Karin woke to a muttering television and the tickety-tacking of a keyboard. She followed the low light in the room to find Dave in the corner, ensconced with his laptop and that yellow pad of paper. He slouched in a chair by the room’s little round table, his feet propped on the double bed Karin hadn’t fallen into upon arrival and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses settled firmly on his nose. His eyes looked slightly larger than normal through the lenses…huh. Farsighted, was he?
“Hey,” she said, and it sounded like a frog being stepped on. She sat up in the bed-carefully-and reawakened every single bruise anyway. “So were you wearing contacts before, or do you do the vanity thing and leave the glasses off?”
He finished a few more keystrokes and looked up at her. “More like I break them on a regular basis if I leave them on. Never could adjust to contacts. Doesn’t matter…unless I’m using this thing or tired, I’m just fine.”
“Working late,” she observed, discovering the clock on the bedside table between them. Just after midnight. No wonder her mouth tasted so vile. And ugh…that smell…was that her?
“I caught up with my sleep a little earlier,” he said drily. “It seemed wise to get in a report to the local LEOs as soon as possible.” He nodded at the foot of his bed. “There’s a sub in there for you. Didn’t know what you’d like, so I went for blah.”
Surprised gratitude twinged through her. “Thanks. Blah is fine. Anything is fine. I think…I’m going to take a shower first.” Yeah. That smell was definitely her very own.
“I talked housekeeping out of a garbage bag and some rubber bands.” He looked back at his computer, typed a few words. “For your cast.”
“Jeez, who are you? An ex-Boy Scout?” She hadn’t meant for her words to come out so sharply.
He looked up again, catching her gaze for a long moment. But when he looked back at his work, he said simply, “There’s a sweatshirt in there, too. It’s all I had…it’ll be too big, but it’s clean.”
She plucked ruefully at her own long-sleeved waffle-weave shirt. “I can’t believe we didn’t bring my bag.”
“Other things on our minds.” It was a noncommittal reply, and she knew she’d hurt him with her sharp words after all. No big surprise that someone who was so fixated on helping children would have a heart big enough to be a target.
Well, so be it. She wouldn’t be in this mess if it weren’t for him.
And he’s only trying to help a little boy.
With much care, she left the bed and went into the bathroom, leaving the sound of his swift keystrokes behind. Her inner wince of contrition followed her right on in.
Under any other circumstances, it would have been a luxurious shower-hard spray, hot water, lots of lather. But tonight, it was merely a challenge to avoid the bruises and abrasions. She washed out her jeans and underwear and then hung them with the stern admonishment to dry overnight. The small fine-toothed comb he’d left would do nothing but foul up her hair, so she left it to dry uncombed, knowing she’d pay for it later. And though his sweatshirt hung down below her hips, she wrapped a towel around herself anyway. She surveyed herself in the mirror-tangled hair down around her shoulders, gray eyes wary and pained, abrasions artfully scattered around her face. The sweatshirt had another Red Wings logo on it-a ball with wings-which at least stiffened the cloth and obscured her breasts.
Sort of.
Turned out she wasn’t that brave after all, and she kept one hand at the twist of the towel as she left the steamy bathroom. Just in case. She rummaged in the open television cabinet, coming up with the hotel stationery and a pen, snagging the food on the way back.
“There’s a soda on ice,” he said, not looking up. Or rather, desperately not looking up. She caught his eyes following her, heard the slight strain in his voice.
She was about to say, you do think of everything, but stopped herself. “Thanks,” she said. And when she put it all down on the bed and sat, safely tucking the covers around her, she popped the top of the soda, fiddled with the tab a moment and said, “Thanks for getting me off that cliff, too.”
This time he looked up. And again, he didn’t answer right away. Then he nodded, and said, “You’re welcome. And you’re right. It was my fault.”
Startled, she nearly spilled the soda she’d just put her lips. “I didn’t say-”
“But you’ve thought it. More than once.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t take a mind reader. I’d think the same, if I were in your place. But…I thought we were on the same page. About the safe house. I didn’t think you’d-”
“Drug you.” She said it without remorse. “The safe house probably seems like a great idea to you. But it wasn’t my idea, was it? I can take care of myself.”
“So I saw.” He shook his head, but he smiled a little as he did it. “You certainly do rise to the occasion.”
“I could say the same of you.” It was an attempt to divert him, but it was lame and she knew it had failed when he just looked at her. Then faint amusement crossed his features and he said, “So. Mad Sheep disease?”
She couldn’t help it; she snorted, raising a hand to keep the current swallow of soda in her mouth where it belonged. “Hey, he’d just tossed me over the cliff. He didn’t mean to, but he was getting ready to walk away-with Longsford’s blessing. I figured he’d have a little rash starting from the poison ivy, an itch or two. So I told him he’d been exposed by my sheep.”
He thought about that a moment, then shook his head…but it was a gesture of amused admiration. “Good try.”
She shrugged, tearing off a corner of the sub. Hardly stale at that. “Didn’t work. Made a mess, in fact…I had no idea he’d be so sensitive to poison ivy. It came on strong enough to make him believe me after all.”
Dave tapped a few more words into the laptop. “Means he’s in custody, though.” He got serious with his typing for a moment, and Karin ate her sub in silence. It didn’t take long before she pulled the pad of paper to prop on her knees.
Karin Sommers’s Substitute Journal, March Something
Next installment in our exciting story. I’m here in a hotel room with a hunky guy in glasses that make him look even more sexy-if it can be believed-and I’m not even wearing underwear. Gosh, what do you think will happen next?
Nothing, that’s what. Because I hurt too damn bad. I’m in trouble, Ellen. Real trouble. I can’t help that boy as you could have, because we neglected to do one of those memory transference things as you died. I might be able to do something as me-Rumsey’s lessons come in handy now and then-but I can’t be me without throwing away the new life you died to give me.
And considering that warrant, without throwing away what’s left of the old…
And didn’t that just sum it all up.
Karin ate another bite of sandwich, savoring it. When she looked up she found Dave watching, his laptop closed, report submitted. “What did you tell them?”
He assumed a straight man’s face. “That he didn’t have Mad Sheep disease, no matter what he said.” He watched as she tucked another morsel of food into her mouth, then gave himself a slight shake. “Actually, I didn’t. I figure if he’s babbling about Mad Sheep disease, they’re not likely to give whatever else he says much credence. I just told them we’d found him when we stopped to stretch our legs, but that my companion had hurt herself while trying to help. Once we realized we couldn’t, we called 911 and went to get you medical attention. And that I would be happily cooperative about answering any questions.”
She narrowed her eyes at him.
He shrugged. “I don’t think we’ll have to. The man tripped and fell over the side in the dark, that’s all. He’s not the first they’ve rescued from that little patch of ground and he won’t be the last. And whatever he says, you can bet he’s not going to admit that Barret Longsford sent him to kidnap you, or that he threw you over the side of that mountain and then came back for you. Unless he’s got a warrant lurking, he’ll be headed back to Barret soon.”
Karin stopped chewing at warrant lurking but immediately forced herself to continue, even if the food had gone tasteless. Swallowing, she took a sip of soda lest the bread get stuck in her throat, but after that she had her game face back. Even if she did push the sandwich aside.
If he noticed, he misinterpreted. “Don’t worry,” he said. “If something comes up, I’ll handle it. Working with the local LEOs is something I do all the time-you think I had a contact in Bluefield out of coincidence?”
She’d wondered, actually. “So the errand geek is still on the loose,” she said, drawing her knees up to grow pensive.
“Sidelined for a while, I should think,” Dave said. “That rash…it’s going to take him out of work for a while.”
Karin pictured the man, allowing herself a small, tight smile. “All over his hands,” she said. “Ol’Barret’s gonna have to send someone down to get him.”
Dave looked at her another long moment, rubbing a finger just below his lower lip in a thoughtful gesture. “Seriously,” he said, “we could have pressed charges. But I don’t think you could have stayed low-profile, and I’d rather have Barret wondering just where you are. I’ve gotten the impression you feel the same.”
She took a sharp breath at the thought of being discovered. Longsford would know Karin wasn’t the woman he’d dated. Fooling Ellen’s casual acquaintances while leaning on the changes wrought by the accident was one thing…fooling someone who had been intimate with her was something else again.
“Hey,” Dave said. She looked at him, for the moment only blinking. Here she was with the man who’d inadvertently turned her life upside down, the night after her life had literally gone topsy-turvy over the side of a mountain. She’d survived that…she’d survive this. She’d survive being unable to help Rashawn Little-and she’d survive being wanted by Longsford as Ellen and in California as Karin. She’d survive, because it was what she did. But right now…
Right now it all piled up around her in an implacably suffocating way.
Dave made getting-up noises, and rummaged in the overnight bag he’d dropped to the floor on the other side of his bed. “Hey,” he said again, standing there looking as rumpled as she felt, damned adorably rumpled. And in his hand…a flask.
“Ooh,” she said. It was an expensive flask, leather covered. It promised…
Single malt.
“Just a taste,” he said. “It’s cask strength, and you’ve got pain drugs in your system.”
“They’ve worn off. Trust me on that.” She watched-more listened-as he retrieved two hotel glasses, rinsed them and reemerged still shaking them free of excess water; he put them on the little round table. Then he rummaged in the room’s minibar and brought out a bottle of purified drinking water.
“Ooh,” she said again. “We’re going to do this right.”
“Damned straight we’re doing this right. This is a twenty-six-year-old Cardhu. Distilled in ’76, bottled in 2000.”
She dropped her knees back into a cross-legged position, leaning forward a little. “If I didn’t hurt so much, I’d bounce. Twenty-six-year-old Cardhu? Let’s get married.”
He grinned. “Ah,” he said. “A true believer. I’m surprised this didn’t come out when we spoke last year.”
“We weren’t talking about pleasant things,” she pointed out, ignoring her little frill of alarm. This detail wouldn’t be the one to out her. “This is a pleasant thing. A sublime thing.”
He tipped his head in acknowledgment, trickled a finger of scotch into each glass, and handed her one, sitting on the edge of his bed. Not so far away, as they each swirled the amber liquid, taking in the smoky scent of a cask-strength malt. Karin sighed with appreciation, then took the smallest sip, holding it on her tongue as it warmed. Woody and citrusy and just a hint of smoky aftertaste when she swallowed.
She stole a glance at Dave, found his eyes closed and his nostrils slightly flared and suddenly fell just a little bit in love with a man who could savor such simple pleasures.
If scotch at nearly two hundred dollars a bottle could be called simple.
When he opened his eyes, he smiled, a self-aware sort of smile. “It’s better shared, I always thought.” He uncapped the bottled water and tipped it at her, and Karin held out her glass, wincing a little at what the movement did to her muscles.
“Never mind,” she said, as he eyed her with concern. “This will help.” She waited for him to pour a splash of water, swirled and took in the aroma all over again. The taste turned smoother, sweet honey on her tongue with a side of citrus and a peaty, smoky aftertaste. “Oh yeah.”
He grinned suddenly, still taking in the expanded aroma from his own glass. “I had a feeling it wouldn’t be wasted.”
“Oh?” She let the glass warm between her hands as he warmed a mouthful of the drink. “How did you come by that?”
He nodded at her sandwich. “The way you eat,” he said. “You enjoy it. You take your time. You…it’s…” He cleared his throat. “It caught my attention.”
Karin let another sip of whiskey sit on her tongue, regarding him from beneath lowered brow. Too observant, this one.
Too engaging.
Too tempting.
And if she was going to hold herself together, to protect her new life…just plain too dangerous.
In the morning, Karin donned her dry underwear and her not-so-dry jeans and held back conversation in favor of ordering room-service breakfast. She had him worried, she knew; now he knew better than to take her for granted. And she caught him watching as she lingered over her spicy sausage and couldn’t believe herself when she flushed. Get a life, Sommers.
Of course, that was the whole point.
She knew he’d insist on escorting her back home, and he did, following her truck with the casual skill of a pro. She knew he’d insist on coming inside, and he did. She knew they’d have another conversation about the safe house and her memories and the boy…and she knew he was running out of time. One way or the other, he’d be headed back to Alexandria soon.
She hadn’t known he’d left his boxers on the floor of her bathroom. She tossed them at him and he caught them without comment, stuffing them into his overnight bag. Didn’t even blush, darn it. She picked up a crumpled towel-more evidence of his attempts to shake off the drug she’d given him.
She could also take it as evidence of his frantic reaction to her disappearance. Probably somewhat like Rumsey’s reaction…only she found she didn’t mind. Not this time.
She let Amy Lynn know she was home but that she wasn’t likely to stay, and she pointed Dave at the living room where he could make his phone calls. Then she went into her bedroom to peel off his sweatshirt-how could it still smell enticingly like him when it had clearly been freshly laundered?-and do what she’d been studiously not thinking about since her interminable night on the cliff.
She went up to the dormer.
To the storage off the dormer, where she’d carefully packed away Ellen’s most personal things.
Not before she’d had a good look at them, of course-the amnesia defense could only take her so far. The official stuff-bank information, old taxes, insurance papers…she’d kept those out in the file cabinet just as though they were hers. By default they were; she paid the bills and made decisions and signed Ellen’s carefully forged signature. But in storage…notes, old letters, photographs…
She’d taken a couple of ibuprofen, made herself a stiff cup of coffee, and disappeared upstairs.
“We have to talk-” Dave had said to her on the way by; she’d merely lifted a hand in acknowledgment. She’d told him she wanted to check her things, to try to jog her memory. Close enough to the truth. She figured she had until dinner to sort out what came next.
Dewey had followed her up the stairs; now he curled up beside her as she sat cross-legged beside the half-height door to the eaves storage. Ellen’s old letters had told her next to nothing; she wasn’t a woman who’d made close friendships and as Karin looked at the stack-a few holiday cards kept through the years, one wistful note from a former coworker and several of Karin’s quick missives from the years before e-mail and library Internet access-Karin suddenly felt awash in the sadness of such a solitary life.
And then she realized she had even less to show for herself, closed her eyes long enough for tears to form but not long enough for them to fall and set the letters aside. She flipped through Ellen’s photo album-scenic shots from a handful of vacations, several parties from work…And here were several captioned photos clipped from the society page, with Ellen on the arm of Barret Longsford. She was dressed more expensively than Karin ever would have guessed. Longsford must have provided those glittering gowns, that cocktail dress…
Karin ran her finger over a picture that showed Ellen in detail. Her makeup, flawless…the dress, formfitting. Like Karin, Ellen had a lean figure…lean unto boyish, Karin had always thought, but there was nothing boyish about Ellen in this dress. “Wow,” Karin whispered at her sister. “You look amazing.” And I never knew…
Beside her, Longsford had a publicity smile pasted on his face, his hand at Ellen’s elbow and the other hand giving a princely wave to the media. He wore a tux for this particular benefit event, his hair-blond or light brown, it was hard to tell in the black-and-white photo-conservatively styled, his teeth straight and white, and just enough smile lines at the corners of his eyes to look both dignified and a little dashing. She tapped the picture, tapped his face. “And do you really steal away little boys, Mr. Longsford? Do you kill them?”
And if he did…would Dave be able to prove it?
Stashed with the society clippings in the back of the album, loose photos sat unorganized and unsecured. More from the Longsford days. Exclusive resorts, a cruise ship, several outings that appeared to be more mundane trips to local parks.
A careful study of those photos revealed nothing of significance. Ellen and Longsford, his arm over her shoulder, a fountain behind them. Or a bandstand with band, or a sculpture…Karin would have guessed them to be events of political significance except for their dress…always casual, jeans and a polo shirt for Longsford, light sweaters and pretty shirts over slacks and jeans for Ellen. Longsford always had dark glasses on, always a cap of some sort.
But hey. Even an aspiring politician, son of a U.S. senator, and social gadfly needed some time to himself. Maybe that’s why Ellen had taken these pictures…reminders of her private time with a public man.
Still. They did nothing to prove Longsford was a monster. They did nothing to pinpoint where a small boy might be stashed.
“Crap,” Karin said into the quiet room. Dewey’s tail thumped twice on the carpet in response. “Crap,” she repeated, just so he’d do it again. Then she kissed him on the head and piled the albums, letters and loose photos away in their box, and pulled out the next one.
The old date book. Hmm, this could be promising. It had been on Ellen’s desk when Karin arrived to this unfamiliar house that was suddenly her home. At first she thumbed randomly through it. Plenty of days with Longsford’s name on them. Karin settled in to turn the pages, swiftly but in order. A doctor appointment, an office event…blah, blah, blah…and then a series of Realtor connections. The bank. The moving date. Long before then, Longsford’s name ceased to show up. Karin wasn’t sure if it reflected the assimilation of the man into Ellen’s life, or the breakup. If she’d spent enough time with him so she no longer noted it on the calendar, then there was no telling when they actually broke up.
Maybe it had been when she first talked to Dave Hunter. She had it in the book, right before the evidence of her intent to move.
And again, the day before she had left to meet Karin in California. Call Dave Hunter.
But she hadn’t. Karin had called her late the night before, asking for help.
So what had triggered her intent to contact Dave?
“I’m not meant for this,” she told Dewey, who of course thumped his tail at every word. “I’m meant for creating situations, not untangling them. What a good boy.” And he understood those last words as she’d meant him to, and offered up a flurry of wild thumps. Therapy dog.
Karin flipped through the remaining blank pages in frustration. Bad enough she’d had to look through all these things-to immerse herself, once more, in the loss she’d barely accepted.
A photo fluttered out.
“Hmm,” she muttered, reaching for it. “And why aren’t you with your little photo friends?”
The date on the back stamped it as being from one of the last batches, one of the park photos. And when Karin turned it over, she saw exactly why it had been pulled aside.
There was Longsford, leaning over to talk to a small boy. Karin turned the pages of the date book, tearing paper in her haste. There. The discussion with Dave Hunter…dated only a week before these photos were developed. Too bad the picture itself didn’t bear a digital time stamp; there was no telling the exact date of the event.
But what if that little boy was Terry Williams?
Dave would know.
No. She couldn’t show it to Dave. Not just yet. He’d have questions she couldn’t answer…and it wouldn’t bring him any closer to finding Rashawn Little.
The photo trembled in her hand. God, she didn’t need to show it to Dave. She knew. Why else would Ellen have pulled this photo? Why else would she have planned to call Dave? Karin didn’t know if Ellen had realized the photo’s exact significance, but she’d clearly put two and two together.
Dave was right. Longsford was his man. And while Longsford’s willingness to let his errand boys push her around-and then leave her on a cliff to die-had been pretty damning, they spoke only of the man’s ruthlessness. Not of his guilt in the kidnapping and murder of little boys. This photo…
This photo drove it home.
Longsford was a predator.
Ellen would have been able to help nail the bastard.
But Karin…all Karin could do was hand over this photo and shrug. Somewhere out there Rashawn Little was sitting on a figurative cliff, helpless. Waiting for someone to drop him some tire chains. To give him that wondrous feeling Dave had given Karin…that for one moment, she wasn’t alone in the world.
As Ellen, she couldn’t help at all.
But Karin had resources Ellen had never even imagined.