Truly, Madly (5 page)

''She will not,'' Dovie chimed in, tapping her foot. The staccato beat of her heel echoed.

''I'll call,'' I said, ''as soon as I get there.''

Sean cleared his throat. ''Do you need me to call you back?''

''That would be great.'' I darted for my coat and dug through my front closet for a suitable pair of shoes, a pair of mittens, and my Red Sox stocking cap. ''See you then.''

Dovie stared me down, hands on hips. ''You cannot leave.''

''Sorry, Dovie, but they need more help, looking for the little boy. Gotta run.''

''You wouldn't be trying to pull one over on your grandmother, would you?''

''Tell Marisol I said hi!'' I dashed out the door into the chilly night, my cell phone clutched in my hand.

I should have been feeling bad about leaving Marisol to deal with Butch. Or thinking about the little boy lost in the woods—because I really was going there to help look for him. Or even about Michael Lafferty and how finding him a match had suddenly turned my life inside out.

But all I could think about was Sean Donahue and wanting to hear his voice again.

Even though I knew better.

SIX

My cell rang ten minutes later, as I was winding my way down Route 228 toward the main gate of Wompatuck State Park in Hingham. The moon hung in the sky like something out of a children's picture book, lending little light. Scattered lampposts weren't enough to cut through the darkness. My high beams cut through the shadows. Old colonials, Cape Cods, and gambrels lined the Hingham road, most with long drives, landscaped lawns, and high price tags.

Carefully, I answered the phone one-handed.

''Do I want to know what that was all about?'' Sean asked.

His voice sent confusing spirals of desire through me. I wasn't a thirteen-year-old girl who had her first crush, though I was suddenly feeling like it. I seriously needed to get a grip. I'd only met the man today, for what? Ten minutes, tops?

But the vision . . .

I shook my head. The vision was one I couldn't trust. And I really couldn't trust my attraction to him, either. I had to remember Cupid's Curse.

But a fling would be nice—

I snapped out of it. A fling would be out of the question. He had a girlfriend. Period. End of sentence. Stop acting like a love-struck fool, Lucy.

''Lucy? Are you there?'' he asked.

''I'm here,'' I said. ''Sorry. The road is dark and twisty.''

''Where are you?''

''On my way to Wompatuck.''

''The Little Boy Lost?'' he asked.

''I'm going to do my best to help find him.''

''Very charitable of you.''

''Hardly. I'd wanted to escape my grandmother's romantic scheming.''

''Sounds like there's a story there.''

''Many stories,'' I said, thinking back to all the times Dovie had tried to set me up. But talking to Sean about anything romantic didn't bode well for my psychological health. I needed to change the subject. Fast. ''Did you have news for me?''

I heard papers shuffling. Ahead, I spotted oncoming headlights, and I switched off my high beams. I wasn't fond of driving at night, and as a result I tended to drive much too slow, creeping along.

''I tracked her parents, Martin and Regina, to a new address in Lynn. Jennifer has an older sister named Melissa Antonelli, who also lives in Lynn. Oddly, I couldn't find anything on Jennifer specifically since she graduated college,'' he said. ''Unfortunately, there are a lot of Jennifers out there.''

''Then she's not . . . missing?''

''Not that I've found, and that would have turned up. Is there something you're not telling me?''

Too much to go into. ''Not really.''

There was a brief silence before he said, ''Do you want me to call Jennifer's parents? See if they'll give me an address?''

''You can try. Tell them it's in regard to Michael Lafferty.''

''I'll call you back.''

If it were Jennifer in that grave, someone would have reported her missing. Her family, friends . . . Which left only one conclusion.

It wasn't Jennifer in the grave.

Then who was it? And why was she wearing Michael's ring?

My phone rang. It was Sean.

''Strange,'' he said.

''What?''

''I spoke with her mother. She wouldn't give me any information at all. And wouldn't take my information, either, to pass along. All she said was that Jennifer was happy and to leave her alone.''

''Protective,'' I said, wondering why. Was she trying to protect Jennifer from being hurt by Michael again, still believing he had betrayed her? Or from something . . . or someone else? Like the evil Elena and her trusty sidekick, Rachel?

''I tried the sister, too. No one answered. I'll call again tomorrow.''

The moon slipped behind the clouds. I focused hard on the dotted white line separating lanes.

''What's going on, Lucy? This is for a matchmaking client? This isn't the usual check your father runs.''

''Yes, it's for a client,'' I said truthfully. ''I'm doing things a little differently.''

''You want me to keep digging?''

''That would be great.''

Maybe Jennifer had pawned Michael's ring? Right. And the person who bought it coincidentally ended up murdered and buried in Michael's home town, practically in his backyard?

I approached the entrance to the park and turned in. Cars lined both sides of the road leading to the gatehouse. News crews milled about. I found a place to park and shut off my engine.

I made a snap decision. ''Are you busy tomorrow? There's something I might need you for.''

''Sounds intriguing.''

My stomach tightened with his flirtatious tone.

''I'll be in bright and early,'' he said.

I didn't miss that he worked long hours and didn't seem to be in a rush to get home to his girlfriend. Was she his girlfriend? Now that I thought of it, he didn't sound all lovey-dovey on the phone. Yet he was doing her shopping. . . . ''I'll come up and see you. Thanks for staying late tonight.''

''You're welcome.''

I said a quick good-bye before I went and did something stupid like ask him if he believed in love at first sight.

Tall trees diffused the wind, but the temps continued to fall. I pulled on my stocking hat, slipped my mittens into my coat pocket. The night air was scented with burning pine, decomposing leaves, and the sharp sting of strong coffee.

The command post had been set up in the park's visitor center. Outside the building, hundreds of people streamed around. To one side of the center, a small tent had been set up, according to a handmade sign, by the Friends of Wompatuck to serve coffee and snacks. On the other side, a line of police cars—local, state, and environmental—and two ambulances sat abandoned. There were several officers on horseback and bicycles. Several ATVs, four-wheeled all-terrain vehicles, were being ridden around the camp, others parked in a crowded parking lot across from the center.

Floodlights had been set up as well as portable heaters. Someone had started a campfire inside a ring of rocks in the center of the crowd. People hovered around the flames, warming their hands.

Blinking against the harsh artificial lighting, I didn't know where to start. I hadn't seen Suzannah, but I had the feeling she was around somewhere. Knowing her, she wasn't as lost as I felt. She'd probably barreled in and taken over the search.

Leaves crunched beneath my feet as I stopped near a tree to digest all that was going on around me.

It looked to be chaos, but as I stood there a man on a megaphone corralled volunteers onto a school bus that would drive them deep into the four-thousand-acre park to continue the search.

Every few minutes, a roving reporter would be bathed in spotlights, updating the viewing audience on the search's progress. I stood nearby one reporter as she fed her news to the evening anchor.

''Maxwell O'Brien has been missing for close to ten hours now. Tired searchers have been scouring Wompatuck State Park for any signs of the four-year-old boy, who goes by the name Max. Efforts to find the little boy are hampered by the sheer size of the park, the many trails, ponds, and marshes. Hope lies in the many places Max could seek shelter. Back in World War Two, this site was owned by the military, and many of the old ammunition bunkers still remain standing.''

She went on to describe the park's topology and included a warning about falling temperatures and wild animals, including foxes, bobcats, and coyotes, before getting to the meat of the story: whether the father was guilty.

''John O'Brien, the boy's father, is still answering police questions at this hour. He has not been charged or labeled as a person of interest. Divers continue to search the reservoir and various ponds. K-nine search and rescue has been brought in by the state police. The boy's mother, Katherine O'Brien, is anxiously awaiting news of her son.''

At this point, the cameraman swiveled toward a group of people standing near doors of the visitor center. Among them stood a slight woman, early thirties, whose eyes held a vacant, faraway look.

''Mrs. O'Brien stands firm in her belief that her son is alive and well. Again, here is a picture of Max O'Brien. He's four years old, forty-five pounds, blond hair, blue eyes. He was wearing jeans, a navy blue long-sleeved T-shirt, and Nike sneakers. If anyone has any information, please call the number on the screen. Police, at this time, are not ruling out an abduction, so please be on the lookout.''

Tuning out the rest of the news report, I focused on the little boy's mother. She looked to be living her worst nightmare.

I stood there a minute, watching her. The numb way she moved, the emotionless way she spoke. Fear radiated from her every breath.

I simply couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose my child. And in such a way, too. Not knowing whether the man you loved was responsible, or if a stranger took the boy, or if he'd simply wandered away.

But most of all, not knowing if you'd get him back.

My heart broke for her.

I thought about the boy's father being questioned by the authorities. Was he innocent? If so, what kind of hell was he going through right now? To have everyone in New England thinking you were a child killer? What would he see when he looked into his wife's eyes? Would there be doubt? Or would there be trust? Trust that he'd never hurt the child they'd created together?

Yet if he was guilty . . .

I shivered. Slipping on my mittens, I looked around at all the volunteers. Frustration and depression settled around me like a thick fog. With my talent, I should be able to do more than look under bushes or serve a Styrofoam cup of coffee. I should be able to touch Katherine O'Brien's hand and find her son. To bring him back to her, one way or another.

Why else have a gift like mine? I just didn't understand it.

My fingers cramped from being balled into fists, and I flexed them inside my mittens. There was no point in dwelling on what I couldn't do.

Instead of standing around being as useless as I felt, I worked my way into a crowd waiting for the next bus leading into the park. I climbed on and sat down next to the window.

Just as the bus pulled away, Katherine O'Brien looked up. She couldn't see me in the darkness, yet I felt as though she were looking into my soul. And I made the silent promise that I'd do my best to bring her little boy back to her.

I just couldn't help feeling that my best wasn't good enough.

My house was dark when I arrived home. It was well after 3:00
A.M.

Sheer exhaustion, both physical and emotional, had me dropping onto the couch soon after I closed my front door.

No sooner had I sat than Grendel pounced on my lap, pawed at the zipper on my coat. I switched on a lamp, happy to see that Dovie had cleaned up after her impromptu dinner party.

And I was very happy that Butch hadn't been invited to sleep over. I wouldn't put it past my grandmother.

Trying not to disturb a kneading Grendel, I slipped off my coat and my shoes. Pulling my legs under me, I curled up, scratching Grendel's ears. He purred happily.

There had been no progress in the search for little Max O'Brien. No evidence, no leads. No nothing. The FBI hadn't been called in yet because there was no proof that he'd been kidnapped. It seemed as though the case was at a standstill.

Most of the local volunteers had cleared out around 1:00
A.M.
I'd stayed longer, tramping through the woods with a borrowed flashlight, calling Max's name until I'd lost my voice.

When I left, I noticed that Katherine O'Brien was still wearing that faraway look in her eyes.

I rested my head against the sofa cushion. In a perfect world, I'd wake up in the morning and the TV would announce that Max had been found safe and sound and was back in the loving arms of his parents.

But I knew all too well that this wasn't a perfect world. More than likely, searchers would be out in the woods again the next day, looking for the Little Boy Lost.

A noise from my bedroom had me bolting upright. Grendel
rrreowed
in protest but clung to me. He was such a scaredy-cat.

I heard the squeaking sound again and wondered what in the world could be making such a noise. It wasn't menacing in nature—more mechanical than anything.

Rising, I tried to set Grendel down, but his claws came out and latched into the fabric of my blazer. Brief panic that perhaps Butch had stayed for a sleepover dissipated as I peeked into my bedroom. The bed was empty.

I flipped on the overhead light and looked around and blinked in surprise at what was on my dresser—a plastic cage.

Grendel retracted his claws and jumped to the floor, his tail in the air. Obviously, he wasn't a fan of Marisol's newest gift.

There was no note or instructions attached to the colorful cage. Two bags sat alongside it—food and treats. Hamster food and treats.

I made kissy noises. A tiny black and white hamster stood inside a wire wheel, his front paws in the air. One eye stared at me intently. The other had been stitched closed.

Grendel performed figure eights around my feet as I opened the cage's door and let the hamster sniff my fingers. A little bowl of food sat in the corner of the cage, and a tunnel led up to a bottle of water. A little plastic box lay nestled in pine shavings. After a second the hamster went back to running on the wheel, his little legs pumping.

I closed the door to the cage and sat on the bed. Grendel immediately hopped into my lap.

''What are we going to do with a one-eyed hamster?'' I asked him.

He looked at me like he knew exactly what to do with a bothersome rodent—if he wasn't so scared of it.

Tomorrow, I'd call Marisol and get the scoop. Until then, I figured I'd better get some sleep.

In the living room, I locked the doors and was about to switch off the lamp when I saw the files I had brought home from work on the coffee table.

They looked as though they'd been riffled through.

Dovie's handiwork, no doubt.

I flipped through a few of the files, fighting back a yawn. There wasn't anything here that couldn't wait till tomorrow morning. I dropped the files back onto the table, and a swatch of bold orange caught my attention.

It was Michael Lafferty's file.