by Aimee Laine
“I need you, too. I’m hurting just like you, but we can’t stop living, eating and breathing. Chase and Sophie would want us to keep hunting, not sit idle.”
“You don’t know how I’m hurting.” Lily’s tone bled with pain and suffering.
“I’ve tried to tell you you’re wrong, but I know that’s subjective.” Charley hugged the photos to her chest and took a deep breath. “So far, though, you’ve harbored the belief that Chase must be in the same position as you once were. We didn’t abandon him, Lil. This is totally different.”
“It hurts too much.” Lily turned back into her blankets, snuggled low and pulled them up to her face.
“I know, sweetie, but today is not an option. Be ready in an hour.”
Charley left Lily to her thoughts and returned to her own room, one last photo of Chase in her hand. She moved to her balcony, mug in hand, and leaned over the rail. She’d taken the photo from the spot where she stood at that moment. Chase and James had waved to her from the ground two stories below as they worked to build a fire, and they’d eaten s’mores until they’d all thought they’d hurl.
She chuckled at the memory as tears formed again.
Instead of Chase and James in her line of vision, squirrels ran up and down trees, jumping from one branch to another in play. Birds landed on leaf-tipped extensions and sang their springtime tunes. Lily’s door to the outside world had been closed; she would blame herself whether she had anything to do with Chase’s kidnapping or not.
Charley needed hers open to keep herself sane. She stared at Chase’s smiling face. “I will find you if it’s the last thing I do, baby.”
She fisted her hand around her mug, bumped the edge of the rail. If any of them had been home, it wouldn’t have happened. If they’d added double security or locks or had a dog. If other countries didn’t vie for her as an operative for them.
Her tears dried up as anger burned within.
If they hadn’t gone to Montreal to break up a child laundering ring. She shivered at the thought of Chase as a target.
“‘If onlys’ don’t get you anywhere,” Charley said into the breeze tickling the hair against her neck.
A bird sang in harmony with a second and a third. The sounds grew until she almost missed the doorbell.
It chimed three more times before she made it to the landing of the stairs. Charley sucked in air as if she’d held her breath throughout the entire walk, and she thought through who of the press might want another question answered, which group of gawkers would wait for her flustered response to questions, or her ‘no comment’. ‘The Kidnapping of Turner Point’ headlines gave her family far too much time in the spotlight over the last forty-eight hours.
Charley steeled herself as she gripped the doorknob. “Smile and say thank you,” she said to herself. She pulled open the front door.
Sophie’s body laying across the stoop.
Charley rushed to her. “Sophie!”
Sophie’s head lolled from one side to the other as Charley checked her pulse and tried to wake her. Sophie stirred, mumbled something incoherent in a drug-induced slur.
A call to James followed the call to 9-1-1. “Come home, quick! Someone left Sophie on the front porch!”
He relayed the information to Cael at nearly the same pace. “We’ll be home in fifteen. Go with her. I’ll call Detective Bland.”
“Okay.”
Charley checked over Sophie’s torn clothes, through her pockets and over her body for obvious problems but found none. As Charley’s hands ran over Sophie’s shoulders again, it slid across paper peeking out from within her shirt pocket. Charley tucked it in her own, let herself fall to the porch floor, and placed Sophie’s head in her lap as the sounds of sirens burst through the crisp clean air and thoughts of her missing boy haunted her.
• • •
Two more days and countless tests later, with assurance by everyone in her family, Sophie’s doctor’s released her into Charley’s care. Sophie admitted to nothing, remembered little, and had no recollection of Chase being with her.
After repeated questions, she continued to insist the kidnappers had taken only her, but with the concussion, and Chase still unaccounted for, Charley discounted every one of Sophie’s statements. Detective Bland had questioned her until she’d fallen asleep in the middle of the activity and her doctors kicked him out.
Charley sighed as she waited in the early evening sun for Sophie and her wheelchair. The weight of the entire situation—all their anxiety, hopes and worries—rested on Charley’s shoulders again. She paced the length of the car, back and forth, and dug her hands in her pockets.
The note Sophie’d had in her shirt crumpled under Charley’s hand. She slid the pink paper from the depths of her pocket, flipped it over and back.
What if it’s about Chase?
Charley’s curiosity overrode the value she placed on privacy. She unfolded the paper in a rush, held it up so the writing came through clear. Sophie’s own handwriting scrawled across the page as if she’d tried to write while drunk.
Through a series of up-and-down letters placed at jagged intervals on the paper, Charley made out the words: ‘Charley Randall’ followed by a phone number.
They want me.
She stuffed the note back in her pocket as James wheeled Sophie out to the car. She gave him one furtive glance which he acknowledged with a nod. As she regained her composure, she pulled her phone out and left James to help Sophie into the car. The line rang three times before it reached its destination.
“Hello?” A happy voice answered.
“This is Charley.”
“Oh no. No, no, no, no. I am not getting in the middle.”
“Please. I need your help.” She tried to keep her voice light.
“You need to make a different call.”
“It’s not about him. Someone took Chase. Sophie’s back, but they want me. I need your help. I need you.”
He sighed. “Dammit. Where are you?”
“I’ll be home in about twenty minutes. Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“I got a stop to make first,” he said. “No phone calls, activities or—whatever—without me.”
“See you soon, Stuart.”
15
Eight hours after he’d begun the day, Wyatt found himself face to face with his computer screen in yet another search for information on Charley. Despite his intentions otherwise, he’d made a few calls and run through a number of red-taped requests that yielded no new information on the missing kid, though he learned the nanny, one Sophie Condes, had been found.
Two hours and what seemed like a hundred phone calls later, Sheila interrupted him. “Wyatt?”
“Yes?” He seethed through clenched teeth, lost in ten levels of security-clearance requests that got him nowhere.
Why do I care about this one case? Ah, yes. Mom. He ran a hand through his hair.
“You have a visit—”
“Oh for the love of god!” Wyatt’s bellow accompanied a pound on his desk. Why do people keep interrupting me this week?
“Ah, sir? He’s already heading your way. I wasn’t able to stop him.”
Wyatt whirled out of his chair, around his desk and pulled his weapon from its holster. Barrelling past Sheila didn’t bode well. Footsteps echoed down the hall as his visitor approached. Wyatt peeked around the corner.
Stuart, dressed in solid black, his hair mussed, walked toward him.
Wyatt re-holstered his gun.
Stuart’s smile grew as he approached.
Wyatt moved into the hallway to provide a proper welcome. “Stu—”
Stuart’s fist collided with his nose.
Wyatt’s head met the door frame. His vision wavered. He inched back toward the opening and reached for his gun.
“Leave it,” Stuart said. “I’m not going to hit you again.” He took a step toward Wyatt before he added, “I don’t think.”
Nose in hand, drops of red seeped onto h
is palm and down the arm of his jacket. “Dammit!” Wyatt tilted his head backward in the hopes of stopping the flow.
Stuart gave a light chuckle. “You know you’re supposed to go the other way, right?”
“Fuck off.” As much as he’d wanted to hit back, he simply couldn’t. He still held too much of their forgotten friendship within him.
Wyatt walked backward into his office, back around his desk and dropped in his chair. Stuart followed, taking the seat opposite. All lankiness gone, Stuart stretched his too-long legs out and relaxed his elbows on the arms.
“What do you want?” Wyatt pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I’m tellin’ ya, man, lean forward.” Stuart stood and pushed Wyatt’s head to the desk with one hand.
The heartbeat in Wyatt’s nostrils began to wane. He stuffed his nose with tissues. Head against the surface of his desk, he let it rest. “Whan are you doon ’ere?’”
“You screwed up my op.”
“Tanks to myn bonss.”
Stuart laughed. “Thanks?”
Wyatt sat back up and pulled out the tissues. “Talk to my boss.”
“I did. He blames your team.”
“He told me to hire them.”
“I know.” Stuart laughed again. “I’d have done the same.”
“Then why?” Wyatt asked. “Why are you here?”
“Because it’s been a long time.”
“Nearly sixteen years.”
“What happened, man? Why have we spent half our lives doing the same thing yet with no sense of partnership?”
“You know the answer to that,” Wyatt said.
Stuart leaned forward in his chair. “Julie and I divorced four years ago.”
Didn’t know you were married to her. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Stuart leaned back again. “No big deal. It was three years. We’d met up at a bar one night, kinda hooked up, moved forward fast and married. I was ready to ditch her ’bout a month in. She actually put in for the divorce.” He waved a hand as if he didn’t really care. “She’s an idiot, just like you always said—well not said, but we all knew in high school. Think I might have been reliving my youth. Stupid overall decision on my part.” Stuart’s ramblings continued without pause. “Thank god we didn’t have kids. Can you imagine? I mean, me and Julie? With this job?”
Wyatt shook his head. “You come for small talk, Stuart?”
“No.” He stood, stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced in Wyatt’s office. “I need your help.”
Lovely.
“I messed up the op in Montreal. We lost the connection when Kevin woke up in bed with both Candie and me.”
Wyatt smiled at the memory of how he’d set them up. “So the punch was for that?”
Stuart laughed. “Yeah. I owed you that one. Now we’re even.”
“What do you need help with?”
He stood behind the chair, hands on its back. “I want to work wi—I mean, for you. They want to can me over the screw-up. I’ve not been happy for a few years in my department, and our brief reunion brought back a lot of memories.”
“Not all the memories are good.”
“What do you want from me? An apology? Which I already provided, I should add.” He pointed an accusatory finger in Wyatt’s direction. “You want money? I got plenty of that, with the exception of Julie’s alimony. The woman is a real bitch.”
Wyatt shook his head.
“What then? What can I do to make up for sixteen years of lost friendship?”
“Tell me about Charley.”
“Are you fucking kidding?” Stuart threw his hands up in the air. “I already told you what you wanted to know.”
“You told me she was Mira. How did you learn that?”
“I tailed her. That was all. I followed Leena—Lily—to the airport that next day.”
“Not in South America?” Wyatt noted the shock in Stuart’s eyes. He’d slipped.
“No, before. But, I did catch up with her in South America, and that was accidental.”
“Then where did they go?”
Stuart hesitated. “In South America?”
“No. That next day. You didn’t tell me then, did you? For six weeks, I tried to find her—for six weeks! You joined the Army, up and left me to look on my own. My best friend—the guy who I’d been there for. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. You gave up on me, Stuart. You gave up.”
“I’m sorry, man. Everyone told me it was in your best inter—”
“Oh cut the crap, Stuart. You were my friend. My friend. Not everyone else’s. Who were you to decide what I should or shouldn’t know?”
Stuart hung his head—the same familiar, despondent way he used to.
“So tell me now. Tell me everything you know about Charley.”
• • •
Wyatt drove the familiar roads with Stuart in the lead. Why he’d agreed to go, he didn’t know. Between Stuart and his Mom, he’d been suckered into it. Wyatt opted to take his own car for an easier getaway, should he need it—which he expected he would.
At first, he’d been downright pissed. He’d thrown his favorite mug into the wall where it shattered and gouged a hole he’d have to patch later. Sheila had run from her desk but left in a huff when she’d seen the mess. He’d be damned if he’d admit any curiosity.
The ride up Turner Point hadn’t changed. Only a few houses clung to the harsh grade of curved asphalt. He knew the one at the top to be the most prominent and beautiful—it always had been.
Torn with memories, Wyatt punched the gas pedal, braking hard when he got too close to Stuart’s SUV. He groused how his friend’s vehicle should have been able to handle the mountainous landscape better than his Mustang, though if he’d been in front, he’d have taken the curves far too fast to burn off some of his anger.
Stuart had told him what happened years before but not how he’d gotten involved again. What Wyatt hadn’t understood, he’d ask, and he’d damn-well get answers. He didn’t care if they accomplished the purpose of their visit or not; he had his own mission. If Stuart really wanted a job, Charley’d best be completely and absolutely honest. He’d leave Stuart to set the guilt trip if he had to.
The crawled pace around the curves stoked Wyatt’s pent-up frustration. He knew his friend did it on purpose, but to pass would be a death sentence.
Wyatt honked and pulled out his cell.
Stuart picked up in one ring.
“There’s a mile left. Winter will be here before we get up there.”
“You done ranting and raving back there? ’Cause I told you where we’re going, and I will not be the reason you pick a fight with big and bigger.”
The nicknames fit James and Cael, though he and Stuart had gotten closer, if not quite as tall. “No, and I won’t until I get some real answers, so move it!” He pressed the ‘off’ button. “Damn phone! I can’t slam it, or it’ll break!” He yelled through the window as his fingers gripped the wheel tighter.
As they wound their way to the house, good memories lay in rest as if buried under the rubble of an earthquake. The house glistened under the sunlight and reflected blue sky. He knew why they’d chosen the spot at the top—they could see everywhere—as free and open as a bird in flight and yet contained, with no neighbors in sight.
He and Mira, or rather Charley, shared so much in one night’s kiss and yet so little.
The wheels crunched gravel as they made their way from road to driveway. Wyatt’s heartbeat sped up in anticipation. What would she say to him? How would she react? She’d be pissed. She’d be shocked. Big and Bigger would probably come to her rescue as they always seemed to do, or at least James would.
Wyatt took a deep breath and steeled himself as he stepped from within his car onto the driveway. Stuart walked back to him.
“Can you handle this, man?” Stuart asked.
“You’re asking your future potential boss if he can handle a situation?”
Stuart shook his head. “If that
’s how you’re gonna play it, I can get hired on elsewhere.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
Maybe that would be a better idea. “I already put in the departmental paperwork. It’s me or some assignment in Alaska.” Wyatt slammed his car door, and together they finished the forty-foot walk to the porch.
Stuart hesitated, one finger above the bell. “Ready? ’Cause they are only expecting me.”
“I’m ready.”
The quiet ding-dong hadn’t changed in sixteen years.
James appeared within the frame, stiffened.
“I know what you’re thinking, James,” Stuart said. “But all this mystery crap has got to stop.”
“It’s your funeral,” James said. He turned to Wyatt. “And yours, too, if you mess with her.”
Stuart stepped through as if he’d been a part of their lives for years—right over the threshold and into the same entry in which Wyatt had found himself before.
James shifted, letting Wyatt by, but turned to him before he could pass, extending a hand outward. “Thank you for coming.”
Wyatt didn’t have time to think of a witty response. “You’re welcome.” He shook James’s hand. That was odd.
James led the way through the entrance where new artwork plastered the walls. Wyatt recognized the signature in the corner of each one. Charley. It dawned on him he had a piece of her work. With one hand, he slapped his forehead.
Stuart stopped and turned. “What?”
Wyatt pointed to the name. “Charley.”
“Yeah. So?”
“She gave me one of her pieces the night she left—on my birthday. I have it at my house.”
Stuart shrugged. “Probably worth something if you want to sell it.”
No way. It’s the only thing that’s real these days. Wyatt shook his head.
Warm and inviting, the open loft with beams crisscrossed the ceiling and gave it a contemporary look but still a very homey feel—the same as it had been.
Lily and Cael sat together on the couch. A pixie-like woman lay with her head in Lily’s lap, bundled in a blanket, her eyes closed, breathing at a calm pace.
Charley had her back to them as Stuart sauntered into the kitchen.
From the back, if he let his mind clear, he could see his Mira in her: the shape of her hips, the length of her legs and the curls—though the color in no way matched. He tried to remember as Charley turned and caught him in mid-stare.