She might have laughed, if she’d had any energy. The second Davie went missing she’d fallen into an absurd world and turned into Alice in Wonderland. But instead of a March Hare and a Mad Hatter, there were bison on the highway. And she was the one going mad.
Across the narrow McKenzie River, no Cheshire Cat awaited. Just more trees. Leaves of mustard and pink mixed with the ever abundant green. It would have been beautiful. If her son were there to see it too.
The ferry’s ramp lowered as it approached land, ready to take on her car and the five or six others that waited. A man waved them aboard. The only other crewmember she could see was the figure on the upper deck, sitting dead center in the pilot’s nest. The Captain of her Destiny. Or had that title already been taken?
She thought about the men in her life. The many captains. Her father. Her ex. Davie. Now Stafford. Except he wasn’t in her life. At least, not to stay.
Loss squeezed her chest, rung it like a dishrag. Her eyes filmed over. None of them stayed. Even Davie was gone.
Maggie parked and opened her door, turning away from her companion to hide her tears. She heard him leave the car and zipped up her jacket to fight the chill. Tiny droplets from the sky hissed onto the river and dissolved into the watery mass, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place. They spoke to her. Muttered their disapproval. Told her she’d missed something, a vital piece of information that would bring everything into view. And lead her to her son.
If only she understood the clues.
She wiped the moisture from her face and fixed her gaze on Stafford as he showed Davie’s photo to one of the ferry workers. The man shook his head. Stafford pressed, pointing to the picture again. The man gave the same negative response, shrugged, and walked away.
The ritual repeated, as Stafford worked his way through the small crew, then the passengers. All with the same results, a shake of the head, an apologetic shrug. Damn, the guy was determined, as if he had a personal stake in it all.
When his options were depleted, he leaned against the railing and looked into the steel blue waters below. His striking profile unsettled her. He was a beautiful man. And far too enigmatic. She shouldn’t trust him. But she did. If nothing else, he’d given her hope. And some mind blowing moments in bed.
Her face burned. Wouldn’t the guys at the department love to hear that? Female cop, looking for son, beds tour guide.
The engines on the ferry slowed the vessel to a crawl as it moved closer to the opposite shore. Maggie wanted to get out and push. She took out her aggravation by hammering a steady beat on her door handle. The engines cut out and the small crew scampered around in their preparations for their arrival at the other side.
From there, the few kilometers to Fort Providence seemed like an eternity.
Stafford drove around the tiny hamlet, bordered on one side by the river they’d just crossed. They scanned driveways for the tan car, finding instead a pretty blue and white church, a cafe/souvenir shop, a motel and, as Maggie learned when she ventured from the car, thousands of little flies. They swarmed around her head. She covered her nose and mouth with her hand to avoid inhaling them.
As she stepped onto the grass, she faltered, losing her footing. In a split-second, Stafford was at her side, holding her arm. Just that small contact, his touch on her skin, gave her heated memories of the night before. She jerked away, but couldn’t escape the hurt look on his face.
“I’m fine,” she said, by way of an apology, and tried to smile. “I’ll check the shop. You ask around at the motel. I’ll meet you back at the car.”
He stared at her for a moment, his sad eyes growing cold. Before she could ask forgiveness, he’d turned and started up the road.
Maggie crossed the narrow lane toward the shop, each step an effort, as if she’d emerged from a sickbed and had to relearn the simple task of walking. What was the matter with her? She kept pushing Stafford away when she really wanted to feel his strong arms around her, hear his velvety reassurances.
She shook her head. He was too tempting a retreat. She couldn’t afford to give into it, or her need for him. She would just be using him. Again.
It’s not like they’d ever have a life together. She didn’t have time for a man, especially one as complicated as Stafford. She had a demanding job. What free moments she had at the end of the workday, she wanted to spend with her boy.
And if they never found Davie? The thought left her hollow inside. She had to believe. Along with Stafford. He sensed Davie was still alive and that they were on the right path. He’d worked on an abduction case before and found the missing child. She would put all her faith in him and his powers. And she would see her baby again.
She emerged from her thoughts, standing in front of the cafe. How long had she been lost in her own private world? Two minutes? Ten?
She needed air. Oxygen that wasn’t bug infested. But, most of all, she needed information in order to find Davie.
She opened the door and walked into a sauna of oil and fried onions. Maggie sucked in a breath. There in front of her, on a shelf filled with merchandise, sat a replica of the bear they’d retrieved at their last stop. It wasn’t a mass produced teddy, she now realized, but a handmade one. Though newer than the bear that presently resided in her car’s backseat. She picked up the toy, dashed to the counter and pounded the bell.
A white-haired woman waddled in from a back kitchen. The ketchup stains on her apron matched the ruddiness of her cheeks. She was either overheated from cooking or battling a hot flash.
“What can you tell me about this bear?”
The cook smacked her lips. When she spoke, it came out in a steady stream, as if she were afraid her listener would walk away if she didn’t fit all her words into one breath.
“It’s made by a local Dene woman, Officer, although she’s really known for the floral arrangements she makes with dyed moose hair. It’s called tufting, an old Athapaskan art–”
“I’m only interested in the bear.”
“He’s Bishop,” the cook went on, switching gears with the ease of a telemarketer. “Named after Bishop Grandin, who started a Catholic mission here. A popular fella. Just like this little bear. You know, I had a lady through here only yesterday who bought him for her boy. He’d lost his, left it at a motel. I told his mother she could have asked the place to mail it to her. Almost talked myself right out of a sale–”
Maggie was ready to gag the cook, until she mentioned the lost bear and its connection to the motel. And the word mother. That struck her in the solar plexus like a prizefighter’s double jab.
“She didn’t want to do that?” Maggie asked her voice choked. The child the cook spoke of had to be Davie. There were too many coincidences for it to be anyone else.
“No, decided to buy a brand new one. Didn’t seem to pacify the kid, though. He was crying up a storm.”
Tears fogged Maggie’s eyes too. Davie rarely cried. She could remember only two times – when he had to get stitches in his knee, and when she explained to him about the divorce.
“Poor little guy, a-bawling and a-wailing. He was so upset, he left his hockey card behind.”
Maggie’s stomach dropped to her knees. “Do you still have it?”
The cook’s green eyes hardened, the pearly smile faded into the folds of her skin. “I didn’t think the lady would be looking for it. She wasn’t going to have the bear mailed, so why would she care about a measly card?”
“You threw it away?”
“Gave it to my grandson. He loves Jerome Iginla.”
The room did a 360degree turn. Maggie held onto the counter to keep herself upright.
Davie’s favorite card. And most likely his last. He wouldn’t have left it behind otherwise. Her heart tugged, knowing how much it cost him to part with it.
She thought about demanding the card and dismissed the idea. The cook looked ready for a challenge, hands on beefy hips, head thrown back, chin jutting forward. How much precious time would be
lost in negotiations?
“Did the lady say where she was going?”
“Past Yellowknife. Another four hours north, if there aren’t any bison in your way.”
“Did she say where exactly?”
The cook chuckled, a tinny empty sound. “There’s only one highway. She can’t be too hard to find.”
* * *
In the narrow, one-person washroom, Maggie splashed water on her face. She tried to keep her excitement in check. It all seemed too coincidental. They’d stopped at a little village and the first person she’d questioned happened to know the destination of the woman they pursued?
She reminded herself they still had a huge challenge ahead of them. She knew Yellowknife was the capital of the Northwest Territories, but how many settlements were beyond it? A door-to-door search might take days. Weeks. And with Davie’s last hockey card gone, how would she find him? He’d taken more than three to school that day. How many cards had she overlooked along the way? How many opportunities had she missed to make that connection with her son?
Maggie leaned over the sink and saw her face in the mirror – bloodless cheeks, hair clinging to the damp skin around her neck in snake-like tendrils.
She hung her head and made herself breathe. In and out. It should have been easy. But the smell of hot oil crushed her lungs with each labored attempt. That and the feeling that she’d failed Davie. A long time before he’d gone missing.
“Enough,” she scolded her image. “Self pity isn’t pretty. And neither are you, at the moment.”
Using both hands, she gathered up her hair and coiled it into a bun, her fingers stiff and uncooperative. “Not a bit better,” she told her reflection. “But it’s cooler. And time to get going.”
As she reached for the doorknob, her cell phone rang. She dug into her pocket and flipped it open.
“Where in hell are you?”
Hearing Owens’ voice brought out the cop in her. She stood at attention. “Do you have news about Davie?”
“Where’s Stafford? I thought he’d be here by now.”
Maggie quickly replayed the conversation she’d had with the psychic that morning. Did his personal business have something to do with Owens?
“He’s been delayed. But he told me what happened.” She congratulated herself on her smooth delivery. With a little luck, Owens would buy her line and she’d find out the motive behind Stafford’s escape attempt.
“He told you about Morley?”
Her blood froze. James Ryan Morley. She’d heard the name. The man was famous. Infamous. At least in her circle. “He was a little vague on the details.”
“We don’t have a lot. We suspect him in the latest abduction case. Another boy.”
Maggie’s knees shook, barely able to support her weight. “Was he taken from a schoolyard?”
“A shopping mall, in Missoula,” Owens told her. “With the help of a female accomplice.”
The woman in the tan car.
Sweat broke out on Maggie’s skin. She’d heard Morley liked to pair up. Probably some heroin-addicted soul he’d found. One who’d do anything for her next fix, even steal children for a monster. Was her Davie one of the pair’s victims?
“You okay?”
“Fine.” Her legs gave out. She slid down the wall until her butt collided with the floor.
“I’m glad Stafford was there to tell you. It’s not the kind of news I like to give over the phone.”
“No. I can understand that.” She sagged against the cool porcelain toilet and gripped her cell with both hands. “Owens ... Stafford mentioned the other abduction case the two of you worked on together. He said he found the kid.”
Silence. Except for the blood pounding in her ears. “Owens? You guys found the kid, right?”
“Is that what Stafford said?”
Her flesh turned to ice. It wasn’t like Uncle Dale to avoid a direct question. Not from a fellow officer. Not from his best friend’s daughter. “Yeah. That’s what he said.”
“Stafford found the boy,” Owens confirmed, finally. But something in his voice told her it wasn’t the whole story. And the part he wasn’t telling was too horrible to reveal.
Maggie broke the connection as she toppled over onto the concrete floor. She brought her knees up to her chest and hugged herself, wondering how her heart had the gall to keep beating.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Stafford sat sideways in the driver’s seat of Maggie’s parked car, the door open, his feet planted on solid ground, his hopes just as low.
He twisted off the top of his water bottle and took a swig. Then he leaned forward and dumped the remainder over his head, the excess dripping down to form a muddy mess between his shoes. The cold water felt good against his scalp. And for a moment, the flies that buzzed around Fort Providence disappeared. Along with Davie’s trail.
Stafford’s inquires at the motel had met with blank stares. No one remembered seeing the boy or his abductor. And, with nowhere else to check, he’d returned to the car. Nearly an hour ago.
Five times he’d started across the street to find Maggie. Each time, he’d ditched the idea. She knew where they’d parked. She wouldn’t be going far without her vehicle. Although, it was clear she couldn’t get far enough away from him.
The water on his head didn’t feel so great now. It reminded him of Maggie’s cold shoulder after their lovemaking.
He’d wanted her, the way a condemned man craved life. Not just the softness of her skin or the heat of her body. He’d wanted to touch her soul.
At the time, it was all he’d desired. Now, he wished to God he’d walked away.
Sex wasn’t a Band-Aid. It didn’t fix anything. Why he’d thought it might had more to do with the independent agent in his jeans than any brain cells he possessed. It hadn’t made things better, only worse, driving a wedge between them and skewering him right through the middle.
A big mistake.
Maybe showing her that newspaper headline had been another. It killed him to scare her like that. But it had been the only way to get her to believe his reason for coming back was genuine.
He looked through his dripping hair and saw her crossing the street, every muscle she possessed tensed to the point of snapping. His gut knotted in response. He stood, dragged his palms over his scalp to remove the excess water, and prepared himself for the next brush-off.
“Tell me about the other abduction.”
The question broadsided him. He hadn’t expected it. Or the tremor of anger in her voice. With nerves on red alert, he faked an easy swing, chucking his empty water bottle into the backseat. “Which do you mean?”
“Right. There’s more than one.” Maggie clutched the top of the door, her feet shoulder width apart, the stance of a prosecuting attorney. “There’s that abduction you and Owens worked on in the past, and there’s the one Owens told you about last night.”
So she’d checked in with the boss. Betrayal sat heavy on Stafford’s chest. The old cop could have left well enough alone. He didn’t need to compound Maggie’s fears. Or trash the last scrap of credibility Stafford had managed to gain.
“Well?”
The flies were starting to swarm again, along with his memories. He couldn’t deal with both. “Get in the car.”
He gestured for her to take the driver’s seat and moved to one side. She stepped in front of him, blocking his path, a five-foot-four dynamo meeting him toe to toe.
Why had he ever thought she was vulnerable? The woman was a she-wolf. Though, sometimes he could feel the pain behind that façade as well as he could feel his own.
He held her stare and topped it, forcing her to move with nothing more than eye contact. He waited until she’d settled into her seat then made his way around to the other side and got in. All the possible comeback lines he’d thought of on his short trek shot out of his mind the moment he saw her face. It showed contempt, pure and simple.
In the stillness, his heart boomed, the last rumbling
s of an engine about to sputter and die. If she already hated him, he might as well seal the deal, crash and burn right here. “Which one do you want to talk about?”
Her mouth twisted. “Let’s start with old news. You told me you found the child.”
Rivulets of water trickled down Stafford’s neck, not nearly enough to wash away the past. “I did.”
“Why do I feel there’s a whole lot missing from your story?”
Because there was. Any information he’d thought would upset her. “What did Owens say?”
“What do you say?”
A Stranger's Touch Page 16