again in less than an hour."

"Okay, keep us posted. Oh, I almost forgot." The words were spoken around a yawn. "State lab got our results on the bags. We've got one clear thumbprint on one of them. They ran it through IAFIS and came up with zip. We need to do an elimination match on anyone who came in contact with it, including you and your tech."

It was all she could do to keep from snapping at him. She and Kristy were too well trained to touch evidence without gloves. But, she supposed, he'd claim the same for himself and his officers. "All right."

"Get a sample from Sharper today, too."

Her brows rose. Had she been first on the scene when they'd brought the bones out of the cave, she'd have collected elimination prints from everyone working the area. Especially the guide who'd admitted going down in the cave's chamber first. But it would do no good to point that out, so she said only, "Okay. And you'll do the same for the officers who worked the scene?"

There was a pause. Then, "Of course."

She couldn't prevent a huge yawn. And even that movement worsened the pounding in her head. "Anything else about the bags themselves?"

"Just that they're biodegradable, which could be a plus for us. How many companies could there be putting out black biodegradable garbage bags?"

Cait glanced at the clock again. She still needed to shower and talk to the clerk about paying for another night. "Several, I'm afraid."

"Oh. Well, I can continue on that lead. I'm shot. Need some rest before I fall down."

"Go to bed, Barnes. I'll let you know if we come across anything."

Without further urging from her, the man signed off. Cait slipped from the bed, staggering a little as she headed to the bathroom. She hoped the General Store opened early. She wouldn't make it through the day without buying some more pain reliever.

She could deal with a headache or with Sharper. But she was pretty sure she couldn't handle both simultaneously.

He was feeling just surly enough to make a comment about her being late, even if it were only by two minutes. But when Cait slipped out of the vehicle and stalked by him toward the store without a word, the caustic remark he was about to make died on his lips.

The shades she was wearing weren't needed to block the sun at this time of the day, and her skin was even paler than usual. Since he knew she hadn't tied one on in JD's last night, or gone to Ketchers, she likely didn't have a hangover. He spent the next few moments debating whether to follow her inside. On the one hand, he was curious. He did, after all, have to spend the rest of the day with her. On the other hand, if this were related to a female thing, he had a male's natural queasiness about too much information.

Pursing his lips in consideration, he decided to see what she was up to. PMS would only make Caitlin Fleming more dangerous. In which case it would pay to be forewarned.

But by the time he stepped inside she was already at the counter with her purchases, a couple granola bars, a hefty-sized container of Tylenol, and a bottle of water. And when she looked in his direction, he could feel her piercing glare behind the shades, even if he couldn't see it.

Ignoring her, he headed to the cooler and got himself an orange juice and then snagged one of the hot breakfast sandwiches from the warmer. When he got outside she was already in his front seat, washing down a handful of pills with a long gulp of water.

He unwrapped the sausage and egg m.u.f.fin and took a large bite before pulling out of the parking lot onto Highway 126.

"I can hear your arteries slamming shut in protest. They know you shouldn't eat that thing, even if you don't."

Taking another healthy bite, he chewed and swallowed. "Concerned about me? I'm touched. But you're the one who looks like a strong breeze would blow you over."

With slow careful movements she leaned against the headrest. "Why don't you just say I look like s.h.i.t and be done with it?"

That almost surprised a laugh from him, but he was smart enough to squelch it. "If I thought that, I would. You don't." But she did look . . . fragile, somehow. Like she'd shatter under a careless word. An ungentle touch.

Which was absolute bulls.h.i.t, because from what he'd seen so far, Caitlin Fleming was about as delicate as a pit bull on steroids.

"I had one too many beers to sleep last night. What's your excuse?" He slowed near their turnoff, checking the light traffic before turning on to the secondary road.

"I had a conversation with my mother. Always conducive to pleasant dreams."

Zach subsided. As c.r.a.ppy nights went, she probably won. Not that he had a mother, but just the mention of his father had been enough to keep him up to the wee hours working out his frustrations by hanging new sheetrock. And he hadn't even talked to Jarrett. "How bad's the headache?"

"On a scale of one to ten, with one being the fat opera tenor singing me lullabies in Italian, and ten being a dozen demented dwarves jack-hammering in my skull, I'd rank it a twelve."

Since she was still coherent enough to be sarcastic he figured she'd last the day. But maybe not without making his absolute h.e.l.l. "We could put this off a few hours. Let you get some more sleep."

"I'll be fine."

And maybe she would. If fine was synonymous with working herself into full-blown migraine status. It occurred to him that he was a bit too concerned about the welfare of the woman beside him, and he scowled. He only cared because of how it might affect him, he a.s.sured himself. He'd made it his habit since returning from Afghanistan to not give a s.h.i.t about anyone. So far it had worked pretty d.a.m.n well.

"Up to you. But if you do a face-plant while we're hiking today, I'm leaving you where you fall."

Oddly, the words had her mouth curling. "You're such a sweet talker, Sharper. How is it I'm not tripping over women dazzled by your charms?"

"Beats the h.e.l.l out of me." But despite his threat he found himself scanning the area for the best way, the easiest way to hike in and continue the grid they'd started yesterday. And that annoyed him enough that he fell silent until he chose a spot and parked the truck off the road.

"I remembered something last night. That second guy you mentioned. Lockwood. He builds a semipermanent place when he finds a spot he likes. A little lean-to with a tarp over the top. Not too close to water because he doesn't like to be bothered by fishermen and tourists."

She turned her head carefully toward him. "You know where his shelter is?"

He moved his shoulders impatiently, already sorry he'd said anything. The guy was probably an old hippie, a burnout who just wanted to be left the h.e.l.l alone. The area was full of them. It didn't make him a d.a.m.n serial murderer. "I know where it was once, but he isn't likely to be in the same spot."

"Let's head to where you last met up with him. It'll give us a place to start."

He drilled a look at her. "And when you find him?"

Her voice was cranky. "I'm going to shoot him in the leg. Christ, Sharper, what the h.e.l.l do you think? I want to talk to him. Sorry if that offends your innate leave-me-the-h.e.l.l-alone quality-which is, by the way, so very endearing. I have a job to do here."

Something about her irritability melted away his reservations. He understood ill temper. At least it was honest. It was the d.a.m.n perpetually cheerful people that he didn't trust. As far as he was concerned, they were either dangerously out of touch or hiding something.

Worse, though, he heard the pain beneath her words and responded to it, despite himself. "Understood. Just remember that these people can be unpredictable. It's sort of like encountering a wild animal."

"Don't corner them. Yeah, I got that. Believe it or not, I have some experience in this area." She walked ahead of him, taking her sungla.s.ses off as she entered the dim light of the forest.

Zach followed more slowly. Because unlike Cait's a.s.sertion, he had no experience in this area at all. At least, not where she was concerned.

And he couldn't say he cared for the sensation.

Chapter 11.

Of course there was no one at the spot Zach recalled from the last time he'd run into Lockwood. No surprise there. Like he'd told Cait, guys like that weren't known for sticking in one spot long term. Nor did they run into anyone else for the first couple hours. They weren't in the campsite areas or particularly close to the river. And most other folks had more sense than to get up at the crack of dawn to wander around a forest that would still be there at a much more reasonable hour.

If Cait's headache was still bothering her, she didn't show it. She never lagged, never complained about needing a rest. In fact, he was the one who had to finally call a halt since he hadn't seen her take a drink of water since they'd left the vehicle. He slowed, reaching behind him to unzip his pack. Stopping, he withdrew a bottle of water and handed it to her. "Drink. Getting rid of a headache is part hydration."

"I've got water."

When he merely looked at her, she took the bottle with a sigh and twisted off the lid, looking around the area as she took a long swallow. When she'd tipped the bottle down she asked, "I a.s.sume you know where we are?"

"I spent my childhood roaming this forest. More than half of it is in Lane County. I could be dropped down in just about any spot, and I'd be able to figure my location, eventually." He barely remembered the time he'd spent in his mother's house in Sisters. He'd been seven when the car accident that had eventually taken her life had landed them both in the Eugene hospital. And after he'd gone to live with Jarrett, he'd taken any excuse to get out of the house. Although not the safest of playgrounds, the Willamette had been his refuge.

Pointing, he added, "We're not that far off one twenty-six actually . . ." His statement trailed off at a series of crackling explosions nearby.

Pop, pop, pop!

There was a split second of deja vu, when he was transported back to the past. To the mountains of Afghanistan on the rare occasion they'd stumble on a warlord protecting his territory in their quest for their target.