a real space case. More grungy Mervyns than Nordstrom'
Emily didn't know that a photo had made it into the media. 'Spokane paper?' she asked.
'Yeah, you can see it online. Pull it up on your computer. Just go to www dot-'
'Thanks,' Emily said, but she was already tapping the keyboard as Candace Kane offered a minitutorial on how to access the station's Web site. She pulled down her 'favorites' menu on her toolbar and clicked on the Spokane paper. An image of Nick in what obviously was a yearbook photo, the same thing that had appeared on Good Morning America when the sheriff stammered his way through that interview, popped into view. The portrait had a 'painterly' background and the harsh flash of a photographer working on an assembly line. Nick's skin looked so pale, his hair nearly black. Emily leaned closer to the screen. Was he wearing eyeliner? Didn't Jenna and Shali call it guyliner? The quality of the image was pretty good, but she couldn't be sure. Her eyes progressed to the headline: SEARCH IS ON FOR KILLER. But then something else caught her eye. There was a sidebar to the main article: WHEN A BOY KILLS HIS FAMILY.
'You still there?' It was the voice of the radio reporter who interrupted Emily's immersion in the article. Her eyes continued to scan the content flickering on her computer screen.
'Yes, but I have to go,' she said. 'If I can make a statement later, I'll make it on your air first.'
She didn't wait for the reporter to answer. She hung up the phone and looked back at the screen. It wasn't the main story that intrigued her-it was a mishmash of what neighbors had to say about how 'things like that don't happen around Cherrystone' and some reminiscences about how kind Peg Martin had been to so many people. It fit what Emily knew to be true, not one of those post-death do-overs of someone's character. Emily didn't know Peg raised champion Russian Blues. Mark was a watercolorist. Donny had been named Cub Scout of the month by his pack, three times. None of that riveted her like the accompanying story. The editors had packaged the Nick Martin story with a broader theme: Boys Who Are Bad. They highlighted a case in Des Moines, Iowa, where, a month prior, a boy named Aaron Collins had shot and killed his parents before raising the barrel of a gun to his own temple. Emily remembered the story. There had been great controversy about the Collins case because school officials had seen some warning signs, but apparently disregarded them.
'That kid never fit in,' the boy's maternal grandfather was quoted as saying. 'He was so preoccupied with finding his birth parents in Seattle that he scarcely gave my daughter and her husband the time of day. He actually ran away a month before the murders. They should have let him run'
Adopted? The word hung in Emily's memory. She glanced at the clock; it was after six. Ordinarily she'd be hurrying for the door by then. Hoping that whatever she'd planned for dinner would still come together quickly for Jenna. She wondered if she'd put too much on Jenna. Too much responsibility. Too much of a need to excel and hold it together when her own life had crumbled.
The last face she expected, wanted to see, appeared in the doorway just then. It was Cary McConnell. He was a handsome man, with piercing blue eyes and wavy dark hair, the kind of coloring that had made Emily's heart beat faster even in high school. He had that handsome lawyerly look that made him the star of the courtroom. Nice suits cut by a Korean tailor in a time where almost everyone bought off the rack also distinguished him in style and attitude. Cary owned the ground he walked on. He was a control freak, sure. But a very handsome one.
'You haven't called me back,' he said, inviting himself into a seat across from her desk. 'I've been worried.'
'Look,' Emily said, 'I've been through a lot. It wasn't personal.' She lied, and Cary was too stuck on himself to sense it.
'I know,' he lied right back to her. 'Any news on Jenna?' He leaned back.
He was getting comfortable. Damn.
'She called David. She's helping a friend.' Emily started pulling files together. She opened her briefcase. She was getting ready to leave, each cue was meant to tell Cary to back off. Go home.
'You want to get a drink and talk?' When Emily didn't respond right away, Cary pressed again. 'Just a drink. Nothing more.'
Emily didn't want to go home alone. She didn't exactly want to go off with Cary McConnell either. Kip had invited her to have dinner with him and his wife, but she felt that he just wanted to 'observe' her to see if she was too messed up to carry on with the Martin investigation.
'All right,' she finally said.
Cary McConnell flashed his faultless smile. 'Good. Just friends'
Later that night, after a couple of salt-rimmed margaritas and dinner at Rosario's Cantina, Emily Kenyon wondered how she'd been so weak, so foolish. Cary's stealthy charm and undeniably practiced compassion had worked on her frayed emotions. It was like sleeping with the enemy; a betrayal of what was really going on in her life. She buried her face against his lightly hairy chest and took in a deep breath. Her cheeks were damp from silent tears that predictably went unnoticed. Cary smelled of Calvin Klein's Obsession cologne. She found herself wishing that she actually loved him, but the thought was transitory. As the digital clock spun into the late hours, she had only one thing that was on her mind: Jenna.
Where are you, baby? Come home. Come home.
Chapter Fifteen
Thursday, 6:45 n.M, Ogden, Utah
Spring and summer in Ogden, Utah, are hotter than hell, but few of those living there would ever deign to use such a vulgar metaphor when describing what they knew to be the Promised Land. Ogden was a burgeoning Mormon enclave of pristinely maintained homes set behind sidewalks that had never seen a chalk mark since the day Mexican workers poured them. Lawns were green and weed-free. Sprinklers on timers sprayed their staccato blast of water only at night. Everything was perfectly ordered and ordered perfectly.
But something was awry on Foster Avenue. Newspapers had piled up on the steps that set the stage for an imposing double front door. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. The Salt Lake City Tribune was literally loitering on the ideal tableau of a good Mormon home.
The paperboy-a girl named Tracy Ross-told her mother that she was worried about the Chapmans at 4242 Foster Ave., an especially nice street of upscale homes with swim ming pools and built-in barbecue pits. The girl, fourteen, had an excellent relationship with everyone on her route.
'They usually tell me when they go out of town,' she said over a family dinner of roast chicken and mashed potatoes.
'Maybe it slipped Mrs. Chapman's mind.' Tracy's mom, Annette, offered.
'That's right,' Rod Ross said. 'This is a busy time of year.' He smiled broadly at his brood of six children, Tracy being the oldest of four girls and two boys. Dinner conversation was always pleasant. They didn't allow TV in the house. 'Think about it. Think about how busy we are. Try not to worry, Sweet Pea. All's well in Ogden.'
'All right, Father,' Tracy said. She finished her meal, still worried about the Chapmans. There were only three of them. Mr. and Mrs. and their daughter, nineteen, a bookworm named Misty. How busy could they be?
Chapter Sixteen
Thursday, exact time unknown, at the abandoned mine
'I'm here. I'm not leaving. But you have to tell me everything.' Jenna Kenyon had been patient enough. Up to that point, she had been too scared and confused to ask the really hard questions, but the article on the grease- marred pages of the newspaper begged for answers that only Nick could provide. She'd held him at night. She'd dried his tears. She'd even suffered the indignity of using an old Folger's coffee can for a toilet while he turned his back. It would be wrong to say she was a prisoner. She didn't think Nick would hurt her if she bolted for the door. But she had to know. She had to ask.
'What happened?'
His dark hair hanging like loose fringe over his hooded blue eyes, Nick sat on the dingy plaid sofa staring into the darkness of the old Horse Heaven Hills Mine hiring office. He pulled his legs up tight to his chest, his chin resting between his bony knees. Nick owed Jenna the truth. But he stayed silent.
