The Truth About Toby

by Cheryl St. John

  “Well, they found him. Said they had an anonymous call. Shaine, are you all right?”

  “Was he—is he...?”

  “He wasn’t alive. He’d fallen down a well sometime yesterday.”

  The news sifted through the fog of confusion in Shaine’s head. “What could I have done differently? There must have been some way I could have prevented this!”

  She pictured the child’s mother, and tears came to her eyes.

  “What are you talking about?” Audrey asked, bewilderment in her voice. “The police said it was an accident.”

  Shaine jumped up and paced the floor, hugging her waist with her arms. “I should have done something. I should have known what to do, but I didn’t.”

  “Shaine, you’re just upset because he was a little boy like Toby, and this was another senseless accident. Sit down and I’ll get you something to drink.”

  “Something to drink is not going to fix this! That kid is dead!” She clapped her hand over her mouth, trapping the hysterics that threatened to pour out.

  Audrey’s eyes widened, and she stared.

  Shaine calmed herself and dropped her arms to her sides. “I’ll call Tom.”

  She ignored the expression on Audrey’s face, more convinced than ever that she needed more help than she’d get from Tom.

  Audrey watched her with a look of apprehension...and something more. Sympathy. Fear. A look Shaine couldn’t acknowledge. It was the same way her mother had looked at her.

  Chapter 2

  Toby needed his hair washed and cut. He needed someone to pick him up and hug him, hold him. He was alone. Frightened Hungry. So hungry, his stomach hurt.

  A yellowed decal, a swan among faded water lilies, was peeling from green plastic tiles. The bird was a peach color with a black bill. A rusty metal cabinet sat on peeling linoleum.

  Toby’s lip hurt.

  Somewhere, as if in the distance, music played. A disembodied voice blended with the music, one minute in indistinct speech, the next in weary crying. Sometimes he slept through it; sometimes the pitch changed and woke him. Sometimes he cried. If he wasn’t too tired. Or too hungry.

  Shaine shot straight up in bed. Thin shafts of light striped her bedcovers. She pressed the backs of her fingers against her heated cheeks. Somewhere, within the billions of cells and tissues and bits of DNA and protoplasm that made up Shaine Richards, was a place of knowing. No rationalization or scientific theory could explain away the fact that she knew what she knew at any given time. Shaine trembled with the knowledge of her dream.

  Toby needed help.

  She reached for the phone and hit auto dial. Though he’d officially retired from the institute, Tom Stempson still kept a hand in several of the research projects. Taking an interest in Shaine, he’d given her his home number, along with his permission to call anytime day or night. And Lord help her, she had.

  “Tom,” she said when he answered.

  “Shaine? How are you doing?”

  “Not so good.” She explained the dream and what had happened with the Deets boy that day.

  “That’s incredible. Won’t you consider coming back to the institute for a while? I could work with you full-time.”

  She hugged a pillow to her stomach. “I can’t, Tom. I hate it there. I just don’t fit in.”

  “But you’re so gifted. We could learn so much from you—from each other.”

  She leaned back on the bed, weary with the weight of this burden he called a gift. “I just can’t.”

  “If you were here, we’d have an opportunity to explore how far-reaching this thing is.”

  “But can you show me how to use it? Can you help me with the dreams about Toby?”

  “No, Shaine. Everyone’s ability is so different. It’s something that takes time to define.”

  “I don’t have time. I tried it your way once—”

  “Once, and a month wasn’t enough time—”

  “A month was way too long for Toby. I can’t do it again. We didn’t get anywhere. We’re still not getting anywhere. Today proved it to me. What happened with that little boy validated everything I’ve been going through. Tom, I saw that child.”

  “I know,” he said softly.

  “I knew exactly where he was and I told the police.”

  “I know,” he said again.

  “I can see Toby, too. And I know where he is.” She covered her eyes with her hand for a minute. “I mean—I I can see him—see exactly where he is and what he’s doing. I just don’t have the—the coordinates,” she said for lack of a better explanation. “I need help figuring that out. I know it’s possible, I just don’t know how. I’m at the end of my rope, here, Tom.”

  He was silent for a long minute, and when he finally spoke, his voice held a note of apprehension. “You’ve gone beyond me, Shaine,” he said.

  “Yeah.” She’d known it before he had. “I don’t think anyone who hasn’t experienced this himself would know how to help me,” she said. “You’ve spared my sanity, Tom. I couldn’t have survived these months without you. I appreciate that, believe me I do, but I can’t come back there.”

  “I guess I knew that.” He released a breath. “Do you have any idea how old I am?”

  The odd question made her think a minute. “No. You’re semiretired. Sixtyish?”

  “I’ll be seventy-six next month.”

  It was hard to believe the lean, active doctor she’d worked with at the institute was that old. “Wow.”

  “And in all those years I’ve known only a few people with an ability equal to yours.”

  Shaine didn’t reply. In the past, whenever she’d questioned him about his other patients, he’d regretted that he couldn’t share those things with her. His work was confidential. She understood, and she appreciated his integrity. That meant he wouldn’t share things about her, either.

  “We’re at a stalemate here, Shaine.”

  She knew it, too, obviously having been a pretty disappointing subject. She’d bombed on the ESP tests, couldn’t move objects for their psychokinesis testing and had no out-of-body experiences to report. Now that she wasn’t willing to put herself through any more analysis, he’d run out of help for her.

  “I worked with someone years ago,” he said.

  Her interest sparked, and she gripped the phone a little tighter.

  “In the late sixties, early seventies, he helped the police solve crimes in Delaware and Pennsylvania and farther west.”

  Shaine’s heartbeat increased with a new hope. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “He has an extraordinary ability,” Tom said. “I worked with him for years, and learned something new at every turn.”

  “He let you poke him and prod him and pick his brain.”

  Tom’s silence affirmed her words.

  “Did he do well on the ESP tests?”

  “Not outstanding.”

  “Better than me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I learn from him?”

  “I think so.”

  “Is he still alive?” she asked, imagining him to be elderly by now.

  “As far as I know.”

  Excitement rose in her chest. She sat up in her bed. At last! At last someone to help her find Toby! Tom wouldn’t have brought it up if he didn’t think this man could teach her how to use the dreams. “Will you help me find him?”

  “I hope he’ll forgive me. But I’ll help.”

  This was the craziest thing she’d ever done.

  Shaine handed the flannel-jacketed college student the thirty dollars they’d agreed on and watched him drive back down the rough road to Gunnison, Colorado, leaving her in the midst of her pile of bags, assorted boxes of food and supplies, a tent, a cooler and a Coleman stove.

  Having found someone to help Audrey for a week or two, she’d spent every available dime on camping equipment and used her credit card for the plane ticket. There was no turning back now.

  This old man she’
d come to find was the answer to her dilemma. He would know how to help her. He would understand the torment she was going through and help her use this horrible wonderful gift to find Toby.

  There was no other way. She wouldn’t consider anything different.

  Shaine scanned the thick growth of trees and shrubs the boy had called Bentley Ridge, and observed the smoke rising against the crisp blue sky.

  A log house stood in the clearing, a massive garage off to the side. An open porch stretched around two sides of the house, a door on each side. Assorted rustic furniture lined one porch wall.

  Surely he’d heard the Jeep and knew someone was out here. Unless he had his television on loud and was hard of hearing.

  She’d been envisioning this moment ever since she’d decided to come. She’d imagined Allen with a wife, maybe a few grown and married children. But maybe his wife had died. Living way out here, he might appreciate a visitor. Praying he would, she approached the house.

  There was no doorbell, no knocker. She garnered her courage and determinedly pounded the rough wood with the side of her fist. Nothing happened.

  She tried again.

  Nothing.

  A huge pent-up gust of air escaped her lungs. She turned and surveyed the clearing. A stump sat at one corner of the house and several chunks of tree lay nearby. Someone must chop wood for him.

  No sound came from inside. Hesitantly she tried the door, and it swung inward. Her heart raced at her unexpected intrusion. She peeked at the open rough-walled room and dominating gray stone fireplace and couldn’t make herself go any farther. Pulling the door shut, she walked around the house.

  Again, she noted the smoke rising from the chimney, assurance that the old man was indeed here, and took comfort in the wires running to the corner of the house.

  Out of breath, Shaine walked back to the porch, brushed off one of the dusty wood chairs and sat, wondering why he hadn’t answered the door. The air felt chilly after a while, and she tugged her jacket around herself more snugly.

  She hoped he wasn’t ill. Or hurt. If he didn’t show up soon, she’d go in and make sure he was okay.

  The nearby woods had a life of their own, birds twittering, and small rustling sounds came from the dry grass and weeds. Shaine listened and found herself relaxing. Her eyes closed.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed when a rhythmic pounding startled her. The dry ground cover off to her left was being disrupted by something or someone moving fast and breathing hard. Shaine sat forward on the chair and gripped the arms, straining to see into the dense forest. Her heart pounded with apprehension.

  A figure shot out into the sunny clearing fifty feet from the house. It was a dark-haired man wearing a faded Super Bowl sweatshirt with a dark trail of perspiration down the center. A pair of gray shorts exposed long muscled thighs that flexed with each step carrying him closer to the house.

  At the sight of her, his steps faltered, and he walked the rest of the way to the porch, stopping with one tennis-shoed foot on the top step.

  Shaine stood. “Are you here to see Mr. Allen?”

  “Who are you?” The hair at his temples was damp. Breathing hard, he ran a hand through one side and splayed his long fingers on his hip.

  “I’m here to see him,” she went on. “I knocked, but I didn’t get any answer. I was wondering if I should go in and check to see that everything’s okay.” She glanced back the way he’d come. “Are you a neighbor?”

  The man advanced to the porch. He was head and shoulders taller than she, his broad chest and rugged frame touching her with a sense of unease. From the top of his head to the bottom of his running shoes he was a formidable example of health and male virility. He must be the one who chopped wood for Mr. Allen.

  Austin Allen took stock of the girl’s suede hiking boots, her long legs in faded jeans and the denim jacket that hinted at a tantalizing air of indifference about her appearance. “What do you want with him?” he countered.

  “I need to talk to him. I’ve come a long way to find him.”

  “You a reporter?”

  “No!” she said, obviously surprised at the question.

  “A cop?”

  She shook her head.

  “That leaves one possibility.” Austin turned, looking for her vehicle, and discovered the suspicious pile of gear several hundred feet from the house.

  “What possibility is that?” she asked.

  Without replying, he turned back and eyed her. “He’s not here.”

  “When will he be back?”

  Her straight hair parted on the side and fell to her shoulders in a sleek curve, bangs that the wind had becomingly arranged, complementing her topaz eyes. “What do you want him for? And how did you get here?”

  Those eyes darkened to the color of maple sugar, and she licked her lips in a nervous gesture. “I got a ride. And I need to talk to him—in private.”

  She moved a little closer, and he realized she wasn’t as small as he’d first thought. She was slender, her features fine, but she probably stood over five-six. “If you’d called ahead, you’d have learned he doesn’t see any visitors.”

  “Isn’t it an unlisted number?”

  “You have it, don’t you?”

  Her expression didn’t reveal the answer. “How do you know I didn’t call?”

  “Because I take all the messages.”

  “Do you live with him then? Work for him?”

  “Something like that.” Her warm rich hair and eyes, her heart-shaped face, winged brows, delicate nose and chin gave her a classic beauty all her own. A feminine appeal no man could help but notice. Especially a man unaccustomed to company of her gender. “How do you plan to get back?”

  She glanced toward the woods, a barely noticeable sign of uncertainty. “I—uh, thought after Mr. Allen heard me out and let me stay awhile, I’d call for a ride.”

  “I’ll give you a ride back right now.” He moved for the door. “It’ll only take me a few minutes to shower and change.”

  “Wait a minute!”

  He stopped with his palm holding open the screen door and turned back. “What?”

  She gestured with one hand, a halfhearted kind of wave that encompassed the porch, her things across the way, him. “Look.”

  She crossed her arms, tucking her hands under the sleeves of her jacket, and he wondered if it was more a defensive gesture than protection from the cooling air.

  Austin’s damp sweatshirt chilled his skin.

  “I came a long way to see Mr. Allen. I’ll just wait until he gets back.”

  “He won’t be back. Hang on a minute while I change.”

  “He’s not—” Her hand shot out and her cool fingers grasped his wrist.

  Immediately he backed up all his defense mechanisms, but couldn’t suppress the disturbing physical effect her touch created.

  “He’s not dead, is he?” she asked, her eyes rounded.

  He wasn’t used to being touched. He had to force his mind to think around the sensation of her gentle fingers on his skin. The concern in her eyes was so sincere, he almost felt remorse for taking a firm stand. “No. He’s not dead.”

  “Oh, thank goodness.” She released him and sat on the chair with her arms wrapped around her. “Thank goodness. I’m waiting for him, then. If it’ll be a while, I’ve brought enough supplies to last. I think. If you’d let me know for sure,” she said, those wide eyes raising hopefully to his, “I could make better plans. If you won’t tell me anything, I’ll just stick with this plan.”

  Frustrated, he ran a hand through his damp hair. How the hell had she found this place, and exactly what did she hope to extract from him? He’d covered his tracks years ago, and only the most persistent, the ones with the most at stake or those with the most money had sought him out.

  He glanced at her assortment of gear, thinking she obviously didn’t fit into the money category. Which left a lot at stake and determination. He could be every bit as stubborn as s
he was persistent, however. “Fine. Stay out there till you rot, for all I care. But you’re not going to see anyone but me around here.”

  He entered the house, slamming the door behind him.

  Austin stood in the shower, appreciating the warmth of the flesh-tingling spray. He lathered his hair, his body, rinsed and stood under the water, wondering how long she’d last.

  He could wait her out. It would get colder as the sun set and night crept down from the mountains. Unless she had a warmer coat and a kerosene heater, she’d be forced to stay in her tent and sleeping bag. And how long could she hack it without water to drink or wash with? She’d come begging him for a ride back to civilization.

  He didn’t want to know anything about her. He didn’t care that she had a vulnerable slant to her Cupid’s bow lips and a haunted look behind her weary eyes. He hadn’t allowed himself to care about anything like that for too many years.

  He’d developed the skill to not know. To not care, and to not feel guilty about either. No searching young woman with self-doubts and pain-dimmed features was going to get him to change.

  He couldn’t change.

  There was too much risk involved.

  Chapter 3

  The sunset was spectacular; a panorama of reds and golds and ambers streaked with lavender that turned the trees and the countryside into a brilliant inferno of rustling color. The display ended much too soon, and with the sun went the afternoon’s warmth.

  Shaine shook the tent out of its bag, laid out the poles and stakes and searched for the instructions. Another rustling in the underbrush alerted her to the approach of something or someone else. An Irish setter bounded into the clearing and headed for the house.

  Shaine stood slowly, staring in awe. She’d seen the dog before. In a dream. Much as the man before him had, the dog stalled at her presence. Any remaining doubts she’d had fled. His appearance confirmed the rightness of her being there.

  The dog was obviously friendlier than the man, demonstrated in the way he came close to her camp area, his long nose sniffing the air.

  “Can you smell if I’m a good guy or a bad guy?” she asked.