Iris Johansen - Quicksand

"Only in your imagination." He moved toward the front door. "Eve and I are just plodding along doing the same old things."

"Plodding? No way." She followed him out on the porch. "You're streaking out of here to go after Kistle before Eve can get into gear. She's not going to like it, Joe. She felt terrible that you were wounded because you came after her to Colombia. Bonnie was her daughter, not yours. She believes it's her job to find Bonnie's body and her killer. She won't be closed out."

"Watch me," he said. "She's not going to go after Kistle until I find out whether we have the right man. Montalvo could have pulled a name out of a hat, for all I know."

Jane gave a low whistle. "My, my, we are bitter, aren't we?"

He gave her a cool glance over his shoulder. "I don't know about you, but, yes, I'm bitter as hell. Let's get to the airport."

ONLY TOBY RAN TO MEETEve Duncan when she drove up to the cottage. The house was dark and only the Jeep was in the driveway. Jane's rental car was gone. Joe could be working late, but where was Jane?

She patted the dog's head absently as she got out of the car. "Did Jane leave you, boy?" She moved up the steps and opened the screen door. "Have you been fed?"

Toby gave a mournful woof.

"I don't know if I believe you. You like food too much." She turned on the lights. "And you lie a lot." She headed for the kitchen. "But we'll start off with a snack until I call Jane." She filled Toby's bowl half full of dry food and set it down. She dialed Jane's cell but only got voice mail. Well, maybe she was at a movie or something. She had grown up here in Atlanta and had old friends with whom she kept in touch. "Okay, you win, Toby." She poured the rest of the food into his now-empty bowl. "Now be good while I get some work in on Carrie's reconstruction." She moved across the room to the skull on the easel in the studio area. She had been chomping at the bit to get back to Carrie all afternoon. She was nearing the end and she was always intense when she got close to the point when an identity revealed itself beneath her fingers. But she didn't spend enough time with her mother these days and during their last phone conversation she had seemed needy.

She took off the drape covering Carrie's skull and tossed it on the table. Another few days and, hopefully, Carrie would no longer be her name. Eve always gave her reconstructions names because it seemed more respectful and it helped her to draw closer to them. This child had been close to ten years old when she had been murdered and buried near a freeway in southern Kentucky. The local police had no missing children of that age in their files, but if she could put a face to that skull, then she might be able to bring Carrie home.

Might.

So many children victimized by the beasts that prowled the earth remained lost from everyone who had loved them.

Don't think about it. She could only do what God had given her the talent to do. Sometimes identifying the children helped the police to find their murderers; sometimes the killers were never caught. But at least she could give these children a chance for proper burial and their parents the opportunity to come to some kind of closure. Eve had never had that closure when her own seven-year-old daughter had been kidnapped and presumed murdered several years ago. She knew the pain those parents were feeling.

"Come on, Carrie," she murmured as her fingers began to mold the clay. She had spent days before this carefully measuring the tissue depths and then marking them. Then she'd taken strips of plasticene, applied them between the markers, and then built them up to the tissue depth points. After that it was an excruciatingly fine balance between concentrating on the scientific elements of depth and contouring until she was ready to let instinct take over. She was almost there. "Let's see what we can do before Jane gets back. I'll have to stop then. You're very important to me, but if I've learned anything over the years of working with you and the other children, it's that you have to cherish every single moment of life with the ones you love…"

THE KNIFE SANK DEEPin the man's back.

No scream.

Kistle twisted the knife as he drew it out. He hoped the bastard was still alive enough to feel it.

The man wore a sheriff's uniform. He was a cop. That meant that there might be others nearby. He'd have to move quickly. He rolled the body into the bushes and searched his pockets. A notebook, ID that identified him as Sheriff James Jedroth, a cell phone, a couple pictures of a woman and a teenage kid. He grabbed the cell phone and headed for his car. He checked the last number. Not local. So he hadn't been checking in with his wife when Kistle had noticed him on the phone. Who had tipped off the police he was here? Who had forced him to run?

He didn't try the number until he was a few miles from town.

No answer. On the fifth ring the voice mail picked up.

Joe Quinn. Eve Duncan.

He went still as he made the connection.

Eve Duncan.

He drew a deep breath. It had been a long time, but it was all coming back to him. An explosion of pleasure tore through him. He had to talk to her. He had to tell her how glad he was that she had come back into his life.

THE PHONE WAS RINGINGagain, Eve realized impatiently. It was the third time in fifteen minutes and she supposed she'd have to answer it. It couldn't be that important. Joe or Jane would have called her on her cell phone when she hadn't answered. They knew how absorbed she became when she was working.

She glanced down at the ID. Bloomburg, Illinois. Sheriff James Jedroth. It had to be another police department asking her to do a reconstruction. Since she'd become so blasted famous, those requests never stopped. But it was nearly ten at night and evidently Sheriff Jedroth didn't understand the concept of business hours. Well, Eve didn't either, so she might as well answer.

"Eve Duncan."

"Do you still miss your little Bonnie?"

Shock jolted through her. "I beg your pardon."

"She had curly red hair and on the last day you saw her, she was wearing a Bugs Bunny T-shirt."

"Is this some kind of sick joke, Sheriff Jedroth? I'm not amused."

"I'm amused. Amused and excited and full of anticipation. I haven't felt like this for years. I didn't realize I was getting stale and that the kill was losing its luster. Then I heard your name on your voice mail and suddenly I felt reborn."

"Kill." Her hand tightened on the phone. "Who is this? You're not a sheriff, are you?"

"I impersonated a sheriff once. It was in Fort Collins, Colorado. Children are taught to trust policemen."

"Who are you?" she repeated. "I don't know you. Why are you calling me?"

"Bonnie knew me. She knew me very well before the end."

Don't show him the wrenching pain his words are causing. "You son of a bitch. What are you trying to tell me?"

"You shouldn't have tried to track me down. Now I'll have to punish you. I never let myself be victimized without making sure that my pain is reciprocated." He chuckled. "Though this time I'm not feeling nearly so bitter. I've been following your search for Bonnie for years and it's lightened many a dull moment."

"I didn't try to track you down. I don't even know your name."

"Henry Kistle."

Kistle. The name of the man Montalvo had given her as one of the possible murderers of her daughter.

"Yes, you know me. You set that asshole, Jedroth, to watch me."

"Where are you?"

"It would be no use to tell you. I've just left town. I'll be hundreds of miles away from here before you can call and get someone to try to find me. I know about red tape."

"What… do you know about Bonnie?"

"That she was seven years old and a beautiful child. Do you know how many pretty little girls I've killed since your Bonnie died? Though I always regard her as my inspiration. She was like a burning arrow lighting the darkness. I remember how-"