compared to what had happened to Ron Cain, behind the wheel when their high-speed fugitive pursuit turned deadly. If he closed his eyes he could still see, as if the image had been burned into his retinas, what was left of his partner lying crushed and bloody inside all that twisted metal.
Troxell had been to this part of the cemetery before, more than once-evident from the fact that he neither slowed his pace nor glanced at any of the markers he passed. He knew which grave he wanted and he went straight to it. Two things set it apart from its neighbors. One was the headstone-larger and taller than most, made of shiny new white marble, with gold lettering and filigree work. Expensive. The other thing was the number of wreaths and bouquets that draped the grave and covered the lower section of the stone. More than half a dozen, all of them of real flowers, not the artificial variety that decorated most of the other burial plots; some fresh, some starting to wilt, one spray of white carnations that had turned brown and brittle.
Troxell transferred the dead carnations to a nearby trash receptacle, then carefully placed the new wreath where the carnations had lain. When he was satisfied, he straightened and stood stiffly, unmoving, his head bowed as if he might be praying. He stayed like that for a long time, the fog wisps swirling around him, as oblivious to the cold as he was to his surroundings.
Runyon was so intent on Troxell and the gravesite that he didn’t see the woman until she walked into the periphery of his vision.
His first look at her was brief and indefinite; she came at an angle from his right, and she was wearing a bulky coat, a muffler, and a knitted cap that obscured much of her bent head. He paid some heed to her when he realized she was heading in Troxell’s direction, enough to tell that she was young, long-legged, red-haired. But she didn’t have his full attention until she approached the grave where the subject stood and halted next to him.
Her presence surprised Troxell; she said something that made him jerk, swing half around. Runyon was moving by then, on the same trajectory. The woman spoke again, but there was enough wind sound to block out the words. Subject’s head wagged; his reply caused her to reach out and pluck at the sleeve of his coat. He recoiled as if she’d tried to strike him, said something to her in a raised voice. Part of it carried to Runyon, the words “I’m sorry.” Then Troxell spun away from her and hurried back toward the road, bypassing Runyon in a blind rush. The woman stayed where she was by the grave, looking after him-her head raised now, the muffler down off her mouth and chin.
Runyon’s first clear look at her was a glance that immediately morphed into a rigid stare. Jolting sensation inside him; his chest tightened, his breath came short. Momentary confusion, a feeling of disorientation, ran James Troxell right out of his head.
Colleen.
She looked like Colleen.
From a distance, in the hazy morning light, she might have been Colleen.
He started toward her, a reflex action so abrupt it brought a twist of pain in his bad leg. In that same moment she moved, too, cutting away across the lawn. “Wait!” she called after Troxell. “Wait!” But he neither slowed nor turned his head, just kept fast-walking to where he’d parked his BMW.
Runyon cut ahead to the flower-banked grave, paused there just long enough to read the inscription on the marble headstone.
IN MEMORY OF
ERIN DUMONT
1980–2005
“In the midst of Life there is Death”
The woman seemed to have realized that she was running across gravesites instead of in the grass strips that separated them; he saw her falter, then slow and shift her route sideways. Troxell was already inside the BMW, a hundred yards away. There was enough time for Runyon to get to the Ford and reestablish pursuit, but he didn’t do it. The woman had halted next to a marble bench, and when Troxell pulled away she sank down on it, unmindful of the fact that it was a memorial rather than a public bench and wet with mist besides. She lowered her head into the splayed fingers of one hand.
Runyon approached her slowly. She didn’t seem to know he was there, even after he stopped in front of her, until he said, “Excuse me, miss.” Then her head snapped up and she blinked at him.
Up close, the resemblance to Colleen wasn’t nearly as strong. Younger, no more than thirty. Face longer and thinner. Hairstyle similar, shoulder length, parted in the middle, but the color was several shades lighter than dark burgundy. Eyes blue, not green, faintly slanted, and liquid with an emotion that he recognized as pain. Mouth wider, the upper lip thicker. Still, there was enough similarity, too much similarity. His mouth was dry. He could feel his own hurt like a fresh probe moving through him.
“What is it?” she said. Voice different, too, pitched lower and not as soft as Colleen’s. The blue eyes were wary. “Why are you staring at me like that?”
“I’m sorry. You… remind me of someone.”
She said, “Oh for God’s sake,” in a tone of weariness mixed with disgust.
“That’s not a line and I’m not trying to pick you up. I just want to talk to you.”
“About what?”
“The man you spoke to at Erin Dumont’s grave.”
Abrupt change in her expression; she was on her feet in one quick motion. Almost eagerly she said, “You know who he is?”
“That’s one of the questions I was going to ask you.”
“Why? Do you know him?”
“I know who he is. I followed him here.”
“Followed him? I don’t… my God, are you a policeman?”
“Private investigator.” He flipped open the leather case Colleen had given him as a birthday gift, showed her the photostat of his California license. She studied it-memorizing the information, he thought-before she met his gaze again.
“Why are you following that man, Mr. Runyon?”
“I can’t tell you that. Confidential.”
“But is it because you think… somebody thinks… he might have something to do with what happened to Erin?”
“No. That’s not the reason my agency was hired.”
It was not what she wanted to hear. She bit her lower lip, sank down again on the edge of the bench as if she were suddenly tired.
Runyon said, “Do you mind telling me your name?”
Brief hesitation. “Risa Niland.”
“Risa?”
“Short for Marisa.”
“Erin Dumont was a friend or relative?”
“She was my sister.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t say that. I’m tired of hearing it from strangers who don’t really mean it. You didn’t know Erin, you don’t know what it’s like to lose someone close to you in a terrible way.”
He was silent.
After a few seconds, she said more softly, “But you have lost someone, haven’t you? I can see it in your face.”
“What happened to your sister, Ms. Niland? Or is it Mrs.?”
“Not anymore.”
“How did she die?”
“Somebody killed her. Raped and strangled her.”
“… When?”
“A little over two months ago.”
“And the man responsible hasn’t been caught or identified?”
“No. There were no witnesses, no physical evidence.”
“Where did it happen?”
