Читать книгу Behind Closed Doors - Tara Quinn Taylor - Страница 11

“W e found a size eleven shoe print in the dust at the back of your yard.”

The detective had taken a seat on her favorite couch. Laura faced him, sitting in the relatively isolated armchair across from it.

“What kind of shoe?” Harry’s question bothered her, although she appreciated his physical nearness. He’d settled on the arm of her chair, his arm lying on the back, just above her head.

Why did he have to care what kind of shoe one of those jerks wore? Laura wanted as little information as possible about the men who’d broken into their home—into their lives. The less she had, the less she’d have to picture…

“There wasn’t enough of an imprint to be sure, but the tread was thick. Probably a work shoe or boot.” His eyes narrowed, Detective Boyd looked at Harry. “You’re sure you didn’t see what they had on their feet?”

Laura was getting used to the way her mind blocked out incoming stimuli at will. Harry would’ve seen their feet. Because they’d have been attached to the legs that were on their bed in front of him…

“I didn’t.” Harry’s frustration was evident in his reply. “They were black, I’m positive of that. Soles and all. But whether they were shoes or boots, I couldn’t tell you.”

“What about the toes? Were they rounded? Did they seem steel-encased?”

“I don’t remember seeing them.”

They would’ve been upside down, making the toes nearly impossible to see. Laura chose to let the two of them figure that out on their own.

The detective’s gaze was kind as he directed his next questions to her. “Did you feel any footwear?”

“No.”

“You don’t remember any sensation of rubber or hard leather against your skin, maybe brushing against your ankle?”

“No.”

A lot of questions about shoes. Until this moment, she hadn’t given them a thought. Shoes didn’t seem to have much to do with the crime that had been committed here.

“Did they learn anything from the samples they took at the hospital?” That was what she wanted to know. Did they have the guys’ identities yet? Not what shoes they were wearing.

“Nothing conclusive. The fibers we got from under Harry’s nails were standard denim—used by most clothing manufacturers in the United States and beyond. There was no semen on the bedding. We did pull off several hair follicles and will check every one of them.”

“Probably mine and Harry’s,” she said, closing her mind to the thought of the attackers’ hairs mingling with hers and Harry’s in their bed.

There was much to run from here. And yet, since speaking with Kaleb and Alicia, she felt more there. More like herself. Or at least like someone she recognized. They’d treated her as they always did—like a beloved daughter—assuring her that they were a family and would get through this together. Would go on together. And laugh together again.

As impossible as that was to grasp, she believed them. Harry’s parents had a way of finding the best smelling roses in the middle of a thorn patch.

“The most conclusive piece of evidence we have so far is point of entry,” Detective Boyd was saying.

“They didn’t use the sliding glass door?” Harry asked, sounding confused.

Boyd nodded. “But they used a tool that, while common in the window-installation world, isn’t something most guys carry around in their trunks. From the marks on the window, it appears that two four and three-quarter inch double suction cups were used to pull the glass up and the door off the tracks.”

Made sense. What goes up must come down. What goes in also comes out. The door that’s installed can be uninstalled.

They were going to have to call a construction company on Monday morning and have the thing replaced. With a heavy wood door that had triple dead bolts. Their wrought iron idea wasn’t good enough.

Harry had already taken care of the windows, but maybe they could get an extra set of locks on each one. Just in case.

Because even if they managed to catch these guys, they weren’t the only rapists in the world. There were more of them out there. In Tucson and anyplace else she might decide to move. Rapists were a part of life.

There was no escaping them.

Tony Littleton had been home for twenty-four hours before Bobby Donahue had a chance to spend any private time with him. They’d attended a political rally for senatorial candidate George Moss the night before—Tony’s college class assignment—and then Tony had spent the morning with Luke so Bobby could work uninterrupted. The toddler was finally down for his Saturday-afternoon nap and everyone who’d had business with Bobby was gone as well. Bobby and Tony had dinner plans—a small group of like-minded people getting together—but for now it was just the two of them in the living room of the modest house Bobby owned outside Flagstaff.

Bobby could hardly wait to hear about Tony’s week.

“So…tell me what’s going on.” he said, hands dangling between his knees as he sat on the edge of the couch, facing Tony.

Tony’s blush gave him away.

“So it worked?” Bobby asked with a grin. “The advice I gave you?”

Tony met his eyes briefly, then looked down, but his smile was unmistakable. Bobby had never been as innocent as this young man, but he could still recognize the signs.

“I called you Thursday night,” Bobby said, helping his young friend.

Tony’s blush deepened.

“You were with her, weren’t you?”

Tony nodded. Suddenly, he started rambling in a way Bobby would never have done—but found endearing, just the same.

“You have to see this girl, Bobby,” he said. “When I look at her all I can think about is kissing her. Touching her. Her skin’s so white—like she’s never been out in the sun. And her smile…”

“You were good to her?” The statement was also a question. Sometimes good men, especially young ones in the throes of about-to-be consummated sexual desire, forgot themselves.

“Of course!” Tony said, meeting his eyes. “She wanted it worse than I did. She really liked it. She made these noises and squirmed so much I could hardly hold out long enough to pleasure her. It’s like you told me, come together or not at all, and I was determined to do that, but man, it was hard. The night was incredible. It’s all I’ve been able to think about…”

Bobby considered deferring his next comment—hated to put any kind of a damper on the young man’s joy—but he wasn’t willing to take the risk. “That has to stop.”

“What?” Tony’s brow furrowed.

“Obsessing over anything other than our service to God and our cause. Practice the mind exercises I taught you last summer. Put your thoughts on things outside yourself. A man who obsesses over sex goes down a dark and dangerous path.”

“There was nothing dark or dangerous about this, Bobby, I swear. She’s so sweet and giving and eager. We made each other…happy, you know? Like it felt totally right.”

“And that’s as it should be,” Bobby said, grinning again. “God gave you the ability to experience those pleasures. But you must never let any earthly pleasures consume you. Too much consumption leads to ruin. Whether it be sex, alcohol, drugs—whatever—you become no more than an addict. You give up control of your mind that way.”

Opening his mouth, Tony seemed about to argue and then, as Bobby watched, understanding dawned on the young man’s face. He saw the light of peace once again enter Tony’s eyes. “I’d lose sight of what matters most,” he said slowly, meeting Bobby’s gaze with the open intelligence that had first drawn Bobby to him.

“Right.”

“Obsession with her might lead me to make wrong choices.”

“Correct.”

Tony was silent for a while. Sitting back, Bobby was content to let the young man’s mind wander. Tony’s meanderings often led to thought-provoking conversations that energized Bobby.

“Did you ever feel that way about Amanda?”

Bobby’s eagerness diminished, especially in light of the call he’d had from Tucson earlier that day, which had given him hope, then dashed it almost immediately. But because this was Tony and Bobby understood that their friendship was rare and true, he answered.

“Briefly. When I first met her, I couldn’t get her out of my head.” He chose his words carefully. “But unlike you, I’d been with other women before. And I was older.”

Frowning, Tony asked, “And then you just told yourself to stop feeling like that and it ended?”

Bobby held back a laugh. Tony had been a picked-on geek in high school and was particularly sensitive to being a target for humor—even well-meant shared humor.

“Of course not,” Bobby admitted. “But I knew I had to control my emotions or they’d control me. Whenever I’d get them at inappropriate times, I’d immediately start thinking about something else. At first I had a topic I went to whenever it happened.”

“The cause.”

“Yes.

“And later, I could simply think about anything outside myself and the obsession with Amanda would stop. Don’t misunderstand,” Bobby added, “the feelings never lessened. I adore her as much today as I ever did. I just learned to control the amount I thought about her.”

Tony shook his head. “I’m not nearly at that level.”

“Then count colors.”

“What does that mean?”

“Wherever you are, pick a color and start counting how many times, on how many different things, you see it in your everyday surroundings. That’ll take your mind off whatever you’re obsessing about and give it back to you.”

Tony’s expression lightened. “I can do that.”

“Of course you can.” Bobby almost stopped right there. But this was Tony, and his goal was to be completely honest with the man he trusted like no other.

“One other thing,” he said slowly. “When you’re with her and the time is right and proper for that kind of communication, choose to give yourself up to the feelings. Only in those sacred moments can you allow them to control you. You’ll find that as long as you give them rein sometimes, it’s much easier to turn your back on sexual urges at other times.”

“You’ve really got a gift, you know?” Tony said after several seconds had passed.

Bobby nodded.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Bobby said, meaning it. “To you my door is always open, my phone is never off.”

Tony’s heartfelt nod met an answering emotion in Bobby. Having someone in his life he could say that to almost made up for the pain of having lost Amanda.

Tony glanced over at him, his head half bowed. “That woman we were talking to last night, the one asking about Moss’s campaign, kept looking at you.”

Bobby didn’t even feign interest. “Forget it, Tony.”

“Why? You—”

“I said forget it,” Bobby interrupted, something he rarely did to Tony. “I’ve made the decision to remain celibate for the rest of my life. It’s my tribute to Amanda.”

Tony paled. “The rest of your life?”

“Yes.”

“You really think you can do it?”

“I know I can.”

“You loved her that much.”

“Yes.”

Shaking his head, Tony said, “I’ve never known anyone as strong as you are.”

“Yes, you have.” Bobby’s reply was immediate and filled with conviction. “You’re sitting inside his skin right now.”

“I know this is going to sound pie-in-the-sky, but I honestly do not believe you need to have any immediate fears.” Detective Boyd’s voice had lowered, thickened with emotion as he took Laura’s hand at the door.

He was so convincing, so sincere, she almost believed him. Except that she couldn’t seem to get past the solid black wall in her mind.

Harry’s hand on her back was nice, comforting, but it couldn’t scale the blockade, either.

“I’ve been working these cases for five years and I was on the streets for fifteen years before that. In my experience, victims who don’t know their attackers are rarely, if ever, attacked a second time. I follow the statistics, and while the percentages aren’t entirely accurate because of the number of non-reported cases, I can tell you that the danger of repeat rapes on the same victim generally occurs only in instances of spousal abuse, acquaintance rape and date rape.”

Laura nodded, wishing he’d just keep on talking, filling her mind with his experience and reassurance.

Talking was good. She didn’t have to think if she could concentrate on his words—

“What a minute.” Stricken, she stared up at the detective, squeezing his fingers. “I just remembered something.”

Boyd’s gaze changed from compassionate to focused as he bent toward her. “What’s that?”

“When the…second one…you know…” She knew the word orgasm, but she couldn’t make herself say it. Not in the context of rape. Her rape. “Just now, when you were talking about how they probably won’t come back, I had a flash of them here and it was like Harry said. There…at the…end, he did whisper. Why wouldn’t I remember that and then suddenly have it come to me?”

“It happens that way,” Boyd said. His touch on her fingers felt like her hold on reality. Harry’s hand rubbing her back kept her upright. “Memories filter down slowly, when you’re ready for them.”

She frowned, closing her eyes as she struggled to forget and remember accurately at the same time.

“What did he say?” Boyd’s intensity wasn’t lost on her.

“White stays with white, just like Harry said. And maybe another word, too. I didn’t get it. Baby?” Harry’s hand froze on her back. Laura opened her eyes as her voice broke, hating her weakness. “I’m sorry I can’t remember exactly.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Detective Boyd said. “It’ll probably come to you later.”

His understanding felt a lot like approval. It helped so much.

She held on to his hand, not wanting him to go. And at the same time wishing he’d disappear and she’d forget she’d ever met him. Or his partner, Robert Miller. They represented safety. And they represented the fact that she’d been violated, damaged, irrevocably changed.

Harry walked Boyd out to his unmarked sedan, keeping Laura in sight as he did.

“Is there anything else you know about this case but didn’t want to say in front of Laura?” Harry asked.

There had to be. And Harry had to find out what it was. He couldn’t wait around for people to do their jobs. The attackers were on the loose twenty-four hours a day, meaning Laura was in danger twenty-four hours a day.

“I’ve told you everything I can at this point,” Boyd said.

“What about the fact that this is a hate crime?” Harry reined in his frustration with difficulty. This problem wasn’t Boyd’s fault. “Doesn’t that narrow down the suspects? Or at least give you a place to start looking for them?”

“We haven’t determined that it is a hate crime,” Boyd said, unlocking his car but not getting in. “Miller thought it was at first, too, but the more we talked, the more we aren’t sure. Haters usually leave some kind of calling card. They’re proud of their work and want to take credit for it.”

“The man whispered ‘white stays with white,’” Harry said, despising the emotion suffusing his words, raising his tone in spite of his effort to remain calm and controlled. “What else do you need?”

“You aren’t sure that’s what you heard,” Boyd said. “And Laura’s not sure she heard anything.”

“She just said she heard the same thing I did.”

Daniel Boyd stared him in the eye and Harry had a feeling the detective was trying to tell him something—communicating man to man. A personal message, one he’d be out of line actually putting into words.

“She heard you say the word ‘white’ in connection with that second incident.” Boyd’s tone was soft. “Right now your wife’s so busy trying to forget what happened, she’s probably confused about what she really remembers.”

“Just do me a favor and look into it, will you?” Harry asked, feeling more like a schoolkid than the college professor he was as he stood there sweating in the hot night air with his hands in his pockets.

“I already have.”