“From the look on your face, I’m assuming you have someone in mind.”
He nodded slowly, the dimples in his cheeks barely showing as his lips curved upwards into a shrewd smile.
“There are a couple of gentlemen I met after doing some very thorough research. Both are retired FBI agents who spent most of their careers in Washington, D.C., and both are very skilled in every phase of investigation. One lives in Atlanta; the other is in Boca Raton. I haven’t spoken to them in a couple of years, but I can tell you this: The work they did far exceeded my expectations.”
“Expensive?” I said.
“Very, but compared to the cost of a trial two hundred miles away, it’s a drop in the bucket.”
“How much?”
“I’d say fifty thousand will cover everything, including my fee.”
“How long will it take?”
“If they’re able to get to it right away, probably less than a month. Would you like me to call them?”
“Absolutely.”
He pushed himself up stiffly from the chair. “Please don’t take this personally, but they’re extremely particular about the people they deal with. So with your permission, I’ll make the call from the library.”
“By all means.”
Beaumont walked out of the room, leaving me there to ponder the portraits and think about the world in which I worked each day. Nothing was as it seemed. Nothing was real. Virtually everyone I dealt with, be it judge, victim, defendant, defense counsel, sheriff, boss, even coworker, had an agenda that had little to do with a quest for justice. When I went to work for the district attorney’s office, I thought I’d be doing something right, something worthwhile, something I could feel good about. But I’d found the game was the same; the side I was on was of no real consequence.
Beaumont returned twenty minutes later, a mischievous grin on his face.
“They’re in,” he said.
“When?”
“As soon as I wire them a twenty-five-thousand-dollar retainer.”
“You’ll have it tomorrow.”
I stood and offered my hand to Beaumont.
“Do you think this will work?” I said.
“I have every confidence that these gentlemen will lift Mr. Sells’s skirt up over his head, and by the time they’re finished we’ll be intimately familiar with everything that’s underneath.”
I thanked him and turned to leave, but before I got to the door a question popped into my head.
“Hey, Jim,” I said, turning around. He’d already taken his seat behind the desk. “I’ve known you for a long time. Why haven’t you ever told me about these guys? I probably would have used them a couple of times.”
He reached up and started stroking his goatee, rocking slowly back and forth in the chair. His eyes locked onto mine, and I knew that, for once, I was about to get an honest answer from someone.
“Because you were my competitor,” he said. “You still are.”
She showed up out of nowhere, just like the first time. Fraley had been frantically searching for Alisha, because without her, we had very little chance of winning the motion hearing that was scheduled for Monday. Fraley said he believed Alisha’s foster parents knew where she was, but they weren’t telling him. He’d canvassed the downtown area, leaving his card at craft shops and with the lone art dealer in town. He’d gone to the university, where he left notes for her on bulletin boards with instructions on how to contact him or me. He’d gone to the local arts center, asked around, and left another note on a bulletin board. For the last two days, he’d been cruising the mall, restaurants, the shopping centers-anyplace where there were a lot of people-approaching anyone he described as “earthy-looking,” showing them her photograph and leaving his card.
I worked late Friday evening. I’d spent the last few days making sure everything was ready. Our witnesses were lined up-all but Alisha-and I’d read case after case, scrounging for anything that would help me with the arguments I’d have to make in front of Judge Glass. I was the last one out of the office, and by the time I stepped through the door into the crisp evening air, it was dark. A cold front had rolled in over the mountains, bringing with it the first snow of the year. Tiny flakes danced on the wind, brushing lightly against my cheeks as I walked through the empty parking lot.
I started my truck and was just reaching up to put it in gear when the passenger door opened. I turned my head and nearly jumped out. When she opened the door, the interior light hit her face and good eye, and I thought Natasha was climbing into my truck.
“You’re looking for me,” Alisha said. She was wearing a long black overcoat and gloves, her head covered by a tan knit stocking cap. The long, flowing red hair I remembered from the park was tucked inside the coat. She turned her face towards me, and the same flesh-colored patch covered her right eye. Her left eye sparkled like a gemstone, and she smelled of pine-scented incense.
“Yes,” I said, feeling a mixture of shock, relief, and fear. “Yes, I am. Do you want to go back in the office and talk?”
“I’d rather just ride, if you don’t mind.”
She was the same size as Natasha, had the same face and hair. The only difference I could discern was the eye patch, but anyone could put on an eye patch. I needed to be sure. I had no intention of winding up dead by the roadside like the Becks.
“Do you have any identification?” I said.
“No, I don’t.”
“Please forgive me, but I’m going to have to ask you to prove to me that you’re not your sister. You look just like her.”
She turned towards me and smiled. She took her gloves off and reached up slowly with her right hand. Her long, slim fingers slid underneath the eye patch and lifted it, revealing a yellowed orb covered by what appeared to be a milky cataract. I dropped my eyes immediately, feeling like a jackass.
“Thank you,” I said. “I hope you understand.”
I pulled out past the courthouse and turned left on Main Street, heading towards the rural community of Lamar and the Nolichucky River. Now that she was there, I didn’t quite know where to start. I found myself wondering whether she knew what I was thinking.
“You were right about Boyer and Barnett,” I said as we made our way slowly down Main, “but we have to go into court on Monday and tell the judge how you knew.”
“Do I have to testify?”
“I’m afraid so. If you don’t, there’s a chance that the judge will exclude all of our evidence. If that happens, Boyer and Barnett will walk away.”
She sat there in silence for a moment, the streetlights causing a strobelike effect across her face.
“Why hasn’t Natasha been arrested?” she said.
“We don’t have any solid evidence against her. Not yet, anyway.”
“She was there.”
“How do you know? I realize this must be difficult for you, but you have to explain how you knew about the murders.”
“I’m afraid you’ll find it hard to believe.”
“Try me.”
“It’s been this way with Natasha ever since I can remember. When something extreme happens where she’s involved, especially something violent that springs from rage, I can see it in my mind. It’s like watching a movie on a screen, but the images appear in flashes, like black-and-white photographs.”
I was struck again by the tone of her voice. It was a mellow soprano, almost melodic.
“And that’s how you knew about Boyer and Barnett?” I said. “You saw them in a telepathic flash?”
My mind began to churn. I pictured myself questioning her during the hearing, her sitting on the witness stand in a shawl and hat with her eye patch and telling the court she was telepathic. Judge Glass would disallow
