A small crease appeared on McGregor’s forehead. “Catherine, I think you’re going out on a limb here, but if you want me to handle the job out here, I can take care of it.”
Dr. Catherine Powers heard the flaps of the giant 727 moan down. Newport Beach’s lights appeared slowly below the plane’s black wing. Under her feet, the landing gear thudded into a rush of oncoming air, locking down.
Her fingers clutched the armrests to ease the tension of the powerful touchdown.
Coming back to California.
She’d taken a great risk. Coming back, possibly slowing down the search for her son. Risking never seeing him again. The thought left her startled and helpless as the plane came to a stop. Still, in her gut she believed there were clues here which had not been uncovered.
But in her heart she knew she did not have to dread the future. Whatever happened, she had Joey in her heart. No matter what happened, she would always have that. She didn’t have to worry about that being stripped from her.
From the terminal, she called Dr. Marsh. Initially the line was busy, then she got through.
“Dr. Marsh. This is Dr. Cat Powers. I’ve just returned from Quantico, Virginia. I have reason to believe that a kidnapping there may have been committed by the same man who took Nancy. Do you have some time to see me this evening?”
The doctor agreed. The thought of Joey tied up, tortured, or worse occupied Cat’s mind all the way to his house.
The English Tudor had not changed, except perhaps the climbing rose arbor was more in bloom, or maybe it just seemed that way, with spotlights to capture the beauty of each bloom and bud. The cab parked on the street; Cat paid him and he sped away. She tried to structure what she would say to Dr. Marsh so as not to sound hysterical, or purely absurd. She’d tell him why she was there, wait until he finished thinking, and take careful notes of what he said. At least now she had some information to jog his memory. Maybe the little she had would be enough.
Only a few lights were on in the house.
Cat approached the front door, passing under the climbing roses, the blaze variety from the looks of it, deep crimson blooms perfuming the evening air with their sweet, faintly citrus aroma. She rang the doorbell and listened to footsteps inside.
Dr. Marsh opened the door and never looked up, taking her coat and inviting her into the living room. It was as she remembered it, except for boxes neatly piled in one corner, tagged in black magic marker.
“Moving some things?” Cat asked.
“No, just figured it was time to pack Nancy’s things in storage. They’re coming to pick them up tomorrow. Can I interest you in some coffee? I was going to have some myself.”
Dr. Marsh wore a pair of Dockers and one of those thick woolen sweaters that she was sure was from New Zealand. The bulk of the sweater added more size to the man’s already enormous frame. The house was homier than before, a fire blazing in the hearth.
Cat agreed to coffee. Within five minutes, they were sitting face-to-face.
“Now, you said you have some new information?” he inquired, his brows knotting in the middle of his forehead.
“Well, yes and no.”
Cat fought the tears she felt welling in her eyes. A feeling of pure sorrow hung all around her, as if in human form. In front of the fire’s wavering light, she could feel her resolve not to show emotion wavering too.
When Dr. Marsh looked at her, for the first time in his eyes she could feel his grief. His torment showered over her in hopeless, ringing blows. Without her saying a word, he understood and started the conversation.
“I know about your son.” He tilted his eyes to the floor, holding her hand, her slim fingers disappearing under his hefty palm.
“How do you know?” Cat felt sadness wash over her like a tidal wave she could neither quell nor fight.
“I called the station while you were gone. They told me.” He was not apologetic, but understanding, in his words.
Possibly, he was one of the few that understood, having gone through the same disquieting uncertainty when Nancy had been taken, before her body was identified. As he looked at Cat, there was a warm luster in his eyes, the kind of look that made women weep their souls away.
Cat wondered if she was destined to carry the same sorrow in her eyes for the rest of her life. Far off in a tiny niche in her mind, she felt guilty for pitying this man, yet grateful for his understanding.
He continued speaking, a clear, unequivocal strength in each word which he imparted to her with his strong, heavy touch. “Catherine, listen to me. There are terrors in this world we can neither understand nor explain. You, in your line of work, should know that. I, being a doctor, have seen the utmost savagery that one man can inflict upon another. I have seen bodies emptied of their bowels at the hand of another. Bodies and lives empty and gone. I know you have too. But before we let that vision encompass us, we must have faith. Faith in the memories of our loved ones that can never be stolen from us. Faith in the sanctuary of our own good lives, that we must go one living.”
She acknowledged his words and he kept speaking, his grasp bearing down tighter on her hand. “These men, if you can call them that, they do not mean for you and me to survive. As much as they take your son, my Nancy, they mean just as purposefully to take our sanity, whatever slim, wavering hope we have in goodness that is left. They mean to engulf us in horrible memories of our children’s last hours, memories which they hope are as cold as stone, memories from which we never escape. That is what they want for us, Catherine. But we cannot, we shall not, grant them that satisfaction, shall we, Catherine?”
“No, I guess not, but somehow I feel I am giving in.” Her voice was barely a whisper.
“I know you are. I can see it in your eyes. But you are not a broken woman, Catherine. I will not let you be. You won’t give in to this self-imposed punishment.”
“It’s been days,” she said, her voice hollow, monotone, lifeless.
“I know how slowly time passes. With Nancy, I waited for days too, not knowing if she was dead or alive. Each day I would wake up and pray to find her in her bed sleeping. I’d lay my hands against her bedroom door, every fiber in my body wishing and hoping and praying she was on the other side. When I opened the door, it was always the same. My Nancy was gone. He had taken her from me.”
Dr. Marsh’s thick shoulders shuddered, giving the appearance of stone crumbling, his forehead clammy with sweat. Cat felt his big arms encircle her, holding her, if only for a moment. How long was she there in silence letting this man hold her, for no other reason than shared horror and grief? She was not sure, for it was as if time had frozen in his embrace. All around her, the living room fell away and she knew she was safe. This man understood. She strained to withstand the wish to stay there longer but pulled away.
He acknowledged the confusion on her face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”
Cat sobbed, rubbing her face. “There’s nothing to be sorry about. You’re the first person I’ve cried with since he’s been gone. Haven’t allowed myself to cry, to feel, anything.”
“I know how that is. Denial is a terrible thing. We think of it as a benefit, but it is not. It only makes the grief harder to wade through. My mother had a saying. ‘Grief is like wine,’ she used to say. ‘The longer you bottle it up, the more intense it gets.’”
“I know. Do you still think of Nancy?”
“Not a day goes by, not a second, without me thinking of her. I see a girl on the street, the way her hair swings side to side, and I say in my head, ‘there’s my Nancy.’ Little things like that, you know?”
“I do.”
He sat back and steadied himself. Cat saw then that he too had cried, tears reflecting the fire’s glow.
“Now, what did you come here to tell me?”
Cat regained her composure, sitting up straight, collecting her thoughts. “Like I said on the phone, we have a description of the man who may have taken my son in Virginia. I don’t k
now if he was acting alone or with others, so I don’t know if his description will mean anything to you.”
“How old is your son?”
Cat fought back a fresh round of emotions. “He’s six.”
“Is he like his mother?”
“I guess so.” Cat looked puzzled. “Why?”
“If he is, then he is a fighter.”
“Thanks.” She felt her lips quivering to make a half-smile. “The man we know about is white, late thirties, early forties. Close-cropped blond hair, slim, wiry build. You know anyone who looks like that? Any of Nancy’s friends, boyfriends, fit that description? Conceivably even one of your colleagues at the hospital?”
“There’s no one I can think of off the top of my head.”
“Think carefully, please.”
“There are so many people I work with at the hospital. A lot of the interns are young, that age. Even the guys in the lab. Can’t think of anyone with blond close-cropped hair though. You don’t have a better description than that?”
“Not at the moment. I have a sketch artist working with the witness now, but nothing more.”
“No photograph from the looney bin?” Dr. Marsh asked.
“No, they had a fire a few years back. The only intake photo they had of Eric went up in flames.” Cat looked apologetic. “Just one other thing. Anyone you know drive a black late model Cadillac Escalade?”
Dr. Marsh scratched his chin, thinking. “Not that I can think of.”
“Would you be able to get me a list of the hospital personnel falling within that age range and gender?”
“I don’t think that would be a problem. Why don’t you meet me at the hospital tomorrow morning at ten or so?”
“That would be fine. In admissions?”
“Yes. That would be great.”
“Does Hoag keep a photograph of each employee on file?” Cat asked.
“Yes, I believe they do. Everyone wears a photo ID. Security, you know?”
“Yeah, sure. So I’ll see you tomorrow at ten.”
“Let me let you out then.” Dr. Marsh was already up off the leather sofa heading for the front door.
“No, it’s all right. If you could just call a cab, I’ll wait in the foyer and let myself out when it arrives.”
“I’ll hear nothing of it. Where are you staying?”
“Well, I hadn’t really called ahead, but I’m sure the Hyatt in Irvine has a room.”
“All right then, I’ll drive you,” he said, moving toward the open door. “And, Cat, remember what I told you.” He took her chin and tilted her face up to meet his gaze. “We are survivors. Survivors always win.”
Cat nodded, trying to believe it was true.
Cat checked into the Hyatt at 11:27.
She was given Room 427, just a few doors down from the room she had before. She’d seen so many hotel rooms in the last month, she just wanted to curl up in front of her own fireplace in her cottage home in Quantico.
Dropping her bags, she took out only the bare necessities for bed.
Plopping herself down on the bed, she stared at the bedside clock, thinking what a long, tiresome day it had been, wishing for answers, wishing to hold Joey in her arms.
She changed quickly into boyish, checked flannel pajamas, pulled back her hair, and washed off her makeup. Before settling down, she called local headquarters for messages. Hitting the appropriate keys, the mechanical voice told her she had three messages. One was from McGregor indicating that the Graham boy was working with a sketch artist and that they would have something faxed to her by morning. The second was earlier, Dr. Marsh expressing his sympathy for her situation, saying he had heard what had happened. She was beginning to wonder if he hadn’t a different motive for his attentiveness. Cat was most spooked by the last message, from Carl Stearbourne—even though she’d given him permission to call her.
She listened as the slightly European accent came on the line and identified itself as Carl Stearbourne. Somehow, even without the name, from the first word on the phone, she knew who the message was from. His control over every syllable unnerved her.
“Catherine, I’ve so missed you, our talks together.” The line went quiet, then he spoke once more with a calm aloofness that irritated Cat. “The smell of your hair, your perfume.”
She cringed.
“You are getting closer to him, Catherine. I know. You see, he called me yesterday. Told me he has someone very dear to you, someone whose shrieks I could hear in the background.”
Cat felt she’d be sick. She doubled over, sliding to the floor, but held the phone to her ear, desperate for any sign of where Eric and her son were. How long she lay silent in this position she didn’t know, for time was frozen in place. In place and listening.
“Eric has only taken what he needs. He needs to bring you to him. To have you understand. That is why he has the boy; he wants nothing more of him.”
The madness of each word took hold in Catherine’s heart.
“He will see you soon in California, with the boy.”
Cat closed her eyes. Not a trickle of light entered her vision, her senses— nothing but Carl Stearbourne’s barren, relentless words.
“And in the end, Catherine, you will see that it is just as it always has been. Soon the raw, unyielding love that is Eric’s only true gift to the world will be yours for the asking. The real question becomes, Catherine, how much are you willing to give?
Ragged breathing was the only sound. Cat heard the line click dead then focused on the erratic beating of her own heart. It was odd, but that sound was a curious comfort…
Catherine knew then the fight she was in for, unsure of exactly how it would unfold, but sure about one thing. She was in for a showdown with a madman. And only with hope and sheer will would she and her son survive.
THIRTY-THREE
Reason can wrestle and overthrow terror.
—Euripides
Morning’s sky was clear and so bright it made her squint. The sun rained down on a grassy border dotted with impatiens that led into Hoag Hospital Admissions. Cat waited, watching the time, then saw a blue Jaguar convertible speed by, Dr. Marsh’s hefty frame seemingly stuffed into the car’s small interior.
He honked the horn, acknowledging her presence, and she figured he’d park in the physician’s lot behind the ER. Personnel was tucked to the side of one of the admitting areas, a small series of offices done in warm rose and green tones, like most of Hoag. Colors meant to evoke a feeling of comfort, Cat thought, though she didn’t feel comfortable as her hands touched the first personnel file. She and Dr. Marsh had been ushered into a small room. They sat now with what looked like a hundred files in front of them, stacked high.
Cat separated the pile, gave half to Dr. Marsh, and began thumbing through. “Anyone that fits our profile goes here.” She pointed to a blank spot on the table. “Probably quickest to check the photo first.”
Dr. Marsh nodded.
She made short work of the first twenty files, each one not fitting for one reason or another, wrong height, wrong build, wrong race, wrong gender. Then she began to slow down and really look at the photographs. Could these be the eyes of the man that had her son? She scrutinized each photograph, looking for signs of what, she didn’t know, still having the feeling that the Marshes had to know the man. There had to be a connection.
Dr. Marsh did the same, taking his time, though quickly discarding those that obviously didn’t fit. He stopped at one longer than the others. “Wait, I know this man,” he said.
Cat looked over his shoulder at the photo. “Who is he?”
Dr. Marsh appeared shaken. “Nancy went out with him once or twice. I think we had him to her birthday. Nothing serious though. She said he wasn’t her type.”
“A colleague of yours?”
“Yes, a young ER physician—his name is Charles Dupont.”
Cat looked closely at the photograph. No blond short hair, but the eyes certainly conveyed something cold,
elusive. They were a light, almost icy green. Cat fought a shudder as her fingers traced over the photo. She’d seen these eyes before but couldn’t place them. Yet she knew their shape. Maybe she did need some more sleep.
“All right, he’s our main guy, but keep looking.”
Four and a half hours later, they were left with twelve files. None of the others looked remotely like anyone that Dr. Marsh knew. Cat pushed all but the Dupont file aside and studied the photograph. From the looks of it, he was about the right build, wiry and long. Height average, hair color in the photo didn’t match the blond, close-cropped hair the boy in Virginia had described. But that could be changed, cut and dyed.
Cat flipped past the paper-clipped photo to the personnel file. It showed Dupont was an ER physician. His application paperwork was blank for the most part, making reference to his CV, which was clipped behind. Dr. Charles Dupont claimed to have studied at USC Medical School, done his residency at a hospital in Northern California, and then apparently decided to head south again. His hometown was listed as Willits, California. Cat had never heard of it, figuring it was in Northern California someplace.
“Ever heard of Willits?”
“Yeah, it’s up past Sacramento, in Bear Valley. Nancy and I took a ride up there once to check out the wildflowers off State Route 20. Pretty out of the way place really.”
“Want to take a trip up there with me?”
“Sure, what are we looking for?”
“We need to know if anyone’s ever heard of Charles Dupont. And in the meantime, you think someone can let us into his office?”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Dr. Marsh was already out the door.
Within five minutes they were being let into Dupont’s office. Upon entering the space, Cat felt odd. The room looked as if it hadn’t been used, not like other doctors’ offices, with files stacked on the floor, reference books opened. Instead, this office was pristine, books carefully organized alphabetically on the shelves, everything neatly tucked away or in its place. On the desk sat a closed black week-at-a-glance calendar. Cat opened to the day Joey had been taken. It showed no appointments…three days earlier it indicated that Dupont was to be present at a physician’s conference in Atlanta. There, someone had jotted a phone number next to flight information.
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