Part 13 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+fted 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, shus.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+fted 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 s.h.i.+fted 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?”