A medical shot.
He gave a short laugh.
His bloodied fingers stained the camera.
Streaks of blood smeared his face.
Tugging the knife from the body, he threw it into the holdall. The Nikon followed, clattering against his spare service revolver, more vials of GHB, the pack of unused syringes.
Then, picking up opposite corners of the bedsheet, he pulled them across the body, knotted the ends, top left to bottom right. Top right to bottom left. A slim hand, slack and bloodied, slid out through a gap. He shoved it back inside the bedsheet.
Hoisting the bundle off the bed, he paused for a moment. Figuring out the means of disposal. He could stash it in the wardrobe. Leave it in an underpass. Or wait till dark, put it in the car trunk, and toss it over a cliff someplace.
Slumped in an armchair, a can of beer in one hand, the TV turned low, he waited till dark.
SIXTY-FIVE
Sheena stared at her reflection in the dresser mirror.
She looked pale, shaken; felt chilled to the bone.
She’d been stroking her hair with an ebony-backed brush. Now it lay where it had fallen, in her lap.
Slowly, she set the brush on the crystal tray in front of her. The tray held combs, bobby pins, and a couple of hair bands.
Her eyes went to a small wooden doll, hand-carved, dark with years of handling. The doll stood propped against the mirror.
She was seeing a brightly painted wagon. A woman, passing the doll to a small girl perched up front. The child was maybe two, three years of age. A man and woman sat either side of her. The shackled horse stamped and snorted, anxious to be gone.
The thin-faced woman in the long gray dress wore an apron tied at the waist. She was saying, “Here, child. Don’t you forget this, now. It’ll keep ya company in the long nights ahead…”
Sheena began to shake. Her breath hissed out low and shallow… Sweat beaded her forehead, her upper lip. She felt its flush warm her armpits, then spread hot and slick down her body.
She went over the scene again. Recalling each detail. Figuring out its purpose, its meaning.
She was that child.
The doll was hers.
The thin-faced woman, her ma.
Her mind was picking up on something else.
A different scene this time.
The cold, dark place where Deana was.
Wild. Isolated. High in the mountains.
Along a rough dirt path.
Water thrashed and rumbled below.
She reached out, touching the girl on a mattress…
She
Feeling confused, in pain, desperate, knowing she couldn’t hold out much longer…
Sheena leapt up.
Raced into the living room.
“Hey, bro!” she called out. “Make it snappy. We’d best take the Chevy.”
Warren looked up, his face pale.
“You’ve ‘seen’ Deana? Where is she, sis?”
“I know the area, Warren. She’s a few miles from here. Somewhere in the mountains. In Santa Cruz country…”
SIXTY-SIX
“You comin’ with me?”
“I’m not sure, Mattie. There could be news of Deana… Do I
“Shitski, Leigh. You
Mattie drove Leigh to the Bayview.
They were quiet, their faces tense, serious.
Thinking about Deana.
And the upcoming meeting with Ava Sorensson.
Hoping she’d come up with some clues for them to work on.
The cops had gone through Mace’s Tiburon apartment with a fine-tooth comb. Apart from his dabs, some photographic equipment, and the goddamn scrapbook, the place was clean.
Leigh shuddered.
She stifled a sob.
Life just couldn’t get worse.
Like a survivor clinging to a shipwreck, she clung to the knowledge that Deana was strong, athletic. She was also feisty, resourceful, intelligent. Leigh gave a wry smile. She’d just described herself at that age.
Leigh gave up trying to banish the scary scenarios playing in her mind. She felt shot to pieces. Her head throbbed. She hadn’t slept again last night. Nor for nights, it seemed, before that. Not since the day Deana disappeared.
Mattie swung into the Bayview parking lot. The old Ford shuddered to a halt. They climbed out and made
