them at bedtime, and caught up with e-mails while Beatrice licked herself at his feet. It was the first normal evening he’d had in a while and he promised himself to make more of them. He’d quickly come to see that Fiona was right about his intolerance of silence, though dared not test it. He kept himself busy with simple tasks until utterly fatigued and fell asleep in a bed he’d once shared with Gail. Beatrice snored before he did. He slept without any recollection of dreaming.
The following day, a Tuesday in July, Terry Hogue was announced from the front desk. He complimented Walt on the decorated 1867 rolling block Remington rifle hung in a glass box on the wall. They discussed firearms for ten minutes, Walt feeling no need to push the attorney.
Finally, Hogue withdrew a sealed plastic bag and pushed it across Walt’s desk. Inside was a pair of black lace underwear.
“They belong to Dionne Fancelli.”
“Not exactly what I’d expected,” Walt said.
Hogue slid a signed and notarized document to Walt. “His statement as to how this undergarment came into his possession and that it was passed directly to you.”
Walt read the letter carefully. “A love souvenir.”
“Their second, and last time,” Hogue said. “I questioned the boy repeatedly, Walt. They’ve had sexual intercourse twice. Other stuff along the way, sure. But only twice, the last time eight months ago. He’s willing to cooperate fully. It’s not him. I happen to believe him, in case you care.”
“I care.”
“I thought you might.”
“What I told you before—that was straight. I’m not after him.”
Hogue produced a second plastic bag. This one contained a cotton swab.
“So that completes our end of the deal,” Hogue said. “I guess I should wish you good luck. My client would welcome the dismissal of him as a person of interest.”
“Has she said anything to him about problems at home?”
“He knew there were problems,” Hogue said. “The two times they attempted sexual intercourse failed miserably. And it wasn’t him, it was her. She became so overwhelmed emotionally that he withdrew, despite protection.”
“And they didn’t try after that.”
“No. And they didn’t talk about it. He brought it up only once. She blew up at him. They didn’t speak for days. He doesn’t know enough to have spotted the warning signs. He just thought she was too young and that he was stupid for having tried.”
“He was right.”
“Indeed.”
“Okay,” Walt said, accepting a second letter pertaining to the swab.
“If we can help you get the bastard, Walt . . .”
“Thank you. My guess is, you already have.”
Walt had the two bags packaged and shipped to the Meridian lab, knowing it would be several weeks, if he was lucky, before getting the reports.
The prenatal sample from the mother would have to be done in the next few weeks—between the tenth and thirteenth week—and would be more problematic. Past the fourteenth week an amniocentesis was the only option, a procedure that would put the fetus at some degree of risk and one he therefore wouldn’t push for. He had to work quickly with the courts.
He attended a Rotary Club lunch, met with his two investigating deputies to review cases, and answered a dozen e-mails before heading home to Lisa and the girls.
He was in the Cherokee when he overheard a radio call from his dispatcher. A prowler had been reported at the Roger Hillabrand residence. Hillabrand, a defense contractor, continued to hold an interest in Fiona, and had for a time been a suspect in another of Walt’s cases. More important, he lived within a mile—as the crow flies—of the Engleton ranch; less than a mile from the wilderness campground Guillermo Menquez was keeping an eye on.
Deputy Chalmers responded to the dispatcher’s call, and a moment later, Walt announced that he would oversee the complaint. Chalmers would respond ASAP, bypassing the gate to keep it closed and climbing the two-mile driveway on foot, alert for the intruder. If she reached the house before Walt, she was to inform Hillabrand Walt was en route.
He called Lisa and let her know he was going to be late. Nikki took the phone.
“Why do our faces look backwards in the mirror?” she asked.
“It’s bedtime, sweetheart. I can try to explain it in the morning.”
“But how come?”
“It has to do with the way light reflects.”
“Like when the doctor hits your knee?”
“No, that’s ‘reflex.’ ”
“But that’s what you said.”
“Spelled different. Different word.”
“Sounds the same.”
“Yes, it does. Like hear and here—one’s listening, one’s a place.”