The attic, she thought. The only place left.
She made her way there, pulled down the attic steps, then climbed them, cold air swirling around her as she ascended. When she reached the top, she yanked the cord attached to the single lightbulb.
Weak light illuminated a lifetime of stored stuff. Brown cardboard boxes, dozens of them, stacked one on top of the other. A cry rose in her throat. Where did she start? It would take her days to go through every box.
Whatever she had to do. One step, one box at a time.
She began at the front right. Her progress was slow; between the cold and the dust, her nose began to run. It’d be smart to go grab a coat and gloves, but she refused to stop even for the few minutes that would take.
Her gaze fell on a large steamer trunk, the kind people had used in the 1800s for cross-Atlantic travel. It was locked, she saw. Secured with a combination lock, the kind she had used on her high school locker.
Heart thundering, she made her way to the trunk. She gazed down at the only thing between her and its contents.
She tried a couple obvious combinations: her mother’s birthday, her own birthday, consecutive numbers. When those didn’t work, she looked around for something to break it open with.
Her gaze landed on an aluminum baseball bat propped up in the corner. Alex retrieved it, lifted and swung. On the third whack, the lock gave. She removed it, released the hasp and opened the trunk.
Her breath caught. Inside, her mother had carefully stored photographs and letters, stuffed animals and baby toys. A christening gown, she saw. Several unbearably small, blue outfits. A binky. Booties.
Alex caressed each item, rubbing the soft fabric between her fingers, then against her cheek. She buried her face in a Teddy bear’s fuzzy belly and breathed deeply. Was it her imagination or did it still smell of baby powder and formula?
Her chest tightened and tears stung her eyes. A brother-her brother. One day she had awakened and he was gone. How had she processed it? She must have been frightened and confused.
Alex wiped the tears from her cheeks and gently laid the bear back in its makeshift bed. She chose a small photo album next, opened it and stared transfixed at the first photograph.
Her mother. Young and lovely. Smiling-no, beaming-for the camera, a baby cradled in her arms. And beside her, gazing up in adoration, was her three- or four-year-old self.
She’d never seen her mother happy, Alex realized. Manic, yes. But never like this-glowing with joy.
What part had the loss of her child played in the woman her mother had become? What part had it played in her illness? Her violent mood swings?
With a sense of desperation, Alex flipped through the album, soaking in the images of people she didn’t know, studying their faces, expressions, body language. Everything. Longing to remember.
From downstairs came the sound of the front door slamming. She swung toward the stairs. “Hello?” she called.
“Alex? Where are you?”
“Tim! I’m up here! In the attic.”
Moments later he appeared at the top of the stairs. “Alex? What the hell-”
“I had a brother,” she said, voice shaking. “A stepsister, too. Come look.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Thursday, February 18
1:50 P.M.
Together they carried the trunk from the attic to the living room. They sat on the floor, and words tumbling one over the other, Alex told him about finding the news story, the detective’s name and number being circled, calling the number and finally about the detective’s visit.
When she’d finished, she held out the photo album, open to the picture of her mother holding Dylan, Alex at her side.
For long moments he studied the photo, then lifted his gaze to hers. “Unbelievable. It makes me wonder what else she was hiding.”
“What else could she be hiding? My God, Tim.” Alex tucked her hair behind her ear and leaned toward him. “This is it. What I always felt was missing. I thought it was not knowing my dad. Or my mother’s emotional distance. But it was the brother who was taken from me.”
“Literally missing.” Tim nodded. “It makes sense, from a psychological standpoint.” He flipped through the photo album, expression thoughtful. “The creation of art is a type of birthing process. The destruction of that very personal creation a form of self-hatred.”
“You think her cycle of painting, then obliterating what she’d created was tied to the loss of her son?”
“I think it makes sense.” He stopped on a photo and gazed intently at the image. “She represses her emotions-her anger, guilt and despair. But repressed emotions have a way of erupting, coming out sideways, directed at something or someone else. This is classic avoidant coping strategy.”
“Guilt?” Alex said, frowning. “I understand anger and despair, but why would she-”
“Feel responsible? Come on, Alex, put yourself in her shoes. A mother’s supposed to protect her children, keep them from harm’s way. A mother’s instinct is ‘supposed’ to kick in, alert her to danger. And what did she do? She left her children alone. And the unthinkable happened.”
Alex rubbed her arms, cold. “How could I have forgotten, Tim? I was five years old. I had a baby brother, then I didn’t. Surely I would have remembered him?”
He caught her hands and rubbed them between his. “Your mother took you away from all the people who knew Dylan. She packed away all physical reminders of him. Children are sponges. They pick up on everything. You quickly learned that asking about your brother was met with disapproval. Maybe even tears. Or a spanking. Perhaps when you asked about him, she denied his existence.”
He squeezed her hands, then released them. “You complied. You simply ‘forgot.’ Truth is, it probably didn’t even take that long.”
Alex blinked against tears. “Okay, I get all that. But why can’t I remember now that I-”
She bit the last back. A faceless baby, screaming.
She did remember.
“Oh my God, Tim. It makes sense now.”
“What does, hon?”
“The other night, when we were in bed together, I had this weird vision. It’s what got me so freaked out. In it there was a faceless baby. The baby was screaming.”
“Textbook symbolism, Alex. The baby has no face, therefore no identity. Your subconscious was screaming at you to remember.”
Her tears spilled over and he scooted to her side and wrapped an arm around her. She buried her face in the crook of his neck.
He allowed her to cry, saying nothing.
After a time, her tears slowed, then stopped. “It’s so horrible,” she whispered. “All of it. What happened to my brother. My mother denying his existence. What that denial did to both of us. How could she not have seen how destructive it was?”
“If it helps, no, she probably didn’t see how destructive it was. She was trying to spare you more pain and ease her own.”
They fell silent. She leaned against him, comforted by his steady breathing and the rhythmic beat of his heart. When he shifted away from her, she was cold and drew her knees to her chest and hugged them.
“How old was your brother when he was abducted?” He picked up the photo album and thumbed through it.
“I don’t know. I didn’t think to ask.”
“How old were you when your mom married this guy?”
Again, she didn’t know. She frowned. “Why?”
He tapped one of the photos. “This man, standing beside your mother, was this her husband?”
“I don’t know. I found these pictures after the detective left. But my guess is yes.”
“You look like him, Alex.”
He handed her the album. Alex studied the photo, heart in her throat. He was right. She did resemble him. What was it? She cocked her head. The chin. The broad forehead and widely spaced eyes.
Could he be her father? she wondered. Was it so far-fetched? If she’d been an infant when they married…
&
nbsp; But why would he claim Dylan and not her? His reputation, maybe? A previous marriage that hadn’t yet officially ended?
“Seems there are still a lot of questions you need answered.”
“An understatement.”
“Have you eaten? We could go grab a bite?”
She hadn’t. All day, she realized. But she wanted to stay and go through the rest of the things in the trunk. She told him so.
“I could pick up some Chinese? Or a pizza? Unless you’d rather be alone?”
“No, stay. If you have the time.”
He said he did and they ordered pizza from a local place that specialized in New York-style, thin crust pies. While he went to pick up their food and a bottle of wine, Alex sifted through the remaining contents of the trunk.
At the very bottom, nestled in the folds of a baby blanket, Alex found a ring. She held it to the light. Unusual, lovely and delicate, it consisted of twisting strands of gold. Like writhing snakes.
Or grapevines, she realized, as she ran her finger over a small cluster of petite rubies.
“Got it!” Tim called as he let himself into the house a half an hour later. “Picked up a really nice bottle of zin. Dry Creek Valley old vine.”
“Perfect.” She slid the ring onto her pinky finger and got to her feet. “I’m starving.”
They ate in the kitchen over the pizza box, not bothering with plates but drinking from Riedel crystal, glasses specifically crafted to enhance an individual wine’s bouquet and flavor.
This wine, with its bold flavor and high alcohol content, instantly buoyed her with a false burst of energy and well-being. The tension flowed out of her and she held out her glass for a refill.
“Where’d that come from?” he asked, indicating the ring.
She glanced at her hand. “I found it in the trunk.”
“Different. May I see it?” She slipped it off and handed it to him. He turned it over in his fingers, then held it up to the light. “Did you see? It has an inscription.”
“I didn’t.” She took it from him, squinting to read it. “BOV-1984. I wonder what BOV stands for?”
“Initials maybe?”
“Not my mother’s. Maybe her husband’s? Maybe a gift from him?”
“Initials of the person who gave it to her? That’d be different.”
“Maybe it’s an acronym?”
“Works for me.” He downed the rest of his wine, then poured the last of the bottle in his glass. He held up the empty bottle. “That’s it! Bottle of vino, 1984. Must have been a really good year.”
“I hope you’re not planning to drive home.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“An observation.”
He leaned toward her, a familar gleam in his eyes. “What do you think, Alex?”
“That I have a lot of questions I still need answered,” she said, being deliberatively obtuse. “That maybe I should drive to Sonoma and see if I can get some answers.”
“Not that. What do you think about tonight?” He reached across the counter and caught her hand. “Maybe I should stay?”
“Please tell me you are not turning this into a booty call.”
“Give me some credit, Alex. I’m worried about you. I’m thinking you shouldn’t be alone.”
“Isn’t that sweet.” She leaned across the pizza box and kissed his cheek. “It’s total bullshit, but sweet.”
“It’s not. I care about you. I am worried. But if we happened to end up in the sack having wild, monkey sex, I wouldn’t complain.”
“You’re a pig. You know that?”
“I’m a guy, what do you expect? Besides, my motor’s still running from the other night. You left me hangin’.”
“Poor baby.” She grabbed her purse and dug out her wallet and twenty bucks. “This should cover my part of the pizza and wine.”
He gazed at the money a moment, then lifted his gaze to hers. “That’s a no, then?”
“It’s a no.”
He pocketed the twenty. “How about I check on you tomorrow?”
“Don’t bother. I’m planning a trip to wine country.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Friday, February 19
8:10 A.M.
Reed filed into the interview room. He had arranged this early meeting with Tanner and Cal to go over what he’d learned from his visit with Alexandra Clarkson.
Tanner, he saw, had beat him there. She looked tired. “Hey, Babs. Bad night?”
“Long. Cakebread Cellars was having a tasting. My ex was there. Me, my ex and free wine are an explosive combination.”
“Fireworks?”
“Mmm.” She yawned and curved her hands around her venti-sized coffee. “But not necessarily the kind you’re thinking of.”
Before he could ask what kind she figured that was, Cal arrived. He carried a box from Tan’s Donuts.
“Sustenance,” she said. “Thank you, Jesus.”
Cal grinned. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never Lord and Savior.”
“She had a bad night,” Reed said. He opened the bakery box and peered inside. “What’d you get?”
“Glazed, filled, chocolate and plain.”
Tanner frowned. “No crullers?”
“Nope.”
“No bear claws?”
“Nope. Glazed, filled, chocolate and plain. If you’d wanted something else, you should’ve stopped yourself.”
“Kiss my ass, Cal.”
“Only if you kiss mine first.”
Reed polished off a pastry and grinned. “Okay, kids, how about we talk about my interview with Patsy Owens’s daughter?”
“I’d rather Tanner here kiss my ass, but-”
“But,” she jumped in, “knowing that’ll never happen, did Alexandra Owens have anything interesting to offer?”
“Name’s Clarkson now. The most interesting thing about the interview was what she didn’t have to offer. Clarkson has no memory of her brother or her years in Sonoma.”
“Bullshit,” Tanner offered, wiping a glob of raspberry filling from her mouth. “Her mother-”
“Wiped their lives of all evidence of their time in Sonoma, and Dylan.”
“Okay, that’s just weird.” Cal dunked a chunk of donut in his latte. “You believed her?”
“I did.”
“How old was she when Dylan disappeared?”
“Five.”
Tanner shook her head. “I remember my fifth birthday party and she forgot her brother? How could that be?”
“I wondered that myself.” Reed eyed the pastries, then went for a second. “I got in touch with the on-call shrink. He thought it could be a form of traumatic memory loss. Like what’s seen in post-traumatic stress disorder and repressed memory.”
Cal jumped in. “I worked a case a couple years ago that involved PTSD. The one where the kid witnessed his brother being shot to death right in front of their house. He was there, at the scene. Couldn’t recall what happened.”
“Exactly. Shrink said Clarkson’s memory loss would have been aided by her young age and her mother’s influence. Obviously, the former Patsy Sommer wanted her daughter to forget.”
Tanner drained her coffee. “Sorry, but that’s really fucked up.”
“No joke.” Reed crumpled his napkin, then sent it sailing toward the trash. “So here’s what we have. Patsy sees the article about Baby Doe. She wonders if it’s Dylan and calls me. Her call to me came in at three P.M. She leaves a message. Sometime later that day, she ingests a bottle of pills.”
Tanner leaned forward. “Why not wait for you to return her call?”
Cal stepped in. “Consider this. Patsy knows it’s Dylan. She calls you to confess. She can’t reach you, and overwhelmed with guilt, kills herself.”
“Are we certain she killed herself?” Tanner asked. “What about a note?”
“No note. But I spoke with the SFME.” Reed opened his spiral. “An investigator Hwang. He called it a clear case of suicide. In addition,
she had a history of depression and had attempted suicide twice before.”
Tanner finished off her donut, then licked the sugar from her fingers. “Is it that surprising? Something like that happened to my kid, I’m not sure I wouldn’t go nuts.”
“Autopsy’s happening today, pathologist will call it then.”
“Got word back on the pacifier,” Cal offered. “That particular pattern was available from 1982 to 1986.”
Reed nodded. “It could have belonged to Dylan Sommer. What about the wine crate?”
“Trying to piece together what’s left.” Tanner slid a manila folder across the table. “Robb’s report. Long bone measurements indicate the child was no more than six months old.”
Reed skimmed the report. Another marker that pointed toward Baby Doe being Dylan Sommer. “Remains on their way to the state lab?”
Tanner said they were, then added, “Has it occurred to you that big sister’s traumatic memory loss occurred because she saw or heard something that night?”
It had. The problem would be recovering those memories. If they even existed.
“I read the files,” he said. “She was questioned at the time. By the Sheriff’s Department, the FBI and a social worker. She was scared and confused, but seemed well adjusted. None of the interviewers felt she had seen anything she wasn’t sharing.”
Before either could respond, his cell phone buzzed. “Reed,” he answered.
“Detective, a woman is here to see you. One Alex Clarkson. Says it’s about Baby Doe.”
“I’ll be right down.” He ended the call and looked at his colleagues. “Be available. This may get interesting.”
“What’s up?” Tanner asked.
“Big sister’s downstairs.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Friday, February 19
9:10 A.M.
Alex paced while she waited for the detective to come and collect her. She’d slept little the night before. But instead of tired, she was wired. She couldn’t stop thinking about the things she had learned from him or the confirmation of them she had gotten from the items in the trunk.
Blood Vines Page 5