The Woman Most Wanted

by Pamela Tracy

  She must still feel the same way. From the house came no sound, not even the fluttering of the front window curtain. No lights were on.

  He pounded, with all his strength, and shouted, “It’s about Richard.”

  “Shout that he’s hurt,” Heather suggested.

  “He needs you! He’s hurt!”

  “Louder,” Heather encouraged.

  “He’s in the hospital!”

  Just inside the door, something thumped. Maybe Richard’s mother had just fallen. Tom reached in his pocket, ready to use Heather’s key. The door inched open and Tom saw exactly what he’d seen the last time he’d managed to catch her. Gray hair, a scarf, thick glasses and an old yellow sweater.

  “What happened to Richard?” the voice asked, quivering. The thin hand holding the door frame trembled a bit.

  “There’s been an accident. We tried to notify you earlier but nobody answered the door.”

  “I wasn’t worried yet,” the woman murmured, but the door didn’t open any wider. Tom heard a brief intake of breath. “Now I’m worried.”

  “Richard’s car hit a tree last night, just a mile down—”

  “The Turner place,” Richard’s mother said, voice scratchy. “Is he... Is he...”

  The door didn’t move, but there were the beginnings of a keening noise, the sound of pain. Beside him, Heather stepped closer.

  “He’s in the hospital, critical condition. We can drive you there.”

  “Yes. No.” A few curse words followed, surprising him. She ended with a half hiccup. “Please, God, no.”

  “Ma’am, is there anyone I can call for you? Someone else to drive you or stay with you for a while? I have phone numbers for you, the hospital as well as the doctor. I wrote them down this morning.”

  He expected her to open the door, take the piece of paper, but instead, she sharply ordered, “Tell me. I’ll remember.”

  He looked down at the black scrawl in his record book and recited the numbers.

  “Ma’am, I—”

  The door slowly shut. The last time she’d slammed it, surprising him with her strength. He didn’t like the hollow feeling that resonated in his gut.

  “What do you think?” he asked Heather.

  “We can’t leave. Does she drive?”

  “Yes, the Turners have seen her a time or two.”

  “Do you know how old she is?”

  “No clue.”

  Heather stayed on the porch, her lips pressed together, in deep thought. “Someone needs to be with her. She’s got to be brokenhearted and scared.”

  “If you have any ideas...”

  Heather knocked on the door, raised her voice and shouted, “Ma’am. I’m Heather Graves. I’m here with Tom. My parents own this house.”

  Another thump sounded.

  “Richard’s in a coma.” Heather stood close to the door, kept her voice normal and continued, “There’s a chance he won’t make it. I know you want to be with him. It’s hard. We’ll drive you, stay with you and make sure Richard is taken care of.”

  The keening continued and from inside he heard a small voice say, “What’s wrong? Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

  Tom stepped closer to the door, closer to Heather. If Richard’s mother was talking to herself like this, then she might be in worse shape that he’d surmised. The best thing would be to go in, check on her, take care of the situation.

  “It’s okay.” Richard’s mother’s voice got stronger.

  “Please.” Heather looked distressed, and Tom wished he hadn’t brought her out here. She didn’t need to deal with something like this. She leaned toward the front door, talking to the screen. “We just want to help. That’s all we want.”

  “Right.” This was Richard’s mother again. Tom wanted to jump in, join Heather in dealing with the situation, but Heather had the woman talking. Something he’d never been able to do.

  “We’ll drive you to town. Take you to Richard.”

  The door opened again, still an inch, the same face peered out. The woman didn’t say anything just stared at Tom.

  Heather stepped away, and Tom opened the screen and then pushed gently at the door, which swung open revealing a tall, thin woman staring at him.

  “You’ll take me to him first, no other stops.” This time the voice wasn’t scratchy. Tom felt something tug at his memory. Then he noted the tiny red birthmark just above the left side of her lip.

  “Rachel,” he breathed.

  The word was barely out of his mouth when a small blond head poked around the side of Rachel, looked up, and said, “Mommy, are we going to see Daddy now?”

  * * *

  HEATHER STARED AT the woman standing in the doorway.

  “Take off the wig,” Tom ordered.

  The woman didn’t move, just stared, longing and defeat in her expression. Then slowly, she nodded and both the wig and the glasses disappeared. Rachel Ramsey, now with loose blond hair, opened the door all the way and stepped outside.

  “Mommy doesn’t like the wig,” the little girl said. “She says it makes her head hot. I wear it sometimes, and it doesn’t make my head hot.”

  “Dang,” Rachel said, staring at Heather. “Who are you?”

  “Mommy, no bad words,” the little girl scolded.

  “I told you. I’m Heather Graves. I—I own this house.”

  Rachel gave a little shake of the head, as if trying to quit whatever she was thinking.

  “My parents were Bill and Melanie Graves.”

  Rachel’s expression didn’t change.

  “Sarah Lewis and Raymond Tillsbury.”

  “Those names mean nothing to me,” Rachel said. “Why are you here? Are you a relative he called or something? But—” she turned to look at Tom “—you didn’t know I was here until just now. You wouldn’t know to bring a family member.”

  “I don’t think I’m a family member.” Heather wished her words sounded more convincing. Truth was, she’d already felt the doubt, thanks to the dozens of people who’d said, “You look just like...” the woman standing in front of her.

  “I’ll be your landlord now that my parents have passed away. We just happen to look alike. I’ll tell you more later, after you see Richard.” She didn’t want to think past that, not now that there was a child involved, a very small child.

  Rachel blinked, tears slipping past her lashes. “Chief Riley, is there a chance, will he make it?”

  “We don’t know yet. He has a head injury and we’re not sure what damage has been done to the brain. The doctor’s put him in the coma so his brain could rest. At least, that’s my understanding from talking to them this morning. This—this is your daughter?”

  Rachel bit her bottom lip, looked at the sky, then down, and then at Tom. “Yes, this is Abigail Welborn.”

  Tom nodded. “Welborn?”

  “Look,” she said, “Richard feels horrible about Lucille’s death. But you have to understand he had nothing to do with what happened five years ago with your partner. Please don’t take that out on him.”

  It took a heartbeat or two for Tom to answer, and Heather knew the man was falling apart inside. Outside, however, he kept it together. She’d give him that.

  “Right now,” Tom said, “the only thing we’re concentrating on is getting him stable. You need to come with us.”

  He hadn’t asked Rachel about having weapons or told her to get on the ground or drawn his own weapon. His eyes weren’t hard, either. Heather closed hers. In the past few days, she’d almost lost sight of the cop that had given her nightmares. That cop had been replaced by the one who now owned a kitten and who’d put his hand against her back and caused her to lose her breath.

  The only evidence of just how affected Tom was, was the sl
ight tremor in his hands. Heather doubted anyone else would have noticed it.

  “I need to get my purse and some things for Abby.”

  Tom nodded. Unasked, Heather followed Rachel into the farmhouse. It looked smaller on the inside, maybe because every curtain was drawn and all the furniture dark. The only colors came from the children’s toys scattered throughout the room.

  “I’ll bring her iPad,” Rachel said. “It’s fully charged. And a coloring book, crayons and her doll. Maybe—”

  “I’d keep it simple. Right now, you’re heading for the hospital.”

  “But she might need...” Rachel’s voice broke, and she put a hand out to steady herself on the back of an old rocking chair. “What if she goes to foster care. I couldn’t bear that. Oh, God, do you think Chief Riley could just forget he found me. At least for the next fourteen years, just until I get her out of high school and into college.” Now her voice rose, her words tumbling faster and faster. “I need her to be raised by someone who loves her, who will never abuse her. I need her to be able to take care of herself when I’m gone.”

  “I...” Heather felt out of breath, almost dizzy. She’d never worried growing up. She’d always known she was loved. Once, in second grade, when a boy during recess had taken her lunch box, her dad had been at the school the next morning. The boy had apologized, and her dad had taught her that you didn’t let others take your lunch box. You opened your mouth and screamed until an adult came.

  Years later, her dad had insisted on teaching her how to defend herself in case the day ever came when he wasn’t around.

  No one messed with Heather Graves, so said her daddy. And her mom, for that matter.

  The memory struck deep inside Heather’s heart.

  Tears dripped down both women’s cheeks. Rachel kneeled on the floor and gathered loose crayons into a large bag that said Abigail’s Backpack. Heather stood in the dark room, her own tears salty on her lips, and missed her dad, her mom, her old life.

  She’d come here asking questions. Watching Rachel, Heather understood without a doubt why Tom had pulled her over last week. If she wasn’t related to this woman, she’d eat her hat.

  It was a saying her mother had always used.

  Each new piece of the puzzle made Heather appreciate her parents more. And now she got why her parents had never brought her here. They didn’t want her to have anything to do with the dysfunctional Ramseys.

  But discovering her heritage had become a train wreck she couldn’t walk away from.

  She needed to research Rachel’s father more, but she had a feeling that, like everything else she’d come to believe, it would only return an answer that made no sense.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  HEATHER DIDN’T LOOK happy about Tom’s returning her to Bianca’s Bed-and-Breakfast. He’d seen it before. Some civilians, once involved in police work, wanted to see the case through to the end. He didn’t think that was Heather’s issue, though. No, she probably wanted to find out what her real connection to Rachel was.

  In his mind, and probably Heather’s, there was no doubt.

  Somehow, Heather and Rachel had to be related. Since Heather’s mother couldn’t have children, it went back to Diane Ramsey. Unfortunately, every time Tom tried to get close to solving their kinship, something got in the way: car accidents, deaths and even cookie robberies.

  “I can meet you at the hospital,” Heather offered. “It’s no problem. I can help with Abigail. I’m good with children.”

  “I don’t think so,” Rachel said, her face pale in the moonlight. Tom couldn’t get over the resemblance now that he had them together, but while Heather looked tired and apprehensive, Rachel looked slightly ill and wholly shell-shocked. In truth, the two women couldn’t be more different, not just with respect to actions, either, but to goals. Heather was looking for family ties; Rachel had always been tied to a family best left alone. Rachel probably thought Heather was one more problem.

  “But—” Heather began.

  Rachel simply shook her head.

  “I’ve already called social services,” Tom mentioned. He’d also radioed for backup. Both Oscar and Leann were on the way. He strayed from procedure so that Rachel could visit Richard in the hospital.

  It was a humane consideration.

  “Call me,” Heather pleaded. “I don’t care what time.” For a moment, he thought she might argue further, but in the end, she’d simply given him a tight smile and exited the SUV. Good. He was getting too used to her help and her company, and with Rachel Ramsey in custody he needed to focus on her—only her.

  The Sarasota Falls Hospital used to be the size of a large Victorian home. Then, a little over ten years ago, the old munitions factory had been turned into a tristate Alzheimer’s care center and the town suddenly needed a bigger hospital, not just for the Alzheimer’s patients, but for the families that moved here because they’d placed loved ones in the center. And new jobs had been created, so another wave of people poured in.

  Tom remembered that the police force had added a new man about that time—him.

  He pulled into a parking space near the emergency room entrance. An empty spot was reserved for the police. He flung open the driver’s door before the key was out of the SUV’s ignition and quickly opened the back door. Abigail jumped down, clearly intrigued by being out so late. Rachel exited from her side of the vehicle.

  She’d changed in the five years since she’d been so instrumental in Max’s death. Gone was the high school kid. In front of him was a thin woman, too pale, who looked older than she should have.

  Grimly, he guided her to the hospital’s front doors, led her inside and nodded to the admissions nurse. “Chief,” the woman said. She barely looked up, no expression on her face, not even a raised eyebrow. His officers had been told to stop by and check up on Welborn often. She probably thought Rachel was Heather.

  After all, he’d been escorting Heather all around town. How could anyone mistake the two? Rachel was definitely taller, and Heather was definitely softer, kinder, engaging.

  “What is that smell?” Abigail stopped, tugged on Rachel’s hand and stood on tiptoes looking at the nurse as if she were to blame. Rachel caressed the top of Abigail’s head and said, “It’s just the way a hospital smells. Nothing bad. Nothing wrong.”

  Startled, the nurse looked from Abigail, to Rachel, to Tom, and then regained her professionalism and composure, and declared, “No children after nine.”

  “This is a special case,” Tom returned, getting Rachel and Abigail past the first patient rooms before the nurse could protest further.

  He heard the hospital doors opening behind him and the nurse greeted Leann by her first name, then asked, “Who’s with Chief Riley?” Sometimes his only female officer had a hard time putting forth her cop persona because she was related to half the town.

  “Just one more day in the life of a police officer,” Leann replied glibly. A moment later, she caught up with him, a half smile on her face. It twitched just a bit when she saw Rachel and Abigail. “Hey, Chief.”

  “Glad you could come.” Tom kept it professional, guiding the whole troop to Richard’s room. A few times, Rachel slowed, looking like she might collapse. All it took was Tom clearing his throat for her to step up. She was probably half-afraid he’d change his mind and take her directly to the station.

  Abigail didn’t falter even as they passed an elderly woman in a wheelchair with a doll clasped in her arms. Abigail wrinkled her nose but had better manners than some adults and didn’t complain, just tucked closer to her mother.

  Richard’s room, in ICU, was the last one on the left. A chair was in the hall. Tom had sat on it for more than an hour this morning. Rachel, acting more like the girl he remembered, uttered an “oh” at the sight of Richard hooked up to so many machines. She said “oh”
again and pushed past Tom to enter the room, immediately taking a seat and grasping Richard’s hand.

  “I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know. This is all my fault. All my fault.”

  Tom swallowed, trying not to think about Max, who’d died on the scene, no hospital stay for him, no chance to say goodbye, no opportunity for Rachel to say “I’m so sorry.” He tried not to think about Lucille Calloway.

  “Chief, I can stay with them,” Leann said, “if you have other matters to attend to.”

  “No, I’m fine,” he answered.

  Abigail stood silently beside her mother. After a moment, she climbed into Rachel’s lap and patted Richard on the arm. Then she started spewing grown-up platitudes in a child’s voice. “He’ll be okay. I talked to God on the way over here. Papa will be just fine. Okay, Mommy?”

  “Five more minutes,” Tom said. “Then we need to head to the station.”

  “Thank you,” Rachel responded. Not what he expected. He felt his cheeks going red as the ire rose in his body. He didn’t want Rachel to be nice or polite. He wanted her to feel the hurt that she’d caused. She’d been partly responsible for Max’s death and—

  “Chief, go down to the waiting room. I can handle the situation here.” Leann actually nudged him toward the door, a look on her face he’d not seen before.

  “I need to talk to Rachel.” Tom took two steps and then stood just outside the hospital room’s doorway, where he could still see in at the scene unfolding.

  “You need to have the right frame of mind to do it.” Leann said what Tom already knew. He knew he’d been waiting five years to talk to Rachel.

  “We all know how much you loved Max,” Leann said softly. “Now is not the time, and probably you shouldn’t be the one to oversee the talking.”

  “Who else have you called?”