CRIES
OF THE
CHILDREN
Clare McNally
Copyright © 1992 by Clare McNally. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Don Congdon Associates, Inc.; the agency can be reached at [email protected].
This one is for my mom.
You may be far away, but our hearts
are always close. I love you!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
1
SAMANTHA WINSTEAD’S DAY had been a long one. She knew she shouldn’t have agreed to take a double shift at the hospital, and as one A.M. brought sixteen straight hours of work to an end, complete exhaustion was creeping into every joint of her five-foot-one frame. She winced, rolling her neck and closing her stinging eyes as she waited for the elevator.
“I thought only residents slept on their feet,” a familiar voice said.
Samantha looked up at Barbara Huston, her friend since medical school and a coworker for six years. As usual, Barbara looked gorgeous—tall, blond, and glamorous—making Samantha feel even grimier.
“It’s been a hell of a day,” Samantha said, running a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair.
“That’s what you get for telling John you’d do his shift for him,” Barbara said.
The elevator opened and they stepped on, barely finding space in the crowd of workers going off duty. They resumed their conversation in the downstairs lobby.
“Well, John had to go to a wedding,” Samantha said. “And he did fill in for me when I had the flu last winter.”
She yawned.
“But I don’t want to do this again in the near future,” she said. “Double shifts are for the young.”
“Are we old?” Barbara asked with a frown. “Last I looked, I was only twenty-eight.”
Samantha pushed her way through the front door into the cool April night.
“Sometimes I feel old,” Samantha said. “I guess it’s just fatigue. And we’re thirty-five, dear heart. Not twenty-eight. Sorry.”
“And here I was living in blissful ignorance,” Barbara sighed. “Well, maybe you ought to come up to the maternity ward sometime. The sight of all those babies bundled up like little pink and blue burritos is rejuvenating.”
Samantha smiled wearily. “Burritos. I always thought they looked like potatoes.”
“Well, at least your vacation starts next week,” Barbara pointed out.
“I wish it started right now,” Samantha said, “but I have to come in just one more day to tie up a few things.”
“Then two whole weeks to yourself,” Barbara said. “Any plans?”
“I thought I might drive into Denver,” Samantha said. “To do some shopping and sightseeing.”
Samantha’s divorce had cut off any ties she had to a family, since her parents had died when she was very young. Barbara wished she had some time off herself, to keep her friend company. The only girl among five children, she considered Samantha the closest thing she’d ever had to a sister.
They had reached Samantha’s truck, a denim-blue Bronco II. The hospital was on the edge of the town, and there were virtually no buildings between it and the mountains. Ashleigh Creek was situated just west of Pueblo, in the valley formed by the Front Range and the Sangre de Cristo Range. The snowcapped peaks of the Front Range loomed majestically in the distance, a virtually unbroken line of the Rockies that cuts through the center of Colorado. To Samantha’s stinging, weary eyes, they might as well have been the terrain of a distant planet.
“Enjoy yourself,” Barbara said as Samantha jumped into the truck. “I’ll see you when you get back.”
“So long,” Samantha said, yawning again.
“Put on the radio,” Barbara suggested. “You have to stay awake.”
“I will, I promise!” Samantha said.
Though the Front Range is the most densely populated area of Colorado, the twisting mountain roads were virtually deserted at this late hour, and she passed only a few cars as she made the half-hour trip home. The sight of her garage was a welcome one.
She pulled the truck to a stop, opened the garage door with a remote, then rolled the truck inside. As she got out, the garage door started sliding back down all by itself. There was an override switch at the back, and she jumped from the truck to press it, but the door continued its descent, leaving Samantha in darkness when it stopped.
She let out an annoyed groan and felt her way along the wall to the back door. She tried her key. The click was satisfying, but the door wouldn’t budge. Samantha fought a growing sense of claustrophobia, forcing herself to see that she had turned the key the wrong way. She tried again, heard a click, but still the door wouldn’t open.
Just then Samantha heard the barking of her dogs. Attuned to the pair of animals that she’d had for five years, she knew at once something was wrong. The barking was shrill and frightened. Was there an intruder on her property? Maybe someone had purposefully tampered with the doors!
She breathed in heavily and peered into the dim room at her rusty tools. There . . . an ax was just what she needed! Maybe if she shattered all the glass on the back door, and smashed the frame, she could crawl out.
The barking rose to a frenzied pitch as she pulled the ax down from the wall.
Something shifted on the other side of the room. Samantha froze, the ax held tightly in her white-knuckled hands. There was someone else in here. . . .
It seemed her heart had stopped beating. She moved on stiff legs to the back door. Then, forcing herself to pretend there was no one watching from behind, she swung at the windows. Glass flew out onto the pathway that led to her house. Cool air blasted through the new opening, and Samantha began to scream. She knew no one would hear her, but she couldn’t stop. Again and again she swung the ax.
“Samantha . . .”
The voice was soft, hard to identify as male or female. Samantha spun around, raising the ax to use as a weapon. She barely had time to register a pair of dark eyes as the ax was wrenched from her grip. Even as the dogs barked, a sweet-smelling mist as cold as snow struck Samantha in the face. Everything faded to black.
2
THE FIRST OF Samantha’s senses to return was smell. She breathed in
the aroma of freshly laundered sheets, Rocky Mountain columbines, and coffee. She couldn’t remember making coffee. She remembered driving home from work; the garage . . .
“Are you awake yet?”
Bolting upright, Samantha found herself staring into the wide eyes of a little girl. For a moment she could do nothing but gape, dumbfounded. It took a few seconds to take it all in. She was in a strange room. The girl, who seemed to be eight or nine, tucked a rippling strand of long brown hair behind her ear.
“Are you going to get up?”
Samantha blinked.
“Who . . . who are you?” she asked.
She looked around. The mustard-gold curtains, drawn tightly now, and the matching bedspread indicated a motel room. There was no door on the closet, and the hangers were permanently attached. A vase of purple and white columbines had been set on the night stand, as well as a small tray with a cup of coffee, a croissant, and fruit.
The little girl laughed.
“You’re funny when you wake up,” she said. “Look, I went down to the restaurant and brought up breakfast. The coffee has two teaspoons of sugar and a little cream, just like you told me yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
Samantha rubbed her head, feeling a dull ache. Yesterday she had worked a double shift and Barbara Huston had walked her out to her car. She’d driven home, and then something had gone wrong with the garage door, and . . .
“I’m . . . I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “Where am I?”
“We’re in the Miner’s Hotel, of course,” the child said.
“The what?”
The little girl opened the dresser drawer and pulled out a piece of stationery. Samantha read the letterhead and gasped. It said: “MINER’S HOTEL. EST. 1902, DURANGO, COLORADO.”
“Durango!” she gasped. “But that must be a hundred miles from Ashleigh Creek! How on earth did I get here?”
Panicking, Samantha got out of bed. She was surprised that she was dressed in her own nightgown. A suitcase lay open on the dresser at the opposite side of the room. Samantha recognized her own clothes, folded neatly, as if she’d planned this trip. She turned to the child.
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on here,” she said in a harsh tone, “but if this is someone’s idea of a joke, it isn’t very funny.”
The child backed away from her, genuine fear filling her green eyes.
“Why are you yelling at me?” she asked. “You’re scaring me!”
“I’m scaring you?” Samantha said. “I just woke up in a strange motel room and I don’t know how I got here!”
The little girl moved carefully to the breakfast tray. She picked up the cup of coffee and handed it to Samantha.
“Maybe . . . maybe you’d better drink this,” she said.
Samantha took a sip. The coffee was perfect, just the way she liked it. But she hadn’t told this child how to make it.
“What’s your name?” she asked, trying to calm herself. It was obvious the little girl was as befuddled as she.
“That’s a silly question,” the child said. “You know what my name is.”
Samantha shook her head, cradling the warm cup between her hands to steady them.
“No, no, I don’t,” she said. “Something’s happened to me. Please help me, little girl.”
The child straightened herself. “I’m not little. I’m nine. And my name is Julie.”
“Julie what?”
Julie frowned at her.
“I . . . I can’t . . .”
“You can’t remember?” Samantha prodded. “Julie, how did you come to be here?”
“Mr. Henley brought me,” Julie said. “From the Cliffside Home. You talked to him, signed some papers, and we had a nice day together. Don’t you remember? We took a ride on the Durango and Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad. You bought me a piece of aquamarine from an Indian man.”
Unable to recall any of this, Samantha sat down on the edge of the bed. She didn’t speak for a few moments as she finished her coffee.
“Julie,” she said at last, “how long have we been here?”
“In Durango?” Julie asked. “Just since last night. We met Mr. Henley at the home the day before that.”
“Where’s the home?”
“In Tacoma,” Julie said.
Tacoma. Samantha had never been there.
“Wait a second,” she said. She opened the night-stand and pulled out a phone book. “Cliffside . . . Cliffside . . .”
But there was no listing for a Cliffside Home.
“Did Mr. Henley leave a number?”
Julie shrugged.
“Well, I don’t understand any of this,” Samantha said. “We’ve got to call the police. Maybe they can help me find this Mr. Henley.”
There was a plastic tent-card next to the phone, listing local restaurants, movie theaters, and emergency numbers. No sooner had she dialed two numbers than her hand froze. She felt something like electricity running through her body, as if she were being shocked.
I’ll die if I call the police. I can’t talk to them.
The thought came through loud and clear, like a piece of rote learned to perfection. With a cry, she threw the phone away from herself and stared at the dangling receiver.
“What . . . what’s wrong?” Julie asked.
When Samantha looked up to answer, her face was pale and her voice husky.
“I don’t know,” she croaked. “I got some kind of shock from the line.”
But it was more than that. Samantha felt an overwhelming sense of dread at the thought of trying to call the police again.
“But I’m going to find out,” she went on. “Julie, pack your things. We’re going home. And when we get there, I’m going to find out who you belong to!”
“But I belong to you now!” Julie insisted. “To you!”
Samantha met the child’s gaze. Julie’s green eyes were filling. Samantha felt a sudden urge to run and put her arms around the child. She wanted to hold her close and comfort her and tell her everything was going to be all right.
But it wasn’t all right. And nothing would be all right until she figured out what the hell was going on.
3
WITH A SWEEP of her conductor’s baton, Rachel Freleng brought the William Tell Overture to a finish, thus ending the John Glenn High School Orchestra’s Spring Festival. She turned and bowed to the cheering audience. At last, when the clapping ceased, she gathered up her music and made her way to the dressing room backstage.
“Mommy!”
Rachel crouched down and opened her arms to greet her two daughters. When six-year-old Tatiana and eight-year-old Olivia ran up to her, she caught them both in a loving embrace.
“It was so pretty, Mommy,” Tatiana said. “And I didn’t fall asleep once!”
“Oh, I’m so glad you liked it, Tati,” Rachel said, kissing the child’s brown curls. “How about you, Olivia?”
Olivia smiled sweetly. “Yes, Mom. I liked the part where that boy was playing the flute. It really did sound like bees.”
“ ‘Flight of the Bumblebee,’ ” Rachel told her. She hugged the girls tightly. “It means so much to me to have you as fans.”
Tatiana and Olivia were actually her husband’s children. Eric had full custody of them, and had made it clear he’d never give them up when he asked Rachel to marry him. She’d assured him such a thing would never be acceptable to her either. In the years she and Eric had been married, she’d grown to love these two girls as if she’d given birth to them herself. Rachel had no relatives herself, and to come backstage tonight and find a family was like a dream come true.
She saw her husband now, holding a can of diet soda. She stood up as he moved through the crowd of students and parents. Eric handed her the soda at the same time he stopped to kiss her.
“It was wonderful,” he said. “These kids get better every year. The school board was smart to make you head of the music department.”
A
young boy cradling a tuba sidled past them with a quick greeting to his music teacher. Rachel waved to him.
“I’m very proud of my students,” she said. She took a long sip of soda, then handed it down to Tatiana. “Eric, I have a few things to wrap up. Why don’t I meet you and the children in the lobby?”
“Sure, honey,” Eric said. He put his arms around her and kissed her warmly. “Tell Mommy we’ll see her in a few minutes, girls.”
“See you, Mommy!” Tatiana cried.
Olivia just waved.
Rachel entered her office. Once the door was closed, it seemed as if the noisy world outside did not exist. She shut her eyes and worked her neck and shoulders in a stretching exercise, trying to relieve some of the ache she felt after two hours of conducting.
When she opened her eyes, someone was standing in front of her desk.
“Who . . . ?”
A strange, cold sensation against her face arrested any attempt at speaking. Rachel had a brief thought about icy rain before everything went black.
When she awoke again, she was still sitting at her desk, her head resting in her arms. She looked up slowly, feeling shaky inside. No one was in the room now, but she had a vague sensation that someone had been there. It was like the last vestiges of a dream.
She rubbed her eyes, and as she drew her hands away, she noticed they were dirty.
She must have passed out. Sheer exhaustion, that’s all. Maybe she only dreamed someone was in the office. But she was certain Eric would be worried about her if she didn’t hurry and get her things together.
She filed away that night’s music and gathered up some songsheets she hoped to practice that weekend. Then she opened her office door and left, locking it behind her.
Rachel was immediately aware that something was wrong. It was dark in the hallway, and so quiet. Where had all the students gone? Where were their families?
She quickened her pace to a half-run, her high heels rapping on the tiled floor. There wasn’t another person in sight, not another sound but those she made herself. She reached the lobby, expecting to see her family waiting. But Eric and her daughters weren’t there.
A soft click made her cry out in fear. She swung around, expecting to see someone behind her. Instead, her eyes were drawn to the big clock on the wall. In the daytime, with so much noise in the school, she never would have heard the click of the moving minute hand. But what startled her more was the time: 1:10 A.M.
Cries of the Children Page 1