Gone (26 page)

“The Norths eliminated that fear,” Jake said.

Clare laughed.

* * * * *

The dinner conversation was, for the most part, filled by Sammie who talked on about Fluffy the cat who had not yet had her kittens, much to her disappointment.

After, with the table cleared and the dishwasher loaded, Jake went to run a bath for his niece. Clare heard the sounds of water splashing and Sammie’s shrieks of laughter coming from the bathroom in the hall as she climbed the stairs. She wasn’t fully recovered yet, and for tonight was going to observe the same bedtime as Sammie.

The note pad she’d used earlier to document Beth’s movements on her last day in town was on the nightstand. A few scribbled lines was all she wrote with a question mark after Connie’s Inn. The clock was ticking and they still had nothing.

Clare settled more deeply into the pillows. Her eyes grew heavy and she closed them.

* * * * *

Clare awoke with a start. The edges of the blind were dark. It was still night. She wanted to close her eyes and return to sleep, but her muscles were tense, on alert. Something felt wrong. And then she heard it. A soft, mewling sound.

Her crutch leaned against the bed post. She propped it under her arm and limped to the hall. She heard Jake’s voice—low and urgent—coming from Sammie’s room.

What was wrong with Sammie? Clare’s heart thumped harder.

By the time she reached the little girl’s room, Jake had his niece in his arms. Sammie was sniffling. Her eyes were damp, but she seemed to be over the worst of it. Clare recalled Jake saying that Sammie woke up some nights calling for her parents.

Clare didn’t want to intrude, and remained outside of the bedroom. Jake had the situation well in hand. There was certainly nothing she could contribute to help. She knew nothing about children.

Jake murmured to Sammie, words Clare couldn’t hear. He stayed with her until she fell asleep and when she did, he just stayed by her bedside, watching her.

After a time, he rose to his feet. Clare thought he was moving like an arthritic, just then. His face was ashen, lined with worry. Clearly, Sammie hadn’t been the only one affected by the nightmare.

When the girl was breathing deeply and evenly, Jake left her bedside. His gaze met Clare’s.

“How often does this happen?” Clare whispered when he joined her in the hall.

Jake rubbed his hands down his face. “Too often. I don’t know what to do for her when she’s like that.” His voice was low and rough. “I feel so useless. Christ, so helpless.” He exhaled deeply. “I’d do anything to stop it for her.”

Sammie mumbled something. Jake wheeled toward her and returned to her bedside.

Again Clare thought she knew nothing about children. She did, however, know about nightmares: 

Mama points the gun at Owen and fires.

The acrid odor of gunpowder fills Clare’s nostrils.

Owen’s blood sprays her face.

Then, Mama turns the gun on Clare . . .
 

Clare closed her eyes.

The many platitudes she’d heard over the years on overcoming them and moving on came to her mind. Empty words. She wouldn’t offer them as consolation to Jake, and he certainly didn’t need to hear her own experience in living with the dreams, living with them because, after twenty-five years, she still dreamed of that day, still awoke drenched in perspiration, trembling, and shivering. Jake didn’t need to hear that, or that this innocent child was alone in the battle. He couldn’t fight it for her. He couldn’t make it all go away for her.

“Uncle Jake, will you read me the story again?”

Clare opened her eyes at the sound of Sammie’s voice. Jake lowered himself gingerly onto the low stool by the bedside. Decorated in red and white gingham, Sammie had referred to it as Miss Muffet’s Tuffet, when speaking of her bedroom with Clare earlier. Jake took a book from the nightstand and opened it.

Clare’s cheeks warmed. She did not belong there and feeling like an interloper, backed away from the family.

She intended to return to bed. But she only took a few steps, then stopped, unable to force herself to move on. Unable, in that moment, to shake off the feelings of sadness and emptiness over her own lack of family.

She took up a position in the hall and, resting her head and shoulder against the wall, listened as Jake began to read:

“Once upon a time, there was a girl named Eloise . . .”

Chapter Fourteen
 

When Clare went downstairs the next morning, Sammie was seated at the kitchen table.

The little girl greeted Clare with her usual wide smile. Clare smiled herself, relieved that Sammie appeared fine after the troubled night she’d had.

During breakfast, Jake left the kitchen to answer a knock at the door. The keys to Clare’s rented car had arrived.

As they were leaving the house, with Sammie in tow, to retrieve it, Jonathan called. Jake listened to Jonathan, his posture growing tense. When he ended the call, he met Clare’s gaze.

“VICAP got a hit,” Jake said. “Another woman was reported missing from Farley.”

Clare took a step toward him. “Who? When?”

Jake shook his head. “I’ll take Sammie over to Laura’s. We’ll talk when I get back.”

Clare fought back her impatience and nodded. A few minutes later, Jake returned from Laura’s. He joined Clare in the living room.

Clare launched into speech. “When did the woman go missing?”

“Four years ago.”

She held up her hands. “No one said anything about that.”

“Ozzie Petty wasn’t sheriff here at that time,” Jake said. “Could be no one on his staff recalled it or made the connection.”

She fell silent, taking in Jake’s information.

After a moment, she asked, “Who reported that woman missing? What do we know about her? Any connection to Beth?”

“We need to look into all of that. We need to see what NCIC can tell us. Jonathan has requested the data associated with that investigation faxed to the office.” Jake jiggled his keys in his hand. “Do you still want to pick up your car before we go to work?”

Clare shook her head. “The car can wait.”

At the Bureau office, while Jake returned a number of phone messages, Clare anxiously awaited the data from the National Crime Information Center. She paced, the tip of her crutch tapping the dark wood floor, casting anxious glances at the printer on a credenza behind Jake’s desk.

After what felt like an eternity, Jake’s computer signaled an incoming fax and the printer began spewing papers.

When Jake finished his calls, some ninety minutes later, Clare was seated across the desk from him, pouring over the faxed pages.

The woman reported missing, Sara McCowan, was a college student from the University of Colorado. She’d been on a two-week summer vacation, traveling with three other girlfriends. They were all staying at an inexpensive motel in Columbia, frequenting the bars and clubs in the area. Their second night in the city, she’d told her girlfriends she’d met a man and that she’d see them back at the motel in the morning.

Reading on, Clare learned that Sara had returned from that evening, and went on to see the same man a second night without incident. She went on a third outing with him and never returned.

Clare summarized the victimology for Jake. She added that Sara McCowan had been twenty-two years old at the time of her disappearance.

“McCowan’s friends didn’t know anything about her mystery man to pass along to the investigators in her disappearance,” Clare added. “Sara hadn’t introduced him to them, which they found unusual. Sara liked to flaunt her dates.

“She made a habit of picking up men in bars and clubs, spending a night with them, and then moving on to someone else. Not so with this man,” Clare said. “Prior to this, they’d never known her to see a man more than once. According to a statement from one of the girlfriends, the girls teased Sara that maybe she’d found ‘the one’ and urged her to introduce him to them. Sara declined and became upset. The friend suspected Sara’s lover was married.”

“How did law enforcement place Sara in Farley?” Jake asked.

“Sara told the girls that she was going to surprise the man. She called a cab to drive her to the destination. One of her friends recalled the name of the cab company, and it was confirmed that she was driven to Main Street in Farley. She paid the cabbie and sent him on his way.”

“Cabbie checked out, I take it?”

“Yeah, and people in town recalled seeing Sara McCowan when questioned by Columbia PD.” Clare held up a sheaf of papers. “Here are statements from three local witnesses.”

“A new face in town wouldn’t go unnoticed,” Jake said.

Clare could well attest to that.

She slid a copy of a photograph across the desk to Jake. It was one of several they’d received from the family. In this one, Sara McCowan leaned back against a brick building. Blonde hair, with becoming highlights, fell in waves to her shoulders that were bare and tanned. A strapless white mini dress showed her long, tanned legs.

The picture had been taken on this trip, the day before her disappearance, according to the date recorded in the corner by the camera.

“The investigation didn’t stay in Farley, though,” Clare said. “It was moved to Columbia when Sara’s cell phone records were checked and showed calls made from there.”

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “Then, she’d left Farley.”

“Two kids—thirteen-year-old boys—found a purse outside a club in the city. The cell phone was inside the purse. One of the boys gave the purse and its contents to a girlfriend, but they kept the phone for their own use.”

“How long did they have the phone?” Jake asked.

Clare held up her hands in a shrug. “The boys claimed a couple of weeks.”