Time of Departure (32 page)

Amanda was scheduled to be abducted on April 22, and she was scheduled to die, I surmised, very soon thereafter.

And I was going to let it happen.

But then something changed.

In the wake of the last two disappearances, Marc was spending long hours at work. He didn't want to be there. He was still reeling from my revelations and his experience on the Chan case. He knew his task force would never solve the crimes, and he just wanted to be with me.

He just wanted to spend every waking and sleeping minute with me and shut the world out of our lives.

I wasn't in good shape myself, psychologically or physically, and it was several days before I could bring myself to return to The Yearling. When I eventually showed up, Nonie welcomed me back, asked enough questions to satisfy herself that I had recovered enough to work, and then left me to get on with it. With Marc gone for days at a time, I ended up working ten straight days without a break. The disciplined schedule helped take my mind off my intractable dilemma—at least for a part of each day—and as time went by, I began to feel better physically. Even my appetite was returning.

On Monday, April 17, Marc drove me to Ocala for my scheduled follow-up visit with Dr. LaPierre. While Marc went off with our grocery list, I submitted to another ultrasound. Fifteen minutes later, Dr. LaPierre entered the consulting room.

Seeing the tension in my face, he quickly set me at ease. “Relax, Claire. It's good news.”

I relaxed.

“Blood and urine results are fine, and the sonogram showed no anomalies. You'll be peeing just fine well into old age.” He paused. “There is one thing, though.”

My heart sank. “Is this about that old surgery?”

“Not exactly…”

He sat down.

*   *   *

I was a coward.

I was a coward because all the way home, I didn't say a word to Marc about what Dr. LaPierre had discovered. I just said I'd been given a clean bill of health and suggested we go home and make love.

But that was just a distraction.

I had to tell him.

The next morning, it was my turn to make breakfast. I went all out and produced what my mother used to call a “logger's breakfast”—sausages, bacon, eggs, hash browns, pancakes, and toast. When I set the plates on the table, Marc blinked.

I sat down, grinned at him, and started in.

“This is a lot of food,” he observed.

“I guess it is.” I poured maple syrup over the pancakes, sliced into the stack, and slid a triangle of sweetness into my mouth.

“I've never seen you eat that much.”

“I've been sick, remember? All those antibiotics didn't help my appetite. I'm just getting it back.”

“It seems more like you got somebody else's appetite back.”

Tell him!

I set down my fork. “Marc.”

“What?”

“I'm eating for two.”

He leaned forward. “Are you saying you're pregnant?”

“No. But that's what the doctor is saying.”

A grin started spreading across his face.

“I didn't even notice I'd missed my period. The ultrasound tipped them off, but it's too early to see much. The blood test was positive.”

Tell him the other part!

“How far along are you?”

Bingo …

“They're not sure yet. Best guess is I'm due in November.”

It didn't take a genius to count backwards. Marc's face registered uncertainty. “Claire, is this baby mine?”

Got it in one …

I sighed. “One way or another, this baby is yours.”

“One way or another?” He swallowed. “Wait a minute, are you're saying—?”

“Yes. That's what I'm saying.”

“You're saying I made love to you in 2011, and you're having our baby in 1978?”

“That depends on her date of birth. If it's in early November, then Old Marc is probably the father. Late November, probably you. Where the cutoff would be is anybody's guess. But either way, you're Dad.”

He stared at me, speechless.

I picked a stray piece of bacon off my plate and nibbled at it. “You're not talking, Marc.”

“Did you just say ‘
her
date of birth'?”

“Her name is Rebecca.”

“How could you know that?”

“You told me you had a daughter named Rebecca.”

Marc looked sick. “This means…” He trailed off.

“For one thing,” I said, trying to distract him with a bit of offbeat humor, “it means our daughter will be a year older than her mother, which has to be a first.”

My ploy didn't work. Marc replied tonelessly, “It also means I'm going to be a single dad.”

“Yes, it does.”

I could see his mind working. “Claire…”

“Yes?”

“Your theory is that two of you can't exist in the same time period. That's why you think you'll cease to exist as an adult after your date of conception next March.”

“That's right.”

“But if you're right about that,” he continued, speaking slowly, “and if Rebecca was conceived in the future
before
you stormed out of my life and boarded that train, she will cease to exist as an adult at the age of thirty-two.”

The shock hit me.

I got up and left the kitchen. I stumbled out to the veranda. I vomited my breakfast over the railing. I leaned there, staring at the ground. I felt like dying.

I felt Marc's hands on my shoulders. “Morning sickness, or despair?”

I wiped my tears with my sleeve. “At this moment, I'm not sure there's a difference.”

“Marry me.”

“Wh-what?”

He turned me around and took my face in his hands. “Marry me!”

“How can I?”

“We're having a baby.”

“That's very traditional of you, and I'd marry you in an instant, but—”

“But, what?”

“I have no ID.”

“I can solve that.”

“You're a police officer. You'd be breaking the law!”

“Yes. But it has to be done. Not for us … for Rebecca.”

It took me a few seconds. “She needs a birth certificate!”

“Correct. You were hospitalized twice even though you had no ID. That wasn't a problem, because all any hospital cares about is getting its bills paid, and I took care of that. This time we're dealing with the state government. A ‘father unknown' entry on a birth record isn't that uncommon. But … ‘mother unknown'? I don't think so.”

“You'd be risking your career.”

“No choice. You're going to need a birth certificate and a Social Security number. Better have a driver's license, too, just in case. There's a guy I know. He owes me.”

“In that case, get him to marry us.”

“Huh?”

“It's just a piece of paper … isn't that what people say? So let's skip the ceremony and go straight to the piece of paper. Ask him for a marriage certificate. I want to be Claire Alexandra Hastings.”

 

46

I walked into The Yearling just before five on Thursday afternoon. The first person I saw was a slim young woman in a blue print dress. She was perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, talking to Nonie.

She had her back to the door.

As I approached, a snatch of conversation drifted my way.

“… mentioned some mysterious girlfriend. He said nobody's ever met her.”

My step faltered.

Nonie spotted me. “Claire!” The young woman turned. She gave me a friendly smile.

I froze where I stood.

I looked at the young woman's face … at her dress with its distinctive blue pattern … back at her face …

Recognition hit me like a punch in the stomach.

“This lady is trying to track down Marc Hastings,” Nonie said. “He's a cop in Gainesville … sort of a regular here. He used to come in every week or so. Owns a camp somewhere on one of the lakes.” Nonie stopped. She fixed me with one of her perceptive looks. “But maybe you know all that,” she finished.

I didn't answer.

“Reminds me of something I was going to tell you,” Nonie continued. “Hastings came in here a day or two after you took sick. Teddy was on the bar. He says the guy was kinda persistent.” Nonie glanced at Amanda and then fixed me in her sights. “He made it sound like police business.”

I gave in. “He was looking for me, but not for that reason.”

“That's good to hear.”

Amanda had been listening quietly. Now she interposed, holding out her hand. “I'm Mandy Jordan, by the way.”

“Claire … Claire Talbot.” Her cool touch was like a jolt of electricity.

“Marc and I are old friends. I've been trying to reach him.”

Since the cat was out of the bag, I said, “I'm staying at his place on Lochloosa.”

“Great! Maybe you can help me? I left messages at his office, but he didn't call me back. I phoned his apartment in town a few times, but no answer. I want to ask him to my wedding.” My mind was reeling as she continued in a confessional tone. “The thing is … Marc and I used to go out. So I didn't want to just drop the invitation at his office. I didn't want him to think I was, you know, leaving it just to slap him in the face. I'm not like that. I wanted to ask him in person. One of the detectives told me he's been spending a lot of time in Cross Creek. I remembered him telling me he had a camp out here somewhere. I figured this was the main bar in town, so I took a chance someone might know him.”

Nonie interjected. “Actually, we're the only bar.”

I was starting to feel light-headed. This was cutting too close. I managed to conjure a lame smile, and in the steadiest tone I could muster, I said, “I'm the mysterious girlfriend you were talking about.”

Amanda's cheeks went pink. She put a hand on my arm. My eyes locked on it.

She was wearing the ring.

The ring with the cushion-cut topaz.

The one the police found in her grave.

“Oh! No, hey, that's great! I'm not here to stir up trouble! I'm really glad he found someone!” She took her hand away and prattled on. “He was always good to me! We just weren't … meant to be. I wanted to ask him in person, so he knows the invitation isn't just, you know”—she finished in a small voice—“me trying to be mean.”

Somehow, I couldn't picture this sweet girl ever being mean.

By now my emotions were a heaving landscape of despair. I needed to end this conversation. “Mandy, that's really kind of you. I'll tell Marc you were looking for him, and I'll tell him what you said. Can he call you?”

She beamed. “Sure! In fact, would you give him this?” She took out a sealed envelope out of her purse. “My phone number is printed right on the invitation. I'm staying at my mom's right now.” I was about to take the envelope when she said, “Wait! Let me just make this little change.…” She pulled out a pen and wrote something on the face of the envelope and then handed it to me.

Under the addressee's preprinted name,
M. MARCUS HASTINGS
, Amanda had added
& Mlle. Claire Talbot
.

I looked at it quizzically.

“My mom's French. She was studying over here when she met my dad. We have lots of relatives in France, so the invitations are in both languages.”

“Are any of your French relatives coming over for the wedding?”

“Yes! Some of them I've never even met! It's going to be so great!”

*   *   *

I felt sick after Amanda Jordan left us, but I couldn't show it.

And now I had another problem.

“Want to tell me about it?” Nonie asked.

“About what?”

“Let's start with … Is ‘Claire Talbot' your real name?”

“‘Claire' is,” I conceded. No point in confusing things with extra bits of truth.

“I'm waiting,” Nonie said quietly.

I didn't want to lie to her, but clearly I couldn't tell her the truth. So I spun the tale that Marc and I had agreed on in case of emergency: I had been a witness for the prosecution in a serious case. My life had been threatened, and Marc had been one of the detectives guarding me. I'd fallen for him—and he for me—but, of course, he couldn't let his bosses know, even after the trial ended. So I was living “incognita” at his place on the lake, and he was spending his free days with me there.

In other words, I was a kept woman, and in circumstances that could impair a certain police detective's chances for promotion.

Nonie didn't need me to spell it out.

“Don't worry about the other staff,” she said, patting me on the arm. “I'll take care of it.” And I knew she would.

That short interview with Nonie was a breeze compared with the one I was having with myself. I worked a full shift, and Nonie was kind enough to drive me home after we closed. But when I walked into the cabin, I couldn't remember a single thing I had said or done for the last eight hours.

There was only one thing on my mind: Amanda Jordan.

I went straight to bed, but sleep eluded me. I got up and opened a bottle of wine. I was about to drink myself senseless when I remembered …

You're pregnant.

A stray thought sliced across my mind, telling me that what I was planning now meant that my pregnancy didn't matter, but I still couldn't bring myself to drink, so I put the bottle away. The sun was lifting over the horizon before I finally fell asleep.

I woke at noon. As if to remind me of my condition, I immediately got sick. I didn't know whether it was morning sickness or the result of self-flagellation, but in a perverse way, I embraced my punishment.

After my stomach settled, I dressed and went for a walk.

A long walk.

It was nearly four in the afternoon when I returned to the cabin. I hadn't eaten in twenty-four hours, but the thought of food nauseated me. For my baby's sake, I forced down some soda crackers and a glass of milk.