The Faithful (17 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

No one had ever stared at me the way the man in the rumpled suit did, as though I were a ghost and just didn’t know it yet.

I pinched my left arm under the covers, hard enough to feel pain. It felt solid enough, but maybe all ghosts imagined themselves to be stitched of blood and bone, unaware they were no more substantial than a wisp of shadow.

Time seemed to stretch like taffy. Even the dust motes dancing in the light coming through the curtains stilled in deference to the man who stood frozen in the doorway.

When his jaw wasn’t slack, he was probably quite handsome. He had a thick shock of black hair that was dusted with silver at the temples, wide blue eyes, and a rounded face covered in black stubble. His nose might once have been straight but it had clearly been broken. Perhaps more than once.

He was tall and slender, and looked like he worked out a lot more than I did, which always made me wary. I knew there were people for whom exercise and healthy eating were as vital as breathing. To me they were part of an alien race who spoke a language I found vaguely threatening. After all, who in their right mind would choose to eat tofu over a nice, juicy steak?

Maybe he was a new father, lost on his way to the maternity ward. He did have the look of a man who was taking a header off the cliff into fatherhood.

“I think the maternity ward is on the third floor,” I told him helpfully. At the sound of my voice, his eyes widened even more.

Okay. Was he an escapee from the fifth-floor psych ward?

He shuffled forward like a drunk and collapsed onto the hard plastic seat beside the bed. My right hand moved toward the call bell.

Like a drowning man, he reached for me. His hand clamped down on mine in the folds of covers. The blood was rocketing through the veins of his inner wrist, like a secret we shared.

“I can’t believe it . . .” The dam broke in a flood of laughter and tears.

I watched him fall to pieces with the detachment of a scientist examining an odd specimen under a microscope. He wept with the openness of a child. There was none of the adult shame that made people hide their faces. I’d never seen a man come so completely unhinged, and apparently this was over
me
. The intensity of his emotion was frightening.

“Are you all right?” I finally asked.

He snuffled unbecomingly and wiped a sleeve across his damp face. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just such a shock! I never really thought . . .” He took a deep, trembling breath. “I mean, I always hoped you were
alive
, but I never really thought I would find you.”

“Um, who? I mean, who do you think I am?”

“You’re Ryanne Jervis. Aren’t you?”

Was this Agent Metcalf? The rumpled suit and scruffy face didn’t scream “FBI agent” to me.

“I guess I am.”

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, mopped his face, and honked his nose. I bit my lip; he sounded like a goose. And who carried handkerchiefs anymore?

“I understand you’ve been using the name Rowan Wilson?”

“That
is
my name.” I shook my head. “Or . . . I thought it was.”

“You were raised as Rowan?”

“Yeah. Kind of. It’s a long story.”

“We’ll have plenty of time for that later. For now, do you know where they took Leora Wylie?”

The look of disappointment on his face when I shook my head caused my heart to drop.

“I really don’t, I’m sorry. If I knew I would tell you, I
swear
.”

He searched my face, and finally nodded. “Okay. But I want to hear everything you
do
know. I mean
everything
. We need to find her.”

“My friend Dan should be here soon to drive me home. They’re just filling out the paperwork for my release.”

“I’ll take you home.”

“But Dan—”

“Ryanne, I’ve been searching for you for over
two decades
. There’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight.”

“All right, I’ll call him. But first, could you show me some ID?”

“Oh, hell. Sorry.” He pulled his badge out of his breast pocket and held it up for my examination. It said “FBI” at the top and “Senior Special Agent Joshua Metcalf” beside his photo. It looked legit, but what did I know?

“You’re not very photogenic, are you?”

He snapped the leather case closed and the corner of his mouth twitched up in the hint of a smile. “They like to keep us humble.”

At that moment, a nurse came in to take me through another round of questions. I guess the concussion wasn’t getting worse because she seemed satisfied with my answers. She took my blood pressure and temperature, and then wrote the results in my chart. She promised I’d be on my way home in the next half hour, smiled flirtatiously at Agent Metcalf, and left with a squeak of her soft-soled shoes.

The interruption gave me a chance to collect my thoughts, and I had my questions ready for him. “I read a news article last night that said you were a junior officer when I went missing?”

“That’s right, I was.”

“So I’m from Nebraska?”

He nodded. “Elkhorn.”

“I’ve never heard of it. I mean, well, I guess I
have
, but I don’t remember.”

“It’s now a suburb of Omaha, but back then it was its own separate town. Do you remember anything about your childhood?”

I thought about the dream I’d had the night before, about the woman jumping on the bed. “Not really. Did you know me? I mean, before . . .”

He shook his head, suddenly looking wary. I could guess why, but I plunged ahead anyway.

“Did you know my mom?”

This time he nodded. Even if I hadn’t already known, it was written all over his face. He would have made a bad poker player, and I wondered how he managed as an FBI agent.

The newspaper article had made no mention of Ryanne’s family, other than the vague reference by the man who now sat beside me. I found that odd. “She’s dead, isn’t she? Did she kill herself?”

“How do you know that?”

“I think it was the only way she could find me.” I glanced at the woman standing in the doorway, finally ready to acknowledge her. Her red hair floated free around her head. Her brown eyes were soft. She seemed pleased, perhaps even relieved. “And she’s been with me a long time.”

She blew a kiss in our direction. It ruffled Agent Metcalf’s hair and tickled my cheek. And then she was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The sketch artist worked on the composites with her for forty-five minutes, and then the next hour was spent engrossed in the red tape and awkwardness of getting Ryanne (
Rowan
, he corrected himself) out of the hospital. First came the long list of instructions on how to recover from her injuries. Dr. Sanchez directed all of his instructions toward Josh, mistaking him for her boyfriend.

Neither of them jumped in to correct the doctor, and once they passed that brief moment at the beginning of the conversation when it would have been easy to do, they got stuck listening with increasing discomfort.

When Dr. Sanchez explained how, because of her leg, Josh might have to help her bathe, Josh jumped up and vigorously shook the doctor’s hand, thanking him for his time.

Dr. Sanchez looked surprised, and glanced at Rowan for guidance. Her eyes were downcast, her cheeks aflame. Josh guessed his were equally red. Dr. Sanchez coughed awkwardly, shoved some leaflets about concussions into Josh’s hands, and retreated.

The nurse returned and shooed Josh out so she could help Rowan dress, and then an orderly appeared with a wheelchair. Rowan’s leg was obviously painful. She fell awkwardly into the wheelchair, avoiding Josh’s eyes out of embarrassment.

Her sweatpants and yellow top were torn and smeared with dirt and blood. Her pants were pulled up to the knee, exposing the swelling and bruising along her right leg. Her left arm was in a sling, and every inch of exposed skin was marked with scratches and bruises.

But it wasn’t the injuries that affected him. What caused his throat to swell with emotion was how small and vulnerable she looked in her ruined clothes. No one had cared enough to bring her fresh clothing.

He turned away, feigning interest in a chart on the wall that listed the warning signs of a stroke, until he had himself back under control.

Josh carried her backpack as the orderly wheeled her through the hospital, into the elevator, and out the sliding glass doors into the late-afternoon sunshine. He left her by the doors and ran to get his rental car, afraid to let her out of his sight for even a moment. He half expected her to disappear as though she were nothing more than a dream.

But she was still there, sitting in the wheelchair with her hands folded in her lap. The sun caught her hair and made it flame. His stomach did a slow roll of wonder.

Ryanne. He couldn’t believe it.

He felt a desperate need to attack her with questions. After all, she held the key that would unlock decades of mystery. At war with that was the simple desire to take care of her, the way her mother would have wanted him to. For the moment, he would let that win out.

“Sherry.” He sent his thoughts up to her, wherever she might be. “Don’t worry, I’ve found her. Just like I promised. And now that I’ve found her, I promise I’ll keep her safe.”

“I’m starving,” she said as they pulled out of the parking lot. She wrestled, one-handed, through her bag until she found her sunglasses, and put them on with a sigh of relief. “I guess I shouldn’t be seen in public, though. Would you mind taking me home so I can get changed?”

“Of course.” He followed her directions, weaving through Las Cruces northbound. Ten minutes later, he pulled into her driveway and cut the engine. Her house was interesting, a bunch of white blocks that were stacked together. The effect was whimsical and childlike.

He helped her out of the car and supported her as she hobbled to the front door. The interior was cool and dark, and she limped around flipping on lights.

“You have a beautiful home,” he said, following her inside and pausing in the doorway to remove his shoes.

“Thanks,” she said absently, moving as quickly as possible to the living room, where she bent down with a wince and picked up a Doritos bag and some tissues.

“Sorry about the mess; I wasn’t expecting anyone. Obviously.” She dumped it all into the kitchen garbage, her cheeks red.

He looked around with appreciation. The furnishings were sleek and simple, offset by special touches: a plum-colored cushion, an interesting vase, a bright piece of artwork. It all came together with warm elegance, and it made his sparse townhouse seem as well appointed as a cardboard box.

“I’m going to take a shower. I
won’t
be needing your help.”

He grinned, watching as she limped toward what he guessed was the master bedroom.

“Make yourself at home!” she called back over her shoulder, and then closed the bedroom door with a solid thud.

She emerged twenty minutes later in gray sweatpants and a Blondie T-shirt, her hair hanging in a wet sheet almost to her waist. Her face was scrubbed clean and shiny, without a stitch of makeup, and she looked about fifteen years old.

“Mmm. Something smells good!” she exclaimed, and he helped her to the table.

“It’s just pasta. Do you realize you have almost nothing that constitutes actual food in this house? How do you survive?”

“Coffee and chocolate.”

“Well, after we eat, I’ll go get your prescriptions filled and stop by the grocery store.”

“You don’t have to do that,” she protested.

“You can’t drive with that leg. How long do you think you can survive on Pop-Tarts and Coke?”

“Longer than you might think,” she muttered.

He shook his head. “Eating healthy foods will help speed your healing.”

“Oh God. You’re going to make me eat tofu, aren’t you?”

She looked so much like a petulant teenager he had to laugh. “I promise, I won’t. Recent studies show soy products can be bad for your reproductive health.” As soon as he said it, he could feel the blush creeping up his cheeks. She started giggling.

He set a dish down in front of her and she dug in with enthusiasm.

“Wow!” she said after the first few bites. “This is really good!”

“It’s the best I could do with egg noodles and canned tuna, but thanks.”

The food won her undivided attention, and she shoveled in her entire meal before he’d made a dent in his. He refilled it and poured her some water from the Brita he’d found in the fridge.

She slowed down halfway through her third serving. Her eyes looked pinched. He guessed her pain meds were wearing off. He’d once had a concussion, and remembered well enough the killer headache that had accompanied it.

He loaded the dishes in the dishwasher and insisted she go lie down while he went to the store. Before limping off to bed, she handed him a spare key. He wiped down the counter, made a quick call to Agent Chang for an update, and arranged for an officer to pick up Rowan’s car and drive it home for her. He found a Toyota key on her keychain and pulled it off the ring, making plans to meet the officer in the Albertsons parking lot in half an hour.

Before leaving, he did a quick walk-through of the house, making sure all windows and doors were secured. The rooms were spacious and airy, and every flat surface held a lamp. Her electric bills must have been through the roof.

He locked the door behind him and headed out into the New Mexico dusk, ignoring the churn of anxiety leaving her caused in the pit of his stomach.

Around ten that night, she emerged from her bedroom, clutching her head and moaning. Josh closed his laptop and helped her to the couch. He propped her up against the cushions and then handed her a couple of prescription pain pills, along with a glass of water. She swallowed them gratefully and then lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

Josh pulled the ice bags he had bought out of the freezer, wrapped them in a kitchen towel, and placed them gently over her injured leg.

“Thanks,” she murmured.

They sat in silence for several minutes. She looked tired and frail.

“Thanks for taking care of me; you really don’t have to.”

He shrugged. “It’s no trouble.”

“You’re an FBI agent, not a nurse. I’m sure buying groceries and cooking dinner aren’t in your job description.”

“I was also a friend of your mom’s. She would have wanted me to help you.”

“What was she like?”

“Sherry?” he said, smiling. “She was something else. I was six years younger than her, but growing up, all the boys wanted to get, um, close to her. She was very loud, brash. Wildly funny, maybe a little bit crazy. She was like a woman on fire. And everybody wanted to feed off her heat.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she was very beautiful, but she seemed vulnerable somehow, broken.” He shrugged uncomfortably. “She didn’t grow up in the best home, and she sought attention anywhere she could get it. A lot of people took advantage of that.”

“Men?”

He nodded. “She had you when she was nineteen. She was too young to be the most responsible mom, but I know without a doubt you were the most important person in the world to her, and she tried her best to do right by you.”

“Was my father . . . ?”

He shook his head, hating the tears that welled up in her eyes. “I’m sorry, I don’t know who he was. She never would say.”

She swallowed that piece of information like the bitter pill it was. “Is there any other family? My mom’s parents? Aunts or uncles?”

“Not as far as I know. Your grandpa was, well, not the nicest man. He was heavy into the drink and generous with his fists, from what she told me. He left her and your grandma many years before you were born, and your grandma died the year after you disappeared.”

She was looking down at her lap, red hair hanging across her face. He reached out and took her right hand gently in his own.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Were you friends with my mom before I . . . disappeared?”

“No, I only knew her in passing. But after . . .”

“What?”

“Well, you might say I became obsessed with finding you. I kept in contact with her, and over the years I guess you’d say we became friends.”

“Did you . . . love her?”

“Not in
that
way, if that’s what you’re implying. But yes, I cared about her a great deal.”

“She trusted you.” She said it with a certainty that surprised him. It was a statement of fact, not a question. His cheeks warmed under her gaze.

“I guess she did. I did my best to be a good friend to her, to help her. But it wasn’t enough to keep her . . .”

“To keep her from killing herself?”

He sighed. “Yeah, from self-destructing. I tried so hard to find you, to bring you back to her. I knew it was the only thing that could heal her. Without you, she had no reason to get up in the morning. She held out hope for a long time, but I guess eventually she lost faith in me. Lost faith in ever seeing you again.”

“It’s not your fault.” Her voice was quiet, gentle.

“I just wish I could have found you while she was still alive.”

“I would have liked that, too.” When she smiled she looked just like her mom. “But you’ve found me now.”

He smiled in return. “I have. And I have to say, I’m still in shock. I keep expecting you to disappear the moment I turn my back. I don’t want to let you out of my sight.”

“Would it . . . I have a spare bedroom. It’s got its own bathroom and everything, so it’s totally private. Would you stay?”

He thought about it for a moment. “Well, I think we have a lot of talking to do tonight. And you’re going to need help with the cooking and stuff. So, yes, I’ll stay. At least for tonight.”

She talked until her voice was hoarse, filling him in on every detail of the past few days, stopping only to sip at her water. At one point she made a pot of coffee. She drank three cups of it, and he wondered how she wasn’t buzzing around on the ceiling. The caffeine from the single cup he had consumed was thundering through his body like stray voltage.

By the end of her strange tale, he had more questions than he did answers, and he wasn’t any closer to figuring out where the lost children were than he had been the day before. And yet he felt excited, almost euphoric.

Behind the vault doors of her mind lay the answers to everything—of that he was certain. He just needed to find the right combination: the one that would turn those tumblers and expose what hid within to the light of day.