“Wait a minute. First of all, there’s absolutely nothing except for professional respect between Tony”—Charlie refused to signify guilt by reverting to calling him Bartoli simply because Kaminsky was making her feel self-conscious—“and me. And second, what about you and Crane?”

“There’s nothing between Crane and me. Nothing.”

Charlie was just opening her mouth to point out the various reasons nobody with half a brain could ever be expected to believe that when something unexpected caught her eye.

The First Baptist Church was a small, white-painted brick building with one highly prized stained-glass window and a steeple. It was so old the masonry around the bricks was crumbling, and the steeple listed just a little to the left. Charlie was familiar with it, because her next-door neighbor attended that church and had brought her along to a couple of potlucks. A small graveyard off to the side served as a final resting place for a number of the town’s citizens. An even smaller section of that graveyard had been reserved for Wallens Ridge inmates who had no family to claim them and, in death, nowhere to go.

The church was situated on a corner of the intersection where Kaminsky had just slowed to turn left.

“Stop the car.” Charlie was already fumbling at the door handle. Kaminsky, with a startled glance at her, hit the brakes.

Charlie was out of the car before it had stopped shuddering. Heart in her throat, she hurried over to a single, freshly dug grave in the inmate section.

A simple white wooden cross had been stuck in the ground at its head.

M. A. Garland had been painted on it in crude black letters, along with RIP and the date.

CHAPTER THIRTY

A coal truck rattled up behind the car. Its determined honking forced Kaminsky to drive on through the intersection.

“I’ll circle the block,” she yelled out the window, but Charlie barely heard her.

The grave was mounded dirt, ugly and raw. No attempt had been made to smooth it out or cover it with sod or improve its appearance in any way. There was not a flower in sight.

Charlie’s heart lurched. Her stomach knotted. Her chest felt so tight she could hardly catch her breath.

Garland’s human remains lay six feet down, almost certainly in the cheapest pine coffin the local undertaker could provide.

And no one cared.

Had there been a funeral service? A religious ceremony? Had he been buried in the bloody prison jumpsuit? Probably, because if he was buried here, in this pariah’s grave, no one would have cared enough to provide him with something as dignified as a suit.

Charlie felt as if she were suffocating.

A hedge of six-foot-tall viburnum bushes edged the far side of the little cemetery. Charlie walked jerkily toward them, and began breaking cluster after cluster of the rhododendron-like white flowers from their woody stalks. The sweet smell of the plant hung like perfume in the humid air. When her arms were full, she turned back toward the grave.

Garland was standing there, looking down at his own grave.

Charlie’s step faltered. Her heart turned over. Her throat ached so that she didn’t think she could speak.

Steadying herself, she walked to the grave, bent, and lay the flowers at the foot of the small white cross.

When she straightened, he was looking at her instead of the raw mound.

“Crying for me, Doc?”

That was the first time she realized tears were running down her face.

What could she say? There was no denying it. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to.

“Yes.” Defiantly dashing at the wetness with her fingers, she met his gaze. His eyes were very blue, very intent on her face. There was nothing she could do to stop the gushing tears, or the quivering of her lips. It was ridiculous to feel so shattered. She knew it, and felt shattered anyway. She had known he was dead, had seen him die, and was staring right at his hale-and-hearty-looking ghost.

But she couldn’t help it. The grave seemed so lonely. So forlorn.

Unloved.

She sniffled. Then her breath caught on a sob. Finally she did the only thing she could, and gave up. Sinking to her knees because her perfidious legs would no longer support her, she covered her face with her hands and cried.

“I’m right here, you know.” He was crouching beside her now. Charlie would have turned into his arms except, oh, wait, that wasn’t an option. “There you go with that soft heart of yours again. I’m not worth a single one of your tears.”

That was almost certainly true, and it didn’t make an iota of difference.

She lifted her head to glare at him. His face was close, bent toward hers. His eyes were dark with concern.

“You think I don’t know that?” she asked him fiercely, then despite her best efforts sobbed again, felt more tears gushing, and dropped her face to her hands.

“You’re breaking my heart here.” His voice was low and rough. “Darlin’, please don’t cry.”

Charlie fought for control, but couldn’t seem to stem the tears even when she heard, rather than saw, Kaminsky slap-slapping through the grass toward her.

She looked up, met Garland’s eyes, registered the pain for her in them, then glanced around just to verify that the person coming up on them was indeed Kaminsky. When she looked back, Garland was gone.

“What the hell?” Kaminsky stopped beside her, looking from her to the grave. “This somebody you know?”

“Yes, of course.” Charlie made a mighty effort. Her pride was at stake. She sucked in air, wiped her cheeks with her fingers, and forced herself to stand up.

“You’re a mess,” Kaminsky said with more honesty than tact as she stared into Charlie’s face. “Somebody close?”

“Just somebody I knew.” Moving with an effort, Charlie deliberately turned away from the grave and started walking toward the car. Weeping like a fool did no one any good, Garland least of all. Kaminsky fell in beside her. “It was a shock, is all.”

Kaminsky responded, but Charlie was never sure what she said. They got back in the car, and drove away. By the time they reached the airport and took off for Kill Devil Hills, it was raining. It was raining when they landed, too, big fat drops of water exploding all over them as they ran for the waiting car, but they made it back to the beach house before the worst of the storm broke.

And in all that time, the only thing Charlie could really focus on was trying not to think about that lonely grave turning to mud in the rain.

Central Command was still surrounded with cars and buzzing with activity, although it was after nine p.m. and rain was pouring down. As tired as Charlie was, as much as she wanted to call it a night, she knew there was too much at stake and no time to waste. If there was one sure thing, it was that unless he was stopped, the killer would strike again, soon. So she forced herself to get a grip, and walked into the RV with Kaminsky, both of them shaking off water droplets and shivering as the air-conditioning hit them, to find that the place was hopping. Tony and Crane were in the War Room, with Crane sitting in Kaminsky’s chair and Tony standing behind him. They were both focused on whatever was being displayed on the computer monitor. Charlie vaguely remembered Kaminsky calling Tony from the car to tell him they were back, and now as they entered both men looked at them without surprise.

“Any problems?” Tony asked, peering closely at Charlie as she stopped beside him. She had washed her face on the plane, and renewed her makeup, and in general made sure no trace of her tears remained visible. But still, to judge from the way Tony was looking at her, and then, questioningly, at Kaminsky, something about her expression must still be a little off.

Okay, so maybe I don’t have such a good poker face, Charlie thought wryly, shaking her head at Tony while waiting with resignation for Kaminsky to rat her out.