Final Words (7 page)

“You’re really into being a detective,” she said, hoping her
voice didn’t give away her ridiculous case of nerves and even more ridiculous
desire. “You devote even your reading time to it.”

“The book isn’t for me. It’s for my partner’s son.”

“I see.” She gripped her purse strap tighter as he fell into
step with her on the sidewalk that ran down Bay Street. Tall beside her,
long-legged…

The emptiness in her stomach spread lower. Alan had once
pointed out that she was far more amorous when she was hungry and right now she
was nearly starving. It wouldn’t take more than a smoldering glance from Jason
MacKenzie to have her melting into a puddle of need. Or jumping his bones right
here in the middle of town.

“The bookstore didn’t have that title in stock,” he
explained, tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The turned up
sleeves of his white cotton shirt rode higher on his lean, sun-burnished
forearms. “They had to order it.”

“Oh.” She quickened her step. She didn’t want to make small
talk with this man. She didn’t want to notice his sexy forearms or anything
else about him. She didn’t want to be around him any more than she had to be.
She was vulnerable—particularly so right now—and didn’t need him around to
worsen her condition.

“Did you park nearby?” he asked, matching his stride to
hers. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

“That isn’t necessary. It’s just down the street.”

“No trouble. I parked down the street too.”

He shifted closer to her to avoid bumping a pedestrian
coming from the opposite direction. His bare forearm brushed her wrist and the
short, dark hairs that curled over his forearm flexor muscle made her stomach
tighten again as they tickled her flesh. She walked faster.

“I’ll be all right,” she said, grateful for the darkness
between lampposts that hid her deepening blush. If he didn’t leave soon, she’d
have to hunt down a street vendor selling pretzels or ice cream.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, catching up with her at
the corner.

She had both hands around her purse strap now and bounced on
her toes as she waited for the crosswalk sign to change. A popcorn vendor
rolled his cart away just up the street, the scent of fresh popped corn and
butter enticing her to run after him and gorge herself until the hunger in her
lower body eased.

If it would.

“I’m tired.” She stared straight ahead. “Can it wait until
tomorrow?”

Before he could answer, the light changed and she darted
across the street. But she couldn’t shake the man. His long legs brought him
even again as she gained the opposite curb.

“Jaime Campanero recanted his confession,” he said almost
conversationally.

That was bad news. Slowing her steps, she looked up at him. “He
can’t do that, can he?”

He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets. His mouth
tightened. “Unfortunately, we have no physical evidence to link him to his
sister’s murder. He confessed before his lawyer showed up.”

“But after you read him his rights?”

“Of course. But a smart public defender can get around that.
A smart public defender will insist that we coerced the confession out of his
client without counsel being present.” His dark eyes glinted beneath the
streetlights. “A smart public defender will claim that we went for the most
obvious suspect, a poor immigrant with no means to defend himself. We have lots
of smart public defenders here in Clear Harbor.”

His bitter tone surprised her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

One of his eyebrows inched upward and his gaze seemed to
focus more intently on her as a smile curled his sexy lips. “Sorry to hear that
we have lots of smart public defenders?”

“No.” She realized she’d slowed her steps further. They were
walking along the broad sidewalk that paralleled an open stretch of beach. Pole
lights had been set up in the sand and a group of young people had gathered for
Clear Harbor’s Friday night beach party. Fifties rock-and-roll music played
through the cool sea air and on its gentle breeze she could smell all kinds of
food now.

“No,” she said again, holding her free hand against her
empty, growling stomach. She wished she could press her palm lower and provide
some counter to the sexual tension curling deep inside. “I meant I’m sorry that
Campanero could get off.”

“Actually…” He moved closer to her as a couple on a
bicycle-built-for-two approached, their handlebar bell ringing a gentle warning
on the evening air. “Actually, Emma, I’m hoping you can keep that from
happening.”

The bell rang again. As Jason’s body heat reached out to
her, Emma felt herself start to melt and she wondered if that ringing warning
was for her personally.

Jason stood with his back to the beach and its lights. His
shadow fell over her face and shoulders, casting her into darkness.

His shadow.

His darkness.

Despite the lack of physical contact, it was an intimate
joining that had him shaking with a need he hadn’t allowed himself to feel in a
long time. A need he feared he couldn’t control. A need he no longer
wanted
to control.

But then she shifted away, into the light. The pupils of her
eyes shrank but retained a wide, hollow look that once more made him want to
wrap his arms around her and keep her safe.

“But I don’t know anything,” she said. Her tone and
expression told him that she had experienced that same sense of intimacy that
he’d felt.

Jason tightened his hands, feeling the lint in his pockets
against his knuckles, feeling the tightness of his jeans around his thighs and
his waist and everything in between. If she glanced down she would see her
physical effect on him. He’d gone as hard as a brick. Would that please her or
scare her off?

He knew the answer. She’d been practically running from him
since they’d left the bookstore. He couldn’t blame her. No doubt her friend,
Marta, had made sure that Emma knew all about his reputation with women. Brian
might even have mentioned some of his more colorful romantic escapades. And he’d
been sending her mixed signals, he was sure. He certainly knew what signals he
wanted to send.

Across the sand, several dozen people shifted from wild
gyrations to cheek-to-cheek dancing. The strains of “Stardust” softened the night
air.

“My parents loved that song,” Jason murmured, forgetting for
a moment that they were involved in a murder investigation, forgetting
everything but her look and her scent and her warmth.

She took in a slow breath as if trying to match the rhythm
of the sea. “It’s my mother’s favorite too,” she said quietly.

Her eyes reflected light from the beach. Or was it real
stardust? Whatever it was, the glow there made him feel warm and alive for the
first time in a long, long time.

Unfortunately, coming back to life wasn’t a totally pleasant
sensation. The tightness in his lower body hurt and his heart beat fast enough
to make him slightly breathless.

“How did you know Amalia had a brother?” he asked, trying to
focus his thoughts on business. He hadn’t meant to run into Emma tonight but he
might as well take advantage of the opportunity. For business, of course.

Emma looked away, seeming to study the couples dancing in
the sand. She drew her lower lip between her teeth then took a deep breath and
spoke even more quietly. “Don’t you ever get a hunch? A sense of something?”

“I’ve had a hunch or two,” he answered, trying not to
imagine what her lower lip would feel like between his teeth.

“That’s all I had that day.” She looked up at him. “Just a
hunch.”

He searched her eyes, hoping to see some sign of truth
there, some sign that she was holding nothing back. But he saw the opposite.
She
was
holding something back. Something big.

“Emma.” He moved closer, further into her space. She didn’t
draw back but her eyes went a millimeter wider. He chose to take that as
encouragement. “Why don’t we go somewhere and talk?”

The palm of one hand went to her stomach. No, he realized.
Just below her stomach. Her fingers splayed over her lower abdomen as if she
pressed against the same inner pressure he felt. He started to move in closer
but she abruptly shook her head.

“I need to get home.” Unconvincing, hardly more than a
whisper, her words hung between them.

Desperation shot through him and he said the only thing that
he felt might keep her here. “I’d really like to talk to you about Brian.”

“Oh.” Some of that fearful darkness faded from her eyes. “No
one else seems to want to talk about him. The people at work, I mean. I guess
it hurts too much.”

“Maybe they’re afraid it would hurt you to be reminded. But
you don’t need to be reminded any more than I do.” He paused, thinking it was
true. “Every day something reminds me of Brian.”

Her shoulders relaxed a fraction more. “Me too.”

“Why don’t we go somewhere and talk? I promise, all we’ll do
is share a few stories about our mutual friend.” He meant it. He was willing to
do anything just to keep her close for a little while longer.

She gazed into his eyes and he saw the debate going on
inside her. She was going to give in. All she needed was a little more
encouragement.

“Emma—”

He broke off as a woman walked up the beach toward them.
Recognizing her, Jason bit back a groan. Spotting him, the pretty blonde
grinned and exaggerated the sway of her hips as she climbed the last few feet
of sand.

“Hello, handsome.” Officer Miranda Dennison, out of uniform
in a spectacular way—hot pink shorts and a polka-dot halter—barely glanced at
Emma before she winked at Jason. “Warm night, isn’t it?”

“Hey, Miranda,” he said as the very feminine police officer
stroked a hand down his arm before moving along. The thong sandals on her feet
slapped the pavement, drawing his gaze down her endless legs. But it was merely
an instinctive act and he easily returned his gaze to Emma. He saw
disappointment flash through her eyes.

“Miranda works at the station,” he quickly said. He owed her
no explanation but found himself stammering one out anyway. “In the admin
department. She takes phone messages and—”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Detective.”

Loneliness filled him and suddenly business and talking
about his recently deceased friend were the last things on his mind. “Maybe I
want to explain,” he said.

Emma turned just as Miranda looked back and winked at Jason
again. His hopes sank as Emma’s shoulders stiffened.

“I think you’ve got a date if you want one,” she said,
looking back at him. “As for me, I’ll be going on home.”

Turning, she left him standing at the edge of the beach. As
the laughter of the dancing couples drifted on the breeze around him, Jason felt
more alone than ever.

“Recorders on.” Skitch pressed the switch above the autopsy
table. “Monday morning. May eighth. Nine o’clock.”

Standing opposite him, Emma lowered her face shield. Her
gloved hands trembled and she felt the flesh on her shoulders trying to crawl
up her neck. Apparently a weekend spent soul-searching had not soothed her
nerves after all. Or maybe her shivers simply came from the chill of the
heavily air-conditioned room.

At least I’m not thinking about Jason Mackenzie anymore
,
she realized and then winced as thoughts of him flooded her mind. Since that
night on the beach, she’d struggled not to think about his muscular forearms
and gleaming eyes that could look right inside a woman. Or that sexy smile and
the sense of warmth she felt whenever her thoughts turned his way. A warmth
much nicer than the chill she got from thinking about ghosts.

A warmth that could quickly heat to a boiling pot of
trouble, she reminded herself. No matter how she wanted to distract herself from
her hallucinations of spirits, she couldn’t use that man to do it.

Flexing her fingers, she hesitated another moment and then
gripped the sheet and drew it down to the dead man’s waist.

“He’s a John Doe,” Skitch said, reading from a file. “His
body washed ashore down at the Pelican Street Pier. His wallet was missing and
there’s been no sign of his fishing gear, either. The cops have labeled his
death a robbery-homicide.” He looked up with a glitter of amusement in his eyes.
“Get that. Piracy on the high seas.”

“Let’s do the external.” Emma kept her voice low so Skitch
wouldn’t hear the quaver in it. “The deceased is a white male, approximately
sixty years old. Weight is…” She glanced at the scale. “Two-hundred-ten pounds.”

“No marks on his chest or arms.” Sober once more, Skitch put
the file on a side table. “His torso appears swollen, though and his flesh is
discolored. Looks like he was in the water a while so that weight probably isn’t
accurate.”

Emma took a deep breath. Nothing unusual had happened. She’d
been in the autopsy suite with the body for almost five minutes now and nothing
had happened. Nothing was
going
to happen.

She gestured toward the neck of the deceased man. “There’s
bruising along both sides of the throat. Looks like it might extend around the
back. Let’s take a look.”

As Skitch lifted the man’s head, Emma adjusted one of the
overhead lights and then leaned down. “Trauma to the back of the head. See the
bleeding? The blow was obviously a precursor to death.”

Studying the wound, Skitch nodded. “Could have been
accidental or intentional.”

“We’ll get back to it after we finish the external body
check.” Straightening, Emma pulled the sheet further down and did a visual
inspection of the front of the dead man’s body.

“No obvious signs of anything else abnormal.” She placed one
hand on the man’s left ankle to examine the suppleness of his skin.

“Of course not. I slipped, that’s all.”

The hoarse voice snapped Emma’s head up. She stumbled back
several steps, her gaze riveted on the middle-aged man standing on the other
side of the autopsy table.

Raising both hands to her chest, she choked out, “Skitch!”

Still standing near the dead man’s head, Skitch looked up at
her and frowned. “Something wrong, Doc?”

Emma’s heart slammed into her ribs and she gave her
assistant a disbelieving stare. “Is something wrong?”

“He can’t see me, Dr. St. Clair,” the man said. “I’m here to
talk to you.”

Emma’s stare swung back to the stocky figure standing less
than two feet from Skitch. Garbed in baggy, faded blue jeans and a lightweight,
long-sleeved cotton shirt with a fishing vest and hat, he looked like a
weathered old fisherman.

She looked back at the corpse on the table.
This
weathered old fisherman, she realized with another jolt of panic.

“My name is Robert Harris.”

As he spoke again, Emma tried to calm down. She forced
herself to study the figure, to determine if he was more than a figment of her
imagination. Although she could see every detail of his form and features—down
to the feathers on the lures attached to his vest—there was something
insubstantial about him. She realized abruptly that she could see
through
him.

The temperature of the air around her dropped several
degrees, chilling her to the deepest marrow of her bones.

“Doc?” Skitch moved down the table and his right arm swung
through the figure.

Emma pushed up her face shield, squeezed her eyes shut and
then opened them again. The man—the image—still stood to the left of Skitch.

“Doc, you don’t look good.” Skitch rubbed his right arm. “Of
course that could be because it’s so dang cold in here.”

“I want someone to know what happened.” The faint figure of
the man settled his arms across his chest. “There ain’t nobody to blame for
this ’cept me.”

Skitch came around the table to where Emma stood, still
staring. “Maybe you ought to sit down,” he said.

“I had a few beers,” the figure went on, talking slower and
with a little difficulty. “I stood up to relieve m’self over the side of the
boat. Lost m’ balance when this big swell pushed through and I fell. Hit m’
head on the bow. Boat flipped. I sank.” His chest rose high and fast as if he
labored to catch a breath. “End of me. End of story.”

Skitch took Emma’s arm and eased her toward a stool. As she
continued staring at the old man, he began to fade.

“Wait!” Desperation gripped her. She needed proof that this
was really happening. “Your wallet?”

“Under the beer in my cooler. Wrapped in plastic. It should’ve
floated to shore. Now, I’m too tired to talk anymore.” And then he was gone.

Emma blinked and dropped onto the stool.

Skitch knelt beside her, both gloved hands around hers,
rubbing gently. “Doc? What about my wallet?”

Emma kept staring at the place where the figure had stood. “You
didn’t see?”

Skitch glanced over his shoulder and gave the room a quick
scan. “See what?”

Her gaze flickered toward the body on the table. The dead
man’s face was definitely the same as that of the apparition. Either her
imagination had projected that image into ethereal form or…

“See what, Dr. St. Clair?”

Looking at Skitch, Emma saw worry and suspicion in his dark
eyes. Worry for her health and suspicion that she couldn’t handle her job
anymore. If she told him what she’d seen, he would go straight to their boss
with the information. And Edgar would forbid her to do any more autopsies. He
might even relieve her of duty completely. Without her job, she really would go
crazy.

She forced a smile and tried to think fast. “I saw someone’s
wallet…under a chair in the break room. I-I just remembered and wondered if it
was yours.”

“No. I have mine.” He studied her with deepening concern. “You’re
kind of pale. Are you okay?”

“I just got a little dizzy for a second. I guess I haven’t
been eating right lately.” Gently, she tugged her hands free of his. “I just
need some protein, that’s all.”

“I have some snack bars in my cubicle. I’ll get you one.” He
stood. “You should wear a smock over your scrubs too. It’s too cold in here.”

“I’ll be all right. Let’s finish up with—with this gentleman
first.”

Skitch took her arm again as she rose. “You sure?”

Steady on her feet, she patted his hand. “I’m okay, Skitch.
Really. But you’re right. The room is cold.”

“Whatever you say, Doc.” He led her to the table, his eyes
still dark with worry. “Whatever you say.”

* * * * *

“What you need, my friend, is the love of a good woman.”
Charlie dropped into a deck chair late Monday afternoon and handed a bottle of
beer to Jason. A breeze whipped in off the bay to stir his thick, gray hair.

Jason kicked back in his own chair and propped his feet up
on the railing surrounding his deck. He twisted off the bottle cap. Weariness
rolled through him. He and Charlie had been on the move all weekend, chasing
down leads that went nowhere. The car that had struck Emma and Brian must have
been invisible because they couldn’t find one witness who’d seen anything. And
they’d come up with nothing on the Campanero case, either. Or any of the other
cases they were working.

“You need someone to share your life,” Charlie said.

Jason looked at the waves rolling in less than thirty yards
from his stilted house. “And what you need is a hobby. Something like model
railroading or collecting butterflies. Anything but matchmaking.”

“I think you’re interested in Dr. St. Clair.”

“I can’t help what you think, Garcia. But you’re wrong.” The
lie tasted bitter and he tried to wash it down with a big swallow of beer.
Since their meeting at the morgue he’d been very interested in Dr. Emma St.
Clair. She consumed his thoughts, night and day. Meeting her had forced his
heart back to life and he feared the pain that might come to life with it. He’d
lost his parents, his sister and two friends within a span of three years. He
didn’t think he could handle caring about someone else now. And Emma made him
want to care.

Charlie watched Jason. “You’ve buried yourself in grief.”

Jason looked down at his beer, focusing on his distorted
reflection in the side of the bottle. Taking a deep breath, he confessed, “I
miss Rose, Charlie. I miss her so much it hurts.”

“You and she were close. But she’s gone, Jason and you can’t
hide from life in the garden she planted.”

“I’m not hiding and she didn’t plant it. Mom planted it.”
Jason stared at the blossom-heavy bushes rustling in the sea breeze. “Rose just
took over from her.”

“And you took over from Rose.”

“After I killed her.” Jason took a long pull on his beer.

Charlie pushed out a patient breath. “You argued with her,
Jason. You didn’t kill her.”

“She didn’t hear that car over the tears she was crying
because of the things I said to her.”

“Things she needed to hear.”

“Maybe. But I could have gone easier on her.” He refused to
forgive himself. “She was just doing what I did, going through men like I went
through women, being stupid because she saw me being stupid. I set the example
and she followed it.”

Charlie didn’t respond. He’d heard it before and was
probably as sick of hearing it as Jason was of saying it. But it was the truth.

Charlie leaned down and placed his half-f beer bottle on
the deck. “It was a freak accident. When will you accept that?”

Jason ran his thumb over the reflection in his bottle. “I
doubt I ever will.”

“So you punish yourself. You bury yourself in work.” Charlie
sat back with his feet propped up on the rail beside Jason’s. “I’ve heard that
Emma St. Clair’s ex-husband was a philandering son of a bitch. I imagine she
would be gun-shy about a man with your reputation, anyway.”

Jason frowned and his image in the bottle distorted further.
“I don’t want her to be interested.”

“I wonder why I don’t believe you.”

Lifting his gaze, Jason stared out to sea and wondered why
he didn’t believe it himself. Maybe, just maybe, he had punished himself
enough. Or maybe caring about Emma was just a new, tougher form of punishment.

* * * * *

Emma stared out her office window but didn’t appreciate the
spectacular gold and pink of the sky as the sun set over the rocking waves in
the bay. Instead, her thoughts turned to the image of a dead man and the
possibility that she was losing her mind. After all, Great-Aunt Victoria was
spending the last years of her life in a nursing home, listening to voices that
no one else could hear and seeing people long dead.

Emma had certainly seen something today. Something
unbelievable. Something impossible. And yet it was something she wanted to
believe because of the only other alternative.

Desperate to prove to herself that she hadn’t inherited some
latent insanity gene, she’d hunted for any other explanation. A check of the
Clear Harbor phone book had revealed seven listings for Robert Harris. Nearby
Houston had more than twenty-five listings for that name. But did that prove
anything? Without calling every one of those numbers and describing the
deceased to whoever answered the phone, she couldn’t connect the dead man to a
real person.

Emma nibbled at her lower lip. Had she really seen ghosts? In
spite of the lack of physical or scientific evidence, could ghosts exist and
had her accident somehow given her the ability to communicate with them? What
had happened to Great-Aunt Victoria that had prompted her “communications”?

Pulling her cell phone out of her pocket, Emma pressed the
speed dial number for her parents. After only one ring, her dad’s familiar
voice boomed out, “Nick St. Clair.”

“Hi, Dad.”

“Punkin! Hope, get on the extension! It’s Emma!”

Emma heard the clatter as her mother picked up another phone
and said, “Hi, honey! What’s going on?”

“Nothing much.” Emma closed her eyes in guilt. “I just
thought I’d check in.”

“We’ve missed you,” her father said. “I was just telling
Hope that it’s too damn quiet around here.”

“Nick, don’t swear. We got so used to having you around,”
her mother added, her cool voice full of love. “This cabin seems lonelier than
ever now.”

Emma swallowed a lump of tears. “Thanks for letting me stay
there after the accident.”

“What are parents for if not to take care of their child
when she’s hurt?” her mother said. “Right, Nick?”

“That’s right. We had our little girl back for a while.”

Emotion lurked at the back of her father’s voice too,
reminding Emma that he had always been a big softy. She wanted to tell them
both everything that had happened to her. But they would worry so she hesitated
to mention her fear that she was either losing her mind or communicating with
the spirits of the dead.