Anywhere She Runs

by Webb, Debra

  And Adeline was adopted . . . her whole past was founded on untruths and secrets.

  “I have to tell you the rest,” Irene insisted. “I can hardly keep my eyes open . . . but you have to know. It may make the difference in . . . how this turns out.”

  Adeline pushed away all thought but one—her mother’s well-being. She glanced at the monitors. Her mother’s blood pressure and heart rate had climbed since she’d come into the room. “Mom, you don’t need to push yourself.”

  “Just listen to me,” she urged. “The adoptions were sealed by the church.” Irene exhaled a shuddering breath. “Somehow the Prescott woman learned the truth. Apparently someone else did as well . . . but I don’t know why they would do anything so awful as this.” More tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Adeline gently swiped them away. Her fingers trembled in spite of her best efforts.

  Her mother’s gaze searched Adeline’s, then grew distant as if she were looking back . . . remembering. “They’re dead . . . I don’t know why she had to do this now . . . after all these years. But she just kept saying that she had to know.”

  Adeline tensed . . . was she talking about Prescott and Arnold? How could she know this? “Who’s dead, Mother?”

  “Your biological parents.” Irene blinked, looked into Adeline’s eyes once more. “I didn’t want to tell you any of this.” More of those tears spilled. “I didn’t want you to know that you weren’t my little girl.”

  “Mom,” Adeline urged, “that’s completely—”

  Irene put her fingers to her daughter’s lips, hushing her protests. “I realized I couldn’t keep the truth from you any longer. Not with the situation getting worse and worse. It’s been eating at me.” Pain etched deep lines in Irene’s face. “Was that woman taken because I didn’t help her?”

  Stunned all over again, Adeline dug way down deep and summoned her voice. If she sounded upset, her mother would only grow more agitated. “I’m certain none of this is your fault. You couldn’t have guessed what some madman was up to.”

  “But if I’d told her the truth would this have happened?” Irene’s head rocked slowly, wearily, from side to side against the pillow. “I should have told you everything a long time ago. I was a coward.”

  Adeline made a decision. There was no putting off certain aspects of this disturbing conversation. Not if her mother had information that could help the investigation. “You can help me now.” She had to be careful. The last thing she wanted to do was overtax her mother. The pivotal piece of this puzzle lay in the past—her past. The one she’d had before her parents had adopted her. “You don’t have to explain or to go into any detail,” Adeline said. “We’ll do that later, when you’re better. Based on what you’ve told me, Prescott was digging into her past . . . our past. If that’s the case, all I need is a starting point. A name or place.”

  “Father Floyd Grayson.” Irene’s lips quivered. “The last I heard he had retired to an assisted living facility in Waveland. Tell him you need to know about the Solomon family, Quentin Solomon, and . . . the tragedy.”

  Her mom’s eyes drifted shut.

  “Mom.”

  Irene’s eyes blinked open once more.

  Adeline squeezed her mother’s hand and pressed a kiss to her cheek, then smiled with all the love bursting in her heart. “I will always be your little girl.”

  Irene nodded, the slightest dip of her chin, then closed her eyes once more.

  Confusion rammed Adeline hard. Wait . . . she should have asked if her mother had told anyone else about this. Whoever had taken Prescott and Arnold had to be aware of their true past. “Mom,” she whispered close to her mother’s ear, “who else knows about the adoption?” Surely her uncle Cyrus knew. Bastard. Was he involved in this?

  “Ms. Cooper?”

  Adeline started. Took a breath and straightened away from the bed as the nurse entered the cubicle. “Is she okay?”

  The nurse nodded. “It’s the sedative, ma’am. She needs to rest. I don’t think she’ll be coming around again for a while.”

  Adeline nodded. “Thank you.”

  She stood for a long time afterward, watching her mother sleep. Watching her breathe. She considered the glass wall that separated her mother’s space from those in charge of her care. Adeline had no reason to doubt the competence of any of them. Yet, she was scared to death.

  She had to go. Prescott and Arnold were out there . . . maybe dead . . . maybe alive, but they needed her to be strong. To find them. To stop this bastard . . . whoever the hell he was.

  And now she actually had a direction to take.

  Adeline kissed her mom’s forehead and walked out into the corridor. Wyatt was speaking to one of the nurses. Adeline headed in that direction.

  A big body T-boned her.

  “Sorry.” She looked up at the man who had backed into her. Big guy. The uniform indicated he worked for the hospital. The mop in his hand identified him as a janitor. The yellow plastic sign sitting on the damp tile in the middle of the corridor reminded her that it was late, after normal visiting hours, when stuff like this got done. Boy, if her reactions got any slower she would be a danger to herself and those around her. “Sorry,” she repeated. “I didn’t see you.”

  “No problem.” He rubbed a hand over his shiny bald head and nodded toward the cubicle she’d exited. “Your mother?”

  Adeline nodded. She fought another wave of emotion “Yeah. She had a heart attack.” Which he likely knew already. This was the cardiac unit.

  He glanced at the nurse’s desk. “Don’t worry. She couldn’t be in better hands.”

  Adeline told herself he was right. She had to trust these people. “Thanks.” She took one last look at her mom sleeping so peacefully. “I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to her.”

  The janitor gave her a sympathetic smile then went on about his mopping.

  Adeline joined Wyatt at the station and left her cell number with the charge nurse. Grabbing her wavering composure with both hands, she met Wyatt’s expectant gaze. “We have to go to Waveland.”

  She didn’t give him time to ask questions. Adeline walked as fast as possible to the stairwell exit. She didn’t have the patience for the elevator. She had to get out of here.

  Wyatt didn’t try to slow her or to demand an explanation. He followed, taking the stairs two at a time just as she did.

  When she hit the parking lot, she sent him a sideways glance. “Take me to the nearest convenience store.”

  “Am I allowed to ask why?” He kept pace with her half run.

  “I need a cigarette.”

  Waveland, Mississippi, 11:58 P.M.

  The door had barely opened when Adeline spoke. “Father Grayson?”

  Father Floyd Grayson peered over his eyeglasses at Adeline. “You two got any ID?”

  Adeline displayed her credentials as did Wyatt.

  Grayson grunted, then sent her another speculative glare. “It took you look enough to get here.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “I’m sorry. Remember, I told you we were driving over from Pascagoula?”

  “Well, come on then. You’re letting in the cold air.”

  Adeline glanced at Wyatt before going inside. So many confusing thoughts were whirling around in her head that it was a miracle she could still string together two words. Wyatt had pulled some major strings to get the information on the priest from the sheriff in Hancock County.

  They followed the elderly gentleman into his cozy living room. Took the seats he offered.

  The small home was exactly like all the others in the village. Postage-stamp-sized yard with a picket fence. Christmas wreath on the doors, those too appeared to all be alike. Though he looked reasonably fit, Floyd Grayson was eighty-six years old and clearly this was well past his bedtime. When Adeline had spoken to him shortly after ten he had agreed, considering the urgency of the situation, to see her at this ungodly hour.

  “You want to know about the Solomon tragedy
.”

  Adeline tried to slow the adrenaline rushing through her body, couldn’t slow the momentum. “Yes, sir. It’s of the utmost urgency. Sheriff Henderson and I are working a case involving two missing women and we believe there may somehow be a connection to the Solomon family.” She was still reeling with the idea that she was adopted. Memories from her childhood kept flashing through her mind in some bizarre out-of-control fast-forward mode. Her father . . . she was his little angel. Her mother braiding her hair . . . taking her to school.

  How could she not have come from those people?

  There was no time for dealing with that now. Cherry Prescott and Penny Arnold were depending on her to find the facts . . . and them.

  Urgency or no, she understood, as the old priest sized her up, that he did not have to talk to her about the adoptions or the Solomon family. Even a warrant could not compel him to break his vow on the subject. Yet, he’d agreed to see her. That had to mean he was willing to talk.

  “You’re aware,” he ventured, “that I’m not obliged to discuss with you the details of a private adoption or any other personal knowledge related to a current or former member of my church.”

  A mind reader, too. Before Adeline could launch another persuasive strategy, Wyatt said, “We’re very much aware of the sensitivity of the situation, Father. Any assistance you can provide will be greatly appreciated and may,” he urged, “help the two women—both wives and mothers—who are missing. We’ve exhausted every other avenue.”

  Grayson cocked an eyebrow. “I watch the news, Sheriff. That’s why you’re sitting in my living room right now. I hadn’t made the connection between Ms. Prescott and Ms. Arnold. With the heinousness of crime mounting every day, sometimes it’s easier not to look so closely and to simply pray for the world as a whole.” He shifted his attention from Wyatt to Adeline. “But when I saw the two women’s photos side by side on the news this morning, I began to consider the possibility that I knew them . . . or I had as children.”

  Adeline eased to the edge of her seat. “If you’re not certain, Father, tell us now. Time is too short to be chasing our tails.”

  “I did a little investigating of my own this afternoon.” Grayson set his eyeglasses aside. “If I weren’t certain of what I’m about to say,” he scolded, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He inspected her face with that too keen gaze. “In truth, I could have answered your questions on the phone. But I wanted to see you before I made my decision on just how fully to cooperate, as you call it.”

  “I feel confident your sheriff verified our credentials and relayed that verification to you before giving Sheriff Henderson your home phone number.” Adeline didn’t want to drag this out. She just wanted the man to get to the point. She had questions. He, apparently, had the answers.

  “It wasn’t about your credentials. It was about you.”

  She braced for the tsunami about to blast her emotions.

  “You’re the spitting image of your birth mother.”

  Adeline rode out the initial impact of his announcement, then pushed aside the emotions that had no place in this investigation. She’d been doing that all night. “Anything you recall about the family and the adoptions could prove useful. At this point we don’t know how the fact that the victims are biological sisters ties into the abductions.”

  He studied her a moment more, his expression too knowing for her comfort. He was reading her like an open book. She supposed a lifetime of sheparding his flock had honed his insights into people to an uncommonly perceptive level. “Quentin Solomon took an axe to his wife and then attempted to do the same to his children.”

  A shudder rocked through Adeline, every bit as jarring as when she’d read those words herself after a Google search on the name. It had taken some weeding out, considering the amount of time that had passed, but murder had a way of standing out amid the other subject lines. She’d printed the most detailed information while Wyatt contacted the sheriff here in Hancock County. The tragic story of the Solomon family had elicited images that haunted her even hours after learning of it.

  “He’d been a good husband and father up to that point,” the priest continued. “A good provider. Came to mass with his wife and children every week.” Grayson turned his palms up. “No one could understand what made him snap like that. No financial troubles. No marital problems. Some would say the devil’s doing. I would tend to agree.”

  “There was a fourth child.” Adeline guided him toward the specific information she needed. “A son. What happened to him? Was he adopted by a family, as well?”

  “Another tragedy unto itself,” Grayson explained without answering the question immediately. “The way I understand it, Tristan, he was ten at the time, hid his three sisters when the fight between his mother and father turned violent. When his father couldn’t get his hands on the smaller children, his rage escalated and he tried to kill Tristan. There was a frightening scuffle and Quentin fell on the axe, killing himself instead of his son.”

  Jesus Christ. “What happened to Tristan?” Adeline asked again. That was the one part of the puzzle she didn’t have. The newspapers had pretty much explained the facts in the homicide case, but nothing about what became of the children. His whereabouts were crucial to the next move.

  “The doctors believed that the sheer horror of the event pushed him over a mental edge,” Grayson explained. “His mind just locked down. He spoke to no one after that night. Not a word. I went to visit him as often as I could for a number of years, but then he refused my visits. The boy was completely mentally devastated.” Grayson held up a hand when Adeline would have asked her next question. “But he did recover eventually. He was transferred to an adult supervised living facility when he was twenty-one. He remained there for five additional years where he began occupational therapy. He learned a life skill and later merged into society. I believe that was about twelve years ago. Where he went from there has never been released to anyone other than myself. It’s my belief that he wanted a complete break from the past. Perhaps that was the only way he could cope.”

  “Did he change his name?” she asked when the priest fell silent. “Is he still in Mississippi?”

  Father Grayson clasped his hands in his lap. “This is the part that gets sticky for me.”

  His position was easy to understand. Prescott and Arnold were missing and in clear and present danger; discussing their lives was an easier decision to make in light of that unquestionable urgency. But the boy—man—wasn’t involved or in any danger, to their knowledge.

  “Yes, his name was changed to protect him from the horror of his past. Just as yours was changed.” Grayson searched Adeline’s eyes a moment longer. “With all that he’s already been through, I’m not sure that I can facilitate your interference in his life in good conscience.”

  Adeline put a hand on Wyatt’s arm when he would have spoken. “Father Grayson, I don’t need to talk to Tristan. I just want to ensure he isn’t in any danger. If he’s at home, living his life, and hasn’t been contacted in any manner by our perpetrator, then there’s absolutely no reason for us to talk to him. Having a member of law enforcement in his community check in with him in a very casual manner would suffice. The problem is, for all we know, he could be missing already. He could be in immediate danger.”

  Grayson saw through her strategy in a split second. “Or he could be your perpetrator.”

  “That’s also a possibility,” she confessed. “We just need to confirm his whereabouts. Verify he’s safe and that nothing’s amiss. If he isn’t involved in this, he has nothing to worry about. There would be no need to disturb his life.”

  The old priest leaned forward, braced his forearms on his knees, and looked directly into her eyes. “You do understand, Detective Cooper, that this is your brother and sisters you’re talking about. You may have been an infant when you were separated, but you share the same DNA. There are memories of your time together, whether you can call them to mind or
not, imprinted on your spirit. These are not just strangers. You speak so matter-of-factly, I’m not sure the reality of this situation has fully hit you yet.”

  She slammed a mental door on the emotions his words stirred. “Do you know his name and where he lives now?” She needed that information. Whatever it took . . . she had to find the one other person with a connection to the victims in this case. Her instincts were usually on target.

  The seconds counted off, one trauma-filled instant at a time, before the old man finally spoke again. “When the tragedy happened . . . we scrambled to help. Our primary concern was the children. There were no grandparents, no aunts and uncles. Only the church and the friends of the Solomon family there. Several of the church hierarchy gathered and discussed the best course of action. We didn’t want the children to go into the state system, not when we had fine families, some of which had not been blessed with children, among us.”

  Adeline let the matter of the brother go for a moment, was mesmerized by the story. Her story.

  “The decision was made to send each child to a different home and that, as part of the agreement, the children would not be told before the age of twenty-five about the heinous tragedy. We felt this would allow the children to have a normal life without the taint of that horror haunting them. Beyond that age, the decision was solely up to the adoptive parents. You”—he pressed Adeline with his gaze—“were our top priority. Your safety and happiness.”

  For a long moment Adeline simply sat there . . . she couldn’t break from the trance. The images his words evoked kept flashing in front of her eyes and evolving. Three tiny girls whisked away from a horrific murder scene. Crying and clutching each other. Men in robes gathered in a small room, deciding their fate. This was like a bad movie.

  “He lives in Laurel,” Grayson said, dragging her from the disturbing thoughts. “His name is Daniel Jamison.”