A few minutes later, she was standing before her worktable, gazing down at the reconstruction. It was at the last stage before the actual final sculpting, and every feature was crude, sometimes appearing unfinished. It wasn’t unfinished, every measurement was correct, only waiting for the clay to take on life.
Eve sat down on her stool. “Here we go, Sylvie. Michael says he thinks that you’re fixed inside, and I pray that’s true. But now we have to do our part. Are you ready?” Her hands moved to the forehead that was now no longer blackened but smooth and flesh-toned. “I am. Let’s make you as beautiful as Michael thinks you are.”
She held her breath and her fingers started to move on the clay.
That’s right. Don’t start out too fast.
Sensitivity.
Delicacy.
The clay was cool. It would get warmer as she worked with it.
It was getting warmer now as her fingers moved faster.
Time to stop thinking.
Help me, Sylvie.
Faster. Her fingers smoothed, molded.
See, I told you it would come, Sylvie.
Her fingers were moving of their own volition now.
Ears. Generic. She had no idea whether they had long lobes or had stuck out.
Smooth.
Mold.
Mouth. She knew the width, but not the shape. She made the lips closed and without expression. She’d come back later if Sylvie came through for her.
Smooth.
Mold.
Fill in.
Eyes. Terribly difficult. Study the shape and angle of the orbits. The size of the eyeballs was all pretty much the same. She could make them protruding, deep-set, or somewhere in between. The angle of the orbits and the bony ridge above would help her decide. They were ready for work, but not now.
They were always the clincher as far as she was concerned, and she saved them for last.
Nose. Not too long. Delicate.
More smoothing along those cheekbones.
Smooth.
Fill in.
Build up a little more around the mouth, there’s a major muscle under there.
Smooth.
Mold.
Almost ready to let loose.
Check those measurements one more time.
Nose width. Okay.
Nose projection. Okay.
Bring the top lip down, it’s usually thinner than the bottom lip.
Deepen those cheekbones. Why?
Just do it.
Smooth.
Mold.
This is it, Sylvie.
Tell me.
Yes.
Her hands were working feverishly now.
More shaping to the nostrils.
The jaw wasn’t quite right.
Change it.
Smooth.
Mold.
Fill in.
Don’t look at the face.
Just do what she was supposed to do.
The eyes now.
The shape, the tilt.
Now the other one.
Are we almost finished, Sylvie?
Smooth.
Mold.
Fill in.
Almost through. I can feel it.
Her hands flew over Sylvie’s face.
Smooth.
Mold.
Done!
She sat back and tried to catch her breath.
Don’t look at Sylvie right now.
Get her eye case and choose the eyes.
She gazed down at the glittering glass orbs. She almost always chose brown because that was the most common color.
She placed the brown eyes in the orbital cavities.
Not right …
Okay. That was purely a personal and creative choice. She’d leave it for right now and come back to it later. It was dangerous to stray too far from what was common when you were trying to ID a subject and bring them home. She and Sylvie had gotten this far together, and she wasn’t going to do anything that would tip the balance and—
She inhaled sharply.
She was looking at the finished reconstruction for the first time.
Good Lord, Sylvie. Why would anyone do that to you?
She reached out and gently touched the high cheekbone, then the mouth. Sometime during that reconstruction she had parted those lips. Sylvie appeared much more vulnerable and alive than with them tightly closed.
Vulnerable. Yes, that was the overwhelming affect Eve was receiving as she looked at the reconstruction. Beauty and wistfulness and vulnerability.
But weren’t all of her reconstructions vulnerable? All victims, all prey of the monsters in their midst. Why was the idea of what had been done to this woman making her ache with sorrow? It didn’t really matter why, Eve thought wearily. She was tired and on edge and emotional, but the important thing was that she had done her job.
“Welcome back, Sylvie,” she murmured as she got to her feet. She arched her back to rid it of stiffness. “I told you that he wouldn’t get away with doing that to you. Now we just have to do the computer photos…” She turned off her work light over the pedestal. “But that can wait until tomorrow…”
A few moments later, she had shed her clothes and was slipping naked into bed beside Joe.
His arms were immediately around her. “You’re finished?”
“I think so. Except for the final photos.” She nestled her cheek into the hollow of his shoulder. “I just don’t feel … finished. I want to do … something for her.”
“We will. As soon as you give me the photos, I’ll shoot them through every database I can access.”
“I know. And we’ll ask the TV stations to run the photo, too. We’ll do everything possible to ID her.” She was silent. “I’m just afraid nothing will help, and whoever did that to her will get away with it. I promised her he wouldn’t.”
“Well, then, we’ll have to make sure you keep that promise.” He brushed his lips on her temple. “But not tonight. You’re tired, and she’ll forgive you if you get a good night’s sleep.”
“I’m not that tired.” She suddenly turned over in his arms. He was warm and strong, and she could feel the love like a living force between them. She wanted to forget that aching sadness she’d felt when she’d looked at the final reconstruction. “Unless you are.”
“Never.” He pulled her over on top of him. He kissed her, long, deep, hot. “Not in this lifetime or the next, Eve.”
*
“She is beautiful, isn’t she, Mama?” Michael was standing by her worktable gazing at the Sylvie reconstruction when she hurried out of the bedroom the next morning. Joe had let her sleep late, and she had only woke when she’d heard Michael’s voice in the hall. “I told you she would be.”
“Yes, I remember.” She came to stand beside him. “And you had remarkable judgment considering what I had to work with. It just goes to show you that if you work past the ugliness, you can usually find something special.”
“What happens now?”
“The photos I always take, so I can find where she belongs.”
“May I have one?”
“I don’t see why not. Why?”
“That way she’d kind of belong to me, too.” He reached out and touched Sylvie’s lips. “I think she wants to belong.”
Trust Michael to have sensed that same vulnerability of which Eve had been so poignantly aware. “I’ll make sure you get one.” She dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “Have you had your breakfast?”
He nodded, his gaze still on the reconstruction. “Dad made me pancakes.” His finger went up to the right eye. “Why did you put in the wrong eyes?”
“What?”
“It’s the wrong color. They should be blue.”
“Brown are more common.”
“They should be blue.” He turned, and his arms slid around her waist as he hugged her. “Make my photo with blue, okay?” Then he was running across the room to pick up his canvas bag from the couch. “Dad’s waiting in the car, I just ran back for my book bag. Bye, Mama.”
“Bye.”
She watched the front door slam behind him.
Then her gaze shifted again to Sylvie.
She should really keep the brown eyes. It was practical, and the odds were they were correct.
They’re wrong. They should be blue.
Oh, what the hell.
She went to the drawer in her desk and pulled out her eye case.
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