Strangers in the Night (18 page)

“Hold on. I think he's going to hit us from behind.”

Abbie ducked and closed her eyes, braced her feet against the floor and her hands against the dash, waiting for the impact. Jake's arm pressed her against the seat. A jumble of thoughts raced through her head. Thank the Lord Emma wasn't with them. She didn't want to die, and yet death seemed inevitable the way they were racing through these mountains. Had the Lord given her so much only to take it away?

When nothing happened except for hearing a honking horn and the roar of an engine, Jake's arm no longer secured her. Abbie looked up.

“He passed us.” Jake lifted his foot from the gas pedal, a look of fury fleeting across his face. “I don't get it. I could have sworn he meant to force us off the road. I'm sorry for the scare.”

“It's okay. Why did you think he was going to hit us?”

“He came up too fast for one thing—and way too close. I guess my imagination went into overdrive. I've been building him up as a bad guy.”

“Maybe he only meant to frighten us.”

“Or intimidate.” Jake hauled in a deep breath and released it.

“He succeeded.”

“One way or the other, the guy is trouble.” He looked at her. “Are you all right? Sorry about the restraint—it's an automatic reaction.”

Abbie reached over and placed her hand on Jake's arm. “I'm fine. I do the same thing with Emma.” She let her arm drop and looked away. Even in their brief exchange, she saw too much in those blue eyes.

He stretched his arm across the seat and she knew he wanted to put his arm around her. It would be so easy to lean on him. So easy to fall under his spell. But no. She couldn't let herself become attached to Jake. She couldn't give in to the desire she saw in his eyes. She couldn't let herself fall in love.

It's too late for that, Abbie Campbell. Love came the moment your eyes met his and you danced to “Strangers in the Night.”

Doing the exact opposite of what she intended, Abbie scooted across the bench seat and rested her head on his shoulder. He kissed her cheek as his arm went around her, and for one precious moment, Abbie felt that her heart had found a home.

“Abbie.”

“Hmm?” She turned her head, admiring his profile and luxuriating in the warmth of his embrace.

“I…” He pressed his lips against her forehead.

He was going to tell her he loved her. The realization stopped her cold. She wasn't ready to hear those words if it meant having to return them. She couldn't do that. Not yet.

She pressed her fingers against his lips to silence him.

Jake seemed to understand. He turned his attention back to the road, seemingly content to have her sitting beside him.

They arrived in Portland shortly after noon, and Jake stopped at a hamburger place so they could, as he put it, refuel. When they returned to the car, Abbie stayed on her half of the bench seat. Lunch had given her perspective and turned her thoughts from romantic feelings to the gritty hard-core job she'd fashioned for herself— that of finding out more about Barbara and hopefully uncovering something that might help the police find her killer.

Barbara's parents lived in the Rosemont District. The two-story house, a white Cape Cod with dormers, had a wraparound porch and looked welcoming. There was a large maple on each side of a concrete walkway. Since they had arrived fifteen minutes early for their one-thirty appointment, they waited in the car while Abbie rehearsed in her mind what to say to these grieving parents. Had she made a mistake in coming?

A few minutes later, a woman came out onto the porch and waved them in.

Abbie started up the walkway, feeling anxious as a child asked to read aloud in class. She wasn't ready.

“You must be Abbie and Jake.” The woman smiled as she held open the door and motioned for them to enter. She'd wound her graying hair in a twisted knot at the top of her head. A white apron circled her full figure, and she wore a blue and pink floral-print housedress that reached the middle of her calves. Though she was about the same age as Abbie's mother, Mrs. Nichols looked much older and reminded Abbie of Leah.

“Yes.” Abbie hesitated. “Mrs. Nichols, thank you so much for agreeing to talk with us.”

“Call me Rosalie. And you're welcome.” Her smile faded then returned. “Come in and meet my husband.”

Once inside, she introduced them to George, who rose from his easy chair to shake their hands. “You came to talk about Barbara?” His gruff voice and sagging jowls gave him the look of the bulldog that lay unperturbed beside the chair. The dog raised a sleepy eye to peer at them before snorting and subtly changing positions.

“That's Oscar,” Rosalie said. “He's not much of a watchdog, but we love him.”

“Please, have a seat.” She motioned to a sage-green couch. “Can I get you anything—coffee, tea? I made some peanut butter cookies this morning.”

Abbie started to decline but caught herself. Rosalie had gone out of her way to welcome them. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt her feelings. “Coffee would be great and I love peanut butter cookies.”

“I second that,” Jake said as he sank onto the couch.

She left the room and Abbie took a seat next to Jake, leaving the padded rocking chair for Rosalie.

In the ensuing silence, Abbie's gaze skimmed over the fireplace mantel that held a vase of fresh flowers and a photo of a young woman.

“That was Barbara's graduation picture,” George said.

A lump formed in Abbie's throat and tears sprang into her eyes.

She hadn't seen a photo of Barbara before, and this one was slightly out of focus. She had a beautiful smile and pretty blue eyes. The photo next to it showed two young women with the seashore as a background.

“Who's this?” Abbie asked.

“A friend.”

Abbie wondered if she was the woman who'd been abducted. Abbie slid her gaze to the fireplace and used a knuckle to wipe the gathering moisture from her eyes. Seeing the photos brought the tragedy into stark reality. Someone had murdered this girl—Rosalie and George's daughter.

“Don't know what we can tell you that we haven't already told the police,” George said.

His out-of-the-blue comment startled her. “I don't know either,” she said, “but I felt as though I needed to see you—talk with you about her.”

“As I told your wife on the phone,” Jake said, “Barbara worked with me in my real estate office. We miss her.”

“She never talked much about her job.” George reached down beside him to rub Oscar's head.

Rosalie set a large silver serving tray on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “Probably because she didn't care much about it. All she could think about was that bank robbery. She was obsessed with it. Her best friend—the one in that picture you were looking at— was the one that got kidnapped.”

“Barbara must have been devastated.” Abbie picked up the coffee cup and blew across the top.

Rosalie nodded. “Went to pieces. I kept thinking she'd get over it, but the more time that went by, the worse she got. She quit her job at the bank and at one point she even tried to kill herself.” Rosalie stared into her cup. “Pills.”

“I'm so sorry.” Abbie knew only too well what Barbara must have felt during that time. In her own grief, Emma was the only thing that had kept her from taking her life after she lost Nate and little Ashley.

“We found her and got her to the hospital in time. After a while, she seemed to pull herself together. She never said much about the robbery after that. We thought she'd moved on. She studied and got her real estate license, and then one day decided to move to Ocean-side.” Rosalie nodded toward Jake. “That's when she went to work with you.”

Jake nodded.

“Said she needed to get out of Portland.” George leaned forward, resting his elbows on his legs. “All this time we thought she'd come to terms with the robbery and losing Valerie—that was her friend's name.”

“But she hadn't.” Abbie lifted a cookie from the plate. The last thing she wanted was food.

“No.” Rosalie bit her lip. “We know now that she had collected everything she could find related to the case. She kept boxes full of information—newspaper articles, journals, pictures. Broke my heart.”

Abbie's pulse quickened. “You have those boxes? Here?”

Rosalie nodded. “We found them here in her bedroom after…” She stopped and tipped back her head as if doing so could stop the tears. She pulled a tissue from the box beside the rocking chair and apologized. “After the funeral, I went to her room to be close to her. She'd stored the boxes on the shelf in her closet along with her school mementos. I had only meant to look at the school albums, but…” Rosalie bunched her apron in her hands.

When she didn't go on, Jake asked, “Did you see anything that might explain why she went to Oceanside?”

“I don't know.” Rosalie set her cup down on the small round table beside her chair. “She wrote things down. I could show them to you.”

“Please,” Abbie said.

Minutes later Rosalie brought back three large shoeboxes and set them on the dining room table. Abbie and Jake moved to join her. For over an hour, they sorted through the boxes. One contained articles like the one she'd seen in Travis's kitchen drawer and in her research at the library. What provided the best insight were Barbara's journal entries. She didn't write every day and, as far as they knew, hadn't started until a year or two after the bank robbery. The entries clearly showed her frustration with the police as well as her grief over the loss of a friend. She had written down a number of names along with where she had seen them that compiled a suspect list. She'd also listed a number of bank robberies—three of them occurring on the Oregon coast.

These robberies, Barbara wrote, were connected to the bank robbery in Portland. The police agreed, but the cases remained unsolved. Her last entry in the journal talked about doing whatever she had to do to find the man who'd abducted and probably killed Valerie.

“When did she move to Oceanside?” Abbie closed the journal and set it aside.

“Two years ago. She'd been selling real estate here and said she needed a change of scenery.” Rosalie closed her eyes for a moment. “I knew it must have had something to do with the robbery. She'd stopped talking about it by then, but I can see now that she rarely thought of anything else.”

When they'd gone through each of the boxes, Jake leaned back. “Have the police seen these?”

Rosalie shook her head. “No, but I suppose they'll want to.”

“There could be some important information here,” Abbie said. “If it's all right with you, we can take them with us.”

“Will I get them back?”

“Eventually. The police will want to hold onto them for a while at least,” Jake said. As they repacked Barbara's boxes, Abbie stared at the five-by-seven artist's sketch of the bank robber. The larger picture made his features easier to see. He looked vaguely familiar. A chill shuddered through her as she thought about the people she'd met in Oceanside and Cold Creek. Could the man in the police sketch be one of them? Several of the men, including Jake, seemed to fit the description. She sighed. The drawing was simply too generic.

Upon leaving the Nichols' home, Jake headed toward downtown Portland, where they stopped at the police station. When they announced who they were and what they wanted, the officer at the desk asked them to take a seat. Minutes later, another officer led them back through a secured door and into an office.

It took less than a minute for the detective to arrive. He was tall and gangly and dressed in a suit, with his tie hanging loosely around his neck.

“Abbie, Jake,” he said as if he knew them. “I just got off the phone with Officer Stuart in Oceanside. He said you'd be coming in.” The detective placed a file on the table and gave Abbie an assessing look. “I understand that you're Skye Grant's sister.”

Abbie nodded. “Have you found her? Is she—”

He pressed his lips together. “We may have.”

Abbie gripped Jake's hand, preparing herself for the worst. “Please tell me she's okay.”

“A woman is in the hospital. We got a call last night from Good Samaritan, saying they had a Jane Doe. She fits your sister's description, but her face is beat up pretty bad, so it's hard to tell. She didn't have any ID.”

“Can I see her?”

Detective Grant nodded. “I'll take you there myself.”

Thirty minutes later, they were at the hospital. He led them to the elevator and took them to the medical surgical ward. Abbie could hardly breathe. She hoped the woman they'd found was someone else and at the same time prayed it would be Skye.

Abbie had to lean on Jake for support as she walked into the room. A nurse who stood on the opposite side of the bed, adjusting an IV, looked up.

“Any change?” the detective asked.

“I'm afraid not. She still hasn't spoken.”

“This is Abbie Campbell. I'm hoping she can identify our Jane Doe.”

“Jane” shifted and made a sharp mewing sound.

Abbie stared at the small figure lying in the center of the bed. She looked more like a child than a woman. The detective had told them that their Jane Doe had been beaten, but nothing could have prepared Abbie for the sight that greeted her. Her heart seemed to implode, sending shock waves through her entire body. Her knees buckled, and she tightened her hold on Jake's arm.

She knew immediately that the woman was Skye. Her baby sister's face was puffy and misshapen, like some grotesque mask. Bandages covered one side of her head. What Abbie could see of her hair was tangled and matted with dry blood. Her eyes were closed and swollen. “Skye.” Abbie lunged forward, releasing Jake's arm and gripping the bedrail. Skye groaned in an awkward attempt to lick her dry, cracked lips. Abbie closed her eyes for a moment. She was the eldest, the strong one. Falling apart was not the answer. Skye needed her now more than ever.

Abbie leaned over to take her sister's frail hand. “I'm here, sweetheart. Everything's going to be all right.”

“A—” Skye struggled to raise her head.

“Shh.” Abbie stroked Skye's arm. “Don't try to talk. Just rest. I'm here and I'll stay until we can take you home.”

Skye seemed to settle down then. A tear slipped from her eye and trailed into her matted hair. Maybe it was the pain medication, or just relief, but Skye's breathing worked itself into a rhythm of sleep.

Jake came up behind her and placed his hands on Abbie's shoulders. She leaned back against him. “Thank you for coming with me, Jake,” she whispered.

“You don't have to thank me, Abbie.” Jake moved back to capture an orange plastic chair for her. She released Skye's hand and dropped into it.

The detective stepped over to the end of the bed. “Abbie, I'm going to need to talk with you and ask some questions.”

She nodded.

The nurse, who had apparently stepped out of the room, came in with a clipboard and wanted a medical history. The next hour flew by as Abbie telephoned her parents and answered questions. Carlene insisted on coming to the hospital, but Abbie persuaded them to wait until Abbie could talk with the doctor. “Maybe we can bring her to the hospital in Oceanside,” Abbie told them. “I'll call as soon as I hear anything.”

By midafternoon things had quieted down. Abbie rested her head on the bed, still unable to believe what had happened. A woman in a white lab coat came in around five and introduced herself as Dr. Amanda Parish. “Your sister is a very lucky woman.”

“So I hear.” Abbie watched as Dr. Parish woke Skye and began her examination.

After a few minutes, she took the ear pieces of the stethoscope from her ears and hung the instrument around her neck. “The nurse said that you're hoping to transfer Skye to the hospital in Oceanside.”

“Is that possible?”

“It is, but it won't be necessary. Skye's injuries look a lot worse than they actually are. She has no broken bones. Lots of bruises, yes. We had to stitch up some cuts on her face and along the side of her head. The worst was along her left jaw. It'll likely leave a scar, but it'll fade with time.”

“Are you saying I can take her home?”

“If she's able to take fluids. I'm ordering a liquid diet for now. I think she should spend the night, and if all goes well, I'll release her tomorrow.” She hesitated. “As for you taking her home, that will depend on the police.”

“They wouldn't arrest her now, would they?” Abbie tried to wrap her mind around the impossible.

“The good news is that her lab work shows no sign of drug use.”

Relief flooded Abbie. “Thank you.” When the doctor left, Abbie called Tim to let him know what had happened, but he already knew and was on his way. Between Tim, Abbie, Jake, and the detective, they managed to get Skye released from police custody. Skye had not broken any laws in Portland that the police were aware of. The warrant for her arrest had come out of Lincoln County, and Tim would be able to transport her there as soon as she was released.

Abbie, of course, dropped the charges, and the rest of the paperwork could be taken care of once they reached Oceanside.

By morning, Skye was able to take fluids well enough to discontinue the IV. And she could speak. Her first words came as an apology.

“Abbie, I'm sorry I took your car and the money. I needed a fix so bad. I couldn't think straight.”

“I wish you had come to me.”

“I do too, now. When I got to Portland I hooked up with a couple of friends, but when I saw them I couldn't believe how pathetic they were. I used to be just like them and here I was, planning to go back. I don't want to live like that, Abs.” She reached for her water and took a sip.

Abbie held the glass for her. “Oh, Skye, I'm so proud of you. But I don't understand. If you walked away, how did you end up like this?”

“Jamal must have overheard us talking. I started to go and he blocked my way.”

She cringed and Abbie took hold of her hand. “It's all right now, Skye, he can't hurt you.”

“Can you give us a last name?” the detective asked.

“No. The only thing anyone called him was Jamal or Cobra.”

“How about a description?”

“He's a big guy. Shaves his head. He has a tattoo of a Cobra on his—his right arm. It's scary. He told me I'd better stay put or he'd kill me.”

“Thank goodness someone found you,” Abbie said.

“I know the guy you're talking about,” the detective said. “We'll get him. A couple of our narc guys have been working undercover. In fact, you have one of them to thank for getting you here.”

“Tell him I said thank you.”

The detective nodded. “I'll do that.” He glanced down at his notes. “One more question. I understand you took your sister's handgun—”

“What?” Skye shook her head. “No. I didn't.” Tears welled up in her eyes as she reached for Abbie's hand. “I took the money—but no gun. I didn't even know you had one.”

The detective looked to Abbie for confirmation.

“I–it's still missing.”

“I didn't.” Panic edged Skye's voice.

“Shh. I believe you.” Abbie held her close. If Skye hadn't taken the gun, someone else had. But who and why? Hauling in a deep breath, Abbie set the worry aside. Right now she needed to focus on her sister.

The doctor discharged Skye after lunch. Abbie tucked Skye into the backseat and the two of them rode with Jake, while Tim took his car. They drove in tandem back to the coast.

They had no sooner settled Skye into her room at the Grant house than Jeff showed up with bad news.

“It's Brent,” Jeff said. “Someone ran him off the road as he was heading home from Cold Creek last night.”