She’d heard all the rhetoric. It was enough to make her sick. She grabbed a pillow and clutched it to her chest like a shield. Protection from the bullshit. “You want me to feel sorry for the woman who stole my son?”
“I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted you to know–”
“Find me something useful, Stafford. Don’t preach to me about who’s to be pitied in this world.”
He stood and she sucked in a breath. Last night, she’d felt the beauty of his body. Now, in the light, she saw it. In spite of her anger, in spite of her grief, liquid pooled between her thighs at the sight of him.
He reached for his jeans and slipped them on. “I have to go.”
The words sounded strange, as if she’d accidentally rented a foreign movie without subtitles. “Have ... to ... go?”
“Back south.”
The room resounded with silence. “You mean leave?” Outside, a motor started. Inside, her heart shuddered. “Why?”
He sat and pulled on his socks. “It’s personal.”
Personal? The whole, damn thing was personal. She grabbed the sheets, gripped them tight in her stinging hands, and held on as the world around her tipped.
“I’ll be back.” He made it sound casual, as if he were trotting off to the store to get a loaf of bread. Not leaving her alone to follow a trail she couldn’t see.
“When?”
Another silence, while he retrieved his shoes. “I don’t know.”
“Can’t you wait?” Her clenched fists shook. So did her voice.
“No.”
She felt as if someone slammed her in the chest with a giant pipe wrench. “Is this about last night?”
“No.” His answer came too fast that time. Like he’d rehearsed it.
Again, anger boiled up inside her. “Is that all you can say? Can’t you string together a whole sentence?”
Suddenly, Stafford was a breath away, his eyes dissecting her. “There’s an airport in Hay River. I can hitch a ride there. I’ve got your cell number. When I’m done my business, I’ll find you.” He froze there for a moment, a towering, bronze statue. Then he turned and headed for the door.
“You said you’d stay until we found Davie,” she told his departing back. The words came out whiny, full of need. Begging again. First for sex, now for a lifeline.
He didn’t alter his stride. He was leaving and nothing she said could change it. She’d slept with him. And that twisted things. Made it ugly. The knot of self-hatred in her stomach tightened. “Or maybe you already got what you came for.”
He stopped, his hand clutching the doorknob, the veins on his forearm popping to the surface. “I’ll be back, Maggie.”
She wanted to believe it. But she was a little old for fairy tales. She pictured herself running across the room, Cinderella-style, throwing herself into his arms, and giving him the kiss she couldn’t last night.
Instead, she took a big breath and filled her voice with venom. “Don’t do me any favors.”
* * *
Stafford slouched against the car’s roof, his heart and head throbbing. In his mind, that last image he had of Maggie replayed – her hands tearing at the sheets, her eyes full of hatred.
For him.
He locked his jaw and blocked out the memory. He had a ride to hitch, a murderer to catch, and no time for regrets.
Shivering in the cool air, he grabbed his stuff out of the car and tossed Maggie’s keys on to the table inside their room. He didn’t bother to say anything. He figured they’d already said enough.
He threw on a clean shirt, shrugged into his jacket, and jogged through the motel’s parking lot to the highway, stopping at a newspaper stand on his way to grab the latest edition. Reading material for the road.
He walked along the highway’s edge, waiting for a passing car. Twenty minutes later, he was checking his watch. For the sixth time.
Sighing, Stafford jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. His knuckles scraped against thick paper. Warmth spiraled up his arm.
The hockey card. He’d forgotten he still had it.
Tense muscles warmed with new purpose. Here was a way for him to redeem himself. If he could point Maggie in the right direction, at least it would alleviate some of his guilt.
As he turned away from the road to find a spot to sit, he heard the scrape of gravel on pavement. He looked down the asphalt and saw a car heading his way. Halleluiah.
He could get his ride, find the airport, and do the reading there. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d turned a bathroom stall into his private office. But how would he get the information to Maggie? If he called her cell, she’d probably hang up on him.
Indecision volleyed around his head like a tennis ball. He took out his frustration on a rock, kicking it a couple of yards down the road. And let the car pass. There’d be another one along any minute. He hoped.
Stafford found a dry spot to sit. He tossed his newspaper to the ground and flopped down onto it. Card in hand, he leaned back against a tree. He closed his eyes and went on his familiar journey, to the open field.
He followed the path until the surroundings changed. Colors brightened, soft edges became sharper. A damp, woodsy tang lingered at the back of his throat. Rushing water echoed in the distance.
He was back at the falls. He saw it clearly in his mind, imagined he was walking there, with Davie and the unknown woman who’d taken him.
The wind picked up. A breeze blew through his hair, swirling past his ears. The grass around him rolled like the tide coming in from Miami. On the air, a woman’s voice whispered to him.
* * *
Maggie couldn’t motivate herself to leave the room. She felt drained. Weak as a newborn. She sat in the chair Stafford last inhabited, fully dressed and ready to go. But not a clue as to where.
Her cell rang and she ran across to the bedside table. Surgical gauze slid against plastic and she almost dropped the phone at the caller’s first words.
“Any sign of David?”
She sank to the bed. What could she tell him? According to a psychic, yes, but really ... “No, Ron. Nothing.”
“Oh, Maggie.”
Her heart went out to him. This was a different Ron, his voice weary, cracking like an adolescent. Not at all the arrogant man who’d verbally attacked her at the station. More like the shy boy she’d once loved.
She reassured him, telling him things would be all right, surprised at how convincing she sounded. She lulled and consoled until she started believing her own empty promises.
Newfound strength flowed into her body. Maggie stood to pace the room, needing to be in motion. She took her first step and barely managed to stay vertical. Like a fish caught in a net, she found herself tangled in the crumpled heap of cotton strips between her feet. During her cajoling, she must have absently peeled the bandages from her hands. She discarded this last reminder of Stafford into the garbage.
As if it were that easy. She could still feel his touch, the heat of him inside her. She couldn’t get rid of him any more than she could shed her skin.
“It’s not too late, Maggie.”
“No, it’s not,” she agreed. Stafford had taken her this far. She had to keep faith and follow the trail. “Davie’s out there. And we will find him.”
“I mean, for us. We could start over. Have another child. We’re good at making babies.”
Something cold and slithery looped around Maggie’s heart. She leaned forward and clutched her chest. What was he suggesting? That they create a Davie-substitute?
“What about Linda?”
At the other end of the line, she heard the sound of ice clinking against glass and shot a look at the clock radio. Way before noon. Not at all Ron’s style.
“Things didn’t work out.”
A year ago, she would have felt vindicated. Ron had moved on with his life, as though their marriage had never happened. Even though she’d been the one to initiate the divorce, she’d been stunned by
his ability to bounce back within weeks, landing in the arms of another woman with the agility of a trapeze artist. Now, hearing his confession, she felt numb, as if she’d been the one sucking back a lonely morning scotch.
“Family problems. Linda had trouble focusing.”
And Ron was a man who didn’t like problems, didn’t want the focus to be on anyone but himself. She knew that from experience. As soon as she began her career in law enforcement, he’d burned rubber with his hasty exit.
“I guess I’m not the easiest person to live with.”
And living alone didn’t seem to be an option. Ron needed a woman. An audience. A cheering section. And Maggie had retired her pompoms years ago. “I can’t think about this now, Ron.”
“I know, I know. We’ll talk about it later. When you’re back.”
She didn’t reply. Just hung up. She couldn’t deal with her ex and his need for attention. She had to find...
Everything.
In the past few days, she’d lost it all. Her child. Her sanity. The veneer of civilization. Somehow, in losing Davie she’d lost herself.
But her son couldn’t wait while she figured it all out. She had to pull it together and come up with a plan of what to do.
First, she’d have another visit with the motel clerk, see if Davie’s abductor paid with a credit card, or left any other identification behind. After that, Maggie had no choice. She’d head further north. It was the only alternative.
Energized with a course of action, Maggie reached for the medical kit and slapped a couple of large Elastoplasts on her palms to cover the worst of her injuries. The dressings were flesh-toned, less noticeable than the white gauze and far more practical for gripping the steering wheel. And for holding her little boy once she found him.
She grabbed her things and bolted out of the room. She was about to close the door behind her when her heart skidded to a stop. Stafford sat in the passenger’s seat of her car, his interest fixed on an open map.
Relief poured over her, making her feel light. Even giddy. She put a damper on it. Maybe he just wanted a ride to the airport.
Seeming to sense her, he looked up. Maggie made her boneless legs move and walked over to the car. She leaned against his door and spoke through the opened window, her breath a white cloud in the chilled air.
“How did you get in there?”
He smiled, managing to look sly and innocent at the same time. “A little trick I picked up at Quantico.”
More information than she’d wanted. The statement only confirmed that she was traveling with someone – had slept with someone – who held too many secrets. “Okay. Why are you in my car?”
“I did another reading.” He folded the map and dropped it into the door’s side pocket. “She’s taken him to Fort Providence. It’s about eighty miles from here. We can be there in just over an hour.”
She held onto the side of the car to keep her knees from buckling. “We?”
With a magician’s grace, Stafford reversed their positions. He climbed out of the vehicle, eased her into the seat he’d just vacated, and waited until she’d settled before answering.
“I have to go with you, Maggie.” He knelt down, grabbed the crumpled newspaper and placed it in front of her, so she could read the headline.
Cop Dead after Hit and Run.
CHAPTER TWELVE
As Stafford drove, Maggie reread the article, focusing on the vehicle’s description. An older model, tan two-door. She held the paper in her lap, needing something to lean it against because her hands were shaking so badly.
Their visit to the local police hadn’t gone well. The officer she spoke to was clearly grieving his colleague’s death and, though sympathetic to her cause, he had nothing to share with her beyond the newspaper’s account. Except for a warning.
Do not act in any official capacity while out of your jurisdiction.
Good advice. A week ago she would have taken it. Back then she followed rules to the letter, without question. She respected the blue uniform and trusted the men and women who wore it to save the day, to show up in the nick of time, like the cavalry in those old B&W Westerns.
Only, in this case, she was the cavalry. She had to find her son. Now. Before it was too late.
“Davie’s not in immediate danger,” Stafford said, seeming to read her mind again. If he’d planned to reassure her, he’d failed. The invasion of her thoughts pricked at her scalp like a thousand steely barbs.
“I feel the woman is using him to replace the child she’s lost,” he went on. “As long as nothing shakes her reality, he’s fine.”
“But when things don’t go her way...” Maggie counted the passing seconds until he spoke.
“Then she doesn’t know how to cope.”
And anything could happen. She could run down a cop. Or kill an innocent child.
Panic, bone-deep and crippling, raced through Maggie like a cancer. Screaming wouldn’t help. Neither would crying. Though she felt like doing both.
She pushed the newspaper away, clenched her bandaged hands together, and wrestled with her fears by concentrating on the landscape, inviting the rushing images to hypnotize her.
Sky. Trees. More trees. Forests burned to shadows. The dead among them, dark carcasses, leaning on their neighbors for support. The only sign of civilization was the road beneath them. Green, blue, grey, black. The colors lulled her to another place. Another time.
She imagined pulling into the driveway of her house, the home she’d inherited from her father, and seeing Davie’s face at the front window – his nose pressed against the glass, his face breaking out into a grin, welcoming her back.
She’d done the same thing as a kid, waited at the window for her dad, her big, capable hero. Sometimes, the babysitter would let her stay up until he appeared. Most times, she’d be asleep before he returned. And he’d be gone the next day before she woke.
“We’re almost to the ferry.”
Stafford’s prediction jarred her from her daydream. She sat upright, her backbone rigid as a spear. “How do you know?”
He glanced her way, his brows lifted. “The sign back there said so.”
Maggie’s mouth opened and closed like a guppy’s. “I wish you’d stop doing that.”
“What?”
“Making cryptic announcements.” Her hands sliced the air, doing the dogpaddle as she struggled to express herself. “You make it seem like you know these things because of your superhuman powers, when really you’re just being ... normal.”
His eyes narrowed, a muscle at his jaw pulsed. “I never said I wasn’t. I haven’t told you anything to make you think–”
Maggie shook her head. “No, you haven’t. Forget I said anything.”
Babbling. That’s what she’d been doing. Terror did that to her. And sitting next to a man she’d slept with and feeling a gigantic void.
He hadn’t shaved that morning. Stubble grazed his jaw, adding to his dangerous edge. It made his eyes look brighter, deeper. So did the dark smudges under them.
Her heart gave a kick. This was her mission. She had to look for her son. Stafford didn’t. He could have been home by now, digging into a juicy steak, or stretching out with a cold beer. Instead, he was here, crammed into her little car, without sleep or food. And he’d chosen to do it. For her.
“Thanks for coming back.”
He shifted his hands lower on the wheel. His mouth bore the whisper of a smile. “You’re welcome.”
She picked at a speck of imaginary dirt on her pant leg to avoid those lips. And the fire they lit in her belly. “That business you–”
“It’ll keep.” His words came out clipped, the message clear. Don’t ask.
Fine. She had no right to pry. A one-night stand didn’t come with any kind of promises. She had no idea about his personal life. Maybe he had children of his own somewhere, a family he’d abandoned to help her, a lover who needed him to warm her bed.
If he did, Maggie envied the woma
n. She could still feel his mouth on her skin, see his perfect body, remember the confidence and power he exuded as he strode across their motel room, at home in his nakedness.
She leaned back against the headrest, battling her racing thoughts and the inappropriate desires she felt for the man beside her. The end of the road provided her with everything.
It came upon them abruptly. The pavement stopped, replaced by a short strip of beach. Not the tropical stretches shown on vacation commercials. This beach was shallow and more pebbly than sandy. Off to one side sat a large electric sign. Red words flickered on the screen: DRIVE WITH EXTRA CARE ... BISON ON ROADWAY.
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