A Stranger's Touch (3 page)

Then playing cards fell from the sky.
No.
Not playing cards. Sport cards. Hockey cards.

Emotions shifted. Fear propelled him forward. Branches scratched against his jacket and slapped his face. He looked up the street and saw a tan car—his mommy to the rescue. Relief washed over him. Then the images changed. Turned darker.

He saw a prowling animal. A dog? A bear? A man? He couldn’t be sure. A series of numbers swirled around, like the noodles in a bowl of alphabet soup. A seven in the foreground obscured the rest.

The car’s driver-side window lowered. He gulped in air. It was thick. Too heavy to breathe. As though he were underwater. He heard a name through the murky liquid.

A hand reached out to him. Grabbed him. Wrenched him away.

Stafford fell, plunging like a cannonball, through all the layers he’d traveled. But his stomach stayed in the place his body had just left—a sickening roller-coaster drop. He came back to the interview room with a jolt, nauseated and gasping for breath.

Owens was by his side, his hand on Stafford’s arm. “You all right?”

He couldn’t speak—couldn’t take in enough air to give Owens shit for severing the connection with his unexpected touch. He saw the older man reach for the door and open it.

“Get a medic in here! Fast!”

“I’m fine,” Stafford managed to croak.

The Inspector moved away from the door, leaving it ajar. He drew closer and rested his hands on the table.

“You look terrible,” Owens told him.

Since Stafford felt the same way, he wasn’t surprised. He tried to keep his hand from shaking as he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m okay.”

Owens waved away the officer who appeared at the door and they were alone again. “What did you see?”

Stafford gave
himself a moment to collect his thoughts. The images came back to him in a psychedelic jumble, the colors too bright, the details zipping by with Indie 500 speed.

“Look for an older model, two-door, tan car. I heard the name Billy—last name starts with a B. He’s a student. A tough kid. The missing child was running from him.”

“Away from the school bully and right into the arms of the person who grabbed him.”

“That’s what I’m getting.” A twinge of memory reached out to Stafford. He pushed it away and focused on the case at hand.

“I heard another name. Marshall. I assume that’s the missing child. All I got from the license plate was a jumble of numbers. There’s a seven in it. Same age as the boy.” He stopped to take a breath and looked up at the cop. “Are his parents divorced?”

A world-weary sadness glistened in Owens’ eyes. “How did you know?”

“I heard them arguing.” Stafford could relate. His own parents fought regularly. And always about the same thing.
Him.

“The child likes hockey, has collector cards. I can tell you what he was wearing—”

“We’ve got that, thanks.” Owens leaned closer, his voice hushed. “Is it the same as the Hutchinson boy?”

Stafford hadn’t heard the name for months, but that hadn’t stopped him from thinking about the kid. Every day.

He pulled down his sleeves, buying time until his voice became steady. “No. Not that.”

Owens exhaled. “Good. Thanks. We’ll get right on it.”

Stafford reached for his gloves. “Owens...I don’t think you have to hurry.”

The Inspector froze, his expression pained. Stafford lowered his head.

“I feel that he’s dead. Drowned.”

* * *

Maggie waited outside the station, lurking in the twisted shadows of the nearby trees.

Snippets of conversation hovered on the warm night air. Muted voices came toward her then scattered, as though a wall stood between her and the rest of the world. Cut off, locked inside the prison of a walking nightmare, her mind raced.

Who had her son? Was Davie okay? How could she find him?

She laced her fingers, imagining that she held his little hand. The gesture brought her no warmth. No comfort. Entwining those icy fingers only made her feel empty.

She rounded her shoulders as she thrust her hands into the pockets of her pants. The tall stranger had to come out sometime, and when he did, she’d be right there.

She wasn’t disappointed. After waiting an hour, the man exited the building, his jacket slung casually over his shoulder.

He paused at the top of the stairs, the added height accentuating his towering silhouette. She had no doubt he could overpower her, even with her police training and a semi-automatic in her holster. She’d have to take him by surprise.

A heavy, cold sickness surged deep inside her. She’d heard about it from other officers, seen it on the faces of the victims she’d helped. Now, her time had come. It was her turn to taste real fear. To live with the dread that a life, far more precious than her own, might be gone. And the one person Owens had interviewed in the case was just footsteps away.

Maggie moved in front of him. “Who are you? Why did Owens want to see you?”

The man didn’t flinch. He looked as if he expected her, as though late night confrontations with women who jumped out at him from bushes were commonplace in his world.

“You’re the child’s mother.” It was a statement, not a question.

His soft-spoken manner infuriated her. “What did Owens want with you? What do you know about my son?”

“I’m sorry,” he murmured and tried to move past her.

She blocked his way. She planted her feet and prepared for him to toss her aside like a rag doll. When the blow didn’t come, Maggie grew bolder.

“What do you know?” she demanded, gripping his bare forearm.

His skin was heated, feverish. She felt his body shudder. He winced, his shocked face contorting in pain. He clutched the metal railing beside him, his jacket falling to the ground.

“Davie? That’s the child’s name?” His voice was faint, raspy.

She pressed forward and leaned into him. “What do you know about Davie?”

The man cringed again, staggered backwards and regained his balance. “Then...who’s Marshall?”

She grabbed his other arm, dug her nails into solid flesh. “What are you talking about? Where’s my son?”

He looked into her eyes, his own widening. “Asthma,” he gasped. “Not drowned. Tell Owens...the child...he’s alive.”

That was all the tall stranger said, then he collapsed at her feet.

* * *

Stafford floated back to his body on a gentle mist. A hundred vaporous hands guided him—ethereal crowd surfing in an outer world mosh pit.

He drifted toward an unfamiliar room, to the presence of a now familiar woman. Even with his eyes closed,
he knew she was there. Could sense her. Her strength sent a blanket of warmth over him. Her terror made every inch of his skin crackle.

He fought to find a middle ground, a calm channel through which he could pass back to the physical world. He focused on her perfume and let it surround him. The faint lavender scent that had left its imprint on her son’s backpack now guided Stafford to a couch in a cool room. He opened his eyes, blinked a few times and finally got her into focus.

She’d let down her hair, pulled it from the tight bun she’d been wearing when he’d first seen her. The imprints of an elastic band and several bobby pins branded the strands, just as worry for her son marked her face—a creased brow, pale skin, blotchy patches around the eyes.

Still, it was a nice face. Some might have found the mouth too big, the brown eyes too small, but surrounded by that mass of thick, dark hair, it all fit together.

Beautifully.

Too bad the woman and her clothes didn’t mesh. The navy blue uniform was severe, masculine. She seemed too small for it. Too fragile. And much too feminine.

She leaned forward in her seat, her forearms braced on her thighs, her hands gripped together, her heartbroken eyes focused on him. He knew he wasn’t the cause of her sadness, still he felt guilty. The look she gave him didn’t help. She examined him as though he were an alien creature. A freak, not to be trusted.

A question came to him: Where am I?

He decided not to ask it. Too cliché. Besides, as his senses returned, he discovered the answer. Only law enforcement officers could have brewed the burnt coffee he smelled. No doubt the same burly bunch he’d felt carry
him back into the building.

Stafford waited for the woman to speak first, while he scanned his surroundings. The few times he’d visited the station, he’d been ushered into an interview room or a waiting patrol car. Most of the cases he’d worked on—arson, robbery and bomb scares—had been in the field. Never had he gone to one of the offices.

This one came equipped with the couch beneath him, the high-backed chair where she sat, a credenza, and the customary desk. On the wall hung a jumble of diplomas, plaques and photos. One caught Stafford’s eye. A younger, smiling Owens stood with an arm hooked over the shoulder of a fellow cop.

Something about the unknown officer reminded Stafford of the woman. He looked back at her, trying to figure it out. Was it the mouth? The hair color? Or just his imagination?

Stafford shifted. Talons of pain dug into his left side. His ribs throbbed from their clash with the concrete steps and, on his forearms, he saw the raw half-moon imprints of someone’s fingernails.

Bested for the first time in his adult life. And by a female half his size.

He almost laughed at the irony. But this woman’s energy was no joke. Over the years, he’d developed a technique to block out the impact of casual human contact.

There’d been nothing casual in her touch, however. He could have blamed his reaction on the physical and emotional drain he’d felt from his meeting with Owens. But he’d be lying. Her spirit had reached out and clobbered him flat, as surely as if she’d used a baseball bat.

“The medic just left. Shall I call him back?”

Now that she wasn’t yelling at him, he had time to take in her voice. It matched her hair—deep and rich, like melted chocolate.

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

He doubted she cared, not with the wary look she gave him, but he wanted to hear her voice again. He pushed himself up on his elbow and waited while the room did a slow spin.

“Where’s Owens?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she sat studying him, looking lost, like war refugees he’d seen on TV.

If he’d been the heroic type, he would go to her, hold her, and murmur a bunch of lies about finding her kid and making everything better. But he was nobody’s savior. He closed his eyes and settled back onto the couch.

“He told me about you,” she said, after a moment. “About your...profession.”

He could picture Owens, the Dirty Harry of his day, stumbling over that explanation. Few people in the department knew about the Inspector’s pet psychic. Only the ones who had to.

“It suits me,” he said, looking at her again. “I work alone. With my hands. It’s a great feeling—making something from scratch, seeing it take shape.”

She straightened, her palms resting on her knees. “What are you talking about?”

Good. He had her attention. Sometimes the best avoidance tactic was the truth. “I make furniture. Build my own designs.” Which he always sold through a dealer. He took a financial hit that way, but it left him free to pack up and leave whenever the need struck. “Isn’t that what Owens told you?”

“No.” She crossed her arms. Skepticism curved her mouth into a sneer. “He said you trained with the Bureau. And that you’re clairvoyant.”

I’m Stafford. Claire is my aunt.
He decided against using the line. It was as old as he felt.

Instead, he wondered which part irked her the most—his psychic abilities, or his FBI background. Probably both. With equal intensity. The Bureau didn’t usually play nice with local authorities.

“I prefer the term scryer. I pick up impressions from objects. It’s called psychometery. But it’s not a profession. I don’t accept money for it.”

“Good. Since it’s all bullshit.”

So was her attempt at bravado. She wouldn’t be sitting here with him if she weren’t curious—if she weren’t considering the remote possibility that he could help.

More interesting was his urge to unleash a little bravado of his own and tout his credentials, recap his time at Quantico and the cases he’d solved. But the arrival of Inspector Owens derailed him from the task. The veteran cop poked his head into the room, his eyes meeting Stafford’s.

“Better?”

Stafford grunted his reply and brought himself up to a sitting position, the old leather couch beneath him creaking as he moved.

“I feel the child is okay. For now. I think the breathing difficulty I sensed was an asthma attack.”

“Yeah, Maggie told me you said that.”

Maggie.
He liked the name. Strong. No nonsense. It suited her. “That other name I got—Marshall—might be the perpetrator.”

“We’re on it. And we got a confirmation on the car. A parent saw it by the hedge when she was talking to one of the teachers on patrol. Another student, Billy Boehringer, claims Davie got into it through the driver’s side. We’re checking the database for older, two-door, tan vehicles with a seven in the license plate. It doesn’t narrow the field a lot, but it gives us a starting point.” Owens dragged his fingers through his short, gray hair. “Thanks, Stafford. If anything else comes to you, you know where to reach me.”

“Will do.”

“I’ll get one of the officers to give you a lift home.”

“I can take him,” Maggie announced.

Stafford didn’t doubt she could. In more ways than one. But he did doubt the selfless nature of her offer. She looked at him, her eyes hungry with questions. Driving him home would give her the opportunity to grill him.

He knew she found him strange. Most people did. He understood. And concurred. He found himself
strange most of the time.

Owens sent a concerned look toward Maggie, then turned and left the room. Stafford didn’t need any special insight to see the relationship there. Obviously a father-daughter thing. A good one. Maggie tilted her head toward the door and Owens’ departing back. “He’s trying to keep me out of trouble.”

Probably a full-time job. Especially now. Maggie wore a brave mask but fear and pain seeped through her eyes. She hadn’t come unhinged. Not yet. But it was only a matter of time.