the van and took off for Tamara’s place, his thoughts racing as he drove. After eating dinner with her and Alyssa, he’d gone back to the lab and had tried to make sense of the customer lists from quarries and landscaping services that had begun to come in.
Most of the places had simply printed off customer lists without pulling the ones Clay was specifically looking for. He now knew the decorative rock he’d found both at his parents’ home and at the Frazier murder scene was called Dalmatian mix because of the unusual black and white coloring. Thankfully it was a high-end decorative rock, so not many people sprang for it.
From the lists he’d received so far he had a list of fifty-two names from Oklahoma City and its surrounding area. Who knew how many more names would be added when all was said and done.
And even then, being armed with a list of every person in Oklahoma who’d ever bought the Dalmatian mix didn’t mean he had the name of the person who had killed at least two people and stolen his mother away. For all he knew the killer could be from Texas, or Kansas, or forty-seven other states.
As he turned down the dirt road that led to Tamara’s cottage, he tried to put it all out of his head. Instead his thoughts were replaced with the memory of Alyssa telling him about the vision she’d suffered the night before, the vision of Tamara being killed by a monster.
He knew his cousin had been particularly fragile over the last couple of months. Before the crime at his parents’ house Alyssa had been experiencing what she said were the worst visions she’d ever had. She’d told him all she saw was blackness, but accompanying the dark was an overwhelming feeling that something terrible was going to happen.
Since the crime, Clay knew she blamed herself for not “seeing” exactly what was going to happen, for not “seeing” clues that would lead to the recovery of Rita wherever she was.
Alyssa was fragile and under stress, and he was certain that hearing about the damage to Tamara’s classroom was what had prompted her latest vision.
Twilight was on its way out the door, leaving behind the deep shadows of night. It would be even darker around Tamara’s place where the woods were thick and kept out most of the moonlight.
As the cottage came into view, he saw that there were no lights on. It looked as if nobody was home. He parked next to her car, then saw her seated behind the steering wheel.
She got out as he did. “Clay,” she said with obvious surprise. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“Since I was out at the schoolhouse, I decided to go ahead and come out here and take a report.” She looked tense…frightened. “Is there a reason you’re out here sitting in your car instead of inside?”
“I wasn’t sure it was safe inside. I know it sounds silly, but I got spooked and just stepped in long enough to grab the phone and call the police, then I came out here, started the car engine and locked myself inside.”
“It doesn’t sound silly, it sounds like the intelligent thing to do.” He leaned into the van and removed his handgun from the seat. “So, what exactly have we got here?”
“There’s a dead deer on my porch.” Her voice was low and steady. “At first I thought maybe it had been hit by a car and had somehow made its way to the porch, but when I looked more closely at it, I realized there were claw marks across its side like the ones that were made in my classroom. That’s when I got spooked.”
“Lock yourself back in the car and let me check out the house. Once it’s clear, then I’ll take a look at the deer.”
He was glad she didn’t question or argue with him, but instead did exactly what he asked.
When she was back in her car, he released the safety on his gun and approached the cottage. There were no lights on, but he could see just enough to step over the dead animal and push open the front door.
Gun firmly gripped in his hand and held up before him, he stepped through the door and flipped on the light switches that illuminated both the porch and the lamps on the end tables in the living room.
The room looked exactly as it had last night when he had been inside. Nothing appeared to be out of place, but he wouldn’t be at ease until he’d checked every room, every closet, every place that a person might hide.
From the living room he moved into the kitchen, hitting the switch to light the room. Again, everything looked normal. He checked the small pantry, finding nothing more than canned goods, then left the kitchen and moved down the narrow hallway. The bathroom was tiny and the shower curtain hid nothing more than a spotlessly clean tub.
At the end of the hallway was the single bedroom. Clay turned on the light switch, tensed and ready for confrontation. Again he found nothing…except a bedroom that instantly assailed him on all senses, evoking thoughts that definitely had nothing to do with his job.
A bright red spread covered the double bed. Sprawled across the bed was a splash of yellow silk that he recognized must be Tamara’s nightgown. Yellow and red curtains hung at the single window the room boasted, a window unit air conditioner filling the lower portion of the window itself.
The room breathed color and life and passion and it smelled like her…that mysterious blend of wildflowers and fresh rain and dark woods.
Dream catchers hung on the wall above the bed and Tamara’s artwork—rich, bold and intense in stroke, color and content—decorated the remaining walls. A tabletop fountain sat in the center of the dresser and it was easy to imagine making love to the sound of the gentle, bubbling water.
He yanked open the closet door, irritated that the thought of making love in this room, to the woman outside sitting in her car, had even entered his mind.
There was nothing in the house to indicate that somebody had been inside other than Tamara. He returned to the front door, stepped over the deer, then went to her car. Before he could reach it, she stepped out.
“Everything looks okay inside,” he said. “And now I want to take a look at that deer.” He went back to his van and pulled out his kit, then carried it back to the front porch.
He was intensely aware of her just behind him, could hear the whisper of her footsteps in the grass, could smell the faint pleasant fragrance that seemed to wrap around her.
It irritated him, making it difficult for him to focus on the task at hand. “You go on inside. I’ll let you know when I’m finished here.”
His voice was sharper than he intended, but it served his purpose. She stepped over the deer and disappeared into the house, silently closing the door behind her.
Clay pulled on latex gloves and got to work. At first glance it appeared as if vicious claws had ripped the deer, but it didn’t take long for him to discover that the cause of death had been a bullet in the chest. The claw marks had been made postmortem.
He took photos of the dead animal, then carefully measured the claw marks and took notes so he could find out if they matched the ones from the classroom.
It was difficult to discern when the deer had died, but it had been some time in the last twenty-four hours. He frowned and stood as he ripped off his gloves. Somebody had killed a deer with a bullet, then carried it here, to Tamara’s porch, then had scored the hide with some sort of claws. Why?
He knocked twice on her door then pushed it open and entered the cottage. She wasn’t in the living room, but he found her seated at the table in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in front of her.
She rose as he entered the room and went to the cabinet to retrieve another cup. She poured the coffee, then handed it to him.
“Thanks,” he said and sat at the table. She returned to her chair across from him and gazed at him expectantly. “You’ve got a dead deer on the porch.”
She smiled. “I didn’t need a police officer to tell me that.”
“The deer wasn’t killed by being torn apart by claws, it was killed with a bullet.”