Down To The Needle

by Mary Deal

  “Don't say it. Don't explain.” At that precarious moment, she didn't want to hear him obsess over another woman, even if it was that far in the past. How ironic it would be if Joe positively identified his old flame and Abi would be left still desperate to find her daughter. It would be the same, as in the past, when she was active in other missing girl searches, who turned out not to be her daughter, leaving her in a state of despondent yearning.

  “I do love you, Abi.” He reached to squeeze her hand. “But why does this feel so threatening?” The bond they shared could bolster his strength, but now his commitment might also be tested.

  “Let it play out. Maybe the woman only resembles Margaret.”

  “It's something I've got to know, as much as you need to know about Winnaker now.”

  “Bring me her picture as soon as you can.”

  He hesitated but seemed relieved. “The ones I have are decades old. Only I might recognize her after all this time.”

  “Then go to The Beacon more often. Edith would help with this.”

  “Okay. I've already gone to some homeless camps. I thought I saw her again at The Gully out east.”

  “Ulgh! That horrible place?” How could a wealthy woman like Margaret end up in a place like that, or even homeless, for that matter? “Describe the woman, Joe, her features. What was she wearing?”

  “Dull brown hair with lots of gray, shoulder length, kinda scraggly. Margaret used to lighten her hair, and this woman's face is a lot fuller on the bottom half, you know, middle aged.”

  Not many people their age had firm jowls and chin any longer. Abi managed a wry smile. “What else?”

  “She wore an old brown wool coat and a faded red scarf around her neck.”

  “Sounds like many other women out there.” But here he was, unsure about whom he had seen and fearing the worst.

  “Yeah, but she looked straight at me.”

  “Recognized you?”

  “It's hard to explain. Our eyes met. I saw a flicker of something, but this woman's face was so weathered, wrinkled, you know. Just for a split second….”

  “Did she say anything? Did you?”

  He turned down the heat and then turned off the motor as well. Their breaths had fogged the windows. “She left too quickly. Walked right past me.”

  “That's all? And that reminded you of Margaret?”

  “Well, the dirty old coat and scarf and run-down shoes, they weren't cheap when they were new. Those used to be good clothes. That's the only way they could have withstood time. If that was who I think it was, those clothes tell me she's been on the street a while.”

  “Could have been someone's castoffs. The Goodwill and the Salvation Army also give free clothes to the homeless.”

  “True.”

  “What was it specifically that made you think of Margaret?”

  “It's hard to explain, Abi. Just like you said you'd know your little girl if you saw her again.”

  “Then we'd better find her.” Abi understood, but wondered if each of their distractions might pull them apart. Not because of secrets or hidden motives, but because one person could handle only so much. Somehow, they had to continue to support and help one another.

  “I've done something else.” He looked as if hesitating to continue the conversation. “I gave an old photo of Margaret to a friend of mine. Velma works for the Police Department and uses a computer to age people's faces.” He breathed deeply, like having just been relieved of a horrible burden. He swiped at the foggy windows and looked out toward the sea wall.

  When computer aging had turned up no clues, Abi had forgotten about the old images. “I've had Becky aged twice, when she would have been younger.”

  Joe turned to face her. “How long ago?”

  “When she would have been about ten, another time in her teens.” Abi sighed. “Still we couldn't find her.” She should have had a new aging done showing Becky as an adult.

  “Do it again, Abi. She's an adult now, not a kid or a teen anymore. Do it again.”

  “With your friend Velma?”

  “She's the best in the country.”

  Not to miss an opportunity, Abi fumbled in her purse and brought out her wallet. Her fingers trembled as she withdrew a frayed photograph of Becky at about five years of age. “Give her this.”

  He accepted the photo then frowned. “We've discussed that mark before.” He pointed to a large mole on the cherub cheek near the ear. “For what it's worth, Megan Winnaker doesn't have that.” The flat mole was visible yet not unsightly. It was even cute, a beauty mark on a little beauty.

  She stared intently into his eyes. Momentary relief washed over her, but her intuition reminded not to dismiss any possibilities. “There are ways of removing those things, you know that.”

  “Well, this isn't exactly a frontal view.” He stared at the photograph, caressed the fragile remnant between his fingertips. “Guess it'll have to do.”

  The possibilities were exciting. “Please, ask Velma to try. I don't care what it costs.”

  “All right. I guess I don't know much about your daughter.”

  “Here, it was here.” Abi felt the excitement. “Becky loved to sit on this pier in the sunlight and draw.” Abi had become overly excited. She took a deep breath to prevent her heartbeat from racing. “When those hills changed colors in the fall, that's what sparked her interest in color gradations.”

  Joe eased the ragged old photo into his shirt pocket and pressed his hand against it. He wiped more fog from the windows as he studied the pier and then the hills. “What might a fledgling artist be able to capture about this area?”

  “She drew everything, even the rocks.”

  “Over there.” He pointed to a large outcropping atop the cliff overlooking the bay. “Did she ever draw that rock?”

  “Monk's Hood? Yes, that's Becky's rock. That's how she learned about penumbra.”

  “At that age? She knew about color gradations?”

  Abi smiled, remembering. “She didn't know the word penumbra, but she understood gradations in shadowing, that sort of thing.” Understanding and producing art came naturally for her young daughter. Becky was truly gifted.

  “It does look like a hood.”

  “For Becky's last Halloween, she wore a monk's cape and hood.” The memory made her smile. Then she saddened, remembering that the hood and most of Becky's clothes remained stored in boxes. She had finally moved them to her shop storeroom, in order to keep from brooding over them too often at home where she could more easily reach them.

  He rolled the side window down so they could better see. A rush of cold air invaded the interior of the vehicle. “So, you call this Becky's rock. I guess Monk's Hood attracts no one else. They can't even sell that property.”

  “It's way overpriced.”

  “Sure, because look up the hill behind that outcropping.”

  “Yeah, if someone could afford to clear those huge boulders off that slope, a house up there would have views of heaven.”

  No one in Seaport could afford to do that even though both fishy-smelling Seaport and Creighton, mostly known as an artsy enclave, had ample shares of wealthy investors buying up the land. Plenty good land for investing surrounding both towns. No one in either town had ever shown any interest in the rocky cliff and the effort it would take to clear that patch of monster boulders.

  “Some foreign investor will find it soon enough.” They sat quietly another moment. Suddenly Joe drew a sharp breath. “The rocks, the sea wall. Remember what the newscaster said about Winnaker coming here?

  “A picture?”

  “Yes, Winnaker came to this town because of a picture in a magazine.”

  She gasped. “A picture of Pt. Meare, maybe?” Her heart beat wildly. “The pier, Joe, the pier and the bay are always in travel magazines.”

  “I don't think anyone ever asked her specifically. They thought she was making excuses, lying about her real reason for being in town. In my studio, I think sh
e mentioned this place, Pt. Meare and the bay!”

  Abi couldn't control her surprise. “Your studio? Megan Winnaker came to your studio?” Joe evidently wanted to forget the details, never having mentioned his involvement with the inmate. Or was he simply embarrassed having been that close to her? Yet, how could he put her totally out of mind since the case would be coming to a close with possible lethal injection?

  Joe had reached to turn on the ignition again but dropped the hand to his lap. “I remembered filming her in one of the tent camps where she lived back then, under that train trestle in the hills.” He spoke cautiously. “She photographed well and expressed something haunting from behind those eyes of hers. I looked but never saw her again. Then she showed up at The Beacon. I approached her with the intention of including her and a few others as a focal point of my exhibit. I couldn't believe it.” He smiled suddenly. “She agreed to come to my studio.”

  “You got that close?”

  “She came several times.”

  Abi's heart pounded more rapidly than it should. Her need to find her daughter was greater than her need to stay out of an ugly situation. “We need that magazine.”

  “I hope the publisher is still in business.” Then his face took on an almost frightening look of revelation, as if knowing more than he dared say. Finally he spoke. “I've got a few minutes. Can you come with me?”

  “Where? My sales girl is off today.” That meant Abi needed to be in her shop during business hours.

  “I've got an idea. Get going. I'll meet you at your shop.”

  Chapter 5

  After making a detour to a nearby coffee house for a latte, Abi was on her way again. At a stoplight, she instinctively looked in the rear-view mirror. Joe's Range Rover sped up and sat high behind her BMW coupe. When the light turned green, she drove through the intersection, then pulled to the shoulder and motioned him to pass. He always drove a little too fast and a little too close for comfort.

  As she approached her shop, the inside lights flicked on. A whimsical sign marked 0 to 5 - Kid's Stuff and drawings of colorful big-eyed animals and toys framed the title and windows. Joe was already inside. She edged into the left turn pocket, and then parked behind the building.

  Entering the rear doorway to her office, she hung her heavy jacket on a rack. The confined atmosphere of the shop smelled of new clothing. She went directly to the thermostat to start the air circulating and then went to find Joe.

  “So when did you begin selling used clothes?” He gestured to a small rack that looked out of place near the counter.

  “Not selling, Joe. I'm offering ten percent off one piece of new clothing in exchange for each usable outfit people donate to homeless kids.” Abi had created the program she titled KIN.

  “Oh, yes. Kids In Need.” He nodded approval. “What happens when you find your daughter? Will you increase the sizes beyond five years of age?”

  Saddened again, Abi looked away. The idea of increasing the sizes as the years progressed had not occurred to her. This store represented her daughter's life during the years before she was taken, though the styles were updated through the seasons.

  Joe stood behind the sales counter and lifted a tattered black art portfolio held together by old dried layers of masking tape. He laid it gently onto the counter. “I've had visions of you adding young women's things.”

  She shook her head sharply. “Stop, please.”

  He came to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “I understand, Abi,” They shared a moment of silence looking into each other's eyes. Finally, he turned his attention back to the portfolio. “I went back and picked up the art Winnaker produced at my studio. With the interest you're starting to have with this case, I thought you might want to see it.” He glanced at his watch.

  “Her art? This is surreal. My head is spinning. If this Megan Winnaker turns out to be my daughter who's facing lethal….” She choked and could say no more.

  “Look at it when you're in a better frame of mind.” He headed toward the back doorway. “Right now, I'm on my way out of town for a photo shoot. Have to hit the road real quick.”

  Abi's curiosity about the inmate and her art had sparked. “I need to examine every clue.” She sounded more like daring herself to find something familiar in Winnaker's art.

  “Abi,” he said, turning back and beginning slowly. “This girl is certain to be put to death if her final—”

  “Joe, please!”

  “All right, all right. I'll try to fill you in.”

  The urgent sound of fire truck blast horns approaching from blocks away drew nearer. Abi covered her ears. Blast horns were something she would never get used to. Their sudden dull throbbing sent shock waves through her nervous system. Commute traffic jostled to the curbs to make way as the red trucks careened past, blaring and screeching.

  Joe, too, had covered his ears. “Yet another fire.”

  Just when the noise quieted, the ladder truck sped past urgently sounding a blast horn over its own siren.

  “Why can't they catch those people?” She still held her ears and spoke loudly.

  “Strange we don't hear of any fires for a while and then they start up again.” Joe shook his head sharply.

  “You were saying?”

  He shrugged, seeming not knowing where to begin. “There was this guy—a real idiot named Yates, Stan Yates—proclaiming to the world how he thought gang members should all be exterminated like the Jews in the prison camps.”

  “Yates? Was he an Aryan?” Yates was known as a blowhard drunk. Some of the gang members must have gotten tired of him drawing attention to them and torched his house. She remembered reading that Yates was found inside his house during the fire. “Didn't he go blind?” Abi knew she should have learned more, as she had with other missing person cases. But then her doctor had issued a stern warning that she was to avoid all stress and she needed to limit her involvement in future cases. “I didn't follow the Winnaker case and some others when I was sure they weren't my Becky. I buried my head in my business down in Lawton.”

  “Yates survived. His wife and two boys….” Joe shook his head.

  According to Yates's testimony, he woke smelling smoke. The light switches didn't work so he grabbed a flashlight and went to the living room window to look out. Just as he was about to rush back to wake his family, a rough-looking girl appeared outside the window and threw a brick through the glass that hit him on the head, knocking him backwards. He later said the girl wore a Nazi infantry tunic and an SS ring on the hand she placed on the windowsill before stepping back to throw the brick. The news reports said that Yates lay unconscious while flames engulfed his home.

  “And he being totally out of it—”

  “There was no way the rescue unit could know about his family,” By the time they were found, the kids were charred.

  “I vaguely remember.” Abi shook her head thoughtfully. Yates's wife died the next morning from smoke inhalation and carbon monoxide poisoning. “Hey wait. What about fingerprints on the window sill?”

  “That filthy place? There was moss-like growth on the damp windows sills that burned like fuel for the fire. They could see where a hand had dragged some of the stuff off, but the hand never touched the wood. But you, Abi, you never followed through when Winnaker made the statement she was looking for family?”

  “I hadn't heard that part, Joe, never followed the case.” She could not imagine her daughter involved in anything like a gangland crime. “My daughter was so sweet and gifted,” Her voice cracked. “She would never be rebellious.” Her throat was suddenly parched. Her hands trembled fiercely. “When I was living down in Lawton, most people were thankful the crazies settled up in Creighton.”

  Abi had investigated most cases similar to her daughter's age and from the little she knew about this one, the few details in the beginning had not attracted her interest. Now Winnaker's case would be drawing to a close with the sentence of lethal injection possibly carried out in a f
ew shorts months. Again, the nudging came from the pit of her stomach. She had to follow the meager Winnaker clues back to their origins. The idea that Winnaker might be her daughter seemed ludicrous. The clues were too vague, didn't connect with her life, and seemed more like crumbs being tossed by a desperate girl seeking any kind of help. But that was what Abi had done all through the years with cases that seemed had possibilities, followed even the skimpiest of intelligible information to the end of the labyrinth, until the missing person was reunited with someone else. Was she still strong enough to work Winnaker's frayed threads of information into a new pattern? The idea bounced back and forth in her mind until she thought she might scream. She sighed heavily as she remembered her vow to search till her dying day. She couldn't quit. Break a promise to herself, and to her daughter? Never.

  Joe lightly massaged the back of her neck. “What were we talking about earlier, about people—?”

  “I know, I know, about people changing. I wasn't thinking that way back then.” Other than hoping for the best, it was nearly impossible to imagine what one's child might become. For all Abi knew, her daughter was just another statistic; certainly abducted, maybe dead. She winced.

  Rain began pouring. Wind slammed the rear door that Abi, in haste, had forgotten to close.

  “You keep looking for a daughter who no longer exists.” Abi's emotions plummeted. When he realized what he had said, he corrected himself. “That is, Abi, you're looking for the daughter you remember, but she's become someone all together different by now. She hasn't had the benefit of your upbringing.”

  “I'm sure you're right, especially since Preston dropped out of sight only months before Becky disappeared.” He never turned up either. “He took her, Joe, and… and turned her into someone else.” Emotion overwhelmed her. “Please, tell me more about Megan Winnaker. How was she identified?”

  Wind gusted and shook the windows again. “Sounds just like your patio door. I'll finish that repair when I get back.” Changing the subject momentarily was his way of gathering his thoughts. She took advantage to go to the back of the store and get two paper cups of water. So what if he had to go out of town. She needed to know more about Megan Winnaker and she needed to know now.