She was halfway to the 4Runner before she realized the garage light hadn't come on.
The realization held her up a step, a fraction of a second in which time all her senses sharpened and her heart gave an exaggerated thump. She hit the key for the remote lock, and the truck's interior lit up. Keep moving, she thought. If she kept moving, she wasn't allowing an opportunity for anyone to stop her. A ridiculous notion, but she grabbed on to it, yanked the door of the truck open, and hauled herself up into the driver's seat.
In a quick succession of moves, she locked the doors, started the engine, punched on the four-wheel drive, and put the truck in gear. It rocked back into the snow, pulling to the left. The exterior mirror missed disaster by a fraction of an inch. The back bumper kissed the neighbor's privacy fence, then she was rolling forward, the engine revving loudly. She pulled the wheel too hard as she hit the street and skidded sideways, just whispering past the front end of a black Lexus parked on the street.
Stupid to rush, she thought, fighting the sense of desperation, trying to lighten her foot on the accelerator. Whoever it was in that burning car would not be going anywhere, but still the urgency burned in her veins, in her gut. If there was any chance of discounting her fear—and thereby absolving herself of one stone of guilt—she wanted to grab it.
The street in front of the community center was clogged with emergency vehicles, red, white, and blue lights rolling like so many carnival rides. Mixed in among them were the omnipresent news vans, spilling reporters and cameramen and equipment. The house-to-house canvass had already begun, rousing neighbors from their beds. Overhead, a state patrol chopper cruised above the rooftops, spotlight washing down on lawns and shining in windows, flashing briefly over a pair of K-9 dogs and their officers.
If Smokey Joe had driven the car to the lot to set it ablaze, then it followed that he had left on foot. There was a good chance he lived in or near this neighborhood. Not five minutes from Kate's, though she didn't let herself think about that now.
She slid the 4Runner in behind the KMSP van, slammed it into park, and abandoned it sitting cock-eyed to the curb. Despite the hour, some of the neighbors had come out of their homes to get the scoop and to further clutter the periphery of the scene. One of them could have been the killer, come back to recharge his batteries watching the resulting chaos his act had touched off. There was no way of knowing, and Kate had set her priority elsewhere. She dodged through the gathering throng, bumping shoulders, pushing, shoving.
Her eyes were on the emergency personnel working inside a circle of uniformed cops some distance away from the burned-out car. The paramedics swarmed around the victim, snapping off rapid-fire medicalese.
One of the uniforms caught Kate by the arm as she tried to pass, and held her back.
“Sorry, ma'am. Authorized personnel only.”
“I'm with victim services. I've got ID.”
“This one ain't gonna need you. He's toast.”
“He?”
The cop shrugged. “It. Who can tell?”
Kate's stomach double-clutched. Oh, Jesus, Angie. “Where's Kovac?”
“He's busy, ma'am. If you'll just step over to the side—”
“Don't ‘little lady' me,” Kate snapped. “I've got cause to be here.”
“I can vouch for her, Officer,” Quinn said, holding up his ID. “Better let her go before you lose a hand.”
The cop scowled at the order and at the FBI ID, but relinquished his hold. Kate bolted for the paramedics. Four steps closer, then Quinn caught her from behind and pulled her up short, holding tight as she fought to twist away from him.
“Let me go!”
“Let's find out what Kovac knows. If this is Smokey Joe, then there should be an ID around here somewhere.”
“No. I have to see!”
“It's going to be bad, Kate.”
“I know that. I've seen it before. God, what haven't I seen?”
Nothing. She'd spent years poring over photographs of unspeakable horror. She knew every evil thing one human being could do to another. Still, there was nothing quite like the stark, raw reality of an actual crime scene. Photographs never captured the sounds, the electricity in the air, the smell of death.
The smell of burnt flesh was horrific, and it hit her in the face like a club, the sensation it caused something akin to pain. Her stomach, already rolling on anxiety and half a tank of gin, pitched its contents up the back of her throat, and she nearly turned and vomited. It felt as if her knees turned to water. She couldn't understand why she didn't fall, then realized Quinn had hold of her again, his arms wrapped around her from behind. She sank back against him and made a mental note to chide herself for it later.
Of the hundreds of victims she'd seen, none had potentially been someone she'd known.
Hideously charred and half melted, the body lay on one side, limbs bent and fused into a sitting position. The heat of the fire had to have been incredible. The hair was gone, the nose was gone; the lips were twisted and burned away, revealing the teeth in a macabre grimace. The sternum was exposed, white bone shining where the thin layer of flesh had been seared away. The uniform had been right: At a glance there was no determining gender, except that the scraps of fabric that clung to the back of the body might have once been women's clothing—a piece of pink sweater, a swatch of skirt.
A burly paramedic with soot on his face looked up and shook his head. “This one's for the bonepicker. She was long gone before we got here.”
Kate's head swam. She kept trying to think of what to do, how to know if it was Angie. The ideas seemed to bend and elongate and swoop through her brain.
Dental records were out of the question. They didn't know who the hell Angie DiMarco was or where she had come from. There were no parents who could give them dental records or medical records that might have pointed out old bone fractures to look for when the body was X-rayed. There were no personal effects to pick through.
Earrings. Angie wore earrings.
The ears of the corpse had been burned down to charred nubs.
Rings. She had half a dozen, at least.
The hands of the corpse were black and curled like monkey's paws. It looked as if there were fingers missing.
A shudder went through Kate that had nothing to do with the cold. Quinn drew her away a step at a time.
“I don't know,” she mumbled, still staring at the body. The toes were pointed like a gymnast's, a result of tendons constricting. “I don't know.”
She was shaking so badly, Quinn could feel it through her heavy wool coat. He pulled her out of the traffic flow and pushed her hair from her face, tipping her head back so that she had to look up. Her face was ashen beneath the sodium vapor lights of the parking lot. She stared up at him, her eyes glassy with shock and dread. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to pull her close and hold her tight.
“Are you all right, honey?” he asked gently. “Do you need to sit down?”
She shook her head, looking away from him to the ambulance crew, to the fire engines, to the glare of lights around the television people. “I—no—um—oh, God,” she stammered, her breath coming too hard and too fast. Her eyes found his again and her mouth trembled. “Oh, God, John, what if it's her?”
“If it's her, you didn't put her there, Kate,” he said firmly.
“Rotten kid,” she muttered, fighting tears. “This is why I don't do kids. Nothing but trouble.”
He watched her fight, knowing she wasn't half as tough as she pretended to be, knowing she had no one in her life to turn to and lean against. Knowing she probably wouldn't have chosen him for the job now. Knowing all those things, he whispered, “Hey, come here,” and drew her close.