by Alice Sharpe
Back in take-charge mode, she dropped him off at a motel so disreputable they were both pretty sure the rooms rented by the hour. Then, against his protests, she drove off with assurances she would park the truck in the parking lot of a different motel she’d passed a few blocks away. He rented them a room and awaited her return with acid burning his throat.
But she did return, her step more full of vigor than he’d seen it so far, the very act of taking control seeming to empower her. Once again, he thought of the Ella he’d grown to know—the woman who could take care of just about everything.
She moved the two plug-in lamps in the dingy room near a chair she’d set up next to the bathroom door, angling their shades for light. He sat on a chair with his arms hooked over the rungs, his back exposed, as she peeled away his clothes. She was trying to be gentle, he knew that, but by now the blood had caked around the glass shards and the pain was excruciating.
“Oh, ack!” she said as she cut away the last piece of his clothing. Good thing he’d bought scissors when he’d bought antiseptic and bandages. “You’re a mess.”
“Less chatter, more work,” he said, his breathing shallow. “There are tweezers in the bag, too.”
“I have them. You want something to bite on?”
“No, thanks. Just get it over with.”
The next few minutes passed in near silence as one by one, she located and extracted the splinters. When she muttered she’d gotten them all, she filled the sink with warm, sudsy water and carefully rinsed his skin. He almost jumped off the chair when the washcloth caught on a piece of glass she’d missed, but that was soon out, as well.
By the time she’d bathed his back and dried it, applied ointments and bandages and he’d found a clean shirt in his duffel, they were both frazzled but hungry for dinner and for information. But first Ella insisted on taking a shower, so while she lathered up behind a closed door, he lay on the bed on his stomach and prayed for the aspirin to kick in.
Thirty minutes later, they left the room carrying all their belongings, the key back on the dresser.
The truck was as Ella had left it, though they did hide out across the street in a Laundromat watching for signs of Carl or Chopper before approaching it. When it was obviously all clear, they drove to a fast food restaurant, where they both ordered chicken sandwiches and milkshakes. It was the first time he’d seen Ella eat fast food.
While dining in the truck, they studied the road map for the best route into Idaho. A long night of driving loomed ahead.
“There’s a light on down the block, and from the size of the building, I’m betting it’s city hall,” he announced as he folded the map.
“What’s at city hall?”
“Well, a newsstand probably, maybe someone who heard about the bombing. I can’t go to the police department for information and I don’t know where else to start to get answers, so let’s try city hall.”
He drove the few blocks down the road and parked on a side street. A sign directly in front of them announced the adjoining library, which turned out to be a small wing of the city building. It was open two nights a week and tonight was one of them. “We’re in luck,” he said.
“Closing time in twenty-five minutes,” Ella noted as they approached the door.
The library might be compact, but it was connected to the Internet. After showing his driver’s license, Simon was allotted time on the computer and immediately typed in Tampoo, WA bomb.
‘Two Injured in Depot Bombing,’ announced the headline, and Simon sighed with relief. No deaths. One ten-year-old boy taken to emergency and released, one elderly woman held in the hospital for observation, no leads, which meant his anonymous phone call to the cops giving them Carl Baxter’s name hadn’t reached the press yet. Simon leaned back in the chair for an instant, then sat ramrod straight. Damn back.
He turned to tell Ella the good news, but she was standing several feet away staring at a poster of birds that was apparently part of the library décor.
As though she felt his gaze upon her, she turned to face him. Her expression caught his attention and he began to stand. Before he could get to his feet, she had crossed the small room and pulled a chair up next to his.
“His name is Starling,” she said softly.
“What do you mean his name is Starling? Whose name is Starling?”
“My father.”
“Are you sure?”
“The minute you told me what those birds were called, I felt something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. A feeling of familiarity, maybe. And then when I looked at the poster and saw the word Starling in print, I knew. That’s my father’s name. Starling.”
“Not Thorton. That name rings no familiar bells?”
“Thorton? No, why?”
“Because that’s the name you used when you married Carl Baxter.”
“How do you know this?”
“I have a friend who’s a private investigator. He’s trying to find out anything he can about you and Carl and Chopper and even your father. We need help if we’re going to live through this and if we’re going to help your dad.”
She stared at him a second before slowly nodding. “Yes, of course.”
“Starling, huh?” he repeated. He’d never heard her called that before. Of course, he’d never heard the name Thorton, either, or, for that matter, about a marriage, or a father. Her brother had apparently died tragically a year or so ago—she must have been dealing with his loss when they started dating and yet she’d never said a word.
“Why would I have a different name than my father before I was even married?” she asked.
Several possibilities occurred to him: she’d been married before; this father she remembered with such tenderness was a stepfather; her parents had never married; maybe even she’d gone to jail and had taken a new name upon release. All useless speculation.
Glancing at the computer screen, he said, “I could type Starling in, see what we get.”
She stood abruptly. “I don’t know.”
“What are you afraid of?” he asked gently.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“No—”
“Are nice, normal people on the Internet? Isn’t it mainly people who have made a name for themselves in some way? People who have, you know, done something hideous?”
“Or wonderful or notable or public—”
“I don’t want to know,” she insisted, and he could tell from the tilt of her chin that her mind was made up. “Please understand, I just can’t.” And with that she turned on her heel and hurried out of the library.
What now? He couldn’t let her wander around town alone where she might be sighted. She was just anxious enough that she might not use her head. On the other hand, she had the keys to the truck and she knew the stakes and he was itching to type Starling into the computer….
“Ten minutes, sir,” the librarian told him in a soft voice. He was the only patron left in the building. He nodded at her and typed in Starling.
Dozens of links to birds popped up on the screen. He scrolled through them quickly, moving on to lists of organizations and businesses, music groups and actors and finally Starling, Tyler.
He clicked on the link and went immediately to an archived article on a Chicago cop named Tyler Starling written over fifteen years before.
The librarian was quietly walking through the aisles, preparing for closing. He knew she wanted time to clear off the desk at which he sat, so he read as fast as he could, ignoring tempting links to other sites and possible further explanations.
And what he read started to explain a whole lot about Ella, about what was going on, and about the depth of the danger they faced.
But not everything.
He froze as another thought surfaced. He’d sent the police to Storm Creek to look for Carl Baxter and Chopper, and that’s where Ella’s father was planning a secret rendezvous with his daughter. What would happen if the police
caught on to Ella’s father’s identity? It was true they would be in different parts of town, but Storm Creek was the smallest of dots on the map.
The whole thing was a giant recipe for disaster and he’d had more than a little bit to do with creating it.
Ella would hate him forever if he didn’t figure out a way to make this all work out.
Chapter Eleven
The sandwich that had tasted pretty good an hour before now was the eye of the hurricane brewing in Ella’s stomach. She sat in the dark truck waiting for Simon’s return, wishing he’d hurry and yet also wishing he’d never come back because she had a feeling she wasn’t going to like what he found on the Internet.
She put a hand over her stomach and closed her eyes, willing the food to stay where it belonged. This was the first time she’d had nausea at night. Usually it was the morning—
Her eyes popped open.
Nausea in the morning.
No, it couldn’t be, but her memory took her right back to the morning she’d tried on pants and found that although they fit her everywhere else, they were too tight in the waist. Both hands went to her breasts. Were they sensitive? Yes!
A knock on the window sent her scrambling to open the driver’s door for Simon. He got into the truck slowly, carefully, sliding into the seat as though very mindful of his back.
“You want me to drive?” she asked.
“No. Give me a second to find a semi-comfortable position. I don’t think we’d better risk an unlicensed driver at this point, do you?”
“Probably not,” she said.
“Do you want to know what I found?” he asked as she handed him the keys. He inserted the right one in the ignition, but he didn’t start the engine.
“Am I going to like it?”
“No.”
The nausea rose up her throat. “Then let’s wait. I need a bathroom. Now.”
He started the truck and drove back to the fast food restaurant, where Ella bolted inside, making it just in time to lose her dinner in the privacy of a stall. She washed out her mouth, splashed water on her face and returned to the truck feeling slightly better.
Pregnant.
What if the nausea wasn’t because of the concussion? What if it wasn’t because of medication, which she hadn’t taken in days anyway? What if it was because she was pregnant?
Which begged the question: Who was the father?
Jack? Was that how he knew her? Carl Baxter? Someone else?
And what about all the drugs she’d been given at the hospital and the truth serum or whatever it was Chopper stuck her with at the bus depot?
“Ella?”
She startled. Simon was staring at her, his gray eyes wide with concern. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Dinner didn’t sit so good. Guess it’s been a rough day. Besides, I’m worried about my dad.” She added that last part because it was the one overriding truth of her life right now. She loved her father. She needed her father.
Simon nodded once and started the truck again. A few minutes later they were rolling out of Twilight on their way to Idaho, the world reduced to the wedge of light illuminated by the headlamps.
She didn’t want to talk to Simon and yet she did. Good heavens, she had to talk to someone, she couldn’t carry news like this by herself.
If it was true.
Maybe it wasn’t, but if it was, then there was one plea she would offer up to whatever stray gods might be looking out for her: don’t let Carl Baxter be the father….
Her hands bunched into fists in her lap. She wanted to pound her head against the door until it spilled its secrets. All the reasons and the explanations and answers and knowledge were right there inside her and yet walled off. Her empty stomach gurgled and spat.
As much as she hated to admit it, she was worried what conclusions Simon might reach when he heard she might be pregnant. Would he assume Carl was the father?
She couldn’t imagine rolling around naked with Carl. Couldn’t imagine wanting him the way she’d wanted Simon all day. Stroking him. Loving him. Unbelievable.
“Ella,” Simon said, and once again, she’d been so caught up in her tangled thoughts the sound of his voice caused her to jerk.
“What?”
He patted her hand. “I know how worried you are about your father.”
“My father. Yes, I’m worried about my father.”
“I think I found him on the Internet.”
She nodded into the dark. “I had a feeling. Go ahead, it must be pretty bad if you’re so worried about telling me it.”
“It is pretty bad. He may not be the man you think he is.”
“What do you mean?”
“He may not be the kind of man you’d want as a dad. It seems he—”
“Just a minute,” she snapped. “I thought I was ready to hear it, but I’m not. My father is the only reality I have right now and what I can remember of him is wonderful. Don’t take that away from me unless you are absolutely positive the Starling you read about is my father.”
He was quiet for several minutes. “I’m not positive,” he finally said. “It seems likely, but without knowing your past, it’s hard for me to say.”
“Then don’t tell me.”
“Okay.”
She sat in silence as the miles droned on. Her hands clenched and unclenched, straying to her midsection whenever she wasn’t thinking about them.
A baby.
She’d always wanted a baby.
How did she know that? Maybe she’d never wanted children. And with her father being so terribly important to her, how could she face bringing a child into the world without knowing who his or her father was? How did she deny her child a father?
She glanced over at Simon, who was making a big deal of not looking at her. If she was free to name a father for her baby, it would be him. He was big, but gentle. He was strong. He took care of people even if he was a policeman. He’d taken care of her from the moment he rescued her off the face of the bluff. He’d stood by her.
And he was the only man she really knew at the moment.
Besides, he was hot.
She smiled to herself, happy for the cover of darkness. He’d make a wonderful father for any baby, and a wonderful husband, too. She thought back to the moment when they’d stared at each other by the fence, to the feeling of his lips touching hers, his beard rough against her cheek, his intensity that had burned down to her shoes and filled her head with a kaleidoscope of images and impressions.
Then later, washing his back, her fingers brushing his hot skin, her eyes devouring the muscles in his shoulders and arms. She swallowed hard. If she was pregnant, then she’d already decided about a father for her child. There was no choice. The decision was already made and it wasn’t Simon Task.
But maybe it was someone whom she admired and lusted after just as much. Surely her memory would return long before she gave birth and it needn’t reveal Carl Baxter as her lover.
Maybe it was Jack. There was no doubt he was a very good-looking man with his tanned skin and long black hair, those light eyes and the velvet softness of his voice.
But he wasn’t Simon….
Maybe she wasn’t even pregnant. Maybe she was just spinning dreams.
Dreams. Maybe that’s all she had. Maybe that’s all she would ever have. She closed her eyes as she rested her head against the window. The miles sped beneath the tires. She tried to remember her last dream, or at least the beginning of it. The pink dress. The music. Her father. She could see herself looking up at him, way up, forever up, and there was never a face, no way of telling what he looked like, just his hands gripping hers and the music, and the spinning…
And then, again, he was gone, and she was still spinning, hands stretched out in front, but older now, no longer wearing pink, her hair long and floating, white, like clouds, like starlight. In her father’s place was now a woman who reached out and caught Ella’s hands and pulled her to a stop. A woman slapping her
face, tears welling in her eyes, tears running down her cheeks…
Ella gasped and choked and sputtered, coming to her senses with ragged breaths and a hammering heart.
It was very dark and quiet. She sat there alone, catching her breath, not entirely sure she wasn’t still dreaming.
Two lights appeared. It took Ella a moment to identify them as headlights on a big truck pulling into the same large area in which Simon had parked. In the instant the headlights illuminated the interior of the truck, her mind took a mental snapshot.
Simon sleeping, the dark stubble of his beard blending into the shadows, handsome beyond enduring. He was braced behind the steering wheel kind of funny so his back wouldn’t touch the seat. She could hear the sound of his breathing, heavy and deep and regular as though he was so exhausted neither lights nor crying women could rouse him from slumber.
Here by herself in the very quiet dark, she could admit something very private: she was falling for him.
The truck pulled into a space a few cars over. It must be a rest stop they were in, or a park of some kind. But where? The only thing she was certain of was that she didn’t want to wake Simon. Not only did he need the sleep as he had to do all the driving, but she didn’t want to talk to him right now, either.
However, sleeping was next to impossible. Not only had she already slept for hours, but her stomach was alternately empty and sick and her hand throbbed, probably because she’d had to tug to get the ring off. Every time she tried to get comfortable, something new hurt, and if she just sat still, her thoughts wandered back to dreams of her father and the crying woman.
Her mother, that’s who that woman was. Crying. Slapping Ella. Ella crying.
Good heavens, what had happened in her past? Could Simon telling her about it be any worse than reliving it one miserable dream after the other?
SIMON AWOKE with the first morning light to find Ella staring at him.
He relaxed, wincing as his back touched the seat, but staying still until the worst of the pain subsided. It hurt less today although he felt lethargic, probably to be expected given the past few days.