Line of Fire

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  Cody a philanthropist?

  “He’s never met Jenny?” Shannon asked.

  She shook her head. “I’ve only met him twice myself when we went to his bank to collect his donations. He doesn’t have a checkbook. He was very polite, not weird at all.”

  “What did you talk about?” I asked.

  “His art, mostly. I was asking questions. But we didn’t talk about our families, if that’s what you mean. Mr. Beckett rarely leaves his home. He won’t even come to the appreciation dinners, and all his donations are anonymous. I know he’s been in jail, but that was for attacking a man at a bar thirty years ago. I think the police are so hung up on him that they won’t find any real leads.”

  I would have agreed, except I knew this connection to Jenny’s mother made Cody more of a suspect than ever.

  “Anyway, my husband talked to the mayor of Salem—he’s a friend of ours—and he promised to urge the sheriff’s office to look at all possibilities. We need to find out who was after my little girl and why.” Gail’s eyes widened. “The mayor didn’t hire you, did he?”

  I was about to deny any connection, but Shannon smiled. “I’m sorry. We can’t divulge the name of our client, but I promise we will look at every angle. In fact, Autumn here has some abilities that we use quite often in Portland. She’s an official consultant there.”

  Gail’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of abilities?”

  “I observe things,” I said quickly. What was Shannon thinking? Most people ran away from me when they discovered what I claimed to be able to do. “I piece things together.”

  “Oh, like that guy on the Mentalist.”

  Now I was becoming a liar by omission. “Not exactly. But with something of the same results.”

  “Well, come on in.” Gail backed away from the door, inviting us into the entryway. “I’ll answer your questions.”

  “Could I see her room while we talk?” To me the questions and answers were secondary. Obviously the sheriff’s office had gotten nowhere with the information she’d given them, and I didn’t pretend to be smarter than they were.

  “It’s upstairs, but let me call my husband first. He’ll want to be here to meet you and to answer questions, too.”

  Shannon and I exchanged a glance. Was she afraid to talk to us without her husband, or was she simply hoping he’d add something that would help us find Jenny? Shannon took out his phone, and I knew he was texting his partner in Portland so she could dig further into Kenyon Vandyke’s background. Shannon had completed the usual checks on everyone involved in the disappearance before coming here, but Tracy had a way of finding helpful facts that lurked under surface reports. If Gail was afraid to let us see Jenny’s room without her husband, there might be something more to Mr. Vandyke’s past.

  I began work as Gail spoke to her husband, walking into the adjoining sitting room to touch the knickknacks on a nearby shelf, fingering a book, pretending to study or straighten several photographs. “This is Jenny?” I asked, pointing to a large photograph on the wall of a young Gail with a baby in her arms.

  New tears started in Gail’s eyes, but she smiled as she joined me. “Yes. She was three months old.”

  “A beautiful baby. I have a niece who’s not quite four months. She’s twice that big already.”

  “Jenny was always petite.”

  Petite, unlike her mother. Some would call Gail pleasantly plump; most would have called her striking. Though she didn’t have her daughter’s delicate build or her bright blue eyes, she did share the same beautiful long blonde hair, and the features of her face were appealing.

  Gail turned. “Come on. I’ll show you her room. Kenyon will be here in a while.”

  I touched the frame of the photograph before following her back to the stairs in the entryway. I felt love. As huge and all-encompassing as anything I’d ever experienced, though the imprint was obviously more than a decade old. Gail/I adored her/my baby. She/I was so grateful for her and would do anything, sacrifice anything to raise and protect her. Yet there was an underlying current of worry. How can I raise this child alone? The responsibility felt impossibly heavy. I don’t care. I’d give my life for her.

  The imprint vanished, and nothing else followed. Was Gail having problems with her husband at the time of Jenny’s birth or had she simply recognized that she would be the primary caregiver of that precious soul? That seemed to be a common feeling shared by new mothers. Tawnia often voiced feelings of inadequacy, and I had to remind her at least three times a week that she wasn’t raising her baby alone, that she had her husband, Bret, and me to fill in any gaps.

  There were more pictures going up the stairs, and since Gail’s back was to us, I was able to touch all those within my reach. Nothing significant except on a picture of another baby—a boy this time. The same love, only now instead of inadequacy, there was confidence.

  Gail had paused at the top of the stairs. “That’s Kenyon Junior, our son. He’s eight now. Our latest family picture is that one near the bottom of the stairs.”

  “It’s a beautiful picture,” I said. Unlike Jenny, the boy was chubby, and from the other photographs, I could see that he’d caught up to Jenny in height.

  Gail gave me a tremulous smile and waited as I finished the climb. No more photograph touching for me. Shannon arched a brow, and I gave a quick shake of my head.

  More photographs filled the upper hallway. “My husband likes to take photographs,” Gail explained. “He even takes most of the family ones. He turns on the delay feature on his camera. See? This is one of us with our extended family. The older couple are my parents. Kenyon’s parents have passed away, but these are his two siblings.” She pointed to a couple near the edge.

  “You don’t have siblings?” Shannon asked, his eyes scanning all the photographs along the wall. I knew what he was looking for, but not one of them was inappropriate. If Kenyon was abusive toward his daughter or had anything to do with her disappearance, there was no evidence of it here.

  “I’m an only child.”

  “They’re great photos,” Shannon murmured.

  Were they a comfort to her now, or a reminder that her daughter was missing?

  Jenny’s room was at the end of the hall. Decorated in pastel pinks, the spacious room obviously belonged to a little girl. A young girl. Even the posters on the walls were of cute animals and the occasional girl singer.

  “You look surprised,” Gail said to me.

  I shrugged. “The fourteen-year-olds in my building aren’t into pink or Disney pop stars.”

  “I know. Jenny has some friends like that, especially those who look older. But Jenny is a very young fourteen. She loves this room. We painted it together.”

  I nodded but wondered if Jenny really loved the room or if her mother only thought so. I’d had no secrets from Winter at fourteen, but we’d become inseparable after my mother died when I was only eleven.

  I began to walk around while Shannon asked questions. “It doesn’t look like she has a computer here. Do you have a family computer she uses?”

  “Yes, the kids and I share one. Jenny uses it for school reports and Facebook. We have her password, and we approve all the friends she adds. The rule is that she must know them in person, and we have to meet them. The police took the computer. They still have it.”

  “Does she have e-mail?”

  “Yes, but she doesn’t use it much. She has an iPod Touch we got her for her birthday. She can text here in the house where we have wi-fi, so she uses that instead of e-mail. She took it to school that day, or I’d let you see it.”

  “You mentioned she had Facebook. What about other social sites?”

  “No, we blocked the other social networking sites. We didn’t want to have to patrol more than one. All her friends use Facebook. They talk about school and family and their plans for the weekend. It’s real innocent stuff. There’s only one friend that I worry a little about, and we’ve been trying to have her over more. You know, influence
her toward good.”

  “Cell phone?”

  “She borrows mine sometimes.”

  A picture of Jenny and two friends on a bookshelf drew my attention, and I let the conversation fade from my mind. Shannon would fill me in when we left. What was more important at the moment were the things Jenny might have felt but left unsaid.

  I picked up the photograph, but it held only contentment and joy in friendship, with a tinge of envy toward one of the girls, who apparently had a new short skirt and leggings. The girl resembled Jenny’s favorite singer.

  Next to the picture was a bracelet with a large, heart-shaped charm and a key attached by a gold chain. A beautiful piece of costume jewelry, but besides contentment of ownership, Jenny hadn’t felt strongly about it. The second imprint on the bracelet showed it had belonged to someone before Jenny—a woman named Cindy, who had been afraid of the man who’d given it to her. No apparent connection to Jenny, so it must have been purchased secondhand.

  I let my hands trail over the rest of the items on the shelves, which was heavy on the knickknacks and sparse on the books. The dozen books she did have seemed to follow a princess theme—Ella Enchanted, The Princess Academy, Cinderellis and the Glass Hill, The Land of Magic. No vampires or werewolves here. Jenny loved these books, though, and the imprints told me she’d read them dozens of times.

  Coming up with nothing but irrelevant imprints, I moved to the walk-in closet and from there to the daybed by the window, covered with dolls and stuffed animals. Finally, I reached the small vanity near the bed that sported a brush, lip glosses, a small figurine of a fairy with one broken wing, carefully glued, and drawers full of clips and elastic bands.

  Once again I came up empty, except for the figurine, which held imprints from a month earlier. A rush of disbelief and anger, followed almost immediately by quiet acceptance. Silly boy thinks I don’t know he did this, Jenny/I thought. That’s okay. I’m really too old for this anyway, though Mom doesn’t think so. I’ll always love Kenken more than the statue, and I love it even more now.

  This was followed by an imprint of Kenyon Junior playing in his sister’s room uninvited. He/I was holding the fairy carefully. Jenny loved it so much. With these wings it could fly. Wouldn’t even need an airplane. Throwing it into the air and catching it. Horror when I missed. Oh, no! Have to fix it. Don’t want Jenny to get angry—and especially don’t want her to cry. The glue for my model airplane would work. There, good as new. You could hardly see the break. Plans to save up money and buy her a new fairy, fueled by guilt. I’m sorry, Jenny.

  Earlier imprints testified of how much Jenny had loved the little statue when she was younger and how she’d told Kenyon never to touch it. I withdrew my finger, blinking away tears at how sweet it all was and how horrible that Jenny was now far away from her family, perhaps afraid and in danger. Maybe even dead.

  “What is it?” Gail was standing beside me, though I hadn’t heard her approach.

  I met her gaze. “It’s a beautiful little fairy.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ve been touching everything. Downstairs, the pictures on the stairs. Everything in this room. What are you looking for? Are you some kind of a psychic?”

  I hated that label. “No,” I said. “I can feel emotions on certain objects, and sometimes those scenes give me clues that help me find people.”

  “I see.”

  I could feel her skepticism, and I didn’t blame her. Too bad I’d alienated her without finding anything of real value.

  I waited for Shannon to confirm that the police in Portland used my talent, but before he spoke, Gail said, “What do you feel on that fairy?”

  She wanted proof. Well, I could do that, though I didn’t know if it would do any good. “Jenny loved this fairy and played with it all the time as a child.”

  “You could say that about any child’s toy.”

  “Yeah, but Kenyon Junior—or Kenken, as Jenny thinks of him—came in here while she was gone. In the afternoon. He wanted to make the fairy fly, and he threw it in the air. He missed catching it, and a wing broke off. He fixed it with glue from his model airplane because he didn’t want Jenny to be angry or cry. She was angry but only at first. She decided she loves Kenken more than she loves the fairy.”

  “Broken? What are you talking about?” Gail snatched up the figurine. “Oh, it is broken. But when—”

  “A month ago. On a Friday, I think.” I saw dates of imprints in my mind as a calendar with a certain day or section highlighted. The more recent the imprint, the easier it was to pin it to a day and time.

  “You must be making this up.” Gail’s gaze shifted between me and the figurine.

  “She’s not,” said a voice from the doorway.

  Startled, we all looked in that direction. I recognized Gail’s husband from the photographs, though he was bigger and taller in person. Unlike Gail, his face held no beauty but there was kindness, and the way he glanced at Gail told me he worshiped her.

  “How do you know?” Gail asked.

  Kenyon walked over and placed an arm around his wife. With the shifting of the light, I could see he’d spent time crying—probably as recently as on the way home.

  “Kenken told me what he did. He asked if he could do extra chores to buy Jenny a new fairy.”

  Gail swayed against him. “Why didn’t Jenny tell me? I knew how much it meant to her. I would have bought her a new one.”

  “She thinks she’s too old for it now,” I said. “She only keeps it because her brother broke it and cared enough to fix it all by himself.”

  Gail began to weep. “Oh, Jenny. Oh!” This last was drawn out in a keening wail. “I want this to be over. I want my baby back here in her room. Who would want to kidnap a sweet little girl?”

  Kenyon’s arms tightened around her. “We’ll find her, sweetheart. We will!” I could hear a note of despair in his voice. Was it real or faked? I’d begun thinking maybe the father had something to do with her disappearance, but seeing him now, I was having second thoughts.

  “Did you find anything here that will help?” Gail asked through her sobs.

  I shook my head. “Not yet, but I haven’t looked at everything.”

  “We heard they found her boot,” Shannon said. “That is really our best bet. If they let us see it, Autumn might be able to identify who took her.”

  Kenyon’s jaw hardened. “They will let you see it. I’ll talk to the mayor and make sure of that.”

  Gail’s tears were falling more rapidly now, and she clung to her husband for support. Kenyon blinked back his tears as he met Shannon’s gaze. “I think she needs to lie down. If you’ll wait a minute, I’ll be back to answer any more questions you might have.”

  Shannon nodded, and we watched as Kenyon tenderly led his wife from the room, his bulk dwarfing her.

  “He was not what I expected,” I said.

  “My thought exactly.”

  “So where does that leave us?”

  “Without any suspect except Cody Beckett.”

  I sighed. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  “While you were doing your thing, Gail did wonder if there might be a request for a ransom. Apparently Kenyon came into some money a few years ago when his grandfather died. And he’s more than just a friend to the mayor of Salem. They’re actually related some generations back, the mayor’s line being the more prominent.”

  “So he was the poor relative?”

  “Before the money, apparently. Guess the grandfather was the intersection. Anyway, Kenyon works for the city as a manager over building roads. Not a bad job for someone who flunked out of engineering school.”

  “He seems very devoted to Gail.” I scanned the room for anything I might have missed. But there was nothing except Jenny’s shoes. We’d come here, it seemed, only to put a nail in Cody’s coffin.

  “You really didn’t find any useful imprints?” Shannon asked.

  “Well, I get the sense that Jenny was a l
ittle frustrated that her mother didn’t understand her wanting to grow up, but at the same time, Jenny really did love this room and she was very much a little girl. I didn’t catch one imprint of her being hung up on a guy.”

  “That’s unusual.”

  “I’m not saying she didn’t have any secret crushes, but if she did, the feelings weren’t strong enough to imprint here. Maybe if we checked her school locker, it’d be different, but if a boy were involved, I’d think something here would have imprinted as well.”

  “Unless some things have been removed.”

  “The report said that nothing here was missing, but I guess the parents could have missed some things. Maybe there are imprints on the computer.”

  Halfheartedly, I tried to read imprints from several more objects, but nothing important came to me.

  “Let’s go wait downstairs,” Shannon said finally.

  He was hoping I’d find something else to read, but Kenyon Vandyke met us in the hallway. “Sorry for taking so long.”

  “Can I use your bathroom?” It wasn’t just a ploy. After the fifty-minute drive from Portland that morning and our two adventures, I really did need the break.

  “Sure, there’s one here, but the kids share it, so maybe you’d rather use the downstairs one.”

  “This will be fine.” I’d never found good imprints in guest bathrooms.

  Minutes later I joined the men in the entryway with no added information. I could scarcely ask Kenyon if I could check out his room and bathroom, which I wanted to do to rule him out completely.

  “Look,” Kenyon was saying, “I’ll talk to the mayor. He’ll see that you get a shot at the evidence. I see no reason why the sheriff’s office shouldn’t work with you. One more set of eyes.”

  “What about the FBI. Weren’t they called in?” Shannon asked.

  “Yes, and they came here, but they didn’t find anything. I call them every day, and they’re still following leads, but the local authorities care more. My wife has held fundraisers for them, and they know her.”

  “Mr. Vankdyke,” I said, “could I see your car keys?”

  He blinked, his eyes blank. “Uh, sure. I guess.” He reached into his pocket and passed them to me.