“She wasn’t summoned from the grave. She was impersonated, and then people lied about it to make me look like a fool and keep the police from searching for the person who did it.”
“Why would they do that?”
“People lie for different reasons. For money, sometimes. For power.”
“Ridley is in no position to grant anyone money or power.”
“There are other reasons. Fear, for one. You don’t think Ridley can wield fear? Sounds like that’s what he’s good at.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached out to one of the vises mounted on the workbench and ran a fingertip along the inside. It came back dry and clean, but she rubbed her fingers together and laughed.
“It still smells the same.”
“What’s that?”
“This room. Nobody has done any real work down here in years, but it still smells like sawdust, don’t you think?”
It did. There wasn’t a trace of sawdust in the room, but the smell was certainly there. She returned her focus to him. There was an intensity to it that, combined with her youth, made her painfully familiar. She looked like Lauren had when they were discussing a case for Innocence Incorporated. Danielle’s face was more angular, with higher cheekbones, and her hair was auburn instead of blond, but the body type was close, and the combination of intelligence and intensity was identical. She was an attorney too. A young attorney, full of confidence, ready to conquer.
He looked away from her and reached automatically into his pocket for the Saba dive permit, forgetting that it was no longer there. He removed his hand and gazed around the room at that mess of maps, slowly developing, like an old Polaroid, revealing more and more.
“Do these maps show where I was found?” he said.
“No. You were off the maps.”
“But not off Ridley’s.”
She shook her head. It was silent for a while, and then she broke the quiet by saying, “So people lie for different reasons. I’ll grant you that. But if this woman impersonated Diane Martin... that’s more than a lie. It would mean she’s a little more invested, don’t you think? It would mean that she has a stake in Ridley.”
“Agreed.”
“That’s why I have trouble believing you,” she said. “I can’t imagine who in the world would have a stake in Ridley Barnes.”
“Four people,” Mark said. “Three guys on the road, and then the woman who pretended to be Diane.”
Danielle frowned and shook her head. “Somehow the woman is harder for me to believe. The idea that he’d be able to recruit some locals with guns? I believe that. But a woman, any woman? Unless he paid her by the hour, I can’t see it.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I’ve given you more than you deserve, Mr. Novak. More than I should have, probably. But I’ll admit that you’ve made me curious. If you have other questions, I’ll consider answering them. Emphasis on consider. Because until you find a way to explain that story about Diane Martin, or prove anything else that you say, you feel just a little too much like Ridley himself for comfort.”
31
She held a towel filled with ice against the side of his face and ran her fingertips lightly over the swollen skin. “Ridley,” she said, “it was a mistake. It was too much.”
He took a few breaths through his mouth — it was still painful to breathe through his nose, thanks to Novak — and said, “He’s still here, at least.”
“And how’s that going for you?”
“We knew he wouldn’t take it well. We always knew that.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Easy thing to say. But if you imagine how he felt...”
“Trust me, I did. Before I saw him, and after. And during. Especially during.”
“He was going to leave.”
“Maybe not.”
“He would have. I’m sure of it. And you know I can’t allow that. He’s too special.”
She moved the ice away. “A mistake,” she repeated.
“That’s what he called it too.”
“Unanimous, then.” She replaced the ice, a little lower now. He closed his eyes against it and spoke with them squeezed shut.
“Now the sheriff is back around. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I have trouble with him all the same. I have struggles.” He opened his eyes. “He asked questions about how Novak ended up in the cave, and I almost had to tell him.”
“What would you have told him?”
“The truth.”
“And what is the truth?”
“The cave sent forces to the surface for him. It was bound to happen. He’s special. The cave knows that. The cave wasn’t going to let him leave here without a visit.” Ridley shook his head with frustration and confessed the thing he did not want to tell her: “I drew a knife on Novak.”
The ice lowered again. Her eyes on him now were horrified. Julianne’s eyes usually held only sympathy or suggestion. This reaction to him was jarring.
“You did what?” she said.
“Nothing happened. But it just...” He struggled for words. Looking her in the eyes, he often did. “It just found its way there.”
“A knife just found its way into your hand?”
He fell silent, sucking air in through his mouth, and closed his eyes.
“Talk me down,” he said. “Please.”
“It won’t be easy right now. With the adrenaline? It won’t be easy.”
“I can focus,” Ridley said.
“Maybe we should stay up here for a while. Here on the surface of the mind.”
“I don’t need that.”
“Some people might disagree. Some people might hear the story you told, hear about the knife in your hand, and think that you cannot carry control back to the surface with you.”
“I have control!” The statement sounded ludicrous when shouted. He took a breath, steadied himself, and repeated it again, lower and softer. “I have control.”
“It’s about trust, Ridley. You’ve always understood this.”
“I trust you.”
“I’m not the concern. Mr. Novak is your concern, isn’t he? This will have been a waste unless you put real trust in him, Ridley. You’ll need to turn over more than a case file.”
After a short silence, the ice returned to his face. He tried to concentrate on only that sensation, tried not to think of the things that he wanted to think of, the things that could raise odd smiles at the wrong times. Knives and blood; shadows and screams. No, no. Don’t think those thoughts. Just the ice. Just concentrate on the ice.
Her voice floated toward him then, softer and lower.
“Tell me your awareness of this space. Tell me what you feel.”
“The ice. Only that.”
“The ice, yes. You feel it on your skin, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And below the skin, on your nerves. Do you feel the ice on your nerves?”
“Yes.”
“Follow the cold then. Down from the skin, down into the nerves. Let it go. Let it travel. Then travel with it, but only when you can see your path.”
Silence. He kept his eyes shut, trying to visualize it, seeing his nerve endings like sea grass, loose and shifting. Saw the ice spread through them, slide down, find tunnels, and seep into them.
Then her voice again. Softer. “Let’s imagine the way down. Do you mind if I touch you?”
“No.”
Her hand moved to his and turned it over, and she began to tap rapidly and rhythmically on the inside of his wrist. Then she moved to his face, her fingers avoiding the swollen areas Novak had left. The sensation, jarring at first, quickly became pleasant. So much tension — and things worse than tension — seemed to evaporate at the touch. It was like turning on windshield wipers, the way ahead suddenly clear again, the clouded vision gone.