Shattered (2 page)

Laura had been there when Kelly was born, when Carol divorced, through that dark desperate time after Kelly disappeared. Carol had been there for Laura through three marriages, innumerable boyfriends—each one less suitable than the last—and the deaths of both parents. They had built a business together, they weathered storms together. The turbulence of their individual lives left their friendship unshaken and there were no secrets between them. Still, Carol looked uncomfortable and unsure as she related the events of the night before to Laura, and it was a moment before she answered the question.

Finally she shrugged, a little irritably. “And tell them what? They weren't interested when Kelly disappeared. What makes you think they'd listen to my report on a phone call from her?”

Laura said, “That's not entirely fair, Carol. The police did everything they could—”

“They put her on a runaway hotline!”

“That's standard procedure, they explained that to us at the time.”

Carol's hands tightened on her coffee cup. “That’s standard procedure for ordinary runaways.”

“But they had no reason to believe she was anything else! You had two notes from her, one telling you she was leaving and another one later telling you not to look for her—”

“I told them that second note wasn't from her! It didn't even sound like her. You know it didn't. And the handwriting was all wrong.”

Laura said gently, “The handwriting analyst didn't think so.”

Carol drew in a sharp breath for retaliation, then caught herself with a shake of her head. This was all familiar ground and she didn't want to argue with Laura. Laura was not the enemy.

For a moment they were silent. The sun painted a bright windowpane on the bleached wood floor, and the ocean was noisy enough to be heard even through closed windows, even from their location across the street. Outside the office, a telephone gave a muffled ring, and they heard Tammy, the receptionist, pick it up. They both waited expectantly for the intercom to buzz, but apparently the caller was not in need of a broker. They looked at each other and smiled, faintly and wryly.

In another month moments such as these, in which they had time for a leisurely cup of coffee or an uninterrupted conversation, would all but disappear. But it was early in the season, and most of the calls they received this time of the year were from college students looking for a place to rent for spring break. Beachside did not rent to students, so business was slow. They had learned to savor the moments.

Carol sipped her coffee, waited another moment, then said, “Anyway, the police didn't believe me then and they certainly wouldn't believe me now.”

Laura chose her words carefully. “But... you think it was Kelly? I mean, after all this time, do you really think it’s—likely?”

“For God's sake, Laura, you don't think that I'd make something like that up?”

Laura threw up a hand in self-defense. “Of course not! I mean, of course, you got a phone call, I'm just wondering if...”

Carol's voice, and her expression, were cool as she supplied, “You're wondering if I heard correctly.”

“Or if it was some kind of sick joke or a wrong number or—okay, yes, if you heard correctly. I mean you've been zonked out on pain killers for the past couple of days—”

“They're muscle relaxants and they're perfectly safe.”

“But why would she call, after all these years? And why would she ask for help and then hang up without telling you how to help her? You've got to admit, Carol, it all sounds a little—convenient.”

“Convenient,” Carol repeated blankly.

Laura's lips tightened and she looked for a moment as though she was uncertain whether to continue. Laura knew what Carol had been through when Kelly disappeared two and a half years ago; Laura had been through it with her. And there was very little she could say to help her now.

She said, with an extreme diplomacy that she did not usually find it necessary to exercise with her best friend, “It's just that the police never had even a shred of evidence that Kelly was anything more than an ordinary teenage runaway. You were the only one who was certain she had met with foul play. And this phone call—a sobbing girl calling you Mama and asking for help—it seems to prove your theory, doesn't it?”

“For God's sake, Laura do you think that's what I want?” Incredulity and agitation propelled Carol out of her chair, and she paced the few steps from her desk to the window. “Don't you think if I were going to make something up I could come up with a better fantasy than that my fourteen-year-old daughter is being held captive and can't even make a phone call for help?”

She hugged her arms so tightly that her fingers left sharp crease marks in the sleeves of her linen suit, a sign that she was holding herself together through sheer force of will. The morning sun on her pale and puffy face was not kind, testifying to a sleepless night, tears, stress or perhaps all three. Her makeup had been carelessly applied, her short blond hair finger-combed. Her eyes, squinting a little in the bright, ocean-reflected light, were grim and haunted.

“Sixteen,” Laura corrected quietly.

Carol turned.

“Kelly was fourteen when she left home,” Laura explained. “She would be sixteen now.”

Carol's shoulders sagged; she dropped her gaze. She released a long low breath and with it she seemed to shrink like an inflatable doll slowly losing air. She lifted a hand and wearily pushed it through her hair. “God,” she said, “I know that.”

After a moment she gave a small apologetic shake of her head. “I'm sorry if I snapped at you. It's just that ... the truth is, I'm not sure it was her, you know? I mean, how could I be?” She looked at Laura with eyes that were troubled and unsure. “It's been two and a half years! She was crying and I was half asleep but ... I keep thinking, what if it was her? I can't get it out of my mind. What if she was on the street and she only had enough money for one phone call? What if she's been in jail or in an institution or, God, I don't know, on drugs or something and all she had was this one chance, this one little moment when she could get to a phone and remember my phone number and ...”

“Carol, don't torture yourself.” Laura was swiftly beside her, embracing her shoulders with one arm. “This isn't like you.”

“I know.” After a moment, Carol took a long, unsteady breath, and tried to straighten her shoulders. “It’s just that... it really threw me. A young girl's voice, calling me Mama, crying...”

When she trailed off, Laura said sympathetically,” But it didn't sound like her at all, did it?”

Carol shook her head wordlessly.

“Oh, honey.” Laura gave Carol's shoulders a sympathetic squeeze. “What an awful thing. After all you've been through, to have something like this happen just when you were finally getting over it.”

Carol shook her head. “You never get over it. It's a nightmare that never ends.”

She walked back to her desk and picked up the coffee mug. She gazed at the contents but made no move to drink. “You're probably right. A wrong number, a misunderstanding, a sick practical joke ... or I dreamed the whole thing. In a way, I almost hope that is what happened. It's easier than thinking she's out there somewhere, needing me—”

“Carol,” Laura said firmly, “no mother ever fought harder for a child than you did when Kelly ran away. No mother ever tried harder to help her before she left. Whatever has happened since then isn't your fault, and God knows it's out of your hands. Please don't start beating up on yourself again.”

After a moment, Carol managed a strained smile, and she sipped her coffee. “I suppose you're right.”

Laura hesitated. “Did you tell Guy?”

With a grimace, Carol resumed her chair. “God, that's all I need.”

“He's her father. If it does turn out to be anything, don't you think he has a right to know?”

Instead of answering, Carol began to shuffle through the folders on her desk. Her relationship with her ex-husband was complicated, and did not lend itself to easy replies. So much of what had gone wrong with their relationship was tied up with Kelly, and so much of what still linked them together revolved around Kelly, that it was difficult at times to know where hurt ended and need began—even now.

Their marriage had begun deteriorating long before Kelly's problems started, of course, and the fault had been with Carol as much as with Guy, though it was she who had finally and inevitably borne the responsibility of asking for the divorce. When Kelly disappeared, the hurt and anger of separation was still too fresh on both their parts for trust to survive; reckless accusations had been thrown back and forth about her motherhood and his fatherhood, blame had been cast irresponsibly, and instead of joining together in crisis for the sake of their child, they had turned against one another, working oftentimes at cross-purposes and to no avail. Months had passed before each of them, privately and alone, had learned to forgive the other—and themselves—for the things that were said and done at the peak of fear and crisis. And though now that Guy had moved back to the island, they were in many ways closer than ever, the peace they maintained was often an uneasy one. She did not want to talk to Guy about this. Not until—or unless—she had to.

She said, changing the subject, “What a week. First I lose the Kerrigan listing, then I almost missed that closing yesterday.... It's no wonder I'm having nightmares. Have you seen the folder on Porpoise Watch? I had a callback message.”

Laura took the hint and let the subject drop. “Yes, they called again before you got in this morning.” She took the folder from her desk and handed it to Carol. “They're coming in at ten and they sound pretty serious. They're looking to rent for the whole season, maybe buy if they like what they see. I thought if Porpoise Watch doesn't work out, you could show them Sea Dunes. We had it booked for June, but the party cancelled, so it's free for the season.”

Carol gave another shake of her head as she glanced over the message slip. “I have never understood why anyone would want to spend the summer in Florida. Fortunately for us I don't have to, hmm?”

Laura grinned, relaxing a little now that Carol's mood seemed to be back on course. “You got it. Besides, this isn't Florida, it's Paradise. It helps to remember that when you're showing $3500-a-week rental property.”

“I think I'll have that laminated on a key chain.”

Carol's smile, though faint and not very convincing, faded altogether as she looked again at her friend. “Do you know what I think is bothering me the most? The thought that some mother's child, somewhere, was crying out for help ... and no one will ever know.”

Laura wanted to say that she understood, but the truth was she didn't. Instinctively, she knew that no one could ever understand the pain that was in Carol Dennison's eyes unless she had first experienced motherhood. And Laura was ashamed of the relief she felt when the phone rang and she could put Carol's problems aside in favor of those she did understand, and could do something about.

~

Chapter Three

“
W
ell, I guess my official quote is that St. Theresa County welcomes all visitors—as long as they abide by the law. Unofficially ...” Sheriff John Case rocked forward in his chair, balancing his linked fingers flat on top of his desk blotter. “You could take the whole lot of the jive-talking, bare-assed, horn-honking drunks and goose march 'em right into the Gulf and me and my deputies would manage to be otherwise engaged in an important poker game at the time. I'll tell you the truth, Guy, this whole goddamn business has gotten out of hand. In my day it was a privilege to go to college, something you worked hard for and were damn proud of. Now it's just an excuse to run wild at taxpayers' expense. Things are too damn easy for kids these days, that's the whole problem. Everything is too damn easy.”

Guy grinned. “Now are you going to tell me how you won the goldfish swallowing contest and crammed sixty people into your Stutz Bearcat, Granpap?”

Case tried to frown but his own reluctant amusement won out. “Yeah, okay, so I guess I pulled a little mischief in my day, too. We all did. The trouble is...” And his grin faded. “The kind of shit we did was just that—mischief. I'll tell you the truth, Guy. I'm fifty-two-years old, and when I was twenty, I couldn't even think of the kinds of crimes kids are committing today just for fun.”

“Come on, John, we're talking about spring break, not the L.A. riots. Don't you think you're overreacting a little bit?”

The sheriff's expression was impatient. “St. Theresa County averages one reported rape every three years, maybe two grand thefts and half a dozen burglaries a year, twelve or fifteen possession arrests. Between March fifteenth and April fifteenth of last year we had six rapes, two grand-theft autos, an average of three break-ins a night, and a hit and run. I'd have to break out the computer to even tell you how many D&Ds, driving under the influence, and possession of controlled substances we brought in. And we're sixty miles from Panama City. We're just getting the leftovers. I'm telling you, it’s getting way, way out of hand.”

Guy was jotting down notes in his cramped, all but illegible shorthand as he spoke. “How much do you estimate it costs the county to host spring break?”

“Host is a bad choice of words. Tolerate is more like it. As for my guess—it could get as high as a couple of hundred thousand dollars a week. Of course, that's just in public property damage, court costs, overtime for emergency personnel, and now the county attorney is telling us we've got to hire lifeguards for the beaches even though eighty percent of them are under private ownership. Now, that wouldn't be a lot if we were Gulf County, but we've got limited resources here. I couldn't hire as many temporary deputies as I need even if I had the budget—they just ain't to be found, you know what I mean? Same with EMS and the fire department. And you need to talk to the Coast Guard and the Marine Patrol about how their business goes up during spring break. I tell you, it's out of control.”