When Death Draws Near Read online

  “Well now, Miz Marcey.” Clay rubbed his chin. “Seems you have a lot to do with this here sketch. You can maybe meet with Shelby Lee tomorrow—”

  “Why not now?”

  “There’s just no sense in overloading you with work.”

  I blinked at him. “I’m hardly overloaded. I’m here. Although I’m glad to help you with the unknown remains.” I nodded at the body bag. “You did fly me out all the way from Montana to work on your serial rapist cases.”

  “Well now . . .”

  “Is something wrong, Sheriff?” I asked.

  “No. No. No. Nothing. Nothing’s wrong.” He shook his head, then turned and headed for the door. “Follow me.”

  I stared at his retreating back. He’s lying.

  CHAPTER TWO

  SHELBY LEE REALLY LOOKED DEAD.

  Only the minuscule rising and falling of the blanket pulled up to her chest revealed a hint of life.

  “Shelby Lee?” The sheriff touched her arm. “Shelby Lee, the artist lady is here. Wake up, honey.”

  I placed my forensic art kit, a small roller bag, on the floor. After pulling out a notepad and two pencils, tucking one behind my ear as backup, I moved closer to her bed.

  Her porcelain skin blended with the hospital sheets. Delicate lavender veins tinted her eyelids while deep smudges of violet underscored her eyes. Her parted lips were raw and cracked. A line of cigarette burns marched up her arm, and the stitches on her temple stood out like a black centipede.

  I snapped the pencil in two. Oh, Lord, I need to catch this guy.

  The infusion pump above her head click-click-clicked away and cool, antiseptic-smelling air wheezed from the wall vent, gently fluffing my hair.

  “She drifts in and out,” Clay said. “Well, we tried—”

  “Sheriff?” The question was an exhale of air from the girl.

  “Ah, Shelby Lee, honey, this is the lady I told you about. Remember?” Clay moved slightly so she could see me. “Her name is Miz Marcey. She’s going to draw a sketch of the man who did this to you.”

  “Call me Gwen.” I kept my voice soft.

  Shelby Lee looked from Clay’s face to mine, then back to his. Her gaze slid down to his gold watch, then his left hand. Tears pooled in her eyes before trickling down her cheeks. She bit her lower lip and shook her head slightly.

  Crimson welts circled her thin wrists and round bruises punctuated her throat.

  “I can come back later if you want,” I said.

  She turned her head and stared at the wall.

  “I was afraid of this.” Clay touched my elbow and pointed to the door.

  I picked up my kit and we stepped into the hallway. A hot flash, a reminder of my battle with breast cancer over a year ago, slipped up my neck and across my face. I waited until it passed.

  “Well.” Clay sighed. “Like I said, we tried. I can’t thank you enough, Miz Marcey, for flying out here to help us—”

  “Whoa, wait a minute.” I placed the kit on the floor and held up my hands. “I didn’t say I couldn’t develop a composite sketch. I said I can come back when she’s ready.”

  Clay ran a hand through his hair. “But what if she’s never ready? I mean, I don’t know anything about the stuff you do—”

  “Forensic art.”

  “Yeah, that forensic art. Now, I’m just a country boy here, but isn’t it true some folks can never remember?”

  “Yeees.” I half shrugged my shoulder. “Sometimes. We won’t know until I try again. Or, since this is a serial rapist, I could work with other victims. Most rape victims will never forget the face of their attacker.”

  “That might be hard. The other victims skedaddled. In some cases, the whole family left town. No forwarding address.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe the shame—”

  “Shame? They’re victims!”

  “Now, Miz Marcey, don’t get all riled.”

  “Please call me Gwen.”

  “Okay, Miz Gwen. That’s not what I think. We have some small minds here.” He shrugged. “I really don’t know where they are. I had hoped that Shelby Lee—” Clay’s cell phone jangled from his pocket. He tugged it out. “Sheriff Reed.” He listened a moment. “We’re getting busier than a stump-tailed cow in fly time.” He dry-washed his face with one hand. “Get Junior on it. Okay then, who is on duty? Get her. No, I . . . hang it, I’ll come over myself.” He dropped the phone into his pocket and frowned at me. “I gotta run.” He swiftly strolled down the hall. “I’ll get someone to give you a ride to the hotel,” he called over his shoulder.

  “But, Sheriff—”

  I was alone. A prickling of unease touched me between the shoulder blades. I slowly wandered to the waiting area near the front doors of the hospital and slid onto an ultramodern black sofa. Sheriff Clay Reed seemed to give up pretty easily on using a forensic artist on that rape case. I thought for a moment, then pulled out my phone.

  Dave answered on the first ring. “Ravalli County Sheriff’s Department. Sheriff Moore.”

  “Dave—”

  “Ah. Gwen. In trouble already?”

  “No—”

  “Good. I don’t have time to spring you from jail. I’m on my way out the door to the Law Enforcement Torch Run in Seattle.”

  “About this temporary job you found for me—”

  “You’ve been fired already? That didn’t take long. Less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Dave, stop interrupting me.”

  A family of six poured into the waiting room. Two of the youngest seemed to be having a competition as to who could scream louder. “Hang on.” I stood, grabbed my kit, and headed outside. Once there, I made sure no one was in earshot. “I thought you told me the sheriff here needed a forensic artist on a serial rapist case. I’m now working on an unknown remains.”

  “Hey, work is work.”

  “But this guy has no clue as to what to do with me!”

  “I should welcome him to the club—”

  “Dave! I just need to know what the deal is about this sheriff.”

  “Look, you told me you were broke.”

  “Well—”

  “And you needed work. If I remember, you said you’d flip hamburgers if necessary.”

  I squeezed the phone tighter. “That’s a figure of speech. About Clay . . .?”

  “I’m getting there,” Dave said. “I made a few calls to former classmates from National Academy. One sheriff, from the next county over from you, mentioned the serial rapist. I called Sheriff Reed and told him about you.”

  “And?”

  “He initially wasn’t interested, but called the next day and requested you.”

  “What made him change his mind?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m late. If you don’t like the job, just come home.”

  “I will. But something bothers me—”

  “Fine. Be bothered. Talk to you later.” He hung up.

  Before I could call him back, a deputy drove up, parked, and signaled to me. I put my kit in the backseat, then slid into the front. “Ma’am.” He drove me over to the hotel.

  I suddenly felt exhausted. My plane had been delayed getting into Lexington the previous day, and even though Clay picked me up, the drive from Lexington to Pikeville was another two hours over a winding road. At the hotel, I’d only slept a short amount of time. I wasn’t used to street sounds and lights outside my window.

  The deputy dropped me off in front of the hotel and I crossed to the front desk. The clerk was a woman in her twenties with short black hair, a purple streak on the left side. Five earrings marched up each ear and a small silver loop pierced her eyebrow. Her name badge said Ina Jo.

  “Hi.” I grinned at her. “Do you have a list of places to eat? Either walking distance or delivery.”

  Ina Jo opened a drawer and pulled out a handful of menus. I was about to ask about recommendations when a woman arrived with an adorable baby. “She had a good nap.
” The woman handed the baby over to Ina Jo. The clerk took her and automatically started rocking back and forth and rubbing the baby’s back.

  “What a cutie,” I said.

  Ina Jo beamed, then said to the other woman, “Can you take her tomorrow? I have to work.”

  I grabbed up the menus and left the two women working out babysitting details. Crossing the marble-and-wood-lined lobby to the first-floor hall, I made my way down to my corner room. Windows faced the front of the hotel and a parking lot on the side. An exit door to my left led to the back parking area. During the day, the staff routinely propped the door open with a large rock to facilitate frequent smoking breaks, a security violation that fell on deaf ears when I pointed it out.

  The hotel had been remodeled recently, and my suite featured a kitchenette and a separate bedroom, all decorated in neutral, earth-toned colors. The space allowed me to spread my forensic art materials across the kitchen and living area. After turning off my cell, I kicked off my black pumps and strolled to the bedroom. Then I pulled the drapes to block the view of the parking lot. I took off the claret-colored Burberry jacket and matching slacks and hung them up. My fingers lingered on the expensive fabric. Fortunately I was the right size to benefit from a barely worn, designer wardrobe dumped at a Missoula secondhand shop.

  I unsnapped my specially made bra containing a pair of heavy breast prostheses and draped it over a chair. The breast forms were a necessary evil until I decided what I would do about the double mastectomy I’d had over a year and a half ago. I hadn’t been able to recover the last prostheses, dubbed Lucy and Ethel, buried somewhere in Utah. It had been my first case after finishing up my cancer treatments, a little more than a year ago. I’d almost lost my life. I was grateful that the only thing buried was a couple of synthetic boobs. The current pair I’d christened Thelma and Louise.

  The phone rang. I picked it up, but all I heard was a dial tone.

  Slipping into a charcoal-colored lounge outfit, I walked to the kitchen where someone had thoughtfully stocked my refrigerator with cold drinks. I sat at the kitchen table, which I’d already set up with an LED light box, portable drafting board, scanner, and printer.

  I should have made a bigger deal about talking to Shelby Lee. Maybe made Clay leave the room. He might have been the reason she didn’t want to talk.

  After downloading the digital images of the body from my camera to my laptop, I selected the best angle, scaled it, and sent it to the printer.

  He’d tied her wrists. She’d struggled, rubbing them raw.

  Once the enlarged image emerged, I taped it to the light box and placed a piece of Clearprint drafting velum over it. I traced the image exactly, simplifying the remaining facial features, then removed the photograph and worked with the tracing. The lips were gone, so I drew a line where the teeth came together, ending it between the canine and first premolar. The lips would go roughly from gum line to gum line and cover the first six teeth.

  Tomorrow I’ll insist Clay leave Shelby Lee’s room. And if he fights me . . . Well, that girl deserves a mama bear on her side.

  Once I roughed in the outline of the features, I opened a catalog of faces I’d created using old booking photos. I found the nearest feature to the one I’d sketched and used the shading and fine detail to create a more lifelike sketch. This always kept my drawings from looking too generic or flat.

  His eyes appeared to have been slightly shallow set, with level eyebrows hovering just above the eye socket. I thickened the brows with short strokes, rotating my pencil to keep the tip sharp.

  The phone rang.

  I jumped. Reaching the phone on the second ring, I picked up the handset. “Hello?”

  Silence, then a dial tone.

  I stared at the phone a minute, then walked to the door and threw the dead bolt. Returning to my work, I checked the photograph against my sketch. Fortunately the coroner hadn’t washed the body before I had time to photograph it, and I could see the rough outline of the hair style and color. Once the body was rinsed, the hair appeared darker and any style disappeared.

  I need to talk to Shelby Lee pretty soon or I’ll be out of time. I fly out the day after tomorrow.

  Two hours later, I was finishing up. The ravaged face had turned into a rather handsome young man under my moving pencil.

  After photographing the drawing, I uploaded the digital image to my printer and printed out several copies. I backed up the image on a flash drive. The copies and flash drive went into a plastic file folder for the sheriff. As I tucked the original sketch into a small portfolio, my stomach grumbled, reminding me I’d managed to miss lunch. When I stood and stretched, my muscles joined the protest.

  “Food, then a long bath,” I informed the empty room, then pulled out the various dinner menus I’d picked up. Several looked promising. I turned my cell back on. It showed a missed call and a voice message. Click, then a woman’s voice: “Gwen Marcey? This is Dr. West’s office calling from the Cancer Center. Dr. West would like you to make an appointment for some additional tests as soon as possible.” A phone number followed.

  My throat dried, and I wrote down the number with a trembling hand. After hanging up, I covered my mouth to hold back the groan.

  I glanced at my watch. I was on eastern time, but the Cancer Center was on mountain. They’d still be open. I dialed.

  “Five Valley Cancer Center. How may I direct your call?”

  “I received a message from Dr. West. This is Gwen Marcey.”

  “Just a moment.”

  Another click, then the same woman’s voice came on the line. “Hi, Mrs. Marcey. Dr. West wanted me to—”

  “What is it?”

  A pause. “Well, the doctor would be the one—”

  “I’m in Kentucky working on a case. I won’t be home for . . . um . . . weeks. I . . . I need to know if this is an emergency.”

  There was a pause. “This is in reference to your routine tests a week ago. Dr. West just returned from vacation and has had a chance to go over the results. They’re . . . not within the normal range.”

  “Okay.” I made an effort to stop squeezing the phone. “So. You’re saying my cancer has returned.”

  “You’ll need to see the doctor. As soon as possible.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  AFTER DISCONNECTING, I STARED AT THE DESKTOP. God, how can You do this to me?

  God didn’t answer.

  I dialed Beth’s number. The answering machine picked up after four rings. I hung up without leaving a message.

  Cancer. Again.

  A call to my fifteen-year-old daughter, Aynslee, was next. The call went to voice mail.

  I sold my house to pay for the last of the doctor bills. And the new place is delayed because I’m out of money.

  Dave had left for the Torch Run in Seattle.

  Robert, my ex-husband, would hardly be someone I’d want to talk to. He’d divorced me because of my cancer and was now involved with his new wife and writing career.

  I found myself pacing and stopped.

  How would I pay for cancer treatments this time? Insurance would kick in with the new job. But would I still have a job if I was battling cancer?

  Shaking my head, I picked up the phone and dialed. Sheriff Reed’s recorded voice greeted me. I disconnected without leaving a message.

  I wandered to the kitchen and stared at the sketch I’d completed. I’d drawn one iris darker than the other. I picked up a pencil and adjusted the drawing. Someone needs to know you are never coming home.

  Those dark spots on Shelby Lee’s neck were from his fingers squeezing her throat.

  Still holding the pencil, I moved to the middle of the room, slowly sank to my knees, and bowed my head. “God, I know You have a reason and a purpose for what You do. I also know that doesn’t always make life easy. I just pray . . .” What? God knew everything, even that I would pray right now. So if He already knew the cancer would return, what good was prayer? God knew the outcome. How cou
ld anything I prayed for make a difference?

  A cloak of lead settled over my shoulders.

  If your cancer returned so soon after treatment, it’s bound to be a very aggressive cancer. As in metastasized. Stage IV. Eventually—and inevitably—fatal.

  Let’s face it, Gwen. Time isn’t on your side.

  I stayed on my knees until the room was dark. I had to crawl to the sofa to stand again. Slowly rolling the pencil I held between my fingers, I wandered to the window, leaned against the side, and gazed at the street outside. A woman hurried up the sidewalk, occasionally peering over her shoulder. Across the street, two women clutched each other as they scurried past a dark alley. A car parked and a man got out, walked around the vehicle, then helped a woman out. He kept his arm around her shoulders until they reached the well-lit store.

  Pulling the curtains closed, I returned to the table and put the pencil next to the drawing of the John Doe. I needed to get out of this room. Go for a walk. I snatched up my purse and a jacket.

  Ina Jo was still at the front desk.

  “I thought you were about to get off work,” I said.

  “I was,” she whispered, then pointed behind the counter. I leaned over to see her baby sleeping in a car seat on the floor. “My replacement didn’t show. And the sitter isn’t answering her phone. I left word, but it’s just my luck.” She noticed my jacket. “Going out for dinner?”

  “Going out for a walk.”

  “Um, I’m not so sure that’s safe. What with all the . . . you know.”

  I knew all too well. “I need the exercise. Don’t worry. I’m armed.” Even though it wasn’t a pistol, but pepper spray and deadly accuracy at kicking men where it counted. And I just might enjoy using that pepper spray, and kick, on someone right now. Give that rapist a whupping.

  I shoved down the thought.

  “Oh, that’s right, you’re that expert art lady with Sheriff Reed.”

  The entire town seemed to know the sheriff had brought me here. Again the prickle of unease tapped me on the neck. Why did the sheriff bring me all the way from Montana to Kentucky, then want to send me right back?