Last Seen Alive Read online

  “I’m sure she made the call, but I didn’t hear her give the directions.” Scott pulled his cell phone from his pocket. “I’ll double-check.”

  While Scott called the Emergency Service, Chyna tried to get Michelle under control. She wished she’d brought a leash, but they’d left in a hurry and she hadn’t bothered because Michelle so seldom needed a leash. At last, the dog came to her and Chyna knelt down, holding on to Michelle’s collar. The dog panted heavily after running around and around the hole. Chyna had never seen her act so agitated. Or so driven. Chyna had a feeling Michelle sensed someone was hurt and actually wanted to help rather than hide, which was a first for the dog.

  “The woman at the Whippoorwill told the Emergency Service to come to the cemetery,” Scott said, putting his phone back in his pocket. “They’re on the way.”

  “Thank God.” Chyna glanced at Deirdre again. “Oh, Scott, she looks so tiny and vulnerable down there.”

  “She is.” Scott frowned. “How long do you think she’s been in that hole?”

  Chyna looked at him in surprise. “She fell in the hole when I fell in the roadhouse. I was having her experience, Scott. I thought you realized that.”

  “Maybe, but you don’t always experience things at the

  time they’re happening. Like with Rusty. You had the vision of Rusty watching Nancy when she died several days after she fell.”

  “Rusty was thinking about her falling at the moment I touched him. At least, I believe that’s what happened. And in the Whippoorwill, I handled the paper Deirdre gave me in the cafe. Maybe that somehow put me ’in touch’ with her this evening.” She shrugged helplessly. “As I’ve told you, I don’t know everything about how this power of mine works and often doesn’t work.”

  “Do you see something over there?” Scott asked suddenly.

  Chyna scanned the cemetery. Then she saw it. A movement in the trees about forty feet from them. Was it one of the deer? She squinted. Maybe. Or maybe it was a person, she thought in dread. Someone else out in the cemetery at night, perhaps looking for Deirdre or perhaps watching her and Scott.

  She rubbed a hand over her tired eyes. “I see it, but I don’t know if it’s a person or an animal.”

  “I can’t tell.” Scott shook his head. “It’s disappeared back in the trees.”

  “Was it coming at us?”

  “It wasn’t. Not directly, at least, but that doesn’t mean it’s not circling around—”

  Fear swept over Chyna again. They should get out of here, because she was almost certain they hadn’t seen an animal. But how could they desert Deirdre?

  Chyna felt like she jumped a foot when Scott almost shouted, “Thank God! Here comes the cavalry.”

  Headlights sliced through the darkness. “An emergency unit,” Scott said. He’d left on his own car headlights, so the unit, which turned out to be a fire truck, came directly toward them and stopped behind Scott’s car. In a moment, an ambulance followed. Scott waved his flashlight and yelled, “We’re over here! There’s a girl in an empty grave!”

  “God, that sounded ominous,” Chyna muttered.

  Scott shrugged. “Is there any way to make this situation sound less ominous?”

  No, Chyna thought, especially because she believed the person lingering at the edge of the woods was Deirdre’s abductor, arrived too late to catch his escaped prey.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  1

  Rex pulled into the driveway of the Greer home, fumbled in his pocket for his keys, then went in through the side door. He headed straight for the kitchen, poured vodka in a glass, and drank it in two gulps. He was cold, shaken, and exhausted, but he knew he couldn’t go to sleep. Not now. Not with all that was churning through his brain. For the first time in his life, he felt old and weak.

  He poured more vodka, walked into the living room, turned on a lamp, and sat down directly across from the portrait of Vivian and Edward. How solid they looked. How privileged and poised, Edward strong and handsome with his patrician features and silvery hair, Vivian beautiful and vivacious, her blue-gray eyes glinting with humor and a confidence that said she could take on the world. That painting was only nine years old, but already they were both gone, each dying far too young. Vivian’s death hadn’t really hit Rex yet, still didn’t seem real, but abruptly he violently missed his brother, a man whose quiet ways belied the strength and tolerance that had carried him through until the end.

  It was long after midnight, hours later than when Rex had left with Owen and Rusty. I should have called Chyna, Rex thought with regret. He knew she’d sensed trouble when they left. She’d looked so worried. He should have let her

  know he’d deposited Rusty safely at his own home before he went to Owen’s.

  Not that his tactic had been very successful. Rex had intended to stay with Owen for at least an hour, maybe more. After twenty minutes, though, Owen had received a call and claimed pressing business at the funeral home before nearly pushing Rex out the front door. Rex had gone to Ned’s for half an hour, but Ned had been called to the car dealership and Rex could tell Beverly wanted to get the children bathed and quieted before bed, so he hadn’t stayed there long, either.

  Rex had cruised past Rusty’s and not seen Owen’s car, but it hadn’t been at the funeral home, either. So if I’d called Chyna then, Rex mused, what could I have said, where could I have told her I was going for the rest of the evening?

  After his failure to locate Owen, Rex had felt overwhelmed and nearly incapable of thinking at all, much less of making up casual, believable excuses for Chyna about why he wasn’t coming home until late. So he’d just left her hanging, not knowing where he was or when he’d return.

  No doubt, Chyna was feeling abandoned by him, and with good cause. He hadn’t really spent any time with her, even though her mother had just died. Instead, he’d been running willy-nilly, making up a lie about why he hadn’t arrived as soon as he heard about Vivian’s death, fabricating stories about visiting local friends once he’d gotten here. He was never around when Chyna needed him. She’d even had to face the crowd that had gathered in front of the house this morning—the crowd calling her names, making accusations, throwing rocks at the house. At least Kendrick had arrived, Rex thought with gratitude. It was Scott Kendrick, a man recovering from great emotional and physical trauma, who’d had to help Chyna ride out that storm. Meanwhile, Rex had been doing other things, things that would shock and sicken his lovely and extraordinary niece.

  But maybe he hadn’t let down Chyna as much as he thought he had, because she hadn’t really expected much from him. She hadn’t exactly been leaning on him since he

  arrived, maybe because she knew that trying to lean on Rex Greer would be like trying to lean on a pillar of whipped cream. Ruefully Rex felt that failing people had always been his forte. That and keeping secrets. He knew so much about so many things, things that could blow apart what was left of this family, things that could hurt or destroy at least a dozen people in this town. Sometimes his head pounded from the pressure of all he knew and of all he’d done. It would be so nice to be able to shed the compulsions that drove him, the obsessions that haunted him. At times like tonight, Rex didn’t know how much longer he could continue to live life as he had been for years.

  But he had a feeling he wouldn’t have to maintain his fa9ade for much longer, because after tonight, he knew with dreadful certainty that Chyna would soon end it all for him.

  2

  The fire truck and ambulance arrived with such fanfare Chyna wondered if the dead could sleep through it all. Sirens wailing, lights flashing, people yelling. Five minutes ago this area had been silent and dark and definitely eerie. Suddenly it had the air of a carnival.

  “First, we’ll lower ourselves into the grave on ropes and take her vital signs,” one of the paramedics told Chyna and Scott.

  “Don’t you mean that first you’ll see if she’s alive?” Chyna asked in fear. “She hasn’t moved a fraction since we
found her.”

  The young, dark-haired paramedic smiled at her. “We always hope for the best, Mrs….”

  “Dr. Greer. Chyna Greer. This is Scott Kendrick.” Chyna suddenly thought these formal introductions seemed silly and a waste of time. Another man was already lowering a rope into the grave. Two paramedics slid down the rope with tremendous speed. Chyna tensed and felt Scott’s arm encircle her shoulder. Then she closed her eyes, unable to watch

  them check for signs of life in the girl who lay like a broken doll at the bottom of the cold grave. At last, one of them called, “She’s alive!”

  “Thank God,” Chyna breathed, sagging in relief. Scott smiled at her as they waited for the paramedics to check Deirdre further.

  “Pulse is a little thready, but no signs of serious trauma besides the lack of consciousness,” one yelled up to the others. “Lower the backboard and the cervical collar.”

  “Did you hear that?” Chyna asked Scott. “No signs of serious trauma!”

  He gave her a small, tight smile. “So far so good.”

  Of course they had to check for other damage, Chyna thought. Who knew how long Deirdre had wandered naked before she’d fallen into the grave? And what had her abductor done to her before she’d gotten loose? Raped her?

  Once the cervical collar was in place and Deirdre had been strapped to the backboard, the men above used ropes to raise it. When they got her to ground level, they asked that Chyna and Scott look at her. “You said this was Deirdre Mayhew, but you couldn’t see her face,” one of them said. “Take a closer look now.”

  They both bent over and peered at the unconscious girl. She was extremely pale and Chyna’s expert eye immediately discerned that she was suffering from hypothermia, but it was definitely Deirdre. “That’s the Mayhew girl,” Scott said firmly. “I’ve known her all her life.”

  “She needs IV fluids,” Chyna directed, temporarily forgetting that she wasn’t in the hospital. “And she’s probably malnourished. Are you sure you have her spine immobilized?”

  “Yes, ma’am, we know our jobs,” one of the paramedics said patiently.

  “Of course you do. I’m sorry,” Chyna said quickly. “I’m a doctor—”

  “You said that.”

  “Yes. I didn’t mean to come off as a know-it-all. I’m

  just…” Chyna swallowed convulsively, feeling as if she were going to burst into tears. She hardly knew Deirdre, but the emotional drain of feeling her walking on the cold ground, naked, blind, then falling into the hole—a grave, of all things—momentarily overcame her.

  Scott tightened his hold on her and said to the paramedics, “I’ll notify her father.”

  “We’ll call the sheriff,” one of the men said as they carefully loaded Deirdre into the ambulance. “We need to know why that grave wasn’t covered. They always cover open graves. An open grave at night is just a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

  “Yes, I guess so,” Chyna said absently, wondering how he could be thinking about lawsuits at a time like this.

  Another paramedic looked at her and Scott and smiled. “There are going to be a lot of relieved people tonight. We were afraid we were going to lose another girl.”

  As the ambulance and fire truck drove away, Scott turned her around and hugged her tightly. “You did it, Chyna! You saved Deirdre.”

  Chyna felt relief and even a small flame of triumph. But greater than her sense of triumph was her regret that she hadn’t been able to do the same for Heather and Edie, and especially for Zoey.

  3

  It was near two in the morning when Scott followed Chyna up to her house. Rex’s car still wasn’t in the driveway, and now Chyna was glad. If he was home and still awake, she was in no mood to talk to him. Chyna opened the front door, walked into the house, then turned around to see Scott lingering just outside. He smiled at her wanly and reached out to take her hand. “Well, I know you’re exhausted,” he said softly, somewhat self-consciously. “Get a good night’s sleep, Chyna. You deserve it.”

  The glow from the outside carriage light beside the front door shone on his black hair, the finely chiseled features of his face with its two healing scars, one on the right cheek, one on the left jawline, leftovers from the crash that had almost claimed his life. Finally, she looked into his eyes— deep, dark, soulful eyes, still holding the horror and sadness of watching the fiery remains of the jet he’d piloted destroy seventy-two lives.

  She’d had romantic feelings for this man since she was twelve—feelings she’d later dismissed as a teenage crush. At this moment, though, she knew that what she’d felt at twelve was just a younger version of what she felt for him now—love.

  Chyna leaned forward, stood on tiptoe, and kissed Scott tenderly on the lips and the neck. Then she whispered, “I don’t want you to go.”

  His right arm circled her waist, drawing her even closer to his tall, lean frame. “Is this because you don’t want to be alone after finding Deirdre?”

  “The way we found Deirdre was scary, but she’s alive.” Chyna had always been shy around men, always letting them make the first move, usually stopping them before things went too far. But now, almost against her will, her lips trailed down Scott’s warm neck.

  Scott drew a deep breath, wrapped his other arm around her, and pulled her so close she could feel his heart beating. His lips touched hers lightly at first, then pressed against them passionately, his right hand tangling in her long hair as they seemed to melt into each other as time stopped for Chyna. His tongue barely touched hers—warm, soft, almost teasing.

  At last, he pulled away a fraction, his breath coming fast and hot against her face cooled by the evening air. His gaze held hers, his dark, penetrating eyes seeming to see all the way through to her soul. Chyna felt as if she’d never been kissed in her life, and she never wanted Scott’s kisses to end. After what seemed like an endless moment, he asked softly, “Want me to stay awhile?”

  “Oh yes, I want you to stay,” Chyna said huskily, her face drawing nearer to his. “I want you to stay the night.”

  Their lips met again and Chyna gently pushed the door shut behind him.

  4

  Irma Vogel sneezed violently and wiped her nose on an already damp tissue as she looked in disgust at the screaming headline of the morning paper:

  MISSING GIRL FOUND ALIVE

  Irma knew calling Ben and pretending to be elated would be useless. He’d be at the hospital with Deirdre. Irma had no intention of walking into that lion’s den full of Ben’s friends and policemen and reporters. Besides, she’d called Ben on his cell phone around one in the morning, telling him she hadn’t been able to sleep so she’d sat up, listening to her police scanner, and heard about the finding of Deirdre. “It was Chyna Greer!” he’d boomed at Irma in ecstasy. “Chyna Greer had a vision or something—I never understood what people said she could do, but she knew where to find Deirdre!” Then he’d told Irma that Deirdre was still unconscious, they didn’t know a thing about who’d taken her, and now he needed to get back to his daughter and slammed the phone in her ear.

  Irma now let the paper slide to the floor and walked over to a wall mirror. God, she looked awful, she thought. Her bulgy eyes were red, her nose was swollen, and her face bore a gloss of perspiration from a fever she knew was rising. Too much time out in the cold, she thought, often without a coat. She’d always been careful about keeping herself warm in the past. Lately, though, she’d been distracted, trying to do too much. Now, on top of all of her efforts, she was getting sick. Irma felt like crying for herself.

  She shuffled to her chair and retrieved the newspaper. The

  rescue of Deirdre Mayhew had been Irma’s first concern, but she also wanted to read the piece on Rusty Burtram, who had apparently fallen through his sliding glass doors. One of the shards of glass had sliced his carotid artery and he’d died from blood loss. Irma lowered the newspaper and thought deeply. A person wasn’t likely to just “fall” through his glass doors unless he was dru
nk or stoned, a conclusion Irma was sure most Black Willow residents would make. She had barely known Rusty, but she knew Owen and she could imagine the man writhing in embarrassment over this story on the front page of the paper. His son falling through glass doors because he was drunk? God, old Owen might have a heart attack from humiliation rather than grief, because it was plain to anyone who’d had more than the slightest contact with Rusty and Owen that Owen felt no love for his son. “Well, Mr. Owen Burtram, you won’t have to put up with the big disappointment of your life anymore,” she said, full of scathing disdain she’d never manage if Owen stood in front of her. Liking the sound of her voice, she spoke even louder to the nonexistent Owen. “You simply have to pretend you believe Rusty tripped and crashed through those doors and then act like you care that he’s dead. Really what you’ll be feeling is relieved that he’s blessedly gone from your life forever, just like your slut of a wife.”

  If Irma hadn’t felt so bad, she would have laughed at her own macabre assessment of the situation. She hadn’t liked either one of the Burtram men, especially Owen. Smug, that was what he was. He’d always looked her up and down like she was a piece of garbage, and Rusty had acted half-afraid of her, like he sensed something was wrong with her and he should steer clear.

  But sensing things was Chyna Greer’s specialty. When Irma had talked to Ben, he’d said they hadn’t a clue about who’d abducted Deirdre. She was unconscious and couldn’t tell them anything. So because they didn’t know who’d kidnapped Deirdre, Chyna obviously hadn’t been able to sense that important information.

  Irma went to the phone, looked up the number of the hospital, and put in a call to the third floor, asking for Nurse Tally Jones. When she heard Tally’s familiar loud twang, she hissed, “It’s Irma. I need information, but I don’t want anyone to know I’m asking, so keep your voice down.”