A Stranger's Touch (4 page)

She stood. He expected her to move toward the door but she kept her place, watching him. He thought he’d make it easier for her. Give her an invitation.

“You have a question?”

“I don’t get it. I didn’t know the boss went in for that hocus-pocus crap.”

“Are you sure that’s what it is?”

She transferred her weight, the ol’ Sixth Sense Shuffle, a nervous dance step performed by the left-brained skeptics he encountered. “Everything you’ve said could have been lucky guesses or clues Owens let slip.”

“I think we both know the Inspector isn’t the kind of man who makes mistakes. He doesn’t tell me anything before I do a reading. I prefer it that way.”

“That’s what he said, too. Still, you could have picked up on Davie’s asthma from looking in his knapsack. His inhaler is in there.”

“I didn’t open the knapsack.”

She frowned.
“
Owens said that, as well.”

Her brow crinkled, a crack in the concrete wall she’d placed between them. Stafford hoped that small opening would be big enough for him to reach through to her.

He stood and moved toward her, bowing his head, trying to compact his body into a less intimidating package. “I learned about the asthma from
you
. When you touched me.”

She froze, her eyes wide. Not the reaction he’d wanted. He’d sought to reassure her, not scare her. People believed their thoughts were private, impenetrable. No one wanted to hear otherwise. Least of all him.

Stafford couldn’t read minds. Not the way the fakers on TV pretended to. And he wasn’t about to compete with them. Turban dealers everywhere could relax. He wasn’t interested in playing the swami and taking his circus act on the road.

He searched his memory to find something that would comfort Maggie, to make her believe in his ability and the truth that her child still lived.

“Who’s Linda?” He knew he’d hit the mark by the look on Maggie’s face. Her ashen skin flushed slightly. Her sunken eyes burned bright.

“How do you know about her?”

“During the reading, I heard voices—a man and a woman arguing. I assume it was you and the boy’s father. Is Linda a colleague of your husband’s?”

“My
ex
-husband.”

“The reason for the divorce?”

“No. The diversion after it.”

She walked to the other side of the room and stood there, her back to him. She held herself rigid, her hands balled into fists. Tension stretched across her shoulders, making her seem broader, taller. He had no idea where she dug up the energy to appear so invincible, but he had to admire her for it.

“She came on the scene too fast. The split was enough for Davie to handle without...” Maggie turned and met his eyes, her strength and anger melting. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. The point is, no one here knows about her. No one but me and Ron.” She shrugged. “And Davie.”

Maggie took a step toward him. The harsh angles of her face softened. “All right. I’m impressed.”

It occurred to him to say thank you, but he rarely felt thankful for his gift. Burdened, confused and frustrated, perhaps, but rarely thankful.

“What happens now?”

Her question caught him off guard. “For me? Nothing. My work is done.”

Her cheeks flushed again. “That’s it?” she demanded, her voice strident. “You give your little reading and walk away?”

No. That wasn’t usually it. But on
this
case, that’s all they were going to get. He couldn’t offer more without losing the trail he followed. And his sanity.

“Ten minutes ago you called it bullshit.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, a fragile package held together by a strand of thread. “Okay. Let’s say you were going to follow through on a case. What would happen then?”

“I would gather as much information as I could—look at the evidence, the photos, go to the scene of the crime, try to pick up other impressions that might aid the investigation.”

What was he doing? Making a sales pitch? He shut his mouth, putting a stop to the infomercial pouring from his lips.

“I see.” She walked to the couch, grabbed his jacket and tossed it to him. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

The abrupt dismissal didn’t ring true. Perhaps it was his suspicious nature, but Stafford figured Maggie had other plans for him.

He slipped into his jacket. “I can grab a cab.”

“I don’t mind driving you.” Maggie reached into her coat pocket and jingled her keys. “We can swing by the crime scene on the way.”

Stafford felt his shoulders sag. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for twelve hours. Instead, he’d talked himself right into another reading.

“Didn’t Owens tell you to stay out of it?”

She was halfway to the exit, but that question stopped her. “How did you know?”

“Standard Operating Procedure. And your reaction confirmed it.”

Maggie leaned against the door. A film of tears bathed her eyes. Her upper lip trembled. She looked beaten, defeated. A broken shadow of the woman he’d met on the station’s steps. Stafford tried to keep his own emotions buried. But he was scared. For her welfare. Grief made people do crazy things.

He wrestled with the urge to reach out and steady her. Not because of what her touch might do to him—he’d prepared himself now for the effect she had on his senses—but because her emotions were so tightly wound he knew she’d crumble from the contact, like a figure made from sand.

Within seconds, any sign of weakness disappeared. Beaten, the woman may have been, but she sure as hell wasn’t broken. She pulled herself together and pushed away from the door.

“Look, I don’t have anywhere to turn. My baby is gone. And I will do anything and everything I can to find him. I’m not a person who prays, but I’ve been praying every minute. I don’t believe in Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Bogeyman, but if I thought one of them could help me, I’d be tracking them down and hauling them off to the crime scene too. You’re all I’ve got.” Her steady voice defied the tears in her eyes. “Please, I’m begging you. Help me.”

Something inside Stafford’s chest twisted. Memories of the Hutchinson boy slammed into him. Memories of his sister, years before. Memories he’d blocked out of his waking hours—ones that came to him now only in dreams. Dreams that
had him praying for morning.

He had a purpose. One he’d spent his adult life pursuing. He couldn’t afford distractions. But neither could he deny this mother the hope she needed.

He cupped his hands behind his back to hide their unsteadiness. “Where are you parked?”

* * *

Davie curled up on the floor in the backseat of the car, trying not to cry. His tummy felt like a bunch of worms were wriggling inside him. It churned even worse than when Billy Boehringer called him names.

He didn’t know what to do. Except stay really quiet. If he could do that and make himself really small, no one would notice him. Then he’d be safe.

Outside, he could see the moon floating in the sky. Street lights flickered by, making him dizzy.

He had to go to the bathroom. But he couldn’t ask. ‘Cause then the driver would remember he was here. His stomach rumbled and he squeezed his belly to silence the noise. He grabbed the teddy bear he’d found in the backseat and wrapped his arms around it, pulling it close against his tummy. His daddy had told him he was too old to have stuffed animals, but cuddling the bear helped. A little.

He wanted his mommy. He wanted to go home. But he had no idea how to get there.

Davie hugged the teddy tighter and held back a whimper as the warm liquid trickled down between his legs.

Chapter Four

I
t was after eleven by the time Maggie drove up to the schoolyard. The enigma from the station rode silently in her passenger seat—his face in shadows, his presence all too tangible. The air around him seemed to vibrate...thicken.

Could this man really help her? Or was he just preying on her fears, victimizing her all over again?

She lowered her window, felt the blast of air, and asked the heavens for reason. Only a few stars managed to shine brighter than the city lights. The rest of the sky hung like a black velvet curtain, ready to suffocate her.

Davie was out there, alone in that darkness. And, for the first time since he’d come into her life, she had no idea where.

A sob climbed up her throat. She rammed it back down, camouflaging the sound with a cough, and battled the need to search the schoolyard. Again.

She’d spent hours walking every inch of it that afternoon, convinced that if she looked hard enough she’d find her baby. Another go at it, in the dark, would accomplish nothing. Logically, she knew that. But it didn’t ease the tight knot in her stomach.

Clenching the steering wheel, Maggie played back her earlier journey—the blast of music from the radio, her impatience at the driver ahead, the sight of the dashboard clock counting off the minutes.

If only she’d been earlier, Davie would be safe.

A stab of guilt tore into her heart. Then another, as she spotted the yellow tape trembling in the wind. The police had cordoned off a large section of the yard. They always started with a big area, closing in gradually. The reverse—starting small and moving out—was an exercise in foolhardiness. Precious evidence might be lost forever.

Maggie had the sinking feeling it already was. By the pale light of the streetlamps, she could see the result of that afternoon’s wind. Garbage, branches, even a cushion from someone’s patio chair, hung from the fence that surrounded the school. Unsuspecting prey trapped in a web of chain link. If there had been any clues involving her son’s disappearance, they’d blown halfway to Winnipeg by now.

She tried to swallow but fear dried her throat and burned a trail down to her gut. She hacked into the sleeve of her uniform then cranked the wheel, pulling in behind a police van. The Canine Division.

Maggie got out of her vehicle, her legs shaking. She sagged against the door for a moment to steady herself, wishing she could inject some of that hard, cold steel into her veins. Instantly, her companion appeared at her side, his gloved hand cradling her elbow.

Stafford.

That’s what Owens called him. Maggie had never heard the name before. Was it his first? His last? To her ears, it sounded unusual, old fashioned—the name of a knight at King Arthur’s court.

He would have fit into that time perfectly with his strapping build and old-world gallantry. He held her arm,
giving her support
as effortlessly as if she were a raindrop. Weren’t psychics supposed to be middle-aged women? Or anemic men?

“I can do this on my own,” he told her, his voice a gentle rumble. “Why don’t you wait in the car?”

How easy it would have been to take him up on his offer, to have a moment alone, to give into the crying jag she’d fought since she’d discovered Davie’s crumpled knapsack.

Maggie straightened and slipped away from his comforting touch. “Not a chance.”

She forced herself to put one foot in front of the other, her limbs heavy, as though she were walking through quicksand. She struggled forward, pushing her way toward the officers who were packing it in for the night.

Detective Millar, an attractive guy in his early forties, whose bushy mustache might have looked better on a pirate, glanced up as she approached.

“Holmes,” he said, acknowledging her presence. “Sorry about your boy. We’ll do our best to get him back.”

The simple condolence made her eyes water. She blinked away the tears. “Find anything?”

“Not much. The yard’s littered with garbage. The dogs picked out a few items. We’ll take them to the lab and see what we’ve got.”

On cue, the animals in the van barked. Maggie yelled over their yelps. “Can I have a look?”

Millar took a deep breath and shook his head. “Owens warned us you might come around—”

Behind her, a deep-toned voice interjected. “
I
wouldn’t mind seeing what you have.”

“Mr. Webb?” Millar lowered his clipboard. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were on the case. I need to keep the items in their evidence bags. Is that going to work for you?”

Did everyone know about this Stafford guy but her? Detective Millar went from controlling to accommodating without so much as a twitch of the hairs on his upper lip.

How had she missed seeing Stafford before now? True, she was new to the force, but when it came to men, he was definitely the unforgettable type. What kinds of cases had he helped with in the past? High profile ones, she guessed. Murders and missing persons—typical FBI fare. Not traffic accidents or teenage vandalism. No wonder their paths hadn’t crossed.

Stafford followed Millar to the passenger side of the van, with Maggie falling in behind. She held her breath as the detective reached into the vehicle and pulled out three evidence bags. The first held a cigarette butt; the second, a wrinkled potato chip bag; the third, a brown shoestring.

Stafford leaned into Maggie. “Getting a reading through plastic is tricky but I’ll do my best.”

He removed his gloves and stuffed them into his pockets, like a safecracker preparing to work. Stafford had told her that he tuned into objects through his sense of touch. Maggie figured he used the gloves for protection. Or affectation.

He leaned back against the van. After several deep breaths, the tension seemed to evaporate from his body. For a moment, his face became serene, almost incandescent, like an injured man soothed with a shot of morphine. He took each piece of evidence in turn, held it in his hands for a moment, and moved on to the next.

As Stafford touched the shoestring, a flicker of expression passed over his features, a dark recognition.

Finished, he handed the last evidence bag back to the officer and offered a vague statement of defeat. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Maggie looked at him with anticipation but he said nothing more. He simply turned and walked back toward her car.

As the motor of the police van roared to life, she caught up to Stafford. “Anything?”

“Nope.”

“Your face changed when you held the shoelace.”

“Nothing to do with this case. Some teenager used it as a tourniquet to shoot drugs.”