Stranger on the Shore (5 page)

For not the first time, Jordan was grateful that years ago an after-school job in a local print shop had taught him to read upside down and backwards. The skill often came in handy. It had that day. Sitting across the desk from Hoyston made it dead easy for him to read his friend's notes, even as Hoyston wrote them.

The woman seemed to be describing a boy, even including information that his red T-shirt was torn. She was talked about an old house with boarded-up windows, an old-fashion peony garden, country scenery, city sounds and the smell of old burned wood. She'd said the boy was alone, but would be in danger when the sun's rays began shining through the cracks between the boards covering the west windows of the house.

A psychic? Jordan tried to hide his excitement, but Hoyston knew him too well. "Don't say a word," his friend had growled as he terminated the call. "You didn't hear anything. You didn't see anything. You aren't even here. Get out. Right now. I'll talk to you later."

Jordan knew Hoyston, knew, too, when his friend was serious. So he left, depending on the detective to make good on his promise to talk to him later.

Even as a boy, Jordan was intrigued by the unusual—magicians, the supernatural and the unexplained. Houdini was an early hero. As he grew older, he accepted it was only show business. The boy wanted to believe in magic. The man knew it didn't exist, although one small part of him still hoped. He was still looking for the magic.

In his travels, he'd uncovered several truly remarkable stories, but none of them had stood up to close examination. Even the most promising had been frauds. And it had all started with his investigation of a Wall Street soothsayer.

Jordan had turned up evidence, not only of fraud but of misuse of insider information, and that had led to criminal changes and the conviction of the major participants. His coverage of that story attracted the attention of the editor of a major news magazine.

Although Jordan declined the offer to join the organization, the editor kept him busy, often using him as a free-lance correspondent in remote places where the magazine did not maintain offices. In the last few years, his investigative articles had been international in scope, and far removed from the realm of crystal-ball gazers and fortune-tellers.

However, the subject still fascinated him. Each time a lead for a psychic story came his way he investigated it.
Would this be the one he couldn't explain away?

His investigations were his recreation, his way of taking a vacation following a rough assignment. This time, the timing was perfect. After eighteen months in the jungles of South America, he was ready for a vacation. Investigating Hoyston's psychic connection seemed the perfect way to spend it.

The day following his visit with Hoyston, the news was full of the abduction story. The police discovered the child in the attic room of a decaying old mansion—once one of St Louis's most prestigious homes and now a half-burned shell isolated on a five-acre plot. There'd been no mention of a tip to the police from a psychic.

"Next to me, you're the last person in the world I would expect to be tied up with a soothsayer," Jordan told Hoyston when they made contact again. "Have you turned believer on me?"

Hoyston had been silent for a moment. "I don't know anymore," he admitted. "My head tells me it's a bunch of garbage, but— Look, Jordan, I've talked to the lady exactly three times. The first time was sort of a get-acquainted talk. The next one was business. You were here when I got the last one. Both times, she knew exactly what she was talking about. The first time I thought she was probably involved. She wasn't. Believe me, I checked her out every way from Sunday. There is no earthly way that woman could have known what she knew. This time, either. You read the papers. We found the boy where she said we would."

"The papers didn't mention her."

"No. That's one of her conditions," Hoyston said. "Nobody is to know who she is. No one is to know she's involved."

"Well, that's unusual," Jordan said. "Most of the time, at least in the cases I've investigated, they can't wait to get their names in the paper. The more publicity the better."

"Not according to her." Hoyston said. "She claims people with her gifts are natural targets for notoriety and that the serious ones don't encourage publicity. Claims it interferes."

Jordan had never been more intrigued. Every psychic he'd investigated had relished publicity and was happy to cooperate with him—at least until he managed to expose the fraud. This woman sounded different.

"How do you make contact with her? Why did she pick you, of all people?"

"I worked on a case with the sheriff from her hometown a couple of years back. He called me. Said he had a friend moving here to teach school and wanted me to talk to her. Made me promise I'd listen to her, then give her one chance to prove herself. One chance, he said. He didn't tell me what she'd be proving, or I would probably have laughed in his face. But I gave him my word. So when she called, I had to follow through."

"Do you think she's genuine?"

"I told you, I don't know what to think."

"What's her name? What's she look like?"

"I can't tell you that, Jordan. Geez. We have an agreement."

"Come on Hoyston. Give. You know you can trust me. Tell me her name. How am I going to find out if she's on the level if I don't know who she is?"

"Now look," his friend had protested, "I made a sort of agreement with the lady. She helps me and I protect her identity. I don't know how she gets it, but it's good information. I don't want to blow the connection."

"And what if your first instinct was right? What if she is involved somehow?"

"You're not getting around me that way, Jordan. I know you use words until black sounds like white. But the lady's on the right side. Otherwise she wouldn't be feeding me the information she does."

"The other time she helped—was it a kidnapping, too?"

"Hoyston shook his head. "Hell, no. A mugging. A plain, everyday mugging. The victim was an old man. He didn't have anything but his pension check worth stealing. If it hadn't been for the lady's information, the report would have joined hundreds of others in the inactive, unsolved files. Thanks to her, we not only found the mugger with the check still on him, we also stumbled over a fencing operation that cleared over a dozen commercial robberies. It was a good bust."

"Any links between the fencing operation and the kidnappers?"

"Not that we know of. 'Course, we haven't caught the dudes yet, but it doesn't seem likely.

"But you don't know," Jordan said, pressing home his argument. "You probably didn't round up the entire fencing ring. And you don't know who kidnapped the boy. There has to be a connection between them. There are no coincidences. You just don't want to admit it. One woman squealed on both operations."

"I told you, I checked her out," Hoyston protested. "She wasn't involved."

"Maybe," Jordan had said, "and maybe not. What harm would it do to run a double check? You won't even have to use department hours. I'll do it."

"I know you too well, Jordan. You're not interested in the fencing operation, or the kidnapping. Just the woman and a story. I thought you'd finished chasing crystal-ball readers. Moved on to bigger and better things."

Jordan had grinned. "This one interests me. Besides, I'm between assignments. Nothing better to do."

In the end, Jordan had been unable to wear down his friend's resistance. Knowing her first name, that she was a schoolteacher and probably was new to St. Louis, gave him a place to start. He was an investigative reporter, after all.

St. Louis had three new schoolteachers named Sarah, but only one who was not a native of the city. By the time he'd identified the one who he thought was Hoyston's most likely candidate, she'd left Missouri for summer vacation.

He paid a final visit to Hoyston. "Just stopped by to say good-bye for a while," he told his old friend? .

"So," Hoyston said, "where're you heading now?"

"Down into the Northwest Arkansas area. Suppose to be good bass fishing in Beaver Lake."

Hoyston gave him a suspicious look. "Didn't know you were a fisherman."

It's been a while, but it's like riding a bike," Jordon told him. "Once you learn, you don't forget."

"You fished there before?" Hoyston asked.

"Nope," he said. "Tried the Lake of the Cherokee in Northeast Oklahoma once. Both lakes are in the Ozark Mountains but they're on different rivers and the Beaver is only half the size of Cherokee. So, you know anyone down there you want me to say 'hello' to?"

Hoyston hesitated for a moment. "Only one man I know in that area," he finally said. "Name's Sam Bascomb, and he's a sheriff in one of those counties around Beaver Lake. But I'd advise you not to say hello, or anything else to him."

Jordan grinned. "I take it he's not too fond of you," he said

"We get along fine," Hoyston told him. "Course, I'm not invading his territory, and I'm not what he calls one of those 'blood-sucking reporters' sticking his nose into someone else's business, either".

"Ouch. Sounds like he's had an unpleasant experience."

"Or several," Hoyston said. "Now listen, Jordan. I don't know why you've decided to go fishing down there, and I don't want to know. But for a reporter, I know you're a decent man and we're friends. I want to warn you that Bascomb is one tough cookie. He runs a tight ship and can get real mean if he thinks he or any or his people are being threatened. So, if you do happen to run across him, I'd just as soon you forget to mention that you know me. He's real good at adding one plus one, even when they don't equal two. So you be careful."

Jordan took his friend's advice seriously. He created his fishing vacation as a cover story, took a lease on a cabin in one of the area fishing camps, collected his fishing gear from the St. Louis apartment he rented but rarely occupied, then planned his invasion into what he believed was Sarah Wilson's home territory.

Remembering Hoyston's warning, he'd avoided Sheriff Bascomb, although he knew the man was probably well informed about his movements and questions. For that reason Jordan had been careful not to hide his search. He found the hunt exciting, if at times frustrating.

Now the hunt was almost over.

Maybe.

He checked his watch again. Five after three. He wasn't going to give up this early. After two futile weeks, he was willing to wait a little longer.

Chapter 3

Sarah let herself in the back door of the café and silently waved to her cousin behind the counter. Betsy returned her wave with a grin, then continued filling the salt and pepper shakers lined up on the counter in front of her.

Standing at the end of the counter, Sarah had a clear view of the man waiting in the middle booth—Jordan Mathias.

He sat facing the front entrance of the café, his eyes intent on the empty doorway. Without the fisherman's hat, his brown hair fell forward in a boyish wave over one side of his forehead. His features were as strong and unyielding as she remembered and, despite his casual air, she sensed the same self-assurance in him that she'd recognized at the lake. This was a determined man who wouldn't give up his search easily.

She took a deep breath and crossed the space between the counter and the booth, her sandals making little noise on the worn wooden floor. She stood silently at the side of the booth, her body tense, her hands clenched at her sides.

Even if Aunt Cinda was right, even if his reasons for looking for her were innocent, she was still in danger. She'd been unable to explain to Aunt Cinda that Jordan Mathias disturbed her in a way no other man ever had. She was risking more than exposure. Still, she had promised. She waited for him to acknowledge her presence.

Jordan was watching the café entrance so intently it took him several seconds to realize someone was standing by the booth. He turned slightly, thinking it was the waitress. A moment later he forgot the front door completely.

The woman standing beside the booth was small and perfectly proportioned. Her slim, tanned legs looked long and willowy despite her petite height. Her tiny waist above gently flaring hips and her small breasts swelling beneath her crisp sleeveless cotton blouse were definitely feminine.