Will looked as though he’d been through a wringer. Only his eyes moved, darting frantically from one tray to the next. “I don’t know. How many knives are there supposed to be?”
The question echoed in Savannah’s mind. How many knives? One dozen? Two dozen? Three dozen? Minus any that may have been snitched by the hired help over the years. Minus any that may have gone home to the wrong house in a casserole dish. Minus any that fell into the disposal.
His question accurately summed up the problem: they were grasping at straws.
“Forget the silver,” Savannah said wearily. “They probably wouldn’t have taken the time to open drawers. Anything missing on top?”
His eyes continued to dart through the flatware. “No.”
Savannah slowly closed the drawer. Bracing her forearm on the top of the cabinet, she looked into his face. “Why don’t you try to rest, Will? It’s been a long day.”
“I won’t rest until she’s back.”
“But there’s nothing we can do now. Sam and Hank will take turns sitting by the phone. You’ll be fresher in the morning if you try to sleep now.”
He laughed feebly. “The only way I can sleep is by taking a pill, but if I do that and the call comes in, I won’t be able to think straight.”
“Then just lie down. Try to relax. It’ll be better for Megan that way.” Strung out herself, she wasn’t about to argue further. “I’m going to run on home. I’ll see you in the morning. Hang in there, okay?” Without awaiting an answer, she saw herself out.
The night was dark and wet. Despite the long wool coat that enveloped her, Savannah was chilled by the time she reached her car. She slid in and locked the door in a single, quick motion, then steadied her hand and put the key in the ignition.
The drive home was quick, thanks to the hour and the sparseness of traffic. She almost wished there were more cars, more noise, more life. The windshield wipers maintained a steady rhythm against the rain; the wet pavement mirrored the city lights. Still, the world seemed very dark, and she felt very much alone.
Parking in the garage behind her townhouse, she hurried across the small open space to her back door. Her hands trembled as she unlocked it and continued to tremble while she turned off the alarm to allow herself entry. With the door closed behind her, she took an unsteady breath and proceeded up the stairs to the first floor of the townhouse.
Hanging her coat in the closet, she carried her briefcase directly into the den and set it on the desk. Then she sank into the old, leather wing chair, dropped her shoes to the floor, and drew her knees to her chest. Hugging them tightly, she took one shallow breath after another. All the while her body trembled.
She didn’t cry. She never did when this happened. In place of tears, a fine sheen of sweat broke out on her forehead, her upper lip, the back of her neck. And the trembling went on.
She knew what was happening; it was no great mystery. In the course of a day, she went about her work in a very diligent, very capable and controlled manner. But some days the work she did deeply upset her. On those days, she held back her feelings until she felt she would burst, because the last thing she could do was show weakness at work. Only later, at home, sitting in her chair with the high back and wings to protect her, could she give vent to the emotions that cried for release.
It was a classic case of delayed reaction, and it didn’t happen often. She could handle her job perfectly well nine-tenths of the time. The other tenth of the time, she suffered. It had been that way when she tried a case involving a pair of toddlers who had been sexually abused in a nursery school. It had been that way when she headed an investigation into the cult suicides of three teenagers at the local high school. It had been that way with the limbless torso case.
Megan Vandermeer’s kidnapping wasn’t blatantly grotesque or bloody. Optimally, it would end with the payment of a ransom and Megan’s return, with little more physical harm done than a broken French door.
Optimally.
Unfortunately, Savannah knew too much. She knew how the criminal mind worked. Despite the words of encouragement she gave Will, she had seen the results of irrational acts too often to believe that the optimal situation would come to pass. She did believe that Megan would return home alive; she had to believe that. What frightened her was the torment Megan might endure before then, and where that torment was concerned, Savannah’s imagination was fertile.
Megan was her friend, and that made the pain she felt so much worse. She wanted to help. She was doing everything she could. But she was getting nowhere. And Megan suffered.
She kept taking soft, shallow breaths. Turning sideways in the chair, she pressed her damp brow to her knees and closed her eyes.
Gradually, the shaking began to ease. Gradually, her breathing deepened. With her eyes still closed, she rested her head back against the chair.
A few minutes later, she went into the bedroom to change her clothes. Despite the fact that she was physically drained, she had work to do. Work was her scourge and her salvation. Will took sleeping pills, Susan drank scotch, Savannah worked.
There were times when she wondered where it would end. But, hell, she had to do something until midnight.
CHAPTER5
“It’s twelve-oh-four, and this is Jared Snow, comin’ to you at the tail end of a cold and rainy Tuesday.”
Savannah had been waiting, focusing with only half a mind on the memorandum she was dictating. At the slow, husky sound of his voice, she turned off her minirecorder and pressed its narrow end to her lips.
“You’re listening to cool country,”he told her with a lazy smile,“95.3 FM, WCIC Providence. I’ll be playing nothing but the smoothest of country sounds till six. If you’ve just come home, find a comfortable place to dry off and warm up. If you’ve been home awhile, refill that mug with whatever feeds your senses, take a real slow breath, and relax. I’ve got Randy Travis, Juice Newton, and Exile comin’ up on 95.3 FM, the home of a little country in the city, WCIC Providence, kickin’ off a cool country streak with a new cut by T. Graham Brown. Jared Snow listenin’ with you in the heart of the night. Enjoy.…”
She did, oh, she did. The tension that lingered in her body seemed to ease with the sound of his voice. The images that plagued her with each break from her work disappeared. In a leisurely motion she set the recorder on the desk. Raising her arms, she linked her hands on her forehead, pushed up the dark bangs that normally lay there and arched her back into a feline stretch.
