"The Marker" - читать интересную книгу автора (Morgen Shelby)

THE MARKER

SHELBY MORGEN
й Copyright Shelby Morgen, 2003.
All Rights Reserved, Ellora's Cave.
Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc. USA
Ellora's Cave Ltd, UK
Edited by Martha Punches Cover Art by Scott Carpenter

All characters and events are fictional. No reference to any actual person or event, in whole or in part, is in any way implied by any scene or character representation in this novel.
A heartfelt thanks to the West Virginia State Police, Jefferson and Berkeley County Detachments, and to the staff of the Maryland Correctional Institution-Hagerstown, for answering endless questions with patience and attention to detail.
Special thanks to Treva, Kate, Martha, J.D., Maryam and M.T. for endless hours and
encouragement
And to my husband, Bill, for introducing me to all things Irish...
Erin Go Bragh


Prologue
Monday May 1st, 1989
"Just a little farther, now." The lantern cast a dim shadow. The air was thick, heavy with moisture. They were interlopers, intruders disturbing the silence with the sharp intake of their breath. The climb up had been steep, and all of them were winded. They stood, staring as far ahead as the sputtering lantern cast its miserly glow, awed by the scene before them. The only sound other than their breath was a slow drip of water somewhere toward the back of the miniature lake.
"It's gorgeous," the woman whispered.
A tiny metallic click was the only warning they ever had. The woman turned as a blinding flash of light split the dank air. The explosion echoed off the stone walls, a cacophony of sound in that still, quiet place. She had time to scream before the second shot rang out.
*****
Sam Callaghan bolted out of the bed, scrambling for his gunbelt. It took him a moment, hunched there in the darkness beside the bed, to realize the gunshots belonged to another world. The cold, dank world of a dream. His heart hammered out a rhythm that would have done a bass guitarist proud. The adrenaline shooting through his veins was certainly real. He stood up slowly, sliding his service revolver back into its holster. He ran a shaking hand through his hair and glanced at the clock. 4:30 AM. Too late to go back to sleep.
Gunbelt still clasped loosely in one hand, he made a check of the perimeter, rattling the lock on each window and turning every doorknob before he slid the bolt home on the bathroom door and climbed into the shower. He stood there under the pounding spray until the water started to run cold, loath to return to reality. But with the towel and the lights came the reflection looking back at him from the mirror.
"Second Sight," his mother had called it. "God's gift to the Irish." Well, God could have it back, Sam decided. That and all the rest of his Irish heritage. He wanted no more of these dreams that were more real than being awake.
Hope hadn't even been in this one.
Or had she?
In his dream, the shooter had had both hands on the pistol.
Who had been holding that lantern?
Chapter One
Wednesday, May 3rd, 1989
First Sergeant Sam Callaghan pulled his cruiser to a stop outside the main gates of the Maryland Correctional Institution-Hagerstown. It was good to plant his feet back on the ground. He stretched, flexing one vertebra at a time until he stood erect, his stance military in its precision as he reached his full 6'5" in height. He took his time crossing the asphalt drive to the armory door. He was in no real hurry to check his weaponЧhe always felt naked once he'd surrendered his sidearm.
The dream he'd had three days ago hadn't helped any. He could still hear the echoes of the shots ringing out whenever he closed his eyes. It didn't matter that it had happenedЧwhatever had happenedЧover eighteen years ago. The dream made it fresh, a raw aching wound, as if it had all been yesterday.
Especially the part about Hope.
These long drives left him a little stiffer now. He was starting to feel his age. He still volunteered for every out of town assignment that came along, though there seemed little point any more. It had been too longЧfifteen years. Fifteen years, and all he had was questions, and doubts, and fears, and a hollow ache where his heart should have been. Still he couldn't quite shake the lingering belief that somehow, somewhere, he'd find her again. He'd round a corner, turn the bend, open a door, and there she'd be.
He was a fool. He was a cop. He knew how to find people. If he couldn't find her she didn't want to be found. What was worse, he knew he was a fool, and he still couldn't give it up. What was she to him, anyway? A suspect. Not even that, really. An innocent caught up in a world she'd barely comprehended.
Her very innocence was what had captured him. Despite the filth around her, she'd remained cleanЧthe only clean, pure thing there was to remind him that no matter how far under he went, men like Jesse couldn't destroy all that was good in the world.
Jesse had called her Hope. Sam knew it wasn't her real name, but no matter how hard he'd tried, he couldn't find out who she really was or where she'd come fromЧor where she'd gone back to. It was partly his own fault. He'd wanted to keep her name out of his reports. The less he knew about her back then, the better it was for her.
By the time he wanted to know more it was too late. She'd vanished without a trace.
Men like Jesse used women like HopeЧused them and broke them and left them along the roadside like yesterday's trash. For a while, Sam had been fortunate enough to share some little part of Hope's life. He'd made a difference.
Just not enough of a difference. Because when it came right down to it, the case always came first.
Now, fifteen years later, all he had to show for his dedication was a few extra pieces of brass on his collar, an empty place beside him in his bed at night, and an unclosed homicide nearly two decades old. Still he couldn't let go. Some jobs you just couldn't leave at the office when you went home at night. He'd never been able to get Jesse out of his head. He'd never been able to get Hope out of his heart.
Fifteen years had come and gone, and he was no closer to finding Hope than the day she left. Maybe it was time to let her go.
The asphalt felt slightly sticky with heat under his black oxfords. The air in the Administration Building was already stuffy, though summer wasn't officially here yet. Sam stood waiting at the front desk while the receptionist called for a junior officer who would escort him back to the operations building.
Brenda, his dispatcher, had asked him out a few weeks ago. A man couldn't help noticing how well Brenda filled out that uniform. She wasn't Hope, but she'd been there, been part of his life, every day for the last fifteen years. If she hadn't given up on him yet, Sam decided, he'd accept. Hell. Maybe he'd ask her. He wasn't getting any younger. Besides, there was that betting pool the squad had going. He wasn't supposed to know about it, but there was little in his barracks that escaped his notice.
"Can I help you, Officer?"
Sam pushed his smoke colored sunglasses to the top of his head long enough to let his eyes adjust to the relatively dim interior florescent lighting. He looked downЧand down again.