And the street names—they were all plants and trees—as though someone was determined to have nature remembered in the midst of urban chaos. She stopped to glance over her shoulder. A woman who was almost a block behind her looked exactly like the woman in the park with the Papillon—minus the dog.
“Let’s sing,” Tricia said loudly to her son as she bent once again to untangle Dog’s leash. In spite of the hours Scott had spent working with the little guy during his four days off, Dog still had problems containing his curiosity long enough to pay attention to his lead. But at least he wasn’t at a dead standstill anymore.
The woman in the distance had a black baseball cap on that the woman in the park hadn’t been wearing. She was minus the white windbreaker, replaced by a black sweater tied around her waist, and had exchanged sandals for tennis shoes. She stopped to drop something in a mailbox on the corner.
“The itsy-bitsy spider,” Tricia blurted out, reminding her son how to climb with his fingers before she gave the stroller a heavy push. As the spider climbed up the spout, Tricia told herself to calm down.
It wasn’t the same woman. She was overreacting. Losing her ability to differentiate between fact and fiction.
In the song, the rains came down, and she turned the corner. Sped up for a block. Turned again and then again. When the sun was coming out to dry up all the rain for the third time, she was back at Ivy.
And when the itsy-bitsy spider climbed up the spout again, with Taylor’s heart-felt if inarticulate help, Tricia got another glimpse of the woman. Only she was even closer now. And if the bulge on her side beneath the sweater was a handgun, as Tricia suspected it might be, the woman wasn’t out for a casual stroll, either.
Grabbing Dog under one arm with a quick sweep, Tricia held tight to the stroller and ran. The woman could shoot her dead, take Taylor and be gone forever. When you had enough money, anything was possible.
Thump. The stroller went over a crack in the sidewalk. Thump. Thump. Thump. The world became little else. The beating of her heart in her ears, unmasked by anything except the rhythm of the stroller’s rubber wheels crossing crack after crack. Taylor’s sudden silence, the stillness with which he sat, watching the world whiz by, scared her more than anything else. Even her eighteen-month-old baby knew something was wrong.
She ran down Ivy, stopping only long enough to go behind a car waiting at the corner as she crossed, not sure in her panic where she was headed. The houses were taller, wider, the yards larger, and still she pushed. Until she ran out of sidewalk. There was nothing ahead of her but a canyon.
San Diego was riddled with canyons. They were big. Cavernous. Covered with trees and brush, blanketing much of their acreage. There was no time to think. No time for rational decisions or hesitation. Tricia plowed through the brush, thankful that most of it was just high grass but still worried about scraping Taylor’s face, scratching his eye. She prayed the stroller’s canopy would protect her son from injury.
Still, a scratch or two was preferable to hanging dead from a tree, or being carried off by a fox or a mountain lion.
“Hold on, baby,” she whispered. She’d get him to that cluster of trees, undo the strap around his waist with the hand holding on to Dog, and swing him up with her right. If she was quick enough, grabbed him under the arms, she could do it all while barely missing a step.
And if she had to, she’d drop Dog.
Breathing heavily, Tricia shoved ahead. A branch cracked behind her and she bit her lip. She couldn’t cry out. Couldn’t scare Taylor.
“It’s a game, baby!” she said suddenly. “Do you like Mama’s game?”
And then it was time. Her throat raw, legs rubbery, and yet energized Tricia had the baby free, against her side, and was gone.
It had taken her two months to save for the stroller she’d left behind.
“Hi, it’s me.”
“And?” The voice was tense.
“She took the baby to the park, walked home the long way, detoured down Ivy to the canyon and disappeared. She showed up at home an hour later and never left the house again.”
“What’s in the canyon?”
“The baby stroller. She left it there.”
“What? Why?”
“No idea. Still had a little sweatshirt, a book, a bottle half filled with juice and a plastic bag with some crackers in the pocket on the back. I saved them for you.”
“Good. Thanks.”
“Want me to continue as planned?”
“Yes.” His certainty was clear.
She didn’t know a lot about computers, generally. Knew, intricately, the program she’d used for her work, and knew the number she dialed whenever something went wrong with the machine itself. Whether it froze, gave her an error report or a virus warning, she simply picked up the phone and dialed.
Or rather, the person she used to be had done that.
Thursday morning, it was just her and the machine, or rather, Scott’s machine—which she’d never touched before, which she’d prefer not to touch, but she had little choice.
With Taylor and Dog sleeping soundly on Scott’s bed behind her, Tricia clicked the help button on his Internet browser. First she had to learn how to clear history when she was finished, and then she’d search. There was no room for chance. No reason to implicate Scott in anything.
The violet-trimmed duffel that had been packed with periodically updated diapers, changes of clothes and emergency baby supplies, had been pulled out from beneath piles of fabric in the closet of her sewing room. As soon as Taylor awoke, ate, had his bath, they were heading to Coronado, to Patsy’s to drop off the next three finished outfits she’d promised her friend—another pair of drawstring slacks, a flowing calf-length skirt and peasant top, and a pair of shorts with a button-up white blouse. After that, she had no idea where she’d go.
She had to leave. It might be illogical, rash, stupid, but she couldn’t stay. She’d been followed the day before. A saner person might not think so, might think her imagination out of control, but she knew. There was no doubt. She knew.
The screen was too bright for her eyes in the early-morning dimness. But there was a little history button right on the toolbar where she’d found the help button. A click and another click, and any record of the sites she visited on the Internet would be erased from Scott’s computer.
Turning, she watched her son breathe. There was such comfort in that. The simple in and out of air from his lungs, the rise and fall of his chest, had become precious proof that she hadn’t lost yet. The baby, dressed in thin cotton footed bottoms that snapped into the short-sleeved matching shirt, lay sprawled crossways on the bed. He’d been like that most of the night.
Tricia knew because she’d been up watching him through every minute of it. She wasn’t taking any chances.
Typing her request into the search bar, Tricia clicked go and waited.
She would’ve left the day before except that she thought she’d be making a mistake to leave prematurely. She was due to meet Miller later that morning and if she could find out who was having her followed—and why—she’d have more of a chance to throw him off. Show Thomas, or whoever it was, something that was the opposite of what he was looking for. Become something she was not.
Again.
She’d done it once. Could do it again. And again. And again. As many times as it took to get her son to his eighteenth birthday.
Besides, this way Dog only had to be alone in the backyard with the blanket and kennel and bowls of water and food she’d set up for two days instead of three.
The hourglass on the computer turned upside down one more time as the machine did her bidding. And then the screen flashed. There were pages of listings for Thomas Whitehead. She looked at the latest one.
Autopsy Reveals Conclusive Evidence
Thursday, May 5, 2005, 6:00 a.m.
San Francisco, AP. The autopsy of Leah Montgomery showed conclusively that the heiress sustained a blow to her back before she l
anded on the tree that held her suspended for three weeks, according to the Medical Examiner’s office. Doctors say that the muscle and tissue just beneath Montgomery’s shoulder blades bear evidence of severe bruising in the shape of handprints. Based on other injuries sustained during the fall, the area hit and the angle at which the body was found, police have concluded that Montgomery was pushed off the cliff. There was no other evidence of struggle or foul play, no signs of Montgomery having been restrained. According to a police source, whoever is guilty of this crime is someone Ms. Montgomery trusted enough to stand with at the edge of a cliff.
Though early reports show no indication of a previously announced pregnancy, and Senator Whitehead has an alibi for the time of the murder, prosecutors have not yet withdrawn charges against him. Further autopsy reports will be released. Prosecutor Amy Black was unavailable for comment.
“Hello.”
On edge more often than not these days, Scott leaned against the station’s backyard wall early Thursday morning and pulled his cell phone away from his ear as Tricia answered. He took a deep breath, then moved it back. The other guys were still asleep. He hadn’t been so lucky.
“What’s wrong?” Tension made the words stronger than he’d intended.
“Nothing! Scott, hi!” As curt as her voice had been seconds before, Tricia now sounded too joyful. Something was wrong. Very wrong. “I was reading—distracted. I’m sorry.”
Reading at seven-thirty in the morning? “I figured you’d just be finished dressing, having your last peaceful cup of coffee before the troops awoke.” He hated playing games. Most particularly with this woman. It was dangerous. Stupid. Too much was at risk.
His freedom. Hers. His heart. Hers. Taylor. The present.
“I am having my coffee. And reading.”
She was lying. Or hiding something. Or someone?
He shook his head. Tricia just wasn’t the type to have a lover on the side. Or if she was, he couldn’t make himself believe she had one now.
“Reading what?”
“The paper.” Which she rarely read at home when he was there.
“You already went out for it?”
“No. It’s yesterday’s. I never finished it.”
Odd. But not unheard of. She’d told him she sometimes picked up a paper on her morning walk with her son. But she usually didn’t bring it home.
So what had she done yesterday instead?
And when had he started analyzing every word she said, looking for hidden meanings?
The woman was driving him nuts. Keeping him off balance. He couldn’t afford to be off balance.
Nor could he seem to walk away.
“Anything earth-shattering?” They’d been too busy at the station for leisure reading.
“Nope.”
Rubbing a hand across eyes that felt the pressure of too many nights of too little sleep, Scott studied the grass at his feet. “You sure everything’s okay?” If he asked her any more than that, she’d run. He’d pushed her as far as he could.
“Yes, fine.”
He asked about her plans for the day. She described a day like many others that had gone before. And he wanted to believe her. To accept the momentary peace her words brought him.
But he reminded himself that her words meant little. She was using a lot of effort to hide something from him. She wasn’t about to disclose it during a casual rundown of the day’s events.
“I love you.” Her voice was soft. Completely Tricia. And Scott sighed, his shoulders, his stomach, relaxing in spite of everything that remained unknown.
“I love you, too.” The admission was one of the few recent changes in their relationship for which he was thankful.
Beyond thankful.
“I mean it, Scott. I really do love you. A lot.”
He believed her.
“I know. Me, too,” he said quietly. And then, when the tension immediately returned to his stomach, he added, “Take care of yourself.”
“I will.”
Scott hung up, telling himself he was a lucky man to have the love of such a woman. And his freedom, too.
But the sound of those last two words—“I will”—echoed over and over in his mind. They’d been infused with intensity, too much intensity, almost as though she was saying goodbye.
While he sat helpless—like a man by the side of the road—watching a love die before his eyes.
He’d done what he could, short of marrying her, to keep her next to him. And that he couldn’t do.
With a weary shake of the head, he pocketed his phone and went back inside.
“They’re cops.”
Walking from the door toward the chair in the back of Island Cleaners where Miller sat, unshaven and disreputable-looking as usual, Tricia stumbled.
“Cops?” He thought she was being followed by cops. Patsy was wrong. This man wasn’t any good at all. And if he’d ever been good, liquor had soaked up his skills.
He nodded, eyes half-closed. “Off-duty.”
She stared at him, Taylor on her hip. “I’m being followed by off-duty cops.”
His chin fell to his chest in confirmation.
“Taylor, don’t, honey.” She pulled the baby’s fingers out of her mouth, kissed them, all the while watching the older man. Logic told her he was a farce, laughable, a waste of her time and money. Despite logic, she believed him. She preferred not to, but she did.
Frowning, Tricia dropped onto a wooden stool at the end of a long revolving rack holding plastic bags filled with clean clothes. Positioning Taylor on her lap, she pulled a package of crackers out of her bag and held it open for the boy, who happily crammed a pudgy little fist inside.
“San Diego cops?”
“Yep.”
She wanted to yell at the drunk. Tell him he stank. That he wasn’t earning his keep. And she felt strangely fond of him at the same time.
Swallowing, she peered over at him, not sure whether or not to like him, whether to continue this conversation or just run.
“And there are two of them?”
When all he did was nod, she wanted to scream. And cry.
“One of them is a woman?”
“They both are, although my source in San Francisco tells me the best people-finder in Northern California just returned from a high-paying San Diego stint last month.”
“Oh.” She blinked, her nerves jumping beneath her skin. The man on the beach? Had he been looking for her? Recognized her, after all? Reported back? Or not recognized her and given up?
But that didn’t explain…
“You’re sure both of these women are following me?”
“Positive.” It was strange how a man could be such a complete, unwashed, disgusting bum and yet instill such confidence. “I saw them together in a bar,” he was saying, “found the best-looking guy I could and paid him to hit on them, get them talking.”
“One of those women was trailing me yesterday morning.”
His only response was the protrusion of his lower lip, which Tricia couldn’t translate at all.
Taylor dropped a cracker and she bent to pick it up, kissing the baby on the neck as she straightened. He threw himself forward again, obviously wanting to have another go at this entertaining game. She took a spill-proof cup of juice out of her bag and handed it to him.
And then there was nothing left to do.
“So who hired them?”
She knew, just didn’t want to hear the truth, to face the truth, to know that money had tentacles she couldn’t escape. Not that she would ever stop trying.
“Fire chief named Scott McCall.”
Taylor slid slowly off her lap onto his feet, the waiting dirty hands of the ex-detective steadying him. Tricia watched in slow motion, her gaze locked with that of the disheveled man holding her son upright. He was watching her intently, his watery eyes oddly compassionate.
She opened her mouth, but didn’t know what to say. The room was spinning so completely she had no real compre
hension. Scott McCall was having her followed, and her drunken detective was offering support. Meanwhile, in San Francisco, her husband had been charged with the murder of her best friend.
With one hand clutching the leg of her jeans, Taylor stared up at the smelly man with both hands around his waist, and even he was acting out of character. There was no recoiling as usually happened with strangers. The baby didn’t hide his face against her, didn’t cry. He just stared.
So did Tricia, desperately trying to hold on to any sense of reality. Sounds came from a distance, as though her head was buried in cotton. And she was hot. Too hot.
“What’s wrong?”
She heard Patsy’s voice. Hadn’t seen her friend come in. Didn’t see her now. But she felt Patsy’s hand take hers, felt the other woman’s arm around her. “Come on, honey, let’s get you upstairs. Doris! Come get the baby!”
“No!” Tricia couldn’t see much, her peripheral vision almost as dark as her heart, but she could see Taylor. With a fumbling hand she grabbed for him, catching his arm on the third try. “I can’t leave him!” She could hardly believe that shaky, terror-filled voice was hers. She might not have believed it if she hadn’t felt the scrape of those words passing through her dry throat.
“I know. Doris will bring him up,” Patsy said, her voice uncharacteristically upbeat and as carefree as if they were discussing whether to put mustard and pickle on the hamburgers. Tricia wondered if her smelly drunken detective preferred hamburgers to hot dogs.
And like an electrical switch inside her, that thought took her outside the engulfing fear to experience a second’s relief. It gave her a tenuous grasp on awareness, a brief liaison with the strength she was going to have to find deep within.
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