The Dollmake (The Forgotten Files 2)

Bowman hung up. Sharp opened his front door and readied to haul in the first box when his phone dinged with a text from Riley. Five minutes away.

He texted back. Thanks.

He loosened his tie and shrugged off his jacket, which he draped on the back of a chair by the door. He rolled up his sleeves and waited only a few minutes before a Virginia State Police K-9 SUV pulled up in front of the town house.

Riley got out of her vehicle, her black Lab watching from his window. She glanced from side to side before moving forward. State troopers worked alone on the road most of the time and quickly became accustomed to checking their surroundings, a habit most carried to the grave. As she moved away from the car, the dog’s focus never left Riley.

“I hear you have some boxes for me,” she said.

“I do.”

“Let’s load them in the front seat.”

“Great.”

She picked up a container and walked back toward the vehicle with even, steady strides. “Bowman’s putting Andrews on your case.”

“He told me. I haven’t met him.” Sharp picked up the three remaining boxes and followed.

She placed the first box on the floor. “Computer geek. Very smart. He’s a good man to have.”

Sharp stacked his boxes on the front seat.

Riley slammed the door closed. Her leather duty belt creaked as she shifted her weight. “I’ve volunteered to help with your cold case on my days off.”

Gratitude warmed his voice. “You don’t have to do that.”

“But I will.” After his nod of thanks, she added, “If anyone can find new evidence, it’ll be Andrews.”

He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I should be the one investigating this case.”

Riley shook her head. “You’re the last guy who should be doing this work.”

Sharp felt like he was failing Kara again.

As if she’d read his thoughts, her voice softened as she said, “You’re going to be the guy who gets to the bottom of what happened.”

Like Henry Jones, he feared promises of closure. At best, they were hopeful but misguided. “Thanks, Tatum.”

She jokingly jostled him in the shoulder. “You’ve got friends willing to help.”

He watched as she slid behind the wheel of her SUV and drove off. Her words echoed what Tessa had said a thousand times before. “Easier said, Tatum. Easier said.”

It was two in the morning, and the barest sliver of moon hung in the sky as the Dollmaker cut his headlights and parked in the lot butting against the county park. The lights from the condo complex were dark, and the woods around it, silent. Out of the van, he crossed to the side door, opened it, and lifted his doll in his arms. He cradled her close before making his way along the path he’d traveled dozens of times before. He had learned where every root, rut, and twist in the path was located as he’d scouted this location over the last few weeks.

With Destiny in his arms, he made his way toward the playground, relishing these final moments together. A cool breeze coaxed a rusty swing back and forth. Its hinges squeaked. A cold snap had sent temperatures dipping. It was peaceful.

He hated giving up his creation, but he reminded himself that he’d known all along their time together would be fleeting. She was never intended to remain in her physical state forever. Their journey together would continue in the videos and photographs he’d taken. She was now a work of art, deserving to be seen and admired.

He’d grown accustomed to having her strapped in his chair. Refashioning her face. Touching her. Lying beside her in bed. Kissing her. Being inside her and savoring the utter stillness wrapped around them both.

The Dollmaker had chosen this resting place for her carefully. Destiny was a doll. And it made perfect sense he would leave his doll where children played. And where the cops were certain to find her.

He lowered her to sit at the base of a tall oak tree and rested her head against the rough bark. He took his time, positioning her curls around her shoulders, straightening her head so she faced outward, fluffing her skirt, and then carefully crossing her feet at her ankles. As he stood back, he studied her face with an artist’s critical eye. She was perfect, except for one small detail. The eyes. They were closed. They needed to be open. She needed to see him.

Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out a needle and thread, then crouched beside her. Carefully, he raised one lid and with practiced ease, stitched it open. The skin had grown brittle, making it easy for the needle to puncture. He tacked up the second lid.

In the distance, a dog barked and leaves crunched. He needed to move quickly. The last complication he wanted was a random person stumbling on this scene before he was finished. But as he stared into her clouded, dull eyes, he knew he must do one more thing.

Replacing the needle and thread, he tugged a contact lens case from his pocket. He removed the first oversize lens and carefully laid it over her eyeball. The lens created a wide-eyed doll look so perfect he wondered why he hadn’t put it on her while she was alive. He positioned the second lens and leaned back, smiling at his baby doll. So, so perfect.

“Beautiful.” He kissed her on the lips, lingering several beats, before he drew back. “I will miss you so much.”

Quickly, he snapped several dozen pictures using only the moonlight. He studied each image carefully and took a couple more. He’d always been diligent about taking pictures of his girls. He never wanted to forget any of them.

With a stab of regret, he kissed her gently one last time on the cheek, hovering close as he inhaled the perfume he’d sprayed on her earlier. He rubbed his knuckles against the sharp cut of her cheekbones. Traced her lips. With another pang of regret, he stepped back.

After a long last look, he turned toward the parking lot and walked to his van. As much as he wanted to stay, it wasn’t safe. He’d taken precautions, but there was no telling who might see him. He started his engine, the headlights catching his baby doll’s sightless eyes. So pretty. When she was found, all would marvel at his work.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Wednesday, October 5, 6:30 a.m.

In Sharp’s mind, every aspect of the autopsy suite was unnatural. The air was heavy, and it smelled of antiseptic and death. Fluorescent light robbed the living of color, and the hollow sound of the basement hallway reminded him of a horror movie.

His mother and Roger had traveled to a morgue like this to see Kara. His mother had told Sharp how she’d wept as she stared at her daughter on the metal table. The doctor’s kind words had not chased the chill from her. So cold. His mother had been convinced Death followed her from that day forth.

He rolled his head to the side, waiting for the small pop in his neck to relieve some of the persistent stiffness from an IED explosion that had sent him flying fifteen feet across a street in Iraq. It had been eleven years since that explosion, but the smell of fire on flesh, screams, and pain still stalked him. This damn place always jarred those memories free of their cage.

“Shit,” he whispered.

The past was gunning for him. First Roger. Kara’s files. Iraq. Tessa.

Tessa.

Why the hell had she kissed him? She’d said she couldn’t forget him. She wasn’t willing to file papers. He wasn’t sure where she’d dreamed up the idea of embracing second chances. If he had to bet, he’d put his money on guilt and pent-up sexual tension.

He shouldn’t have allowed the kiss. He should have stepped back. Refused contact. But the kiss had been Eden’s forbidden fruit.

Touching her hadn’t silenced any of his demons. In fact, the kiss had antagonized the monsters within and had rewarded him with a night of tossing, turning, and enduring a shitload of his own sexual tension.

A reunion with Tessa was seductive but impossible. She might be naive enough to believe a second try would work, but he wasn’t so foolish.

He pushed through the suite doors and found Tessa standing at the instrument table. A frown furrowed her brow as she studied t

he instruments. She’d tied her black hair back into a neat bun and tucked it under a surgical cap. She wore green scrubs and paper booties over her tennis shoes.

She looked up at him. A smile flickered, then scurried away. “Dr. Kincaid is on her way, and the lab technician is bringing up Mr. Dillon.”

“Thanks.”

He turned and moved toward a small set of lockers, where he shrugged off his jacket, carefully unfastened the cuffs of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves. He knew damn well the extra care he took was buying time until Dr. Kincaid arrived. The last thing he wanted was conversation. Grabbing a surgical gown, he slipped it on as a lab technician rolled in the gurney carrying the sheet-clad body of Terrance Dillon.

The tech positioned the body under a lamp hanging from above, and Tessa pushed the instruments closer to the exam table.

The tech was in his early twenties with muscled arms. He grinned at Tessa and winked. “That’s my job.”

Smiling, Tessa flexed gloved fingers. “I know, Jerry. Just trying to get the lay of the land.” She held up her hands in surrender. “I leave it all to you.”

“I’m not fussing at you,” Jerry said. “Just know, you’ll have your hands full soon enough.”

“Great,” she said. “I can’t wait.”

Sharp didn’t mind the way Tessa smiled at Jerry. He recognized it as her polite smile, the one saved for strangers. There was no charge lingering behind her gaze when she looked at Jerry. No undercurrent. Just simple. The exact opposite of what they shared.