Carbon Dating

by Jerusha Jones

  That solidified it for me. There was no way Willow would abscond with herself, let alone with two pieces of expensive equipment and a trailer’s worth of pumpkins.

  I could tell Roxy—I ought to tell Roxy. After all, I was the one who’d been instrumental in introducing Willow to the Frasers and suggesting her for the job. I was also a coward.

  While listening to the call I’d just placed ring at the other end and lacing up my hiking boots, I justified my rationale to myself by claiming that the person Roxy would most need by her side at a moment like this would be another mother, someone who’d borne a child herself and understood that bond more deeply than I ever could. I’d been motherless since I was very young—so I didn’t even understand that bond from the other direction.

  “Long time, no talk,” Bettina answered.

  I rushed to explain the situation as I tossed supplies into my tote bag and grabbed a sweater to layer under my raincoat.

  Oh, Good Lord,” Bettina gasped. “No. No.”

  “But you’ll tell Roxy?” I begged.

  “Yes, of course. But this can’t be happening.”

  “It is happening,” I gritted out before hanging up.

  I broke every speed limit on the way to the farm. Vaughn’s pickup was already parked outside the farmhouse, along with a couple marked patrol cars.

  I burst into the kitchen without bothering to knock, but everyone inside was so focused on their respective tasks that no one even glanced up at me. With the exception of one of the uniformed officers who was sitting at the kitchen table typing rapidly into a laptop, everyone was on their phones.

  Denby’s face was pinched and white. She was hunched over a stapled sheaf of dog-eared papers, a pencil in her hand. It appeared to be a homemade address directory—she was calling all the neighbors, no matter how remote they were.

  “Eva, we need to be on the news tonight,” Vaughn said, his words clipped.

  I flinched and swallowed, nodding quickly. I hadn’t noticed that he’d completed his call. “What details do I share?”

  “Her basic description—age, height, weight, eye color. The blue hair’s going to help. Do you have a picture of her on your phone? Go ahead and release that. Share it with Samuels too, if you have one.”

  Samuels was the guy with the laptop. Maybe he was the department’s self-designated geek. In that case, we should be able to collaborate just fine. I dropped into the chair next to him and rapidly assembled a work station out of the contents of my tote bag. It was too late to make the early evening news, but we had plenty of time to make the nightly news. For once, I was grateful for the reporter at the ten o’clock station who’d nagged me earlier. I fired off a quick text to him first.

  Then I handed Samuels my phone so he could download the best photo of Willow. I’d taken it when we’d been out kayaking on the river, and it needed to be cropped a lot. It’d been a sunny day, and I’d caught her in a good moment, when she was actually smiling, her pale gray eyes shining against the glare, but she’d slid her sunglasses to the top of her head, which was the important thing—it was a full face shot.

  “Did you try Cy?” I asked when Vaughn had finished the next phone call.

  His lips pressed together in a grim line, and he immediately started scrolling through his contacts again. I didn’t have Cyrus Watson’s phone number, but since he’d served as an unofficial informant and technical consultant to the police department a couple months ago, I’d known Vaughn would have his contact information. Cy and Willow were dating—sort of. Good friends was probably a better description of their budding relationship, but the high school senior had proven himself trustworthy in the past. Maybe Willow had talked to him. I wondered if Cy had wheels of his own—maybe he’d given her a lift somewhere.

  But Vaughn only shook his head at my unspoken question when that phone call ended. “Saw her at school today. Seemed normal to him. ‘As normal as she ever is,’ was his comment. He’s coming.”

  “So you’re assembling search parties?” I asked and got a curt nod in response as he turned away for yet another call.

  What would we ever do without modern technology, all the ways to rapidly connect to one another? I ducked my head and returned to work, my fingers flying over my own keyboard. Samuels sent me the processed image, and I worked up a slide with all of Willow’s pertinent details listed in bullet points that the news stations could display—in their lead-in segments, if we were lucky.

  I just hoped Bettina could keep Roxy away from the television. Samuels was firing off a string of alerts to other agencies the last time I spared a glance at his screen.

  She’d already been missing three hours.

  oOo

  It was unbearable. The urgency, the rising panic, and yet having very few active ways to make myself useful.

  Yet again, I’d held a terse press conference at the side of the county road. Two county sheriff’s deputies in their reflective vests were directing traffic on the road and keeping the driveway clear for arriving searchers, so the reporters and I stood ankle deep in a frigid, mucky ditch and hashed out the details they needed to share in their segments.

  I did several live, on-camera interviews with various reporters, answered the same questions repeatedly, then promised to keep them updated as we learned more. The usual. Nerve-racking, but necessary.

  I’d trotted back to the farmhouse to find the kitchen jam-packed with people outfitted in cold weather gear. And for the first time, a tiny bit of hope lodged in my brain. They were prepared. They looked confident but grim. If anyone could find her, it would be these people.

  But it was getting very cold. Denby had provided a description of the clothing Willow had been wearing, and while suitable for her job that afternoon, it wasn’t sufficient for a night exposed to the dropping temperature and persistent rain.

  Vaughn had everyone organized—maps, assignments, lead searchers and their designated teams. It wasn’t until the kitchen emptied out, quickly and with a great deal of thumping and rustling, that I realized there was a gaggle of familiar women in the corner.

  They were prepared as best they could, given the circumstances, but they were nowhere near as well equipped as the trained searchers. My tribe. I gave them a wobbly smile and felt all the strength drain from my limbs.

  Bettina jerked me into their huddle, immediately launching into a run-on explanation. “Marcy’s gone out with the group that’s searching the river bottom. That girl had boots and waders and a down vest and what have you—high performance stuff from her job. Vaughn told the rest of us to wait, but we’re going out, too. Don’t you worry.”

  “Except Roxy here.” Gloria meant to pat the ashen, beehived woman on the shoulder, but the effect on Roxy’s frame was more like being pounded with a mallet. She’d shrunk noticeably since I’d seen her last. “He said she needs to stay next to this phone at all times.” Gloria pointed to the archaic landline phone with the stretched out cord that was fixed to the peeling wallpaper. “That way, she’ll get the word first, before anyone else.”

  I stretched out my arm and clasped Roxy’s hand with my own. She squeezed all the blood out of it, but I didn’t wince. When I’d spotted her, my first reaction had been to object to her presence at the farm, thinking it would be too raw, too emotional for her. But what was she going to do—stay home and go out of her mind with worry there? No, this was better. Roxy needed to see just how much everyone cared about her granddaughter. Once again, Bettina had been right.

  I was just glad Roxy wasn’t shaking, whether from nicotine withdrawal or from being distraught. There was no evidence of her cigarettes in sight. Her mascara and brow pencil were doing a valiant job of outlining features that would have melted away otherwise. She might be falling apart on the inside, but she’d never let it show.

  I don’t know how he did it, but Vaughn found a job for the ladies. And a meaningful one at that. He sent them on a reconnaissance tour of all the farm’s outbuildings with a pair of reserve de
puties from the county sheriff’s department. The gentlemen were in uniform, clearly trained for this activity, and also clearly capable of taking care of a misfit band of well-intentioned but inexperienced females.

  Petula tripped on the loose, dragging belt of her trench coat while trotting across the kitchen. Gloria, swaddled in a massive olive-green nylon poncho, hoisted her up and shoved her ahead in the procession over the threshold.

  But Vaughn’s arm shot out and held me back from following them. “Not you.”

  I glared at him. “I’m responsible for this,” I hissed and tried to jerk away.

  He snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.” But he kept his tone low so Roxy wouldn’t overhear and yanked me close. “You’re staying. And that’s a law enforcement order. Roxy needs you. I need you. There are things only you can do, and you need the internet and your phone and quick access to those reporters in order to do it.”

  He was right, of course, but I hated it just the same. I was going to go crazy staring at the four walls of the kitchen. The problem was my imagination. I was abundantly capable of picturing all kinds of horrific things happening to Willow while we bumbled about in the dark.

  Before I knew it, I had his jacket collar clenched in my hands and my forehead tipped against his collarbone. “Why?” I whimpered.

  He stroked my hair and answered the real question. “We’ll find out. After we find her.”

  I took a deep, shuddering breath and resolved not to be so selfish. Vaughn couldn’t do much for the search if he had to keep holding me. I stepped back and released him with a reluctant nod. “Yes, sir.”

  He cupped his hand around the back of my neck, kissed me hard on the temple, then slipped out through the open door, closing it quietly behind him and cutting off the cold stream of creeping air.

  CHAPTER 19

  Roxy was a rock. And I mean that literally. She remained on the straight-back chair set just inches from the wall phone—her lifeline—her thighs pressed together, her ankles locked one over the other and jutted back beneath the seat, tilting slowly back and forth at the hips as though she was silently keening, her jet black eyes fixed on some point well beyond the walls of the kitchen. Her solidity and distance terrified me.

  I knelt in front of her and laid my cheek on her knee. We were alone, just the two of us. But we each couldn’t have been more alone even though we were touching. I had no words for her, but my tears were soaking through the fabric of her pants.

  I don’t know how long we sat like that.

  Slowly, Roxy’s fingers worked their way into my hair. She was doing something rhythmic, repetitive, soothing.

  But her voice startled me when she finally whispered. “I used to braid Willow’s hair like this when she was little. Before it was blue. So many mornings, before school.”

  My words came out scratchy and dry. “What color was it, before it was blue?”

  Roxy emitted a short, hoarse laugh. “Dishwater blonde. Not from her mother or me, obviously. Her coloring was my one clue as to who her father might’ve been. I think that’s why she covers it up, so she doesn’t have to acknowledge her dubious parentage.”

  My head popped up, and I winced at the pull from Roxy’s intertwined fingers. “Do you think he’s involved?” I blurted. “Willow’s father. Would he do something like this?”

  But Roxy shook her head, her gaze flinty. “He overdosed about ten years ago. No family to speak of, certainly not anyone who’d be interested in claiming his possible progeny.”

  “Not even for”—I swallowed roughly—“money? Support payments?”

  “Not even for that,” Roxy answered sadly.

  Eventually, Cricket the Therapy Cat replaced my head on Roxy’s lap. I crouched against the base of the wall below the phone, unable to relax but not wanting to pace in front of Roxy and transfer my nervous energy to her.

  I’d been willing the phone to ring, my fingers clutched into white knots around my knees. Even so, I nearly leaped out of my skin when it actually did.

  Roxy and I stared at each other for a long moment, then the phone rang again.

  “You?” she muttered. “Can you—?”

  I shot to my feet and grabbed the receiver off the wall. “Yes?” I answered breathlessly.

  “Found the ATV and trailer,” Vaughn said tersely. “Still on farm property and nowhere near a public road. Which means she’s likely on foot. Narrows our search parameters appreciably.”

  “So that’s good news?” I breathed.

  “The ATV’s bogged in mud and the trailer’s overturned. She could be injured, but she’s not within a twenty-yard radius of the wreck. Also, there are other footprints—bigger—where it looks like they tried to dig out the ATV. Don’t tell Roxy that part.”

  I had my mouth open to ask exactly where they’d found the ATV wreck, but he’d already hung up.

  The clock over the kitchen sink said it was nearly one a.m. Willow had now been missing for almost ten hours.

  Roxy was staring at me with feverishly glittering black eyes. She stuck out the tip of her tongue and gingerly licked her chapped lips. It was the first sign I’d seen that she was desperately missing the near-constant influx of nicotine her body was accustomed to.

  I slowly shook my head and explained what I could about the wrecked ATV. Then I squeezed her hand and murmured, “She’s nearby.” I hoped it was true.

  It wasn’t more than a few minutes, but I’d settled into a sort of stupor, having resumed my crouch against the wall and watching the second hand on the clock slowly ticking its painful circular sweep around the face, when the phone rang again. I didn’t wait for Roxy’s permission, just reached up and snagged the receiver.

  “We found another vehicle,” Vaughn rasped. He sounded as though he was getting sick. “It’s Heath Rooney’s.”

  I planted a hand against the wall to keep from falling over. “Why?” I finally croaked. And then quickly added, “Are you sure?”

  “I jimmied the lock and found his registration papers in the glove box. Samuels is double-checking the license number with DMV as we speak.” Vaughn seemed too weary to be perturbed that I’d questioned his assumption. Besides, he had the facts to back it up. “The Frasers hadn’t heard anything from the institute today, didn’t expect anyone to be dropping by. He could have a legitimate reason for returning to the gravesite, but that’s not where he parked his car.”

  “Where?” I blurted. This time I got the question in before he hung up.

  “On a logging road, about a mile over the rise of the wooded hill west of the gravesite field.”

  “He didn’t want to be seen,” I whispered.

  “Yep. Do me a favor?”

  “Anything,” I breathed.

  “Do you have Tanith Hammermesh’s home number?”

  I did indeed. Because I make a habit of collecting the phone numbers of people who know a lot, particularly people who know a lot and are also inclined to chattiness—producing a resource list that has come in handy more times than I can count.

  And I’m not above wheedling. Although my gut told me this time I probably wouldn’t have to.

  oOo

  Vaughn pulled the searchers in to re-brief them. Denby and I sidled and squeezed our way around the periphery of the kitchen, refilling mugs with steaming coffee and offering slabs of cold pumpkin pie. Most of the searchers didn’t bother to remove their dripping outerwear or boots, probably not wanting to reduce their focus or get too comfortable, but nearly everyone held out their mugs repeatedly as I made the rounds.

  The good news was that the searchers could now focus on a much narrower range of land that had two important radii—the location of the ATV wreck and Heath’s vehicle, where Vaughn had posted a couple reserve officers as lookouts.

  Vaughn commandeered the kitchen table and spread a large topographical map on it to mark the vector between those two locations. He then used a highlighter to delineate the new boundary of the search. There was still a lot of ground to co
ver.

  The bad news was much more complex. We didn’t know if Willow and Heath were together or not, although the second set of footprints at the ATV wreck site indicated they probably were. We didn’t know Heath’s intentions, but hiding his vehicle instead of driving straight up to the Frasers’ farmhouse and announcing his presence seemed fairly sinister. The terrain between the two vehicles was exceedingly rough and steep, an area that had been partially logged, with stumps and slash piles in addition to the remaining towering trees. Slick, unstable footing was a given, and the thick cloud cover guaranteed no illuminating assistance from the moon.

  Vaughn’s final warning felt like a punch in the stomach. “You need to assume he’s armed. He doesn’t have a gun registration in Oregon, but he did have a registration for a Colt .38 semi-automatic pistol when he lived in Nevada. That gun is pretty small and can easily be concealed underneath bulky clothing. Also, he’s a trained archaeologist with many field assignments under his belt. He’s accustomed to traversing backwoods and has proficient survival skills. It’s entirely reasonable that he may also have one or more sharp instruments in his possession—knife, hatchet, pickax, a small shovel, et cetera.”

  I cradled the tepid coffee carafe against my chest and sent a mental thank-you to Tanith. She’d immediately crawled out of bed and raced to the institute in her curlers after I’d called. The first bout of research Vaughn had requested was Heath’s previous addresses. She’d provided that vital information within minutes, furnishing the fodder for Samuels to perform quick background traces on the anthropologist in a few different states.

  She was still at the office, working on Vaughn’s second request—one that would take much longer. She hadn’t breathed a single objection about search warrants or needing to seek the approval of the institute’s board of directors. I’d gotten the impression she was in fighting form, cranking out searches on the institute’s computer network like a wizard, with zero regard for her personal or professional future.