Part 17 (1/2)

GRACE WAS CONFUSED by Garon's avoidance of her. He'd seemed as involved as she was, especially when they became intimate. She knew that he'd enjoyed her. But then he'd taken off and hadn't even bothered to call. No man was that busy. No, he wasn't overwhelmed with work. He was trying to get rid of Grace without confrontations.

She should have realized that a man like him wouldn't be interested seriously in some small town spinster who didn't even have a college degree. If he'd wanted Grace for keeps, he certainly wouldn't have gone to that party at Jaqui's aunt's house. He was attracted to the woman. She was like him-sophisticated and career-minded. And she certainly wouldn't be interested in settling down with him. She probably wouldn't even want children....

Children! She placed her hands on her flat stomach and felt sick all over. She'd told him she couldn't have a child. Was that why he'd stopped seeing her? Before she told him that, he'd been very interested in her.

She bit her lower lip and tears stung her eyes. That explained it. He was feeling his years, maybe, and he was thinking about a family. But Grace was out of the running because she couldn't give him a child. That was why he was avoiding her. He didn't want to hurt her, but she was barren. Yes, she had to admit, that was surely the reason he'd stopped calling her.

She sat down in her easy chair and let the tears roll down her cheeks. Life had cheated her. From her nightmarish childhood to the final indignity of being left only half a woman, life had failed her entirely. She might as well get used to being alone, because it was all she would ever be able to expect. No man wanted a wife who couldn't bear children. She should have realized it!

Finally she got up, wiped her eyes and went to make herself a pot of coffee. Her sewing project was nearing completion. She had to concentrate on that, and stop trying to build castles in the air. She would get over Garon. She could get over anything. She'd proved her ability to survive tragedy. She just had to get in a better frame of mind and stop crying over spilled milk.

THERE WAS AN ARTICLE in the San Antonio paper about the little girl who was killed recently. Grace read it with a sinking feeling in her stomach. The child was only ten. She had long blond hair and light eyes. When she'd been a child, Grace's hair had been long. And her own eyes were light. She felt cold all over. Someone had mentioned that the child who died in Palo Verde was also blond.

The killer had struck three times in Texas, as far as law enforcement people could reckon: in Palo Verde, in Del Rio and now in the outskirts of San Antonio. He chose his victims carefully. He left no clues at the crime scene. He was methodical and intelligent. The article in the paper mentioned that he'd just sent a note to the local paper claiming twelve kills, in three states, and daring the police to find him. He knew that FBI behavioral specialists had been involved, to do a profile of the unknown killer. It would do them no good, he said in a typed letter. He was smarter than they were. There would, he promised, be more victims. Many more.

Grace put down the paper and came to a decision that was painful to make. She wasn't sure that Garon realized the killer targeted a certain type of child. Or that there was something about the killer that was completely unknown. He needed to know. And there was a case she remembered, that n.o.body knew about except a handful of people in Jacobsville. What she could tell him might help him find the killer. She'd been hiding in the shadows for too long already. She couldn't let another small life be lost.

She tried the phone, but his answering machine picked it up. So she drove over to Garon's house. It was only seven in the evening, and his car was in the driveway, so he must be home.

She went up the steps slowly, and rang the door bell.

There was a pause, then the sound of big, booted feet. There was a m.u.f.fled curse before the door opened.

It was Garon, but not the man who'd become so pa.s.sionate with her. This was a cold, indifferent stranger who glared down at her with eyes that seemed to hate her.

”I'm sorry to barge in,” she began, ”but I need to talk to you.”

”You don't take hints, do you, Grace?” he asked coldly. ”I tried to do it the easy way, but you're persistent. So let's get it straight. I don't want to see you again. I don't want to hear from you. Don't call, and don't come here again.”

Her eyes widened. She felt the words. .h.i.t her like a blow. ”Ex...excuse me?” she stammered, shocked.

”You're looking for something permanent. I'm not. I don't want a long-term relations.h.i.+p of any kind, especially not with someone like you.”

”What do you mean, someone like me?” she asked, astonished.

”You're a small town spinster, Grace, with few talents and minimum education,” he said firmly, hating the words even as he forced them out. ”We don't have anything in common except physical attraction, and it doesn't last. You need some steady cowboy who wants a domesticated little woman to keep house for him.”

Her face flushed. ”I see.”

He felt like a dog, so he was more antagonistic than he would have been normally. ”You needed help, and I did what I could for you. But I'd have done it for anyone. You expected more than I could give you. I'm tired of having people gossip about us. That's over. I don't want you, Grace. Go home.”

She couldn't even manage a comeback. Her heart was breaking inside her. She knew that her face had gone deathly pale. She turned away, went back down the steps, got into her car and drove away.

Garon cursed until he ran out of breath. He'd made her leave. Now he had to find a way to live with the guilt he felt about the way he'd treated her.

GRACE WENT THROUGH the motions of living during the next week, but she didn't feel much of anything. She went to her jobs and was glad that Garon didn't come into either of the businesses. She didn't want to see him ever again.

But suddenly, he was everywhere. She went to the bank the following Friday, and there he was, standing in the next line. He looked at her and glared, as if he thought she'd followed him there. She ignored him.

The next day, the local fish pond opened for business-a stocked pond with ba.s.s and bream, where customers could rent tackle and catch all they liked, paying for the fish by the pound.

Grace was excited, because she usually entered the local fish rodeos in the summer. She grabbed her pole and bait and minnow bucket and drove to the pond. It was crowded, which was nothing unusual for the time of year. It was almost spring, after all, and this day it was unusually warm. She was wearing jeans and a tank top with a big gray plaid flannel overs.h.i.+rt. She and her grandfather had been fis.h.i.+ng buddies. He'd taught her all she knew about the sport.

She'd hoped to take her mind off Garon, because it was painful to remember the things he'd said to her. But she stopped dead when she was almost at the pond, because there was Garon, also in jeans and a chambray s.h.i.+rt, with a spinning reel, standing on the bank.

He turned and saw her standing behind him and his eyes flashed with fury. He threw down the reel and strode to her. She backed up a step, intimidated by the look on his lean face.

”I told you I wasn't interested, Grace,” he said through his teeth. ”Following me around isn't going to get you anything! Didn't you get it? I don't want you!”

His voice carried. At least one of the fishermen was a regular patron at Barbara's Cafe. He stared at Garon with surprise, and then at Grace, who was flushed and sick, with pity.

She turned on her heel and marched right back out the gate, her heart shaking her with its wild, helpless throb. The animal! How could he have embarra.s.sed her so? What did he think, that she had so little pride, she couldn't help but stalk him like a predator? She cursed under her breath as she made it back to her car. She threw her paraphernalia into the back seat, started the car and drove herself home.

It was the weekend, so she didn't have to go to work. Instead she finished her small sewing project and mailed off a package that carried all her hopes for the future. She finished pruning her roses, planted two new ones she'd ordered through the mail, and cleaned the house from top to bottom. She slept very well from the exhaustion. She dreamed of Garon, though, and the dreams taunted her with what she would never have with him.

Monday morning, she went back to work at Judy's florist shop and spent the day working on arrangements for two funerals of local people. At least when she was working, it was possible to forget Garon for a few minutes at a stretch. If only she could forget him for good!

GARON HAD LONG SINCE contacted headquarters to do a profile on the child killer for Marquez, to help narrow down the list of possible suspects. Anyone who'd ever done time for crimes against children was immediately on the list. Detectives were going door to door again in the neighborhood where the child had lived, to ask about suspicious activity around the time of the child's abduction. Garon hadn't worked out of the San Antonio office long enough to develop a good network of informants, but one of his colleagues had. He went out and put his snitches to work, listening for word on the street of the child killer.

So far, there were no suspects who matched the DNA found under the child's fingernails. They were checking long lists of s.e.xual predators who were out on bond or parole, but nothing had surfaced so far. Nor was the canva.s.sing of the dead child's neighborhood doing much good.

”You'd think with houses that close together, somebody would have noticed a stranger skulking around in the dark,” Marquez told Garon irritably.

”Someone did,” he reminded the other man. ”Sheldon. But he couldn't give us a good description. An older, bald man with a limp. I've seen six people who fit that description today.”

Marquez perched on the edge of Garon's desk. ”I've had one of my patrol officers talk to a couple of his informants,” he said. ”One of them did time for child rape. It's possible the perp bragged about his crime.”

Garon's dark eyes flashed. ”I want to catch this guy.”

”So do I,” Marquez agreed. ”But he's been at it apparently for twelve years, if that note he sent the newspaper isn't just exaggeration.”

”One child a year,” Garon said aloud. ”And never any witnesses who could give a positive description. There was stranger DNA in at least one case, this last one, but no match when we ran it through VICAP. And the trace evidence from the Del Rio killing was likely stolen.”

”Maybe the perp has never done time,” the younger man mused. ”He's smart, and he knows it. He wants us to look like fools.”

”Or maybe he's in a written report from some other law enforcement agency that never made it into the database. We need more information about this child,” he said after a minute. ”We need to know how she would have reacted to an intruder.”

”You mean, was she the sort of child who'd fight and scream, or was she a placid child who did what she was told?”

”Exactly. And we need to work those similar cases, and find out about the other children who were abducted and murdered. We need to know how he's choosing them. The task force has worked hard, but we all have other duties as well. Everybody's working overtime, and we're going backward. We need more information.”

Marquez's eyes narrowed. ”Well, all the children were female,” he said suddenly. ”And none was older than twelve.”

”Very good,” Garon replied. ”He also had to have a way to study the children before he abducted them. That means he probably had access to them in one way or another. Maybe he works with children.”

”Maybe he was a teacher or volunteered in after-school activities,” Marquez murmured.

”Or at church,” Garon added reluctantly.

Marquez nodded. ”Or took photographs of children for yearbooks.”