Run to Me (19 page)

‘You said when you saw her back in November she seemed depressed.’

‘
Possibly
depressed. How do you diagnose something like that
from a ten-minute talk? She never said anything.’

‘I know.’

‘She was quiet, sure, but I never figured her to be self-harming. Never saw the slightest evidence of it. If I had –’

‘Dan, I’m not judging. Even when I asked her, she denied there was a problem. And when I finally pinned her down about her contact details she flat out lied.’

‘She did?’

‘Address and phone number totally bogus.’

Muir took a deep breath. ‘Guess you were right about there being a problem. How can I help?’

‘I need to find her. You said she lived in a cabin somewhere.’

‘Yes, but I wouldn’t have a clue where it is.’

‘You don’t know anyone else who would?’

Muir thought for a moment. ‘Sorry, no.’

‘You said she vacationed here with her parents. Can you remember their names?’

‘That was twenty years ago!’

‘Try, Dan, please.’

The man was already shaking his head when his frown suddenly lifted. ‘I treated her.’

‘Who? Shyler?’

‘No, the mother. Just once. It would be in the files. You’ll have to go through them.’

Chase took the details and turned for his car. ‘Thanks, Dan. That’s a big help.’

Tragg pulled his arm from beneath the pile of platinum hair on the pillow beside him. The body attached
to the outrageous mane was plump and luscious. A real little tigress who’d served him outstandingly for most of the night. But already he was tiring of her. For some reason, no matter how well they performed, he never liked the look of them in the morning.

Pushing himself off the king-sized bed he scuffed to the bathroom. Outside the window of his North End apartment, Boston Harbor glittered
like a lake of diamonds in the mid-morning sun.

Back in the bedroom after his shower he flicked on the TV. The blonde groaned noisily at the disturbance but simply rolled over and went on sleeping. As he dressed, Tragg listened absently to a news report on the storms that had swept New England. The weather had never interested him much and wouldn’t have this time if it hadn’t been for one particular
line the reporter said.

‘Residents of Maine, forecasted to receive the brunt of the storm, narrowly escaped the violent weather when the front swung easterly sooner than expected.’

Tragg turned, still buttoning his shirt. A weather map filled the screen showing satellite imagery of the storm’s course over the last forty-eight hours. A thick band of cloud was clearly visible passing over Connecticut,
New Hampshire and Vermont. But nowhere else. He waited, hoping for more information, but the report switched to another topic.

With an uneasy feeling, he walked to the desk and opened his laptop. After a brief search he found a site giving weather information for the state of Maine. The uneasy feeling took a stronger hold. No rain had been recorded north of Orono in the last seventy-two hours.

So how could the Deadwater roads be flooded?

Tragg sat staring at the map. Maybe the rain had been localised
over a very small area. So small it didn’t show up on satellite imaging. Deadwater was remote – few people lived there. Would they even bother recording rainfall? He turned from the screen and picked up his phone. Nolan’s number didn’t answer. Cut off in such a backwater where could he
be? The uneasy feeling became full-blown disquiet.

Tragg rubbed his jaw. It would take him eight hours to drive up there. A wasted trip if there was a logical explanation for all this. Yet if something was wrong the situation could deteriorate further, perhaps irretrievably, in that amount of time. If there was just some way to check things out faster.

He snatched up the phone again and speed-dialled
a number. ‘How’s the fishing?’ he said when he heard his old friend’s greeting. No matter the reason it was always good to talk to Jake Farrell.

‘Tragg, my man! The sweet voice of reason in a troubled world. The fishing sucks – haven’t caught squat. Wish you were here, though.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ They shot the breeze for a couple of minutes then Tragg got serious. ‘Listen, you had any rain up there
lately?’

‘Rain? No. Been dry as a nun’s nasty all week.’

Tragg swore softly. Moosehead Lake, where Farrell was staying, was maybe ninety miles south of Deadwater. It was starting to appear ever more certain that Nolan had lied to him. What the hell was going on up there?

‘Anything I can help you with, man?’

‘Well, now that you ask . . . No, forget it, you’re on vacation.’

‘What, are you kidding?
You’d be doing me a favour. All this peace and fresh air is giving me a fucking headache.’

Tragg smiled, instantly relieved. If anyone could get him what he needed it was Farrell.

Zack opened his eyes. Flames danced in a granite fireplace, a long low table on the rug before him. White log walls, sunlight slanting through lace-curtained windows. Where the hell was he?

He rolled on his back and frowned at the ceiling – a light with animals carved in the rim. The last thing he remembered was lying in the forest. Nolan on top of him. Pushing the man aside and seeing
–

‘So, you’re awake.’

He caught his breath. The crazy lady had stepped out from behind the couch. In a flash the details came flooding back. The awful sound of her rifle connecting with Nolan’s skull, her standing over him, the look of horror on her face.

She lowered herself to the table beside him. ‘How are you feeling?’

For a second he couldn’t answer. She’d killed a man. Even though she’d
done it to save his life, it still made her a little bit scary.

‘Okay,’ he croaked.

He tried not to flinch when she reached towards his face. Her
palm rested briefly against his brow, then slid to his cheek. So cool, so gentle.

‘Well, you certainly seem better.’ She withdrew her hand. ‘I don’t mind telling you, you gave me quite a scare, young man.’

‘Sorry.’

Her smile was like the sun coming
out. ‘You don’t have to be sorry, sweetheart.’

Sweetheart?
‘What’s going on?’

‘What’s going on is you’re sick. You have a fever.’ She drew up the blanket and tucked it closer around his neck. ‘Don’t worry, I got you some medicine and it seems to be working. As long as you keep taking it you’ll be fine.’ She pushed to her feet. ‘Feel up to eating? I made you some of your favourite soup.’

He
blinked at her. When had he ever told her –

‘Chicken noodle. Don’t tell me you don’t like it any more.’

‘I like it okay.’

‘Then you just lay there and I’ll go get some.’

She was back in a moment with a bowl in her hand. A hand with a bandage wrapped around it. Another peeking out from the end of her sleeve.

‘What happened?’ he said.

‘This? Oh, nothing. I had a little accident.’ She raised
the spoon. ‘Now come on, open up.’

The first taste brought his hunger awake like a raging beast. Suddenly he realised he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten.

‘How is it? Too hot?’

He shook his head and was rewarded with another of her beautiful smiles.

When the bowl was empty he lay back wondering what he’d been so worried about. So the woman was a little weird. It didn’t
mean she was
psycho-dangerous. She treated him nice. She made great soup.

‘Now I want you to try and sleep some more. You need lots of rest if you’re going to get better.’

Yes, he already felt a bit sleepy. ‘How come . . .’

‘How come what, sweetheart?’

He shook his head. Did he really care why she was doing this? Why she’d suddenly gone from flipping out at the very sight of him to being this loving almost-Mom.
She’d saved him from Nolan. That’s all that mattered.

She leaned down and started stroking his head. ‘Everything’s going to be all right. I’ll take care of you, don’t you worry.’

Suddenly it hurt to swallow. Had anyone ever said that to him before?

‘I won’t let them hurt you, Jesse, I promise. You’re totally safe. My precious boy.’

Through the fog deepening inside his head, he fought to reply.
‘My name’s not Jesse.’

She stroked his cheek. ‘Just get some rest.’

Seated at the desk in his treatment room, Chase opened the file before him.

After leaving Dan Muir he’d returned to his office and pulled out all the records for the years Shyler’s family had visited the area. Perusing only those for the summer months, it had still taken him over an hour to find the right one. At least he hoped
it was.

Patricia O’Neil had come to see Muir in July of 1995. Her file gave a Presque Isle address and phone number. But even if this was Shyler’s mother, after nearly twenty years, what were the odds she was still living there?

He took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and entered the number.

A woman’s voice answered on the second ring. ‘Hello?’

‘May I speak to Patricia O’Neil, please?’

‘Speaking.’

Chase felt his heart rate kick up a notch. ‘Forgive me, I’m not sure I have the right person. Do you have a daughter by the name of Shyler?’ Silence so long he thought they’d been cut off. ‘Hello?’

‘Who is this?’

‘My name is Chase Hadley. Doctor Hadley. I have a practice in Deadwater Maine.’ He waited but the woman didn’t respond. ‘I take it you do have a daughter named Shyler.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I recently treated Shyler at my office. Nothing too serious. I sutured a couple of cuts she had. I was wondering if you could tell me how I can get in touch with her as we don’t seem to have her contact details.’

‘I can’t help you.’

Chase hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, does that mean you don’t know where she lives, or that you don’t want to tell me?’

‘It means I can’t help you.
Shyler is no longer a part of my life.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs O’Neil, but really all I need –’

The line disconnected.

He blinked at the phone in disbelief, nearly entered the number again, then decided it would do no good. From the woman’s tone it was obvious she wouldn’t answer.

Chase sat debating, staring at the address scrawled in the file. If the telephone number was still in use
. . .

He grabbed the receiver and dialled again.

His father picked up on the seventh ring.

‘Dad, did you still need to go to Presque Isle?’

Nolan spluttered awake against the deluge washing over him. Sitting up abruptly made his head whirl and he dry-retched over the side of the couch. When the vertigo eased he slowly looked up, wincing at the light streaming through the cabin windows.

‘Who the hell are you?’

The man standing over him – tall and rangy with shoulder-length black hair tied in a ponytail – tossed the bucket
he was holding aside. ‘Farrell. Tragg sent me.’

At the mention of the name, Nolan’s situation hit him so hard he nearly retched again. That was daylight coming through the windows. Daylight, as in
another day
.

‘I can explain.’

‘Well, now, that’s why I’m here.’ The man dragged over a kitchen chair, swung it around and straddled it, facing him. ‘Tragg wants to know what’s going on. He told me
to use whatever form of persuasion I needed to get the facts but . . . Well, you seem like a reasonable guy.’

‘I am, I am. I’ll tell you everything. Just give me a second.’

‘Sure.’ He smiled. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

Nolan exhaled. ‘All right, here it is.’

By the time he’d finished half the story Farrell was staring in disbelief. ‘You lied to Tragg?’

‘No! Not exactly. I mean . . . I really
thought we’d catch the last two and make it back in the time I told him.’

‘So what went wrong?’

‘Vanessa drove to Presque Isle yesterday to grab the youngest one out of the hospital. She hasn’t rung me so I assume she’s got him and is on her way back here.’

‘Meanwhile you decided to tie one on.’

‘I’m not hung-over!’ Nolan held his head. It hurt to talk. It hurt to think. ‘A local woman was
helping Ballinger so I tracked her down and followed her home. I grabbed the kid, but before I could get him into my car she bashed me with a rifle.’

‘The woman did?’

‘Nearly split my fucking head open.’

‘Christ, no wonder Tragg’s in a state. So of three missing kids you managed to get back only one of them. Where’s he?’

‘The middle one. Dennings.’ Nolan pointed. ‘Locked in the closet.’

Farrell went to the door and opened it. ‘This another make-believe story?’

‘What are you talking about?’ Nolan rose and staggered over. His eyes widened as he stared down into the empty space. ‘What . . . No. He was here, I swear it!’

‘Looks like he wandered off. Again.’

‘He couldn’t! The door was locked from outside. There’s no way –’ Nolan’s jaw dropped, this time in sudden comprehension.
‘That bitch!’

‘Who are we talking about now?’

‘Vanessa. She took him. That’s why she’s not back from Presque Isle – she went back without me!’

‘So you’re pissed off because she did what Tragg wanted.’

‘Don’t you get it? We were supposed to go together. She must’ve figured I wouldn’t catch Ballinger and decided to ditch me. She’s bringing Tragg the other two just to kiss ass.’

‘Rats deserting
a sinking ship, eh, Nolan?’ Farrell laughed.

As Nolan raved, Farrell stepped aside, opened his phone and punched in a number.

Tragg lowered the phone from his ear and stood clenching it in his fist. As he’d suspected, Nolan had lied. The Deadwater roads weren’t flooded, and he’d only captured one of the boys. At least Vanessa – bless her black self-serving heart – was on her way back with the
younger two.

The bad news was, Ballinger, the biggest threat to Lazaro, was not only still on the run but also now being helped by some local woman. Which meant there was a very good chance he had talked.

Tragg fought down a surge of rage. Nolan’s payback would have to wait. At the moment the most pressing issue was what to do about the kid and the woman.