A Stranger's Touch (2 page)

Why had that job seemed so important, so crucial that she couldn’t have left a few minutes sooner to pick up her son? If she’d been on time, Davie would be safe at home, playing with his hockey cards.

“About that knapsack...” Owens shook his head. “We’ll send it off to the lab. There’s a clear tire tread,
but I doubt we’ll get much else. David probably dropped it when he was...when he disappeared.” He looked down for a second, then back up at Maggie. “Doesn’t look like it came into contact with anyone else.”

Her stomach did another spin. Owens’ euphemisms hid nothing.
Disappeared
meant
kidnapped
.
Anyone
meant the
abductor
.

“And the Amber Alert?” Maggie didn’t recognize the pinched whisper that came out of her mouth. Amber Hagerman, abducted in Texas in the mid-1990’s, didn’t get the opportunity to mature beyond the age of nine, but she grew into a chance of survival for other missing children. Maggie never dreamed she’d one day share a kinship with the girl’s mother. She cleared her throat and asked the question again.

“We’ve sent a bulletin out to the media. We’re doing everything we can on our end. What we need now is a lead.”

“Did you find him?” The words came from behind Maggie. She turned to see her ex-husband, his face haggard, his skin pasty. He looked as frantic as she felt.

“Not yet,” Owens replied as he moved around to the front of his desk. “But we need to ask you a few questions.”

Ron’s lips pulled tight across his usual movie-star smile—a trapped animal baring its teeth. “I just spent the last two hours being harassed by your people at my house. My parents are worried sick. My neighbors think I’m a criminal...”

His gaze went to Maggie, then back to Owens. “You think I kidnapped my own son, is that it? You think I have him hidden in a closet somewhere?”

Maggie wished he had. Most of the missing children in Canada were taken by a parent. Stranger abductions were uncommon. Only three had occurred the previous year. And all three children had been found. Dead.

She dug her nails into her palms, hoping the pain would stop the tears pricking her nose. She’d always put her faith in the police. She had to now. The force she so loved and admired would help her find Davie. They had to.

Owens’ voice remained calm. “No, Ron, I don’t think you’ve taken David. But you might be able to give us some insights into where he could be—friends he had, adults he trusted.”

Ron nodded, his chin sinking further and further toward his chest. “Okay. Okay, I understand. Of course, I want to help. Any way I can. I just want my son back.”

“That’s what we want, too.” Owens clasped a hand on Ron’s shoulder. “If you’ll follow Detective Fisecki, he’ll ask you a few questions, see if we can uncover something useful.”

Ron made a move toward the door, stopped, and turned to face Maggie, his eyes rimmed with red. Seeing him so raw and in such pain, Maggie stood and reached for her child’s father, longing to cling to him in their shared grief. But Ron’s next words slammed into her, keeping her at arm’s length.

“It all comes back to you, doesn’t it? You were late again, weren’t you? If you’d been focused on Davie—”

“I asked you to pick him up today,” she spat back, eager to dump her guilt on someone else, only to have it ricochet and hack into her even deeper.

“You’re his
mother
. It’s
your
job to pick him up. I had a house showing. I have to make a living, you know.”

Her disgrace turned to indignation. Hot blood rushed to her neck and cheeks. “And I don’t?”

“
You
were the one who wanted the divorce.
You
were the one who wanted to be a cop. I wish to God your father was still alive. That was the start of it, wasn’t it? You were happy being at home with David until—”

“This isn’t the time for recriminations,” Owens said, his voice low. He stepped in front of Ron, forming a physical barrier between Maggie and her ex. “Let’s focus on finding David.” He gestured toward the detective waiting patiently in the hall.

Ron shifted, placing himself in Maggie’s sightline. “We’ll talk about this later,” he told her.

Maggie kept her head up. She refused to cry. She was a police officer, damn it. And she would act like one.

When the door closed behind Ron, Owens grasped Maggie’s wrist and eased her back onto the sofa. “You can’t blame yourself.”

It was something her father might have said and had her sucking back another rush of tears. She wanted her dad, needed him, wished she could collapse into his arms. But he was never coming back. So she let herself take comfort from the man who was so like him. The two men had been more than colleagues, more than friends. They’d been clones.

You can’t blame yourself
.

Although she was new to the force, she’d probably said the phrase half a dozen times—to victims of crime, to survivors of car accidents. And each time, she’d meant it. But for herself, the words were meaningless. Ron had given voice to her guilt
:
the growing fear that her single-minded pursuit of a career in law enforcement had put Davie in danger.

“I want you to go home, Maggie,” she heard Owens say over the clamor of her thoughts. “Get some rest. Those days we owe you, take them now.”

She lurched forward. “But I want to know what’s going on. I need to be part of it.”

“Absolutely not. You’re too close to the case. I won’t have you jeopardizing it. I’ve already spoken to your sergeant. You’re off active duty until we tell you differently. Sorry, Mags, but that’s the way it’s gotta be.”

Maggie opened her mouth to deliver another protest, but Owens cut her off. “Don’t fight me on this. It’s in your best interest. And in David’s.”

A bone-numbing chill crept through her body. Wasn’t there anything she could do to help her son? “You’ll keep me informed? Tell me everything that happens?”

“I’ll tell you as much as I would tell any parent in your shoes.”

Maggie clamped her mouth shut, clenching her jaw until her cheeks burned. Owens was following procedure. If she’d been in his position, she would have said the same thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

“I’ll have an officer take you home.”

“That’s okay. I want to drive. Clear my head.”

The already pronounced line between Owens’ brows deepened. “You sure?”

“I’m sure. I can manage,” she promised, but gripped the edge of his desk as she stood, in case her legs wobbled. “Don’t worry about me. Just find Davie.”

Owens took a step toward her, as though he might hug her, but a quick look through the surrounding windows, and at the officers beyond, must have changed his mind. Instead, he cradled her forearm and guided her out of the room to the reception desk.

There, flanked between two officers, a heavy-set punk sneered like Elvis—minus the charm. Dried blood flecked the front of his T-shirt and added a rusty tinge to his tattooed arms, from his oversized biceps to his handcuffed wrists.

“We picked him up for the gang slaying,” Owens said, confirming Maggie’s suspicions.

The cops holding the suspect glanced at her, as she and Owens passed. One shook his head. The other averted his eyes. Did everyone know about Davie? Could they see the guilt on her face?

When Owens abruptly stopped, Maggie followed the direction of his gaze, through the glass doors to the street out front. There she saw a tall man emerging from a taxi.

“I gotta leave you here, Maggie. Promise me you’ll call a cab, if you need one.”

She murmured a distracted reply as the stranger came up the front steps and entered the building.

He was unlike anyone she’d ever seen before—taller than most men, his street-fighter build clearly visible beneath his thin, black leather jacket. The darkness matched his hair, which hung to his shoulders in gentle waves. The only gentle thing about him.

As his long, jean-clad legs swallowed up the distance between them, Maggie focused on his eyes. Guarded, haunted eyes that belonged to an old soul, a person who’d seen too much of the world. Their blueness might have inspired trust in some, but not in Maggie.

While she pondered exactly what had set off her warning bells, someone shouted. Rubber heels squealed across the tiled floor. Maggie turned in time to see the punk break free of his guards and make a mad run for the exit.

Only he didn’t get very far.

In a blur of motion, the tall stranger stepped forward and grabbed the suspect’s arm. One twist brought the tattooed man to his knees, a second left him whimpering like a baby—all in the time it took Maggie and her peers to draw their weapons.

The red-cheeked cops retrieved their alleged killer, gave the stranger a quick nod of thanks, then stepped aside to let him pass.

Maggie holstered her gun, nerves humming like a swarm of angry bees. So unlike the cool stranger, who appeared unshaken by the recent skirmish.

When he was little more than a yard away, she bent her head, so he wouldn’t catch her gawking. That’s when she saw his hands. Both were hidden by thick leather gloves.

She gulped down a quick breath. It was near the end of September and the days were getting shorter. Still, the afternoon’s warm mountain winds had gifted Calgarians with a brief respite from the coolness of autumn. There
was no need for gloves. Apart from their thickness, they might be the kind of protection a criminal would use to avoid leaving fingerprints at the scene of a crime.

Prickles crawled along her scalp. It signaled a warning. Someone was watching her. She jerked her head up and found the stranger staring directly at her.

Maggie’s heart beat in double-time. Paralysis inched up her spine. She tried to look away but couldn’t, frozen by an unseen power. She kept her gaze on the man until he disappeared into an interview room.

A flushed Owens followed him in, scooping up an object from behind the reception desk on his way...

Davie’s knapsack.

Chapter Three

S
tafford Webb watched Inspector Owens plunk a child’s pack down on the table.

“Thanks for coming in,” the officer began. “Have a seat.”

The blue knapsack was the only color in the room. Scuffed yellowing walls framed a small table and a couple of metal stools, all bolted to the floor. If Stafford stretched out his arms, he’d scrape his knuckles against two sides of the tight cell.

The air around him felt thin, tenuous as a man’s freedom. He’d been in interview rooms from Washington to Wisconsin during his FBI stint. They were all the same. Stark, cramped and depressing.

He remained standing at the door, staring at the bag. “A missing kid?”

Owens gave him a weary nod and sank into a chair. A steel blade of pain sliced into Stafford’s gut.

“And you called me?”

The cop laced his fingers together and offered a lifeless smile. “I had to start somewhere.”

Meaning, Owens didn’t have any leads. Relief and regret, they took equal swipes at Stafford. He ignored them both and focused on his goal.

“Sorry, I can’t help you.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

“Goodbye, Dale.” Muscles tight, Stafford turned toward the door, ready to make his escape. He shirked off the tug on his sleeve and spun around to face the older man.

“You know I wouldn’t ask unless I had to. Every minute that passes lessens our chances of getting this kid home safe.”

Stafford wished to hell his feet would move, but they’d rooted themselves to the floor. He stood there like an idiot, waiting for Owens’ trump card.

“The child belongs to one of our own.”

And there it was, just as he’d expected. He’d seen the mother in the lobby. He didn’t have to be psychic to feel her pain, see the terrible look of desperation in her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. Her anguish dug into him, leaving his chest empty and aching. For her. For himself.

“I can’t get involved.”

“You don’t have to. Look, I know how difficult this is for you. All I’m asking for is an initial impression, something to guide us, give us a direction. Right now, we’ve got nothing.”

The tough-guy voice Owens adopted wasn’t enough to conceal his fear. Police officers were a pretty unemotional bunch. They had to be. But when children were involved, it was different. Most had kids of their own.

Owens’ chair squeaked as he lowered his weight back into it. “Stafford, what happened before...it wasn’t your fault. You gotta believe—”

Self-loathing simmered in Stafford’s belly, flaying the back of his throat. He held up one hand. “I’ll give you what information I can now. Don’t expect anything more.”

Had that line really come out of his mouth? When had he become such a bastard? Six months ago, when it happened? Two decades before that, when it started? Or through all the years in between?

He took his seat across from the officer, removed his gloves and dropped them on the table. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it onto the floor. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and took a moment to prepare. Normally, he would have asked for privacy, but Owens had seen it all before.

Stafford closed his eyes and tried to relax. He concentrated on the steady thump of his heart, the sound of air filling and leaving his lungs. He
felt himself floating toward a place outside of the interview room, outside of his body.

Time slipped away. Sounds slipped away.

His hands found the backpack. He ran his fingers over the fabric. He smelled perfume. Fall leaves. The earth. He saw a hockey rink. A schoolyard. A group of trees, the leaves starting to yellow.

He looked down at himself. He wore small, dirty Reeboks—white with blue trim—and a pair of jeans, clean and pressed. His royal blue jacket, the black zipper undone, had a rip near one pocket, neatly patched. The bill of a cap shaded his eyes from the sun.

Alarm went through his body. He felt fear and didn’t know why. He looked around, saw a group of older boys—a blur of cold, sneering faces. He heard the sound of taunting laughter. A name echoed in his head.

Billy...Billy Bob...Billy Bow…

The laughter turned to an argument. A man’s voice. A woman’s voice. He couldn’t make out a lot of the words, just the angry tones. He felt his shoulders hunch as he tried to hide inside his shirt.