Traceless (34 page)

Not water
, her mind argued,
chemical... gasoline?

Her heart stumbled.

Get up!

Her body was too heavy. She couldn't move.

But the car was moving... rolling. Or was it?

Smoke?

She smelled smoke.

Get up!

Metal smashed; something popped as she lunged forward. She flopped into the floor.

Had she crashed?

Was there a fire? She could smell something chemical... something burning. Her throat convulsed. She coughed.

"Ms. Wallace? Emily?"

Was someone in the car with her?

Was she even still in the car?

Her head hurt so bad... her lids felt too heavy to budge. Her lungs burned. The blackness tugged at her. She needed to go there... escape the pain.

"Ms. Wallace, this is OnStar. Our monitors indicate that your air bags have deployed. Can you hear me, Ms. Wallace?"

Emily tried to answer the woman, but her mouth wouldn't form the words.

"Ms. Wallace, if you can hear me, don't be afraid; we're sending help. Our monitors also indicate there may be a fire in the passenger compartment; can you move, Ms. Wallace? Can you get out of the vehicle?"

Fire?

Fear detonated along Emily's nerve endings, sending a surge of lifesaving adrenaline through her veins, urging her body to react. To move.

She forced her eyes to open. Couldn't focus. Her lungs seized and her head spun. She coughed and gagged.

"Can you hear me, Ms. Wallace? I can hear you coughing... Ms. Wallace?"

Emily couldn't answer. Her entire focus was needed to try to make her body move... to reach for the door... she had to get out of the car. It was on fire.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Pine Bluff City Hall

5:00 p.m.

The interview room was becoming an all too familiar place for Clint's comfort. As usual, he'd been brought here and left alone to sweat the possibilities. This time for more than an hour. If that was what Caruthers wanted, he would be damned disappointed. The only thing on Clint's mind was the fact that there had been another murder.

Ray Hale was dead.

Anguish tore through Clint. No matter what Ray had done in the past, he was the only person in this whole goddamned town who had tried to help Clint. Not once had he shown his appreciation.

Clint grabbed back control. He couldn't let his emotions run away with him like this. He was sorry as hell that Ray was dead, but the best thing he could do for the man was find his killer. He couldn't do that in here.

Knowing that Caruthers would be watching him behind the two-way mirror on the wall, Clint sat right where they'd left him. No fidgeting, no looking around, absolute stillness. His goal was to get out of here, get to Emily, and keep her

safe while finding some answers. Every time he turned around there were more questions and no answers.

The door opened. Mike Caruthers and Lee Brady, Clint's parole officer, entered the room. Brady took a seat at the table; Caruthers didn't appear inclined to sit.

"Mr. Austin," Brady began, "I would strongly advise you to have an attorney present. The questions Deputy Caruthers is about to introduce could cause you to incriminate yourself, thus violating your parole."

Clint shook his head. "I don't have anything to hide." He shifted his gaze to the deputy. "Say what's on your mind, Caruthers."

"Have you ever been to Ray's hunting cabin?"

"No. He offered it to me as a temporary place to stay after my house burned, but I declined."

"Where were you between noon and two p.m. today?"

That was easy. "At work until one. You can check with Marvin Cook and the rest of the employees at the repair shop. I left at one and drove straight to the Valley Inn. I was with Emily Wallace after that until you picked me up. The manager at the inn saw me arrive shortly after one, and Emily and I left around two to go to Violet Turner's house."

Clint wasn't sure whether it was disappointment or relief he saw in the deputy's eyes. Maybe a mixture of both.

"Can you identify these?" He placed a plastic evidence bag on the table, the contents a handful of ripped photos.

Clint studied the fragments, then said, "Torn photographs. I'd have to piece them together somewhat to be certain, but they look like some of the ones from my house. You saw the place after it was vandalized." He didn't have to remind Caruthers, but for Brady's sake he did. The memory of all his mother's damaged things squeezed his heart.

"Is there any reason Ray would have these in his possession?"

"As a favor to me, Ray took some of the pieces to a guy he thought could restore them. But I can't say whether these are any of the ones he took, not without touching them and maybe not even then."

"Once I've confirmed your alibi, you'll be free to go, but stay close to home or work. I may need to question you again. And," Caruthers glanced at Brady before proceeding and he nodded, "we're going to need to do DNA testing on any person of interest related to Keith's case."

"If you don't offer the sample voluntarily," Brady explained, "they'll get a court order. I've been made aware of the names on the list. There are several others, Mr. Austin, so don't feel singled out."

"No problem."

Caruthers turned his back and headed for the door.

Clint almost didn't ask, but he needed to know. "Can you tell me what happened?"

Caruthers hesitated but didn't look back. "We're not releasing any of the details yet. When we do, you'll read about it in the paper like everyone else."

No matter that Clint's alibi was rock solid, no way they could try to nail this on him, Caruthers didn't like him or trust him because of the past. But then, Clint had known it would be this way. There were simply some things a man couldn't live down.

Innocence would never be enough.

Valley Inn

6:15 p.m.

Clint knocked first, but when there was no answer he used the key Emily had given him and entered the room. It felt a little different, being trusted with her key. But it was only a rented room, nothing to get excited about.

"Emily?"

He checked the bathroom. No Emily.

Since her car wasn't out front, she might have decided to spend some time with her parents, but he didn't like not knowing.

He noticed the note on the dresser then.

He swore. What the hell did she mean, meeting Baker alone?

He tossed the note back on the dresser and glanced at the clock. She'd left the time on the note. She'd been gone for an hour.

He was going over there.

410 Oak Avenue

6:40 p.m.

Baker's house was silent, but his truck was in the driveway.

Clint parked behind Baker's vehicle and got out, his senses on alert to some danger he couldn't name.

If Emily had left already, where had she gone? He supposed she could have taken a different route back to the inn.

He banged on the front door. Stabbed the doorbell a couple of times.

No answer.

Not a sound.

Well, hell. If he was going to break into the guy's house before dark, he'd better do it from the back. His lock-picking tools had been confiscated. Maybe he'd have to try kicking the door in. As long as it wasn't steel.

At the end of the house the garage door was open, so he checked there first. The garage was cluttered with junk, lawn maintenance implements and piles of beer cans. Baker was evidently starting a collection.

Steel entry door leading into the house.

Great.

Clint tried the knob, and to his surprise the door was unlocked.

Inside, the place was as dark as a tomb. Clint stayed still for half a minute and listened for any signs of life.

Nothing.

He flipped a switch in the kitchen and an overhead light flickered on. His apprehension mounting, Clint surveyed the room. Baker's wife must be on strike.

Clint moved toward the living room, then turned on a light in the short hall. Every damned blind in the house was closed tight. Baker was stretched out in his recliner apparently dead to the world. Clint watched a few seconds to make sure he was breathing. He looked like shit. Both eyes black, nose swollen.

Yep.

A .38 lay on the table by his chair. Using a dirty sock from the floor, Clint lifted the weapon and placed it on top of the entertainment cabinet out of sight and reach. Then he grabbed Baker by the shirtfront and hoisted him out of the chair. His eyes tried to open but couldn't seem to stay that way.

"Baker." Clint shook him. "Wake up, you little bastard."

Baker's eyes started that blinking, upward-roll thing.

"I said, wake up!" Clint shook him harder.

He started to struggle, mumbling nonsensical words.

Clint hauled him into the nearest bathroom and shoved him into the shower. He turned the cold water on full blast.

Baker screamed and cursed and tried to bolt.

Clint blocked his path out of the three-by-three tile cubicle. "Come alive, Baker; we need to talk."

Baker's eyes widened and fury blazed across his face. "I knew you'd come if I called her over here."

"Where is she?" Clint slammed him against the wall and held him there. He ignored the cold water.

Confusion scrunched Baker's face. "I... she didn't show." The fury made a reappearance. "But you're here...."

Clint turned off the water and dragged Baker's ass into the kitchen. He needed to speed up the process. He knew plenty of tricks. He'd learned them firsthand in Holman.

He plopped Baker into a chair at the kitchen table. Clint searched a couple of drawers until he found what he wanted. Baker attempted to get up, but Clint slapped a hand on his head and shoved him back down. His level of intoxication made him easy to control.

Clint sat down next to him and manacled the other man's right hand. He flatted it on the table, palm down, and held it in place with his left. "Now, tell me where she is."

"I don't have to tell you shit."

Using his free hand, Clint positioned the point of the knife's long, slender blade against Baker's hand at a strategic spot.

"Tell me."

"Fuck you."

The slightest pressure and the knife pierced the skin, slid right between two bones and into the laminate tabletop beneath. Blood bloomed and slid around the wound. Baker screamed, thrashed his legs around a bit, but he didn't dare move his hand.

"Tell me where she is."

"She didn't come! I passed out. If she came by after that, she left without trying to get me up." His eyes were wild when they connected with Clint's. "I swear. I didn't see her." His voice shook.

Clint pulled the knife free but didn't release Baker's hand. The guy howled as if Clint had cut the damned thing off.

"Why did you call her?"

Troy glared at him. His eyes looking like road maps, his face red from consistent overindulgence in alcohol.

"Why?" Clint repeated as he positioned the knife again.

"Nooo!"

"Tell me," Clint urged. "This only has to hurt as much as you want it to."

"Because I wanted to get you here," Baker cried.

"Why?" The knife remained poised for the next intrusion.

"I want you to pay, you sonofabitch!"

Clint let that go. "Any other reason?"

"My life is falling apart," Baker cried. He started to sob. "My wife left me. She took my kids." His whole body shook with his anguish. "My best friend is dead and it's my fault."

Clint stilled. "Why is it your fault?"

Troy wiped his face with his free hand. "What the fuck's it to you?"

The tip of the knife pierced skin in the next spot.

Baker howled. It really wasn't that bad, but the alcohol magnified everything. This technique didn't hurt nearly as much as numerous others Clint could have used. It was the watching it happen that got to the victim.

"We had a fight!" he screamed. "He told me that he cheated on Heather that night."

Clint wasn't sure her boyfriend's cheating was relevant to her murder but pursued it anyway. "That's it?"

Baker glared at him the best a drunk could. "He was fucking another woman the night my sister was murdered."

"That's what you wanted to talk to me about?" This wasn't right.

Baker's face fell into grim defeat. "I wanted to kill you," he admitted. "You came back here and tore all our lives apart." He stared at his bloody hand, at the knife Clint still held over him. "It doesn't matter now. I've lost everything I care about." He settled his drunken gaze on Clint. "You should just cut my throat and put me out of my misery."