Sleep No More (24 page)

"Who would know to look for my car here?" It was a ridiculous question, but she had to ask it. "I mean, it's not even really my car."

Jason looked around with fire in his eyes; as if there was a snowball's chance on the Fourth of July that the person who'd done this would still be nearby. "I'm liking this less and less. Call the police."

"We're inside city limits. Should I call the sheriff's department or city police?"

"Call the sheriff."

Abby dug in her purse for the card Officer Fisher had given her last night. It had the non-emergency number on it. When she explained what she needed and why, the man who'd answered the phone transferred her to Master Sergeant Kitterman, an investigator.

It being Sunday, Master Sergeant Kitterman wasn't in his office. She left a voice mail in which she explained everything all over again.

When she got off, Jason was just putting his own cell phone back in his pocket. "Bryce'll be here in a few minutes to run us to get my car. What did the police say?"

"Apparently I'm now in the hands of an investigation officer."

"That's good news."

"Then why did I feel like a criminal when the guy on the phone said 'all reports and investigations pertaining to Abby Whitman are now to go directly to Master Sergeant Kitterman'?"

"Abby, it means they think the incidents surrounding you are connected in some way. They're not leaving it in the hands of various patrol officers. Now it'll be looked at as a cohesive case."

She wondered if her case would be getting this much attention if she hadn't killed a senator's son, but kept the thought to herself.

"We should leave your car untouched until we hear from someone at the sheriff's department," Jason said. "If you don't mind, I still want to check the river before we go to Savannah. There's rain in the forecast."

"No problem." There was absolutely no way she was going to meet a woman named
Sonja
dressed like this.

Jason picked up her overnight bag and she followed him to the street to wait for Bryce. He set her bag on the grass next to the curb and remained quiet--in a preoccupied way. He had a look similar to the one he'd worn last night after he'd seen the words on the mirror. A look that said he'd like to inflict bodily harm on whoever was doing this.

Bryce arrived a couple of minutes later. His hair looked as if he'd just tumbled out of bed, and his expression was surly as a bear dragged out of hibernation.

Jason opened the rear passenger door for Abby. She got in and he handed her bag to her, and then got in the front passenger seat.

Bryce eyed her overnight bag. She settled it on the floor by her feet, as if out of sight truly was out of mind.

He asked Jason, "Why didn't you come get your car last night?"

"It got late," Jason said vaguely.

Abby shot him a look that he didn't seem to notice. Why hadn't he explained that she'd only spent the night because of a break-in, and had slept in Brenna's room?

Bryce didn't say another word the entire way to Jason's car. But he did keep a nasty eye on Abby in his rearview mirror most of the time. It felt every bit as accusatory as Gran Girault's had been, but for a much different reason.

From the back stoop of Abby's cottage, she could see the flat, dark water of the broad Edisto River as it made a meandering curve and headed away from the property. The old boat dock was hidden from view, built where the river's course dipped more deeply into Whitman land.

"The dock is off to the left," she told Jason as they descended the steps. "Through that grove of trees."

They walked in silence until they came to the path that led through the grove.

Abby stopped and looked at Jason. "I suppose we won't mess up any footprints by walking on the lane."

"It's too loose and sandy to hold one." He took her hand.

She immediately withdrew her hand from his and felt as if she'd peeled a layer of her own skin away. God, she'd never wanted anyone like she did him.

Was it simply because she knew she couldn't have him?

As they walked, she sensed him looking at her. She kept her gaze ahead and put a little more space between them.

He said, "I'm hoping the riverbank is a different story."

"Oh, it is. It's a muddy mess," she assured him. "Mom used to get so mad at Dad when we were little and he took us down here. We made castles out of the mud like other kids made sandcastles on the beach--except tidal mud stinks."

"I hadn't thought of the tide, didn't know it reached this far inland. Let's hope it didn't wipe out any footprints we might find."

"It's pretty muddy even beyond high tide line," she assured him.

They reached the end of the lane. The rotting pilings rose first out of dry sand and shell where the dock used to meet the lane. Then the thick posts marched through the grasses and out into the dark water of the river where the barges would carry the rice away from the plantation--the skeleton of a time long gone. The dock had been maintained for pleasure craft as long as the house had been occupied. This dock was just one more casualty of Abby's disorder.

Jason said, "Wait here." He picked his way carefully toward the river.

It didn't take but a few seconds before he called to her, "Better get the police out here."

Abby's heart beat faster as she followed Jason's footsteps until she was right behind him. At the edge of the river was a three-foot-wide area where the tall grasses and reeds had been broken over. In the middle of that was a depression in the mud that looked to have been made by the bow of a small boat. There were plenty of footprints around it.

The sight made Abby's skin crawl. Someone out there was very calculated in what they were doing. What did they have planned next?

A
pparently having a second new development in a matter of hours warranted disturbing Master Sergeant Kitterman on a Sunday morning. Thirty minutes after her call, he arrived at Abby's instead of a patrol officer.

He was a whiplike man with a receding chin and thinning hair. But Abby quickly saw his appearance was a disguise; there was nothing weak about him. He held himself as if it was difficult to keep his energy in check. Even as he introduced himself to her, his sharp eyes seemed to be taking in everything around him.

His questioning glance landed on Jason.

"This is Jason Coble," she said. "A friend."

Kitterman said, "The sheriff told me of your involvement. I hadn't realized it was personal." Although this was a statement, it had the feel of a question.

"Sergeant Kitterman." Jason shook his hand, not taking the bait on the questioning tone.

"Let's have a look at what you found."

As Abby led him to the river, Jason followed just behind.

Kitterman asked, "What made you think of checking for a boat?"

"I didn't. Jason did."

"Is that so?" He cast a glance over his shoulder. "What prompted you to look here?"

Jason said, "The narrow lane and no other way out. It seemed unlikely that someone who had enough finesse to break in without damaging locks would put themselves in a position to be trapped."

Kitterman nodded his approval.

When they reached the ruins of the dock, Abby indicated where he would find the evidence.

Jason stood next to her with a hand on the small of her back as she watched Kitterman survey the muddy bank.

In a moment he returned. "Looks like it was probably a small fishing boat. Wouldn't need deep water. There are some good-quality tracks. Can't tell if there's anything unique enough about them to do us any good. I'm going to need my casting kit and camera." He looked at Jason. "Would you mind staying here while Abby and I go get the equipment?"

Jason shot a curious look at Kitterman, but Abby couldn't decipher what was behind it. "No problem."

"So, Abby," Kitterman said as they walked back toward the house. "How long have you known Dr. Coble?"

"I've known who he is, you know, just around town, since he moved here. We've just recently become friends."

"Are you and he dating?"

Dating? She and Jason had become much closer over the past four days than dating could have provided. Her circumstance had acted as a crucible, burning away all of the frivolous and extraneous bullshit that dating entailed.

She answered, "No. He sort of got sucked into helping me after my accident. He's a nice guy that way."

"So you aren't romantically involved."

She thought of their kiss. Although she'd felt a connection entirely new and exciting to her, one that shot right to her core, it didn't qualify as a romantic entanglement. "No." It made her a little sad to admit it aloud.

"Was he with you when any of these events occurred?"

"I stayed at his house last night, after the break-in and the message on the mirror--I assume you know of that?"

"Yes."

"So he was with me when my tires were slashed during the night."

He looked pointedly at her. "He was
with
you, the entire night?"

"Well, no. I slept in his daughter's room." She stopped walking and threw up her hands. "Oh, you've got to be kidding! There is no way in hell that Jason had anything to do with any of these things."

"I'm just asking questions, Ms. Whitman, that's how I get the information to do my job."

Her ears burned with indignation. "Listen, all of this crap started after my accident."

"As did your friendship with Dr. Coble."

"Again, not possible." She rubbed her temple. "There are a couple of things I need to tell you about the accident... so you have all of the information to do your job." She told him of the headlights and their abrupt about-face the night of the accident, as well as the pleading call she'd received in the middle of the next night.

He didn't respond with as much as an eye blink. "Have you had any contact with the Robard family since the accident?"

The question brought hot shame to her cheeks. "No. I... I'm just not sure what the right thing to do is in a case like this." She looked up at him. "Should I, do you think?"

"I was thinking more in the context of them contacting you."

"Oh." It sunk in. "Oh!"

"Until we get your phone records and find the source of that middle of the night call, we have to keep open minds."

She nodded. "But that doesn't explain the headlights."

"They may or may not be linked. It might just have been kids up to no good scared off by the approaching police cruiser."

She said, "We think that whoever made the 911 call is getting worried that I'll identify him, and he's trying to scare me off."

"I'll listen to the 911 recording, see if I can get anything off of it; but the report says that the caller didn't say anything. They found the accident by locating the cell phone signal. I'll also get your phone records, maybe we'll get lucky. Don't hang your hat on it. It really could have just been a drunk." He paused. "When you say 'we think,' I assume you're referring to yourself and Dr. Coble."

"Stop making statements like that--like he's up to something. He's just trying to help me." She strode on ahead a few steps, unwilling to listen to this innuendo anymore.

Abby grew more distant with every passing mile on the two-hour drive to Savannah. By the time Jason parked his car in front of Sonja's house near Forsyth Park, Abby was like a stranger sitting next to him.

He was glad he'd given Sonja all of the information she would need on the phone to hypnotize Abby. It would make things go more smoothly once they were inside.

He reached across and took her hand. "Don't expect too much."

She looked at him, her eyes clear from her night of sleep. "If I'm anything, Jason, I'm a realist."

The truth of that statement stabbed at his heart. How long had it been since she'd allowed herself to dance with dreams?

She got out of the car and closed the door. She was still standing there looking up at the house when Jason reached the curb.

"This is an amazing house," she said.

"And inside is an amazing woman."

A shadow flickered in her eyes just before she lowered her lashes, hiding from him.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Her gaze snapped back to his face, the shadow replaced with steely determination. "Nothing. Let's go."

Abby walked up the steps to the porch, resisting the urge to take Jason's hand. Resisting mostly because that urge sprang from proprietary feelings she had no right to have, not a need for support.

Sonja's house reinforced all of Abby's suppositions of the woman. An imposing Greek revival, it truly was magnificent. Its age provided just enough imperfection to make it interesting. The setting sun filtering through the giant trees highlighted the azaleas blooming around the porch foundation: vibrant pink and snowy white, new life against old brick and stucco. This place looked like a watercolor painting, the kind tourists bought in local art galleries while vacationing in Savannah.