CHAPTER THREE ╱ Blood-Stained Lamb

THE BLACKTOP WAS HOT AGAINST THE TREAD OF RIVER'S TIRES. He'd cut the time it took to travel to Tatum's in half. It was nearing seven thirty. His sirens blared, drowning out the noise of his thoughts, as he veered down the pathway of Mariposa Drive.

       It was a lengthy drive that was encompassed by a swarm of maples. Truthfully, he was astonished by Tatum's selection of such residential seclusion. The forest, the winding path, the absorption of nature—he'd be in denial if he said it didn't remind him of the Summer of '76. It was something he figured she'd stray from, all things considered.

       And surely the events of that summer haunted Tatum like it had haunted him. A year evoked by a looming spirit of things long forgotten, of things left buried.

       As the road widened, a house came into view. A Tudor-style home with an intricate design scheme that River didn't favor. Shrubs lined the front of the home. Looped around a giant oak tree planted at the base of the yard, a wooden swing painted a dusty rose. He swallowed harshly.

       Stood against one of the white front porch banisters, a familiar face lacking age, but absorbed by a newfound maturity. Her hair was darker, and a lot thicker than he remembered. Front bangs curved around her cheekbones and bounced outwards. Her pale skin was a few shades darker, her legs a bit longer and left concealed behind a pair of denim jeans that she'd rolled at the ankle. Tucked inside of them, a blue sweatshirt, and a brown belt cinched at her waist.

Her arms were settled against the lower half of her stomach. As he slowed his vehicle to a stop, he watched her eyes soften and fill with relief. He'd seen the look before.

He flicked off the engine and raced towards her. Without haste, she flung her arms around him and bit back another sob. Their chests collided with a light thump. He could feel her heart pounding vehemently. Tightening his grip around her, he felt her release a bit of tension from her shoulders. She was frailer than she had been ten years earlier.

A shadow of the girl she once was . . . or rather the girl she dreamed of being.

Her voice was muffled against his neck as she spoke. Her voice was softer in person than it had been previously via telephone.

"Thank you for coming."

Strengthening his hold on her, he lowered his chin to the top of her head. "Of course."

She shifted beneath him and an awkwardness coated the air they shared. She emptied her throat, refused to meet his eye and beckoned for him to follow her inside.

He watched her backside move swiftly through the air. Her bones were bare beneath her sweatshirt. One of her shoulders had become exposed while they had shared a brief embrace. She scooped it up between her pearl-painted fingertips. He silenced his thoughts. Now was not the time. Some things never change, do they, Riv?

She rambled as they wandered inside. "I just dropped off Winona at school, my daughter," she informed him. His heart sank a little, but her ring finger was barren of a band. A glimmer of hope arose in his chest.

"Um . . . I came home, the door was still locked. We had a late start so I hadn't gotten properly dressed for the day. It's why my hair's such a mess, my face too."

Neither was awry. She looked beautiful, but he allowed her to continue on as she led him through the bohemian-styled home. Eclectic rugs lined the hardwood floors. Splashes of sienna and fawn were littered throughout the home. She had beige sofas and chestnut countertops, decorative pillows with intricate patterns.

The anomaly was the array of colorful toys scattered about the floors. Crayons were spilled out on the kitchen table and coloring books were left abandoned in a haste to get to school on time.

She veered into a bedroom at the end of the hallway. A few doors down, a door sign hung by a single nail. Winona Jane was displayed in a cursive font. Hand-painted flowers were spun around the white lettering.

"I opened my closet like normal and, well . . . see for yourself."

He paused. He rounded the wooden, white door and was astonished by the sight before him. Scribbled messily in the blood of what used to be a lamb, "I KNOW WHAT HAPPENED TO AMIE LONG!"

His breath hitched in his throat. His face was that of stone, and Tatum peered up at him wearily. She hadn't returned her eyes to the lamb, had merely stepped aside for him to take a look, and had meandered her eyes anywhere but the beheaded creature hung in her closet.

It'd take days to get the bloodstains out.

She felt foolish for thinking that way.

"I wanted to call the police, but I thought better of it." she murmured, her eyes tracing his features. He was much older. Cedar-scented cologne masked the underlying waft of Marlboro reds. He'd taken up smoking. His cheeks were a bit sunken, a growing stubble adding a bit of flare to his rather sullen appearance.

But he was still as sexy as ever, with his crystallized eyes and round lips. There were indents in his ears where piercings used to be. The late seventies was an experimental time for everyone. He was a head taller than her now. He'd been lanky as a teen, but had filled out overtime. She could make out the prominence of his veins beneath his button-up, wondered if his chest matched the brawn of his arms.

She lowered her eyes after capturing a brief tick of his jaw, and when she lifted them, he was staring down at her.

"Tate, you know I'm—"

"A cop? Yeah, I know, but you know what I mean . . . don't you?"

He swallowed, his eyes trailing back over to the bloody arrangement. "We should clean this up. I'll collect a few samples. Technology's advancing, there's a whole theory about the importance of DNA . . ."

God, he felt dorky explaining these things to her. He was rambling. If the circumstances were different, she'd smile at him out of pure amusement, but she didn't.

"Um . . . I have spare baggies and gloves in my car. I'll go, uh, I'll go get 'em."

She was closest to the door, having inched over and away from the beheaded lamb. Her reaction was delayed and he was always so quick on his feet. He stood before her, waiting for her to edge out of the way.

Gawkily, she shifted her back against the door. She'd underestimated the width of his body. He attempted to weasel through the gap between herself and the doorframe. Eyes up, he repeated to himself.

But his eyes traveled downward, found hers again, and he felt his chest flare up. Emptying his throat, he spared her a small smile. "'Scuse me."

  "My goodness, sorry! I feel like such a mess."

She swiped at her forehead with the back of her hand, before allowing it to drift against the back of his arm. She pivoted and granted him more room to depart, but as he made an effort too, his pager began to vibrate against his hip.

He removed it from the depths of his pocket, flicked it upwards, and skimmed his eyes across the small screen.

911! ( 555-391 )

It was a message from his partner within the department, Detective Richard Bloom. He averted his eyes toward Tatum, then quickly requested to use her phone before they tended to the mess in her bedroom. He telephoned Richard who was similar to him in age. Their personalities differed, though.

Richie was tall and accredited his meaty exterior to his ancestors—a Viking clan River didn't bother housing to his memory. His hair was a naturally faint platinum at the ends, his roots a tad shade darker.

They'd been raised in the same county, had played several Friday Night Football games against on another. Richie had a brief romance with Coralie Meyers. The blonde was far more outgoing, a little less analytical, and took the free flow approach to life. He credited that to the seventies, but River chalked it up to the lifestyle of Richie's hippie parents.

Nonetheless, they both took their jobs very seriously.

  "It's Kennedy, go 'head, Rich." he grumbled against Tatum's pastel-hued landline.

  "You better get down here, Riv. It's . . . God, it's bad, man. Real bad."

His voice was shaky. River's brows contorted, and he exchanged a quick glance with Tatum, whose expression mirrored his own; Confusion. Curiosity.

"Where's here, Rich?"

The man cleared his throat. River could discern the howling wind. The happy little morning birds weren't chirping. Instead, the vultures were cawing. Dread engulfed River's chest.

  "Is it Stephanie?" River inquired woefully.

"No, Riv. It's not Stephanie," the man informed him. Relief settled into River's apprehensive bones. "We're over by your dad's old camp by Haven Bluff. Get down here as quick as you can."

River's mouth filtered out every bit of spit, all of it drying up on his tongue, and his nose experienced the same effect but had become devoid of oxygen instead. His knees trembled, weakening his legs. He tightened his grip around the handset.

  "Is it Amie?"

Tatum clenched her chest with an outstretch hand. She began to experience a similar phenomenon at the sound of the name. Her heart picked up speed. Breathing became a struggle. Her sun-kissed skin blanched and when she made an attempt to swallow the stale air absorbing her frame, it collected into a large lump, forming a blockade in her airway.

"No, Riv. It's . . . uh, it's Coralie. Please just get here."