Trace Evidence

As she thought of the way his shoulders had filled out his shirt, the lean hips in those tight blue jeans, she could swear the temperature of the room rose by several degrees.

But she knew better than to get her hormones racing where Clay James was concerned. According to Alyssa the only thing that interested her cousin came in test tubes and evidence sample bags.

According to Clay’s own mother he was an angry man who had turned his back on his Native American heritage. Tamara had attempted to do the same thing for four months to please the man she’d thought she’d loved, but she’d been unable to sustain the rejection of her Cherokee blood. She would never attempt it again.

No, Clay James wasn’t her dream man, either. Her dream man was still out there somewhere, waiting for the winds of fate to bring them together. Tamara was a patient woman and she’d learned long ago not to try to hurry fate, but to accept each day as a gift.

Rita James had lost track of how many days she’d been held captive. She hadn’t known how long she’d been unconscious, but when she’d finally come to and realized she was being held prisoner, she’d begun to keep track of the days by the meals that appeared through a slot in the steel door. Breakfast…sometimes lunch…and dinner…a day had passed.

But tonight she couldn’t remember whether it had been twenty-two days or thirty-two days and the fact that she couldn’t remember for sure frightened her as much as anything that had happened so far.

She feared she was losing her mind, and that was all she had left. Her beloved husband, Thomas, had been taken from her…murdered. She remembered seeing him lying motionless on their living room floor, blood everywhere. She knew he was dead, then she’d been grabbed from behind and that was the last thing she remembered until she’d awakened in this room.

This mockery of a room, she thought as she sat in the middle of the bed. When she’d first awakened from her drugged sleep, she’d thought she was at home in her own bed. The bedspread was the same, the bed was the same, even the nightstand and Tiffany-style lamp were the same as what she had in her own room.

However, this wasn’t her room. Her bedroom had a window where sweet morning light crept in and moonlight whispered good-night. Her bedroom had no steel door with a lock. This was a stage setting…a facade, a fake built by a madman who held her hostage, a madman who had yet to tell her why she was here or what he wanted from her.

Initially she’d had hope. Her daughter Breanna was a vice cop, her other daughter, Savannah, a homicide detective and her son, Clay, was a crime-scene investigator. She’d hoped they would find her. She’d hoped there would be enough clues to lead them to her, but with each day that passed, her hope grew dimmer and dimmer.

Twenty-two days or thirty-two? How had she managed to lose track? Thomas…Thomas…her heart cried out for her husband and the life they’d shared together, the future they had anticipated spending together.

Even if she managed to get out of this windowless, locked room, even if eventually she was found, there would be no Thomas waiting for her.

Tears burned at her eyes as she realized no matter what happened, her life would never be the same again. Her tears were also for her children, who she knew must be suffering all kinds of agony trying to find out what had happened to her.

The sound of her sob was welcomed in this silent tomb. The utter silence of her days and nights had the potential to drive her utterly mad. She’d always been a woman who had valued a certain amount of silence, but this complete isolation was soul-damaging.

The only time she had any human contact at all was when the slot in the steel door would open and two black-gloved hands would slide in a tray of food.

Over and over again she’d begged him to say something to her, anything, her hunger for interaction so great. But no word was ever spoken. The tray slid in, the door slammed shut and she was once again left alone in the killing silence.

Help me to remain strong, she prayed. Eventually she would learn why she was being held here, what was wanted from her. The terror of the unknown was with her every minute of every day.

Please, please keep me strong. She knew sooner or later the madman with the black-gloved hands would show his face, would make demands and she prayed she would be strong enough to survive.

Chapter 3

Decorative rocks. Clay spent most of his morning chasing down names on lists of customers who had ordered the kind of decorative rocks he’d found around his father’s chair in his parents’ living room and in Riley Frazier’s parents’ living room.

It was the only real evidence he had from the two crime scenes that had left one man dead, one man severely wounded and two women missing. One of those women, Riley Frazier’s mother, had since been found dead and Clay felt the pressure of trying to make sense of what little had been left behind at each crime scene.

He was still waiting for test results on trace evidence that had to be sent to a lab in Oklahoma City. But he knew the lab was backed up and it might be weeks before he got definitive test results.

“Clay?”

He looked up from the list of quarry customers he’d obtained to see his sister Savannah standing in the doorway of the lab.

“You have any more for me on the McClane fiber?”

He nodded as his sister approached where he sat at his desk. “Unfortunately the only thing I can tell you is that it’s one hundred percent cotton.”

“That’s it?” she asked, a frown creasing her brow.

“Afraid so.” He sighed in frustration and raked a hand through his hair. “I’ve got a single fiber for you on a serial murder case and a handful of pebbles to try to find out what happened to Mom.”

“You can only work with what you have, Clay,” Savannah said softly. “That’s all any of us can do.”

“But it’s not enough.” Anger rose up inside him, the anger of utter impotence. Somehow, someway, he couldn’t help but think somebody had missed something…a vital piece of evidence that might lead them to their mother.

“Glen should have let me process the scene initially,” he said, his anger evident in his voice.

“You know that wasn’t a good idea,” Savannah said. “And you know your team is good. If there had been anything there to find, they would have found it.”

“At least we have the rocks from Mom and Dad’s house and from Riley’s parents’ home,” he said. “Unfortunately, it’s not much in the form of a smoking gun. We don’t even know if the perpetrator of whatever has been going on with the missing women is from here, from Sycamore Ridge where the Frazier’s lived, or from Sequoia Falls where the first incident occurred. Dammit, we don’t have any idea at all what’s going on.”

Savannah laid a hand on his shoulder. “I know you’re hurting, Clay. We’re all hurting and we’re all doing the best we can to find her.”

Clay nodded, but he knew his pain was different from his sisters’ pain. They hadn’t fought with Rita the very last time they’d seen her alive.

They hadn’t said things that needed to be left unsaid, that now might never get the chance to be unsaid. Savannah and Breanna missed her, were frightened for her, but they didn’t live with the regrets that were slowly eating him alive.

“Have you had lunch?” she asked.

“Haven’t had time.”

“It’s going to be dinnertime soon, why don’t you give yourself a break and go get something to eat. Your brain doesn’t function as well when your stomach is empty.”

Clay stood from his desk, knowing she was right. His stomach had been growling for the past hour and the gnarl had become more and more difficult to ignore as time had passed.

He put away the reports he’d been reading from the quarries that had provided client lists, then left the small building that was an appendage to the back of the police station.

It had been six years ago, when Clay’s father, Thomas, had been chief of police that Thomas had decided the small town needed its own crime-scene investigators and crime lab.

Thomas had been not only a great chief of police, but also a fine politician, who’d convinced the town of the need and had actively gone after private donations to get what he wanted.

One of the biggest donations had come from Jacob Kincaid, owner of American Bank, the only bank in Cherokee Corners, and a good friend of Clay’s parents.

In fact, Jacob was like an uncle to Clay and as he stepped onto the hot concrete of the sidewalk, he realized it had been too long since he and Jacob had talked.

Clay walked toward the café in the Center Square. It was a favorite eating establishment in town. Huge portions, reasonable prices and run by a woman named Ruby who claimed to be a descendent of the woman who’d run the first, most successful brothel in the state.

Lots of the cops ate there, but Clay definitely wasn’t in the mood for company. The brief conversation with Savannah had stirred his guilt and the hundreds of regrets he’d lived with since the night of his mother’s disappearance.

He just wanted to eat, then get back to the lab where work was piled up awaiting his attention. He already knew it was going to take hours to go over those lists from the quarries to find out who had ordered loads of that particular decorative rock.

The sun was hot on his shoulders, and the air smelled of city heat—smoked tires, hot oil and a faint overlay of spoiling garbage.

Clay hated summer, when tempers flared more quickly and crime rose drastically. He hated the dry hot wind that scorched the earth, then blew the ashes of dust everywhere.