The Scent of Forever

by Julie Doherty

  Fine. She bit her tongue.

  “When did ye last see her?” the sergeant asked, at last.

  “Thursday.” Maggie gestured to William. “But he saw her this morning.”

  “That so.” The officer scrutinized William. “Where?”

  “I watched her board the ferry to Fionnphort, on Mull,” William replied.

  “Ye were with her on Iona?”

  “Aye.”

  “Is that a punishable offense?” Maggie muttered under her breath.

  “Pardon?” the sergeant asked.

  Maggie shook her head. “Nothing.” They were wasting So. Much. Time. Poor Ann.

  “And what’s your relationship to Miss McConnell?” the sergeant asked William.

  “I, uh.” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked at Maggie. “Friend, I guess.”

  “A new one, aye?” The officer winked, pulled a notepad from his desk drawer, then handed it to William. “I’ll need your name and contact information.”

  “I’m the one you should contact with any questions or information,” Maggie said.

  “Of course.” The sergeant offered a fleeting smile, then watched carefully as William jotted his information on the notepad.

  It hit her then: William was a suspect. The police would waste precious time investigating an innocent man, one Ann cared for.

  “Ann emailed me after leaving him,” Maggie said. “She was about to dock at Oban.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Noonish.”

  “And she planned to catch the next train to Glasgow?”

  “That’s what she said in her email.”

  The sergeant scribbled something on the form. “Any chance ye have her password?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. It would help to know if she emailed anyone else. Says here she has no medical conditions, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Take any meds that ye know of?”

  “None.”

  “How long have ye known her?”

  “About fifteen years.”

  “She ever go missing before?”

  “Never. You can set your watch by her.”

  “Has she seemed depressed lately?”

  Maggie bit back a roar. Of course she was depressed! Who wouldn’t be in her same circumstances? For Christ’s sake, the baby she always wanted was all over Facebook.

  She wasn’t telling the sergeant that.

  “She’d never hurt herself,” she said.

  “Know anybody who would want to hurt her?”

  “No, but she’s an author. She has a few angry reviews. Readers don’t always like her bittersweet endings. Fewer like the religious undertones. Plus, her sequel is overdue.” Unwritten, is more like it. “Readers sometimes get pissy waiting on sequels.”

  A personalized version of Stephen King’s Misery popped into her head. She saw Ann, tied to a bed, legs broken.

  The sergeant made a few more notes before signing his name with a grand flourish. “There.” He slid the clipboard aside, then tented his fingers. “That’s us finished.”

  “So what happens next? Will you start looking for her now?” Maggie asked.

  “In many of these cases, it’s best to wait before taking further action—”

  Maggie shot off her chair, sending it screeching against the wall. “In other words, you’re not gonna do jack shit.”

  The sergeant’s face turned red. “If ye’re finished?” He gestured to the chair.

  Maggie dropped onto it, futility sitting with her.

  “As I was saying,” the sergeant said with contrived calm, “it is sometimes best to wait a while before classifying an absent person as missing. Most people reported as missing show up on their own. Trust me, Miss Mason, your friend is not the first American to go”—he made air quotes—“missing . . . in the Highlands, only to reappear a week later with a vicious hangover and a new boyfriend.” He stood to gather his pen and the clipboard. “Someone will contact ye tomorrow.”

  “That’s it? That’s all? Someone will contact me tomorrow? All due respect, Officer . . .” She stood, prepared for battle.

  “McTavish. Sergeant McTavish.” He handed her a business card.

  “All due respect, Sergeant McTavish,” she said, ripping the card from his fingers, “but I’m gonna need more details about exactly how you plan to find my best friend.”

  A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. His eyes bulged, but his voice remained calm. When he spoke, it was directed at William, but his words were intended for Maggie. “Americans are so impatient, always wanting things now.” He looked at Maggie with loathing in his eyes. “I will not be the one looking for her.”

  “Good, ’cause I’m pretty sure you’d only find her if she was deep-fried and covered in sauce.”

  He winced at that, then said to William, “The matter will be turned over to the Argyll and West Dumbarton Division, who will notify the Oban North and Lorn Division.”

  “So it’s getting passed off,” William said.

  “There are procedures we must follow,” McTavish replied. “Oban will have jurisdiction.”

  “Unbelievable.” Maggie hoisted her purse to her shoulder. They were wasting time here. Ann’s case would be lost in a sea of paperwork. They should have gone to look for her themselves. Tomorrow, she’d call the embassy, maybe her congressman back home.

  “What aboot checking CCTV from the railway stations?” William asked. “Oban, at the very least, since we know she made it that far.”

  “The investigating officer will probably start there. If there’s any sign of foul play, the officer will notify the British Transport Police and, very likely”—he raised an eyebrow at Maggie—“the American Consulate.”

  The sergeant walked around the desk with the clipboard pressed against his chest. “These things do take time. Someone from Oban will ring ye tomorrow. In the meantime, go back to your hotel in case she shows up there. She probably will. They usually do, once they crawl out from under their new Highland laddie.” He grinned.

  Maggie was about to slap the smirk off his face when William took her arm. “We’ll wait to hear.” He dragged her out of the room, toward the exit. “Come on. Last thing we need is an arrest for assaulting a police officer.”

  Chapter 27

  Sour tape stifled Ann’s howl as the chair tipped and slammed her against the floor. Her shoulder and the side of her head struck what could only be concrete under the thin carpeting. She lay motionless while the pain dulled, her watering eyes fixed on the curtains swaying above her. Nigel closed them when the sun set, shutting out the world. To preserve our privacy, he said. After that, he planted a fetid kiss on her forehead, then left the cottage. He could be gone a few minutes, a day, or weeks. She could not afford the luxury of waiting to find out. If she didn’t escape now, she never would.

  She writhed, causing the tape to tear skin on her wrists and ankles. Her shoulders—aching from the strain of being tied behind her back—begged her to lie still, to close her eyes and conjure up pleasant memories. Instead, she pushed harder, holding her breath and vibrating with effort until she fell limp. Her lungs burned with want of air. Tape prevented her from adequately feeding them. She gasped through her nostrils, inflamed from crying. Stars danced through her dimming vision. She floated off the floor, pain yielding to numbness.

  An aerial view of her funeral materialized. Maggie sat alone in the front pew at Grace Lutheran Church.

  Would there even be a body left to bury?

  The room faded to a pinpoint of light. It summoned her. It vowed peace in an infinite pool of warmth. She surrendered to its tow, slowly at first, then with the speed of a diving falcon. She was dying, and that was o
kay. Acceptance bubbled up from some brave place to flood her with tranquility. She would see her parents again. Maggie would heal. Janet would make a fortune off her backlist. It would be a good death. She left nothing undone, except . . .

  William.

  Pain hammered her back to the floor. Across the room, something else lay crumpled on the floor . . . her jeans. Nigel dropped them there with the jacket given to replace a hoodie still reeking of smoke from a fireside encounter . . .

  Make me the happiest man in the world, and I’ll spend the rest of mine making sure ye never regret it.

  William’s wounded expression flashed in her mind. She saw the firelight dancing in his eyes.

  Her throat constricted, further hampering her ability to breathe.

  No.

  Falling prey to sadness served no purpose.

  Fight!

  She twisted.

  The vintage chair cracked and gave way near her shoulder. It was a balloon back chair meant for a lady’s comfort at a Victorian dinner party, not a kidnapping. It was Nigel’s only option in a cottage furnished with wheeled or backless chairs.

  Her nostrils expelled a squeal as she strained to roll the chair another ninety degrees, leaving her forehead and knees burned by the carpet. Her heart banged in her chest. She waited until it slowed, then rolled the chair again. Two more rolls, and it would slam down on the pavers near the front door. The ancient wood might splinter there.

  Keys jangled outside the door.

  Oh, no.

  A gust of fresh air arrived with Nigel’s feet.

  Two bags of groceries rustled to the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Nigel’s words spattered the room like hot tar. He jerked the chair upright, straining her neck. She closed her eyes against a surge of dizziness. When she reopened them, he squatted in front of her. His mouth stretched into a poorly mimicked smile that mismatched his impassive eyes. They were fixed on her with the gaze of a stalking lion, piercing, invading, entrancing.

  On his cheek, a scrap of surgical tape lost its hold, leaving an infected wound uncovered. She smelled its purulence, but Nigel didn’t seem to notice. “What did I tell you about trying to escape?” He slid his hands up her thighs.

  She cringed.

  “Now, I’m going to have to punish you.”

  Oh, God. She quaked so violently the chair joints creaked. Her muffled, “Don’t, please!” made no sense. She couldn’t bear him on top of her again.

  He expelled a thick, boiling cackle that made her skin crawl.

  “Don’t get so worked up.” He stood. “Don’t you know when I’m taking the piss?”

  She recoiled from his hand as he reached for her face, refreshing the pain in her neck.

  “How do you plan to eat with tape across your mouth?” He dragged her, chair and all, closer to the bed, unaware that his actions further weakened the wood.

  He left her long enough to gather up the grocery bags and carry them to the bed. “As luck would have it, there’s a tea house down by the loch. We are having”—he withdrew a package from a bag—“Scotland’s finest smoked salmon.” He held up a bottle of orange drink. “And Irn-Bru. You don’t get that in the States, do you?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he set both items on the nightstand table, then sat on the bed to face her. “I’m going to take the tape off your mouth. Don’t bother to scream. There’s no one around to hear you.”

  She knew that already. The Staghorn Manor’s honest sign boasted “unmatched privacy.” The driveway leading to the manor house, a building Nigel did not allow her to see, was intersected by lanes that led to private, self-catering cottages. A grove of pines secreted their cottage, The Hind, at the end of what was certainly the longest lane. The cottage had no phone, no Internet connection, and according to the misspelled sign on the door, “NO DAILEY MAID SERVICE.”

  No one would find her here. Escape hinged on her strength and cunning alone.

  Nigel clicked open his knife, then leaned forward, his knuckles hot on her wrists as he sliced at the tape binding them.

  Pain seared into her shoulders when her arms fell free. She eased her limbs forward to rub her red wrists.

  Nigel scraped a fingernail across her cheek to lift a corner of the tape covering her mouth. He held it, his unblinking stare boring holes into her, his foul breath blasting her face.

  An unzipped duffel bag lay on the bed behind him. It held a laptop, some tools . . . a Stanley screwdriver.

  She looked away before Nigel realized her discovery. He tugged at the tape, looking expectant, even hopeful, as if waiting for something. Did he want a reaction? Ah, yes, he wanted her to cry out. Would he get off on that? Well, he could kiss her ass, the bastard. She narrowed her eyes and clenched her teeth.

  Go on and stare, you ugly prick. The second you drop your guard, I’m going to reach into your bag, grab Old Stanley, and sink him into your guts right up to his yellow handle.

  Chapter 28

  Maggie sat on a plastic chair in the Oban railway station ticket office, her cell phone hot against her ear. At her right, a line of travelers stretched toward the ticket counter, where two of three windows had “POSITION CLOSED” signs taped to the glass.

  “I’ll queue up.” William stepped in line.

  A group of backpackers laughed and crossed the lobby. They half-shouted in a foreign language. Maggie scowled and cupped a hand over her free ear. She pressed her cell phone harder against the other until the backpackers left the station.

  So far, the call to her congressman’s office yielded only homesickness, since his staff set the on-hold tuner to Harrisburg’s leading pop radio station.

  “We have a pair of Maroon 5 tickets to give away to the first caller who can correctly identify the five songs in this montage,” the host said.

  Adam Levine wailed pieces of songs into Maggie’s ear.

  “I’m clearing the phone lines now. We’ll take caller ten.”

  The last time Maggie heard The Tim and June Show, she was at Ann’s. If only they were there now, listening on a portable radio, sipping Ann’s rotten coffee and working on their—

  “Miss Mason?”

  Maggie started. She covered her free ear to better hear the congressman’s aide. “Yes. Yes!”

  William turned, looking undecided about joining her.

  Maggie held up her index finger and shook her head.

  “My name is Lakesha Adams,” the aide said. “I understand you’re calling because you’re in Scotland, and your friend is missing?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  A sandy-haired janitor banged open a door labeled “STAFF ONLY” and wheeled a squeaking cart into the lobby. He stopped abruptly, gave Maggie a head-to-toe scan, then headed for the trashcan next to her.

  She blasted a derisive snort and shot out of her chair, then moved to an unused section of ticket counter.

  “Hello? . . . Miss Mason?”

  “Yes, I’m here. I’m sorry. There was some background noise. Yes, my friend is missing.”

  “If I understood our receptionist correctly, you already reported the matter to the local police?”

  “Yes, but they aren’t taking the matter seriously.”

  “They probably are, but local authorities can be rather tight-lipped about an investigation if you aren’t a direct relative.”

  “I honestly don’t think they’re even looking for her. I’ve heard nothing since Sunday, when I reported her missing. There’s nothing on the news.”

  “They probably have a good reason. The police generally know what they’re doing.”

  “But, I’m telling you—”

  “We can poke our noses in, but unfortunately, we have a similar issue. Because you’re not a blood relative, we�
��ll need your friend’s next of kin to sign an authorization before we can begin. I can email the form right away, if you give me a contact. We’ll get the ball rolling as soon as we get the signed auth.”

  “She doesn’t have any.”

  “Email?”

  “She doesn’t have any next of kin.”

  “No parents? No siblings?”

  “Nope. Nobody. Her parents are dead, and she’s divorced.”

  “I don’t suppose anyone has power of attorney?”

  Did Janet? Maggie didn’t think so. “Not that I know of.”

  After a long pause, the aide said, “This complicates things. Is there any way you can get to the consulate in Edinburgh?”

  “Not quickly. We’re pretty far west. It took a lot longer to get here than we expected. We were hoping to look around ourselves . . .”

  “Unfortunately, without the proper authorization, the congressman is going to have to defer to the Consulate. They will probably be your best bet at this point, if you aren’t getting any satisfaction from the police.”

  Great, another person who’s going to do nothing.

  The aide correctly anticipated Maggie’s disappointment. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll call Police Scotland and let them know you contacted our office. Without a signed authorization, I can’t request any information, but I can let them know you’ve requested our involvement. That’s not any sort of misrepresentation.”

  “Do you think that will make them step up their game? They already said they think Ann will turn up on her own. She won’t, Ms. Adams. Ann would never”—her voice broke—“do this to me on purpose.”

  “I know you must be worried. I wish I could do more. Sometimes, officers take things more seriously when there’s a threat of congressional involvement, if for no other reason than to get rid of us. Of course, without the proper release, the congressman can take no genuine action, but I’ll be careful not to mention that when I call.”