Emily stood still in the dark, scanning. Could there be anyone alive? She called out for the Martins once more, but her voice was mocked by the sounds of ambulance sirens a faint wail in the distance at first, moving closer and closer.
'Donovan,' she said to herself first, then over to Jason.
'Huh?'
She called out louder, irritated that she had to repeat herself. 'The little Martin boy's name is Donovan. Donovan, are you out there, honey? Donny? Mark? Nicholas? Are any of you out there?'
The ambulance swung down the driveway, moving faster than it had to, of course. Ricky Culver was at the wheel, and Ricky still thought that driving an ambulance was the next best thing to NASCAR-his real dream. He parked next to the cruiser and two paramedics, sisters Anna and Gina Marino, jumped out of the vehicle.
'Where's the vie?' Anna asked. She grabbed her bag and swung around looking into the rubble pile that had once been such a pretty house. Something caught her eye. The running horse weathervane had managed to stay put on the cupola, which had been tossed aside like baggage in the underbelly of an airplane.
'Better question,' her sister, Gina, the older of the pair, a petite young blonde, mused, 'is where on God's green Earth is the house?'
Her sister, who wore her curly dark hair short, almost a white woman's 'fro, answered back.
'It's this pile of junk, all over the place. God, Gina, use your head'
'Twister touched down here,' Emily interrupted. She waved over the darkened terrain. 'You can see the path of destruction. It must have landed here, then pulled up and touched down right at the house and plowed across the field like a sonofabitch.'
'Anna, you can be such a bitch. Nobody said a damn thing about the tornado when they dispatched us. They said the victim was a woman with serious injuries. Life threatening.'
'It's all right,' Emily said. She liked the girls, but she was tired and their ceaseless banter grated. 'I'll take you to Mrs. Martin. And she's not a vic. She's not a patient. She's a corpse'
Anna Marino bent over the body, while her sister, Emily, and Jason hovered like fireflies, their lights brushing the im mediate area. With the increased illumination, Emily could see that Mrs. Martin hadn't been covered in mud after all. The dark brown coloring over much of her torso was dried blood. As Anna lifted her arm it was apparent that she'd been dead awhile; rigor had come and gone.
And there was something else.
'Gina, let's roll her on the board and get her out of here'
'Okay.'
'Just a second,' Emily said, bending closer, her beam trained on a darkened circle of bloody flesh.
'What's that?' Jason asked.
'She probably got poked by wood splinter or something during the storm,' Anna said. 'I've heard of nails flying through the air and being embedded into a tree'
'I was telling Emily about a chicken that got plucked by a tornado ''
'Say that five times real fast,' Gina said. The other two laughed, letting off a little tension. No one meant to be disrespectful but it was the middle of the night, cold, creepy.
Ignoring their banter, Emily was on her knees now, pitched over the dead woman and staring intently. She was so close to Mrs. Martin's body that a nudge would have pushed her face down into the wound that had captured her interest.
'I don't think so' She looked up at Jason and indicated the circular tear in Mrs. Martin's chest. 'We can't move her. The tornado didn't kill her.'
'Huh?' Jason was confused. He had no idea what she was talking about.
'Jason, secure the scene. It looks like Mrs. Martin was shot.'
'Shot?'
'You need me to repeat it? I'm so tired I don't think I can, but yes, shot. Close range, too. GSR burns around the wound here'
She pointed to the smudged edges of the injury.
'I see it,' he said.
Gina looked at her sister. 'Shit, we haven't had a murder in Cherrystone since we were kids.' '
'That was a suicide,' Anna corrected, referring to the case of a local pet shop owner who had been poisoned to death.
Gina made a face. She'd had this argument before. She spoke a bit louder so Jason and Emily could hear.
I never was so sure about that. I mean, he died of arsenic and that's a slow death. His wife said he had Parkinson's for years. Sounded a little feeble to me'
'Some things are never meant to be known,' Jason said.
Emily stood up, glad she'd put on a pair of jeans. Her knees were muddy and hurt like hell.
'That won't be the case here,' she said. 'We will find out what happened to her and her family.'
Jason went to the radio for backup. Photos would have to be taken. The debris had to be searched, piece by piece. Mrs. Martin was dead, but there were other potential victims, too.
'Tell the sheriff I've gone home. I'll be back at first light,' Emily said. She looked at the illuminated face on her gold watch. It was after midnight. 'See you in a few. Nobody touches anything. Where I come from this is a crime scene'
To avoid puncturing a tire, Emily thought it best to back her car out of the long driveway. She looked back at the ambulance and the cruiser as their spinning lights duked it out in the night sky. Red. Blue. Red. Blue. The lights pulsed like a heartbeat. What had happened back there? Who shot Mrs. Martin? Where was the rest of her family? A shiver ran down Emily's spine and she turned up the heat. Maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe the injury was the result of the tornado and the gunshot residue she thought she had seen was something else. Dirt. A burn. Anything. She was so tired her eyes blurred; the streetlights passed by like a wand of a light.
It was almost one in the morning; she'd get a couple of hours' sleep and get back to the scene. She probably wouldn't even see Jenna. All she knew was that with the light of day, answers would come. Maybe some hope, too. Hope was so very, very needed.
Weeks before, exact time unknown
A cache of letters was tucked into the back of the scrapbook, a kind of secret meeting place where, whenever the need for arousal or remembering was needed, they'd be there. They were flat as if they'd been ironed under steam and pressure. Though they had once been damp from the heat of fingers, even the wetness of tears, they were stiff now. Crisp. Treasured. Charged.
One missive began:
If only we had a song, Id sing it in your ear, my hot breath, moist and gentle. If only we could touch, Id play my fingers all over your body. Only you know me. Only you know how I feel. Break down the walls. Break down the barriers. Feel me take off your clothes, one button at time ... lingering as they fall to the floor. Your hunger for my touch, insatiable ... but I try. I try ...
The memories were a torrent and the reader's breath accelerated to near gasping as the forbidden feelings of desire washed over head to toe.
... Naked we stand, our arms around each other, our mouths searching for the hotness and wetness of our passion. I look you in the eyes. You stare back, longing for us to become one. Your hands slip between my legs ...
Chapter Three
Tuesday, 1:46 A.M., Cherrystone, Washington
Dead tired. Emily thought that would make the perfect title for a book of her life. So exhausted, but still aware. Frogs that had taken up residence in her neighbor's Home Center terracotta fountain caused a little commotion there, but everything else on Orchard Avenue was calm and benign. The air barely stirred the scent of the old white lilac bush. Jenna had left the porch light on for her mother and a swarm of gray and white moths swirled around without pausing to land. Emily bent down to keep them from her hair and inserted her key. The dead
