A Stranger's Touch (11 page)

Finished, she turned off the faucet. But she could still hear water running. It came from the other side of the bathroom door. The same sound she’d heard earlier. Only it wasn’t the shower, she realized, but water gushing into another sink.

Maggie knocked. “Stafford?”

She waited half a minute before trying again. “Stafford?” she called, louder this time.

She heard something. A moan, maybe. She gave the door handle a twist, expecting to find it locked. The knob moved easily.

“Stafford?”

Still no response. She placed her palm on the bathroom door and gave it a tap. Mist filled her lungs and obscured her vision. She blinked and squinted, trying to see through the haze.

Stafford stood at the mirror, stripped to the waist, his jeans riding low on his hips, his face drained of color. He clung to the sink, as though an electrical current held him to the spot, his body drenched in perspiration, his chest heaving.

She reached out her hand to touch him, and remembered that he’d warned her not to. Not while he was in a trance. She stood beside him, powerless, locked onto his wild, horror-filled eyes, as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

* * *

Stafford heard a woman’s voice. Screaming at him. Words he didn’t understand. Grunts. Shrieks. Like an animal. He struggled to suck in air. The fumes around him made breathing impossible.

He looked into the mirror. Tried to see his reflection through the haze of steam. Slowly, parts of his face emerged from the fog. His eyes. His nose. His mouth.

Stafford found himself looking at a small boy, clutching the edge of the sink as a shipwrecked sailor might cling to a piece of wood.

Davie...

A phone cord was wrapped around his middle, the receiver dangling at his hip. The wiry snake pinned his elbows to his sides.

Too shocked to cry out, he could only stare at his new appearance.
What had the woman done to him?
He hardly knew himself, he looked so different.

His hair used to be light brown, like his daddy’s. She’d hacked it, straightened it, dyed it. Cuts, some still bleeding, X-ed across his scalp. The skin on his forehead and around his ears burned an angry red. Uneven clumps of hair, barely hiding the damage, shone black as coal.

How would his mommy know him now? When he didn’t even know himself.

Chapter Eight

M
aggie couldn’t stand it any longer. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around Stafford’s wrists. She clutched the material, her makeshift psychic buffer, and gave it a sharp tug. She might as well have tried to uproot a fully-grown oak tree.

“Stafford! You have to let go!” She forced herself to sound authoritative. She wouldn’t let him hear her fear. She pulled on the towel again and got the same response. Nothing.

The man was in trouble. She had to act. And fast.

“I’m taking your hands and helping you away from the sink. Let go and come with me.” She laced her fingers with his. This time, when she pulled, he released his hold. And slumped against her.

Great. Now that she had him, what in hell was she going to do with him? He outweighed her by at least seventy pounds of solid muscle and stood a good foot taller.

“Stafford. Can you help me get you to the bed?”

He nodded, taking back some of his weight. Maggie wrapped an arm around his waist and half-walked, half-dragged him to the main room.

She managed only a few yards before she stalled. The bed seemed a mile away. She tightened her grip, puffing and grunting her way to the edge of it. With one more tug, they landed on the mattress together, her body pinned under his.

Slick with perspiration, Maggie wriggled free. With a last burst of strength, she hoisted his dangling legs up onto the bed.

Heat rose from his body. Semi-conscious, he began to babble. “She dyed his hair. Black. She cut it. Dyed it black.”

Her heart kicked into overdrive, hope and fear using her chest as a battlefield. “Are you talking about Davie?”

He nodded, wincing as a trickle of blood emerged from his hairline. Angry red stripes rose on his arms and around his waist like someone had wrapped a rope around his middle, pinning his elbows to his sides.

Maggie stared in disbelief, swallowing air. What was happening to him? Had Stafford looked into the mirror and, somehow, seen Davie’s fear? Experienced her baby’s torture?

She ground her teeth together, silencing the scream clawing up her throat. She dug deep and summoned the last of her strength—used it to thrust her fears aside and made herself think.

Stafford’s welfare had to be her immediate concern. And she didn’t have time to make the wrong decision. She ran out the door to the motel’s office, all the while wondering if she should have dialed 911.

And say what?
My psychic is burning up. He’s developed a new form of stigmata. Could you come right away?

How could she explain any of it—his visions or their aftermath? No one would believe her. She couldn’t believe it herself.

Alongside her panic and uncertainty, a terrible thought began pounding in her skull. Had she done more harm than good by forcing Stafford out of his trance?

She reached the office and swung back the door. It slammed behind her. A young, male clerk looked up in surprise.

“I need ice. Now!”

The teen jumped then disappeared into the back room. Maggie was set to kick down the door and fetch it herself, when he reappeared lugging a large plastic bag. She muttered a quick word of thanks and took off again. Back to number sixteen.

Sprawled out, exactly as she’d left him, Stafford struggled for oxygen. Maggie let the door hang open, allowing fresh air into the suite.

She ran into the bathroom and grabbed the towels from the rack, her heart thudding, her hands cold and stiff from holding the ice. She put two towels on either side of Stafford, filled them with ice, and doubled them over. Another, she placed above his head. She took the facecloth, doused it with cool water, and began smoothing it down his neck and across his upper body.

His breathing slowed, became deeper. The red welts on his arms melted back into his skin. The blood she’d seen evaporated, leaving no trace of color on the towels, or evidence as to its cause.

But she
had
seen it. Damned if she could explain it, though. Had she imagined it? Had anxiety and sleep deprivation caused her to hallucinate?

Slowly, she relaxed into her ministrations. Now that Stafford was out of danger, she took her time, stroking him and caressing the cool cloth over his chest, following the dusting of hair across his pecs and down his hard belly. She used the crook of her arm to wipe the beads of moisture that suddenly surfaced on her brow. And leaned in closer to examine a white line etched into his chest. The raised scar formed a jagged half-moon near his heart. An old injury, long healed, but serious at the time.

She smoothed the cloth over his shoulders, across scrapes and bruises. Guilt tugged at her. She knew exactly how he got those. From his fall on the station’s steps. An injury she’d caused. He’d never complained, hadn’t mentioned it, but she bet it stung. The purple blotches marred his otherwise perfect body.

Maggie froze, staring at the cloth in her hand. She flung it onto the nightstand as though it were a venomous spider. She pulled away with such force, she found herself standing.

She was seriously losing it. Her child was missing. The one man who’d been trying to help her could have just popped the top off a thermometer. And, here she was, enjoying the feel of him, admiring his male beauty.

How long had it been since she’d touched a man? She and Ron had divorced a year ago. They’d hardly spoken to each other, let alone had sex, for more than a year before that. With a small child in her care, she’d had no time, or inclination, to date. If such a thing as a born-again virgin existed, she definitely qualified. And yet, here she was, reacting to this man. A stranger...with whom she’d already experienced so much.

Stafford’s eyes opened. She searched his face. Did he know what she’d been thinking? About him?

She turned her head to avoid his gaze. “It’s okay. You’re going to be fine.” Playing the cool, efficient nurse, she bent over him and adjusted the icepacks.

He grabbed her wrist with more force than she thought possible given his recent ordeal. His eyes still shone bright with fever, but his grip on her was firm.

“The woman dyed his hair. Black.”

“Yes, I heard you. I’ll let Owens know.”

He looked at her for a moment, as if not understanding her words. Then his fingers relaxed their hold. “Night clerk on duty?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ask about Davie?”

“Not yet.”

He closed his eyes and sagged against the pillow. “Go, now.”

“I don’t think I should leave you—”

“I’m fine. I’ll be ready to travel when you get back.”

Maggie hesitated. She wasn’t sure if he was well enough to be moved, or for her to leave him on his own. He gave her hand another squeeze. One that reached all the way to her heart.

“Go.”

In that moment, she so wanted to believe in him. Even in his present state, his concern was for her boy. For her.

She eased herself off the bed and rushed to the door, pausing to look back. Though his eyelids remained closed, some color had returned to his cheeks.

She’d go for ten minutes, then run back and check on him. She didn’t dare leave him longer than that.

For the second time that night, she sprinted to the motel’s office, threw open the door, and stepped inside.

“Dan?”

The teen behind the counter glanced up, his customer service smile wavering when he saw her, the Crazy Ice Lady.

Maggie hadn’t taken the time to get a good look at him earlier. Long, greasy, red hair framed a face that still carried a trace of acne. How the guy managed to interest several girls at once was a mystery.

She flipped out her badge as she approached the desk, using the last few steps to catch her breath and hide her emotions.

“You have a last name, Dan?”

The clerk paled. “Manhas.”

“I understand you checked in a woman last night...Angela Marshall.”

Dan stared at her with watery blue eyes, the whites showing around them. He nodded slightly.

“I have to question her regarding a recent incident. It’s important the information you give me is accurate. Do you understand?”

Again, he responded with a nod. Maybe that was his appeal. All action, no talk.

“I need a physical description of the woman. Can you give me that?”

The teen wobbled from side to side as he shuffled his feet. “It was late. I wasn’t really paying attention. She had dark hair. And she was old. About your age.”

The round man from the gas station had pegged the woman in her 40’s. Under other circumstances, Maggie would have taken the time to be insulted.

“Caucasian?”

“White. Yeah.”

“Did you see a child with her? A fair-haired boy of seven?”

“Just her. When she drove in.”

“What time was that?”

“About two a.m.”

“When did she leave?”

“Early yesterday morning. At the end of my shift.” He shrugged. “Six o’clock. Maybe earlier.”

“So, it was just her who checked in? There wasn’t a little boy with her?”

“That’s right.”

Maggie went numb. Her limbs felt as though they belonged to someone else—too heavy to lift, too clumsy to move. Somehow, she managed to keep standing, even as the truth crashed around her.

The woman could have been anyone. What she’d witnessed in the room with Stafford had been more than enough to convince her of his psychic abilities. Now, she wasn’t sure. Was it all lies? A case of histrionics? She’d seen psychics on TV, preying off the tragedies of others, making up stories to earn big ratings. Was Stafford one of them? Had he led her on a wild goose hunt, chasing a woman whose greatest crime was checking into the Vagabond Motel?

“Thanks for your time,” she told Dan, and walked to the door on Jell-O legs, every ounce of energy gone.

“I didn’t see the boy until the morning.”

Maggie spun around, a wilting marionette yanked back to life by an unseen string. “You saw the boy?”

“Yeah. Yesterday morning.”

She raced to the counter, reached into her pocket and pulled out Davie’s photo. “
This
boy?”

Dan leaned in to examine the picture. The smell of spicy cologne mixed with teenage sweat drifted across the desk. He twisted his mouth. “Can’t tell. He didn’t come into the office. He stayed in the car. Sorry.”

Maggie put the photo away. So, there’d been a boy. Maybe not her Davie, but damned if she didn’t feel a rush of excitement, anyway.

“He didn’t have light hair, though.”

She steadied herself against the counter. “You could see that? From the window?”

“Yeah. He took his Flames cap off for a sec.”

A gasp caught in Maggie’s throat. Davie wore his Calgary Flames cap to school the day he’d disappeared.
Was that only yesterday? No. The day before.
The team’s logo, a large red C with flames shooting off the letter’s curve, was easy to spot. Even from a distance.

“What color was his hair?”

“Black. Like the woman’s.”

Maggie felt as though she were looking at the room from the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. Her world became more intense. More surreal.

The woman dyed his hair. Just like Stafford said.

Her stomach did a lazy somersault. A sweet ache squeezed her chest. The little boy traveling with Angela Marshall was
her
Davie.

“And the license plate?”

The teen’s acne disappeared into the flush of his cheeks. “Hey, you won’t tell on me, will you?”

She gave him the best confidant look she could muster. “What is it, Dan?”

Instead of shuffling from side to side, the clerk now pulsed up and down, a rocket preparing for flight. “I was sorta dozing when she came in. I’m not supposed to but sometimes I drift off. I wasn’t real careful with her.”

It couldn’t be easy juggling several girlfriends and a job. Maggie nodded, urging him to get to the point.