room.”
He stopped in front of some white double doors, his hands poised to open them. He was looking at Ben for the signal to proceed.
“Are we ready?”
Ben nodded.
The room was about fourteen feet by ten, and lit with a roseate glow by four tall uplighters, their tops flared like lilies. The plain, pale wood casket stood open on a waist-high table. From the doorway, all Ben could see of its interior was a band of pink satin lining.
“I’ll leave you,” Jim Pickering said. “I’ll be just along the corridor. Take as long as you need.”
“Thank you.”
The doors closed quietly behind him. Ben stood there a moment, trying to conjure a trace of his earlier, absurd hope that the body would be someone else’s. But he knew it was Abbie. He could feel his blood pulsing fast and insistent in his ears and an icy weight turned in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed and stepped forward.
It was almost three years since he had seen her. Her hair then had been dyed black and cut short and spiky, as if to advertise her anger. But now it was back to its natural reddish blond and longer and neatly combed so that it framed her slender neck and softened her. The face, with its pert nose and prettily arched eyebrows, was light-years from the hostile, screaming contortion that had haunted his head since that terrible night. Death, perversely, had warmed her. The funeral makeup had given her skin a clever, healthy luster. There was even, in the tilt of her chin and in the dimpling at the corners of her mouth, a curious immanence. As if something in a dream had amused her and at any moment she might smile or wake and tell him what it was. And open those eyes. Gray-green and flecked with hazel. He wished he could see them just one more time.
The only other body Ben had ever seen was his father’s, almost twenty years before. And the undertakers then had gotten it all wrong—his hair, his expression, the way he knotted his necktie, everything. They had plastered on so much rouge and mascara and lipstick that he looked like some frightful, unwigged drag queen.
But in her white gown, like the bride she would never be, his daughter looked only serene and innocent and utterly beautiful.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered. “My little sweetheart.”
He gripped the rim of the casket and bowed his head and closed his eyes. And the sobs came quaking through him and he didn’t try to fight them. Alone now, he would allow himself this, and later be the stronger for Sarah.
How long he stood there, he couldn’t tell. When he could cry no more, he straightened himself and walked across to a little table where a box of tissues had been placed. And when he had dried his face and composed himself, he walked once more to the casket and leaned in and kissed his daughter’s cheek. She smelled of nothing and her flesh against his lips was as cold as stone.
FIVE
S arah let the waitress fill her cup with coffee for the third time, and tried not to watch the two men across the table finishing their breakfasts. The sight and smell of all that egg and bacon and fried potato was making her feel queasy.
Jet-lagged, she had taken a sleeping pill sometime after midnight and all it did was plunge her into a shallow semicoma fraught with anxious dreams. She woke twisted in her sheets like a mummy and with a blurred and aching head that two heavy-duty painkillers had failed to clear. Outside it was still raining. It hadn’t stopped since she arrived.
Benjamin had met her when she got off the plane and had driven her to the hotel in the ridiculous little car he’d rented. Why he had to be so cheap, she had no idea. But she hadn’t mentioned it. On the flight she had given herself strict instructions to be civil. But, God, it was hard. Even the sight of him now, eating his breakfast and talking trivia with this sheriff character, made her feel angry. He had grown his hair longer and bought himself some trendy little wire-rimmed glasses. All very
He stopped in front of some white double doors, his hands poised to open them. He was looking at Ben for the signal to proceed.
“Are we ready?”
Ben nodded.
The room was about fourteen feet by ten, and lit with a roseate glow by four tall uplighters, their tops flared like lilies. The plain, pale wood casket stood open on a waist-high table. From the doorway, all Ben could see of its interior was a band of pink satin lining.
“I’ll leave you,” Jim Pickering said. “I’ll be just along the corridor. Take as long as you need.”
“Thank you.”
The doors closed quietly behind him. Ben stood there a moment, trying to conjure a trace of his earlier, absurd hope that the body would be someone else’s. But he knew it was Abbie. He could feel his blood pulsing fast and insistent in his ears and an icy weight turned in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed and stepped forward.
It was almost three years since he had seen her. Her hair then had been dyed black and cut short and spiky, as if to advertise her anger. But now it was back to its natural reddish blond and longer and neatly combed so that it framed her slender neck and softened her. The face, with its pert nose and prettily arched eyebrows, was light-years from the hostile, screaming contortion that had haunted his head since that terrible night. Death, perversely, had warmed her. The funeral makeup had given her skin a clever, healthy luster. There was even, in the tilt of her chin and in the dimpling at the corners of her mouth, a curious immanence. As if something in a dream had amused her and at any moment she might smile or wake and tell him what it was. And open those eyes. Gray-green and flecked with hazel. He wished he could see them just one more time.
The only other body Ben had ever seen was his father’s, almost twenty years before. And the undertakers then had gotten it all wrong—his hair, his expression, the way he knotted his necktie, everything. They had plastered on so much rouge and mascara and lipstick that he looked like some frightful, unwigged drag queen.
But in her white gown, like the bride she would never be, his daughter looked only serene and innocent and utterly beautiful.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered. “My little sweetheart.”
He gripped the rim of the casket and bowed his head and closed his eyes. And the sobs came quaking through him and he didn’t try to fight them. Alone now, he would allow himself this, and later be the stronger for Sarah.
How long he stood there, he couldn’t tell. When he could cry no more, he straightened himself and walked across to a little table where a box of tissues had been placed. And when he had dried his face and composed himself, he walked once more to the casket and leaned in and kissed his daughter’s cheek. She smelled of nothing and her flesh against his lips was as cold as stone.
FIVE
S arah let the waitress fill her cup with coffee for the third time, and tried not to watch the two men across the table finishing their breakfasts. The sight and smell of all that egg and bacon and fried potato was making her feel queasy.
Jet-lagged, she had taken a sleeping pill sometime after midnight and all it did was plunge her into a shallow semicoma fraught with anxious dreams. She woke twisted in her sheets like a mummy and with a blurred and aching head that two heavy-duty painkillers had failed to clear. Outside it was still raining. It hadn’t stopped since she arrived.
Benjamin had met her when she got off the plane and had driven her to the hotel in the ridiculous little car he’d rented. Why he had to be so cheap, she had no idea. But she hadn’t mentioned it. On the flight she had given herself strict instructions to be civil. But, God, it was hard. Even the sight of him now, eating his breakfast and talking trivia with this sheriff character, made her feel angry. He had grown his hair longer and bought himself some trendy little wire-rimmed glasses. All very
Similar Books
