Even Steven (10 page)

She looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. "What do you mean?"

Bobbys jaw dropped. "What do I mean? What do you think I mean? We have to turn him over to the authorities."

Susan shook her head. "I don't think so. He's been traumatized enough. He needs someone to love him."

"Exactly. And that someone must be scared to death looking for him."

"Whoever did this doesn't deserve to have him back."

The finality in her voice shot a chill the length of Bobby's spine. "Honey, he's not a stray puppy. You can't just keep somebody else's child."

Susan shrugged, as if this were merely an annoying detail. "Who's to say he doesn't belong to us now?"

Oh, this wasn't right at all. He got up and moved around to the other side of her chair, so she had to look past him to see the little boy. "Who's to say? The world is to say. Jesus, honey, we don't even know what his name is."

"Then well name him."

"Susan!" The boy jumped at the sound of the raised voice, but he didn't wake up.

"Bobby, hush. You'll wake him."

He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head, as if to rattle a loose chip in his circuitry. "Do you hear what you're saying?"

She said nothing. She just continued to stroke the boy and to watch him sleep. But her jaw set, and so did her lips, the way they did when she was lost in thought.

"Susan?"

When she finally brought her eyes around, they showed anger. "Don't ask me to explain it, because I can't. But I know this. I know it's true. I prayed to God for a child, and even as I was praying, there he was, standing there, wanting only me. He wanted nothing to do with you or anyone else. He wanted me. God sent him to me. I don't know why, or how, but I know as surely as I know anything that this baby belongs to me now, and there's nothing you can do or say that will change my mind."

Bobby couldn't believe what he was hearing. "How about if I say 'kidnapping,' Suz? If I say that, might I change your mind?"

"You say kidnapping, I say murder," she shot back. "You can't prove one without admitting to the other."

The words hit like a fist. "Oh, my God, Susan, are you threatening me?"

For a long moment, she just glared, as if weighing her words, and then her eyes cleared. She shook her head and she ran her free hand through her hair. "I'm sorry. Of course I'm not threatening you. Think of the box we're in, though. We need to think everything through before we do anything."

The sudden shift in mood made him uneasy. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"I know. And I guess I just don't want to deal with it right now. Let me just sit here for a while longer, okay? Let me just be here when he wakes up. After that, we can talk."

Bobby didn't know what to say. Surely she didn't believe that there was some circumstance where they could just keep this child and pretend that he was their own. Even if she talked herself into it, how could they possibly explain such a thing to friends and relatives? And how could they live with themselves if they even tried?

Seeing the dream painted there on her face, though, he couldn't bring himself to shatter it. He couldn't bring himself to say the things that he needed to say. Not now; not with her looking the way she did. Not with the baby lying right there where he could hear everything.

"Okay," he said finally. "We'll wait. But just for a little while. You realize that, right?"

She smiled and tilted her head up for a kiss. He obliged her.

"Later today," he said.

"After I've had a chance to rest a little."

And then she turned back to the boy. At that moment, Bobby didn't even exist to her. He was invisible, a nonfactor. As he exited the nursery, he heard her start to sing a lullaby.

Bobby thought about showering, but decided to unpack the Explorer first. As he passed through the kitchen, he glanced at the digital clock on the stove and was shocked to see that it was only 7:14. It had to be later than that. He thought for sure that he'd slept for more than three hours.

To feel so wide-awake on so little sleep typically meant only one thing: that in a couple of hours he was going to hit the wall big-time. Hoping to delay the inevitable, then, he put on a pot of coffee, doubling his usual recipe. It'd look like ink and taste like crap, but by God he wouldn't be taking a nap anytime soon. Like until next week.

While Mr. Coffee gurgled and steamed, he headed out to the garage, thumping the button for the overhead door as he descended the short flight of steps. Thank God for three-car garages. It was the one feature on which Bobby would not compromise as they were drawing up their dream-home specifications. He and Susan were both acknowledged pack rats, and he'd be damned if he was going to have to walk sideways through accumulated junk just to get to his truck.

Instead, he had to step carefully through a minefield of junk that was scattered all over the floor of the center bay. One day, he was going to clean this place out. Really.

The morning chill still had a bite to it, and he found himself wishing that he'd stopped to put on a jacket. No matter, really; he had one in his backpack. After lifting the tailgate, he reached inside and pulled his navy blue Kelty pack closer to him, so he could dig into the big main pocket. The tubular aluminium frame had been old technology when he

bought it secondhand back in college, and nowadays, he considered it a source of pride that the ancient pack gave evidence of his status as an old hand at the outdoors. Space-age composite frames might be lighter, but at $400 a pop, he'd take a little extra exercise any day of the week.

He took care easing back the flap, hoping to avoid an avalanche of socks and underwear, but as it turned out, none of that mattered. His palm landed on something sharp, and it recoiled from the delicate silver wire that stood up from the angle of the frame that would have been closest to his left shoulder. There were two strands there, braided together with a half dozen twists.

He felt something tumble deep inside his chest as he realized that the paper camping permit that the wire had once fixed in place was no longer there.

BY TEN O'CLOCK, Russell Coates was about ready to move on. The crime-scene technicians had arrived in a swarm around six, and he'd learned a long time ago that the smart man stays out of their way. By the time they finished, half the mountain would be bagged, tagged, and catalogued, as the first step in the hunt to find that one critical piece of evidence that would pull the whole case together.

In the meantime, Sarah Rodgers had already approached him twice about speeding things along and releasing her vehicles and personnel. The first time, she did her best to conceal her annoyance, but apparently didn't feel so compelled during round two. Russell thought it was kind of cute how her ears turned crimson when she shouted, but the little specks of spittle that accompanied a few of the hard consonants were definitely a turnoff.

Now, here she was again, striding up the hill toward the yellow corral of barricade tape, carrying a sheaf of papers in one hand and a portable radio in the other. Russell couldn't fathom anyone better suited by disposition to her job. Bears and cougars no doubt ran for cover when they saw her coming with her mad-face on.

"I think she digs you," Tim said softly from behind.

Russell groaned, "I'm a magnet for chicks who can bench-press me." Pasting on his best official smile, he walked carefully through the maze of evidence techs to meet her at the tape. "Sarah, we're working as fast as we can, I promise you."

Her head came up at the sound of his voice and she looked confused. "What? Oh, that. They finished with my folks a good hour ago. They've all gone back to work. Thanks."

So much for round three. And for being on top of his own investigation. "What can I do for you, then?"

She handed him an enormous stack of manila-colored cards. "These are the park registrations for the past week. I was supposed to give these to you, right?"

Russell took them and smiled. "Yes, thank you."

Then Sarah took them back and spun them around so that they could both see. "You asked for them all, so that's what I brought, but that's probably five, six hundred registrations." She shuffled through the cards until she found the smaller stack she was looking for. "But look here. We've only had about three dozen parties in here to camp over that time, and of those, it looks like only fifteen or twenty of them entered at a spot that would likely bring them this way."

Russell didn't know what to say. "Why, thank you, Sarah. That was very . . . helpful."

She laughed, and for the first time, he saw that under all that Ranger Rick crap was a beautiful smile. Russell was a sucker for beautiful smiles. "You don't have to seem so surprised."

He laughed uncomfortably and shrugged. "That was a little transparent, wasn't it? I just figured that after our first discussions, you might be, well..."

"Pissed?"

"Pissed works."

"Well, I was. But once your people got off their asses and let my people get back to work, I got better." She made a real effort to smile, taking the sting out of her words.

Russell looked more closely at the registration cards, each of them obviously the carbon backing from another sheet. Names, addresses, phone and license-plate numbers, the whole nine yards.

"Now, I must warn you that not everyone registers," Sarah advised, triggering an eyebrow. "There's also a five-dollar fee that goes along with it, so it's not unheard of to find the occasional hiker who tries to dodge the system. When we find them, we kick them out of the park and hit them with a seventy-five-dollar fine, but not everyone is afraid to take that risk."

Russell nodded. "Especially the ones who are here to commit murder. Gives us a place to start, though."

"Ms. Rodgers?" Another ranger approached from up the hill, with two backpackers in tow: a man and a woman, both in their twenties, who looked disgustingly healthy and about three days overdue for a bath.

Sarah turned and offered a broad smile. "George! How are you?" She greeted him as if they were at a high school reunion. Then, turning to Russell: "Agent Coates, this is our brightest new star, George Majewski. George, meet Agent Coates with the FBI."

Russell shook the man's hand and nodded, but the young ranger looked about to burst with news.

"These people have some information that might be useful."

Russell slid under the barricade tape and approached the young couple. "I'm the agent in charge of the murder investigation." He addressed the comment to the hikers but knew he was answering Georges unasked question as well. In his peripheral vision, he noted that Tim was moving in closer to listen.

"Gary Combs," the man said, offering his hand. "This is my wife, Mandy."

Russell shook her hand as well. "Pleased to meet you. What have you got?" This was about as close to charming as Agent Coates could manage.

Gary nodded toward the blue sheet in the distance. "Is that him?"

Russell's eyes narrowed. "How did you know it was a him?"

Instantly, the young hiker looked terrified. "I-I didn't. I mean, I did, but-"

"I told him about the murder," George offered. "I'm sorry, was I not supposed to?"

He was supposed to stay the hell out of the investigation and chase squirrels, but Russell kept to the high ground. "No, that's okay. You did fine."

"We don't need lawyers, do we?" Mandy had a little girl's voice and a set of boobs that weren't nearly as natural as the granola she no doubt grazed on for breakfast.

"Not unless you're going to confess to a crime." Russell meant that to be lighthearted, but no one seemed to take it that way. What was it about West Virginia that seemed to erase people's sense of humor? "No, you don't need a lawyer. I just need you to tell me what you know."

The couple exchanged nervous looks, silently bidding the other to tell the story. Finally, they started together, then clammed up again.

"You start, Gary," Russell prompted.

"Okay, well, I don't know if this really means anything or anything, but last night around midnight we heard some yelling out here, as if somebody was trying to hurt someone."

"Well, we can't say for sure that anyone was being hurt," Mandy corrected.

"No, no, well, of course not, because we couldn't see anything. But don't you think that's what it sounded like?"

"I know that's what we said at the time, but now that I think back on it-"

"You heard yelling," Russell interrupted. He felt his blood pressure rising. "We'll just keep it at that. Yelling, but you can't say for sure what it meant."

"Yes, exactly," Gary said.

"Right," Mandy agreed. "I mean, we thought it was angry, but, you know, out here at night, it's hard-" Something she saw in Coates's glare caused the words to harden in her throat.

He turned back to Gary. "Yelling."

"Right. It sounded like a little kid."

Tim came under the tape now and stood shoulder to shoulder with his boss. "Now, that's interesting," Russell said. "Could you make out what they were saying?"

"No, not really. In fact, I'm not sure they were really saying anything. That's one of the reasons I think that a kid was involved. You know how they just sort of yell, but don't really say anything?"