Finding Amanda

by Robin Patchen

  "I suppose."

  "Great. We'll be there in less than two hours. Thanks." He hung up before she could respond.

  It was time to call Amanda. Mark played over the conversation he'd had in his kitchen that morning. First, he'd learned Sheppard was very likely a murderer. Whether or not he'd killed the girl himself or had someone else do it, he was willing to let an innocent child die to protect himself. And then he thought about the conversation he'd had with Roxie.

  "Baxter is not the connection to Amanda," she'd said.

  "How can you be so sure?"

  Sitting across from him, Chris leaned forward, his eyebrows lifting.

  "I had a client meeting this morning," Roxie said, "and I asked him to join me. The client was late, so I thought I'd hint around, see how he reacted. I said I couldn't believe Gabriel Sheppard had made Amanda change her plans."

  "What did he say?" Mark asked.

  "His jaw hit the table, Mark. He lost it. He was furious and went on a ten-minute diatribe about how much he hates Gabriel Sheppard, how he isn't surprised he'd do something like that. It was—"

  "Obviously convincing," Mark said, unconvinced.

  "It was. I told him we thought he was giving Sheppard information—"

  "You told him after I asked you not to?"

  "He freaked out, insisted we call you."

  "Of course he did. He wants to keep his job, and obviously he doesn't want us to think . . ." He took a deep breath. It was done. There was no point in getting upset about it. "Does he know Amanda is up north?"

  "I told him everything. But it's okay, because he's not the connection to Sheppard."

  "Or he just has you convinced. And what if you're wrong? This is my wife we're talking about."

  "Fine. You think I'm wrong, then you talk to him."

  A moment later a young man's voice came on the line. "This is Baxter McIlroy."

  "I'm not going to be as easy to convince as Roxie," Mark said.

  "I understand that, sir. But I hate Gabriel Sheppard, and I would never, ever feed him information about your wife or anybody else."

  "And why should I believe that?"

  "Because if you don't, then you'll be putting her in danger. Look, I don't care if you believe me. I don't care if I lose my job, because that's not the point. The point is, if you think somebody's working with Sheppard, and you think that somebody is me, then you'll quit looking for the real connection."

  Chris met Mark's eyes and mouthed, "What's going on?"

  Mark covered the mouthpiece and gave Chris a rundown on what he'd learned so far.

  "Ask him why he hates the guy," Chris suggested.

  Mark did, putting his phone on speaker so Chris could hear, low enough that the girls couldn't.

  Baxter began the story. "When I was working on my Master's in Psychology, Sheppard asked me to be his TA. I really respected the guy, and I knew he usually asked women to work for him. And why not? If he could surround himself with smart, beautiful women, why shouldn't he? So when he asked me, I was honored. It wasn't until after I started that I learned there were rumors about him and his TA's—rumors of . . . let's say extracurricular activities, if you know what I mean."

  Mark met Chris's eyes. "I think we get it."

  "Right. Okay, so Sheppard was up for tenure, and I guess he was trying to quell the rumors, which is why he hired me." Baxter paused. Mark drummed his fingers on the table in front of him and waited.

  "So one day this girl—I say girl, because she looked young. She was petite and very thin and looked about thirteen. She was a freshman, though, so she was probably eighteen."

  Mark resisted the urge to shout get to the point.

  "Anyway, she came to me in tears to ask about a paper she'd written. She'd taken the psychology class as an elective, and she'd gotten a D on the paper. I looked at it and remembered it—I'd given her an A. I always wrote the grades I thought they deserved on little sticky notes, and then Sheppard looked over the papers and assigned the final grades. The girl had to maintain a good GPA to keep her scholarship, and she was afraid this grade would bring it down. I suggested she go talk to Sheppard about it.

  "That night I had to drop off more papers I'd graded. It was late, and the building was almost deserted. I was walking toward the psychology department and passed his office. The door was closed, but I could see light coming from under it. I stopped to listen—it's a really old building, and with the building as quiet as it was, I figured I'd be able to hear if he was really there. Actually, I was about to knock when I heard . . . noises coming from inside."

  "Okay?" Mark prompted.

  "They were, uh, the kinds of noises you'd expect if two people were, you know, messing around."

  Mark met Chris's eyes in the silence. He looked back at the phone and said, "Go on."

  "I was mad. I mean, he's married. And then I thought maybe it was his wife. I tried to convince myself it was his wife, because like I said, I liked the guy. I respected him. But I knew it wasn't his wife. I went into the Psych office, stuck the papers in his mailbox, and then I sort of hung around. Maybe it was sick curiosity or . . . I don't know why I stayed. I just had to know, you know?"

  There was another pause. "Sure," Mark said.

  Baxter continued. "A few minutes later the door opened, and that girl came running out. The freshman. The one who got the D. She was crying, all disheveled. And when she saw me, she turned beet red and bolted.

  "I went into his office and confronted him. He said he'd had a meeting with a student over a grade, and there was nothing to worry about. I told him I knew what had happened, and he laughed at me. Told me not to feed the rumor mill and said if the girl wasn't complaining, then it was none of my business."

  "What happened?"

  "I looked up that girl on campus that night, but she wouldn't talk to me. I decided the next day, I was going to talk to the dean. And then . . ." His voice trailed off.

  "And then what?"

  "The next morning I was arrested for rape. I don't know how he did it, but he got my ex-girlfriend to accuse me. She was one of his students, too. Maybe he manipulated her. Maybe he threatened to fail her. I don't know. In any event, he bailed me out of jail before I could even make a phone call and basically offered me a deal. Keep my mouth shut, and he'd get her to drop the charges."

  Mark's temper flared. "So you dropped it? Knowing what the guy was capable of, you—"

  "No. I knew I could beat the rape charge. I went to the girl and told her to tell the dean what happened. I told her I'd back her up. She was too embarrassed. She told me he didn't force her, he offered her a deal, and she took it. She begged me to let it go. So I did. My ex-girlfriend dropped the charges, and I quit school."

  Mark ran his fingers through his hair and met Chris's eyes. "So, we're back where we started, with no idea who the connection is." He looked at the phone. "Okay, thanks for the information. We've got to figure out—"

  "What exactly are you looking for?" Baxter said.

  "Someone who told Sheppard about the memoir. Not that many people knew."

  "Maybe I can help. I did work for the guy for almost a year. I don't know, but maybe—"

  Sophie and Madi giggled in the back seat, snapping Mark back into the moment. Realizing he was gripping the steering wheel in two tight fists, he took a deep breath and stretched his hands. It was going to be okay. He was going to protect Amanda whether she wanted his protection or not.

  He'd sent Chris to meet with McIlroy. It was a long shot, but it was all they had. Chris planned to go over the list of people who knew about the memoir with Baxter while Mark raced to Concord.

  He'd done what he could for now. It was time to call Amanda.

  Amanda checked the road sign and grabbed her ringing phone from the passenger seat. "Hello?"

  "Good morning," Mark said. "How are you?"

  She stiffened. "Fine. How's Annalise?"

  He sighed loudly into the phone. "She was asleep when I got back to th
e apartment. I woke her up and sent her home. You should be thankful someone was there to keep the girls."

  "Oh sure. Tell her how much I appreciate her."

  "Whatever. I need to talk to you about Sheppard."

  His name inspired a knot in her stomach. "Okay. What?"

  "I have some new information. Remember he was accused of”—he dropped his voice to a near-whisper—“statutory rape, but it never went to trial?"

  "Of course I remember."

  "Chris found out today that it didn't go to trial because the girl disappeared."

  She gasped. "What do you mean? Did she run away?"

  "The detective who worked the case thinks Sheppard had her killed. He has a solid alibi, but he has to be connected."

  Gabriel, a murderer? "I can't imagine—"

  "Amanda, you have to realize this guy is dangerous."

  She couldn't fathom it. A pervert, sure. But that he would actually kill someone . . . a young, defenseless girl. It seemed impossible. "I never thought . . ."

  "I know this is a shock." Mark's voice was gentle, soothing. "Unfortunately, there's more."

  She covered her mouth with her free hand, wishing she could cover her ears instead.

  "We don't think Baxter McIlroy is the link. Apparently he and Sheppard had a run-in. McIlroy hates him. He swears he isn't feeding the guy information."

  "That's good, right?"

  "Maybe for him and Roxie, but it means someone else is giving Sheppard information about you, and we don't know who."

  "Right. Of course." Amanda took the off-ramp into Concord and signaled for a left turn, pushing down the rising fear.

  "Will you please consider skipping the book signing and come home?"

  She shook her head. "I can't. What would I tell the bookstore manager?"

  "Um, maybe that there's a murderer on the loose who wants you dead."

  She stopped at a stoplight, squeezed her eyes shut, and pulled in a deep breath. "I can't drop out of life, Mark. I have commitments. I understand now—Gabriel is dangerous. But if he wanted to hurt me, why wouldn't he just go to my house? Why would he come to Concord?"

  "Why did he go to New York to confront you the first time? I think it's likely—"

  "You have no idea what he's going to do."

  "You're right."

  She could feel his fury through the phone connection.

  "And neither do you. I want you to come home so I can keep you safe."

  Amanda straightened in her seat. "I'll be fine."

  A pause. "I knew you'd say that, so I'm taking the girls to my mom's house so I can join you."

  "I don't want you here. I've made arrangements. Someone will be with me the whole time."

  "Someone as in . . . who, exactly? The store manager can't stay with you all afternoon, can he?"

  Amanda considered telling him the truth. What better way to get back at him? But even in this, he didn't get to know what she was up to with Alan. He gave up that right when he slept with Annalise. "You're not my protector anymore."

  Mark said nothing. Amanda continued. "I've taken care of it." She turned right into the parking lot and spied Alan standing in front of the bookstore. "I'm here, anyway. My escort's at the door already."

  "Please, honey, be reasonable."

  She pulled up beside Alan and shifted into park. "I'll be fine. Good-bye, Mark."

  Twenty-Six

  Amanda waved to the two women as they exited the store. When they were out of sight, she collapsed in her chair. A quick glance at her watch told her she'd been standing, signing books, and sharing recipes for an hour and a half. Not that she'd had many people stop by her table, but a few stayed. That last pair had been there for twenty minutes before they decided to buy her cookbook.

  Alan sat beside her, silently. He'd only walked away once, when she was surrounded by a crowd. She smiled at him. "You must be bored to tears."

  He set his magazine on the table. His hands were trembling again. "Not at all," he said. "I got some reading done, and I was near you. I can't think of a better way to spend the day."

  Amanda massaged her tired back and looked around the store. Not a customer in sight.

  "It's really starting to come down out there."

  Beyond the glass doors, Amanda watched the snow swirling in the breeze. "That explains the dwindling customers." She checked the clock. Half an hour to go, not a shopper in sight. "I wonder if we've seen the last of them today."

  "I'm afraid we have." A tinny beep sounded from Alan's watch. He silenced it and grabbed a small pill bottle from his coat pocket. He removed the top, popped a yellow pill into his mouth, and swallowed it without water.

  "Aspirin?"

  He gave her a small smile. "Something like that."

  Amanda looked back at the snow. "Are you staying close by?"

  Alan slipped the pills back into his pocket. "I inherited a summer home from my parents. It's in Alton. I hardly ever use it, but it has so many great memories, I can't bring myself to sell it. I'm staying there tonight."

  "Alton's near Winnipesaukee, isn't it?"

  He nodded.

  "I'm sure it's nice. Sorry to hear about your parents, though."

  "They've been gone for a while." He straightened her business cards and bookmarks. "Actually, I wanted to show you something this afternoon. It's not too far from here—maybe ten minutes. Do you have time?"

  Amanda looked outside at the snow. "I have to be back by five-thirty to get dinner started."

  Alan leaned forward and tented his trembling fingers. "Shouldn't take long." He met her eyes and held them. "It's really important to me."

  What could she do? He'd come all the way from New York to spend two hours with her. How could she refuse him a few minutes of her time? She looked out the front door. The parking lot was nearly empty. The snow was falling but not sticking to the road yet. It barely covered the grassy area out front.

  "Whatever it is, I'd love to see it. It doesn't look like anyone else is going to come. Let's pack up early and get out of here."

  Mark dropped the girls at his mother's house, kissed them goodbye, and began the long drive to Concord. His thoughts bounced from one terrifying thought to another. What if Gabriel were at the store with her right now? He eyed the phone sitting on his passenger seat. If only she'd answer. Even if she just yelled at him to stop calling, at least he'd know she was all right. But she'd been ignoring his calls ever since she'd reached the store.

  You're not my protector anymore . . . I've arranged for someone to be with me . . .

  Who was acting as Amanda's protector today? Was it Alan? Would Mark show up at the bookstore to meet his wife's new boyfriend?

  Would he be able to keep from killing him?

  He forced himself to pray. God was there, with them both, whether Amanda acknowledged Him or not.

  He entered the Concord city limits as his phone rang.

  "I have some news," Chris said. "I just left McIlroy. He recognized a name. Said the guy called a bunch of times when he worked for Sheppard."

  Mark's heart pounded like the beat of a war drum. "Who is it?"

  A slight pause. "I'm sorry, man. I should've trusted your instincts. The connection is Alan Morass."

  His breath whooshed out of his body. Alan. Her confidant. A man she'd so easily grown to trust.

  The man who might be with her right this minute.

  "I have to call her."

  "I already did. She's not answering."

  Mark cursed, swerved around a compact sedan, and picked up speed. The rain had changed to snow, but it wouldn't slow him down.

  There, just over the hill, he saw the sign for the bookstore. "I'm here. I'll call you as soon as I have her with me."

  "Okay. I'll be praying."

  Mark hung up the phone, parked the car, and ran to the door. His heart fell as soon as he walked inside. Ten feet beyond the entrance sat a table with two chairs behind it. A sign on the table read, "Meet Author M.L. Johnson tod
ay." The chairs were empty. The table, aside from the sign, was bare.

  "Can I help you?"

  Mark turned to the young man at the counter. "Amanda Johnson, the author, is she still here?"

  "Sorry. You just missed her. They decided to pack up early because of the snow."

  He forced himself to take a breath and keep his voice level. "Who was with her, do you know?"

  "I think he was her editor." The man turned to a roundish woman behind him. "Did you get that guy's name, the one with M.L. Johnson?"

  "Sure. He was an editor out of New York. Alan, I think."

  "What time did they leave?"

  The man shrugged. "Fifteen, twenty minutes ago."

  "And they . . . they left together?"

  The man narrowed his eyes. "Who are you exactly?"

  "I'm her husband."

  He reddened. "Oh, Dude, I'm sorry. Uh, they weren't . . . they were just like friends, you know?"

  "Did they leave together?"

  The man hesitated, seemed to vacillate. "Uh, well . . ."

  "I'm not angry with her," Mark said as calmly as he could manage. "We're getting a divorce. It's just that . . . did she tell you she has a stalker?"

  He cocked his head to the side. "No."

  Mark blew out an angry breath. "She does, and I just found out it's Alan Morass, the man she's with. If you heard where they were going, you have to tell me. Now."

  "Are you sure? They seemed friendly."

  He stepped forward, balled his hands into fists. "I'm sure they did. Where did they go?"

  "I don't know. I heard him say he wanted to show her something." He turned to the woman at the other register. "Did you hear anything?"

  She shook her head. "No idea."

  He walked back outside and looked around the parking lot for her car. It was gone, just like Amanda.

  Twenty-Seven

  Alan hadn't given Amanda any hints about what he wanted to show her, but he promised it wasn't far. The snow swirled around the tires of Alan's car in front of her, lifting gently over her own. But it was picking up, beginning to stick on the little country road they were traveling.