Finding Amanda

by Robin Patchen

She gasped. "How did Mark know?"

  "I don't know. He doesn't know. He just . . . knew. It was only because he'd done that so many times—seen things nobody else saw—that we survived. If Mark said run, we ran. That's how he got the name prophet."

  "Wow, I didn't—"

  "If not for Mark, Jamie'd be a widow. So, if he says your psychiatrist friend is a threat, Amanda, then you're in danger. And, for the record, he didn't drag me into anything."

  She blinked. "I didn't mean anything by it. I was just trying to make conversation."

  Chris half-smiled. "You want to make conversation? Why don't you tell me why you kicked him out?"

  She propped her hands on her hips. "That's none of your business."

  The smile faded. "Then I guess we don't have anything to talk about."

  Amanda's heart pounded. How dare he? She stared at him, and he stared back. The only sound in the room came from the girls giggling upstairs.

  A car door slammed, and a moment later, Mark entered. "Sorry I'm late. I had to run some tools by the Carlisle house so the guys could get started." He stopped, looked back and forth between them. "Is everything okay?"

  Chris nodded to Mark. "Of course." He reached for the envelope on the dining room table and handed it to him. "Here you go. Let me know what else I can do."

  "Will do." Mark squinted at Amanda again, studied her face. He turned back to Chris. "What were you two talking about?"

  "Just small talk. I gotta run. Call me before you get to work on that stuff."

  Chris disappeared out the door.

  Mark turned to her and frowned. "What did I miss?"

  She shrugged. "He hates me."

  Mark cocked his head to one side and studied her. "He doesn't hate you. He just doesn't understand why you're doing this."

  "You could explain it to him."

  "I could, except I don't understand, either."

  They stared at each other, the cold air swirling between them. There was nothing to say.

  She walked to the bottom of the stairs and called, "Hey girls, come downstairs and get your shoes on. Your dad's here."

  Clambering feet on the ceiling turned into pitter-patters on the stairs as each of the girls skidded down and hugged her daddy.

  Silently, Amanda scrambled eggs, prepared toast, and poured juice while the girls chatted with their father. Chris's anger surprised her. She knew he and Jamie didn't like divorce, but Jamie had been so understanding about it. Not supportive, but she understood how unhappy Amanda was. Chris . . . Chris seemed livid. What had Mark told him? She tried to picture the two men having a heart-to-heart about her marriage. The thought made her stomach ache as she scooped eggs onto two plates.

  "You hungry, Mark?"

  "You cooking?"

  "Just eggs. Want me to make you some?"

  Ten minutes later, the four of them sat down to breakfast. The girls each had a spoonful of scrambled eggs while Mark enjoyed a three-egg omelet with peppers, onions, ham, and cheddar—his favorite. Amanda nibbled on a slice of buttered whole wheat toast slathered with her homemade crabapple jelly.

  "Where's your friend?" she asked.

  He shrugged. "He'll be here."

  "You're going to be late to work."

  He swallowed a huge bite of eggs. "I'm taking the day off to do some research."

  She thought of the manila envelope. A half hour ago, she would have told him he was paranoid, but after Chris's story . . . her mouth went dry, and she struggled to swallow a bite of toast. Maybe Mark was right. Maybe she was in danger.

  While Mark and his friend installed the security system, Amanda ran the girls to school and then holed up in her office. She wrote the next day's blog post, responded to some comments on the blog, and was halfway through editing a chapter in her latest cookbook when Mark tapped on the door and popped his head in. "We're done. Can I show you how it works?"

  It took him half an hour to explain. Apparently he'd installed the Mercedes-Benz of security systems. She was afraid she'd need a Master's degree to figure out how it worked.

  She wasn't sorry to see Mark go. His detail-oriented mind drove her nuts, but she couldn't help being thankful for the alarm system. She had a hard time thinking Gabriel would hurt her, but those yellow roses, their confrontation in the hotel lobby.

  The way his eyes bored into hers . . . He was like a living, breathing lie detector.

  Her hands trembled as she sipped her drink. The coffee wasn't warm enough to stave off the cold fear that dripped down her spine.

  The alarm was set. She was safe and halfway down the hall when the house phone rang. Quickening her pace, she rushed into the office and grabbed it before the machine could pick it up. "Hello?"

  "Hello, Amanda, dear."

  It was the only monster more terrifying than Dr. Gabriel Sheppard. Her mother-in-law.

  "Hello, Pat."

  "Is my son home?"

  "Home? What do you mean?"

  The older woman cleared her throat. Her voice had that condescending tone Amanda despised. "Well, dear, I mean is he there, in the house?"

  She'd hoped that once Mark moved out, she wouldn't have to talk to his mother again. "No. Why would he be?"

  Her mother-in-law offered a cold, humorless, "Huh."

  Amanda could picture her on the other end of the line, her dragon-face lined with scowl lines. Her eyelids, always swathed in dark brown eye shadow, hanging heavy over her gray, dead eyes. Amanda could see the tapered claw-like fingers tapping against the exquisite antique desk—imported from England, of course—and her long thin legs crossed perfectly at the ankles beneath it. If Amanda were there, the woman would be standing, lording her height over her in an effort to intimidate. But Amanda hadn't been intimidated by the woman in years. Dragons were mythical, and Pat's power proved to be the same.

  Amanda waited for her to say something, but the old woman remained silent. Surely if she waited long enough, Pat's fiery breath would eventually melt the phone, and Amanda would be off-the-hook. She stifled a giggle, and she could hardly keep the smile out of her voice when she asked, "Can I help you with something?"

  "Aren't we curt this morning? I was wondering if you had plans for Thanksgiving. I would like to see my granddaughters, since you didn't bother to bring them around during the holidays last year. And I know you hate to be here for Christmas."

  A familiar flush of shame washed over her. Pat wouldn't let her forget that terrible holiday. It was the Christmas after Mark proposed. The woman would never forgive her.

  As if she'd had a choice. The head chef's sister had been in a terrible car accident. Somebody had to cover for him, and Amanda—she was ashamed to admit—was all too happy to volunteer. Any excuse to avoid spending a week in the dragon's lair. Besides that, filling in for the head chef was a great opportunity to show the owner what she could do. A few days of hard work and she hoped to earn the promotion she'd been dreaming of for months, securing a full-time position to move into after graduation.

  She and Mark had the biggest fight of their relationship when she told him she'd volunteered to work. He went to New Hampshire without her. She agreed to drive up as soon as she got off work Christmas Eve. The fact that she did, indeed, get promoted after that week was small consolation, knowing what the promotion had cost.

  In her defense, who knew Mark's parents were going to announce their divorce the day before Christmas Eve?

  When Mark called her and told her the news, she'd wanted to rush up to New Hampshire to be with him, but she was at work. She arranged to have someone work for her the following day and, after her shift ended, she went home to her small apartment in Providence, slept a couple of hours, and drove to Mark's childhood home in the pre-dawn hours on December twenty-fourth.

  She arrived just after sunrise to find Pat sipping coffee at the kitchen table. Mark, Pat informed her, had not come home the night before.

  Amanda called his cell, only to hear it ringing in the bedroom upstairs.

  Pa
t spent the next hour theorizing about what might have happened to him. Maybe he was lying drunk in a ditch somewhere. Maybe he was in jail. Maybe they should check the hospitals. If only Amanda had been there for him, none of it would have happened.

  She'd been too shocked to defend herself. She stared at the door, willing Mark to come back, praying Pat's theories were wrong, trying to come up with an explanation that didn't involve his death. Or arrest. The only one she came up with involved another woman, and the other woman in her imagination was Annalise, his high school sweetheart.

  And then she hoped he'd been arrested. They could recover from that, but if he cheated on her . . .

  Mark walked in the door around eight o'clock wearing rumpled clothes and a day-old beard. He greeted her with a kiss and a mask that tried to say he was happy to see her.

  "Where've you been?" she asked with a shaky voice.

  "Dad's. I stopped by to see his new apartment last night, and we had a couple of drinks. I didn't want to drive home."

  Pat took over the conversation from there. "Oh, you were getting drunk with your father, and you couldn't be bothered to call? I've been worried sick. Figures it never occurred to either of you to call me . . ."

  Mark dropped the mask, revealing pure guilt beneath it. He'd apologized to his mother, who offered a morsel of forgiveness along with a feast of bitterness. Typical fare cooked up by Patricia Truman Johnson.

  They escaped to Mark's childhood bedroom, where Amanda apologized for not being there for him. He forgave her quickly, like always, but sometimes she wondered if he still held a grudge.

  At least there was no question where Pat stood on the matter. The woman hated her, had long before that day. But Amanda didn't have to put up with her condemnation any longer.

  "I guess you'll have to talk to Mark about the holidays," Amanda said, trying to sound polite. "We haven't worked out a schedule, but if he wants to make the trip—"

  "What do you mean, you haven't worked out a schedule?"

  "For the holidays."

  "Well, I wonder if perhaps you two could pencil me into your holiday schedule." The final word dripped with sarcasm. "If it's not too much trouble."

  "What do you mean us two? If Mark wants to bring the kids to see you, that's his prerogative. I won't stop him."

  The silence on the other end of the phone lasted so long, she wondered if they'd been disconnected. "Pat?"

  "What's going on, Amanda? Is there something you need to tell me?"

  "Something I need to . . . ?" With a jolt, Amanda understood the problem. Mark hadn't told his mother they were separated. Amanda didn't know why—the woman would be jubilant.

  Well, now that she and Mark weren't together, Amanda didn't have to put up with the dragon lady's fiery remarks any longer.

  "Mark didn't tell you?"

  "Tell me what?"

  "We're separated."

  Another long silence. Amanda figured Pat was trying to stifle a triumphant shout. Finally she said coldly, "He finally wised up, did he? Realized he married the wrong girl?"

  Jealousy seared her heart like a cold roast in a hot Dutch oven. Pat had always thought Mark should have married Annalise. High school sweetheart-turned-supermodel, the girl had been winking at Amanda from magazine covers for ten years. Beautiful face, perfect body, and, to hear Pat tell it, delightful disposition.

  Amanda swallowed her bitterness. "Something like that."

  "Well, I knew it wouldn't last."

  "Was there anything else you needed, Pat?"

  Click.

  Good riddance.

  Fifteen minutes later, her phone rang again. Checking the Caller I.D. this time, she saw it was Mark. "Hello?"

  "You told my mother?"

  She sat up straighter. "You didn't tell your mother?"

  "Why would I?"

  "Why wouldn't you? I'd think you'd be thrilled to give her some happy news."

  "What were you thinking?"

  "I was thinking you'd already told her. How was I supposed to know? And why didn't you?"

  "Because . . . you know why. I knew she'd be . . . I didn't want to hear it, okay? The last thing I ever want to do is prove my mother right."

  "Fine, then you can burst her bubble, since she's quite sure you wised up and left me."

  Silence ticked between them. She felt herself drawing further and further away from him and wondered illogically if he were driving out of town. The silence lengthened, the space between them filling with memories and disappointments.

  When he finally spoke, his anger was gone, his voice low. "I told her, Amanda. I told her you kicked me out, and I told her I was going to do whatever I had to do to win you back. I told her I loved you and I always would. And when she told me I was a fool, I hung up on her."

  Her breath caught.

  "It's true. I didn't tell her we'd separated because, as far as I'm concerned, this is temporary. I don't want to lose you. I can't lose you."

  Her throat ached with tears. "It's too late, Mark. I'm sorry." Another long silence. She couldn't stand it. "I'm sorry."

  "I have to go."

  This time when she heard the click, Amanda laid her head in her hands and wept.

  Eleven

  Mark had chosen the apartment complex because it was the closest one he could find to his house, as far as he could bear to be from his wife and daughters. It wasn't very big, but what it lacked in space, it made up for in dinginess. Didn't matter. He wasn't going to be here long. That's what he told himself every day.

  It's too late. He could hear her words ringing in his ears.

  He tossed the folder Chris had given him on the kitchen table. He had to focus on keeping Amanda safe. Later he'd figure out how to keep Amanda his.

  He'd gotten his furniture at a cheap, second-hand shop, furnishing the entire apartment for less than five hundred dollars. Nothing matched, but who cared? The whole apartment would fit in the living room of his house.

  Her house. Whatever.

  Knowing he'd need to concentrate, he didn't flip on the TV. Instead he grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge, sat at the dented, scraped kitchen table, and slid open the manila envelope.

  He flipped through the computer printouts, looking for something on Gabriel Sheppard, but found nothing. Remembering Chris's request that he call before he got started, he picked up his cell.

  "Hey, pro."

  "There's nothing on Sheppard in here."

  "Yeah, I know. I was hoping to have something for you this morning, but I don't."

  "What's wrong? Can't dig up anything on him?"

  "Oh, yeah. I've got lots of stuff on him. Did you know he lost his license to practice medicine a few years ago?"

  "Why?"

  "Not sure yet. I'll get to that. I'm trying to find out more information. Meanwhile, I can tell you he was born in nineteen-sixty, grew up in Haverhill, Mass., which isn't far from Andover, where he lives now. He graduated from the public school in seventy-eight and went on to undergraduate school at UMass, then on to med school at Tufts."

  Most of Chris's words had been lost after the year of the man's birth. "He's . . . he's twenty years older than she is? So she was sixteen and he was . . . ?"

  "Thirty-six."

  "I'm going to kill him."

  "I didn't hear that. Anyway, he worked for the state for a few years after he finished his residency, then set up his own practice in Boston, which is what he did until he lost his license."

  "What does he do now?"

  "He's a professor. And, get this, he writes textbooks. He's published two."

  "That's the link. Somewhere his path crossed with Amanda's—publisher, editor, agent—someone tipped him off."

  "You may be right. Is your fax machine on?"

  Mark checked the copier/scanner/fax, which was sitting on the floor next to the phone jack in the living room. "It is now," he said, pressing the button.

  "Okay, I'm faxing the details."

  "So why'd he lose h
is license?"

  Chris hesitated. "Well, that's what I'm trying to nail down. I haven't got all the details yet."

  "Tell me what you know."

  "It looks like he was arrested for statutory rape about five years ago."

  Mark closed his eyes. "Any idea how old the girl was?"

  "Thirteen."

  "Oh, Lord."

  "Yeah, I know. He was never prosecuted. The state dropped the charges."

  Mark's eyes sprang open. "Why? Why wouldn't they—?"

  "I don't know. That's what I'm waiting to find out. I've seen similar cases, though. Sometimes the girl refuses to testify."

  "Why?"

  "She thinks she's in love," Chris said. "It's possible some girls are afraid. I suspect one of those two things is in play here. I have a call in to the detective who handled the case. Maybe he'll be able to shed some light on it. As soon as I hear from him, I'll let you know."

  "I don't understand. If he lost his license for it, then why didn't they prosecute him? I mean, obviously there was something there."

  "Different burden of proof. You know that."

  Mark took a deep breath. "Right." To convict him, the state would have to prove beyond a reasonable doubt he was guilty. Mark figured the medical board had much broader powers.

  The fax machine sprang to life. "It's coming through now," Mark said.

  "Good. Compare that to what you have on everyone else. See if you can find a commonality."

  Mark kneeled beside his fax machine and looked at the papers, one by one. "Are the names of his books here somewhere?"

  "Yeah, second to last page, I think."

  "Great. I'll get a copy of those, too. Maybe the publisher or . . . Amanda always thanks her agent in the acknowledgements. Maybe he does, too. Maybe that's the link."

  "You need anything else?"

  "Not that I can think of. Let me know what you hear from the detective."

  "Will do."

  "Okay. Thanks, Chris. I can't tell you how—"

  "I know. It's the least I can do. Listen, I have a question for you."

  Mark straightened the papers against his palm. "Okay, shoot."

  "How you holding up?"

  Mark dropped the papers, sat on the carpet, and leaned against the wall. "I'm hanging in there. By the way, what'd you say to Mandy this morning?"