He sensed that Mary was struggling with something Gillian had done to her, and Anthony knew forgiving someone for past grievances wasn't easy.
"Did I ever tell you my father was a football coach?" he asked.
Mary looked up, and he could see she thought he was joking. His family's obsession with football had been the crux of his childhood. He'd been a stranger in a strange land.
"It's true," he said. "I come from a real rah-rah family. My father coached, my three brothers played football, and my mother drove them all over the country to their games."
She leaned closer, chin in her palm. "Where did you fit into this picture?"
"I didn't. One of my earliest memories is of my dad trying to teach me to throw a football. I had no interest in it. I kept tossing it down and walking away. That lack of interest only intensified with age."
"That must have been alienating."
"That's the word for it. For years my father and brothers tried to shame me into playing until I eventually refused to attend any games." He took a swallow of tea. "We lived in a small town. Only one high school. Their rejection of me was contagious. I couldn't go anywhere without some redneck saying, 'Hey, Spence. Why ain't ya' playin' football? Are you afraid of hurtin' your wrist?' That line almost always called for a dangle of the hand. Then the guy and his buddies would fall all over themselves laughing."
"Is your dad still coaching?"
"Semi-retired."
"And your brothers?"
"They went on to play college football until injuries sidelined them." He nodded at the familiarity of the story. When he was a kid, it had seemed unique. Now he knew it was a plot that had replayed itself in towns across the country. "Of course, they're all proud as hell of me now. Last time I was home for a visit, the guy who started the limp-wrist thing was practically kissing my feet."
She was watching him with sympathy and understanding. "And you resent that."
"Hell yes." He smiled even though the subject was one that still filled him with bitterness. He'd been robbed of his childhood, while the very people who should have supported him were the bullies leading the attack, condemning who he was. Had something similar happened to Mary? If so, he could understand her reluctance to work with her sister. Yet he also knew bitterness was crippling and served no purpose.
"This is all very enlightening, but I'm suspicious. Why are you telling me your life story right now?"
He shrugged. "The atmosphere seemed conducive. Two people sharing a meal in a dark pub."
She was watching him with a half-smile—she wasn't falling for it. She wasn't going to show him her scars just because he'd shown her his.
As if to signal a change of subject, Anthony banged a long metal spoon around in the tall glass. "What are you doing tonight?"
She gave him a strange look, and he could tell she was wondering if he'd just asked her out on a date.
He could see the idea develop, see the instant it was dismissed as preposterous, see her finally pick it up again only to end with lingering confusion.
He put her out of her misery. "I was wondering if you could look over the details of the Texas case I'm working on. I've run into a couple of rough spots."
She relaxed, back on secure ground. "I'm going to be busy earlier, but how does nine o'clock sound?"
"That'll work." He reached across the table and grabbed her hand, holding it lightly in his. "Cat?" He ran a finger across the angry red scratch that showed up starkly against her white skin.
"No, I was out in the woods."
He sensed her discomfort with physical contact and held her hand a little more tightly. "You've never struck me as the outdoor type. Does this sudden interest have anything to do with the current case?"
"No."
"What about Fiona Portman?"
She pulled her hand away and, to discourage any attempt to renew contact, moved it to her lap under the table. "What do you know about Fiona?"
"That she was a friend of yours who was murdered when you were seventeen. Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Sometime?"
"It's over. It happened years ago."
The longer you were around somebody, the easier that person got to read. Mary was hiding something. "Are you sure it's over?"
"Of course I'm sure."
"Then why were you in the woods?"
She tossed down her napkin and got to her feet. "I have to go to the ladies' room."
Anthony watched her walk away. Blythe had given him a general explanation of Fiona Portman's death, but he had the feeling she'd left out some important details. He and Blythe should have another talk, he decided. After all, getting information was his specialty.
Chapter 14
"I'm going into the woods tonight," Mary announced.
She and Blythe were sitting in the warm kitchen with its terra-cotta color-washed walls, drinking a horrendous green tea her mother claimed would reduce inflammation and speed healing. A CD was playing, something ambient, mysterious, and exotic. In the corner, a small fountain flowed soothingly over layered rocks while a scented candle burned.
Mary knew what her mother was doing—trying to create a relaxing environment to boost her immune system. Earlier she'd tried to talk Mary into visiting one of her friends—a healer who worked with crystals and heated rocks. Mary declined. She wasn't going to discount the benefits of such a strategy, but she felt the subject of such healings had to have a measure of faith and mental participation—something Mary didn't have the patience for. She had too many other things on her mind.
"You're going into the woods when it's dark?" Blythe put down her mug—one she'd made years ago. It was thick and heavy, with a burnt-umber glaze. "Why not wait until daytime? Do you FBI agents always have to do everything in the dark?" She reached across the table and gave Mary's hand a gentle squeeze. "It doesn't make sense, sweetheart. And why do you want to go at all?"
"It's strange that you and Mrs. Portman have never seen anyone coming or going. That means whoever is visiting the site doesn't want to be seen, which makes me think they have to be visiting at night. And yes," she said with a smile. "FBI agents like the dark. We're a gloomy bunch."
"Don't go," Blythe pleaded. "Not where Fiona died."
"I have to."
"It can't be good for you. I don't like to think about you out there, especially by yourself." That thought seemed to make up her mind. "If you're going, I'm going with you."
"It'll be cold and possibly muddy in places," Mary warned, appreciating her mother's offer. Not that she was afraid to go by herself, but the company would be nice.
"Look at these." Blythe held out hands with square, damaged nails and skin that was dry and prematurely wrinkled from years of working with clay. "I play in the mud all day long."
"This will be your first FBI stakeout," Mary joked.
They cleared the table, blew out the candle, went to their rooms, and changed into outdoor clothes and sturdy boots. It was getting dark by the time they convened downstairs.
Mary handed her mother a miniature flashlight and another small device. "It's a thermal scanner. It can detect a temperature change from over a hundred yards away. Push this button—" She demonstrated. "The reading is seventy-one, which is the temperature of the walls. Now point it at me."
"Ninety-eight point six," Blythe said. "That's amazing. Aren't these the things used by parapsychologists?"
Leave it to her mother to ask a question like that. "Yes, but we're looking for living, breathing human beings."
Blythe looked around as if she were missing something. "What about night-vision goggles?"
"Unfortunately, I left those at home."
"I was kidding."
"I actually have a pair," Mary said, laughing. "With the scanner, we won't be able to see what it's picking up. We can only determine the location."
With their flashlights off and stashed in their pockets, they headed out the kitchen door, through the backyard and side gate. The street ended in a cul-de-sac. Where the yellow sign said DEAD END, they continued down a dirt path people used to cut through a ditch in order to get to the adjoining street. At the bottom of the ditch Mary swung to the left, toward the woods. She plunged ahead, into the darkness.
"No flashlights," Mary whispered as her mother collided with her from behind.
"I can't see a damn thing," Blythe whispered.
Mary pulled out a key chain with a tiny orange squeeze light. Holding it toward the ground, she pressed the soft button. It created a small glow of light around her feet. "Hang on to me."
"I feel like Nancy Drew." Blythe grabbed her arm, and they began moving slowly through the woods, Mary keeping her eyes and ears tuned for anything unusual. Darkness was almost complete when, minutes later, they reached the area where Fiona had died.
"There it is." Mary directed the small glow of light on the cross.
"I can't believe I never knew this was here," Blythe said, peering at it. "Who's taking care of it? And why?"
"That's what I want to know. People leave crosses and flowers where people have died in car wrecks, but the secretive nature of this memorial makes me suspicious."
Mary found a spot beneath the curved branches of some bushes where they could wait and see if anyone made a nighttime appearance.
Blythe switched on the thermal scanner and began monitoring the readings, turning it in different directions. The temperature hovered around fifty-five unless she pointed it at the sky. In that case, it dived below zero.
They soon discovered that fifty-five wasn't too cold for Minnesota mosquitoes. Mary tried not to slap too loudly.
Fifteen minutes into their vigil, Mary heard something moving through the leaves. Blythe trained the heat detector in the direction of the sound, where it registered a temperature above one hundred. Mary's flashlight picked up the glowing eyes of a raccoon or possum.
"People say they've seen coyotes in these woods," Blythe whispered. "Sometimes in the winter I hear them at night. It's so eerie. They sound like people— like tortured souls."
"Mom, we're going to have to be quiet."
"Oh. Sorry."
Mary patted her back. "That's okay," she whispered.
They stuck it out for two hours. By the time Mary checked her watch and announced that Anthony would soon be stopping by, their teeth were chattering and their legs were stiff.
Thinking about Anthony reminded Mary of that afternoon in the pub. Had she read him wrong? Had he been slightly flirtatious? No, she thought, quickly dismissing the idea.
Silently they got to their feet.
Blythe, who continued to keep an eye on the scanner, suddenly pulled in a tight breath and tugged Mary's sleeve. Mary looked down at the readout in her mother's hand. Pointing away from them, in the opposite direction of the cross, it read 98.6.
Human.
They dropped back to the ground and stared at the glowing green numbers. As the person came nearer, their ears began to pick up the sounds of movement— the shushing of leaves, the snagging of thorns on cloth. A beam of light cut through the branches, bouncing off tree trunks and a mist that had moved in.
Mary was aware of her own breathing, of her mother's fingers digging into her arm.
The person stopped.
A beam of light moved in front of them, illuminating the cross.
Slowly, silently, Mary reached inside her jacket pocket, her fingers wrapping around the leather flip- open case that held her ID. Afraid the person was getting ready to bolt, she straightened.
"Stop!"
She held up her ID. The beam of light shot in her direction, blinding her.
"FBI!"
The light was extinguished. The person backtracked in the direction he'd come, crashing through the underbrush.
Mary followed, turning on her high-powered FBI- issue flashlight as she ran. Behind her, Blythe shouted.
Thorns ripped at Mary's jacket. Ghost halos from the doused light blinded her. Unfamiliar with the path, she soon realized the person she was chasing had her at a disadvantage. Two minutes later, she'd lost him and was forced to give up.
With cold air burning her lungs, she turned and headed back to where she could see the light cast by her mother's flashlight.
"Look," Blythe said.
On the ground lay a bouquet of red roses.
Also illuminated in the pool of light was part of a footprint that appeared to be from a fairly large boot. Mary crouched beside it. "It looks like a man's nine or ten. Here—" She passed the flashlight to her mother. "Hold this." While her mother held the light, Mary pulled a camera from her pocket and took a quick series of photographs. Finished, she stowed the camera and picked up the bouquet of roses by a single stem.
"What are you doing with those?" Blythe sounded concerned.
"I might be able to lift prints from the cellophane."