A Stranger's Touch (15 page)

If he did, he gave no indication. Joined together, hip to hip, they walked toward the office door, Stafford leading her along, his arm around her waist.

Three steps up and they entered a small, irregular shaped room filled with the spicy combination of fresh coffee and newly varnished wood. As the sign out front suggested, the place had a bit of everything—food, maps, rental DVDs—and the main desk of the motel.

A robust woman, wearing a jean jumper and pigtails, greeted them on the opposite side of the counter. The childlike getup contrasted with the woman’s age, which Maggie guessed was well past thirty.

So did her distended belly. The woman looked ready to give birth at any minute.

Maggie remembered when she’d been that big with Davie. The waiting seemed endless, the anticipation agonizing. She glanced down and found herself rubbing her own stomach. Quickly, she hid her bandaged hands in her pockets.

The pregnant woman smiled, revealing two pronounced dimples. “You folks looking for a place to stay?”

Stafford rested his elbows against the counter. “For one night,” he responded, his voice flat with fatigue.

“You’re in luck.” The woman flicked a pigtail over her shoulder, her gesture reminiscent of Cher in her Sonny days. “I’ve got one room left.”

Given the woman’s condition and the lack of accommodations, Maggie wondered if they were in for a replay of the nativity scene. “You’re that busy this time of year?”

“We’re always busy. Half the rooms are undergoing renovations, so we’re down to ten units. But I have a single with a queen-size bed up for grabs.”

Beside her, Stafford let out a long sigh. “You rent cots?”

“Sorry. No.” The mother-to-be shrugged and displayed her dimples again. “We mostly get truckers. Not a big need for cots. But we do have good, hot showers.”

Stafford turned his back to the counter and faced Maggie. “I’ll sleep in the car.”

She shook her head and turned to the clerk. “Are there any other accommodations in town?”

“There used to be a bed and breakfast, but they closed down last year.”

Great. Then why had she bothered to mention it? “We’ll take the room.”

Propping herself on a stool, the woman rested her ample stomach on her lap and began the process of checking them in, asking Maggie’s name, address, and phone number. Within minutes, Maggie had a key, a new map, and no idea which road to take next.

“Do you know if a thin, dark-haired woman and a small boy passed through here in the last day or so?”

The clerk looked up at Stafford with eager eyes. “You know them?” Her right shoulder slipped out of view as she reached under the counter. “They stopped here for gas early this morning. The boy left a couple of things behind.”

For a split-second, the outside world ceased to exist. The rain, the cold—nothing mattered to Maggie. Except this woman’s news.

“I was hoping his mother would phone and give me her address so I could mail them.” Smiling, the clerk produced a teddy bear from under the counter.

Stafford leaned into Maggie and whispered. “Is that Davie’s?”

She’d never seen the toy before. Ron didn’t like stuffed animals. He thought Davie was too old for them. The bear belonged to another little boy. Not her son.

She thought she’d crumble, and had to lock her knees to keep from sliding onto the floor in a whimpering heap. Then the woman revealed a second item. A hockey card.

Maggie
snatched it from the clerk’s hand. She covered her behavior with a laugh. “They’re good friends of ours. We can deliver it.”

The woman beamed. “Fantastic. I keep worrying about that little guy. How he won’t be able to sleep without his teddy.”

Stafford scooped up the bear, leaving the card for Maggie. She cradled it in her hand, rubbing her fingertips across it, remembering how it felt when she tousled Davie’s hair. It was
his
card. It had to be. Only a day, at best, separated her from her son.

Stafford guided her out of the office and toward the car, his hand resting on the small of her back. Her body hummed, her nerves flared. With confusion. With longing.

“I’ll grab a nap then do a reading on the new card when I’m fresh,” Stafford told her.

She wanted it now. Right away. But she couldn’t push. He knew best how to use his abilities. She’d just have to wait. No matter how much the delay clawed at her insides. No matter how much his touch distracted her.

A tired smile warmed
her champion’s lips. “I’ll be okay in the car, Maggie. I’ve even got a stolen blanket and a teddy bear.” His eyes twinkled with humor. On top of everything else, the man was a good sport.

She waved away the suggestion. “You’re sleeping in a bed. You need some proper rest. I don’t want to come out here and find a Popsicle where my psychic used to be.”

He exhaled, his breath visible in the moist air, his dark hair glistening with the spray of rain. “It’s not that cold.”

“You’re staying with me. I want to be with you.”

That came out entirely the wrong way. Her cheeks burned like the elements on a stove. “In case you get another vision,” she added.

His intense eyes rounded. His lips curved. “You’ll be the first to know.”

* * *

Judging from the exterior of the motel, Stafford expected a room the size of a closet. The place wasn’t half as bad as he imagined. He paced as he examined his surroundings, trying to shake off the tension that gnawed at his legs and shoulders.

A queen size bed took up a good portion of one wall. A lounging chair, which he’d claim for the night, sat near the window. On either side of the bed stood a nightstand and, opposite it, was a dresser with a television. Every station showed snow. Fortunately, for TV-addicted travelers, the room came equipped with a DVD player. He bet the motel’s video rental sideline did a thriving business, especially in the days before iPads.

The unit’s interior decorator favored a garden theme. Bunches of flowers, in red, yellow and blue, exploded across the bedspread, the wallpaper, the pictures, even the curtains. The War of the Roses in living color.

True to the motel clerk’s word, the room had a shower. He could hear Maggie making use of it. The image of her, the water flowing down her body, had him looking for any diversion he could find. That’s how he’d learned about the TV’s poor reception.

He tossed the stuffed bear onto the bed, sank into the chair, and scrubbed a hand down his face. He hoped Maggie used up all the hot water. It would give him an excuse, apart from a stiffening below his belt, to take a cold shower.

He’d have thought he’d be too exhausted to care about sex. Never underestimate a man’s ability for bad timing. She needed him, yes, but not that way. It would be a mistake. She was dangerously close to losing it. Already had. It wouldn’t take much to put her over the edge. Again.

His stomach clenched at the memory of her clawing her way down the jagged side of the falls, shrieking and growling like an animal. He didn’t think she could live through another episode like that. And he
sure as hell didn’t want to see a replay.

The woman was hurting. Holding her would be better than making love to her. He’d have to put his own needs aside and help her. In any way he could.

He slouched in the chair, stretched his legs out in front of him, peeled off his gloves and grabbed the latest hockey card from the bedside table. His last contact with Davie. And Maggie. Her blood stained the paper a deeper red than the player’s jersey.

Stafford let his head fall against the back of the chair. He closed his eyes. Pictures of a showering Maggie floated toward him, water beading on her breasts and around the curve of her belly, the droplets exploring her body like
he
wanted to.

He opened his eyes and leaned forward, elbows digging into his knees. Denim pulled tight against his crotch. No wonder he couldn’t focus. All the blood had drained from his head and settled much lower.

He placed the card between his
palms and pleaded. “Come to me, Davie. Tell me where you are.”

A scent filled the room. Maggie’s perfume. She was everywhere around him. Permeating his soul.

His heart rushed with panic. Had she so possessed him that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate his powers to help her?

Stafford opened the window beside him to cool off. The rose curtains fluttered against his arm. He leaned back again, placing the hockey card over his heart, his hands over the card. He worked to get his breathing under control. Slow and deep.

The sound of the shower drifted away until it faded completely. An earthy smell filled his lungs. A breeze swirled past his ears. Somewhere, a bird twittered, a branch snapped.

He opened his eyes to find a boy. The kid was around eleven, his hair matted, his clothes tattered and soiled. The stench of rotting flesh clung to the child like a shroud, heavy and rank.

The Hutchinson boy moved closer. As he reached out his arms, his ragged shirt fell open. The kid shrugged and flashed an apologetic grin. He hadn’t meant to expose himself. Or the still weeping stab wounds marring his chest.

Stafford bolted upright. He swallowed back the acid rising in his throat and looked around the room. The War of the Roses continued on, but the war in his mind had stopped. There was no boy, no smell, just the sound of water as it splashed against the bathroom tiles.

And ringing. Stafford lunged for the dresser and fumbled for
Maggie’s cell phone. “Hello?”

“Stafford?” The voice crackled on the other end.

“That you, Owens? The reception here is lousy.” Stafford reached the outside door in two steps and opened it, still trying to shake off the image of the dead boy
and silence the disturbing question surrounding his appearance: Why had Tommy come to him while doing a reading for Davie?

“Where are you?”

Stafford glanced back at the walls, as he jammed the hockey card into his pocket. “A rose garden somewhere in the Northwest Territories.”

“Is Maggie with you?”

“She’s in the shower.” Stafford winced. Owens was sure to get the wrong idea from that line, but backpedaling would only make it worse.

“Just as she guessed, the name and license number she got didn’t pan out,” the cop went on, his words clipped. Stafford wasn’t surprised. At either the information or the man’s tone. “Bring her home.” Owens sounded like a father protecting his little girl. Harsh. Accusatory.

“Don’t you trust me, Dale?” A long pause followed his question. An answer in itself.

Dead air reigned while Stafford picked his jaw off the floor. He’d always thought highly of Owens. Not as a friend, exactly, but the closest thing to it. Indignation singed his heart, cooling his reply.

“We’ll come back, when we’ve found Davie.” And they were getting close, so close he felt as if he could wrap his arms around the boy. Maggie needed to do this. And he would see her through it. Even if she ended up hating him for being unable to save her son’s life.

“There’s been another abduction. South of the border this time.”

Alarm traveled up the back of Stafford’s neck, a thousand steel needles pricking into him. “And you think it’s related to Davie’s disappearance?”

“I can’t rule out the possibility that we’ve got a serial offender on our hands. The boy was taken from Missoula. He and his abductor were last seen in a tan and burgundy car, along with a female accomplice.”

It was a coincidence. Had to be. This new case had nothing to do with Maggie’s son. They were on the right track. Stafford was sure of it. Telling her about this latest kidnapping would only worry her needlessly and he’d already seen the results of her fears.

“Stafford...it looks like Morley is back.”

He stumbled to the bed and sank to the mattress. His gut took a sickening dive toward his shoes. James Ryan Morley was a convicted child molester. A pedophile and a sadist. And the man he and Owens suspected of Tommy Hutchinson’s murder.

“And that’s who you think took Davie?”

“I don’t want to, but the facts are there.”

Stafford mopped his forehead with the front of his shirt. His breath blasted through the phone line like a windstorm.

“I need you here, Stafford. To find Morley. Isn’t that what you want?”

Yes, that’s what he wanted. More than anything. He’d spent the past decade following the creep’s trail. He burned to nail the monster for all the innocent young lives he’d destroyed over the years. And for one life in particular.

His sister’s.

Chapter Eleven

S
tafford’s cold shower did little to cool his senses. He grabbed a towel from the rack, threw it over his head
and breathed in the scent of mothballs. He had an instant picture of his mother and the home she’d created for them. The house of decay.

Heavy draperies hung over closed, locked windows so the sunlight wouldn’t fade the furniture. Even now, Stafford wasn’t sure what color she’d slapped on the living room walls. In the dim light, beige could have passed for brown, pink for mauve.

He hadn’t seen the place since he was sixteen, when his dad kicked him out. Four years later, he’d taken what little money he’d saved and hopped on a Greyhound bus, without a destination in mind. That came later.

Stafford wrapped the towel around his hips and stepped out of the tub. He pulled on his jeans, commando style. He thought about rinsing his shirt and kyboshed the idea. Too much effort for a garment well past its expiry date. Later, he’d go to the car and grab one of the new shirts he’d purchased.

After he told Maggie he was leaving.

Anxiety crept up his scalp. Somehow, he’d have to make her understand. Finding her child was important. But catching Morley was imperative. Stopping the killer would save dozens of innocent kids. And that had to be the priority.

Stafford wiped the steam from the mirror with his ruined shirt and gazed at his reflection. Hard, cold eyes stared back from the streaked glass. A mouth twisted with bitterness sneered at him. He could fool the world and pretend he was the most selfless son of a bitch walking the planet. But he couldn’t fool himself. Sure, he wanted to save future victims. Who wouldn’t? But he really wanted a piece of Morley.