A Stranger's Touch

by Roxy Boroughs

  Inside, the place was a ghost house. Dust settled on the kitchen table. In the living room, white sheets covered the furniture and cobwebs floated in the corners.

  The woman grabbed one of the covers and pulled it from a chair. “I guess we won’t need these anymore.” She sneezed and gripped another sheet, whipping it off like she was doing a magic trick, to reveal a table with a phone.

  Davie drifted closer, hope making his fingers twitch. While the woman tugged at another cover, he shuffled forward and leaned against the couch. “What’s for breakfast?” he asked, trying to sound as if nothing else was on his mind.

  “Are you hungry?” The woman laughed, clutching a sheet to her chest. “Goodness, when was the last time we ate?” She dropped the cover onto the floor and combed his hair with her fingers. “I’ll go see what’s in the kitchen, Marshall. Be right back.”

  Davie waited until her clip-clop steps went quiet. He held his breath and tippitoed over to the phone. As he reached out to touch the receiver, her footsteps returned.

  His heart thundered. He threw himself onto the floor and sat cross-legged. He grabbed the lace on his shoe and gave it a tug. Hands shaking, he made two loops.

  “Marshall?” The clip-clop stopped. Davie slapped on an innocent look before meeting her eyes. The woman smiled at him. “Do you need help with that?”

  He smiled back and shook his head. “I can do it.”

  The woman’s grin got even bigger. “That’s my boy.”

  Davie concentrated on his shoe. He stuck his tongue out the corner of his mouth. That always helped. He twisted the laces and finished the bow.

  “There’s hardly anything in the kitchen, sweetie. We’ll have to buy groceries.” She chewed on her thumb, talking around it. “I’ve got some spaghetti and canned sauce, if that’s okay.”

  “I love spasghetti.” It was true, but the butterflies in his stomach were whirling around so much he couldn’t have eaten anything. Not even pizza.

  “I’ll get the water started.” The woman didn’t move. She seemed to be waiting for something. So he smiled again. That worked. She blew him a kiss, then click-clacked her way back to the kitchen.

  Davie listened for a moment, to make sure she was really gone. Then, on his tippitoes again, he returned to the phone. He whispered the numbers to himself as he dialed. Nine ... one ... one. Davie waited, holding the receiver so tight his hands ached.

  Nothing happened. He pushed the button to end the call, let it pop up again and listened.

  “Marshall?” The clip-clop steps came nearer.

  Davie followed the cord from the phone to the outlet. Everything was plugged in. It just didn’t work.

  He put the phone back and looked for something to do, spinning around until he was dizzy. He couldn’t tie his shoe again, so he ran to the TV in the far corner of the room and pushed the ON button.

  “Marshall?” The woman stood in the alcove, a dish in her hand. “There’s something wrong with the stove.”

  Davie glanced at the TV. There was no picture, no sound. He gave it a smack on the side, but it didn’t help.

  “I think they’ve turned off the juice.” She shrugged. “I guess I haven’t paid the bills in a while.” The woman set the plate down on the dusty coffee table and handed him a fork. “Want to eat your breakfast in front of the TV?”

  Davie peered at the food. Still woozy from whirling, he swallowed a couple of times to keep from barfing. The spasghetti looked funny, poking out from under the red sauce like twigs. Still, he moved to where she motioned him, in front of the television.

  He sat on his heels behind the coffee table, looking at the blank screen. He dug his fork into the spasghetti and tried to wind it around. But it wouldn’t twirl.

  The woman was smiling at him as though everything was fine, like hard pasta and a blank TV screen were great. Maybe it was. To her. He pulled a strand of spasghetti out of the pile with his fingers and crunched down on it.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  * * *

  “Are you sure this is it?” Maggie inspected the residence from the road out front.

  They’d parked away from the house, so as not to tip off anyone who might be there. Anticipation grew in her stomach, crawling like a nest of live caterpillars.

  After checking mailboxes for the surname Marshall and turning up dead ends, they’d driven here using Stafford’s visions as a guide. Like he’d done years earlier, she supposed, when he and his sister found that elderly lady and returned her lost earring.

  So far, everything fit with the dream Stafford had recounted – the inukshuks dotting the sides of the road, the house, even the old swing set. The only thing missing was the tan car. Maybe it was tucked away in the garage.

  The land was a vision from a picture book – trees, pinkish-grey outcroppings of rock, a lake nearby. The building itself was a hodgepodge, as if someone had started with a trailer and made additions, even adding a second story. Maggie imagined that, at one time, it must have been homey. Now it was tired, neglected and abandoned. It was already dusk and there were no lights on inside. “It doesn’t look as though anyone’s here.”

  “One way to find out,” he said, opening his door. “Let’s go up and knock.”

  A cold wind blew across the dusky sky, sending shivers down Maggie’s neck, as if someone were walking on her grave. She had the strange feeling she’d come to the end of her journey. She’d find Davie. Or the clues would stop here. And what had she gained along the way? A lover? A tolerance for the supernatural? Her thoughts dissolved as Stafford took her arm and helped her from the car.

  “Why don’t I try the front door?” he asked.

  “Why you?”

  “Because you look like a cop. And you’ve got the gun. You can cover me.”

  She doubted he’d need the backup. The man was built like a quarterback – and didn’t need the padding to carry it off. Lethal enough to take someone down with his bare hands. Still she touched her holster and undid the clasp. “You watch too many movies.”

  “Me? You saw The Sixth Sense three times.”

  Busted. And unnerved. Again. “How did you know?”

  His brows lifted with mischief. “Everyone’s seen The Sixth Sense three times.”

  She couldn’t believe they were exchanging wisecracks. But she recognized it for what it was. Stafford’s attempt to calm her. She checked her supply of ammunition. “Have I mentioned I hate it when you do that?”

  “Constantly. So, it’s agreed. I’ll keep whoever’s inside occupied, while you go around back and check things out.”

  “Roger that … partner.” Her turn to throw him off balance.

  The line stopped him in his tracks. “I like the sound of that.” He wrapped a big arm around her waist and kissed her forehead. She drank in his strength, his scent – everything that was Stafford.

  They took two steps away from the car when her cell rang. Maggie crouched down, using her vehicle as a shield as she flipped open her phone. “Holmes.”

  “Maggie ... it’s Owens.” There was something ominous in his voice. Partly the hesitation, partly the tone. “Where are you?”

  “Just past Yellowknife.” She hesitated. Should she say she was outside the suspect’s home? She had no real proof. The very reason she hadn’t called for backup. What would she have said to the local police? Come with me to an old house on the recommendation of my very own, private psychic? Something in Owens’ voice told her the explanation wasn’t necessary.

  “Are you driving?”

  It was an odd question and increased the tension in her belly. “No. I’m out of the car. What is it?”

  There was a long pause. The wind whispered over the mouthpiece. “Are you there, Owens?”

  “Mags ... officers found a body. A boy’s. South of the border.”

  As soon as Maggie heard the word body, she dropped the phone. She felt as if someone had jammed a knife into her. Pain exploded across her chest. Her lungs gave out, the empty ca
vity searing from the lack of air.

  A heart attack. She was dying. And embraced it. The hurt would only last a minute. Far better than the agony of life without her son.

  Her legs buckled and she pitched forward, landing on her hands and knees. Her stomach heaved. Tears blurred her vision as she retched into the brown grass at the side of the barren road.

  * * *

  Stafford placed his hand on Maggie’s back. She shook him off, clawing at the ground, sounding like a wounded wildcat as dry heaves racked her body. He reached for the phone and brought it to his ear. Owens was on the other end shouting Maggie’s name.

  Anger fired inside Stafford. “What happened? What did you tell her?”

  “Police have recovered a child’s body from Glacier National Park. We need David’s dental records.”

  Stafford slumped to the ground, jagged stones poking through his jeans. It couldn’t be true. Why had Tommy led him here, if not to find Davie alive and whole? “If you need that–”

  “Animals. They got to the kid first.”

  Stafford winced. “What about the missing boy from Missoula?” Not that he wanted it to be that child either. But, dear God, his heart wouldn’t let him believe the remains belonged to Maggie’s son. “It would make more sense if–”

  “Going by the initial findings…” Owens’ voice broke. He coughed and continued. “The estimated height and weight match David better. That’s why we need the dental x-rays.”

  And from what Maggie had told Stafford about her ex, Ron wouldn’t have known which dentist to contact. “I’ll get Maggie to call you back,” he barked into the phone.

  Stafford hit the End button and threw the cell onto the front seat of the car. He knelt beside Maggie, her hair forming a curtain between them. He cradled her head in his hands. “It’s not him.”

  She clutched at his jacket, rocking back and forth, as she repeated the single word, “No, no, no.”

  He held her tight. “I think Davie’s in that house. I feel he’s waiting for you to find him.”

  She pulled back, her mouth open in horror. “You think? You feel? You don’t know?”

  Each word was a punch in the gut, knocking the air out of him. He’d explained how his visions worked, that he couldn’t be sure of anything. Didn’t she understand? “We’re so close, Maggie. Don’t give up now.”

  A noise began from the depths of her. It grew to a roar, propelling her to her feet. “Get away from me,” she screamed. “You made me believe. You made me hope. You bastard. You bastard!”

  The words hit their mark, searing him with their hatred. Suddenly, Maggie was a stranger. Not the woman he’d come to know, the woman he’d come to love.

  He took a step toward her, his hands outstretched. His advance made her retreat and they were equidistant again. Only now she had her weapon aimed at his heart.

  “Get in the car. You’re driving back to town.” She was shaking with emotion, her eyes wild and full of pain.

  Stafford lowered his hands in defeat, his chest bruised from the inside. “Then what?”

  “We’ll leave the car at the nearest airport. I’ll find someone who can fly us back to Calgary.”

  His heart sank. It was pat, all figured out. Had she always had a Plan B where he was concerned? “I want to check the house. We’ve come all this way, Maggie. Don’t you want to make sure?”

  “Yes. I want to make sure … that I’m there for my dead son when he comes home. Owens was right. I shouldn’t have left.”

  So she’d never really trusted him. The reality pulled at Stafford like a ship’s anchor, weighing him down. Wasn’t there anything he could say to make her change her mind?

  “Wait here, Maggie. I’ll check things out. Satisfy my own curiosity. Then I’ll take you back to town.”

  She opened the driver’s side door. “This bus is leaving now. Are you in or out?”

  Stafford looked up and down the road. There wasn’t much around. A lot of open field. Rocks. Probably a rabbit or two. She hadn’t given him much of an alternative. But he took it anyway. “I guess I’m out.”

  She stared at him for a moment, tears glistening in her eyes. “Enjoy your walk.” He ate exhaust fumes as Maggie started up her car and drove away.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Davie clamped his hands over his ears and stared at the broken plate. Its jagged pieces scattered across the floor like chunks of snow.

  “What did you do to the furnace?”

  The woman wrenched his arm, her knife-sharp fingers digging into him. A cold, wormy feeling crawled around his tummy. Would she smash him against the wall too?

  “N-nothing.”

  She yanked him close and shook him until his teeth rattled. “You must have. It’s not coming on.”

  Her spit splashed his face as she yelled. He twisted and wriggled to get away. “It’s not my fault. The TV isn’t working, either.”

  She let go of him so fast he fell over, landing hard on his bum. He pulled his elbows in tight to his body, waiting for her to grab him again, to scream in his ears.

  Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Her scarecrow arms hung loose at her sides. She stared off into space, as if she’d forgotten he was even there. Then her dark eyes went to him.

  “We’ll have a fire, instead,” she said, smiling. “I might even have some marshmallows.”

  The woman set to work, her back to him, crumpling newspapers and putting them into the fireplace like nothing happened. But everything had happened.

  He’d thought about running away from her ever since she’d pulled him into the backseat of her car. But he’d been too afraid to try it, too worried about what she’d do if she caught him. Now, thinking about staying with her scared him even worse.

  “What are you doing, Marshall?”

  He turned and saw her staring at him. Prickles licked up his spine. “Looking around,” he told her. “Remembering.”

  He’d tacked on the last word, hoping she’d like it. The woman gave him a huge grin. “Have you missed your little home?”

  He still did. He missed watching cartoons on Saturday mornings with a plateful of his mother’s waffles. He missed the way she’d smile at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Remembering made his chest feel tight.

  The woman stood up, her knees cracking like the twigs she’d added to the pile, and walked over to him. Her icicle fingers combed through his hair. She grabbed his chin and lifted his face. Her eyes were watery, like she was getting ready to cry. It wasn’t until she walked away from him that Davie could breathe again.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t gone upstairs to see your room.” She took a small can from a side cupboard and went back to the fireplace. She screwed off the top of the can and tipped it over onto the newspapers and twigs. “Your toys are exactly the way you left them.”

  “Toys? Cool!” He took a step toward the stairs and stopped. He couldn’t get distracted. He was a superspy, on a mission to escape. “I’ll go later.”

  Air burned his lungs. He coughed. There was a bad smell in the room, like when his mom put gas in the car.

  “Clumsy me.” The woman looked down at her feet so Davie did, too. The can was on its side, liquid glistening onto the floor.

  Davie went stiff, waiting for another round of screaming. But the woman wasn’t angry about the spill at all. She took her time wiping up the mess with one of the sheets she’d used to cover the furniture, humming as she cleaned. Then she put the open can on top of the dirty sheet. “There. That should do it.”

  Watching the woman gave Davie an idea. He’d been trying to escape in a sneaky way. Maybe he didn’t need to fool her. “Want some help with that fire? I could go outside and get more wood ... Mommy.”

  Her face glowed. “That’s so sweet of you, Marshall. But there’s plenty to burn right here.”

  He shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal but, really, he felt like crying.

  “There is something I could use, though.”

 
; Davie leaned forward, eager to please. “Yes, Mommy?”

  He hoped she liked the mommy thing. His dad always said you had to push whatever you were trying to sell. But you had to be careful not to overdo it.

  “The broom.” The woman laughed. “I’ve made a mess of the hearth. See?”

  He peered over the couch. There were a few pieces of bark, and some other junk, nothing that couldn’t be hidden under the carpet. Or forgotten about, like the broken plate. But girls were funny about that sort of thing.