A Stranger's Touch (23 page)

Her spit splashed his face as she yelled. He twisted and wriggled to get away. “It’s not my fault. The TV isn’t working, either.”

She let go of him so fast he fell over
,
landing hard on his bum. He pulled his elbows in tight to his body, waiting for her to grab him again, to scream in his ears.

Her lips moved, but no sound came out. Her scarecrow arms hung loose at her sides. She stared off into space, as if she’d forgotten he was even there. Then her dark eyes went to him.

“We’ll have a fire, instead,” she said, smiling. “I might even have some marshmallows.”

The woman set to work, her back to him, crumpling newspapers and putting them into the fireplace like nothing happened. But
everything
had happened.

He’d thought about running away from her ever since she’d pulled him into the backseat of her car. But he’d been too afraid to try it, too worried about what she’d do if she caught him. Now, thinking about staying with her scared him even worse.

“What are you doing, Marshall?”

He turned and saw her staring at him. Prickles licked up his spine. “Looking around,” he told her. “Remembering.”

He’d tacked on the last word, hoping she’d like it. The woman gave him a huge grin. “Have you missed your little home?”

He still did. He missed watching cartoons on Saturday mornings with a plateful of his mother’s waffles. He missed the way she’d smile at him when she thought he wasn’t looking. Remembering made his chest feel tight.

The woman stood up, her knees cracking like the twigs she’d added to the pile, and walked over to him. Her icicle fingers combed through his hair. She grabbed his chin and lifted his face. Her eyes were watery, like she was getting ready to cry. It wasn’t until she walked away from him that Davie could breathe again.

“I’m surprised you haven’t gone upstairs to see your room.” She took a small can from a side cupboard and went back to the fireplace. She screwed off the top of the can and tipped it over onto the newspapers and twigs. “Your toys are exactly the way you left them.”

“Toys? Cool!” He took a step toward the stairs and stopped. He couldn’t get distracted. He was a superspy, on a mission to escape. “I’ll go later.”

Something burned his lungs. He coughed. There was a bad smell in the room, like when his mom put gas in the car.

“Clumsy me.” The woman looked down at her feet so Davie did, too. The can was on its side, liquid glistening on the floor.

Davie went stiff, waiting for another round of screaming. But the woman wasn’t angry about the spill at all. She took her time wiping up the mess with one of the sheets she’d used to cover the furniture, humming as she cleaned. Then she put the open can on top of the dirty sheet. “There. That should do it.”

Watching the woman gave Davie an idea. He’d been trying to escape in a sneaky way. Maybe he didn’t need to fool her. “Want some help with that fire? I could go outside and get more wood...Mommy.”

Her face glowed. “That’s so sweet of you, Marshall. But there’s plenty to burn right here.”

He shrugged, as if it wasn’t a big deal but, really, he felt like crying.

“There is something I could use, though.”

Davie leaned forward, eager to please. “Yes, Mommy?”

He hoped she liked the
mommy
thing. His dad always said you had to push whatever you were trying to sell. But you had to be careful not to overdo it.

“The broom.” The woman laughed. “I’ve made a mess of the hearth. See?”

He peered over the couch. There were a few pieces of bark, and some other junk, nothing that couldn’t be hidden under the carpet. Or forgotten about, like the broken plate. But girls were funny about that sort of thing.

“Could you get it for me?”

“The broom? Okay. Where is it?”

She giggled. “In the kitchen, silly.
You
know.”

Davie nodded and walked to the kitchen, his legs itching to run. As soon as he was out of sight, he dove for a chair. He shoved it across the floor, but that made too much noise, so he picked it up and carried it. All the time, his heart thumped as if a basketball game was going on in his chest.

He set the chair down as quietly as he could then crawled up onto it. Stretching tall, he could just reach the chain on the outside door. He pushed it across and let it fall to one side, holding back a cheer.

He leapt off the chair, shoved it away, then spit into his palms and reached for the bolt. He grabbed it with one hand and gave it a twist. It barely moved.

“Marshall?”

Cold sweat popped up on his scalp. The woman sounded impatient, the way his teacher did when a kid blew an easy question.

Davie threw his weight against the door. He grasped the bolt in both hands and pressed in and up.

It started to turn. He pushed harder.
Harder.
The lock opened with a click that echoed through the room. Davie took a breath and reached for the knob.

“Marshall, what are you doing?”

Strong hands gripped his shoulders and spun him around. He landed hard against the door, pain exploding across his back. Specks of light shimmered across his eyes, making his belly churn.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The woman sounded far away, like she was yelling at him through a long cardboard tube. But she was right there. Davie could smell her hot, smoky breath on his face, feel her skeleton hands as they tightened around his throat.

He squirmed, but couldn’t get away. The stars disappeared and a big black cloud moved over his eyes. His legs went slushy and he fell to the floor on his hands and knees. He gulped in air, blinking until he could see again.

“What’s the matter with you?” The woman click-clacked a step back. She didn’t sound angry now. She sounded frightened. Davie took in another shaky breath. And another.

“Marshall, stop that. Breathe properly.”

He didn’t. If it scared her, made her stop hurting him, good. He pulled himself to his feet and wheezed harder, faster.

The woman backed away, her face white. “Marshall, I order you to stop. You’re better now. You don’t have to breathe that way.” She held her hands in front of her face, as if she couldn’t bear to look at him.

Davie figured he wasn’t going to get a better chance. While she was turned away, he grabbed the doorknob, gave it a tug, and ran for his life.

* * *

Gravel crunched under Stafford’s shoes as he made his way up the overgrown driveway to the house. And he felt lower than the stones beneath his feet. As exposed.

He’d been stupid to get close to Maggie. Relationships weren’t for him. He had traveling feet—always on their way to someplace else. Whenever a woman meant something to him, he picked up the pace. Better to be the one walking away. Because no woman stayed around long, once she found out about his truck-load of baggage. At least, no woman that mattered.

Except Stafford couldn’t remember a woman who mattered as much as Maggie.

And she was gone. Along with his chances. Even if he found Davie, alive and well, she’d made one thing clear. She didn’t trust him. Didn’t trust
herself
enough to believe. To see with her heart.

Damn it to hell.

He’d been a fool to hope for more. The timing, the circumstances...everything was wrong. Better to be alone. Seal off his heart, ignore the emptiness and concentrate on revenge.

Getting Morley.
It’s all that mattered.

He straightened his shoulders, hatred warming his blood. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a movement.
A shadow.

Pulse spiking, he crouched low and scanned the area. The motion came from the swing set at the side of the house. The last of the setting sun glinted off the steel. Rusty chains cried in protest as the wind swayed one swing back and forth.

Strange.
The other two remained still.

Stafford rubbed his eyes. It must have been a trick of light but, for a second, he’d thought he’d seen a kid.

He stood and walked to the front of the dwelling. With a sinking feeling, he wondered if Maggie was right. The place looked abandoned—paint peeling, grass and weeds poking up through the cracks in the sidewalk. The house smelled of decay, as cheery as an open grave.

Could he have so misinterpreted his visions? Was Davie already dead?

The dull blade of guilt knifed Stafford below the ribs. Air dodged his lungs. He eased himself down to sit on the cold cement step, willing oxygen into the hollow of his chest.

Another death. Another failure. In a lifetime full of them. He’d never be free of Morley. Until he caught the bastard. And put an end to the suffering.

With unsteady fingers, he fished for his pocketknife. If nothing else, he could use one of the tricks he’d learned from the old timers at Quantico to break into the house and seek shelter for the night. In the morning, he’d start the long walk back to Yellowknife. And the rest of his wretched life.

Then he heard a woman’s voice. “Marshall.”

Stafford’s heart bungee jumped off his breastbone. The name came from his first reading. The voice was only a few feet from him, on the opposite side of the door. And whoever had spoken was moving to the side of the house.

He ducked down and hugged the outside wall, following the direction of the voice. He reached the corner and peered around it.

A door opened and a small boy appeared.
Bolted
, more like. The dark-haired child streaked down the stairs. The sight whirled in Stafford’s brain like a double scotch on the rocks. This was the boy he’d seen in the mirror—his hair cut and dyed, his face white with fear.

“Davie?”

The boy looked up. He was small. Thin. But his eyes hinted at the big thoughts going on behind them.
What to do? Who to trust?

Holding back the urge to turn cartwheels, Stafford cemented his feet to the ground. He’d let the boy make the first move.

He leaned down, close to eyelevel, and rested his hands on his thighs. “I’m here with your mom...Maggie. She’s a police officer...from Calgary.”

The boy
smiled, a crooked grin Stafford recognized from the photo hanging from his mother’s rearview mirror. And from Maggie, herself.

“You found me.” The kid flew over the last two steps. Stafford fell to his knees and opened his arms as the boy ran into them, warm and alive.

“Yes, I found you,” Stafford whispered into the child’s hair, his voice splintering. Through the mist in his eyes, he saw another youngster, playing on the swings.

Tommy Hutchinson, free of his wounds, pulled back on the chains and pushed his feet into the air. He turned his head and nodded.

The heavy weight on Stafford’s chest lifted. It was as if that nod carried a
forgiveness
. A
thank you
. Because Tommy
had
been found. Not the way either of them would have chosen, but chance and fate played as big a part in life and death as choices.

And now Tommy had helped him save another little boy. And freed Stafford from the guilt he’d been carrying. That nod said it all, without saying a word.

Tommy grinned and leaned back on the swing. He pumped higher and higher, toward the setting sun.

A burst of light flashed through the tamaracks, burning Stafford’s eyes. He squinted and lowered his chin. When he looked back, the swing was empty. Tommy and the light were gone. And Stafford knew, deep down, he’d never see Tommy again.

So he held the live boy even tighter, felt the child’s heartbeat drum against his chest. Small, shy arms wrapped around Stafford’s neck. He heard a sob and pulled away to dry Davie’s tears, when he realized the sob came from his own lips. The pain of his sister’s loss, the loneliness of his life, everything surfaced in that one embrace, leaving Stafford as shell-shocked as a battle weary soldier.

Until a sharp click brought his head up.

There on the porch stood a woman—thin and wizen, with fury in her eyes. And a rifle in her hands.

Chapter Nineteen

M
aggie jammed on the brakes, gravel ripping into her back bumper like cheap buckshot. She put the vehicle in park and sat there, her head resting against the hard steering wheel.

What in hell was she doing?

She had to get back to Calgary, make her way south of the border and claim her son’s body. Her sweet, little boy.

Cold cramped Maggie’s lower belly. A tear burned its way down her cheek. She couldn’t manage another.

“Damn.” She smacked the dashboard with the heel of her hand, trying to dredge up...something. What kind of mother couldn’t summon an ocean of tears for her dead son?

The answer came back, crushing her into the seat with the momentum of a high-speed chase.
A mother who still hoped.

The shock and horror of Owens’ words faded to a whisper. If the Inspector needed dental records to identify the child, maybe it wasn’t her Davie.

Laughter pinged against the windows of the car. Maggie covered her mouth, hushing the sound. What was the matter with her? A minute ago, she’d been desperate to cry. Now, she couldn’t stop laughing.

Was it from sheer joy? Hysteria? All she had was a handful of wishes but, for the moment, that was enough.

Funny.
She’d given up wishing long ago, seen the futility of dreams and walled them up...along with her emotions. Every time her dad missed a school recital, every time he came home past midnight on a day he’d promised to take her to the zoo, every time he forgot her birthday, another layer of brick and mortar slapped into place.

Maggie shrugged. He’d done his best, raising a daughter on his own while holding down a demanding job. He always told her they’d spend time together...later. But a sudden heart attack stole the future with the apathy of an unrepentant thief. In the end, she got his house and a small inheritance, but would have traded it all for a scrapbook of good memories.

Now, the tears came, years of denial released in a salty baptism. She’d always shied away from intuition, preferring logic, facts and evidence.

From now on, she’d follow her gut, her
heart
. A heart she’d numbed against the pain of rejection. A heart now linked to a man who made her smile during the worst times...and left her craving him with an intensity that took her breath away.