She's Not There - Madison Marla (читаем книги онлайн TXT) 📗

She asked, “Did James tell you we hired a profiler and he and Richard Conlin were there when he gave his report?”

Claire shifted her weight on the chair, looking wary of what Lisa would say next. “No.”

“Based on everything we’d found, the profiler believed there was someone abducting abused women—a man with a grudge against women—a man women were attracted to, but who had a hidden defect, or possibly had something in his past which would make him turn on them. Something that would have made them reject him.”

Claire’s fresh-scrubbed complexion paled.

“We think it’s possible James could be the one responsible for the missing women. And not just because of what he used to look like–there are other indications.”

Claire leaned her head on the back of her chair. As if sensing her pain, a longhaired tabby-cat leapt into her lap.

“Claire, I’m sorry I had to tell you this. Our theory about him needs to be either validated or disproved. We’d like you to help us—you’re the only one who really knew James.”

“What does it even matter anymore if you’re right about him? He’s dead.”

Claire’s manner implied she wasn’t shocked. Something about Wilson had her wondering about him. Sexual proclivities? Maybe. But Lisa could hardly ask her about their sex life. She waited, hoping Claire would open up to her.

Claire buried her face in the cat’s soft fur. The cat, appearing unnerved by the intimate gesture, quickly jumped down and left the room.

“When James and I first met, we just clicked. I believed I’d found my soul mate. We got engaged only a few months after we met; I couldn’t wait to marry him.”

“Did something happen to change things?”

“It was all my fault really.” She reached over to a side table covered with silver-framed photos and handed one to Lisa, a picture of Claire with James. They were laughing and had their arms around each other. Then Lisa noticed Claire’s face. In the photo, a long, rather hooked nose dominated her face, but she’d still been an attractive woman. She looked at Claire, now every bit as beautiful as a model on the cover of Vogue.

Claire said, “I went through a phase in college when my looks plagued me, but the surgery I needed to change my face frightened me. So over time, I accepted my looks and became comfortable in my own skin.”

“Did James encourage you to have the surgery?”

“No, not at all. I mentioned it once and he said he loved me just as I was.”

“Then why did you decide to do it?”

Claire sighed. “For all the wrong reasons. James was such a handsome man and women were intrigued with him. I suppose I wanted to be his equal in that way. I had it done in New York when I went there to visit a friend, and I made the mistake of not telling him until I came back.”

“What happened when you returned?”

“I was excited about surprising him. I surprised him all right, but not in a good way. He didn’t say anything really, but nothing was ever the same again. Finally, we agreed to take a break from our relationship.”

“But you started seeing him again.”

“I did. I’m not sure why. Nothing had changed. There was still a void between us.”

“That must have been painful for you. Did you try to get him to talk to you about it?”

Claire smiled mirthlessly. “Many times. He refused to discuss it.” She turned to Lisa. “What are you hoping I can tell you?”

“The women’s families deserve to have closure. If James is responsible for the disappearances, it’s possible he owned land under another name, in a remote area where he could have hidden the women’s bodies. As his sole inheritor and executor, you’re the only one who can help us. We need to find out if it exists.”

Claire wiped her face with her hands. “It exists. I don’t know exactly where—somewhere in the northern part of the state, close to Lake Superior. I can’t tell you any more; everything is still with the attorneys.” A tear trickled from the corner of Claire’s eye. “James told me about it. He said he went up there when he needed to be alone and clear his head.”

Lisa’s pulse quickened.

Claire asked, “Does my father need to know about this?”

“He’ll have to, eventually, I suppose. This is really just speculation on our part at this point.”

Claire took a deep breath and looked into Lisa’s eyes. “I’m afraid it isn’t just speculation. It explains everything.”

78             

The trip to northern Wisconsin happened sooner than expected when in the last week of March, temperatures in the sixties graced the state with an early spring thaw. The grass was greening in spots and the highways exploded with people rushing north to take advantage of the mild weather.

Richard rode next to Eric in the Silverado, and Claire, who’d insisted on coming with them, sat quietly in the back. They’d secured two of Eric’s ATVs on a trailer behind them. It seemed like only yesterday he’d agreed to be part of this wild goose chase, but it had been nearly six weeks since they’d agreed to wait until the snow melted.

If someone had told him he’d be riding to the ends of the earth with Schindler, hoping to resolve a case he’d promised Chief Thornton he’d drop—a case he himself had scoffed at not too long ago—he’d have questioned his or her sanity. Maybe he should question his own. But the chief had been retired nearly thirty days—his fair-haired daughter now an accomplice in an unauthorized search for the bodies of the missing women. As far as Richard was concerned, this was a fishing expedition. The bodies could be anywhere, assuming they even existed.

Eric talked about resorting to cadaver dogs and even ground-penetrating radar, GPR, if today’s search came up with nothing. GPR. Christ, the guy must have an endless supply of money.

They were headed for Ashland County. The county’s upper border ended at Chequamegon Bay, an offshoot of Lake Superior. Mellen, a tiny town in the northwestern end of the county, was home to the hospital where Rommelfanger had lain close to death so many years ago. Wilson’s property, which had been owned by his uncle until he inherited it, lay about five miles north of Mellen.

Richard suspected the group’s involvement in Wilson’s timely demise, but had yet to figure out how it could have been accomplished. He had to admit, Schindler moving heaven and earth to recover the bodies of Wilson’s victims didn’t seem to fit with Schindler as a murderer.

The police forces had moved on to other things as the investigation into the missing women became cooler every day. It was too early for the statistics to have gone back to normal, but Richard had become a grudging convert to the theory of Wilson as the killer. Even his partner didn’t know he’d joined the group in their search—Richard was on his own time with this one.

Claire stood in the rustic farmhouse, watching as Eric and Richard rode off on the ATVs. The small place remained neat and clean; she hadn’t cancelled the contract with the property management service that maintained it. There was little here of James. It looked like he’d never been in these rooms, although she knew he’d spent many weekends here, away from the city. And her. Poring through the old-fashioned house, she wondered if she’d find anything more personal than the furniture. She came across a dusty photo album in an old pie safe and carried it over to the round, oak kitchen table. The album had to have belonged to James’ uncle. His uncle’s family name and the date were written on the inside of the front cover.

Leafing through the musty pages, she found a photo of a woman labeled as Lorraine, James’ mother, holding a baby in her arms. God created all babies beautiful. Sadly, James’ beauty as a baby had been fleeting. On a following page, as a toddler, his features had already begun shaping into those of Ronnie. Claire noticed photos missing from each photo event, leaving blank spaces on many pages. Her heart softened with pity as she realized which photos were missing and why. Ronnie had destroyed the photos of himself.