Sunshine and the Shadowmaster (5 page)

“Is that okay with you?” he asked.

“That's fine. Whatever you think.”

“Good. Do you think Tawny would be willing to baby-sit the phone during the day until this is over?”

“I'm sure she would.”

“Of course, I'll pay her. And I know this is going to result in a mammoth phone bill. So before I leave, I'll be sure to—”

“Lucas. Please. We'll work it all out. Now come on, sit down. Eat your dinner.”

He did as she told him. The meal was silent and quick.

When it was over, Heather called Tawny, who agreed to take care of the phone for as long as they needed her. Then Lucas made a few more calls, including the one to his housekeeper, who promised to be there by the next afternoon with everything Lucas required. As Heather was putting the last dish into the dishwasher, Lucas asked for the letters again.

“Of course. I'll get them.”

Heather went upstairs and came down with the small stack of correspondence. She found Lucas at the kitchen table, wearing a pair of black-framed glasses, reading what appeared to be another letter like the ones she held in her hands. A stack of similar letters sat at his elbow. Heather set her letters down beside the others.

Lucas glanced up. “These are Marnie's. She gave me permission to read them after Jack looked them over.” He sounded polite and careful again, the way he'd sounded most of the evening.

“Mark wrote to her, too?”

“Yeah. He's had a computer ever since he was five. He likes to play games on it. And do his homework. And write letters, too.”

Heather smiled. “Well. He comes by it honestly, doesn't he?”

“What?”

“Writing.”

That seemed to please Lucas. He actually smiled. “I suppose you could say that.” He readjusted his glasses. “Listen to this. This is from last February, about a month after he stayed here.”

Lucas began to read.

“Marnie, do you know that all of the time that there is is happening all at the same time? I don't really understand that, but I read it and it made sense to me just for a moment, while I was reading, you know? And that there are particles smaller than atoms called quarks.

“I miss you. And Kenny. I never had a normal life, you know? I'm real rich, I guess, because my dad's rich and he says that whatever he's got is mine, too. But it doesn't matter. That was the thing, about last Christmas. I felt like I was normal. Just another kid. What I did was I pretended in my mind that I lived with Aunt Heather, that I would never have to leave there. Because being in North Magdalene was like I always thought it could be. To have friends. And just to be one of the kids. To go home at night and have Aunt Heather make me eat my squash.

“I'll be back in the summer. No matter what. One for all and all for one. Signed in blood. Your friend, Mark” The paper crackled a little as Lucas set it on the table. He took off his glasses and set them on the letter, then rubbed his eyes.

Heather volunteered softly, “He wrote something similar to me, about coming back in the summer.”

Lucas sighed. “I told him we'd try to come here as soon as school got out, when I finished the book I was working on last spring and before I started my next book tour.”

“But that didn't happen.”

“No.” He looked up at her. “The book I was working on took a little longer than I thought it would. And then my publicist came up with five extra cities for the tour and the ‘Today' show, too. It seemed too great an opportunity to pass up.”

“So you canceled the trip here.”

“Right. Mark was upset when I told him. He begged me to call you and arrange for him to come alone. But I...” Lucas looked away, took in a deep breath, then finished at last, “...just didn't get around to it.”

Lucas picked up his glasses again, turned them over in his hands. “I could say I had a million things to do, getting ready for the book tour, and that that's the reason I couldn't pick up the phone and ask you if Mark could come for a visit. But you wouldn't buy a lame excuse like that, would you?”

Heather, still standing at his side, said nothing. He was right. She wouldn't buy it—even if it was the truth.

Lucas stared at the glasses in his hands, but Heather knew he wasn't really seeing them. He was seeing Mark, picturing him, as Heather kept doing, all alone out there somewhere in the dark.

“He's always been such a good kid,” Lucas said. “No trouble. Ever. It's been too easy to do just what your grandfather accused me of today.”

“You talked with my grandpa?”

He nodded. “Jack let me sit in on the interviews with Oggie and Kenny and Marnie.”

“And what did my grandpa...accuse you of?”

“Of pushing Mark to the side of my life.” A low groan escaped Lucas. “Sweet God, let him be all right.” He threw the glasses to the tabletop with more force than was good for them.

Heather stared down at the dark crown of Lucas's head. The urge to offer comfort was strong.

She thought to herself,
If he was Jason Lee...
and knew that if he were, she would wrap her arms around him, hold him close, soothe him with her cherishing touch and the warmth of her body.

But he wasn't Jason Lee.

Lucas looked up. His eyes, which as a rule regarded the world so coldly, now burned with raw agony.

He dared to say it. “What if we don't find him?”

Heather couldn't bear to hear that. “Oh, Lucas. It will be all right,” she heard herself promising. “He hitchhiked all the way from Monterey. Almost three hundred miles by himself. He's a very resourceful kid. He's okay. And we'll find him. You'll see.”

Lucas longed to believe her, she could see it in his eyes. He would give anything to believe her.

She could think of nothing more to say. And words, anyway, were not enough. She lifted her hand and laid it ever so gently on the side of his face.

And it came to her: she had never touched this man before in all the years she'd known him.

The idea astonished her.

He was family, so it shouldn't have been possible.

She had known him since she was only a child. Yet at this moment, touching him, she was absolutely certain she had never touched him before, even in passing. He'd left town when she was hardly in grade school. And after that, he'd returned only for brief visits, to witness the weddings or funerals that marked the changes in the family down the years. And never, during those visits, had she even once lifted her face to his for a fond, salutary peck of a kiss. Never had she moved close to him for a quick hug of greeting or farewell.

Had it been a purposeful thing? Had she
avoided
physical contact with him? Had
he
avoided touching her?

It seemed, at that moment, as she cupped his warm cheek in the palm of her hand, that there had been some secret, silent agreement between them always. Never to touch.

And now she had broken that agreement.

Her hand remained against his cheek. He held her gaze as he lifted his own hand to cover hers.

Heat shot up her arm and straight down into her most private place.

Heather drew in a long, shuddering breath. Beneath her fingertips, his skin was warm and smooth, freshly shaven in the shower he had taken not too long before. And the scent of him was suddenly everywhere. Sandalwood and spice. Exotic. Dangerous.

“Lucas.” The voice was another woman's voice, not her own at all. Her own voice had never been so husky, so wayward, so full of desire.

“Yes,” he said, the word so soft she hardly heard it.

And Heather knew what she wanted to do: she wanted to bend down and press her lips to his. She wanted to feel his breath inside her mouth, to know the questing stroke of his tongue. Never in her young life had she wanted anything so much. That she even dared to imagine such a thing stunned her.

It was so wrong, so totally forbidden, that she gave a small, sharp gasp and yanked her hand free.

Lucas said nothing. He sat very still.

After a moment, Heather managed to speak in a bland, hollow voice. “It's getting late.”

He nodded. “Yes. And tomorrow will be a long day.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night.”

She turned and left him there, careful to walk slowly so they could both pretend she wasn't fleeing to the safety of her room.

* * *

The next morning, Heather had breakfast ready at five. Lucas ate quickly and thanked her politely for the meal.

“You're welcome. Take the key.” She pointed to the key she had laid out on the counter earlier so that she wouldn't forget to give it to him. “You're going to need to be able to get in and out of the house if I'm not here.”

He thanked her again, grabbed up the key and left to join the search and rescue crew.

Once he was gone, Heather relaxed a little. She thought about how distant and courteous he'd been over breakfast.

And she found it reasonably easy to tell herself that nothing had really happened between them the night before. Mark's disappearance had her on edge, that was all. And she'd read way too much into what was actually only a tender touch and a shared glance.

Lucas's child was missing. She had offered him words of comfort. She'd caressed his cheek; he'd clasped her hand. It was nothing to lie awake all night over—though that was exactly what she had done.

It was a rough time, that was all. Her reactions to things couldn't be trusted right now. The wisest course of action would be to forget that those few strange moments had ever happened.

Which was precisely what she intended to do.

* * *

Tawny appeared at Heather's door at five-thirty, so Heather arrived at the café before Lily that morning. She did all her own prep work, and then did most of her boss's, too.

“I could get used to this,” Lily told her, when she arrived at six.

They opened the doors at seven.

It was a busy morning. The café was packed with locals, as well as the usual summer contingent of tourists. And today there were other strangers—reporters mostly, Heather found out soon enough, each trying to elbow the other to get the real scoop on the Shadowmaster's son. The reporters made awful nuisances of themselves, quizzing all the customers. And then Tyler Conley, a cousin of Jason Lee's, spilled the beans to one of them that their waitress was Mark Drury's aunt. After that, Heather could hardly take an order without being asked what Lucas Drury was
really
like.

In spite of the brisk business, to Heather the day seemed interminable. And her nerves were shot. It was nothing short of an emotional roller coaster, waiting for news that they'd found some sign of Mark, experiencing fierce hope and then crushing disappointment every time the phone rang and it was only someone wanting a tuna on rye.

Around noon, Heather was taking an order from a party of five when Tamara Wilbur, Lily's other waitress, called out to her.

“Hey, Sunshine! Phone!”

There were three more orders left to take, so Heather instructed over her shoulder, “Get a number. I'll call back.”

“Uh-uh. He says only you can take this order. And it can't wait.”

Heather gave her customers a rueful smile. “Sorry. Be right back.”

She went to the end of the counter by the cash register and took the phone from Tamara, who lifted her eyebrows significantly and then whispered, “Your uncle Jack. About you-know-who.”

Heather's heart bounced up and seemed to lodge in her throat. Her hands felt clammy. Heather dried them on her apron and put the phone to her ear. “Hello, this is Heather.”

“Listen, Sunshine,” her uncle Jack said. “I know half of the reporters in town are hanging around there. So pretend to take an order or something, all right?”

“Sure.” Heather swallowed and grabbed the take-out pad near her elbow. “Okay. I'm ready. Go ahead.”

“Can you get out of there?”

“For how long?” She scribbled two hearts with arrows through them onto the pad.

“This won't take more than half an hour, tops. Put something in a bag and pretend you're doing a special take-out order.”

Heather glanced up. She felt that everyone was watching her, which of course wasn't really true. She wanted to ask for some specifics—like why he wanted to see her. And what in the world was going on?

She gulped again. Was it bad news? Or good? Her heart pounded like a bass drum in her chest.

“Er, could you tell me...” The sentence died uncompleted. She couldn't think how to go on without giving away that the call concerned Mark.

Uncle Jack took pity on her. “Listen. We've found a Swiss army knife. You know, one of those knives with enough attachments to do everything but balance your bank statement for you?”

“Yes,” Heather said, though how she got the word out was a mystery to her.

I take it with me. Wherever I go, Mark had said.

Jack went on. “Lucas says you gave Mark a knife like it.”

“Yes.”

“If it was the one you gave Mark, could you identify it?”

“Yes, I could.”

“Come down to the station then, all right? And try not to let anyone follow you.”

“Right,” she said. “I'll get that order to you as quick as I can.”

H
eather studied the knife Jack had handed her. It was sealed inside a plastic bag. She looked for the tiny chipped place and found it.

“It's the knife I gave Mark.”

“Are you sure?” Jack asked.

She nodded. “There's a tiny chip missing right here, see?” She held up the bag and pointed. “Right where the little tweezers fit in. Jason Lee had that knife for years, and that little chip was always broken off.” Heather glanced from Jack to Lucas, who was sitting, very silent, in a corner of the small interviewing room. “Where did you find it?”

“In a big drainpipe,” Jack said. “At the base of Sweetbriar Summit. Over in Sweetbriar Park.”

“
When
did you find it?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Did you find anything else?”

Jack shrugged. “A few footprints and not much else. It's been a dry year, so we couldn't follow his trail much more than a few hundred yards from the pipe. Our guess is he slept there.”

“In the pipe?”

“Right. For that first night after he left your place—or maybe even last night. Maybe both. We can't say. We'll keep a close watch on the area now, though, in case he returns to it.”

Heather cast about for any small thread of hope to hang on to. “So that means he didn't take off hitchhiking. That he's somewhere reasonably nearby, at least.”

“Not necessarily,” Jack said. “You say he owned that knife. And we believe the footprints we found were his. They're the right size and the right sole pattern—we
think.
So the chances are he was in that pipe at some point. And that's all we can say right now.”

Heather stared at the knife in her hands. “It isn't much, Uncle Jack.”

“I know, Sunshine.” Jack's voice was gentler. “Believe me. I know.”

She looked up. “Which way did his footprints lead?”

“Around the base of Sweetbriar Summit in a southerly direction, more or less parallel with the river. We're following up on them. But so far...”

“It's okay. I get the picture.” Heather held up the bag that contained the knife. “I take it you want to keep this?”

“For a while,” Jack said.

In the corner, Lucas shifted in his chair. It seemed to Heather that she could feel the frustration and despair radiating off him.

“Okay.” Heather handed the knife to Jack and got up from the plastic chair her uncle had offered her when she first came in. “Is that all, then?”

“Yeah. Thanks, Sunshine,” Jack said.

“Anytime. You know that.” She turned for the door that lead to the reception area of the small sheriff's station. But before she went out, she stopped.

She sought Lucas's eyes. “Walk out with me.”

Without a word he rose to his feet and moved to her side, reaching around in front of her to open the door. She went out ahead of him. When they passed through the reception area, she waved a friendly greeting at Don Brown, who was manning the front desk.

She didn't turn to Lucas until they were out the door and standing on the station's steps. And when she did stop to face him, she had to stifle a gasp. In the bright light of day, he looked terrible, his skin gray, his eyes lined and haunted.

“What do you want, Heather?”

Her heart went out to him. She wanted to help him, to alleviate his suffering somehow. But all she could think of to offer was the mundane solace of a good meal. It was better than nothing, she supposed.

“Come back to the house with me. I'll make you some lunch.”

“Aren't you supposed to be working?”

“I'll call Lily. She'll shout a lot, but she'll survive.”

Lucas studied her for a moment, then shook his head. “Thanks. I'm not hungry.”

She glanced around. The station was a few miles outside of town and the small parking lot was deserted. “Lucas, please...”

“Please what?”

“Don't...give up hope.”

His lips flattened into a thin line. “I'm not.”

She scanned his face again. “You look awful. I'm worried about you.”

“Listen. Across the river, they're still searching. I want to get back to them.”

“I know. I just—”

“It's all right,” he said. But of course, she knew it wasn't. “Just go back to work, why don't you? Just let it be.”

“Lucas, if you need me—” She lifted a hand.

He ducked away. “Don't.”

She let her hand drop, thinking of the night before and feeling her face flame. She had almost done it again.

“I'm sorry,” she said, and then felt more a fool than before.

“Don't be. Just go. Go back to work.”

There seemed nothing else to say. So she turned and fled down the steps to where her car waited. She slid in behind the wheel, shoved the key into the ignition and got out of there as fast as she could.

* * *

There were reporters by the gate when Heather got home that afternoon. She told them to stay off her property and that she had no comment to make about the missing Mark Drury or his famous father. But through the rest of the afternoon into the evening, every time she glanced outside, they were there, standing idly by the gate, or sitting in parked cars, biding their time.

Lucas came in after eight.

She turned from the counter where she was peeling potatoes to give him a welcoming smile. “Did you have to kill any reporters to get past the gate?”

He tried to joke about it with her. “Only two. The rest turned and ran.”

“Good. That oughtta teach ‘em.”

“Let's hope so.”

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence. Heather turned back to the sink. She'd found it painful to look at him. He looked even worse than he had earlier at the sheriff's station. She couldn't help feeling that she was witnessing a man being slowly destroyed, from inside, by fear for his son.

“Your housekeeper was here a few hours ago.” Heather scraped at the potato she was peeling as she talked. “I asked her to stay but she was anxious to get back. The things she brought are in your room. Except for the answering machine. That I hooked up myself, so we can be sure we never miss a call, even when we're outside or something.” She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I hope that's okay.”

He forced a grim smile. “It's great. Thanks.” Then he excused himself to take a shower, as he had the night before.

After he finished his shower, dinner was ready. The two of them sat down to eat. They hardly spoke through the meal. And Lucas had to jump up to answer every time the phone rang, which was often.

Once, after he sat down from taking a call, Lucas looked up and told her, “I'm going to offer a reward. A million dollars. For information leading to Mark's safe return.”

“Can you afford that?”

He nodded. “You think it's enough?”

“Yes. I think it's plenty.”

When dinner was out of the way, Lucas called his publicist at home to break the news that he still had no idea when or if he could continue with the book tour. Next, he contacted his agent—also at home—and repeated the same thing. After that, he made other calls. He arranged for a notice to go out on the national wire services about the million-dollar reward.

Between calls, the phone rang. It seemed to Heather that every time Lucas hung up, the phone shrilled out again. Most of the calls were from reporters who'd managed to obtain Heather's number from someone in town. Lucas spoke to them all, because he wanted the news of the reward to get out. After a while, Heather left him alone with the phone and went about taking care of a few household chores.

She was down in the basement, putting a load of clothes in the dryer, when Lucas called to her from the top of the stairs. She started the dry cycle and ran up the steps to the kitchen.

Lucas gestured at the phone receiver, which he'd laid on the counter. “Eden, I think she said.”

Heather reached for the phone eagerly. Eden was her stepmother, and Heather adored her.

“How are you holding up over there?” The warm, vibrant voice lifted Heather's sagging spirits a little. Eden was a wonderful woman. She'd taken Heather's bitter, reclusive father and made him into a happy man.

“Things have been better.”

“Your father's lurking by my elbow. He says to say we're here if you need us.”

“I know. And I'm glad.”

“How is Lucas doing?”

Heather glanced at the man in question.
Lucas is a wreck,
she thought, but opted for saying, “Could be better,” so he wouldn't guess they were talking about him and she could avoid getting one of his disdainful frowns.

“Why don't you bring him over?” Eden suggested.

“Now?”

“You bet. We'll have coffee. Or something stronger, if you'd like. And we'll talk. It helps to talk, at a time like this.”

“You know your stepmother.” Heather heard her father's teasing voice near the mouthpiece. “She thinks talking solves everything. That's why she never stops.”

“Oh, you...” Eden chided. “Go away. I'm doing the talking here.”

“Exactly,” Jared Jones growled.

“Don't listen to him,” Eden said to Heather. “Listen to me. And bring Lucas over here. Now.”

Heather looked at Lucas. He regarded her through those hooded, unreadable eyes. She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “It's my stepmother. She's invited us to come over there.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

“No. But tell her thanks.” He turned and went out through the dining room.

Heather spoke to her stepmother. “I don't think so, Eden. But thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Then promise me...”

“Yes?”

“If Mark isn't found tomorrow, you and Lucas will come here for dinner.”

Heather thought about that. The idea was appealing to her. It would be so comforting, to hold her baby half sister, Sally, in her lap and bask in the glow of the happiness that Eden and her father shared. But she was pretty sure Lucas would never go for it. And she knew she was not going to want to leave him alone if another day had gone by with no sign of Mark.

“Oh, Eden,” Heather started making her excuses. “I don't think it's a good idea. It would be very late. After eight.”

“It doesn't matter. You get him here. And yourself, too. You need family around you now. This is a hard time.”

“But I don't see how—”

“Find a way. Promise me.”

“I—”

“I'm not taking no.”

Heather surrendered. Right then, tomorrow night seemed a million years away. She'd worry about getting Lucas to go with her when the time came. “All right. We'll be there,
if
they don't find Mark.”

“All right, honey. And don't forget. We love you.”

Heather told Eden that she loved her, too.

Of course, the phone started ringing again the moment the receiver met the cradle.

“I'll take it,” Lucas said from behind her. He was carrying what looked like a small gray suitcase. “It's probably for me anyway.”

“All right.” She moved out of his way.

He set the little suitcase on the table. Heather realized it was a laptop computer when he flipped it open and she saw the screen. Then he went and answered the ringing phone.

The call was from Mark's mother. Lucas launched into a detailed explanation of the day's events.

Heather left him alone and went into the living room, where she tried her best to watch a situation comedy while she waited for her clothes to dry. When the show was over, she went down to the basement, folded the clothes and took them upstairs to put away.

Then she stuck her head in the kitchen, where Lucas was sitting at the table typing at the laptop. The phone rang again just as she entered the room. He got up to answer it. She mouthed a good-night at him and he waved in response as he muttered “Hello?” into the mouthpiece.

Heather went upstairs, brushed her teeth and changed into her pajamas. She climbed between the sheets and switched off the light, thinking she was tired enough that she'd be asleep in minutes.

But sleep was fickle after all. The phone kept ringing. And since she had an extension by her bed, she was jarred from a doze twice before she reached over and unplugged the darn thing. But then she could still hear it, down in the kitchen, distant but disturbing. And after a while, she found herself waiting for the low drone of Lucas's voice as he dealt with the people who called.

Finally, very late, the house fell silent. Either Lucas had turned off the ringer and let his answering machine handle things, or they were giving him a break for the night.

Heather lay, wide-eyed, listening to the silence, wondering what was the matter with her. It was perfectly quiet now. She shouldn't be lying there staring at the ceiling waiting for...what, exactly?

She realized what it was. She was waiting for sounds of Lucas moving around down there, for the noises that would mean he was getting ready for bed. She was having trouble relaxing because she hadn't heard the water running in the bathroom, or the creaking of floorboards that would tell her he was settling down in the room below hers. As soon as she heard those sounds, she could relax.

So she waited some more.

But the sounds didn't come.

After a while, she just couldn't stand it. She slid from her bed, pulled on her robe and tiptoed barefoot out to the small landing at the top of the stairs. She leaned over the rail and looked down the stairwell into thick, unrelieved darkness. As far as she could make out, all the lights were off down there.

Treading carefully, Heather went down the stairs. When she reached the dining room, she paused, her hand on the newel post. The door to Lucas's room was opposite where she stood. It was closed. No light gleamed under it. Apparently Lucas had gone to bed without her hearing him.