The Green Children: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 3) (13 page)

 

 

 

 

Instead of returning to the station, Maxim continued east on the Interstate another fifteen minutes into Flagstaff. Sanctuary was more or less a satellite of the larger town. Even though his jurisdiction was limited to Sanctuary, his investigations often took him to Flagstaff. Weekly, sometimes even daily, trips were common.

Lachlan Munro was a person of interest, but Maxim couldn't help feeling it was a wild goose chase. He couldn't simply shake down every weirdo he encountered—in the Sycamore wild, that would take all year. In this case especially, he wasn't sure it was the best use of his time. Investigating Hazel's disappearance wasn't a problem for him, but his official responsibility was Annabelle Hayes. He couldn't forget about her. Besides, he still thought he could help them both at the same time.

Maxim parked on the street outside a three-story building in Old Town. He saw the name on a sign by the elevator and went to the second floor. In the office, an older woman greeted him at the reception desk.

"Is Bertrand Collins in?" he asked.

The woman gave him a pointed look. "Dr. Collins?" she corrected, stressing the title. "Yes he is. Do you have an appointment?"

Maxim shook his head and showed his badge. "I'm the police." He expected a lecture but she buzzed her boss over the intercom and he strolled out.

"Yes?"

Bertrand Collins was a diminutive man. His salt-and-pepper hair receded over his temples, and his wire-frame glasses gave him a cold demeanor. He wore a flat-colored sweater over a collared shirt. Slim, tidy, and exacting were Maxim's first impressions.

"Hello, Dr. Collins. My name's Maxim Dwyer. I'm with the Sanctuary Marshal's Office."

"Of course," he said. "You were the one who rescued Annabelle." He shook Maxim's hand then guided him into his office.

Maxim's initial impressions of the man were reinforced by the room. He was welcomed into a sunlit corner office with glass windows from ceiling to floor. The furniture was modern and stylish. A tufted leather chaise with skinny metal legs. An all-glass coffee table piled with architecture picture books. A single white chair with a black cushion sat opposite a fabric couch. The man's desk was shoved against the far wall, out of the way. From the books to the papers to the statuettes, everything was meticulously spaced out and ordered.

"I must apologize," said Bertrand Collins. "I need to keep this brief. I have an appointment in twenty-five minutes and I still need to prepare." The man sat in the small white chair and gestured at the sofa across from him.

Maxim wandered to the desk instead, studying the office. "You know, I tried calling you beforehand but couldn't get through."

"No?" He cleared his throat. "Martha didn't mention anything—"

"I called your cell phone. I looked it up and thought it would be better to deal with you directly."

Recognition flashed across Bertrand's face. "Ah, I understand. I have a strict no-cell-phone policy during my sessions. My patients are required to turn their phones off. I do too. It helps ground our conversations and give them immediacy."

Maxim nodded absently. He wasn't really concerned about Bertrand not answering his phone. He was just chatting. Getting a feel for the man. Looking around. He examined the framed certificates and diplomas on the wall. "You're a doctor?"

Bertrand nodded. "I am, fully licensed. Psychotherapy is only a portion of my workload. I perform research for several mental health facilities in the area. But I suppose you are here regarding my sessions with Annabelle and Olivia."

Maxim turned to the man. "You provide therapy for Olivia as well?"

He smiled. "I have in the past. Gulliver and Olivia both, during the separation. But I misspoke. My regular appointments are with Annabelle only."

Maxim moved to the sofa and took a seat. He wondered if Annabelle chose the chaise or the couch when she was here. "Well, you're right," he started. "Annabelle's the reason for my visit."

Dr. Collins nodded. "I hesitate to inform you of the law, as I'm sure you're well aware, but I'm not able to divulge specifics that were related to me in confidence."

"That's fine, Doctor. I'm not here to psychoanalyze her. But confidentiality doesn't apply when an individual's in danger." Maxim noticed Bertrand was about to object and beat him to it. "That doesn't mean I'm asking you to dish the dirt. But you have to understand that Annabelle may have information that could help find another missing girl."

"Ah." Dr. Collins adjusted the thin glasses on his nose as he weighed the request. "Of course, I don't know anything about that, but I can certainly do my best to assist you. Why don't you tell me exactly what you need?"

Maxim sighed and considered how best to vocalize his problems. "I don't feel like I'm effectively getting through to Annabelle. I'm not sure if she thinks what happened to her is a game, or even if she knows anything that can help. But she's not..."

"Forthcoming," finished the doctor. "Yes. I'm sure you've noticed she throws up walls at the slightest signs of discomfort." Maxim nodded. The psychologist's voice was even and soothing, instructive and understanding at the same time. "Generally speaking, it is common for children to suffer from feelings of abandonment after a divorce. Disconnecting from others is a defense mechanism, especially in high-stress situations. Dealing with strangers, for example."

"Or being lost in the woods?"

Dr. Collins shrugged.

"The thing is, Doctor, I feel like she wants to talk to me. Or to someone, at least."

Bertrand clenched his jaw as he attempted to retain the confidence of his client. Maxim let the conversation linger on that statement until the psychologist felt compelled to say something.

"I recommend patience above all else, Detective. Annabelle needs a normalized environment."

"There's no time for... normalizing."

Bertrand Collins nodded that he understood. He put a hand to his chin and mulled it over. "I'm not sure what else there is to do. If it helps, at Olivia's insistence, I did chat with Annabelle yesterday. Quite the right call, if you ask me, after what happened. Our talk helped her process the experience."

"Did she tell you she ran away from home with her BFFs?"

The man raised his eyebrows. "Best Friends Forever. Very amusing, Detective. Yes, I can answer this line of questioning since it falls outside my therapy with Annabelle. Running away is often a plea for attention. Her friends, as you call them, are a bad element she clings to in order to stand out. The dark eyeliner and anti-establishment rhetoric come with the territory. Do you have kids, Detective?"

The question took Maxim off guard. He shook his head silently.

"I see. In any case, it's quite normal for preteens and teenagers to become rebellious and stray from home. She's testing her boundaries." Maxim knew he didn't look convinced and the doctor cleared his throat to try again. "In my professional opinion, her defiant behavior is nothing more than a method of acting out. A plea for attention. I'm much more concerned with her ongoing depression and disassociation." He leaned forward. "Between us, of course."

Maxim wasn't sure he would dismiss running away as an empty threat after the girl had been missing for three days. The open question was whether that was her intention or not, whether she was alone or with someone else, forced into it or not. It was reassuring, at least, that the doctor acknowledged there were deeper issues than the ones on the surface.

Now that they were sharing, Maxim got back on topic. "So did Annabelle tell you where she went?"

"She did."

"And?"

"And Annabelle revealed to me what happened in confidence. Even her mother doesn't know."

Maxim leaned forward. "Dr. Collins, there's another little girl lost in the woods as we speak. If anything from Annabelle's experience can point me in a direction, I'm gonna need to know."

Bertrand Collins hesitated and shook his head. "Detective..."

"
Doctor
," intoned Maxim. "You said it yourself. Annabelle needs time to normalize. To heal. Either I can keep going at her or I can get what I need from you. Once I find Hazel Cunningham, I can give Annabelle all the time she needs."

The psychologist considered the request and sighed. "For the sake of my patient, I would help you if I could. Unfortunately, Annabelle claims the entire episode was a prank. I'm only revealing this to you in hopes that you stop focusing on Annabelle's weekend and instead look for the missing child in some other manner." Bertrand waited expectantly and Maxim nodded for him to continue. "They all camped just outside Sanctuary. At one point she ventured off on her own, purposefully. It's my estimation that she doesn't truly enjoy the companionship of those friends. As I've mentioned, she uses them to act out. They may do the same with her. Sometimes I wish I could get sessions with them as well."

Maxim exhaled sharply. He doubted the other families could afford the doctor. Besides, the psychoanalytical details of the family were not a big help to him. He was interested in tracking down facts. Tangible links of a chain that led to Hazel or where Annabelle had been.

"But where was she, Doctor? Where did she run off to?"

Bertrand's deflated expression revealed the answer before he spoke. "I don't know that, Detective. She camped outside Sanctuary. That's all I know. She never mentioned seeing anybody else besides the aforementioned friends, and I believe her. But if it's important to the investigation, I'll ask her directly when I see her next. I'm unfamiliar with Sanctuary and the surrounding area, unfortunately, but if there are any pertinent details gleaned, I will get them to you."

Maxim fell back into his seat. It was clear the girl was careful even with her therapist. Either she would eventually confide in Maxim, or no one would ever know exactly what happened to her.

"Here's the thing," offered the detective, changing tack. "Annabelle's mother is kind of shutting down my access to her."

Bertrand chuckled, then waved it off when he noticed Maxim's annoyance. He removed his glasses and wiped them. "I'm sorry, Detective. I don't mean to make light of your situation. It's just that I can picture Olivia doing as much. She can be very..." Bertrand trailed off and put the tip of his glasses to his mouth, a smile on his lips.

Maxim finished the doctor's sentence now. "Forward."

Bertrand Collins jerked his head back and returned his glasses to his head. "Yes, Detective."

It was a strange moment of wistfulness. Maxim wondered if there had been anything between Olivia and the psychologist. As their marriage counselor, that must have been one hell of an ethical dilemma. Then again, perhaps Bertrand was simply a professional who fantasized about Olivia. Maxim remembered in exquisite detail what her body looked like under her bathrobe. He couldn't blame the doctor for the same attraction.

"Unfortunately," continued Bertrand, "Olivia is the best person to make that call. For the record, I agree with the decision. We have to also consider Annabelle's physical state. Her physician is requesting bed rest and the week off school. In order to heal, Annabelle requires the space and normalcy of home life. You are the opposite of that, Detective."

Maxim shifted uncomfortably. The conversation was going in circles. When he didn't say anything, Dr. Collins glanced at his watch and straightened his sweater.

"I'm out of time."

They stood. Maxim had no problem getting out of there. He wasn't getting any psychological epiphanies anyway. He thanked the doctor, who walked him to the door.

"I know you don't want to hear it, Detective," said Bertrand, his face painted with resignation, "but the last thing Annabelle needs right now is to be subjected to an interrogation about something she had no involvement in. I won't presume to suggest how you should continue your investigation, but there's nothing Annabelle knows about that other missing child."

Maxim grunted dismissively. That sounded exactly like investigative advice to him, and he didn't like it. After a moment's hesitation, he decided to end the conversation with a gruff nod and returned to the elevator in silence.

 

 

 

 

The old brick office was empty, but the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead and his well-worn desk chair were enough company for Maxim. This was where he was most comfortable. Everything was so familiar, sometimes even more so than his home.

His desktop PC was the one piece of technology that intruded on his carefully arranged sanctuary. The station had finally gotten the budget for new computers. The sleeker monitors were nice but the operating system frustrated him. It was designed with mobile users in mind, which had its perks, but when Maxim sat down at a workstation he wanted to be a power user. When he was in the groove of an investigation, the last thing he needed was to be confused about the mechanics of what he was doing.

Luckily, the detective was finally getting the hang of it. It had taken several weeks and, at thirty-four years old, Maxim feared he was approaching the hump in his life. The turning point. From here on out, technology might begin to distance itself from him, a slow trickle that wasn't immediately noticeable. Instead of untapped excitement every time a new program or app arrived on the scene, Maxim might grumble, or reminisce about the good old days. It would take extra effort simply to keep up until, one day, he would give up completely.

Jeez. Is that what the rest of his life was going to be about?

Maxim printed some pictures related to the case. He didn't need hard copies but they helped him focus. Introspection was unwelcome now. His life would happen, one way or another—it was the rest of Hazel Cunningham's life that he needed to worry about.

Maxim collected the three color photos from the printer and sat back down. He placed the portrait of Annabelle Hayes on his desk. Next to it, Hazel joined her. Besides a four-year age difference, the girls seemed set apart by personality. Both smiled, but their expressions couldn't have been more different. Hazel's lips stretched into dimples, her eyes pinched tight. There was mirth and wonder in her face, a nervous unease in her pose. It was innocence, untainted. Annabelle, on the other hand, was sly. Her smile was controlled, self-confident. Like her mother's. Her expression placid. She didn't appear upset but she wasn't engaged. Something was absent.

Disconnected.

That led to the final picture Maxim placed between them. Lachlan Munro. Red. The old man's photo was stoic and business-like. It was the latest on file from the Texas DMV. Red's was a face that didn't reveal much except for its physical characteristics. The man in the picture was younger, a snapshot from eight years earlier. He was skinnier. His hair shorter and styled, but it looked odd. When Maxim had met Red in person, his hair was a bright red sheen that reflected the sunlight. In this photograph, a dull burnt-orange barely stood out from the gray.

So the man dyed his hair. It was a small concession to vanity. But considering the character it came from, a hermit who ejected himself from society, it was a strange detail.

Maxim stared at the three frozen faces, searching for any connection. The ties were barely circumstantial but the triangle of photographs felt right together.

Like family.

Olivia Hayes lived a comfortable life now, although that hadn't always been the case. There was a time she resided with her truck-driving husband in Bellemont. It was a good bet that family had never been happy. The pair had often fought. So when Olivia ran into money, the split was inevitable.

It was hard to say whether Annabelle was better off before or afterward.

Julia Cunningham was also a single mother, but her family had been struck by a different tragedy. She'd married her high school sweetheart due to an early pregnancy. Her husband died two years later serving in Afghanistan. Julia, while devastated, was accustomed to going it alone, and although their family had a sadder story, so far Hazel was reported to have been doing great.

The family of Lachlan Munro was a mystery. He claimed to be an immigrant from Scotland, for which Maxim had failed to dig up proof. Red's lifestyle hadn't left much of a paper trail. There were no records at all of his early life, and no signs of family.

Red was a sixty-eight-year-old man. If his story of having a son who was killed was true, Maxim could find no record of it. But that would have been many years ago in another country. Those files likely weren't digitized yet, but maybe they could be tracked down. That was assuming, of course, that Red's identity wasn't fictional.

Maxim went back to the computer. Sometimes people got lost in the system, but it was exceedingly difficult for vehicles to do so. Red's old RV was purchased from a used lot in Texas twelve years ago. As Dan Briggs had mentioned, the Texas registration was one of convenience. A popular RV club based in Livingston handled all the legal backend he needed. The state had no income tax and no personal property tax. The RV club was listed as Red's permanent address on record, and they offered mail forwarding to all their members. Currently he was receiving in a Williams post office box, which was how Diego had tracked him down.

Two years after buying the motor home, and a decade ago, Red was in Arizona. A Grand Canyon National Park ranger had written an overstay citation for the old man. He'd broken the rules and stayed in one park longer than fourteen days, a far cry from his diligent routine today. That probably meant he'd been new at the life. Since then he'd barely relocated, not fifty miles south, and lived in relative obscurity.

But there were traces of Red on the move. Texas required an annual vehicle inspection. Every October the old man returned to his home state to have the RV checked. On top of that, he'd received a parking citation in Galveston and a traffic citation in Wichita, Kansas. The tickets came years apart but both were in November, forcing Maxim to conclude that Red's annual trip to Texas afforded some additional sightseeing.

None of this, of course, was any cause for suspicion, and Maxim began to fear the worst. Not just that he was wasting his own time, but that he was wasting what little Hazel had left.