A Stranger's Touch (8 page)

The road curved and a small village came into view. A few stores and houses dotted the highway.

“Where are we?”

“Not sure.” Stafford pulled into yet another gas station, one with a convenience store attached. After eighteen stops, Maggie had lost count. All the little towns looked alike, a muddle of places and faces.

She twisted the cap of her ginger ale and steadied her hand long enough to take a drink. At every turn, she half expected to see Davie running toward her. She checked each shadow, examined every yard. But there was no sign of her boy. The kaleidoscope of hope and despair jostled around in her stomach, causing a constant commotion that left her feeling as brittle as glass.

A dog barked as she got out of the car. Closing the door, she turned in the direction of the booming sound. From across the gravel parking lot, a boxer approached them. The large, brindle-colored animal wore a collar, but no leash.

Maggie looked around for the owner. She didn’t see anyone.
Typical.
The dog probably belonged to the storekeeper. Still, it was careless to leave it running around freely. The animal might be as docile as a rabbit, but it could still scare the crap out of someone.

Apparently, it took more than a big boxer to alarm Stafford Webb. As he approached, the dog stopped barking, sat, and cocked its head to one side. Stafford murmured to the animal, words she couldn’t make out, then he crouched down and petted it.

She approached slowly, hands clasped over her belly
.
“Are you in communication with this dog?”

“I’m not Doctor Doolittle, if that’s what you’re asking.”

A smart-ass psychic. Just what she needed.

Taking Stafford along seemed like a good idea back in Calgary, when she’d allowed her desperation to overrule logic. But if he planned to use his
feelings
instead of his fancy-assed
training
to find Davie, then the man was no use to her.

She’d check around town to see if she could rent a car and tell him to go back. She’d rely on her plain old police investigative skills from now on. But first, she’d flash her son’s picture in front of the store’s clerk.

“Davie’s afraid of dogs.”

Maggie felt as if she’d been sucker punched. She held out her arms to balance herself. “How did you know that?”

“He was around a dog...when he was little...and the dog hurt him.” Stafford rested his right hand on his left forearm, then inched his fingers upward. “Here.”

The ginger ale curdled in her stomach. Stafford indicated the exact spot Davie had been bitten. By Ron’s Rottweiler.

Ron had the dog when they married. Maggie never liked the animal and had always been wary of it. Around Ron, the dog was a hundred and twenty pound puppy. When Ron was away, watch out.

Davie had been playing near Shylow. When he reached to grab a block, the Rottie chomped down on his arm. Maggie told Ron to get rid of the dog and took Davie back to her father’s house until he complied. One of their first big fights.

“How do you know? Did the dog tell you?”

Stafford stood up and met her gaze. “He tried...but I don’t speak German.”

Maggie blinked. Did he just make another joke? She sent him her best don’t-fuck-with-me glare.

“Sorry,” he said, his mouth forming the trace of a smile. “I’m a dog lover. Seeing this one reminded me of an impression I got from the knapsack. I told you, it takes me a while to figure out how all the information I receive fits together.”

He tilted his head, looking a bit like a playful puppy himself. “So, am I right?”

She took a breath. Then another. “Most kids are afraid of big dogs.”

She wasn’t sure why she didn’t admit the truth. But she was positive he didn’t buy her subterfuge. An eyebrow raised in her direction convinced her of it.

“Let’s go in,” she said.

She could hear his footsteps, feel his gaze following her. She climbed the two steps into the store and went inside.

Behind the counter was an older man, probably in his late fifties. He was made up of circles—a round bald head, a round beer belly and two pudgy round arms. His skin was oily, like he hadn’t bothered to shower that day. Maybe that week.

“How ya doin’?” the man asked, to the accompaniment of a soft tinkle as the bells attached to the door fluttered against the glass.

“Not so good,” Maggie replied, trying to win the man’s confidence by taking on his speech patterns. When concern appeared in his eyes, she continued.

“I’m looking for a seven-year-old boy.” As she put Davie’s photo on the counter, she realized her mistake. She still wore the sweatshirt. Without her uniform to rely on, she had to punch up the authority in her voice. “Have you seen him?”

The man grabbed a pair of thick spectacles, stuck them on his nose and leaned in to take a good look. His scent and the aroma of sour milk competed with one another for the Most Pungent Award.

“Nope. Can’t say I have. He a runaway?” The man gave her a knowing smile, as if he dealt with problem kids daily. His phony sympathy wrapped around her like a sheet of sandpaper.

She fired back with another question. “What about a tan car? A two-door model, ten or twelve years old?”

The man’s eyes lit up. “Well, I saw an older car. Just last night, as a matter o’ fact.” He clicked his tongue. “Couldn’t swear to the color. Too dark out. Might have been tan.”

Her heart misfired then thundered in her ears. “When?”

“Eleven o’clock. Eleven-thirty, maybe.”

“Who was driving it?”

“A woman. About my daughter’s age. Forty or so.”

Maggie felt a surge of energy. It looked like they’d traced the suspect’s vehicle from Davie’s school to this gas station. The lead renewed her faith. She would find her son. On her own.

With Stafford taking a turn behind the wheel, they’d managed to cover a lot of ground. Truly, that was the only aid he had to offer. The fact that both the description of the car and the gender of the driver fit the psychic’s visions was nothing more than chance.

“But you didn’t see the boy?”

“Nope. No boy. Maybe he stayed in the car.”

She fought off a creeping chill as hope evaporated from her once more. Maggie whipped out her notebook, going through the motions. “Can you tell me what the woman looked like?”

The round man rubbed his chins. “About your height. Long, dark hair. Real pale. Kinda jittery.”

“Nervous?”

His upper lip curled. “Drugs, I thought.”

“Did you see her license plate?” Stafford asked.

“Nope. Didn’t look for one. Only noticed the car because she kept looking out the window at it. I wondered if she had a Porsche and was afraid someone was gonna steal it.” The man chuckled, a wet laugh that ended in a cough.

If Davie were in the car, the woman’s behavior made sense. “Did she mention where she was headed?”

The man closed his eyes as he thought. “Mmmmm. Not really. Said she needed enough gas to get to High Level—hey, where ya going?”

Maggie barely caught the man’s last words. She and Stafford were already halfway out the door.

* * *

Davie rested his head against the car window, watching the trees whoosh by as they sped along. The rising sun peeked through the branches, jabbing his eyes and making him squint.

He sucked in a breath. It whistled all the way down to his lungs. He took another, trying not to make any noise. He didn’t want the woman freaking out again.

Last night, she’d yelled, and cried, and said weird things that didn’t make any sense. About how he was scaring her.

Davie couldn’t figure out how
he
scared
her
. She was way bigger and way scarier. When she was upset, her face went all red and her eyes looked like they were going to jump right out of her head.

He could see part of her in the rearview mirror. She didn’t seem to notice that he was still breathing funny. She seemed happy—smoking and singing along with the music on the radio.

He inhaled again and choked. He covered his mouth with the crook of his arm and coughed into his sleeve
.
His chest was already tight from that gunk she’d used on him. He could still smell it. All around himself.

Davie leaned back. He knew he had to relax. It was the only way to get through the attack without his inhaler.

He turned toward the window and saw a face in the glass, a boy he didn’t recognize. The image startled him, until he realized it was his own self, staring back at him.

Chapter Six

“I’
m looking for a young boy.”

Maggie placed her son’s photo in front of the hotel clerk. She took a wide stance, balancing herself on legs that could have been straddling the San Andreas Fault given their quaking.

They’d been to every other hotel and motel in High Level. A dozen of them. All sounding as if they should have been in Reno or Las Vegas: the Sahara, the Stardust and Caesars. The Vagabond was their last chance.

At Maggie’s insistence, they’d first cruised the streets, checking driveways for the tan car. In a town of less than five thousand, that didn’t take long.

Logically, more canvassing should have been their next plan of action—visiting the business center to ask if any local women matched the suspect’s description. But Stafford had disagreed. He felt the abductor was headed further north. So they’d split up. Maggie on foot, stopping at every shop on the main street, and Stafford in the car, exploring the accommodations. When Maggie’s trail of crumbs had run out, she walked the couple of blocks back to Highway 35 to meet him at the end of the hotel strip. With each step, she’d sank a little further, as though she carried fifty-pound weights in both hands.

“He was kidnapped from a schoolyard in Calgary, yesterday.” Maggie heard her voice crack on the word kidnapped. When she continued, she spoke louder, to compensate for the chink in her armor. “Is your manager in?”

“I’m the manager, Noreen Spence.” The short, stocky woman reminded Maggie of her Aunt Jen, who made regular trips to the makeup counter of her local department store to sample...everything.

Maggie nodded and stated her name. Acting unofficially, she hesitated to give her rank. She’d had the presence of mind to switch back into her navy blues before their investigations resumed, using the uniform as a way to lure information from people. Hardly on the up and up, but she’d think about her actions later. For now, nothing mattered. Only Davie.

“What can I do to help you, officer?”

“I have reason to suspect the abductor, a woman, brought the boy to this motel late last night or early this morning. I was hoping to check your records.”

Noreen blanched. “Do you have a warrant?”

“Do I need one?”

The manager chewed her bottom lip, leaving a pink streak on her front teeth. “No. That’s okay. We want to be helpful.” She drifted to the computer at her side. Her long nails clicked over the keyboard.

While Maggie waited, she took in the compact lobby, checking corners, noting each exit, scrutinizing every patron that came her way—everyone a possible suspect.

The door marked POOL opened and a woman appeared. Her dark hair dripped onto the towel she’d draped over her shoulders. A small wailing boy, shivering in his wet trunks, trailed behind her.

The woman pulled on his hand. “I told you, we only had a half-hour. Open your ears.”

Don’t scold him,
Maggie wanted to say.
How would you feel if he disappeared tomorrow?
Her chest rumbled with a moan that came up from her toes. She harrumphed to cover the noise with what she hoped sounded like a hum of professional interest, as the woman led the howling boy to the elevator.

Then Stafford was at her side, his hand covering hers. Mr. Compassion. Mr. Johnny-on-the-spot. The man’s presence both calmed and irritated her.

She hated being helpless. Hated having to rely on anyone. Hated the burst of confusion she felt at his touch.

She was an independent person, an officer of the law. Ordinarily, she would have relished the chance to point out the absurdity of using psychic visions to solve crimes. To show that sober, logical, tangible police investigation was the only way to solve a case.

But a child was missing. Her child. So she desperately wanted to believe, to float on a sea of faith, to abandon reason and cling to the hope Stafford offered like a buoy.

She slid her hand out from under his.

“Our last customer was Angela Marshall,” Noreen reported, finally. “Her license plate number is here.”

Maggie suppressed a shiver.
Marshall.
The name Stafford gave Owens at the police station.

She shot him a look. She didn’t know what to expect. A man gloating, perhaps. Or surprised that his tip had paid off. That wasn’t what she got. His expression showed curiosity. Nothing more.

She jotted down the name and license number the manager provided, her pen making jittery scratches. “Any other ID?”

“There’s an address and phone number.”

Maggie felt as if she’d won the lottery, given the way her heart bumped around in her chest. She had to remind herself to be cool, play the cop, collect the information and keep her reactions undercover.

“Great,” she said, and helped the manager twist the screen around for a better view. She copied the information in her notebook then examined the rest of the page, her hopes wilting. “I don’t see any reference to a little boy.”

“There wouldn’t be. Children under ten are free. We don’t record them.”

Maggie felt like a boomerang, rebounding back with new faith. “Do you know what kind of vehicle the woman drove?”

“It’s not in our records, which is odd. I’ll have to speak to Dan about that.”

“He checked in Marshall?”

“Yes. He’s on nightshift this week.”

“Where can I find him?”

Noreen’s lips twisted into a pink smirk. “Danny divides his time among several young ladies here in town. He’ll be in for his shift tonight, but I couldn’t tell you where he is at the moment.”

I couldn’t tell you where my son is, either,
Maggie wanted to scream. She reined in the urge, swallowed
it, and buried it deep within herself. She had to keep her emotions in check. She wouldn’t get anywhere ranting like a lunatic. No matter how much she felt like one.