Say Goodbye

No such luck.

“I want the ring,” Sal declared. “My case, my evidence.”

“It’s secured in the evidence vault,” she assured him. “I’ll arrange for the transfer.”

“Anything else you haven’t told me?”

Kimberly started to say no, then realized she’d left out one other rather salient fact, and sighed. “Ummm, possibly Delilah Rose mentioned that Gi

“Mr. Dinchara?”

“An anagram for ‘arachnid.’ Apparently, Dinchara likes to bring his pets along. You know, nothing like a night out with your favorite tarantula.”

Sal appeared positively mesmerized. “No shit?”

“Not in the least. Guess no one else has mentioned him yet?”

“I think I would remember a story like that. What does he do with his spiders?”

“Oh, have them roam various body parts of the girls. Or, if he paid extra, watch.”

“Watch?”

“Ever get the feeling the world is becoming a freakier and freakier place?”

“Only every time I watch a reality TV show. So, a Mr. Dinchara with a pet tarantula. Hell, shouldn’t be too hard to get a bead on a customer that unique. What was his involvement with Jones?”

“He was a client. Guess the spiders didn’t bother Gi

Sal was back to frowning. “If Gi

“Generally, the wearing of a fellow’s ring is a sign of more than friends.”

“So clearly there is more to Tommy Mark Evans than Coach Urey suspects.”

“There always is. But if Gi

“We’re talking ourselves in circles,” Sal said with a sigh.

“Lack of information will do that to you.”

“Bottom line, we now have ten missing females, one dead high school quarterback, one class ring co

“Ten dead bodies.”

He scowled. “Anything else?”

She shrugged, more serious this time. “The only real lead we have.”

“Which is?”

“Delilah Rose.”

FOURTEEN

“…the venom was used primarily as a paralyzing agent to inactivate the prey, which may actually remain alive for four to five days. The spider then feeds at its convenience.”

FROM Biology of the Brown Recluse Spider,

BY JULIA MAXINE HITE, WILLIAM J. GLADNEY, J. L. LANCASTER, JR., AND W. H. WHITCOMB, DEPARTMENT OF ENTOMOLOGY, DIVISION OF AGRICULTURE, UNIVERSITY OF ARKANSAS, FAYETTEVILLE, MAY 1966

IT WAS AFTER SIX WHEN KIMBERLY LEFT THE OFFICE. Traffic was piling up, the highway one long tangled snarl. She thought of heading back to work, waiting out the worst of the congestion. God knew she had a million calls she could make, 302s to process, reports to review. She didn’t, though.

She drove to Alpharetta.

She didn’t know the area well. Atlanta was so large she could spend decades here and still not make a dent in the explosion of sprawling townships that marked the city’s phenomenal rate of growth. The city felt like a web to her, one that was constantly being spun larger and larger, gobbling up chicken farms and country lanes until a scenic drive one year became the location of the latest mall the next. And yet the state absorbed the booming developments relatively easily, peace still two hours away in the northern mountains, or three hours away on the southern beaches. Mac claimed there was no place else on earth he’d rather live.

She was still considering the matter herself.

She was armed with a map, a cell phone, and a nearly photographic memory. How lost could she get?

The drive to Gi

Kimberly worked her way through side streets, as lots became larger, houses more sprawling, lawns more perfectly manicured. It took her half a dozen wrong turns and about twenty minutes, then she found the next address on her list: Tommy Mark Evans’s home.

It was a stately brick Colonial situated atop half an acre of emerald-green lawn. A silver BMW SUV was parked in the driveway. Expertly shaped corkscrew hedges lined the drive. That told her enough.

So Gi

Kimberly started to see the possibilities. Such as Tommy dating Gi

Kimberly had a final stop to make. It was now completely dark, making it difficult for her to read the map and drive her car. She took it in half-mile batches, looping through a maze of side streets, office parks, and residential areas until she nearly lost herself. She thought she was closer to Gi

Tires left pavement. She bumped along on the dirt. One of the last few rural roads in the area. Probably be developed by this time next year. Then there’d be nothing left to indicate where a young man had died.

She found the exact spot without difficulty. A white cross stood gleaming in the dark, a Christmas wreath drying out at the base, red bow flapping lightly in the wind.

Kimberly pulled over twenty yards back. She grabbed her jacket and walked the final distance to the memorial.

It was past seven-thirty now. She was not far from civilization, but the trees formed an effective buffer, and standing in this spot, she couldn’t hear the sound of passing cars or make out the distant lights of a bustling community. With the new moon floating dark and hidden overhead, the only illumination came from her vehicle’s twin headlights. It was quiet, still.

In spite of herself, she shivered.

Tommy Mark Evans, it said down the cross. Then, along the arms: Beloved son.

Kimberly looked around: at the thick cluster of rhododendrons, nearly higher than her head; the thin, scratchy outline of straggly pine trees, clutching at the night sky. She felt the deep ruts of the dirt road beneath her feet. Used her flashlight to illuminate the grooves of tire marks tracking in and out.

She could picture a young man joyriding down this lane, pedal to the metal, shrieking each time his monster tires hit a rut and sent him airborne. She could picture a young man and a female friend tucked alongside the road, necking hard and heavy, steaming up the windshield.

She could not picture a college kid coming out here alone, pulling over for no reason, and winding up shot two times to the forehead.

Tommy Mark Evans knew his attacker. She had no doubt in her mind.

An owl hooted. A squirrel burst out, making a mad dash across the lane. Kimberly watched the grass rustle on the other side of the road long after the squirrel disappeared into the brush, and the owl swooped by overhead.