Eyes of a Stanger

by Rachel Ann Nunes

Autumn let her head drop to her left hand. Now what? Then she remembered the note. She dug in the box for the age-yellowed paper and re-read it:

  “BervaDee and I cannot make it to Autumn’s 1st birthday party, but you can be sure we will stop by and see her later in the week. We are happy things are working out so well. Thanks for all you continue to do to help girls from our mothering classes.”

  Floyd Loveridge

  BervaDee was probably his wife, though she didn’t remember her being listed on the records. If she was his wife, she might still be alive. Maybe she never remarried. It was possible. Many widows decided one man was enough for a lifetime. Even if she had remarried, the name BervaDee was pretty rare. There might not be another in all of the United States, much less Oregon.

  The bell at the door jingled again, but the customer was entering the Herb Shoppe and not her store. Autumn settled down to work, looking up the name on the Internet. There was no BervaDee Loveridge, and she had to try several more White Page links before she found one she could type in just a letter for the last name. She tried different letters of the alphabet, but nothing came up.

  “Useless,” she muttered, exiting the browser. “Waste of time.” BervaDee, whoever she was, seemed to have dropped off the face of the earth.

  “Look who’s here.” Jake came from the linking doors, his kid sister, Randa, in tow. “Just got out of school. Stopped by to see if we needed help.” Randa was tall and beautiful, if a tad too slender. The top and sides of her hair were braided in thick cornrows, ending with a ponytail in the back where the rest of her long hair splayed down her back in tight ringlets.

  Autumn smiled at them. “Hi, Randa. Thanks for all your help this past week. I really appreciate it.”

  “It’s been so slow today,” Jake said. “Well, besides all your friends dropping by, and I got to thinking. Randa here is a whiz with hair. She could, uh, you know, help you out. Since your arm’s broken and all.”

  Autumn wouldn’t put it past Jake to have called his sister for that reason alone. Hair was important to him, even if she didn’t care, and so was her well-being. She started to shake her head, but then an idea that had been percolating since the day before resurfaced. “Can you do color?”

  Randa shrugged. “Depends on what you want.”

  It didn’t really matter if it turned out perfectly. Autumn only wanted to see what difference hair would make in her similarity with Tawnia. “I want to get rid of the red. Go all brown, like my natural color.”

  “Easy.”

  “Can you do it here? There’s a sink in the bathroom.”

  “Well, I’ll have to get some stuff, but I can do it.”

  “Okay, then.”

  “Should I wait till closing time?”

  “No. It’s pretty dead now.”

  Dead. The word hung in the air, too late to call it back. Jake busied himself rearranging a display of vases, while Randa backed to the door. “I’ll be back then. In a bit.”

  “Wait! Here’s some money.” Autumn punched in the code to her till and scooped out a couple of twenties. “That enough?”

  “Plenty.”

  Autumn watched her leave before looking at Jake. “I hope I know what I’m doing.”

  “It’ll be fine,” he said. “Randa’s a smart kid. And besides, you can always fix it later.”

  • • •

  Autumn looked in the bathroom mirror, turning her head this way and that. The color was better than she expected, though she looked rather too plain now, and the style Randa had chosen was a little more youthful than she’d wanted. But at least she no longer looked like she’d barely dragged herself from her bed.

  “Thanks, Randa. It’s perfect. Here, let me pay you.”

  “No. It’s something I wanna do. It’s just . . . I’m real sorry about Winter.” Randa’s eyes met hers briefly before careening away to focus on a section of white wall.

  “Thanks,” Autumn said quietly.

  “I’ll meet you at your house later, then. To help with your friend.”

  Autumn watched her go, passing Jake on her way out of the back room.

  “See?” he said. “Much better. Look, that guy’s out there for you. That firefighter.”

  Orion. Autumn tossed her head, smiling. Now was the time to try out her new look and see if she could get Tawnia a date with a certain handsome older man.

  Chapter 15

  Bret’s day was grueling. He spent hours being asked his opinion on the explosives used on the bridge and about Multnomah County’s employees. After the first fifteen minutes, he had nothing more to tell them about either, but the FBI agents in charge seemed to think the more they talked, the more information they’d extract.

  The only interesting thing that happened was when he told the FBI interviewer about visiting the boat and the fins he and Autumn had found. This time the authorities were interested and immediately sent someone to retrieve them. So far no one on board the boat, captain or crew, had admitted to owning the equipment.

  “It could be that our suspect took a complete set of scuba equipment on board and then decided he didn’t need the fins or left them behind accidentally,” the FBI man said. He was a small man with piercing dark eyes that seemed to accuse Bret of lying even when he wasn’t. His blond hair was cut so short he was almost bald.

  “But why right then?” countered Bret, who himself kept going back and forth on whether or not the two events were related. “He could have set the charges three days earlier, for all we know. Why risk your life by diving from that boat and blowing up the bridge so quickly? Given the time it would take to set the charges, I don’t see how it was possible.”

  “The captain says there was a delay. He’d been trying to radio the bridge operator for some time without success.”

  Because Hanks junior was flirting with some chick. And probably a lot longer than fifteen minutes. “But long enough to be able to set the charges and get far enough away?”

  “If he was experienced and had a device that propelled him through the water.”

  Ah, now he understood where they were going. “Which was why he wouldn’t need fins.”

  “Well, our man should have used them anyway. Easier to navigate.”

  “Or she.” The extra copies of the drawing Hanks had given him weighed heavy in Bret’s pocket.

  The agent cracked a smile. “Maybe. Anyway, there may have been reasons we aren’t aware of: he was interrupted, he thought he’d need to hold onto the supports with his legs while setting the charges, his feet were too large. Or maybe it has nothing to do with anything.”

  “I see.” This was getting old. They still didn’t know much more than they had learned when they discovered the explosives.

  Bret wondered when Hanks would come forward, and thinking that only made him feel guilty for not reporting what he knew. “What about the governor?” Bret asked. “Has any connection been made? Has he received any threats?”

  “No threats, and we can’t find the slightest connection to him. And since no one has claimed responsibility, we can’t trace any backward connection that might exist.”

  That no one had claimed responsibility didn’t make sense to Bret. The collapse of the bridge should be seen as a huge success for whoever was responsible. He sighed. “Well, if you’re finished with me . . .” He glanced at the door.

  “You can go. You’ve been really helpful. Let me know if you think of anything else.” Rising to his feet, the agent offered Bret his hand.

  Bret shook hands quickly before turning away from that keen stare.

  He wasn’t the only one given special attention. Multnomah’s employees, especially anyone connected with bridge maintenance, were also interviewed extensively. Robert Glen emerged from another room at the same time Bret did—his third interview, if Bret had counted correctly. His face was as dark as his red hair. “Bozos,” he muttered. “Stinkin’ waste of time.”

  Bret smiled. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”

  �
�Wish they’d let me get back to my job.”

  “I’m afraid that’s going to take a while. A lot of people died.”

  “I know, but they act like it’s our fault. We did everything we could to make the bridges safe—everything management would let us. If there’s a problem, that’s where they should look.”

  Knowing about Alec Hanks, Bret had to agree. “Yeah, but this is terrorism. Once word of that gets out, there’s going to be panic for sure. It’ll hit a lot of people at home. The FBI needs to find out as much information as possible so that when people demand answers, they can give them something.”

  “I’m still not convinced someone planted explosives at all.” Robert took a step, lifting his face closer to Bret’s, his voice low. “I think they’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “But you saw the damage. That couldn’t possibly have been caused by a stress collapse.”

  “You might be wrong.” A tiny trickle of sweat slid down Robert’s left temple, and damp circles stood out under his arm. “I think it was an accident, plain and simple. No one wanted this collapse.”

  Bret was surprised at his vehemence. He took a step back. “Look, I know how you feel—”

  “You don’t! They’re treating us like criminals—at least those of us who really work here. There’s even talk of a lie detector test.” He snorted, shaking his head. “You give thirteen years of your life to a company that turns its back on you. I should have known. Government is famous for tricks like this.”

  “Well, they have good reason this time.”

  “Do they? Or are they just trying to shift the blame? It was an accident. Period.”

  Bret looked at him without understanding. “Why do you keep going back to that? Even if you don’t believe the damage is evidence, they have proof in the failed charge we found.”

  Robert blinked at him. “What?”

  “The charge, the one that didn’t go off.” When Robert showed no reaction, Bret went on. “You haven’t heard? The divers found it early this morning, and it proves absolutely that this was terrorism. I’m surprised you haven’t heard about it. Everyone is talking about it. Everyone in the know, that is.”

  “I got here late.” Robert squeezed his eyes shut tight, thick brownish red lashes standing out against the paler color of his lids. “And this morning, they’ve kept me busy with all these stupid questions.” He paused. “Only I guess they’re not stupid, are they? What did they use?”

  “Blasting gelatin. High velocity.”

  “The most powerful thing they could get hold of.”

  “It could have been planted days in advance, though the FBI seems to think otherwise.”

  “We still have nothing to do with this! No one here would have done something like that. We may groan about management and protest policies, but you’d have to be crazy to use explosives on any bridge.”

  “Exactly.” Bret fell silent as an employee walked past them in the corridor. He didn’t recognize the man, but Robert nodded to him.

  “This can’t be happening.” Robert stepped back, resting his back against the wall.

  “You knew this was a possibility all along. You told me yourself, the collapse shouldn’t have happened. Now you know you were right.”

  Robert nodded, the angry flush on his face seeping away. “I knew my bridge was stronger than that. If they’d listened to me and fixed certain things, it might even have withstood this attack.”

  “I don’t think so. Someone went to an awful lot of trouble and expense to make it go down. But maybe there’s more to this than we think. I want to show you something.” Bret pulled out a copy of the girl’s face. “Ever seen her before? Name’s Sheree.”

  Robert briefly glanced at the drawing. “Nope. Pretty little thing, though.” He pushed off the wall. “Well, I guess I’d better get going.”

  “Don’t you want to know why I’m asking about the girl?”

  He hesitated. “I’m sorry. It’s just all this questioning. What has she got to do with this? You looking for a date?”

  Bret snorted. “Hardly. Anyway, I can’t tell you how she’s connected to the mess. But she is someone of interest.”

  That got his attention. “The FBI is looking for her?” The furrow between Robert’s eyes deepened.

  “Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time.”

  “Let me have the drawing. I’ll ask around for you. I know more people here than you do.”

  Bret felt relief. Robert would do a better job of it, and Bret wouldn’t have to worry about accidentally showing it to an FBI agent. “Thanks, Robert. I appreciate it.”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “Call me any time if you get a lead.” Bret paused. “Hanks has already seen it, so you don’t need to show him.”

  “Fine. Hey, I just remembered. I tracked down your tools this morning. Between interviews. Sorry it took me this long.”

  “Really? That’s great!” Bret had almost given them up for lost.

  “Yeah. I locked them in with the others that night, but someone else sent them up to the regular maintenance office. It was only discovered when the janitor couldn’t figure out what it was. The box is still locked and all, so everything should be fine. I left it at the front desk for you.”

  “Great. I won’t need them any more here, but I’m relieved to have them back.”

  “I knew you would be.” Robert started down the hall. “Well, back to the grind—until they haul me in for questioning again. But I tell you, I’ll refuse to submit to a lie detector, if that’s what it comes down to. That’s plain degrading.” Lifting a hand in Bret’s direction, Robert strode down the hall, his shorter, bulky form oddly graceful.

  Bret stared in the direction Robert had gone. The loan of the county’s tools had been adequate, but how interesting that his tools would show up now that his investigation had been cut short by the discovery of the explosives. Was there a connection?

  Why would anyone have purposely taken them? Robert was the only one who’d known they were his or even what the box contained, and he wouldn’t need them with the county’s equipment at his disposal. Or would he? The idea of Robert having some nefarious purpose was ludicrous. He was as simple and down-to-earth as they came. “I’m just getting paranoid,” Bret muttered in disgust. “Completely paranoid.”

  Chapter 16

  You don’t look like cousins,” Randa announced in Autumn’s apartment after cutting and styling Tawnia’s hair exactly like Autumn’s. “You look like twins. Here, let me have your phone, and I’ll take a picture.”

  Tawnia stared at the picture of herself and Autumn. Their faces were nearly indistinguishable. Her slightly fuller cheeks and Autumn’s tanner skin were the only notable differences, and you had to look closely to see that much.

  Autumn glanced briefly at the picture, but didn’t say anything as she walked Randa to the door.

  “It’s just not possible.” Tawnia continued to stare at the picture, her hand going to her new short locks. If she didn’t know better, she’d have thought the image was actually two separate pictures of the same person copied and pasted together.

  Autumn returned to the kitchen where Tawnia was standing by the sink. The curling iron Randa had used was still plugged into the outlet. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. I mean, if it bothers you that much.”

  Tawnia didn’t know what to say to that. She shut the phone with a decided click.

  They both sat at the table. Autumn had put some kind of free-range chicken and brown rice casserole in the oven earlier, but Tawnia didn’t know if she’d be able to eat. Her mother hadn’t been any help, and now they’d learned that the doctor who’d delivered Autumn was dead, and not newly so, but for almost their entire lives. If he knew the secret of their family, it had gone to the grave with him. The mysterious woman, BervaDee, might hold the answer, but she was nowhere to be found.

  Autumn scooted her chair closer to Tawnia’s. “Maybe our birth mothers were twins,” she said int
o the silence, “and they married twin brothers. I saw that once in a movie. And then what if they both had babies?”

  “At the same time? That’s not likely.”

  “They could have planned it that way. And the babies would have been genetic twins.”

  “Don’t you mean siblings?”

  Autumn thought for a moment. “Yeah, that’s right, genetic siblings.”

  “Which brings us back to where we started. Why would they place their babies for adoption if they were married? Your parents never said anything about your mother being married, did they? Or involved with a man?”

  Autumn shook her head. “No, she was a teenager, too young for marriage. Or to have a baby for that matter.” They both fell silent.

  “Twins married to twins,” Tawnia muttered after a while.

  Autumn nodded solemnly, but a corner of her mouth twitched. Tawnia saw it, and to her surprise, she let out a chuckle followed by a snort.

  Autumn giggled. “It’s really ridiculous, isn’t it?”

  “Insane.”

  They both were laughing full steam now, and Tawnia’s melancholy seeped away as though it had never existed.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” Autumn said, grabbing her hand suddenly. “I don’t care how it happened. We’re here, and that’s all that’s important.”

  Tawnia returned the grip, grateful that Autumn also felt the connection between them, strong and solid. But in one thing they differed: Tawnia still craved to know the truth. She wanted to examine it from every side, force it open to see what lay inside.

  Autumn went to check on the casserole. “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, bending over the open oven door with a hot pad. “You have a date tomorrow night. He’s going to pick you up here.”

  “What? With who?”

  “Orion. He came by the store.”

  Warmth flooded Tawnia. “Really? But he asked you, right? Not me.”

  Autumn stood up, the steaming pan in her hands. “No, he asked me pretending to be you pretending to be me.” Autumn’s brow wrinkled. “Or something like that. Look, it doesn’t matter. You like him, and I don’t. So I made the date for you. I’m not going, so if you don’t go, it’ll look like we—you—stood him up.”