Knowing You (29 page)

Poor little thing still took tiny bites of food, then backed away, as if trying to protect what little she could take in one bite. Stevie sighed, shook her head, and smiled softly. Of all the dogs and cats she'd taken in over the years, this one tiny animal had crept into her heart and taken root. There was something so lost
and yet so trusting about her. It didn't seem to matter what her previous owners had done to her. Scruffy's nature was to forgive.

To love.

She, too, wanted to belong. And Stevie could identify with that. So maybe the answer to Scruffy's housing problem was a simple one. Two lonely hearts deserved each other, right?

“You're not going anywhere, are you, Scruff?” she whispered, stroking the dog's head with her fingertips. “You're going to stay right here with me, huh?”

For the first time in her life, she had her
own
dog. That was sort of like family. Right?

The phone rang and Stevie groaned as she looked at the clock. Ten-thirty. “Who the hell…?” She pushed herself to her feet and headed for the living room. “This better not be you, Nick.” She grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

“Stevie?” A woman's voice, anxious. Strained. “Thank God you're finally home.”

Frowning, she asked, “Who is this?”

“It's Margie. Debbie's housemother?”

Instantly fear caught at the base of her throat and damn near strangled her. “What is it? What's wrong?”

“I've been calling you all night,” Margie said, words hurtling through the phone line, tumbling one after the other.

Stevie glanced at the answering machine. The red light blinked frantically, silently, admonishing her for not being at home when she was needed.

“What's happened, Margie?”

“Debbie's gone.”

“Gone?
Gone?
” Stevie's fingers tightened on the receiver. “Gone where?”

“That's the thing. She left a note. I just found it two hours ago. Says she's coming to see you.”

“To see me?” Fear rattled through her. How would Debbie get here? And if she'd left more than two hours ago, she should have been here by now. “Oh God.”

Margie sighed and Stevie heard the relief in it. It was much easier to be worried
with
someone than to have to do it alone. “I've called the police,” she was saying, and Stevie listened up, afraid to miss something vital. “Told them I think she went to the bus station. I don't know how many people they're putting on this, though. I'd go down there myself, but I don't want to leave the other girls alone and—”

“I'm on my way.” Stevie slammed the phone down, her hand lingering on the receiver briefly, before she snatched it back up again and punched in a familiar phone number.

When he answered, she simply said, “Paul? I need your help.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

P
AUL HIT THE GAS
and didn't let up once. With Stevie beside him in the passenger's seat, he kept his gaze on the road as he steered his car in and out of traffic. He passed a slow-moving white van, then squeaked between an 18-wheeler and an SUV, and he would have sworn the only thing separating them was a coat of paint. But this was no time for timid driving.

He spared Stevie a quick glance and almost wished he hadn't. Light flashed in and out of the car as headlights of other vehicles speared into the darkness, then zoomed off again. Stevie's features were tight, she had a death grip on the armrest, and her eyes were filled with a misery so deep, he ached for her.

“This is not your fault,” he said, though he almost didn't expect her to hear him—and certainly not to believe him.

“Really.” She didn't look at him. She kept her gaze locked on the road ahead of them as if just by staring she could hurry them along. Make them reach their
destination that much faster. “Who else, then? I should have been home. Should have been there to get Margie's call.”

“What are you, psychic?” he demanded. “You were supposed to
know
that you'd be needed tonight?”

“No, but—”

He glanced over his left shoulder, then changed lanes again as the driver behind him honked in futile fury. “Ah. Then what? You're supposed to stay at home from now on? Just in case there
might
be an emergency?”

“You don't have to make it sound stupid.”

“I'm not making it sound stupid. It
is
stupid.”

Then he told himself to shut up. He wasn't helping. Wasn't making the situation any better. He was only giving her more grief. And that she didn't need.

From the moment he'd picked up the phone and heard the tight, thin thread of fear in her voice, Paul had been hers. Whatever she needed, he'd do. Whatever she had to have, he'd get. If that meant giving her quiet time to panic, then so be it.

He kept his mouth shut for the rest of the drive, only nodding as she gave him muttered directions. When he pulled up in front of the neat Spanish-style house, Stevie bailed from the car before he'd even had time to turn off the engine.

The porch light was on, a pale yellow beacon, guiding them in. The front door opened when she was halfway up the walk and an older woman, clearly near the end of her rope, came down the steps to meet her.

“Any word?” Stevie asked.

“Nothing.” The woman shot Paul a glance, then
focused on Stevie again. “I've been trying to think, though. And I think I know where she went. It's really the only place that makes sense.”

“Where's that?” Paul spoke up, and the woman's gaze snapped to him again. In the moonlight, she was all cool suspicion and frayed nerves.

“Who're you?”

“A friend,” Stevie said, drawing the woman's attention back to her. “Where do you think Debbie went?”

“The bus station,” Margie answered immediately. “The girls all love the bus. Love the idea of getting on-board and going places. They've never really ridden alone before, though, and I could be wrong. But if Debbie was really trying to get to your house, I figure that's how she planned to get there.”

“How would she know where the station is?” Stevie heard the fear in her own voice and snapped her mouth shut rather than listen to more of it.

Margie rubbed one hand across her mouth, shot an uneasy glance over her shoulder at the front door, where the other girls were silhouetted against the light from the living room. “I've taken them all down there to watch people getting on the bus. They like to pretend they're planning trips. And then we have lunch and come home—” She broke off and looked at Stevie again. “Is this really important at the moment? Can't you just go and check?”

“Sounds like a good place to start,” Paul said, then asked, “Did you call the police?”

“Yes.” Disappointment rang in her tone. “They said they'd get to it as soon as possible.”

“We can't wait for them,” Stevie said, looking to Paul.

“We're not about to. Let's go.” He grabbed her elbow, turned her around, and headed for the car, his long legs practically sprinting down the sidewalk.

Stevie looked back over her shoulder. “I'll call the minute we know anything.”

*   *   *

Whatever Stevie'd been expecting, this wasn't it. The Greyhound station in Monterey was basically a ticket counter in a minimart.

Coolers filled with soft drinks lined one wall and there were shelves full of snacks and books and magazines. The place was nearly empty. Apparently most people in Monterey were more interested in driving fifty-thousand-dollar cars as opposed to riding in a hundred-thousand-dollar bus.

Stevie's anxious gaze scanned the faces of the small crowd of people gathered in the minimart waiting for the next bus. But Debbie wasn't there.

While a weary mother rocked and her hungry baby wailed, Stevie hurried to the ticket counter, where a bored-looking woman sat beneath the Greyhound sign, flipping through a magazine. Stevie stared through the Plexiglas, clenched her fingers over the counter's edge, and leaned in. “Have you seen a young woman here tonight, buying a ticket?”

“You'll need to give me a better description than that,” the woman, about thirty, with a tired smile, said, barely looking up from the glossy pages she seemed fascinated by.

Paul was suddenly right behind Stevie. She felt the warmth of him pressing into her and she clung to the
strength she drew from his presence as he leaned in and said, “The girl's seventeen. Blond hair, blue eyes. Name of Debbie Harris. Oh. And she has Down's syndrome.”

That got her attention. The woman looked up and nodded. “Yeah. She was here. Cute kid. Seemed a little nervous, though. Sort of scared.”

“
Was
here?” The fractional burst of relief that had shot through Stevie disappeared again in a fresh flashflood of worry. “Where'd she go?”

“Took a bus. To San Francisco.” The woman shot a quick look at the huge round clock behind her. “Left nearly an hour ago.”

“San Francisco?” Stevie's heart sank. She actually felt her heart slide from her chest to the soles of her feet. Oh God, Debbie. Alone. In a city the size of San Francisco. She'd be terrified. Lost. She wouldn't know where to go or who to talk to.

And what if she talked to the
wrong
person? Stevie's stomach twisted around a ball of nerves that seemed to send tentacles of icy apprehension to every square inch of her body.

Paul stepped back from the counter and pulled Stevie along with him.

“We missed her,” she whispered, her voice thready, her breath hitching in her chest. “I can't believe it. Somehow, I thought we'd catch her before she got on the bus. I told myself that maybe she wouldn't actually board one. Or that the police would get here before us and stop her or—”

“Enough already,” Paul said, taking her face in his hands. His thumbs moved over her cheekbones,
stroking, caressing, soothing. “Don't worry. We'll be moving faster than the bus. We'll get there either before her or right after.”

She looked up at him and read his concern, his determination to succeed, in the depths of his eyes, and in that instant, he was Han Solo and Albert Schweitzer and Superman all rolled into one. No matter what else was going on between them, he'd answered her call for help with no questions asked. He'd listened to her rant and shouted back when he thought he could get through. He'd driven to Monterey like a crazy man on a moment's notice and now he was ready to race a bus to San Francisco. He was her hero—her hero with wire-framed glasses, a cool smile, and dangerous brown eyes.

And just like that, Stevie
knew
it would be all right. She knew he'd do everything he could to make sure of that. And the jangle of nerves that had been tied into fretful knots inside her suddenly and unexpectedly dissolved. Her heart lifted again and she was pretty sure she'd survive the night after all.

She reached up and covered his hands with hers. Giving them a squeeze, she nodded. “You're right. We
will
find her. It
will
be all right.”

“Atta girl,” he muttered with a quick, fierce grin. “Now let's get the hell outta Dodge.”

“Right behind you, Obi Wan.”

That actually got a chuckle out of him. Then he grabbed her hand, pushed the door of the minimart open, and drew her outside into the star-filled night.

*   *   *

While Stevie stared out the side window at the scenery whizzing past, Paul kept his eyes on the road ahead as
he hit the speed dial button on his cell phone. He stared at the twin slashes of brilliance pouring from his headlights as he listened to the phone ring and ring and ring and—“Tony?”

“Yeah.” Tony grunted, snorted, then demanded, “Shit. Do you know what time it is?”

“Too damn late and getting later with every second you waste,” Paul snapped. He knew he'd woken Tony from a deep sleep, but that was the least of his worries at the moment. He'd calmed Stevie down, but he wasn't fooled. He could damn near
feel
the tension rippling off of her in waves.

“What's wrong? What're you talking about?”

Tony sounded crabby as hell but more awake. One thing he had to give Tony, it didn't take him long to catch on to a situation.

“Stevie's sister,” he started, then launched into a detailed but brief sketch of just what was going on. He finished by saying, “We need you to call the San Francisco P.D.—get somebody over to the bus station to head Debbie off just in case she beats us there.”

“Done,” Tony said, and this time his voice was all cop. Wide awake and in charge. “I'll call in a favor with a friend of mine. He's a detective in the city.”

“Thanks, Tony.” Paul shot Stevie a quick look and saw her mouth thin into a tight, narrow line.

“No problem. And, Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“Be careful, huh?” He paused. “You crash your car and wind up in a hospital bed, Mama'll make your life a living hell.”

Paul laughed shortly, appreciating the release of
tension, however briefly. “I'll watch it. You take care of your end.”

He disconnected, tossed the phone onto the console between the front seats, and reached over to squeeze Stevie's left hand. “Tony'll take care of things.”

“I heard.”

Light flickered over her features and was gone again, leaving her in shadows. He wished he could see her eyes. See whether she was believing him or if she'd resorted to self-torture again.

“We'll probably beat her there, Stevie. And Debbie's perfectly safe as long as she's on the bus.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

She turned to face him, and in a split-second flash of light that illuminated her features, he saw that whatever relief she'd been feeling was gone again.

“I do believe we'll find her. But she's alone, Paul. She has nobody. What if she gets nervous? Or scared? Or worried? Then what?”