A Stranger's Touch

by Roxy Boroughs

  Stafford’s eyes opened. She searched his face. Did he know what she’d been thinking? About him?

  She turned her head to avoid his gaze. “It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.” Playing the cool, efficient nurse, she bent over him and adjusted the icepacks.

  He grabbed her wrist with more force than she thought possible given his recent ordeal. His eyes still shone bright with fever, but his grip on her was firm.

  “The woman dyed his hair. Black.”

  “Yes, I heard you. I’ll let Owens know.”

  He looked at her for a moment, as if not understanding her words. Then his fingers relaxed their hold. “Night clerk on duty?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ask about Davie?”

  “Not yet.”

  He closed his eyes and sagged against the pillow. “Go, now.”

  “I don’t think I should leave you–”

  “I’m fine. I’ll be ready to travel when you get back.”

  Maggie hesitated. She wasn’t sure if he was well enough to be moved, or for her to leave him on his own. He gave her hand another squeeze. One that reached all the way to her heart.

  “Go.”

  In that moment, she so wanted to believe in him. Even in his present state, his concern was for her boy. For her.

  She eased herself off the bed and rushed to the door, pausing to look back. Though his eyelids remained closed, some color had returned to his cheeks.

  She’d go for ten minutes, then run back and check on him. She didn’t dare leave him longer than that.

  For the second time that night, she sprinted to the motel’s office, threw open the door, and stepped inside.

  “Dan?”

  The teen behind the counter glanced up, his customer service smile wavering when he saw her, the Crazy Ice Lady.

  Maggie hadn’t taken the time to get a good look at him earlier. Long, greasy, red hair framed a face that still carried a trace of acne. How the guy managed to interest several girls at once was a mystery.

  She flipped out her badge as she approached the desk, using the last few steps to catch her breath and hide her emotions.

  “You have a last name, Dan?”

  The clerk paled. “Manhas.”

  “I understand you checked in a woman last night ... Angela Marshall.”

  Dan stared at her with watery blue eyes, the whites showing around them. He nodded slightly.

  “I have to question her regarding a recent incident. It’s important the information you give me is accurate. Do you understand?”

  Again, he responded with a nod. Maybe that was his appeal. All action, no talk.

  “I need a physical description of the woman. Can you give me that?”

  The teen wobbled from side to side as he shuffled his feet. “It was late. I wasn’t really paying attention. She had dark hair. And she was old. About your age.”

  The round man from the gas station had pegged the woman in her 40’s. Under other circumstances, Maggie would have taken the time to be insulted.

  “Caucasian?”

  “White. Yeah.”

  “Did you see a child with her? A fair-haired boy of seven?”

  “Just her. When she drove in.”

  “What time was that?”

  “About two a.m.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Early yesterday morning. At the end of my shift.” He shrugged. “Six o’clock. Maybe earlier.”

  “So, it was just her who checked in? There wasn’t a little boy with her?”

  “That’s right.”

  Maggie went numb. Her limbs felt as though they belonged to someone else – too heavy to lift, too clumsy to move. Somehow, she managed to keep standing, even as the truth crashed around her.

  The woman could have been anyone. What she’d witnessed in the room with Stafford had been more than enough to convince her of his psychic abilities. Now, she wasn’t sure. Was it all lies? A case of histrionics? She’d seen psychics on TV, preying off the tragedies of others, making up stories to earn big ratings. Was Stafford one of them? Had he led her on a wild goose hunt, chasing a woman whose greatest crime was checking into the Vagabond Motel?

  “Thanks for your time,” she told Dan, and walked to the door on Jell-O legs, every ounce of energy gone.

  “I didn’t see the boy until the morning.”

  Maggie spun around, a wilting marionette yanked back to life by an unseen string. “You saw the boy?”

  “Yeah. Yesterday morning.”

  She raced to the counter, reached into her pocket and pulled out Davie’s photo. “This boy?”

  Dan leaned in to examine the picture. The smell of spicy cologne mixed with teenage sweat drifted across the desk. He twisted his mouth. “Can’t tell. He didn’t come into the office. He stayed in the car. Sorry.”

  Maggie put the photo away. So, there’d been a boy. Maybe not her Davie, but damned if she didn’t feel a rush of excitement, anyway.

  “He didn’t have light hair, though.”

  She steadied herself against the counter. “You could see that? From the window?”

  “Yeah. He took his Flames cap off for a sec.”

  A gasp caught in Maggie’s throat. Davie wore his Calgary Flames cap to school the day he’d disappeared. Was that only yesterday? No. The day before. The team’s logo, a large red C with flames shooting off the letter’s curve, was easy to spot. Even from a distance.

  “What color was his hair?”

  “Black. Like the woman’s.”

  Maggie felt as though she were looking at the room from the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. Her world became more intense. More surreal.

  The woman dyed his hair. Just like Stafford said.

  Her stomach did a lazy somersault. A sweet ache squeezed her chest. The little boy traveling with Angela Marshall was her Davie.

  “And the license plate?”

  The teen’s acne disappeared into the flush of his cheeks. “Hey, you won’t tell on me, will you?”

  She gave him the best confidant look she could muster. “What is it, Dan?”

  Instead of shuffling from side to side, the clerk now pulsed up and down, a rocket preparing for flight. “I was sorta dozing when she came in. I’m not supposed to but sometimes I drift off. I wasn’t real careful with her.”

  It couldn’t be easy juggling several girlfriends and a job. Maggie nodded, urging him to get to the point.

  “She couldn’t remember the plate number, so we kinda made one up. It was two in the morning. She was only gonna be here a few hours. It wasn’t gonna be a problem.” He flashed his baby blues at her. “You’re not gonna tell the boss, are you?”

  On her best witness to date? “Not a word. Thanks for being straight with me.”

  Dan smiled. Along with some acne cream, the kid could have used a trip to the orthodontist. Still, Maggie thought she’d never seen such a beautiful grin.

  “Did the woman tell you where she was headed?”

  “Up north,” he replied. “To the Territories.”

  “That’s all? She didn’t give you any specifics?”

  “Nope. That’s it.” A man of few words. Still, Dan had given her a solid lead.

  She squelched the urge to do handsprings and dredged up her high school geography. The Northwest Territories were huge, spanning the width of three provinces. She knew next to nothing about the area. Had never been there. Never felt the desire. That was about to change.

  “Thanks again, Dan.” Maggie settled their bill and left the building, fumbling with her cell phone as she walked.

  Owens wasn’t in. She left a voicemail for him, giving him an update along with a physical description of the suspect, telling him to disregard the license plate number she’d given him earlier, and promising to check in at the next stop. Maggie tucked the phone into her pocket and hurried back to the room.

  Stafford sat on the side of the bed, slumped over, his elbows leaning on his knees. He reminded her of a cow
boy from the Old West, battle-sore and weary after vanquishing outlaws.

  Warmth spread through her body, as she took in his still shirtless chest. When he looked up at her, she dipped her head, certain her cheeks were flushed.

  “Anything?”

  She sat down beside him. Not too close. “Lots. Looks like we’re on the right track.”

  He nodded and tried to stand. She reached out to help and thought better of it. Would touching him with her bare hands threaten his recovery? Or just her resolve to keep her distance?

  “Don’t worry. Your touch didn’t harm me.”

  Electric tingles danced over her flesh. It was as though he’d read her thoughts. If she held him now, what else would he sense?

  She veiled it all – her fear, her fascination, the affect he had on her – and grasped his arm. The current intensified. She kept her head down to avoid his eyes. “Think you’re well enough to travel?”

  “I’ll sleep it off in the car.”

  Stafford made it to his feet and steadied himself against the wall. Maggie withdrew her hand. The tingles faded, but her heart raced on, doing its own version of the 100-meter dash.

  She wanted to ask him about the incident in the bathroom. How he’d connected with Davie. How fresh wounds had appeared on his flesh then dissolved like magic. How he got that scar across his chest. And how he felt about her – as a person, as a woman. But now wasn’t the time.

  She grabbed his shirt, his jacket and everything else she could find. She wrapped a blanket around him and walked him out to the parking lot, encouraging him to lean on her. He made a protest, then gave in, still too unsteady to go it alone. Maggie opened the passenger side door of her car and helped him fold his long frame into the seat.

  She glanced into the back. Everything there reminded her of Davie. Of his absence. His hockey stick, his plastic Star Wars figure, and a lone rain boot. She wanted to hold him. Feel him in her arms again. Smell him. Touch him. Love him. And with Stafford’s help, she would.

  Maggie jogged around to the driver’s side, letting the wind dry her sweat, her tears. She yanked open the door and tossed their meager possessions alongside her son’s things, then she took her place behind the wheel.

  Beside her, Stafford was still, his eyes closed, his breathing steady. She ran her hand across his forehead. For no other reason than to touch him. To get a sense of him.

  He knew. Somehow, he knew about the black hair.

  She tousled his, the thick, moist strands gliding between her fingers. He’d been through hell for her. And was still game for more. She couldn’t say that about any other man in her life.

  She wouldn’t doubt him again.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Stafford lurched forward, instantly awake – the seatbelt tight against his chest, the dashboard inches from his nose.

  A curse sliced through the air. He shot a look to his side. Maggie gave him an apologetic shrug. “Critter on the highway. Sorry I woke you.”

  He glanced up in time to see the hind-end of a young coyote disappear into the woods. “Where are we?” He had to pry his tongue loose from the roof of his mouth but managed to ask the question in words that somewhat resembled English.

  Using her nose as a pointer, Maggie gestured toward the windshield. “On our way to the Northwest Territories.”

  Before him, lay a long strip of highway. In much better condition than he’d expected for the Great North. Trembling aspens, anorexic spruce and misshapen pines grew in thick formation along the sides of the two-lane road. Their spindly limbs strained to touch the misty sky.

  Not a house, not a soul, for miles.

  He flopped back, looped his thumb under the seatbelt and tugged. Able to breathe again, he stretched in his seat, his limbs heavy and dull, as if he’d been shot full of Novocain.

  Maggie stepped on the gas. “How are you feeling?”

  He glanced down at his chest, wondering what had become of his shirt. “Confused. Something made you think to come this far north?”

  “Not something. Someone. The clerk at the hotel said our suspect was headed up here.”

  Finally, somebody on his side. He should have been pleased. But damned if he didn’t feel something else.

  Envy.

  She’d jumped on Dan’s advice. Some kid she’d known for a nanosecond. Stafford wished Maggie would show that kind of faith in him.

  Leave it alone, man. The woman was frantic. Of course, she’d latch onto any suggestion that came her way – his, Dan’s, or a rolled up note in a fortune cookie.

  Still sluggish, but too wired to sleep, Stafford rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes and drew the scratchy yellow blanket closer. “Where’d this come from?”

  “I borrowed it from the hotel.”

  “You stole a blanket?”

  “Borrowed,” she repeated.

  “I see.” He suppressed a smile. “Do they know you borrowed it?”

  Maggie’s lips twitched. “They do by now. Are you going to arrest me, Agent Webb?”

  “Naw. Textile theft was never my thing. I investigated money laundering and insider trading.”

  And offered his skills to help find violent criminals, hoping to bring closure to some of the families left behind. But his methods proved too unusual for his superiors. Though their dismissal of his abilities burned him at the time – burned him still – relegating him to white collar crimes had probably kept him sane. Seeing and feeling the pain and horror people could inflict on one another, would have landed him in a padded room before he turned forty.

  “Besides, I’m a free agent now, tied to no one. So you’re off the hook.” He twisted to see her better, a twinge shooting up his neck. Payment for having kept it in the same position for too long.

  The view was worth it. The soft morning light silhouetted a fine profile. Straight nose, full pink lips. She’d twirled her hair around and tied it into a knot. No elastics or bobby pins that he could see. How did women do that? “I thought you were supposed to uphold the law.”

  “Lately, I’ve been doing a lot of unusual things.”

  “Like?”

  She licked her lips as she thought leaving them glistening and igniting a slow burn deep in his belly. “I don’t usually run off with men I hardly know.”

  “You know me well enough.” Hell, she’d seen him at his worst. What more did she want?

  Nothing. That was his problem.

  Stafford rested his head against the window, the glass cold against his scalp. On his side of the road stood a large rectangular sign. It displayed the words Northwest Territories, 60 Parallel and the image of a polar bear.

  His heart beat out a quick drum roll. He’d seen the bear before. The crouching animal appeared in his first vision. At the time, he’d thought it symbolized the perpetrator, a wild animal stalking its prey. He’d been wrong before. Many times. But never so thankfully.

  Maggie pulled into a visitors’ center on the other side of the sign and parked. While she checked out the rustic, single-story building, Stafford took the opportunity to find his shirt and jacket. He stepped out of the car to dress. Moisture hung in the air, cooling his skin. And his ardor.

  Body and heart concealed, Stafford turned his attention to the building, boarded up and closed for the season. Even the restrooms.

  He found a secluded spot, relieved himself, then headed back to the car. He grabbed some cheese and crackers and a couple of pepperoni sticks from his stash of snacks, wolfing them down with the determination of a starving man. He finished his makeshift breakfast with a stick of peppermint gum.

  Leaning against the car, Stafford crossed his arms over his chest and chewed while he sucked in the damp, woodsy air. He closed his eyes, searching his senses. Had Davie been here?

  The crack of a breaking branch wrenched him back to the present. He looked in the direction of the sound and found Maggie, working her way through the trees – her shoulders slack, her head drooping.

  The results of her searc
h were obvious. No leads.