Trace Evidence

The room looked exactly as it had last night when he had been inside. Nothing appeared to be out of place, but he wouldn’t be at ease until he’d checked every room, every closet, every place that a person might hide.

From the living room he moved into the kitchen, hitting the switch to light the room. Again, everything looked normal. He checked the small pantry, finding nothing more than canned goods, then left the kitchen and moved down the narrow hallway. The bathroom was tiny and the shower curtain hid nothing more than a spotlessly clean tub.

At the end of the hallway was the single bedroom. Clay turned on the light switch, tensed and ready for confrontation. Again he found nothing…except a bedroom that instantly assailed him on all senses, evoking thoughts that definitely had nothing to do with his job.

A bright red spread covered the double bed. Sprawled across the bed was a splash of yellow silk that he recognized must be Tamara’s nightgown. Yellow and red curtains hung at the single window the room boasted, a window unit air conditioner filling the lower portion of the window itself.

The room breathed color and life and passion and it smelled like her…that mysterious blend of wildflowers and fresh rain and dark woods.

Dream catchers hung on the wall above the bed and Tamara’s artwork—rich, bold and intense in stroke, color and content—decorated the remaining walls. A tabletop fountain sat in the center of the dresser and it was easy to imagine making love to the sound of the gentle, bubbling water.

He yanked open the closet door, irritated that the thought of making love in this room, to the woman outside sitting in her car, had even entered his mind.

There was nothing in the house to indicate that somebody had been inside other than Tamara. He returned to the front door, stepped over the deer, then went to her car. Before he could reach it, she stepped out.

“Everything looks okay inside,” he said. “And now I want to take a look at that deer.” He went back to his van and pulled out his kit, then carried it back to the front porch.

He was intensely aware of her just behind him, could hear the whisper of her footsteps in the grass, could smell the faint pleasant fragrance that seemed to wrap around her.

It irritated him, making it difficult for him to focus on the task at hand. “You go on inside. I’ll let you know when I’m finished here.”

His voice was sharper than he intended, but it served his purpose. She stepped over the deer and disappeared into the house, silently closing the door behind her.

Clay pulled on latex gloves and got to work. At first glance it appeared as if vicious claws had ripped the deer, but it didn’t take long for him to discover that the cause of death had been a bullet in the chest. The claw marks had been made postmortem.

He took photos of the dead animal, then carefully measured the claw marks and took notes so he could find out if they matched the ones from the classroom.

It was difficult to discern when the deer had died, but it had been some time in the last twenty-four hours. He frowned and stood as he ripped off his gloves. Somebody had killed a deer with a bullet, then carried it here, to Tamara’s porch, then had scored the hide with some sort of claws. Why?

He knocked twice on her door then pushed it open and entered the cottage. She wasn’t in the living room, but he found her seated at the table in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in front of her.

She rose as he entered the room and went to the cabinet to retrieve another cup. She poured the coffee, then handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said and sat at the table. She returned to her chair across from him and gazed at him expectantly. “You’ve got a dead deer on the porch.”

She smiled. “I didn’t need a police officer to tell me that.”

“The deer wasn’t killed by being torn apart by claws, it was killed with a bullet.”

“A bullet?” She looked at him in surprise. “A hunter? But why would he put the deer on my front porch? And what about those marks on the deer’s side?”

She still wore the yellow dress that she’d had on when they’d had lunch, and he instantly thought of the yellow silk nightgown he’d seen splashed across the red of her bed.

He could almost envision that tiny piece of silk against her skin, the length of her long legs beneath the short nightie. He mentally shook himself, trying to remove the image of her wearing that little piece of silk.

“I think we need to consider that the deer and the vandalism in your classroom are tied together.”

“Because of the claw marks,” she said.

He nodded. “They appear to be the same kind of marks, either cougar or possibly a small bear. What I don’t understand is why the deer was left here…possibly to frighten you?”

“Or perhaps as an offering.” She said the words as if she had some sort of secret knowledge.

“An offering?” He gazed at her curiously. “What do you mean?”

She sighed, the sound like the wearied wind through the tops of the trees. “I think it’s possible that this is all some sort of crazy joke.”

He leaned back in the chair and eyed her intently. “Then you’d better tell me what the joke is because I’m not finding anything about this funny.”

Tamara stood. “Let’s go into the living room where it’s more comfortable, then I’ll explain.” She grabbed her coffee cup and gestured for him to do the same.

She was intensely aware of him just behind her as she went into the living room. It had been a shock to see him. She’d expected an officer, but she hadn’t expected Clay.

When those dark eyes of his focused on her so intently, it was difficult for her to concentrate. She was again aware of the hint of something dangerous, yet delicious, simmering just beneath his surface.

Her kitchen table had been too small to sit opposite him. She needed some space between herself and him.

In the living room she sat on the chair, leaving the sofa to him. She didn’t speak until he’d sank down onto the cushion, his cup of coffee in hand.

“I think it’s very possible that one of my students is playing a prank of sorts,” she said.

“The destruction in your classroom goes beyond a simple prank.” He leaned forward and set his coffee on a coaster on the coffee table.

“Yes, but if it is one of my students, you have to remember they’re teenagers and sometimes they don’t have a handle on the area of boundaries.”

“What makes you think this might be the work of one of your students?”

She leaned back in her chair, hoping the additional inches of distance from him would make her focus on the conversation at hand. She tried not to focus on the length of his dark lashes, the broadness of his chest, and the scent that clung to him that reminded her of an untamed forest coupled with the bold scent of clean male.

“Part of what I teach my students are Native legends, like how the Milky Way came to be, why the opossum’s tail is bare, how the earth got fire. You know, the kinds of legends we grew up on. Anyway, the past week, I’ve been teaching a more obscure legend…the legend of the bear.”

“Legend of the bear?” He frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not sure I’m familiar with that one.”

“There are several legends involving bears, but this particular one is about a lovesick bear. One day in the forest the bear sees a lovely Native maiden and he falls in love with her. For the next two full moons, the bear wreaks havoc on the village, killing their animals, terrorizing their children and scoring the trees that surrounded the area.”

“And so the moral of this story is love makes men savage beasts?” Clay asked dryly.

Tamara smiled. “No, that isn’t the moral of the story. You have to hear the rest of it before you realize the moral.”

“Then please continue,” he said.

She nodded. “Finally the bear gets the maiden alone and he tells her of his love for her, that for the past two moons he’s been showing her his strength, his prowess. He tells her he wants to claim her as his mate, but the Native maiden tells him no, that bears are quick to anger and savage when roused. The bear assures her that he can overcome these innate characteristics, that with her he will be as gentle as a lamb, as good-natured as a rabbit. Still, the maiden said no and the bear got so angry he killed the maiden. As she is dying she asks him why and he tells her that despite his intentions to the contrary, it’s his nature.”

“And so the moral of the story is you can’t change the nature of the beast.”

“You can’t change the nature of anything. We are what we are.” She averted her gaze from Clay and stared at one of her own paintings on the wall just behind him. It was about the legend of the bear come alive, in vivid colors and broad strokes. The painting showed a bear hiding behind a tree, watching a Native maiden washing in a stream. “It would be a stretch of coincidence not to think that my teaching that particular legend in the past week and these two incidences happening now are related.”

“I think you’re right, it’s got to be related,” he agreed. His onyx eyes gave nothing away as he reached into his pocket and drew out a pad and pen. “I assume you provided the officers at the scene at the school a list of the names of your students?” She nodded.

“Well, now let’s talk about what students you think might be capable of all this.”

“I can’t imagine any of them doing these things,” she replied.

“You’re going to have to do better than that, Tamara.”

She liked the way her name sounded falling from his lips, like a swatch of silk being drawn across soft skin. But the look on his face was anything but silky. He wanted answers and it was clear from his facial expression that he was short on patience.

“Just tell me the first names that pop into your head when you think of potential suspects. I’d like to get this whole mess cleared up as soon as possible.”

“And I assure you my only goal is to help you do just that,” she replied with a calmness that was in direct contrast to his sharp tone.

He leaned back in the chair and reached for his coffee cup. He sipped his coffee, his dark gaze not leaving hers. “I’m sorry if I seem brusque or impatient. I’ve got a lot on my plate at the moment and the last thing this town needs is some crazed teenager acting like an enraged bear.”

She realized then that what she’d thought were brackets of grimness around his mouth was probably exhaustion. “Terry Black. He’s a difficult student, a bully with a bad temper and comes from a very dysfunctional family.”

Clay wrote the name down in his pad, then looked at her again expectantly. She frowned thoughtfully, thinking of the students she taught in the summer school classes and the adults she taught at night.

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