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  Terry couldn’t speak and nodded instead.

  “Earlier this evening,” Holman said, “fishermen trawled up a body, and I was wondering if you could tell me if you recognize the deceased. Is this your missing wife?”

  Terry edged a step toward the shrouded body. His shoe came precariously close to the sheet. He drew his foot back, not wanting to touch death.

  Schovanek crouched over the shrouded corpse. “I have to warn you that the deceased has been in the water for at least twenty-four hours. She’s in bad shape. The fish were drawn to the blood.”

  Terry wanted the coroner to shut up. He didn’t need to hear the details. He just needed to see Sarah—to end all the speculation and know whether she was dead or not.

  “We’re thinking the killer disposed of her here last night some time.”

  Killer? What killer? No one had mentioned murder. Holman had just said they’d discovered a body, not a victim. Terry turned to Holman. He was glaring at Schovanek. The coroner withered under the silent accusation.

  “Murdered?” Shock dulled Terry’s anger. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Holman exhaled and failed to maintain his eye contact with Terry. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sheffield. I should have been more clear.”

  Terry didn’t have the words and shook his head.

  “Um, is it okay that I show you the victim?” Schovanek asked.

  Terry mumbled, “Yes, that’s okay.”

  The coroner eased back the sheet, revealing the corpse’s head and shoulders. Terry sagged. He didn’t think he had anything left, but something kept him upright. He tried to tear his gaze away from the corpse, but he was compelled to look. The sheet covered her to preserve her modesty. From the way it clung to her body, it was obvious she was naked, except for a single shoed foot sticking out from one end. Schovanek brushed aside a tangle of hair to reveal an unhindered view of her face. Her face was full but not overweight. Immersed in the reservoir, the water must have bloated her body, making her doughy. The bleaching arc lights turned her skin whiter than white, deader than dead. But even under the harsh light, it was possible to see grays and purples tingeing her ivory complexion. Not that it mattered with the gash running across her throat. Her eyes stared far into the distance. Death had drained them of color as well as life.

  “Mr. Sheffield, is this your wife?” Schovanek asked with all the compassion he could muster.

  Holman sidled up to Terry. He spoke with compassion. “Mr. Sheffield, we need to know. I understand how traumatic this must be, but we do need confirmation. Is this Sarah?”

  “It’s not her. It’s not Sarah.”

  “Mr. Sheffield, now, are you sure? The water has distorted the body.”

  “Yes. It’s not Sarah. Did you check for the birthmark her right hip?”

  Schovanek checked. “No birthmark.”

  The look on Holman’s face said everything. If he didn’t have Sarah Sheffield lying violated before him, then who did he have?

  “What’s happened to her mouth?” Terry asked.

  “Her tongue’s been cut out.” Schovanek realized he’d said too much and winced, wishing he could take back his words.

  Holman shot the coroner another scolding look. Schovanek frowned in apology.

  “Jesus Christ,” Oscar murmured.

  “Before or after?” Terry asked.

  “Before or after what?” Schovanek asked dumbly.

  “Was her tongue cut out before or after she was killed?”

  “Christ, Terry,” Oscar said. “You don’t need to know that.”

  “I do,” Terry said. “Before or after?”

  Schovanek glanced at Holman before replying, seeking approval. He got it and replied, “Before.”

  Terry shook off the morbidness and allowed himself to feel a weight lift. Sarah wasn’t dead—she was alive. She was still out there somewhere, waiting to be found. Relief washed over him, and as much as he tried to hide it, a smile kept taking over his face.

  Was it wrong? Terry thought. Wrong to feel this good in the presence of a murdered woman? He knew he was staring at some other poor son of a bitch’s nightmare, but he couldn’t feel guilty. He was thankful for too much. He’d been given a second chance. He hadn’t failed Sarah. He still had time to be her protector.

  “Thank you, Mr. Sheffield. I’ll have someone take you home,” Holman said.

  Oscar came over and rested a hand on Terry’s shoulder. “Thank God it wasn’t her.”

  “Sorry, Sheriff. I wish I could have helped more.”

  Holman nodded and guided Terry away from the corpse. “Not a problem. I’m just glad it isn’t your wife. Unfortunately, she is somebody’s wife or daughter.”

  “The question is, who is she?” Terry asked.

  Oscar said something, and Terry realized Oscar wasn’t with them. He’d remained rooted to the spot, still staring at the corpse while Schovanek covered the body again.

  “Mr. Mayer, please,” Holman said, gesturing for him to leave.

  “What did you say, Oscar?” Terry asked.

  “I can pretty much say this woman is married and has two children.”

  “What are you saying, Mr. Mayer?” Schovanek asked.

  “I know who this woman is.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Mr. Mayer, you know this woman?”

  Holman had a good poker face. At first glance, he didn’t react to Oscar’s claim, but Terry thought he caught the widening of the sheriff’s eyes.

  “It wasn’t until Terry said it wasn’t Sarah that I realized who it is. To me that looks like Alicia Hyams.”

  “Who?” Terry asked.

  “Do you know her, Mr. Mayer?”

  “No.”

  “Then what makes you think it’s Alicia Hyams?”

  “I don’t. Not for sure. But the description, it seems to match. Don’t you think?”

  Holman went silent contemplating Oscar’s proposition.

  “Deputy Pittman, these two need a ride back to Mr. Sheffield’s home,” Holman said after a long moment.

  “Who is Alicia Hyams?” Terry asked.

  “Alicia Hyams? Ask your friend. He seems to have all the answers.” A hint of irritation crept into Holman’s tone.

  “This way,” Deputy Pittman ordered, pointing to a cruiser.

  They rode home in silence. There was so much Terry wanted to ask Oscar, but not in front of the grim-faced deputy. Oscar had stung the cops with his observation. They’d screwed up. They should have recognized Alicia Hyams without Oscar’s intervention. Mercifully, the ride came to an end. Terry thanked Deputy Pittman for the lift.

  Terry got Oscar inside his house before asking, “Who is Alicia Hyams?”

  “You promised me a beer,” Oscar said, sounding tired.

  “It was where I was heading.” Terry opened the refrigerator and liberated two bottles from a half-opened cardboard case. He popped the tops with the bottle opener built into the fridge door and handed one to Oscar.

  “You don’t watch much TV, do you?” Oscar gulped from the bottle.

  “My mind has been on other things.”

  “Alicia Hyams was headline news about a week or so ago. And she will be again if that body turns out to be her.”

  Terry fell into a seat at the dining table. “What do you mean?”

  “She disappeared about the time you arrived.”

  Alicia Hyams’s circumstances had an all too familiar ring to them. Tonight’s events had the makings of a dress rehearsal for the real thing. Next time, Holman’s call would lead to Sarah’s body. Terry emptied his beer in one long pull.

  “She disappeared?” Terry echoed.

  Oscar realized what he had said. “Oh, don’t get that idea. This is something completely different. Alicia was swiped from the outlet mall in Vacaville on the afternoon of the thirteenth. Mall security found her car unlocked with the keys in the ignition and her purse on the passenger seat.”

  “How do we know that’s different?” Terry jumpe
d up and went for another beer. “We don’t know what the hell happened to Sarah. The circumstances could be identical.”

  Terry cracked open two more beers. He returned to Oscar, setting down a second bottle next to his first with a bang. Oscar frowned at the second bottle.

  “You’re not being realistic,” Oscar insisted.

  “How am I not being realistic?” Terry demanded.

  “You’re jumping to conclusions to find some meaning for what’s happening. Whether you like it or not, Terry, you’re too close to the problem.”

  “The problem?” Terry spat. “Sarah’s a problem?”

  Oscar remained unfazed by Terry’s hostility. “Yes, Sarah is a problem. For you.”

  Terry snorted and took his frustration into the living room, with the beer as backup, and paced the room. What did Oscar know? It was easy for him to tell him what was what, because none of this mattered. He wasn’t at the middle of this hell.

  “You can’t think without her,” Oscar continued. “You’re upset and overwhelmed. Everything has been turned upside-down since the moment you stepped off the plane.”

  “You think you know the answers to my problems, don’t you? Sherlock-sodding-Holmes.”

  “Now you’re just being an asshole.”

  Terry cursed and wiped a hand chilled from holding the beer across his brow. Oscar was right. He was being an asshole. He kept stumbling from one self-invented nightmare to another. It was time to stop. He put the bottle on the coffee table.

  “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Good. I’ve broken through at last.” Oscar smiled. “Now sit down and shut up.”

  Terry did as he was told and relaxed into an easy chair. Oscar repositioned himself at the dining table, sitting back-to-front, straddling the seat and resting his arms on the chair back.

  “Comfortable?” Oscar inquired.

  “Yes. Terry Sheffield has resumed normality. Apologizes for any technical difficulties experienced. Okay, why is Sarah’s disappearance different from Alicia Hyams’s?”

  “Because Sarah’s car is missing, along with her clothes and other belongings. If she’d been abducted, then her stuff would still be here.”

  Terry couldn’t fault his friend’s logic.

  “That means Sarah went somewhere.”

  “But where?”

  “That’s not the interesting point.”

  “What is?”

  “She chose not to tell you about it.”

  That silenced Terry. His wife had chosen to disappear, not telling him in the bargain. It was embarrassing. He was such a fool. What kind of woman had he married?

  “The question is, why?” Terry managed after a minute.

  “She could be protecting you.”

  “From what?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s something to do with her work. It could be a story she’s been working on.”

  “But she would have at least given me a clue.”

  “Who says she hasn’t? You might not have seen it yet. She wasn’t at the airport, and you assumed foul play. She might have left you a note somewhere explaining everything, but you’ve been too busy trying to see abductors at every turn to find it.”

  “You might have a point,” Terry conceded.

  “Yeah, and I’m sorry to say it’s a point you’ll have to consider alone. I need to go home.”

  Terry thanked Oscar and saw him out. He dumped the beer bottles in the sink, pouring the remaining contents down the drain. It wasn’t late, but the evening’s ordeal had eroded him, so he called it a night.

  He woke up late for work, having turned the alarm clock off after the first ring. The clock announced that it was after nine. He groaned and wrestled himself out of bed. There was no way he was going into work today. He called Pamela to use one of his mental health days. She reacted as he expected.

  “You’re taking a mental health day already?” she asked in an accusatory tone.

  “I am entitled.”

  “Yes, but you’ve been with Genavax less than a week.”

  He cut Pamela’s lecture short. “The sheriff called me out to a crime scene last night. They thought they’d found my wife.”

  “And had they?” Her tone softened.

  “No. They found somebody else.”

  Terry heard Pamela inhale to say something, but she didn’t. It was a few seconds before she spoke again. “When you say found, what do you mean?”

  “They found a body,” Terry admitted with a sigh.

  “And it wasn’t your wife?”

  “No.” Images of Alicia Hyams’s mutilated corpse threw themselves at his mind’s eye, her face fish-belly white, except for the black gash across the throat. “It was somebody else.”

  “Was it that woman they found in the lake?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s terrible. I hope you’re okay.”

  Pamela’s sudden show of concern confused Terry. She was so coldhearted before, but now she was the total opposite. He wondered if her hard exterior was all a front to prove her managerial toughness. But something in her manner didn’t ring true. She was trying too hard. He tried to make his excuses, but she was having none of it, continuing to ask question after question.

  “Did she look like your wife?”

  “A bit, I suppose. It was difficult to tell.”

  “But there was a resemblance?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “There had to be or the sheriff wouldn’t have called you out.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “She had to be a dead ringer for your wife.” Pamela’s statement seemed to be said more to herself than to Terry.

  Terry didn’t know what the hell she was getting at, but he didn’t like it. Her morbid curiosity with Alicia Hyams looking like Sarah bordered on the distasteful. Kyle’s recollection of the fight in the lunchroom between Pamela and Sarah came to mind. His thoughts were leading him to places he didn’t want to visit, and he was thankful when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ve got to go, Pamela. Someone’s at the door.”

  “Okay. Take it easy and we’ll see you tomorrow. Take care, now.”

  Pamela’s concern felt insincere, and he was more than happy to hang up on her.

  He opened the door to stare face to face with Sarah’s likeness, but not Sarah herself. Pressed against the screen door was one of his flyers. It had been ripped off something. There were ragged edges where the corners should have been. Holman was the glue that held the poster in place.

  “Morning, Sheriff.”

  “I keep finding these things everywhere I go. Anything to do with you?” Holman demanded.

  “Come in.”

  Terry stood back to let the sheriff in. Holman crumpled the flyer, shoved it in his jacket pocket, and came inside. Terry couldn’t understand how the sheriff could wear his county-issued windbreaker. It was far too hot. Maybe he was used to the California heat. He wasn’t breaking a sweat. To him, it probably felt chilly. Holman closed the front door, letting the screen door slam.

  “Coffee, Sheriff?”

  “No, thanks,” he growled.

  “Suit yourself.” Terry ignored the sheriff’s hostility and measured out fresh grounds into the coffeemaker. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can stop getting in the way of my job.”

  Terry poured a pot of water into the coffeemaker and switched on the machine to brew. “I didn’t know I was.”

  Holman grunted like an angry bull. He retrieved the crumpled flyer and flattened it out on the breakfast bar. He rapped a finger on Sarah’s reproduced face. “You don’t see anything wrong with this?”

  Terry crossed his arms. “No, not really.”

  “Well, let me set you straight. This is wrong. It gets in the way. It’s a distraction. It doesn’t help me find your wife, Mr. Sheffield.”

  “Well, it helps me. It makes me feel like I’m doing something useful to help find Sarah.”

 
“You did something useful. You contacted me. You don’t have to do anything more. That’s what I’m employed to do. All you’ve got to do is sit around and wait for me to bring her home.”

  “Sit around?” Terry said. “You’ve got to be joking. Last night you showed me a murdered woman you thought was Sarah. Is that the kind of door-to-door service you’re offering?” Terry didn’t give Holman a chance to defend himself and plowed on. “If it is, there’s no way I’m going to sit around waiting for you or anyone else to do their job.”

  “I made a mistake. I’m sorry. I understand how distressing it must have been.”

  “You have no idea,” Terry said sharply.

  Terry and Holman locked stares, each trying to make the other understand the gravity of their position. Terry waited for someone to shout, “End of round one. Fighters back to their corners.”

  Holman was granite. Terry found it difficult to tell if the sheriff was seething and keeping it bottled up or if he’d simply gone offline. The coffeemaker gurgled.

  “Truce,” Holman said after a long moment.

  Terry nodded. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get out of my pram.”

  “Huh?”

  “I didn’t mean to lose my temper,” Terry said, correcting his obscure English euphemism.

  “I’m sorry too.” Holman started to say something else but changed his mind and smiled.

  “Can I get you that cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  Holman drew back a chair and sat at the dining table. Terry pulled out two mugs and poured the coffee.

  “Milk? Sugar?” Terry asked.

  The sheriff shook his head. “No on both counts.”

  Terry added creamer to his coffee and brought the steaming mugs over to where Holman was sitting.

  “There you go,” Terry said, setting down the mug in front of Holman.

  “Thanks.” Picking up his mug, he blew at the vapor trailing off the surface and sipped it. “You make good coffee.”

  “With no wife, I get a lot of practice.”

  The sheriff cracked a smile. “Well, let’s see what I can do to change that.”

  “Have you found out anything new?”

  Holman shook his head. “No. Since the discovery of Alicia Hyams, your wife’s case has lost some of its urgency.”