WITHOUT A TRACE

Jane’s specialty lay in being able to crawl into the hidden memories of victims and witnesses, coax to light the faces of suspects when all other law enforcement methods had failed. She’d done sketches for police departments and for the FBI from Miami to Seattle. And her record had been stellar until this case. This rapist, who turned up in ski areas in the West, and who preyed on young girls, was Jane’s nemesis.

She had always been able to establish rapport with the people she interviewed. It was her gift, this empathetic ability. She didn’t ask questions or push or show the traumatized victims the FBI’s Facial Identification Guide photographs to choose from. She chatted, she got to know the person, she talked about school or friends or a job or the place the victim lived, and then she eased into the task, interspersing her sketching with conversation.

Her technique worked, particularly with young girls, and she was often called in on a case when previous sketches failed to produce leads.

But this case had stopped her dead. She’d been unable to bring this madman’s face to light, and she suspected why. There’d been enormous pressure to find him, because the last girl he kidnapped in Park City, Utah, died as a result of his assault on her. Which meant the stakes were raised from rape to murder. Murder one, in fact.

But worse, this man had hit too close to home, ski resorts like the one she was brought up in, and the girls were too much like Jane herself at that age. Her own trauma was blocking her, and she was no damn good to anyone right now. Caroline of all people understood this, so why was she here?

"He took a girl here in Colorado this time," Caroline was saying.

"A ski area?"

Caroline nodded. "Snowmass."

Snowmass, one of the four mountains near Aspen. Jane stepped backward and sank into a chair. She’d been born and raised in Aspen; her family still lived there. But she never went home. Never.

She looked up at Caroline. "I can’t. I’m not ready."

"Kirstin Lemke," Caroline replied, as if not hearing her words, "twelve-years old. Disappeared from the parking lot at the base of Snowmass. Same as in Mammoth and Snowbird and Park City. There were two witnesses, her friends. So far they think they saw a man in a ski hat and goggles, but they aren’t sure of anything. That was two days ago, and time may be running out for Kirstin. You know what happened in..."

Jane reached up a hand as if to ward off an attack. "I know. I know."

"We need you."

Jane shook her head. She’d already been to Mammoth and Snowbird and Park City over the past five years. She’d tried; she’d done her best. She’d been unable to get a sketch of the rapist’s face from anyone. She’d tried, but nothing came. Not a line, not an impression. Nothing. Just like the face of the man who'd raped her.

"You’ve been off for a month now," Caroline persisted. "I know I told you to take enough time off, but this one has your name on it. Your hometown, for God’s sake."

"I won’t be able to help. You know that, Caroline. You’re the one who told me to take this break."

"Okay, listen, just do me a favor. Talk to Ray here. He’s just been assigned to our office. He’s case agent on this one. He’s got to go up to Aspen tomorrow to join the team already there. Parker wants you to go with him."

Jane knew Parker—he was the local SAC, the Special Agent in Charge of the Denver office. And she knew he’d sent Caroline to twist her arm.

"I can’t. I’m sorry, I just can’t," Jane said.

Caroline ignored her. "Ray Vanover, Jane Russo. Come on, Jane, talk to the guy."

She glanced up at the man who stood silently in the shadows near her front door. He hadn’t moved or said a word all this time. Ray Vanover. His name had a familiar ring, but she couldn’t pursue that will o’ wisp notion right now. He was tall, his face handsome but distant, devoid of expression. Yet she could feel his skepticism of her ability. She’d dealt with a lot of people like Ray Vanover.

"Look, I’m sorry, Ray," she said, "but you’ve got me at a bad time. I can’t help you."

"I understand," he said, his voice low and a bit gravelly, a strong masculine voice. "Your prerogative."

"I’m not sure you do understand."

He gave an almost imperceptible shrug.

There was something about this man’s face... Jane’s specialty was faces. Her ability lay in deciphering expression, in reading the set of a mouth or the tilt of a brow. In noting muscle tension and skin tone and facial mannerisms. In uncovering the personality that lay behind—and sometimes hid behind—the collection of features that made up a face.

There was something...

He stepped into the light. Dark hair, hollow cheeks, that long face. Startling pale blue eyes under the thick brows. A long thin nose, the slash of a mouth, but now she saw that there was a dip in the center of his upper lip, a slight capitulation to human feelings. And then she noticed the pink scar tissue on his neck above his coat collar. A burn? The disfigurement, she now saw, ran up his neck and along his left jaw line. And the injury looked relatively new. She wondered about that for a heartbeat, but there were more important things to think about.

"Will you consider it, Jane? Give it tonight."

"Caroline, really..."

"Don’t say no right now. Call me tomorrow."

She sighed. "Damn it, Caroline."

The woman smiled. "I can tell you’re weakening." Then, to Vanover, "I told you, didn’t I?"

"You told me," he agreed, his voice as abrasively caressing as a cat’s tongue.

"I’m not promising anything," Jane said.

"Right," Caroline said.

"I’ll call you tomorrow."

Caroline faced her, short and square, in a rumpled black coat and old running shoes. "Kirstin Lemke, twelve years old. Don’t forget her, Jane."

She felt the small quick pain, like a paper cut. She put her hand on her forehead. "You’re a bulldozer."

"Subtlety is not one of my vices."

"I think Miss Russo would like us to go," Vanover said.

"Yeah, we’re going." Caroline stood on tiptoe and gave Jane a hug. "Remember," she said into her ear, "you’re the only one who stands a chance at identifying this monster. Kirstin needs you."

"It won’t do any good," Jane said sadly. "I can’t help you. I can’t help Kirstin."

"Tomorrow," Caroline said.

She leaned back against the door when they were gone. They wanted her for a case, another missing girl. Someone’s daughter, sister, niece. Someone’s beloved child. Missing—what had Caroline said?—two days now.

Oh God, she couldn’t do it. She wasn’t ready. She couldn’t face the family’s agony, the stress, the rage, the wrenching disappointment. The failure.

No, I can’t do it, she thought, wrapping her determination around her like a shroud.