Stride couldn't even see the woman who asked the question, just her arm in the air. He hesitated, framing his words in his mind. "Yes, I am encouraged. We now have a link, a location, that may finally bring some answers. I also want to make an appeal to anyone who is watching: If you were anywhere near this area on the night of Rachel's disappearance, and you saw or heard anything, please call us. We know Rachel was here. We want to know how she got here. We want to know what happened."
He pointed at another raised hand.
"How long are you going to be out here?" a woman from the St. Paul newspaper asked.
"It could be all night," Stride said.
It was.
As the police finished each grid, the evidence bags came back to the van, and Stride and Maggie examined each one before filing them away in a series of banker's boxes. Stride didn't see anything that suggested a connection to Rachel, although he could have been looking right at it and never known. The lab would eventually tell them more.
Stride checked his watch, which told him it was nearly four in the morning. A pizza box lay on the floor of the van, empty except for two square crust pieces that remained uneaten. Stride didn't know how Guppo had missed them. Maggie sat opposite Stride, her head nodding as her eyes blinked shut. She propped her elbows on her knees and cupped her face in her hands.
Stride, frozen and tired, allowed his thoughts to drift to Andrea. She had understood when he called to cancel their date, although he was pleased to hear disappointment in her voice. He was disappointed, too. He wasn't sure if it was the sex or just the opportunity to be close to a woman's body again, but he was anxious to see her. Andrea was very attractive. It wasn't like it was with Cindy, of course, but nothing would be. Andrea was different, and he couldn't expect her to live up to a ghost.
Stride jumped as the speaker in the van crackled. He wondered if he had fallen asleep for a few seconds. "It's starting to snow," one of the officers outside reported.
"Well, that's just fucking great," Stride said.
He pushed himself to his feet in the cramped van. His muscles ached, and he felt a twinge in his back. Normally he did a series of stretching exercises each night to keep his back limber, but for several nights he had skipped it. Now he was paying the price. His arm hurt, too, where he had taken that bullet several years back. It was always worse in the cold.
He peered through the van's frosty rear window. In the glow of the lights they had erected for the search, he could see huge flakes floating peacefully to earth. Each one looked small and harmless, and together, he knew, they would soon bury his crime scene.
"How bad?" Maggie asked quietly.
"Bad enough," Stride said.
Stride stared at the shadows of the forest. He tried to imagine the scene again as it must have been that night. Rachel in the passenger seat. Someone pulling a car in behind the barn. Just the luck of the draw that no one else was there. How did the bracelet get outside? They wouldn't have had sex outside, not when it was a cold night. Maybe they simply went outside to stare at the woods, like he was doing. And then the boy tried to pull her back to the car, and the bracelet slipped off, and they struggled, and then-what?
Or maybe things started to get rough in the car, and she tried to run. He followed her. The bracelet came off in the struggle. He hit her. Strangled her. Then what would he do with the body? Take it deeper into the woods? Take the car and go somewhere else to hide her?
Stride heard the speaker come to life again.
"Any of you guys remember what Rachel was wearing that night?" one of the officers radioed from outside.
Stride and Maggie looked at each other. Maggie recited from memory. "Black jeans, white turtleneck."
The speaker was silent. Then, a few seconds later: "You said a white turtleneck?"
Stride spoke up. "That's what we said."
Another pause, longer this time. "Okay, guys. We may have something."
The triangular piece of fabric was small and jagged, about six inches in length, with frayed edges. Despite the dirt caked over it, the fragment was obviously white. Along one side, where the cloth had torn from the rest of the garment, was a reddish-brown stain soaked into the fibers.
14
Emily believed she was going insane. Not since she had attacked Rachel on that one terrible night had she felt so out of control. She was drifting at sea, alone, without hope of rescue.
She paced frantically back and forth, wearing a path in the carpet. She grasped her forehead in her hand, fingers outstretched, squeezing it like a vise. Her dirty hair spilled over her face. Her eyes were wide, her breath loud. She was hyperventilating. The pain in her head throbbed, like a tumor growing inside her.
"I'd like to show you this bracelet," the detective had said. She took one look and screamed.
Emily never really believed the day would come. She knew what the other mother, Barbara McGrath, had told her during the broadcast. How she was afraid of that one day when the police would be at her door, somber expressions on their faces. But Emily didn't believe it. She believed Rachel was alive. One day, the phone would ring, and the familiar, mocking laughter would be on the other end.
She believed it right up until the second she saw the bracelet. Now she knew. Rachel was dead. Someone had killed her.
It was as if the police had pulled the ground from under Emily's feet. Hours later, she was still consumed by despair.
The quiet sounds of the porch thundered in her head. The furnace hummed, pumping warm air into the room. The wooden branches of the spirea plants outside made squeaking noises as they rubbed against the windows. The timbers in the house creaked, shifting under the weight of an unseen ghost.
And the worst sound of all, tap tap tap, was Graeme working on his laptop a few feet away, oblivious to her agony.
Tap, tap, tap.
She had never believed the two of them could sink so far. What was worse, she knew she had brought it all on herself.
"I'm pregnant," Emily said.
She tensed, waiting for his response. She was seated on the sofa in her tiny living room, her hands folded awkwardly in her lap. Graeme was in the upholstered chair opposite her. He held a drink in his hand. It was his second since dinner, and she had already plied him with champagne to go along with the prime rib she had roasted in the oven.
Now, with both of them relaxed, she had blurted it out.
"You said you were taking precautions," Graeme said.
Emily winced. This wasn't what she wanted to hear. Not love, not excitement. Just vague recriminations.
"I'm on the pill," Emily told him. "But nothing's fool-proof. It was an accident. It was God's will."
"I'm not sure we're ready," he said.
"I'm not sure anyone's ever ready," Emily replied.
"I mean, I'm not sure we should keep it."
Emily felt tears welling inside her. Her breath was heavy. She spoke in a quavering voice. "I won't kill my baby."
Graeme said nothing.
"I won't do it, Graeme," Emily repeated. "How can you ask me to? This is your baby, too."
Emily got off the sofa. She went around the coffee table and knelt in front of him, taking his hands in hers.
"Don't you want to give our baby a home together?" she asked him.
He seemed stricken for a few interminable seconds, his eyes focused over her shoulder. Then he nodded, just the barest movement of his head.
Emily felt a huge grin of relief and joy spread across her face. She threw her arms around Graeme's neck and hugged him tightly. She kissed him all over his face. "Let's get married now," she said. "Right away. This weekend."
Graeme smiled. "All right. We'll drive up the coast this weekend and find some little small-town church. We can bring Rachel, too."
A cloud passed briefly across her mind. She had almost forgotten her daughter in the excitement of the moment. Then it, too, passed. She felt strong and confident. This would be the right thing. For her. For Graeme. Even for Rachel. It might finally make them a family again. A family that would never have to worry about money.