and fixed his gaze on the other man. “There was,” he said. “There was something all of you could’ve done. You could’ve found out who really attacked Cynthia Allen.” He jerked his head back toward the morgue. “Then my son would still be alive, wouldn’t he?” His eyes locked onto Mark Ralston’s. “Well, fuck you, Ralston. Fuck all of you.” Turning around, he walked quickly away down the street.
S omething had been gnawing at Keith, nibbling at the edge of his consciousness ever since he’d gotten back in the truck and started the long drive back out to Bridgehampton. Something about what he’d seen in the morgue.
About Jeff’s body.
He hadn’t wanted to remember that terrible sight at all, had hoped to blot it out of his consciousness. But no matter how hard he tried, it kept coming back. Coming back, jabbing at him.
Then, just as he was leaving the expressway, it came to him.
It wasn’t something he’d seen at all—it was something he hadn’t seen!
It was a tattoo—a small figure of a sun rising above a pyramid, which Jeff had let three of his friends talk him into getting during a spring break trip to the Caribbean two years ago. It had been etched into his skin, just inside his hip. “I wasn’t really sure I wanted to do it at all,” he’d explained when he finally showed it to his father. “So at least here no one can see it if I don’t want them to. And if I really start hating it—or Heather hates it—I can have it removed with a laser.”
Heather hadn’t hated it, and as far as Keith knew, Jeff hadn’t started hating it, either.
But the body he’d seen in the morgue hadn’t had a tattoo.
Keith’s heart was racing now, and he gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white as he slowed to a stop at the red light at the foot of the off ramp. He reached back into his memory, reluctantly pulling the image of Jeff’s body into the forefront of his mind.
One of the only parts that hadn’t been scorched was the groin. Like a tan line, he remembered thinking when the sheet had first been lifted and he’d seen horrible contrast between the badly burned skin above the waist and the less damaged skin lower down, where it had been protected by the heavy denim of his jeans.
There had been no tattoo.
And that meant—
No, I’m wrong,
Keith told himself, refusing to let himself even complete the thought.
He must’ve gotten it taken off.
But even if he had, wouldn’t there have been a scar?
And there hadn’t been a scar—not that he’d been able to see. And if there was no tattoo, and no scar, then—
Again he refused to let himself finish the thought, but as the light turned green and the car behind him began to honk, he just sat there, unable to do anything.
And the thought finished itself.
He’s not dead.
If Jeff hadn’t had the tattoo removed, then the body he’d seen in the morgue wasn’t Jeff’s.
His hands shaking, Keith picked up the cell phone, turned it on, then scrolled through its memory until Heather Randall’s home phone number came up. He pressed the number, then waited nervously until the connection was made.
An answering machine picked up.
“It’s Keith Converse,” he said. “Call me as soon as you get this message, Heather. I’ve got to know if Jeff still had his tattoo. The one of the sun rising over a pyramid.”
Leaving the number of his cell phone, he hung up.
This time, though, he didn’t turn the cell phone off.
He left it on, and prayed for it to ring.
CHAPTER 7
K eith’s phone started to ring less than a minute after he broke the connection with the answering machine in Perry Randall’s apartment. Snatching it up and flipping it open, he pressed it to his ear and began speaking: “Heather? Tell me that Jeff hadn’t had his tattoo removed.”
But it wasn’t Heather who replied, it was his wife. “His tattoo?” Mary said. “Keith, what are you talking about? What’s happened?”
Keith ignored her
S omething had been gnawing at Keith, nibbling at the edge of his consciousness ever since he’d gotten back in the truck and started the long drive back out to Bridgehampton. Something about what he’d seen in the morgue.
About Jeff’s body.
He hadn’t wanted to remember that terrible sight at all, had hoped to blot it out of his consciousness. But no matter how hard he tried, it kept coming back. Coming back, jabbing at him.
Then, just as he was leaving the expressway, it came to him.
It wasn’t something he’d seen at all—it was something he hadn’t seen!
It was a tattoo—a small figure of a sun rising above a pyramid, which Jeff had let three of his friends talk him into getting during a spring break trip to the Caribbean two years ago. It had been etched into his skin, just inside his hip. “I wasn’t really sure I wanted to do it at all,” he’d explained when he finally showed it to his father. “So at least here no one can see it if I don’t want them to. And if I really start hating it—or Heather hates it—I can have it removed with a laser.”
Heather hadn’t hated it, and as far as Keith knew, Jeff hadn’t started hating it, either.
But the body he’d seen in the morgue hadn’t had a tattoo.
Keith’s heart was racing now, and he gripped the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white as he slowed to a stop at the red light at the foot of the off ramp. He reached back into his memory, reluctantly pulling the image of Jeff’s body into the forefront of his mind.
One of the only parts that hadn’t been scorched was the groin. Like a tan line, he remembered thinking when the sheet had first been lifted and he’d seen horrible contrast between the badly burned skin above the waist and the less damaged skin lower down, where it had been protected by the heavy denim of his jeans.
There had been no tattoo.
And that meant—
No, I’m wrong,
Keith told himself, refusing to let himself even complete the thought.
He must’ve gotten it taken off.
But even if he had, wouldn’t there have been a scar?
And there hadn’t been a scar—not that he’d been able to see. And if there was no tattoo, and no scar, then—
Again he refused to let himself finish the thought, but as the light turned green and the car behind him began to honk, he just sat there, unable to do anything.
And the thought finished itself.
He’s not dead.
If Jeff hadn’t had the tattoo removed, then the body he’d seen in the morgue wasn’t Jeff’s.
His hands shaking, Keith picked up the cell phone, turned it on, then scrolled through its memory until Heather Randall’s home phone number came up. He pressed the number, then waited nervously until the connection was made.
An answering machine picked up.
“It’s Keith Converse,” he said. “Call me as soon as you get this message, Heather. I’ve got to know if Jeff still had his tattoo. The one of the sun rising over a pyramid.”
Leaving the number of his cell phone, he hung up.
This time, though, he didn’t turn the cell phone off.
He left it on, and prayed for it to ring.
CHAPTER 7
K eith’s phone started to ring less than a minute after he broke the connection with the answering machine in Perry Randall’s apartment. Snatching it up and flipping it open, he pressed it to his ear and began speaking: “Heather? Tell me that Jeff hadn’t had his tattoo removed.”
But it wasn’t Heather who replied, it was his wife. “His tattoo?” Mary said. “Keith, what are you talking about? What’s happened?”
Keith ignored her
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