Indelible (16 page)

Natalie pressed a hand to her stomach. “I’ve gained ten pounds, just listening.”

“You don’t need to worry.” Trevor’s thumb brushed her elbow.

That from the man who dated curvy sheets of paper?

“Make it three.” He laid down his credit card. After signing, he picked up the serving tray. “Mind if I join you?”

They could hardly say no, not that she wanted to. A smile pulled at her lips.

Fleur tapped her stick to find the chair he pulled out as he guided her down by the elbow. She thanked him, and then asked his plans for the day with sugar melting in her mouth. Natalie nudged her foot under the table. The time she’d spent with him last night was like a pearl inside the oyster shell. She didn’t want it exposed.

He took his seat and removed the lid from his cup. “One final kayak expedition.”

“You can’t be serious.” Natalie shivered. “The river is frigid.”

“That’s what wet suits are for.”

“Still …”

“It’s hard-core,” he admitted, “but when you’re working a wake or fighting the current, there’s serious muscle burn. Trust me, you don’t feel the cold.”

The warmth of his voice brought her back to last night when the embers burned low and they leaned together talking books and movies and leaving the crazy parts of their lives somewhere else for a while. Not dating him felt pretty nice.

Fleur sighed. “This coffeecake is heavenly.”

As close as they’d get on earth. Piper hadn’t exaggerated.

Through her lashes, Natalie saw Trevor studying the blind woman, maybe wondering what she might need and if he could help. He tucked his last bite in and drained his cup. “Sorry to run, but I have to go pack up.”

“Thanks for breakfast,” they said in unison, then laughed.

“My pleasure.”

And it was. He gave easily, but she wasn’t sure yet whether anyone
could give back. He picked up his order, probably lunch for the kayakers, and went out. A little part of her felt bereaved.

Fleur fanned herself, and Natalie nudged her again. “Stop.”

“Don’t need to see sparks. It felt like the Fourth of July.”

“It’s not like that.”

Fingering her plate, Fleur broke off a bite of coffeecake and popped it in her mouth. “You want to know what’s brewing, ask the blind woman.”

Natalie laughed. “You’re impossible.”

“But right.”

“We spent time together …”

“Amazing.”

It had been.

“But, Natalie”—Fleur leaned in—“how much do you know about him?”

She mused. “Just what I’ve seen.”

“Because … he had a reputation.”

“Oh?”

“As a hot-dogger and, well, he didn’t like to lose.”

“So, what—he cheated? Hurt people, hired Guido to take out the competition?”

Fleur’s laugh burst out. “Of course not. But he’s fearless and aggressive. Mad Dog MacDaniel.”

Mad Dog?
Natalie dabbed her finger on the fragments of maple sugar. “My brother’s a professional athlete. I know what it takes to be at the top. To get there and stay.”

“Well”—Fleur nodded—“Trevor knew he was the best and acted like it.”

“Was he?”

“Three gold medals in his first Olympic games? He was only nineteen.”

“I didn’t realize he competed so young.”

“Didn’t you ever watch him race? His form was so fluid, as though it took no effort at all.” Her voice softened. “By his second Olympics, I couldn’t watch, but I listened. You won’t believe me, but I could hear the
difference. His line was so clean, no flapping skis, no awkward skids … no warning before the gasps and cries of the crowd, the hushed tones of the announcers.”

“What happened?”

“A banner tore loose and blew onto the course.”

“Oh no.” Had he realized even seconds before that something so random would change his life?

“There was an investigation. The press went wild with conspiracies.”

“Someone did it on purpose?”

Fleur shrugged. “You know how political the games are.”

“I never really watched.”

“Nothing was proven. It was just one of those things.” Fleur’s voice carried the knowledge of something lost that would never return.

“I can’t believe you listened to the Olympics.”

“I’m a mountain girl. I loved skiing.”

“You must miss it.” Natalie squeezed her hand.

The sigh came from deep inside. “I miss a lot of things.”

Angling the bow of the kayak with hard strokes of the paddle into the frothy crevice between rocks, Trevor thought about Natalie. He’d love to get her on the water, see what she could do. Broaching a wave, he found the swift current of the chute. Seconds later he made a Duffek turn to enter the eddy behind a large rock. It was always fun, but having her there would be better.

He played the eddy as the forty-eight-year-old woman shot past. Built like an action figure, Gwen commanded the kayak as though she never left it. The next three men were about her age and impressive enough, but for the first time, it bored him doing this with practical strangers. He angled his bow into the current and followed.

He got the feeling Natalie hadn’t experienced many sports besides Aaron’s baseball games, but he’d change that.

Whoa.

His head spun. What was he thinking? Women wanted love, relationship.
They wanted men who didn’t leave them with five kids under twelve, whose carelessness didn’t cost lives.

Who did he think he was, holding Natalie last night, acting like a couple this morning? Who was he to make plans for next year, next month, tomorrow? Her ego—if she had one—would not get her through a breakup. He’d been fooling himself that any of theirs would.

He finished the trip on autopilot, saw the people off, and stashed the equipment.

Sara joined him, bright eyed, wearing the baby in a sling. “Phew,” she said. “No more water events until June.”

He groaned at the thought of June, at the thought of tomorrow. He felt fractious, and it surely showed. So much wrong with this whole situation.

Sara frowned. “You haven’t heard a word I said.”

“No more water events until June.”

“What about everything I said when you went into your funk?”

He braced his hips. “Zoning out of a conversation isn’t a crime.”

“Everything okay?” Whit pressed into the storeroom, but they ignored him.

“When friends have conversations, it’s customary to listen. It’s called courtesy.”

Trevor hooked his hands behind his neck. “Sometimes, Sara, I don’t hang on your every word. I’m not required to.”

She huffed, face reddening.

Whit rubbed her arm. “He didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

He hadn’t even done anything—proof he had no clue what women wanted from him.

“This isn’t about my feelings.” Sara’s eyes sparkled dangerously. “It’s not asking that much to treat people with respect, even if you’ve known them so long they’re like furniture to you.”

“You’re not furniture. You and Whit are my family here.” So why did he feel so alone?

Her eyes brimmed.

“Hey.” Whit reached around and held her. “It’s all good.”

Except it wasn’t. “I’m sorry, Sara. Please, just let me finish here.”

“Oh sure. Wouldn’t want to get in your way.”

“You’re not—” What was the point? Maybe he was tired of bumping his shins.

He went into the cramped office, bent down, and picked up the mail dropped through the slot. He leafed through it and froze. Another envelope addressed to him, no return address, postmarked in Missouri.

Throat dry, he took out his phone and called Conner. “Officer MacDaniel?”

“Bro.”

“Anything on the photos?”

“I left you a voice mail.”

“I was on the water.”

“Got a match on the vehicular homicide. It wasn’t a hit and run. The working theory is that the boy was taken from a shopping cart in a Mississippi supermarket and dropped in the street.”

Feeling like he’d been punched in the gut, he rasped, “Why?”

“Maybe the abductor thought he’d been seen.”

“Did they get the guy?”

“No, and witnesses were sketchy. Some thought the kid walked out there by himself. Others said they saw a weird guy hanging around.”

“Weird how?”

“No one could really say. Baby-sitter was texting twenty-seven minutes straight. No clue the kid was gone from the cart.”

He pressed a hand to his eyes. “Is there anything at all that would connect it to me?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Well, start imagining. I’m holding another envelope.”

The silence on the line reflected his own disquiet.

“What’s going on, Trevor?”

“I don’t know.” With his pocketknife he slit the envelope. Maybe this time there’d be an explanation. But once again it held a single photo. Bracing himself, he removed the picture and took in the six- or seven-year-old boy, clutching something in one hand, clinging with the other to a rung
near the top of a silver water tower. The most striking feature in the photo was the lightning flashing.

His throat constricted.

“Trevor?”

He described it to his brother.

“Is he tied or manacled?”

“Not that I can tell.”

“So he could have climbed there himself.”

He frowned. “Why would he?”

“What’s in his hand?”

“I can’t tell. It’s way too far. You guys have enhancement tools, right?”

“Oh sure, just like CSI. Can you read anything on the tower?”

“No. But the envelope’s postmarked West Plains, Missouri.”

“Three states. Either it’s a group or someone’s moving around.”

“The photo’s dated a few days ago.”

“By hand?”

“No, digitally.”

“Well, three states is federal. No offense, but I can’t do anything with it. I’m just a rookie detective.”

“What? You got detective?” Trevor grinned. “Do I hear buttons popping?”

“Suzie’s calling me Holmes.”

“No living with you now.” Another pang of loneliness. “Where should I send this?”

Conner gave him his contact’s name. “He’s based here in DC, but he’ll contact the appropriate field agents.”

Trevor shook his head. “Three little boys in danger. How are they connected to me?”

Conner’s voice thickened. “You don’t see it?”

His chest chilled. “Ellis?” Waves of grief and guilt moved through like a tide. “Who knows about that?”

“Everyone who went through it with us.”

Trevor jammed his fingers into his hair. “That was thirteen years ago and …”

“You mentioned a reporter.”

“No way. I never told her that.”

“You think she can’t find out?”

He tipped his head back. “Then what? She goes all sweet Baby Jane and tortures me with similar tragedies?”

“You tell me, bro.”

Jaz wasn’t that far off a Bette Davis horror flick. “Fine, I’ll talk to her.” He disconnected Conner and keyed the number, got Jaz’s voice mail, and hung up.

A moment later, she called back. “Trevor?”

“Exactly how much do you hate me?”

She expelled her breath. “A tiny bit less than yesterday. Why?”

He swallowed. “Is it you?”

“Is what me?”

“Sending things in the mail?”

He could almost hear the antennas rising from her skull. “What are you getting, body parts?” She was going for shock value, but it hit pretty close.

“Never mind.”

“If you hang up, I’ll camp out on your doorstep.”

“It’s just rude mail, Jaz. I thought it might be an expression of your love.”

She told him to do something crude, and hung up.

He pressed his shaking hands to his temples. In both the swamp and now this storm, there’d been no conclusion photos. Both kids might be fine. Both might be dead. Who knew, except the one who’d taken the picture. And sent it to him.

That glory never shall his wrath or might
Extort from me. To bow and sue for grace
With suppliant knee.

T
he polyurethane sheen of the table had been dulled by hundreds of identities, unique oily ridge patterns that distinguished every individual, left as proof of their passing. Turning his hands over, he stared at scar-smoothed flesh. His presence there would not be recorded.

He spread the creased and softened account of Trevor MacDaniel. By luck he’d found it, an article not of news but personal profile. Each word of it was his already—devoured, digested, but like a cow regurgitating his cud, he read again. “The better to know you,” he murmured.