Deeper Than the Dead

Maybe she was just a grown woman enjoying the attention of a man. Maybe she didn’t need a reason or an agenda. And if she was supposed to be wondering where it would go . . . she wasn’t.

She pulled out of the parking lot and headed down Sycamore.

He had said he would probably be working late, but if it wasn’t too late when he hung it up, could he stop by?

Yes. Especially after the day she had had, yes. She was so tired. Tired in her soul from the things she had seen this past week. No one would ever have accused her of being Pollyanna, but she had certainly started out the week with a much sunnier opinion of the world than she had five days later. She felt like her optimism had been dragged down a gravel road behind a truck.

It would have felt very good to slip into Vince’s embrace and let him tell her it would all be fine, that he would take care of her. Definitely politically incorrect for a young, single, career-minded woman to think, but there it was. She had been strong a long time. Someone else could be strong on her behalf every once in a while.

She turned onto Via Colinas and noticed the car behind her turn as well. She turned on Rojas. It turned again.

Her heart picked up a beat. She was no longer downtown. She was on quiet residential streets. People were inside their homes, watching television—just as they would be on her block when she pulled into her driveway and had to walk to her door alone.

She could drive straight to the sheriff’s office, she thought, uneasy. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, red and blue lights came on behind her.

Groaning, she pulled over. She had probably forgotten to signal at one of those turns. That was what she got for letting her mind wander—her second traffic citation in a week.

She rolled her window down and reached for her purse.

“License, registration, and proof of insurance.”

The voice came from behind a ball of blinding white light and sent an instant burst of fear through her.

Frank Farman.

Tommy felt very satisfied with himself as he and his dad cut through the dental office to their car parked in back. He felt very grown up having had a dinner meeting, like his mother was always having.

“That was fun, huh, Sport?” his dad asked.

“Yep.”

“And you understand what Miss Navarre was saying about asking you those questions, right? She didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

Tommy nodded his head, but reserved comment. He understood that Miss Navarre hadn’t meant anything bad, but he was still mad at Detective Mendez and the FBI man for what they had said to his mom the night before. They sounded like they meant every word of what they said, and what they said was that they thought his father might be a killer. It was their job to be suspicious, but it still made Tommy mad. This was probably one of those things he would automatically understand when he got older—or that’s what grown-ups would tell him, at least.

“That was very nice of you to give Miss Navarre a gift,” his father said. “What was it?”

“A necklace.”

His father glanced over at him in the glow of the dashboard lights. “Where did you get a necklace? You never left the house today.”

Tommy made a face as he contemplated his confession. “Mom threw it away. She had one of her fits this morning and she threw it away. But it was pretty, and I figured she kind of owed Miss Navarre on account of she yelled at her in public last night, so it made sense to me to give the necklace to Miss Navarre. So I did.”

His father stared ahead at the road. “Your mother threw away a necklace?”

“She’s always throwing stuff away. She shouldn’t have nice things if she doesn’t take better care of them,” Tommy said.

Now he was feeling a little guilty about it, though. He knew he shouldn’t get mad at his mother for things she did when she was upset. She couldn’t help herself when she got that way. He was supposed to feel badly for her, not give her stuff away.

“Did I do something bad?” he asked.

“No, son. You meant well,” his father said.

“It’s the thought that counts,” Tommy said. That was another thing adults always said that never quite made sense to him. But it sounded good.

Anne handed her papers and license out the window to Frank Farman.

“What are the charges, Deputy?”

“I ask the questions here,” he said. “But then that’s always your problem, isn’t it, Miss Navarre? You never know when to keep your mouth shut.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not against the law.”

“Get out of the car,” Farman ordered.

“No.” Her response was automatic.

Farman yanked open the Volkswagen’s door. “Get out of the car. Your careless driving and belligerent attitude are leading me to believe you might be intoxicated. You can get out of the vehicle or I can remove you from the vehicle and place you under arrest.”

Then he would put her in the back of his squad car and . . . what? She would never be seen again? The scene was fresh in her mind: Dennis saying, “He killed her,” and Anne turning to see Frank Farman’s face in the window.

Shaking inside, she got out of the car. Farman shined his flashlight in her eyes.

“You called Child Protective Services on me,” he said. “You filed a report.”

“It doesn’t mean much now,” Anne said, “in view of what happened today.”

“That goes in my record,” he said. “You embarrassed me and put something in my record that could affect my chances at promotion.”

Anne didn’t know what to say. Are you delusional? seemed a poor choice. His wife was missing. His son had attempted murder. He was worried about a notation on his record impacting his career prospects.

“You embarrassed me,” he said. “Now I embarrass you. Stand with your arms straight out at your sides. How will a DUI charge go over at school, Miss Navarre?”

“I’m not intoxicated.”

“Touch the tip of your nose with your left finger.”

As she did, he reached out and shoved her sideways so hard she stumbled.

“That doesn’t look good,” Farman said. “Putting one foot directly in front the other, I want you to walk in a straight line away from me.”

“You’ve had your fun, Deputy,” Anne said, attempting to maintain some kind of control over the situation. “You won’t get a positive breathalyzer test from me. If you set out to frighten me, you’ve succeeded.”

He kept the light in her eyes so she couldn’t see, but there was nothing wrong with her hearing. She heard a gun being cocked.

“Don’t worry about that breathalyzer,” he said. “I’ve been drinking enough for both of us. You’ll have a positive reading. Now walk. Back toward my car.”

The shaking wasn’t just on the inside now. She was genuinely scared. There was no one on the street. They were in the middle of the block—where the corner streetlights didn’t quite reach.

He was holding a gun on her.

“Walk!”

She put one foot in front of the other. As she went to take the second step, Farman tripped her from behind