The Test (30 page)

Dan felt awkward, inadequate. He'd never been close to Ashley. Would she trust him? He approached the door and rang the bell. The woman in Preston's photo with a look of annoyance, more like a scowl, confronted him. A little boy with red hair tugged on her checkered robe. He was whining.

“Look, I'm busy,” the woman said, defiantly. “This is not a good time.”

Why had Jack sent him in? Social skills were not among his credentials.

“Uh, ma'am, I'm not selling anything,” he said. “I'm Dan Parnell. I've come to look for my sister. Please help me.”

She stopped just short of slamming the door. “And who is your sister?”

Dan pulled out a pocket-sized album that showed photos of Ashley from childhood with Dad and Vivian. With Rory and Carla. With Frank and Meredith. A recent photo from her medical school graduation. And one from the Fourth of July party—Ashley and Monica, arm
in arm, poolside, with Dan in the background. The woman opened her eyes wide at that one. Dan also had with him a packet of newsclips reporting Ashley missing at the World Trade Center and announcing the memorial in Philadelphia, but he held off on these.

As the woman hesitated, Dan used a trick he'd seen in the movies. He stuck his foot into the crack at the door. He heard a kid's voice from the back, “Mom, is Marcy back? Can she take us to the park?”

“No, Bart,” the woman called. “Finish your breakfast.”

“Mrs. Becker, could I come in and talk? It's important.”

The woman looked deliberately from Dan to Dan in the photo. Then she stared at the one of Ashley in front of the Devon house, a young professional in a baby blue suit with a white silk blouse and an expensive-looking scarf. Her hair was pulled up, the way she always wore it.

“Marcy?” the woman murmured. Then she looked up at him. “Who did you say you were?”

“Dan Parnell, ma'am.” She had flipped over to the next photo, this one of Ashley with Rory's kids around the pool. Dan pointed to Ashley in a red, two-piece suit with a matching sarong. “That's Ashley, my sister.”

“Marcy never—Was that Monica Monroe with her in that other picture?”

The little kid had settled around the woman's feet to race his Match-box cars. Then a kid about seven or eight careened around the corner, stopping short. “You a cop?” He scrutinized Dan closer. “How come you're not wearing a uniform?”

“No, Bart, he's not a policeman.”

“But you said you were gonna call the police 'cause our car's missing. I don't like to ride in your van. You got too much junk in there.”

“Bart, go get dressed. I'm going to have to take you to work with me. Now go.”

“Are you Marcy's friend?” The kid ignored his mother and directed another question to Dan. “Do you know where she went? She was supposed to take care of us today.”

“Ma'am, if ‘Marcy' is my sister Ashley, I'm afraid that she's in danger.”

“She's in trouble, all right,” said the woman. She stepped aside and motioned Dan into her living room. “Go ahead,” she said. “Sit down.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” Dan said, more hopeful now that this wasn't a wild-goose chase.

“I can't believe your family. All that money. Just because she's pregnant. Banished by her family or too scared to even tell them, she never exactly said. And now you all come chasing after her.” The woman started shaking a finger at Dan as if he were a naughty child. “She's afraid of you. I can't understand why a family can't be more supportive. A lovely young woman forced to clean someone's house and take care of her kids. You some kind of Puritans? Planning to brand her with a scarlet letter?”

“I do know that Ashley's pregnant, ma'am. But that's not the reason she came out here. She's running away from an abusive relationship with a man.”

“The man who came here yesterday? Asking questions about my nanny, Marcy Powers?” She sank down into one of the living room chairs. “She seemed so sweet, so sincere, and she was so good with the boys. Now it's back to the drawing board. Finding a nanny is no easy feat. I should have known that something too good to be true is—”

“Is she still here?” Dan asked, struggling with the role of amateur detective. What goddamned question should he ask next? He'd found out—almost—that Ashley was here. “My sister is in serious trouble,” he said. “We need to help her. Okay?”

“Your sister stole my car,” the woman said. Dan couldn't tell if she was more concerned about ‘Marcy,' her car, or her need to find a new nanny.

“I can help,” he offered. “But most important, we have to find Ashley. Before someone else does.”

“The guy who was here yesterday?”

“Yes, he was sent by the man who wants to hurt her. Trust me, as her brother, we just want her home safely.” Dan didn't think the woman recognized the Parnell name. But this was New Mexico, not exactly mainstream USA. “Ma'am, I know you are busy, but I have a colleague outside in the car. He's a friend and a private investigator. Would it be all right if I asked him in so we can talk about this together?”

She walked over to the window, pulled back the curtain, and peered outside. Then she flipped through the family photos one more time.

“I guess,” she said, biting her lip. “By the way, I'm Sandra Becker. Wait here, I need to go check on Bart.”

From the door, Dan motioned Preston to come inside. They waited in the living room until Sandra returned, wearing a creamy silk robe instead of the faded checkered one.

After Dan introduced Jack, Sandra seemed less suspicious. Dan wasn't sure how Frank would prefer Ashley's Parnell identity handled, but he decided not to equivocate. “Mrs. Becker,” he said, “there are things that we want to tell you. But we need you to keep all this confidential until the time that it's safe to divulge them?” Jack Preston gave him a nod of approval.

“Yes.” She sounded breathless with curiosity. “You can trust me.”

Jack took over, “The Parnell family is a very wealthy and influential family. Dan and Ashley's father was Paul Parnell—”

“As in the Parnell Foundation?” Sandra asked in disbelief. “My sister just received a grant from them for her work with Native Americans. That Parnell?”

“Yes,” Dan said, “my father.”

“Monica Monroe? I read all about her adoption. That Parnell?”

“Yes,” said Preston, sounding impatient.

“Marcy Powers, the woman who worked as my nanny, is a multi-millionaire?” Sandra took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “She saved every penny. Here,” She got up, went into the kitchen and came back with a scrap of paper, “this the note she left.”

“What did she take, ma'am?” Jack asked. His deep voice was authoritative.

“This week's grocery money. Two hundred dollars. I can't find my Visa card. And my Taurus is missing. I was about to call the police to report the car and the credit card. I kept rereading her note. If it had only been the credit card, I would have just have reported it as lost, but I need my car.”

“You haven't reported this?” Jack clarified.

“No.” She grimaced. “I didn't know what to do. Marcy had the day off yesterday. She drove to Albuquerque to do some sightseeing. She seemed fine when she returned right before dinner. Then when I told her about the guy who was asking about her, she said she had a migraine.
I figured that being pregnant, on her feet, walking around all day, she was just worn down. Then this morning, she's gone.”

Jack pulled out five $100 bills. “Take these. We will track down your car. If we can't locate it, we'll make sure you get a new one within the week. We will also cover any charges to your credit card.”

“Thank you,” she said. “God, I hope Marcy, I mean, Ashley, is okay.”

“Mrs. Becker,” Jack moved in close. “It is critical that we find her as soon as possible. She's running from a very dangerous man. Can I ask you to keep your credit card active and give us access to your account? And most important, you must not tell anyone about this. There is no need or obligation to inform the police as the Parnells will reimburse you generously. If that man comes back, or anybody else, simply say that your nanny left, that she gave no reason, and no forwarding address. Can you do this, Mrs. Becker?”

“Of course,” she said, stepping back from the big man's intimidating glare.

“Thank you,” Dan said, breathing more easily. “We will keep in touch.”

“Mrs. Becker, for your own safety, just tell any inquirer what I said.” Preston reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you hear anything related to Marcy, as you know her, or Dr. Ashley Parnell, please call this number immediately. Anything from her or anyone who purports to be looking for her. Mr. Parnell is the only member of the family you should talk with. Anyone else saying they are from the family will be frauds. Understand?”

“That man yesterday asked if Marcy was in touch with somebody in Albuquerque. A lady doctor. I can't remember the name. I told him no, she never mentioned knowing a doctor,” she said, bending to pick up her small son as he started whining again. “Did you say doctor? Marcy? A doctor?”

“Yes,” Dan said. “Graduated from medical school last June.”

“No wonder she was so good with Justin and Bart when they were sick. She knew just what to do.”

Ashley found a seat near the rear of the car, the only unoccupied row and just a few steps from the toilet. That was bad news, good news. Close enough to smell the odors of human waste and chemicals, but not far in case she needed to use the facility. She'd purchased a ticket to Beaumont, Texas, paying less than she would for New Orleans. If she'd been tracked from El Paso, they'd look for her in Beaumont. But she would not disembark there. Between Beaumont and New Orleans, she would move from car to car along the train, trying to look as honest as possible, not daring to take a seat. Once in New Orleans, she would lose herself in the crowd of tourists. By now Sandra would have reported “Marcy Powers” to the police. How she'd longed to tell Sandra the truth, and how sad it was to leave New Mexico without seeing Ruthie.

The train left the station in El Paso with a jerk that sent a stooped elderly woman sprawling into the aisle. As Ashley jumped up to assist her, she felt a surge of liquid warmth saturate her panties. Next, a cramping pain in her lower abdomen and another gush of warm fluid. Hastily, she shoved the woman's bag of belongings into her hands. She needed to get to the restroom.

“Can you put it up there?” The woman pointed to the bin above Ashley's seat. “I think I'll sit right here. That fall's gonna kick up my arthritis, that's for sure.”

But Ashley had already latched the door behind her in the small, odorous space marked “toilet.” When she pulled down her jeans, she saw the blood that had soaked though her panties. The train lurched and she fell backward onto the open circle of the toilet. Panic blanked out any rational thought process. What should she do? What were her options? Her meager obstetrical experience failed her completely.

“Anybody in there?” a male voice, loud and annoyed. “You been in there fifteen minutes.”

Ashley shifted on the toilet, waiting for the next cramp to resolve. The blood on her underwear was brownish, not bright red. She couldn't remember. Was that good or bad? She did have a sanitary pad in her purse that she stuck against the soaked panties. What else could she do? She needed to get out of the tiny room.

“Hey, I gotta use the toilet!” Another round of knocking on the door.

Ashley stood up. Pivoting, she faced the toilet, bent forward and vomited. The pounding on the door grew, so she wiped her mouth with a paper towel and hastily washed her hands, not taking time to dry them. Sacrificing any dignity, she unlatched the door and walked past a disheveled middle-aged man.

“About time,” he muttered, “women.”

The old woman had taken the window seat so Ashley sat on the aisle. She tried to think clinically. That abdominal twitching, insignifi-cant at first, was stronger now and coming in waves. Vaginal bleeding and cramping pain were catastrophic symptoms at three months gestation. The old woman next to her was peeling a ripe banana. The smell intensified Ashley's nausea and she turned her head away.

“Would you like one?” The woman poked her arm. “They're not going to last much longer.”

“No thank you,” Ashley said. “I'm not feeling that well.”

“You do look pale, my dear.” The woman reached into her bag and pulled out a packet of saltines. “Here, nibble on these. They'll help settle your stomach.”

Ashley took the small pack that looked like it came from a restaurant. Maybe the crackers would settle her stomach. And maybe if she accepted them, the woman would leave her alone. She reclined her seat and closed her eyes. Trying not to make a sound, but with silent tears soaking her pack of tissues, she endured what seemed like endless hours of a jostling ride. Twice she got up to check the bleeding. The flow had increased to that of a heavy period and it was now a fresh red. She bought more pads from the dispenser and supplemented them with wadded paper towels. Increased bleeding and intensifying pains. She
was losing her baby. There was nothing she or anyone could do. She'd treated enough first semester spontaneous abortions to understand the situation. And, the one reason she had to stay alive and safe was dying.

Sobbing openly now, Ashley turned to the woman next to her who had tried on several occasions to make conversation.

“My dear, something must be terribly wrong,” she said, patting Ashley's arm. “Who hurt you like this? It has to be a man.”

At this moment, Ashley felt something break loose inside. She pushed the woman's arm aside, and bolted for the rest room.