The Search

by Nora Roberts

  “I’m not thinking about that yet.” Fiona lifted her shoulders, let them fall in a kind of internal hug. “I like this phase of not thinking about it.”

  “Exciting. A little dangerous. Unpredictable.”

  “Yes! And that’s all so unlike me. No plans, no checklist.”

  “And all glow.”

  “If it keeps up, I may turn radioactive.” Charged, she broke a sprig of glossy green grapes from the bunch in the bowl on the counter and began popping them into her mouth. “I’ve been training Jaws one-on-one. Over a week now, which means either I go over there or Simon brings the dog to me. And we don’t always . . . There isn’t always time, but there’s always heat.”

  “Don’t you ever go out? I mean, wouldn’t you like to go have dinner or catch a movie?”

  “I don’t know. That all seems . . .” She whisked a hand through the air. “Outside right now. Maybe we will, or maybe it’ll burn off. But right now, I feel so involved, so excited, so—cliché time—alive. I’m a walking buzz. Did you ever have one? A hot, steamy affair?”

  “Yes, I did.” After tucking the eggs away, Sylvia closed the refrigerator. “With your father.”

  Fiona patted a hand to her throat as a grape threatened to lodge. “ Seriously?”

  “I think we both decided it was just sex, just a fast, exciting ride—during that no-thinking phase.”

  “Hold on a minute, because I want to hear this but I don’t want to get a picture in my head. That’s too weird. Okay, okay.” She squeezed her eyes shut, nodded. “No video. You and Dad.”

  Sylvia licked her fingertip, made a hissing sound. “Scorching. I was managing Island Arts in those days. I have many, many fond memories of the stockroom.”

  “I must say . . . wow. Dad in the stockroom.”

  “Exciting, a little dangerous, unpredictable.”

  “Like you,” Fiona murmured. “Not so much like him—or my perception of him.”

  “We were like teenagers.” She sighed, smiled. “God, he made me feel that way. Of course, I was much too unconventional to consider marriage, so I imagined we’d just continue as we were, until we stopped. And then, I don’t know, Fee, how or when or why, not specifically, but then I couldn’t imagine my life without him. Thank God he felt the same.”

  “He was so nervous the first time he took me to meet you. I know I was young, but I knew he loved you because he was so nervous.”

  “He loved us both. We were lucky. Still, when he asked me to marry him, I thought, Oh no, absolutely not. Marriage? Just a piece of paper, just an empty ritual. I thought absolutely not, but I said yes—and stunned myself. My heart,” she murmured, laying her hand over it. “My heart wouldn’t say no.”

  Fiona ran those words through her mind on the drive home. My heart wouldn’t say no.

  She thought it lovely, and at the same time felt relief that, at the moment, her heart kept silent. A speaking heart could break—she knew that very well. As long as hers remained content, she’d stay relaxed and happy.

  Spring was beginning to show her face as field and hill and forest steeped in green, sprinkled by the bold yellow of wild buttercups, like grains of shaken sunlight. Maybe there was a dusting of snow high up on Mount Constitution, but the contrast of white peaks against soft blue only made the shy blooms of the early white fawn lilies more charming, the three-note call of the sparrow more poignant.

  Right at the moment, she felt like the island—coming alive, blooming, busy with the business of being.

  Classes and clients and work on her blog packed her days, while her unit and training added the spice of satisfaction. Her own three dogs gave her love, entertainment, security. Her very hot neighbor kept her excited and aware—and had a dog she believed she could mold into a solid, even superior, Search and Rescue dog.

  The police didn’t have any news—not that they were sharing, in any case—on the three murdered women, but . . . There’d been no more abductions reported in two weeks.

  As she rounded a curve she caught sight of the iridescent blur of a hummingbird zipping along a clump of red-flowering currant.

  If that couldn’t be taken as a good omen, she mused, what could?

  “No bad news, Bogart, just the—what is that song?—the birds and the bees and the flowers and the trees. Hell, that’s going to stick in my head.”

  He thumped his glossy black tail, so she sang it again. “I don’t know the rest—before my time, you know. Anyway, errands are done, we’re nearly home. And you know what? Maybe I’ll give Jaws’s daddy a call, see if he wants to come over for dinner. I could cook. Something. It might be time we had ourselves a date—and a sleepover. What do you say? Do you want Jaws to come over and play? Let’s get the mail first.”

  She turned into the drive, parked and walked over to the box on the side of the road. She tossed the mail into one of the grocery bags. “We’d better get this stuff put away so I can see if I actually have anything to make for dinner—the sort you make when somebody comes over.”

  As she carried bags inside she wished she’d had the idea earlier. Then she could’ve picked up something, put together an actual adult menu.

  “I could go back,” she mused, stowing frozen dinners, cans. “Pick up a couple of steaks. You know what?” She tossed the mail on the table, put away the cloth bags Sylvia had given her for grocery runs. “I could just call the pizza place and sweet-talk them into a delivery.”

  Considering the options, she picked up the mail. “Bill, bill, oh, and, surprise, bill.” She lifted the padded mailing bag. “Not a bill. Hey, guys, maybe this is some pictures from one of our graduates.”

  Her former clients often sent her photos and updates. Pleased to have something that wasn’t a bill, she zipped open the bag.

  The gauzy red scarf fell onto the table.

  She stumbled back, revulsion and panic rising in her throat like burning reflux. For a moment the room spun around her, gray at the edges so the snake coil of the scarf boiled red. Pain crashed into her chest, blocking her breath until the gray swam with white dots. She groped behind her, clamped one white-knuckled hand on the counter as her legs liquefied.

  Don’t faint, don’t faint, don’t faint.

  Bearing down, she sucked in air, hissed it out, and forced her quivering legs to move. Even as she reached for the phone, the dogs milling around her in concern went on alert.

  “Stay with me. Stay with me.” She gasped it out as hammers of panic slammed against her ribs. She swore she heard the strike of them cracking her bones like glass.

  Fiona grabbed the phone with one hand, a carving knife with the other.

  “Damn it, Fiona, you left the door open again.”

  Simon strode in, annoyance in every line. Faced with a woman, pale as wax, holding a very large knife and guarded by three dogs who all growled a low warning, he stopped short.

  “You want to tell them to stand down?” he asked. Coolly, calmly.

  “Relax. Relax, boys. Friend. Simon’s a friend. Say hi to Simon.”

  Jaws galloped in with a rope, ready to play. Simon walked to the back door, opened it. “Everybody out.”

  “Go on out. Go outside. Go play.”

  Still watching her, Simon closed the door behind the rush of bodies. “Put down the knife.”

  She managed another breath. “I can’t. I can’t seem to let go of it.”

  “Look at me,” he ordered. “Look at me.” His eyes on hers, Simon put a hand on her wrist and used the other to release the vise of her fingers on the handle of the knife. He shot it back into the slot on the cutting board.

  “What happened?”

  She lifted a hand, pointed at the table. Saying nothing, he walked to the table, stared down at the scarf, the open bag.

  “Finish calling the cops,” he told her, then turned when she didn’t speak, didn’t move. He took the phone.

  “Speed dial one. Sheriff’s office. Sorry. I need to just . . .” She slid down, sat on the floor and dropped h
er head between her knees.

  His voice was a vague buzz under the thunder of her heart in her ears. She hadn’t fainted, she reminded herself. She’d armed herself. She’d been ready.

  But now, now all she wanted to do was come apart.

  “Here. Drink.” Simon took her hand, wrapped it around a glass of water. “Drink it, Fiona.” Crouching, he guided the glass to her lips, watching her steadily.

  “Your hands are hot.”

  “No, yours are cold. Drink the water.”

  “Can’t swallow.”

  “Yes you can. Drink the water.” He nudged it on her, sip by slow sip. “Davey’s on his way.”

  “Okay.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I saw a hummingbird. I saw a hummingbird, and I stopped to get the mail. It was in the mail. I picked up the mail, brought it in with the groceries. I thought it might be pictures of one of my dogs—students. I get them sometimes. But . . .”

  He rose, took the bag by the corner with two fingers, flipped it over. “It’s postmarked Lakeview, Oregon. There’s no return address.”

  “I didn’t look. I just opened it—right before you came in. Right before.”

  “I couldn’t have walked in and scared you if you hadn’t left your door open.”

  “You’re right.” The knot at the base of her throat wouldn’t loosen. The water wouldn’t wash it away, so she focused on Simon’s face, the rich tea color of his eyes. “That was careless. Comes from being relaxed and happy. Stupid.” She pushed to her feet, set the glass on the counter. “But I had the dogs. I had a weapon. If it hadn’t been you, if it had been . . .”

  “He’d have a hard time getting by the dogs. Odds are he wouldn’t. But if he did, goddamn, if, Fiona, he’d have taken that knife away from you in two seconds.”

  Her chin came up; so did her color. “You think so?”

  “Look, you’re strong, and you’re fast. But grabbing a weapon you have to use close in, and can be used against you, isn’t a smart alternative to running.”

  Her movements jerky, she yanked open a drawer, pulled out a spatula. The knot dissolved, with anger and insult in its place. “Take it away from me.”

  “For Christ’s sake.”

  “Pretend it’s a knife. Prove your point, goddamn it.”

  “Fine.” He shifted, feinted with his right hand, then reached for her arm with his left.

  Fiona changed her leg base, grabbed his reaching arm and used his momentum to drag him by. He had to slap a hand against the wall or run face-first into it.

  “Now I’ve just stabbed you in the back with the knife—or if I’d been feeling less murderous, I’d have kicked you in the back of the knees and taken you down. I’m not helpless. I’m not a victim.”

  He turned toward her. Fury shone on her face now, infinitely preferable to fear.

  “Nice move.”

  “That’s right.” She nodded sharply. “That’s goddamn right. Do you want to see another? Maybe the one where I kick your balls up against the back of your teeth, then beat you into a coma when you’re on the ground writhing in pain.”

  “We can skip that one.”

  “Being scared doesn’t make me weak. Being scared means I’ll do anything and everything I have to do to defend myself.” She heaved the spatula into the sink. “Couldn’t you show some compassion, some understanding instead of jumping down my throat?”

  “You’re not sitting on the floor shaking anymore. And I’m feeling less inclined to punch my fist through the wall.”

  “And that’s your method?”

  “I haven’t been in a situation like this before but apparently, yes, that’s my method.” He took the spatula out of the sink, shoved it back in the drawer. “But if you want the strong male to blubbering female, we can go with that.”

  “Blub—God! You piss me off. Which is,” she said after a righteous breath, “exactly the goal. Well, bull’s-eye for you.”

  “It makes me crazy.”

  She pushed her hands over her face, back into her hair. “What?”

  “Seeing you like that. Have you ever seen yourself when you’re seriously scared, seriously sad? You lose every drop of color in your face. I’ve never seen anybody still breathing get that white. And it makes me crazy.”

  She dropped her hands again. “You’re damn good at leashing the crazy.”

  “Yeah, I am. We can talk about that some other time. Don’t think—” He broke off, shoved his own hands in his pockets. “Don’t think you don’t matter. You do. I just haven’t—Now, see?” he said with raw frustration. “The minute I stop pissing you off you start crying.”

  “I’m not crying.” She blinked desperately at the tears welling in her eyes. “And what’s wrong with crying? I’m entitled. I’m entitled to a jag of major proportions, so be a man, damn it, grow a pair and suck it up.”

  “Crap.” He yanked her against him, chained his arms around her.

  She felt the sob flood her throat. Then he eased her back, skimmed his fingers down her cheek, laid his lips on her brow.

  The tenderness shocked her eyes dry, killed the sob before it released. Instead she let out a long, shuddering sigh and leaned on him.

  “I don’t know how to take care of people,” he muttered. “I’m barely able to take care of a damn dog.”

  You’re wrong about that, she thought. So wrong about that.

  “You’re doing okay,” she managed. “I’m okay.” Still she jolted when the dogs barked the alert. “That’ll be Davey.”

  “I’ll go let him in.” He stroked his hand down her hair once, twice. “Sit down or something.”

  Sit down or something, Fiona thought as Simon walked out. Then she took his advice and made herself sit at the kitchen table.

  Simon walked out onto the porch. “She’s inside, back in the kitchen.”

  “What—”

  “She’ll fill you in. I need about twenty minutes, and I need to know you’ll be here that long.”

  “All right.”

  Simon headed to his truck, ordered Jaws to stay, then drove away. Calmer, Fiona thought, she was much calmer when Davey came in. “I haven’t touched it since I opened it,” she began. “I don’t guess that’s going to matter.” She looked over his shoulder, frowned. “Where’s Simon?”

  “He had something to do.”

  “He—Oh.” The pressure on her chest returned, just for a moment. “Fine. It was in the mail. It’s got an Oregon postmark.”

  He sat first, took her hands. Just took her hands.

  “Oh God, Davey. I’m scared senseless.”

  “We’re going to look out for you, Fee. If you want it, we’ll have somebody parked outside the house twenty-four hours a day until they catch this bastard.”

  “I don’t think I’m ready for that. Yet. It could come to it.”

  “Have you gotten any unusual calls, any hang-ups? Anything troubling on your website or blog?”

  “No. This is the first thing. And I know it might not be from him. It’s probably not. It’s from some vicious person who read that damn article, got my address. That’s just as likely.”

  “Maybe it is.” He released her hands, took out two evidence bags. “I’m going to take these in. We’ll do what we can. There’s a federal task force on this now, and we’ll probably need to turn these over to them. Fee, it’s likely they’re going to send someone out to talk to you.”

  “I’m okay with that.” Wouldn’t be the first time, she thought bitterly. “I’m good with that.”

  “We’ll be reaching out to the police in Lakeview. I know this is hard for you, but maybe it’s a break. We might get prints or DNA off the stamp. Something from the handwriting, or we’ll trace the scarf.”

  Investigations, routines, procedures. How was it all happening again?

  “What about Perry? He might have paid somebody to send it to me.”

  “I’m going to see what I can find out, but I have to think they’ve talked to Perry. They’d mon
itor his contacts, his visitors, his mail. We’re not really in the loop, Fee, but after this the sheriff’s going to push that. Maybe this was just some asshole’s