Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [39]
He hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. Her hair blew around her head in dark ribbons, and the wind plastered her jacket to her body. By then, he’d become intimately familiar with every curve and hollow, and that familiarity burned deep inside him as he watched her approach. She’d acknowledged him with a slight gesture, a small wave of the fingers of her right hand, and he’d had to force himself to concentrate on the business he’d been sent to do.
The first body they’d found that day had been left sitting against a headstone. The victim’s hands had been folded demurely in her lap, and her chin rested on her chest. She’d been a pretty girl before she’d been snatched from her pretty life and stabbed to death. They’d found three more bodies that day, and later, much later, when they returned to the motel where they’d been booked, he’d caught up with Miranda in the bar. They’d gone back to his room, and sought to forget the ugliness they’d seen that day by losing themselves in each other. Later, in the wee hours of the morning, Will had found Miranda out on the balcony, wrapped in a blanket, staring up at the sky.
“When I was younger, my sister and I used to do rubbings in cemeteries,” she’d said without turning around. “You know, wax rubbings of headstones. We used to look for old cemeteries, the ones with the really neat stones. Where people have been resting for years. For centuries, sometimes. Some of the stones were so pretty, some of the inscriptions so poignant. We’d walk along and read the names and the dates. We’d find graves of men who fought in the Civil War, and babies who’d only lived a day.”
“Like the cemetery we were in today,” Will had said, and she’d nodded.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do that again. Not after seeing what he did to those women . . .”
He’d coaxed her back inside, and they’d made love until the sun came up. Later that day, he took her to another cemetery, this one outside of town, and they walked along the quiet graves, reading the inscriptions to each other. Two hours later, he was on his way to Maine, she to Phoenix. . . .
“Carson is sending someone to the bus terminal with Archer’s mug shot, and they’re also going to get in touch with his probation officer, see if we can get a warrant issued for Lowell,” Miranda announced from the doorway, oblivious to his disquiet. “She’s already had someone out to talk to Archer’s mother. Mrs. Lowell said—surprise, surprise—she hasn’t seen Archer since she left for work on Friday morning. He wasn’t there when she got home yesterday, and he didn’t come home last night. She’s very worried about him.”
“I’d be worried, too, if he were my son. But I thought someone was supposed to be keeping an eye on him.”
“I think the Fleming police might have attended the same surveillance workshop as their brothers in Telford. In any event, the police are going down to the Well to talk to the bartender and some of Archer’s drinking buddies, see if he mentioned to any one of them that he’d be leaving town.” She opened the screen door and stepped outside. “You’ve done a lot of work on the house since the last time I was here. It’s really nice, Will.”
“Thanks.”
She descended the steps and stepped onto the patio. “This is really pretty. I bet it’s nice to sit back here and drink your coffee in the morning, read the paper. Or have a drink at the end of the day.”
“It is. I’d invite you to have a seat, but as you can see, everything’s wet from the rain.”
“Too bad. It’s so cozy.” She looked around the yard. “You put the fence in yourself?”
“Yes.”