Wednesday's Child

by Gayle Wilson

  “Sometimes.”

  “And he and Mrs. Caffrey worked the store together sometimes, too, didn’t they? Just the two of them?”

  The old man’s jaw worked. His hesitation made it clear he didn’t want to answer in the affirmative, but finally he was forced to. “Sometimes.”

  “So it could have happened like she said,” Susan suggested.

  “Don’t you understand? She don’t know what she’s telling you. She’s sick. You talk to Doc Callaway. He’ll tell you. She’s got that Alzheimer’s.” He pronounced each separate syllable carefully, as if he had learned the word by rote. “You can’t count on nothing she says being true.”

  “Except my daughter did have a quilt. Very much like the one your wife described. And it was missing from home after that weekend. Even if she’s sick, I can’t discount what your wife just told me, Mr. Caffrey. Why can’t you understand that?”

  “You must have had some address for your son after he moved away,” Jeb said, recognizing that argument was going nowhere. “Even if you haven’t heard from him in a long time, maybe we can still locate him. Just give us whatever information you have.”

  The old man’s anger was palpable, as was the tension in the room. Only Gladys seemed immune to it, rocking back and forth in her chair. After a moment Caffrey strode over to the table where an old-fashioned rotary phone sat. He opened a drawer and rummaged around in it, finally pulling out a scrap of paper.

  “This is the last address we had for Travis,” he said, bringing it across the room to hand to Jeb. “I don’t know if he’s still there or not.”

  “If you have something I can copy it down on—”

  “Take it. It ain’t doing me and Mother no good. He don’t answer our letters. You just keep Wayne Adams out of my house, you hear? I don’t want no trouble with the law. I done everything you asked me to do.”

  “I can’t promise that the sheriff won’t want to talk to Mrs. Caffrey. She has information—”

  “Only reason she said all that stuff is ’cause that’s what she wanted to hear.” Caffrey jerked his head toward Susan. “By the time Adams shows up to ask questions, she’ll have forgot all about what she told you.”

  Unfortunately, the old man was probably right. Even if Gladys had seen Emma seven years ago, no one could give much credence to her testimony. No one but Susan, Jeb realized. And he still wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not.

  “I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT need this.”

  Although Susan had recognized Jeb’s distinctive footsteps on the wooden boards of Lorena’s front porch, she deliberately hadn’t reacted to them. Not until he spoke.

  She was sitting on the top step, looking over the rose garden as dusk fell. Despite last night’s cold rain, the evening was pleasant, neither too hot or too cold.

  Even the low symphony of insect noises from the woods that surrounded the old house was soothing. After the events of the day, she had needed the peace and quiet it afforded.

  “What is it?” she asked, looking over her shoulder to find Jeb holding out a tumbler to her.

  “Bourbon and water.”

  “I’m not much of a drinker,” she said, reaching up to take the glass from his hand.

  “That’s my grandfather’s private stock. You won’t have to be ‘much of a drinker’ to appreciate it.”

  “Thank you.”

  She took a tentative sip and discovered Jeb was right. Although there was a predominance of whiskey in the mixture, it was very smooth. She took a larger swallow, deciding he was just as right about her need for it as he had been about the quality of the bourbon.

  “May I join you?”

  Although she’d wanted an escape from conversation when she’d retreated out here, the combination of the setting and the alcohol, which was beginning to relax the knot of tension in her chest, seemed to have changed her mind. Besides, Jeb already knew everything that had happened today. It might be helpful if he were willing to talk about some of it. Maybe he could help her sort out the important things from the rest. Something she hadn’t found the emotional distance to manage.

  “Of course,” she agreed.

  Using the column that flanked the broad steps for support, Jeb eased down beside her, stretching his left leg out in front of him. “It’s been a very long day.”

  Deciding his comment didn’t require an answer, Susan took another swallow of her drink. She was conscious of his nearness in a way she hadn’t been before, not even when they’d been together in the close confines of the truck today.

  It was obvious he had showered after they’d returned to the house. His hair was still slightly damp and the fragrance of soap again clung to his body. She cut her eyes to the side, looking at him through her lashes. He was staring out at the garden and the avenue of oaks that stretched beyond it.

  Fireflies were beginning to rise from the lawn and flit through the trees. Although she’d played with them as a child, after her years in the city, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen one.

  “I’ve been thinking about what Mrs. Caffrey said.” Jeb still had not looked at her.

  Which was all right. She wasn’t sure she was ready to talk about what the old woman had told them. That’s why she’d come out here. To get things straight in her own mind before she had to answer Lorena’s eager questions at dinner.

  She allowed the silence to build, hoping Jeb would let the topic drop. Tomorrow she would have to tell Sheriff Adams about Gladys Caffrey’s supposed sighting, and she knew exactly how he’d react. He would be no more inclined than her husband to take seriously what the old woman had said.

  She realized she had no idea what Jeb thought about Gladys’s description. Unless she counted his demand for Travis’s address, he hadn’t expressed an opinion.

  “You can’t possibly know what Emma was wearing,” he went on finally, his voice low. “You’d been gone all that weekend.”

  “The bank teller told the police Emma was wearing something pink.”

  “Overalls? Pink overalls?” Jeb’s tone was skeptical.

  “I think Mrs. Caffrey meant coveralls. Emma had a pair. Pink cotton rompers that she wore with a white shirt. They, along with several other things, were missing after that weekend.”

  “And a pink-and-blue quilt,” Jeb said, his voice flat.

  “Actually…I don’t remember that there was any blue. It had bunnies appliquéd on it,” she admitted. “Pink bunnies. Richard’s grandmother made it for her.”

  “Not squares.”

  “No.” She took another swallow of her drink. She could feel the liquor beginning to buzz slightly in her head, but then it had been a long time since breakfast.

  “That’s a very fragile base on which to build your hopes.”

  She lowered the glass, realizing that he’d turned to look at her, abandoning his contemplation of the trees and the roses. In the fading light, his eyes seemed almost translucent, their gaze brutally direct.

  “Emma didn’t disappear into thin air,” she said. “Richard didn’t leave her with anyone we know. She wasn’t with him when he died. She has to be somewhere, Jeb. And Gladys was right about the quilt and right about her being dressed in pink.”

  She expected him to say that most baby girls were. Or that the old woman had made a lucky guess. Any of the disclaimers she was already too aware of.

  He didn’t. He held her eyes, his own without the pity she usually saw in the eyes of others when she talked about Emma.

  Maybe because he understood that emotion’s corrosive effect. He’d probably been on the receiving end of it as often as she had. Maybe that was another thing that drew her to him.

  “Help me,” she said softly.

  Until the plea was on her lips, she hadn’t known she was going to make it. She couldn’t regret, however, that she had.

  Jeb Bedford was one person in this town she could trust. He was bright, and she no longer had only Lorena’s comments to base that opinion on. He had asked
all the right questions today, even when she hadn’t known what they were. More importantly, it was clear he wouldn’t let sympathy for her situation keep him from telling her the hard truths.

  “I’m afraid I have my own agenda,” he said. “Something that, believe it or not, is probably as important to me as your daughter is to you. That sounds cruel, I know, but…I have a medical review board evaluation in exactly three days. If I don’t pass it, I don’t know if I’ll get another chance.”

  “And if you don’t? Get another chance, I mean.”

  “I won’t be allowed to rejoin my unit.”

  “And that’s as important as a little girl’s life?”

  She couldn’t believe anyone would seriously argue that. He didn’t know Emma, she told herself. She was nothing to him. But she still found it hard to believe anyone of normal sensibilities wouldn’t care what had happened to her.

  “Of course it’s not. But…it is my life. It has been for almost ten years. I don’t expect you to understand, but CAG is both my job and my family. More importantly, what we do means something to this country. I don’t expect you to understand this either, but the thought of having to give that up—”

  “I’m not asking you to,” she said quickly.

  “But you’re asking me to take time away from my efforts to pass that evaluation. Time that, quite frankly, I don’t have. More than that…I’m sorry, but I don’t share your faith that your daughter is alive,” he said, the words very soft.

  “I know. I know you don’t, but…Better someone who acknowledges his uncertainty than someone who won’t even entertain the possibility. Or someone who will tell me only what he thinks I want to hear.”

  “What do you want to hear?”

  “That you’ll help me find out what happened here. Even if we don’t find Emma…” Her voice betrayed her, faltering over the unthinkable. “Even if we don’t find Emma,” she began again, “I need to know what happened that night. First, what happened to Richard. And then, if possible, what happened to Emma.”

  “I’m not a trained investigator. You need a professional.”

  “Like Wayne Adams? Someone who’s already got his mind made up before he’s heard the facts.”

  “The state police, then. Or the FBI. Or someone private, working just for you. Doing nothing but looking for Emma.”

  “The police and the FBI have been looking for Emma for over seven years. And I hired a private investigator. Shortly after I figured out that they weren’t looking hard enough. He found no trace of Richard. No credit card transactions. No employment records after he left Atlanta. No records at all.”

  “None of which means he wasn’t competent. Those things didn’t exist because Richard was already dead.”

  “And the investigator didn’t find that out, either. Look, I know that what you’re saying is what anyone would tell me. It is what they told me. And I did it. All of it. For seven years I did exactly what I was told, and I was no closer to finding either of them than I was the day they disappeared. I’m not willing to step back and let someone else take charge of this. Don’t you understand? This is another chance. A chance to do it right this time. To do what my heart tells me.”

  She knew as soon as she said it, it was the wrong argument to use with a man like Jeb. A man who was accustomed to rules and regulations. To the chain of command. He couldn’t possibly understand her instinct that Emma was here, so close she might meet her on any street corner. So close—

  “Which is?”

  She could detect no sarcasm in the question, so she treated it in the same way she had treated the others he’d asked. As legitimate. Deserving of the truth.

  “That she’s here. In Linton. Waiting for me to find her.”

  His eyes didn’t change. And he didn’t ridicule her conviction, for which she was infinitely grateful.

  Instead, he did what she had thought she would value in having him for an ally. He told her the truth.

  “If she is here, Susan, she isn’t ‘waiting’ for you. She doesn’t even know you exist. And she probably doesn’t want to know. All you represent to Emma, if she’s alive, is a disruption of everything she’s ever known or ever loved.

  “That’s something you need to be very clear about before you go any further with this. If you find her, you’re going to tear her world apart, and neither of you may be able to put it back together again. Not in the way you envision.”

  “THE PROBLEM IS that no matter how accurate the old woman’s information is,” Susan said, “no one here will believe her.”

  “Are you sure you can believe her?” her sister asked.

  She had needed Charlotte to be as excited about this as she was. She was determined not to let Jeb’s doubts infect her optimism. Now, however, with her sister’s matching skepticism, she felt the surety she had clung to all afternoon unraveling.

  “Richard always wrapped Emma up when he took her out of the car. He thought it was easier than putting her jacket on. If he had to take her in someplace down here, he would have put that quilt around her. I know it. And the bank teller said Emma was wearing pink. It all fits.”

  “Except the person telling you suffers from Alzheimer’s.”

  “She didn’t back then. Not when she saw them. That memory is old enough she hasn’t lost it yet. That’s how the disease works. Short-term memory goes first, but they remember the rest for a long time.”

  “Honey, are you sure you aren’t just grasping at straws?”

  “Of course I am. Any damn straw that comes my way. I’m trying to find my baby, Charlotte. If you, of all people, can’t understand that—” Her voice had risen sharply before she caught back the angry words. Her sister was only saying what everyone else would think.

  “I do understand. I didn’t mean to sound like I’m trying to discourage you. I just wish I could be there with you. I don’t want you to be hurt again.”

  “I know. I know you don’t. And I’m sorry. It’s just been…a very emotional day.”

  “You can’t do this by yourself, Suz. You’re too close to it. Call the guy you used before. The P.I. What was his name?”

  “Harbinson. Nolan Harbinson.”

  “You want me to call him? He’s in Atlanta, isn’t he?”

  “I have someone helping me. Someone here in Linton.”

  “An investigator?”

  “Someone who lives here. Someone who knows the town and the people. Someone they all know.”

  There was a beat of silence. “A professional?”

  “Not exactly. But he’s ex-military. He’s been going with me to talk to people.”

  “And you’re paying him?”

  “He’s…I’m not paying him. He’s at loose ends right now, and he’s agreed to help me look for Emma.”

  “To look where for Emma?”

  “Here. In Linton. If Richard brought her here—and what Mrs. Caffrey said indicates he did—she must still be here.”

  “But if someone murdered Richard and took the money—”

  “Then what?” Susan asked into the sudden silence.

  “Then maybe they took Emma, too.”

  “Took her where? And for what?”

  “There’s always a black market for babies. People will pay almost any amount of money for an infant. Believe me, I know.”

  It was a scenario that had not occurred to Susan. She had been so convinced that Emma was here, so sure of what her instincts were telling her.

  “I’m sorry,” Charlotte said when she didn’t respond. “I don’t know why I said it. Hormones. They make me crazy.”

  “I know. I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

  “Oh, yes, you should. You better tell me. You better tell me everything, no matter how insignificant it seems.”

  “I will. I promise. And what you said about Harbinson. I just thought of something I need him to do. If you could look up his number in the Atlanta directory for me…”

  “Sure, but what for?”

 
“The Caffreys have a son who was with Mrs. Caffrey the night she saw Emma. I have his last address. If Harbinson could track him down, he might be able to confirm her story.” Or not, but she refused to think about that possibility. “When I call you tomorrow, you can give me his number.”

  “Give me the son’s name and address, and I’ll get Harbinson started on it in the morning. There’s no reason for you to have to deal with that. You’ve got enough to worry about.”

  After Charlotte had taken down the information Ed Caffrey had supplied, she couldn’t resist a little sisterly concern. Susan would have been surprised if the questions hadn’t come.

  “This guy who’s helping you. The one there in Linton. Are you sure you can trust him? He’s not going to try and take advantage of you in some way, is he?”

  That was the one thing she was sure of, Susan realized. That she could trust Jeb Bedford and that he wasn’t trying to take advantage of her. Okay, two things she was sure of.

  “I’m sure. He’s the all-American-hero type.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “That he’s one of the good guys, I guess. I promise you, Char, you don’t need to worry about Jeb.”

  After she’d finished the call, that phrase kept repeating in her head. One of the good guys. And out of all the things she couldn’t be sure of about this situation, she was surprised at how absolutely certain of that she was.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JEB HAD DROPPED her at Reynolds to pick up her car on his way to the airport Friday morning. Despite the fact that she knew how much was riding on these tests, she had been unable to say anything to him about them. Not even to wish him luck. Although Jeb’s focus had clearly been directed inward, as soon as the Avalanche pulled away, she had regretted not at least attempting to break through his tight-lipped self-absorption.

  Before she headed back to Lorena’s, she had planned to do some shopping in the town square, buying toiletries she’d forgotten to pack in her rush to get to Linton after the sheriff’s call. She had ended up at the Linton Elementary School instead, the words Jeb said to her on the porch three nights ago echoing in her head.