Vixen (29 page)

There’s no return address. There may have originally been one, but whoever opened this envelope was either sloppy or in a big hurry, because they tore off much of the top. The postmark doesn’t even include a town—that part got ripped off—but most of the date is still legible.

“It looks like it was sent in October of 1974.”

Judy’s eyes go extra wide. “We were found in November of 1974.”

“November twentieth, 1974,” Mom specifies. “The hospital estimated that you were about a week old, since you looked like newborns but you had belly buttons, not stumps. So they assigned you the birthdate of November thirteenth. But of course, we don’t know for sure.”

While Mom’s reminiscing, I’m studying the envelope. Too much of the date is missing. I can only guess the month is October because the curved bottoms of the O and C remain. The number for the day was torn completely away; the 19 is clipped a bit on top, but the 74 is as clear as anything.

“This envelope was mailed about a month before we were born,” I mutter, trying to determine if there’s any significance to the timing.

“Who’s
Mike Smith
?” Judy asks.

Dad shakes his head. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there were a thousand Mike Smiths in the United States. Could there be a more common name?”

I’m still trying to trace what might have happened. “Someone mailed this envelope to Mike Smith a month before we were born. Somehow, the envelope made it into the same bag we were found in—within a month’s time, give or take.”

Judy nods. “We were in this bag with the envelope, weren’t we? The envelope was sent to Mike Smith. Did he put it in the bag?”

Something like goosebumps raises the fine hairs at the back of my neck. “Did Mike Smith put us in the bag?”

“Who is Mike Smith?” Judy repeats the question, which right now feels like the most important question in the world.

“Why would he put us in this duffle bag and leave us at a rest stop?” I’m trying to imagine what would drive a person to do such a thing. Did he want rid of us? Was he hoping to come back and pick us up later?

Was he our father? What happened to our mom? How did she feel about us getting left in a bag? Did she even know about it?

Was she even still alive?

My parents are frowning. Looks like their cozy bedtime story about the stork isn’t going to cut it anymore.

Dad steps past where Judy and I are sitting on the floor next to the bag. He perches on the edge of my bed. “We often wondered what might have happened. It’s possible that whoever left you was hoping to hand you off to someone who was to come along later, but you were found before the switch was made.”

Judy looks puzzled. “But if somebody was supposed to pick us up, why didn’t they come forward when our story was on the news?”

Mom crosses the room to sit next to Dad. “It’s possible they were involved in something illegal and didn’t want to get caught.”

“An illegal baby exchange?” The thought boggles my mind.

Dad takes hold of Mom’s hand. “Sometimes, when people are unable to have kids of their own, they start to feel desperate. We waited over a decade with our names on a waiting list before it was our turn. It’s possible someone might not have been so patient.”

“So this Mike Smith,” Judy seems stuck on the question. “Who’s he?”

I stare at the torn envelope in my hands. “Where’s Boulder, Wyoming, anyway?”

“Let me look in the atlas.” Dad steps past us again and heads downstairs.

I follow him, and he grabs the road atlas from the bookshelf and heads for the dining room table.

“Wyoming.” Dad opens the travel-size booklet to the correct page. “Here, you look. I need my reading glasses.”

While Dad goes to hunt up his glasses, I search the tiny print for a town named Boulder. Either Wyoming doesn’t have too many towns, or they’re not all listed. I recognize the blue line of Interstate 80, which leads from Nebraska west through Wyoming.

Judy and I were found in a rest stop on I-80.

I follow the blue line, scanning either side for towns.

“Got it!” I announce as Dad returns with his glasses, and Mom and Judy join us around the table. I read the tiny red numbers that specify the miles between points. “It’s forty miles from I-80 at Rock Springs, north to the town of Farson. Then it’s another seventy miles to Boulder.”

“One hundred and ten miles?” Mom sounds slightly overwhelmed.

“No, wait,” Dad corrects my estimate. “It’s seventy miles from Farson to Pinedale. Boulder is probably only fifty more miles or so.”

Mom leans over to look at the map. “Ninety miles off the interstate, plus how far down I-80 from here?”

“I’ll have to add all the numbers together. Judy, can you grab me a pencil and paper?”

But Mom’s already making a disapproving clucking noise with her tongue. “It’s hundreds of miles from here.”

“What are you thinking?” Dad asks, with that intrigued note in his voice like he gets when Mom suggests we abandon our daily chores and go for a hike on a lovely day.

Like maybe there’s an adventure to be had, however small.

I love that note in his voice, and I feel my hope rise along with it.

But Mom shakes her head. “I was thinking maybe we could go there and try to find this place, but it’s late December, and it’s a long trip.”

“The kids get off early from school on Wednesday for Christmas Break, and then they don’t have to be back for nearly two weeks.” Dad still sounds intrigued.

“But Wyoming, in December?” Mom clucks her tongue again. “This place looks like it’s in the mountains.”

“It’s on the other side of the Continental Divide,” I admit, jotting down the mileage numbers on the pad of paper Judy brought me.

“If the weather stays mild—” Dad begins.

But Mom cuts him off. “We’ve got four inches of snow on the ground.”

“But what about in Wyoming? What’s their weather like?” Dad wonders out loud.

While I’m listing mileage numbers on the notepad, Judy has found a calculator and starts adding them up. I have to flip through the atlas for the Nebraska roads, but it doesn’t take me long to get them all written down.

“Seven hundred and six miles,” Judy announces triumphantly.

“What’s that at fifty-five miles per hour?” Dad asks.

Mom only whimpers.

Judy punches the numbers. “12.836 hours,” she concludes.

Mom whimpers again.

“That’s not so bad,” Dad insists.

“That’s assuming the weather is good for traveling.” Mom notes.

Dad shrugs. “The kids have off from school. You and I are done with classes already. We don’t have to go in to the office. We only went today because we didn’t have anything better to do.” He points to the map. “Now we have something better to do.”

Mom’s whimpering turns to a groan. “I’m all for trying to track down this Mike Smith person, but traveling in Wyoming in the winter can be dangerous. And we don’t know what we’re getting into. If Mike Smith was involved in illegal activities, and he lives in such a remote area, we could be walking into a situation that—” She clamps her mouth shut.

“That what?” Dad prompts.

This time, Mom’s whimper is tiny, and slightly apologetic. “That we might never walk out of.”

While Mom and Dad have been talking, Judy and I have been communicating without words. I don’t know if it’s because we’re twins, or what, but we’re strangely skilled at reading each other’s faces. Right now, Judy’s face is saying
I really hope they let us go check this out. I don’t care if it’s dangerous. There’s something different about us and we need to figure out what it is.

And I’m giving her a look in return that’s supposed to say,
I want to go, too. This is our only clue, and it would be foolish not to follow it. We’re already a cold case. The longer we wait, the colder we get.

So when Dad clears his throat and addresses the two of us, Judy and I are ready, our minds made up. “What do you kids think? Do you want to spend your Christmas holiday driving to Wyoming?”

“Yes!” We answer in wholehearted unison.

“It’s a long drive,” Mom cautions. “You’re probably going to get bored in the car.”

“It’s worth it,” I assure them.

Judy, ever the sensitive one, adds, “No matter what we find, you two will always be our parents. But we just need to know who Mike Smith is, and what’s at Lizard Head Road in Boulder, Wyoming. Maybe we won’t find anything, and it won’t change anything, but we’ve wondered our whole lives where we came from.”

I give Judy’s arm a little squeeze, because her voice is doing that emotional thing it sometimes does. “This is the closest we’ve ever come to having a chance to find out.”

Mom and Dad study each other’s faces. Even though they’ve been married over thirty years, I still don’t think they’re as good at communicating with their faces as me and Judy are.

“I think we should try,” Dad concludes.

Mom looks less convinced. “We can try. But if the weather looks bad, or if there’s something illegal going on…”

“We’ll turn right around and come home,” Dad promises.

That much decided, I immediately start hoping Wyoming experiences the best December weather ever.

*

This is the end of the exclusive sample material. Look for both
Dracul
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Foundlings
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