“Could you get it for me?”
“The broom? Okay. Where is it?”
She giggled. “In the kitchen, silly. You know.”
Davie nodded and walked to the kitchen, his legs itching to run. As soon as he was out of sight, he dove for a chair. He shoved it across the floor, but that made too much noise, so he picked it up and carried it. All the time, his heart thumped as if a basketball game was going on in his chest.
He set the chair down as quietly as he could then crawled up onto it. Stretching tall, he could just reach the chain on the outside door. He pushed it across and let it fall to one side, holding back a cheer.
He leapt off the chair, shoved it away, then spit into his palms and reached for the bolt. He grabbed it with one hand and gave it a twist. It barely moved.
“Marshall?”
Cold sweat popped up on his scalp. The woman sounded impatient, the way his teacher did when a kid blew an easy question.
Davie threw his weight against the door. He grasped the bolt in both hands and pressed in and up.
It started to turn. He pushed harder. Harder. The lock opened with a click that echoed through the room. Davie took a breath and reached for the knob.
“Marshall, what are you doing?”
Strong hands gripped his shoulders and spun him around. He landed hard against the door, pain exploding across his back. Specks of light shimmered across his eyes, making his belly churn.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The woman sounded far away, like she was yelling at him through a long cardboard tube. But she was right there. Davie could smell her hot, smoky breath on his face, feel her skeleton hands as they tightened around his throat.
He squirmed, but couldn’t get away. The stars disappeared and a big black cloud moved over his eyes. His legs went slushy and he fell to the floor on his hands and knees. He gulped in air, blinking until he could see again.
“What’s the matter with you?” The woman click-clacked a step back. She didn’t sound angry now. She sounded frightened. Davie took in another shaky breath. And another.
“Marshall, stop that. Breathe properly.”
He didn’t. If it scared her, made her stop hurting him, good. He pulled himself to his feet and wheezed harder, faster.
The woman backed away, her face white. “Marshall, I order you to stop. You’re better now. You don’t have to breathe that way.” She held her hands in front of her face, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him.
Davie figured he wasn’t going to get a better chance. While she was turned away, he grabbed the doorknob, gave it a tug, and ran for his life.
* * *
Gravel crunched under Stafford’s shoes as he made his way up the overgrown driveway to the house. And he felt lower than the stones beneath his feet. As exposed.
He’d been stupid to get close to Maggie. Relationships weren’t for him. He had traveling feet – always on their way to someplace else. Whenever a woman meant something to him, he picked up the pace. Better to be the one walking away. Because no woman stayed around long, once she found out about his truck-load of baggage. At least, no woman that mattered.
Except Stafford couldn’t remember a woman who mattered as much as Maggie.
And she was gone. Along with his chances. Even if he found Davie, alive and well, she’d made one thing clear. She didn’t trust him. Didn’t trust herself enough to believe. To see with her heart.
Damn it to hell.
He’d been a fool to hope for more. The timing, the circumstances ... everything was wrong. Better to be alone. Seal off his heart, ignore the emptiness and concentrate on revenge.
Getting Morley. It’s all that mattered.
He straightened his shoulders, hatred warming his blood. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement. A shadow.
Pulse spiking, he crouched low and scanned the area. The motion came from the swing set at the side of the house. The last of the setting sun glinted off the steel. Rusty chains cried in protest as the wind swayed one swing back and forth.
Strange. The other two remained still.
Stafford rubbed his eyes. It must have been a trick of light but, for a second, he’d thought he’d seen a kid.
He stood and walked to the front of the dwelling. With a sinking feeling, he wondered if Maggie was right. The place looked abandoned – paint peeling, grass and weeds poking up through the cracks in the sidewalk. The house smelled of decay, as cheery as an open grave.
Could he have so misinterpreted his visions? Was Davie already dead?
The dull blade of guilt knifed Stafford below the ribs. Air dodged his lungs. He eased himself down to sit on the cold cement step, willing oxygen into the hollow of his chest.
Another death. Another failure. In a lifetime full of them. He’d never be free of Morley. Until he caught the bastard. And put an end to the suffering.
With unsteady fingers, he fished for his pocketknife. If nothing else, he could use one of the tricks he’d learned from the old timers at Quantico to break into the house and seek shelter for the night. In the morning, he’d start the long walk back to Yellowknife. And the rest of his wretched life.
Then he heard a woman’s voice. “Marshall.”
Stafford’s heart bungee jumped off his breastbone. The name came from his first reading. The voice was only a few feet from him, on the opposite side of the door. And whoever had spoken was moving to the side of the house.
He ducked down and hugged the outside wall, following the direction of the voice. He reached the corner and peered around it.
A door opened and a small boy appeared. Bolted, more like. The dark-haired child streaked down the stairs. The sight whirled in Stafford’s brain like a double scotch on the rocks. This was the boy he’d seen in the mirror – his hair cut and dyed, his face white with fear.
“Davie?”
The boy looked up. He was small. Thin. But his eyes hinted at the big thoughts going on behind them. What to do? Who to trust?
Holding back the urge to turn cartwheels, Stafford cemented his feet to the ground. He’d let the boy make the first move.
He leaned down, close to eyelevel, and rested his hands on his thighs. “I’m here with your mom ... Maggie. She’s a police officer ... from Calgary.”
The boy smiled, a crooked grin Stafford recognized from the photo hanging from his mother’s rearview mirror. And from Maggie, herself.
“You found me.” The kid flew over the last two steps. Stafford fell to his knees and opened his arms as the boy ran into them, warm and alive.
“Yes, I found you,” Stafford whispered into the child’s hair, his voice splintering. Through the mist in his eyes, he saw another youngster, playing on the swings.
Tommy Hutchinson, free of his wounds, pulled back on the chains and pushed his feet into the air. He turned his head and nodded.
The heavy weight on Stafford’s chest lifted. It was as if that nod carried a forgiveness. A thank you. Because Tommy had been found. Not the way either of them would have chosen, but chance and fate played as big a part in life and death as choices.
And now Tommy had helped him save another little boy. And freed Stafford from the guilt he’d been carrying. That nod said it all, without saying a word.
Tommy grinned and leaned back on the swing. He pumped higher and higher, toward the setting sun.
A burst of light flashed through the tamaracks, burning Stafford’s eyes. He squinted and lowered his chin. When he looked back, the swing was empty. Tommy and the light were gone. And Stafford knew, deep down, he’d never see Tommy again.
So he held the live boy even tighter, felt the child’s heartbeat drum against his chest. Small, shy arms wrapped around Stafford’s neck. He heard a sob and pulled away to dry Davie’s tears, when he realized the sob came from his own lips. The pain of his sister’s loss, the loneliness of his life, everything surfaced in that one embrace, leaving Stafford as shell-shocked as a battle weary soldier.
Until a
sharp click brought his head up.
There on the porch stood a woman – thin and wizen, with fury in her eyes. And a rifle in her hands.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Maggie jammed on the brakes, gravel ripping into her back bumper like cheap buckshot. She put the vehicle in park and sat there, her head resting against the hard steering wheel.
What in hell was she doing?
She had to get back to Calgary, make her way south of the border, and claim her son’s body. Her sweet, little boy.
Cold cramped Maggie’s lower belly. A tear burned its way down her cheek. She couldn’t manage another.
“Damn.” She smacked the dashboard with the heel of her hand, trying to dredge up ... something. What kind of mother couldn’t summon an ocean of tears for her dead son?
The answer came back, crushing her into the seat with the momentum of a high-speed chase. A mother who still hoped.
The shock and horror of Owens’ words faded to a whisper. If the Inspector needed dental records to identify the child, maybe it wasn’t her Davie.
Laughter pinged against the windows of the car. Maggie covered her mouth, hushing the sound. What was the matter with her? A minute ago, she’d been desperate to cry. Now, she couldn’t stop laughing.
Was it from sheer joy? Hysteria? All she had was a handful of wishes but, for the moment, that was enough.
Funny. She’d given up wishing long ago, seen the futility of dreams and walled them up ... along with her emotions. Every time her dad missed a school recital, every time he came home past midnight on a day he’d promised to take her to the zoo, every time he forgot her birthday, another layer of brick and mortar slapped into place.
Maggie shrugged. He’d done his best, raising a daughter on his own while holding down a demanding job. He always told her they’d spend time together ... later. But a sudden heart attack stole the future with the apathy of an unrepentant thief. In the end, she got his house and a small inheritance, but would have traded it all for a scrapbook of good memories.
Now, the tears came, years of denial released in a salty baptism. She’d always shied away from intuition, preferring logic, facts and evidence.
From now on, she’d follow her gut, her heart. A heart she’d numbed against the pain of rejection. A heart now linked to a man who made her smile during the worst times ... and left her craving him with an intensity that took her breath away.
Whatever doubts she had, she’d set aside. Stafford believed. And she believed in Stafford. Even when he didn’t believe in himself.
He’d offered her his strength, his compassion, his soul. In return, she’d left him stranded in the middle of nowhere. And if he did encounter Davie’s abductor, a suspected cop killer...
Maggie gathered the sweat-dampened hair from her face, knotted the mass at the back of her head, and licked the tears from the corners of her mouth. Before she could think any more, she put the vehicle in drive and pulled a U-turn.
She parked by the house, in the same place as before, and got out. A hint of smoke hovered in the air. Not the sweet, rustic odor of a wood fire – but the foul, pungent stench of a burning building.
She flipped open her cell, mouthed a silent thank you for the signal that greeted her, and called 911. After giving the dispatcher her best guesstimate on location, she ended the connection.
A voice called out through the trees. Instinct brought Maggie to a stop. Chest drumming with the fury of a heavy metal band, she crouched and continued counterclockwise around the dwelling, hoping to surprise the person from behind.
It was a woman she heard – shaky at first, then loud, faint for a few sentences, then ear shattering.
Maggie hung close to the wall, perspiration dripping between her shoulder blades, cold as ice water in the darkening breeze. Step by step she moved closer. In between the woman’s cries, a male voice interjected – strong and unwavering.
Stafford.
Her heart stuttered, knowing he was near. She inched away from the structure and zeroed in on him, looking outwardly calm but knees slightly bent – poised and ready for action. Then she did a double take. The psychic had four legs.
Excitement spiked through her. Angling to her right, she saw a figure standing directly behind Stafford. A small boy huddled against him, his thin arms wrapped around the big man’s knees. She couldn’t quite see the child’s face. And there was no need. She knew with her whole being the boy was Davie. And that Stafford was using his body as a shield to protect her son.
Warmth enveloped her, from her head right down to her toes. She stepped out further and Stafford’s eyes met hers. The whiff of a smile floated across his lips then he looked back in the direction of the voice, keeping her presence a secret.
Smart move.
Maggie shifted again, until she could see the person that held Stafford’s attention. A woman stood on the porch, a mere breath on the wind, bone-thin and colorless. Something about her reminded Maggie of a ghost ... fading a little bit at a time.
“Marshall, come here,” she ordered.
“We’ll both come,” Stafford told her, his hands open to show he had no weapons.
The woman reacted, raising her arms. It was then Maggie saw the rifle. In an instant, her own gun was out of its holster, the safety off. She aimed it, ready to pull the trigger.
“It’s all right,” Stafford said, his gaze still on the suspect but holding one hand outstretched, pleading with Maggie not to fire.
Alerted to another’s presence, the woman swung around in a lazy arc, as if she were moving through heavy water. The shock of recognition overpowered Maggie’s police training and she lowered her guard. “Linda?”
The abductor looked at her full on, her eyes glazed. Now that Maggie saw her clearly, she realized it wasn’t her ex-husband’s girlfriend – but an older, sadder version of her.
“Everything’s fine,” Stafford assured the woman, as smooth and comforting as a shrink.
“Please, don’t take my baby. Don’t take him away again.”
Stafford inched forward. “Marshall will always be with you.”
“Are you taking him back to heaven?”
Brows knotted together in confusion, Stafford stared at the woman. But Maggie understood. She let herself see Stafford as Davie’s abductor did – his male beauty, the way the light kissed him as if he glowed from within. In the woman’s twisted mind, Stafford was some kind of angel, come to take her child away a second time.
“It’s okay,” Maggie said, finding a calm voice from deep within. “The angel is here to help you. And your son.”
A small, dark head peeked around Stafford’s leg. “Mommy.” Davie wriggled in the psychic’s grasp.
“Everyone, stay right where you are,” Maggie shouted, through the knot of fear wedged in her throat.
Her son stopped struggling and retreated behind Stafford, as the woman stepped off the low porch and fell to her knees. “Mommy’s here, darling. Mommy’s right here.”
While the abductor focused on her son, Maggie began her approach, her gun pointed at the ground. As she drew closer, she saw the woman wasn’t holding the rifle properly. It dangled at her side, her hand nowhere near the trigger.
Was it still dangerous? Plenty. And another problem roared just a few yards away.
A ball of fire blasted through the side door of the house. Beyond it, more flames crackled, the clamor of a thousand twigs all snapping at once. Heat pulsated against Maggie’s skin, making her feel like a Sunday roast in a red-hot oven. Some kind of accelerant had to be at work for the fire to have spread this fast.
She coughed and sputtered. What little breath she had, came out in small, strangled puffs. Eyes burning, head bent, she fought her way toward the dazed woman, who seemed oblivious to the danger around her.
Maggie took possession of the rifle then holstered her own weapon. She grasped the woman’s arm and led her away from the burning building, feeling as if she were guiding a sleepwalker. When they reached t
he deserted play set, the suspect lowered herself onto one of the swings, without protest.
For the first time in her short career, Maggie felt like a cop, buzzed on danger, ruled by adrenaline. She couldn’t imagine going back to the ho-hum routine of directing traffic.
Until she saw her son. Stafford stepped aside and there he was.
Maggie ran to Davie and gathered him into her arms. He smelled of peroxide, leather, smoke – and she was ready to bottle the scent and sell it as perfume. She held him tight, calming his sobs, releasing her own. This was the moment she’d dreamed of, the moment she feared would never come. She didn’t want to let go. Ever. She held him, rocked him, and kissed his cheeks. He was here. He was safe. And they were together again.
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