Waking the Dead Part 10

Then she'd go out and mingle with the locals. There was a time for asking questions, and a time simply to listen. There was often insight to be had by hearing the locals' perspective on a case.

"You're lucky." The woman behind the front desk of the McKenzie Motel wore a nametag with Nancy written on it and a tired smile. She handed Cait the key to her room. "Usually this time of year we're booked up, most every day of the week."

"So you've been getting some cancellations?"

The woman blew out an exasperated breath. "Are we! Seems like all I've done today is answer the phone. And that press conference yesterday didn't help. Now that everyone in the state heard about what's being going on around here, we're going to get even more cancellations. Most aren't that interested to come to a place where they're liable to trip over human bones."

A few of the campground hosts had said much the same. The sites were at half vacancy, rather than the nearly full occupancy that was the norm. Cait offered her a commiserating smile. "Well, once this is over the tourists will be back."

"Maybe. But we can't recoup the business lost, can we?" Nancy shook back her shoulder-length dark hair and leaned forward to whisper conspiratorially, "I can't even really blame them. I haven't been in the forest since I heard about what the sheriff's department brought out of that cave. It's scary, you know? I make my husband drive over and pick me up when I close the front office at ten, and we live in the rooms at the end of the motel lot. That's how creeped out I am."

Which maybe meant she wasn't going to be able to speak to as many residents as she'd hoped, Cait thought. When people were spooked, they tended to stay inside with the doors and windows locked. "So is the town going to be pretty well rolled up early tonight?"

"Might be fewer people around, but the businesses are still operating as usual. Do you only have the one bag? Need any help with it?" When Cait shook her head, Nancy seamlessly switched back to her earlier topic. "JD's seems to go strong, regardless. That's a combination bar slash Internet cafe slash restaurant. Nothing special on the menu, just bar food, but it's pretty good. Mullens and t.i.to's are two nicer restaurants here on Main Street. Just steer clear of Ketchers's tavern. It can get pretty rough after midnight."

"Thanks." Cait sent her a smile and picked up her bag. "I'll remember that."

The room was small and plain, but it boasted a full tub and plenty of hot water. She soaked for half the hour she'd promised herself before dragging herself out of the tub and hurriedly getting dressed. A meal could wait. There was still enough daylight to get a look at the town. Her stomach protested the plan as she slipped out the door and headed down the hall. The veggie sandwich she'd packed for lunch was a dim memory.

As she walked out of the motel, she pulled out her cell and called Kristy. The tech answered on the third ring.

"Where are you? Do I need to send a search party?"

"Not necessary." Cait got into the SUV, started it, and pulled out of the lot. "I'm spending the night in McKenzie Bridge. That way I can get an earlier start tomorrow."

There was a moment of silence. Then, "You're spending the night . . . alone?"

It took less than a minute to find Main Street. Cait pulled over to the curb and got out, locking the door and heading for the sidewalk. "Of course alone. Who else would I be spending it with?"

The main thoroughfare was lined with shops and restaurants. Although there wasn't much traffic on the street, there were people still moving about, making her wonder what exactly was opened at this time of the evening.

"Well, you did say you'd be with that guide all day. Sharper. I thought maybe you decided to scratch an itch while you were up there."

Cait held the phone out in front of her and contemplated it for a moment. It frequently astounded her how brilliant her tech's mind could be in the lab filled as it was with constant thoughts of s.e.x. Resuming the conversation, she replied dryly, "The only itch I'm likely to encounter will be related to poison ivy. So far I've successfully avoided that." She stepped aside so the young couple walking toward her strolling a toddler could get by on the sidewalk.

"Oh." There was a pout in the woman's voice. "So what's the town like?"

Cait looked around before answering. "Picturesque." Surrounded as it was by hills blanketed by forests, it was scenic. The bridge she'd driven over to get to the motel was quaint, its sign proclaiming that the site had been served by a covered bridge since 1890. It looked like a place only minimally touched by outside influence.

It didn't look like a town that housed a serial killer.

She was reminded of Sharper's words.

Dumping the bones in that cave makes me think this guy is local. Or else he used to be.

It was odd to hear him verbalize the same thought she'd voiced to the sheriff. Of course she'd been going on the UNSUB's familiarity with the area. Sharper had added a different twist; why the offender had bothered with the cave in the first place. It had been an intriguing idea and one that bore further contemplation, especially as she began developing her profile.

". . . and so then I thought, what the heck and I just threw all the bones in for an overnight chlorine bleach soak."

Her focus snapped back to her cell phone conversation. "What?"

"Thought that would get your attention. You called me, remember?" Kristy complained. "The least you could do is listen."

"I'm listening now." Cait walked briskly down the wide sidewalk, looking into store windows. Of course her tech knew better than to bleach the bones. But she'd found a jarringly effective way of jolting Cait's attention back to her.

"I got four of the specimens cleaned today. First I went over them all one more time with the UV lamp to be sure we didn't miss anymore artwork from our creepazoid. I can get the rest of them done tomorrow."

"You'll be happy to know I'll be bringing you more soil samples when I return."

"Whatever."

Cait's brows rose at the woman's careless remark. "You've changed your tune." She strode swiftly by the Hair Emporium, a place called The Sweet Shoppe, and an antique store. Of the three, only the hair salon was still open.

"I want to stay busy," Kristy corrected her. "And tomorrow when I finish cleaning the bones I'm going to be at loose ends."

"Don't forget to update the photo log. And I'll try to find a way to get the samples to you tomorrow. You haven't heard any more about the lab tests on the garbage bags, have you?"

"Are you kidding? Barnes doesn't talk to me."

She thought-she was almost certain-that she heard the murmur of a man's voice in the background. Kristy was probably with the ME again. Cait hoped the man realized that he was going to be dropped without a backward glance when this case was over. Kristy was cheerfully promiscuous. She had no interest in forming lasting relations.h.i.+ps.

Not that Cait had a better history in that particular area.

"Give me a call if anything crops up. Otherwise I'll talk to you tomorrow." Disconnecting, she dropped the cell phone in her purse and continued down the sidewalk. There were several cars around an ice cream shop she pa.s.sed by, along with diners sitting at scattered tables on the walk outside the store. The requisite storefronts housing local accountants and lawyers. There were more gift shops than she would have believed one small town could sustain, their windows filled with crafts from local artisans, according to the signs. Gla.s.sware, pottery, artwork, candles, baskets . . . apparently the area housed many people of talent. Which Cait found more than a little amazing, since the craftiest thing she could do was braid her own hair.

Her interest turned to speculation. If the perp was a local, maybe some of his artwork could be found in one of the craft stores, either here or in a surrounding area. It may be a possibility to follow up on later.

She crossed the street ahead of two young boys barreling toward her on bikes. Their shouts of excitement brought a smile to her face. She'd had a bike once. It had been bright pink with streamers on the handlebars and training wheels on the back. A distant memory flickered, of her father holding on to the back of it as she wobbled her way down the drive-way and then back up again.

But once she'd outgrown that one, there had never been another. That was only one of the many changes that had occurred after her father's death. Her mother had been too concerned about possible falls and resulting breaks . . . or worse, sc.r.a.pes and scars that would limit her chances of attracting a top modeling agent.

Shrugging off the edge of melancholy that accompanied the thought, she stopped dead in front of a storefront that advertised a very different sort of business. A gla.s.sy-eyed fox peered out at her, one paw lifted, as if in midmovement. A ferocious-looking black bear stood in the back, teeth bared. There was also a mink, a bobcat, and the full skeleton of what might be an otter.

Adrenaline hummed in her veins. Cait stepped back a few steps, far enough to read the faded splintered sign above the shop. AL'S TAXIDERMY.

She studied the door. If Al kept regular hours, they weren't posted. Still, she could ask around and figure the best way to talk to him. As she'd told the sheriff and deputy, many taxidermists regularly used dermestids to clean their animal skeletons. It would be interesting to discover if Al kept a colony of the bugs.

The storefronts cast long shadows on the streets. Night was edging in. And while there were still occasional cars cruising by, most of the activity seemed to surround the restaurants Nancy had mentioned. Cait headed back toward her vehicle. It'd be full dark when she finished eating. And she was suddenly reminded that she was ravenous.

When she got to King Road, she looked up the street toward the covered bridge, slowing when she saw the man standing before it. He appeared to be holding a sketchpad, his head bent over his work. Without further thought, she veered from her course and headed toward him.

He didn't look up as she approached, and Cait stopped a few yards behind him to observe his progress. It was a better-than-decent rendering of the bridge, but rather than capturing the quaint, turn-of-the-century look, the sketch made it look eerie, somehow. A place of secrets and shadows with a vaguely sinister air.

"So what do you think?" The man never s.h.i.+fted his gaze from the scene and the pad before him, but Cait was the only one in the vicinity. Obviously she wasn't as practiced as Sharper at moving silently.

"I don't know anything about art."

"That, my dear, is a cop out. I asked for your opinion, not what you know. They come from two different places." His hand moved expertly over the page as he added more shading. "One from the gut and the other from the head. Listen to your gut."

"It's . . ." She searched for a description that wouldn't offend him. "Sort of creepy."

He looked up then and sent her a quick satisfied smile over his shoulder. "Exactly. Not the kind of scene to grace the front of postcards. But evocative in an altogether different way, hopefully." He lowered his pencil and turned toward her. "I'm Jeffrey Russo, by the way. And you are the young lady hired by the sheriff's department to help investigate those bones pulled out of Castle Rock. Caitlin Fleming."

The statement caught her off guard. "A psychic as well as an artist. A man of many talents."

He gave her a self-deprecating smile, a twinkle in his hazel eyes. "I wish I could claim to be either one. What I am is a professor of art history, recently retired from the University of Oregon in Eugene. And a conduit for local gossip. Your name and description have been bandied about by some around here in the know."

Cait studied him. If he was retired, he must have done so at a fairly early age because he looked shy of sixty. His hair was gray, as was the short neat mustache whose fullness Deputy Barnes would envy. She wondered if the long ponytail he wore had been grown since his retirement. He was dressed a shade more formally than other locals she'd come into contact with, in crisp khaki pants and a b.u.t.ton-down s.h.i.+rt and sandals. She had no trouble picturing him in a tweed jacket with leather at the elbows, lecturing in front of a cla.s.s of two hundred.

Although she'd very much like to follow up on the source of the information about her, she figured she'd discover that on her own. She had more pressing questions for the professor.

Nodding toward his sketchpad, she said, "If you live around here, I'm sure you have plenty of sketches of the bridge. It seems to be a focal point in the area."

Flipping his sketchbook shut, he inclined his head. "You're right, of course. The trick is to look at a familiar scene in a whole new light. Isn't that what an investigator does when he or she looks at evidence?"

"We try to." It was a bit disconcerting to be greeted with such familiarity by a stranger. "Do you live here in town?"

"Blue River." He crouched to stow his sketching pencil in a leather bag at his feet. "A recent transplant, actually. I promised Candi-my fiancee-a retirement retreat once I stopped teaching. We found a place on the McKenzie that suited us and bought it the day after I handed in my resignation. We're still getting acquainted with the area. She has the idea that she'd like to open a little shop, with unique pieces from local artisans, but that's in the consideration stage at this point." He rose, slung the strap of the bag over his shoulder. "I can't see the point of retiring only to immediately jump into something else that's going to tie us down."

"Well, McKenzie Bridge certainly seems to have several similar stores, so if sheer number means anything, it may well succeed." She nodded to his sketchpad. "Would I find any of your work in the local shops?"

He gave a wide smile that managed to be amused and charming at the same time. "Doubtful. But there is a gallery in Portland that does quite a nice little business for me selling my works. As a matter of fact, I have a showing midfall." He c.o.c.ked his head, studying her dispa.s.sionately. "I don't suppose I could convince you to pose for me."

G.o.d, no. She managed, barely, to keep the instinctive response from her lips. "Sorry."

There was a glimmer of regret in his eyes. "That's a pity. Here." He dug in the bag for a few moments until he withdrew a business card and handed it to her. "In case you change your mind."

Although she had no intention on doing so, she took it and slipped it into her jeans pocket. "Are you familiar with any of the artists in the area?"

"A few." He raised a casual hand as a red BMW convertible slowed to a stop near them. "Many of them also display their work at country fairs in the area. We have some quite good amateurs around. A few even better than that, waiting to be discovered. If you're interested in purchasing some artwork, I'd be glad to advise you."

The blonde woman getting out of the car was a good fifteen years Russo's junior. Pretty in a polished sort of way that Cait used to be all too familiar with.

"Darling, I hope I didn't leave you too long." Although her words were directed at her fiance, her gaze was on Cait as she rounded the hood of the car toward them. "Natasha called and had to tell me all about the summer reading program Maya enrolled her in."

Russo's expression lightened. "Candi, this is Caitlin Fleming." To Cait he explained, "Natasha is my oldest granddaugh ter. I have three, ages six, four, and two. As a matter of fact, we just finished spending several days with them while their parents were on a business trip. We're still recuperating."

"I can imagine." But truthfully she couldn't. She'd never spent much time around kids. Hadn't been one herself since she'd been eight.

A more pressing thought occurred to her. "How difficult is it to look at a piece of art and identify the artist? Or at least match an artist to another piece of work he or she has created?"

Russo scratched his jaw. "Well, there are experts in the art world whose only job is to authenticate artwork, of course. But it's quite an involved process, from what I gather. There are excellent forgeries floating around. It's always an embarra.s.sment when a well-known auction house gets caught selling one, although that's increasingly rare these days."

Her mind was racing. "But it's possible to find a painting and link the artist to another piece of work he did, isn't it?"

"Oh, of course. There's a body of experts who do nothing else."

"Darling, I so hate to interrupt you . . ." Candi gave Cait a regretful smile. "But we are expected at the Meechums for drinks shortly."

The professor looked at his watch and said with a note of surprise in his voice, "So we are." He looked at Cait and his smile lit up his eyes. "It was a pleasure, Ms. Fleming. Perhaps we'll run into each other again."

Accepting the hand he held out, Cait shook it. "I hope we do."

He walked to the car then paused, hand on the door handle, to ask, "Can we drop you anywhere?"

She shook her head. "My vehicle is parked down the street, thanks."

Absently she returned his wave as the car pulled away, but her mind was racing furiously. Raiker would have access to forensic art experts, if she happened upon another piece of work done by the UNSUB. Of course, first she'd have to recognize similarities in the work if she discovered it.

It seemed a long shot. But no more so than some of the other leads she was following in this case.

Walking briskly in the direction of her SUV, Cait pulled out her cell and placed a call to Barnes. When she got his voice mail, she left him a message to call her back. It would be nice to find out that his day had been more productive than hers had been.

In the end she chose JD's over either of the other two restaurants because of the throng of cars parked around it. Cait pushed open the front door of the low brick building, looking around curiously.

She was in a small lobby of sorts, with an empty hostess desk. The Internet cafe was on her right and a bar was on the left. The decorator had relied on a plent.i.tude of polished pine planks, both for the floors and the walls. But the place was well lit, and the noise level wasn't deafening. After a cursory glance at the half-dozen people on the computer stations, she turned into the bar area.

The clack of b.a.l.l.s sounded from an unseen pool table in the back corner. A large horseshoe-shaped bar dominated the room. Small tables were scattered in the rest of the available s.p.a.ce, with about half of the seats filled. A harried-looking brunette was moving from table to table at a good clip, practiced smile firmly in place as she took orders, cleared away dishes, and mopped tabletops.

Bypa.s.sing the tables, Cait headed up to the bar, which was manned by a slight man with blond hair.

"Evening." He left the group of men cl.u.s.tered at the other end of the bar and headed toward her, swiping at the bar top as he went. "What can I get for you?"

"A Coors Light bottle and a menu." She pulled out a stool and sat, ignoring the group of men at the end of the bar who had stopped their conversation and swiveled in her direction.

"Easy enough." His pale blue gaze was friendly and flirtatious as he handed her a menu from beneath the bar and grabbed a bottle, expertly uns.c.r.e.w.i.n.g it and sliding it across to her. "Kitchen's open until ten, so you have plenty of time to order."

He moved away and she flipped open the plastic menu. A loud burst of masculine laughter sounded from the area where some men were playing pool. She flicked them an absent glance over the top of her menu.

And then froze, when she caught sight of an all too familiar figure bent over the table, lining up his shot.

Chapter 9.

s.h.i.+t. Cait's eyelids slid closed in disgust. True, Sharper hadn't irritated her as much as usual today, but somehow she didn't think it paid to push the issue. With a sense of resignation, she opened her eyes and surveyed him, a bit bemused to find him here. Somehow she hadn't pegged him as a social creature.

He stood out in the cl.u.s.ter of men around the table. Although all were dressed in jeans and T-s.h.i.+rts, a newcomer's eyes would immediately be drawn to him. It was that hardened edge that gilded his appearance, she decided. The one honed to razor sharpness by experiences others couldn't contemplate.

When her gaze would have lingered, she firmly looked away. Unlike her diminutive lab tech, she was discriminating when it came to men, although that trait had been acquired the hard way. She didn't date these days unless she met a man who didn't see her as a mirror, someone who only reflected his taste, his position, his social standing. And although Sharper didn't strike her as that sort of man, neither was he the safe, civilized sort she occasionally went out with.

There was something more than a little untamed about him, much like the wilderness he seemed so at home in. Something unpredictable and not quite civilized. He was the kind of man that raised every ounce of self-preservation instincts a woman had, even while he ignited interest of a different sort.