Boneyard (39 page)

“Oh, yeah? Where?” Jake said with exaggerated nonchalance.

“Duct-taped to the hood of a car in the local impound lot. Whoever put him there knocked out the surveillance cameras first.”

“Huh, that’s strange. Lucky break, though, right?”

“What did you do?” Kelly’s eyes narrowed.

“You heading over to the hospital? Why don’t I jump in the shower, then I can drive us there.” He pulled his shirt over his head and started to unbuckle his belt. “Man, I’m filthy.”

“Jake…” Kelly sighed and plunked down on the edge of the bed. In spite of herself she let her eyes trail over his naked chest. “You know how I feel about that sort of thing…”

He knelt in front of her and rubbed her thighs. “I know. But sometimes justice needs a little shove in the right direction. I’m in a position to do that, and you aren’t.”

She didn’t respond, just ducked her head. He kissed her nose, then headed into the bathroom. Steam began pouring through the doorway. He raised his voice to be heard over the shower noise. “Morgan had everyone fooled, huh? Some locals were even hoping he’d run for mayor.”

“Who told you that?” Kelly asked, eyes narrowing.

“No one important. I just think it’s nuts, that he almost got away with it.”

“He did get away with it,” Kelly said despondently. “He’s probably hiding out somewhere in Canada right now, laughing at us.”

Jake didn’t answer. Kelly examined the swirls on the carpet. “The funny thing is, you talk to most serial killers, they think they’re basically just like everyone else. They come up with all sorts of reasons for the things they do, blame the victims, God, their mothers…I think even the worst of them looks in the mirror every day and sees a good guy. People can justify pretty much anything to themselves.”

There was a long pause. Jake cleared his throat, then called out, “Is this an amazing shower or what? I gotta say, that’s my one requirement for our place in D.C. It must have good water pressure.”

“Our place in D.C.?” Kelly asked, running her fingers across the pattern on the bedspread. The scratches on her face were starting to smart.

“Yeah. I’m thinking maybe a little town house in Georgetown. Supposed to be good schools there.”

“What?” Kelly asked, alarmed.

“Schools. You know, for the kids.”

Kelly launched herself off the bed and smoothed out the quilt. “What makes you think I want to have kids?”

“You’re kidding, right? Everyone wants to have kids. It’s an undeniable biological instinct.”

Kelly straightened a stack of papers on the bedside table, then bent to pick up the clothes Jake had left scattered across the floor. She shook them out, then folded them neatly as she replied, “I’m a little old to be having kids.”

“Please. You’re what, thirty-seven? We’ve still got plenty of time. “

“I couldn’t work this job with kids.” She stacked the clothes neatly on the chair in the corner, eyeing the rest of the room. A glint on the carpet caught her eye.

“I’ve already thought of that. And since you’re not exactly stay-at-home mom material, I thought maybe you could join our new business venture.”

“What, work for you?” Kelly frowned as she bent to pick up the object, examining it. It was a gorgeous ring, rows of rubies set in a delicate platinum band. Kind of surprising the housekeepers missed it, she thought. She’d turn it in to the B and B’s lost and found.

“More like partners. Or you could freelance, only take the cases that appeal to you. That sounds pretty good, doesn’t it? And we’d pay three times what you’re making now—for a hell of a lot less work.”

“What makes you so sure this business is going to take off?” she asked idly as she set the ring on the nightstand.

“What, with my background and people skills? How could it not?”

Kelly fell back onto the bed and gazed at the ceiling with dismay. “You’re nuts.”

She heard the ancient knobs twist and the slap of water on tile stilled. Jake emerged from the bathroom, toweling off his hair. “Nuts about you,” he said, cracking a grin. “Take your time, consider it. The offer stands.” His gaze fell on the nightstand and his face blanched.

Kelly raised her head and followed his eyes. “Oh, that. I found it on the floor. We can turn it in to the front desk as we’re leaving.” She lay back down against the pillows. She was still exhausted. What she really needed was a long, uninterrupted night’s sleep.

“Uh, no, we can’t,” he said, crossing the room to pick it up.

“What? Why not?”

“Kelly…” Jake said. At the shift in his voice, Kelly lifted her head. Jake was kneeling in front of her, towel hanging open, holding out the ring. “Not exactly how I pictured it, but…what do you think?”

Author Note

Sixteen years ago I worked as a development intern for Jacob’s Pillow, a seasonal dance festival in the Berkshires. I learned a lot about myself that summer—first and foremost that I much preferred dancing to writing grants for dance companies. I also found out that I’m not much of a camper, and that if I spend too much time away from the ocean I become unpleasant. When I wasn’t working (which was frequently—after all, my salary was only seventy-five dollars a month) I took full advantage of the opportunities the area offered, hiking the Appalachian Trail, swimming in limestone lakes, attending concerts on the lawn at Tanglewood and shows at the Williamstown Theatre. Festival interns were given room and board, and lived in cabins scattered across the grounds. As luck would have it I was assigned to a cabin far off the beaten track, set deep in the woods a mile from the main road. I was alone in my room one night when a storm knocked out our power. As I sat there in the dark, clutching my Swiss army knife and jumping at every noise outside my door, it struck me that this place would be a perfect, creepy setting for a murder. Sixteen years later I finally got the opportunity to use it.

I owe a huge debt to so many people who devoted their time, knowledge and support to this book. Dr. Doug P. Lyle answered the most scattered forensics questions patiently and promptly, and has been an invaluable resource for me as well as many other writers. FBI Special Agent Pamelia S. Stratton and Special Agent (retired) Mary Ellen Beekman offered ways to correct some of the more glaring inconsistencies in the narrative. Robin Burcell is not only a top-notch writer and Thrillerfest roommate, she also answered some important questions on police protocol. And Lieutenant Patricia Driscoll of the Berkshire State Police Detective Unit was kind enough to correct some of my terminology. It goes without saying that this book is a work of fiction, and in no way reflects the practices, procedures, or mindset of this fine law enforcement unit.

Barbara Volkle referred me to the delightfully named Tom Collins, birder extraordinaire, who described what the sighting of a lifetime would be in the Berkshires. And SF PC doctor Vernon Whitaker used what can only be described as modern-day voodoo to salvage all of my files when my laptop died a premature death.

All of my readers, Kalia Gibb in particular, made a huge contribution to the final draft of my manuscript. And Dorothy Sleeper is single-handedly responsible for the impressive sales of my first book, The Tunnels, in western Massachusetts. I can’t thank her enough for her loyal and enthusiastic support.

My agent, Jean Naggar, has been a tireless advocate for my work. I also must extend a heartfelt thanks to everyone at Mira Books, first and foremost my amazing editor Valerie Gray, who graciously responds to any request no matter how absurd, and whose notes produced a much better novel than the one I initially handed her. Heather Foy, Don Lucey, and everyone in the sales and marketing department are steadfast in their efforts to promote all of my books, and have been tremendously supportive throughout this experience.

Without the talents of my sister Kate, who sat with me for hours going over word choice, punctuation and plot points, this book would probably be unreadable. My other sister, Adrienne, and my parents have also always been some of my best readers, tempering their love for me with a clear-eyed view of what I’ve written and how it could be improved. It is said that writers lead a lonely life. Thanks to my friends, sisters, parents, husband and daughter, I can’t say that I agree.