Sara realized Smith was watching her stare at his buddy, and she forced herself to smile at Allison. The little girl was slumped against the back of the counter with her skirt bunched up around her knees. Tears streamed down her face. Ruth Lippman had been Sara's tenth-grade English teacher. The woman was a perfect combination of tough and challenging, and Sara had loved her for it.
"He doesn't have much of an accent," Jeffrey said, and he was right. There was a definite Southern twang when Smith let his temper get out of control, but for the most part, he spoke in the flat, unaccented English of a military brat. Or, maybe Sara was just making that fit the mold. For all she knew, he could be a wanna-be, someone whose father had been career military, but whose own criminal record or psychological profile had washed him out of the military before he even made it to his first week of boot camp.
Jeffrey closed his eyes.
"Why don't you try to sleep?"
"I shouldn't," he said, but his eyelids fluttered and stilled.
Sara looked up at Smith, who had taken all this in with a watchful eye. She tried to keep her voice strong, but couldn't suppress the tremor in her voice. "He needs medical attention. Please let him leave."
Smith twisted his lips to the side as if he was actually considering her request. Beside him, the second shooter shifted. He said something under his breath and Smith walked over to the phone and picked it up mid-ring.
He said, "We'll trade the old lady for sandwiches and bottled water. None of it better be fucked with. We can test it." He listened to the response, his head to the side. "No, I don't think so." There was another pause, and Smith turned around, facing Allison. He held the phone in front of her face and Sara sensed he was smiling at her. She willed the girl not to trust him, but she saw Allison smile back just before Smith pinched her leg. Allison screamed, and Smith put the phone back to his ear.
He gave a steely laugh. "That's right, lady. We're gonna hold on to the kids." He turned back around, his eyes scanning the remaining hostages. "We want some beer, too."
His partner's head jerked around, and Sara got the impression that Smith had deviated from the script. So, she thought, maybe Smith wasn't completely in charge of this after all.
Smarting from the reprimand, Smith took his anger out on the person at the other end of the phone. "One hour, bitch. You take any longer than that, the body count's gonna get a lot higher."
Chapter Eleven
Monday
Sara drove to the funeral home, Jeffrey giving her directions from the passenger seat. Normally, she liked to have time alone before an autopsy to get a sense of the task in front of her, but there was no time for that luxury. She had called her mother before they left Nell's and told Cathy she would be back home in Grant that evening.
"Here," Jeffrey said, indicating a long U-shaped building on the side of the highway. Nothing else was around except a small flower shop across the road. Eighteen-wheelers stirred the hot air as Sara got out of the car. In the distance, there was a grumble of thunder, which perfectly reflected her mood.
She winced as she stepped onto the asphalt, a loose rock digging through the thin sole of her sandals.
Jeffrey asked, "You okay?" and she nodded, walking toward the entrance.
Paul, the deputy who had taken her to Nell's last night, stood at the doorway smoking a cigarette. He stubbed it on the side of the trash can and left it in the sand on top.
"Ma'am," he said, opening the door for Sara.
"Thank you," Sara answered, noticing the suspicious look the deputy gave Jeffrey.
Jeffrey asked, "Where are they?"
When he answered, he looked at Sara instead of Jeffrey. "They're down that hall in the back."
The deputy walked between them as they headed toward the back of the building, and Sara could hear his keys jangling and the leather of his gun belt squeaking with every step. The funeral home was almost institutional, with painted cinder-block walls and fluorescent lighting giving a yellow cast to everything. Sara could smell embalming fluid and some sort of air freshener that might have been pleasant in a living room or office but here was almost sickening.
Paul indicated, "Through here," reaching ahead of her to open the door at the end of the hall. She chanced a look at Jeffrey, but he was staring past her into the room, his jaw set. Embalming equipment surrounded a concave metal table where the body had been placed. Covering the dead man was a clean white sheet, the edges blowing gently in the breeze generated by a loud window air-conditioning unit. The air was so cold it was stifling.
"Hey there," Hoss said, holding out his hand to Sara. She went to shake it, too late realizing he meant to put his hand on her elbow and guide her into the room. Sara knew that men of Hoss's generation generally did not shake hands with women unless it was in jest. Her grandfather Earnshaw, whom she dearly loved, was the same way.
Hoss introduced her to the men in the room. "This is Deacon White, the funeral director." A rotund, dour man with a receding hairline gave Sara a curt nod. "That's Reggie Ray." Hoss indicated the second deputy who had been at Robert's house last night. The young man still had a camera around his neck, and Sara wondered if he slept with it.
"Slick," Hoss said, addressing Jeffrey. "Don't think I mentioned this last night – Reggie's Marty Ray's boy."
"That so?" Jeffrey said, without much interest. Still, he offered the other man his hand. Reggie seemed reluctant to take it, and Sara wondered again why the deputies were so cagey around him.
Hoss said, "Got Robert's statement this morning," and Sara saw the surprised look on Jeffrey's face. "Neighbors pretty much backed up his story."
Sara waited for Jeffrey to ask what Robert had said, but he stared at the floor instead.
After a few moments of awkward silence, Deacon White indicated a door behind Sara. "We keep our protective clothing in the storage room. You're welcome to anything we have."
"Thank you," Sara told him, getting a solemn nod in return. She wondered if the man was annoyed she was taking over. Grant County's funeral director had been a childhood friend of Sara's and more than happy to relinquish the responsibility of town coroner, but Deacon White was a lot harder to read.
She walked over to the storage room, which was little more than a glorified closet. Still, she shut the door. The moment she did, the men started talking. She could hear Hoss's deep baritone mixing with Paul's. From what she could gather, they were discussing a recent basketball game at the high school.
Sara opened a surgical gown and slipped it on, feeling foolish as she spun like a dog chasing its tail trying to tie the back. The gown was huge on her, obviously meant for Deacon White's pronounced midsection. By the time she had slipped on a pair of paper shoes and a hair protector, Sara felt like a clown.
She put her hand on the door, but did not open it. Closing her eyes, she tried to block out all that had happened in the last twenty-four hours. Focusing on her belief that Robert's wound was self-inflicted might shadow her findings during the autopsy, and Sara wanted to make certain she only went with known facts. She was not a detective. Her task now was to give her professional opinion to the police and let them decide how to proceed. The only thing she could control was how well she performed her job.
The men grew quiet as she walked back into the room. She thought she saw a smile on Paul's face, but he looked back down at his notebook, writing something with a well-chewed nub of pencil. Deacon White stood by the body, and Jeffrey and Hoss both leaned against the wall with their arms crossed over their chests. Reggie was by the sink, his camera gleaming in the light. An air of expectancy filled the room, but despite this, Sara got the distinct impression that this was merely a case of going through the motions.