A Stranger's Touch (17 page)

He found himself in a small room, painted powder blue. Along one wall were shelves, filled with books...a couple of stuffed animals...a truck...a stack of board games.

He looked down at his hands. Small. Delicate. They tore at a crumpled tissue.

Ahead, a door opened. Near it stood a bureau and, above that, a mirror. He caught the image of a woman in the reflection. Dark-haired and thin. Cheeks hollowed with grief. Eyes red rimmed and brimming with tears.

He gasped as he realized
he
was the woman.

His body spun backward, his stomach lurching with the motion. He landed in another room—bright, white, sterile. He heard a faint whirling noise. Saw a small figure on a bed. Tubes sprouted from the tiny body, leading to various machines.

Then everything was quiet. He saw a headstone. No,
two
. Beside them, an open hole. A small casket filling it.

Fiery pain burst across his wrists. Red ribbons oozed from jagged wounds. He watched as a pair of bloodied scissors clattered to the floor.

* * *

A dim, yellow light danced across Maggie’s face. She opened one eye and panicked. What happened to the tallboy she’d inherited from her dad? The corner chair he’d passed down from his own parents?

Instantly, she realized the room was fine.
She
was the one out of place. In the wrong bedroom. Not her one at home. A strange one.

In fact, everything was strange. And wrong. She felt rough, cool sheets against her bare skin. And dampness between her legs.

A rush of heat came to her cheeks. She cringed and covered her face with her hands. She’d had sex with Stafford. A man she barely knew.

No.
Sex was too nice a word for it.
Fucking.
That was a better term. She’d even begged him for it.

Ron would have loved that. How many times had he asked her to play the slut for him? To perform a lap dance? To talk dirty?

She’d always refused. Found it degrading. Then she’d turned around and acted like a whore for Stafford. While he’d talked about
making love
.

Her heart gave a squeeze when she remembered his kiss, filled with a tenderness she didn’t merit. And couldn’t return. Embarrassed didn’t even begin to cover the way she felt. How could she face him and pretend nothing had happened?

She tried to feel his presence. No warmth came from his side of the bed. Was he still there? Was he even in the room?

Before she could wimp out, Maggie flipped over, and brought the covers up to her chin. She took a breath and opened her eyes.

He sat, naked, watching her—a dark figure against the window. The black spheres of his eyes almost blocked out the blue, like an eclipse.

She wanted to say something.
Thanks for last night... Sorry for last night... About last night...

How could she justify her actions? She’d wanted a few minutes escape from reality and absolution from her guilt. Now, the morning after, she felt worse than before. Shamed and dirty. Because she’d had sex with a beautiful man and for a few moments, almost forgot about her missing child.

“You want to talk about it?”

Wasn’t that supposed to be
her
line? She drew her arms around her knees and hugged herself, wishing she could sink into the mattress and disappear. “No. I don’t. I’m sorry.” Sorry for the evasion. Sorry for what happened between them. Sorry for losing Davie. Sorry for it all.

She looked up to see his expression, his face pinched, his emotions raw. The image unnerved her. All the men she knew guarded their feelings. It was okay to express anger, but not vulnerability.

Or was it fear that made them hide their emotions? Were they afraid of revealing too much?

“Are you okay?” she asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“I’m getting there.”

He opened the window. Soft light shone onto his face. Sweat glistened on his skin like tiny diamonds. He was a few shades paler than normal, but gaining color by the second. The tension lines she’d seen on his forehead and around his mouth faded as quickly as a spring snowfall.

Relief freed her chest and she breathed easier. He wasn’t upset over her, one less thing to feel guilty about. His pain came from a psychic experience. He’d done another reading.

Pressure coiled its way back around her heart. Maybe he’d discovered something about Davie. Something brutal. “Looks like you were chasing monsters.”

He inched forward. “The woman we’re chasing is no monster. She’s a victim, Maggie. Like you.”

Her shoulders tensed. “Like
me
?”

“She’s lost her child, too. A son,” he told her, his voice a soothing half-whisper. “Some kind of breathing disorder.”

A flicker of compassion sparked her blood, igniting into rage. “And that gives her the right to take my son?”

“Of course not. But it does help us understand her. To feel for her.”

She wouldn’t have pegged Stafford, a former FBI agent, as the bleeding-heart type. Let’s forgive rapists. They probably had a rough home life. And murderers? They aren’t all bad. It’s a shame to lock them up.

She’d heard all the rhetoric. It was enough to make her sick. She grabbed a pillow and clutched it to her chest like a shield. Protection from the bullshit. “You want me to feel sorry for the woman who stole my son?”

“I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted you to know—”

“Find me something useful, Stafford. Don’t preach to me about who’s to be pitied in this world.”

He stood and she sucked in a breath. Last night, she’d
felt
the beauty of his body. Now, in the light, she
saw
it. In spite of her anger, in spite of her grief, liquid pooled between her thighs at the sight of him.

He reached for his jeans and slipped them on. “I have to go.”

The words sounded strange, as if she’d accidentally rented a foreign movie without subtitles. “Have...to...go?”

“Back south.”

The room resounded with silence. “You mean leave?” Outside, a motor started. Inside, her heart shuddered. “Why?”

He sat and pulled on his socks. “It’s personal.”

Personal?
The whole, damn thing was personal. She grabbed the sheets, gripped them tight in her stinging hands, and held on as the world around her tipped.

“I’ll be back.” He made it sound casual
,
as if he were trotting off to the store to get a loaf of bread. Not leaving her alone to follow a trail she couldn’t see.

“When?”

Another silence, while he retrieved his shoes. “I don’t know.”

“Can’t you wait?” Her clenched fists shook. So did her voice.

“No.”

She felt as if someone slammed her in the chest with a giant pipe wrench. “Is this about last night?”

“No.” His answer came too fast that time. Like he’d rehearsed it.

Again, anger boiled up inside her. “Is that all you can say? Can’t you string together a whole sentence?”

Suddenly, Stafford was a breath away, his eyes dissecting her. “There’s an airport in Hay River. I can hitch a ride there. I’ve got your cell number. When I’m done my business, I’ll find you.” He froze there for a moment, a towering, bronze statue. Then he turned and headed for the door.

“You said you’d stay until we found Davie,” she told his departing back. The words came out whiny, full of need.
Begging again.
First for sex, now for a lifeline.

He didn’t alter his stride. He was leaving and nothing she said could change it. She’d slept with him. And that twisted things. Made it ugly. The knot of self-hatred in her stomach tightened. “Or maybe you already got what you came for.”

He stopped, his hand clutching the doorknob, the veins on his forearm popping to the surface. “I’ll be back, Maggie.”

She wanted to believe it. But she was a little old for fairy tales. She pictured herself running across the room, Cinderella-style, throwing herself into his arms, and giving him the kiss she couldn’t last night.

Instead, she took a big breath and filled her voice with venom. “Don’t do me any favors.”

* * *

Stafford
slouched against the car’s roof, his heart and head throbbing. In his mind, that last image he had of Maggie replayed—her hands tearing at the sheets, her eyes full of hatred.

For him.

He locked his jaw and blocked out the memory. He had a ride to hitch, a murderer to catch, and no time for regrets.

Shivering in the cool air, he grabbed his stuff out of the car and tossed Maggie’s keys on to the table inside their room. He didn’t bother to say anything. He figured they’d already said enough.

He threw on a clean shirt, shrugged into his jacket, and jogged through the motel’s parking lot to the highway, stopping at a newspaper stand on his way to grab the latest edition. Reading material for the road.

He walked along the highway’s edge, waiting for a passing car. Twenty minutes later, he was checking his watch. For the sixth time.

Sighing, Stafford jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. His knuckles scraped against thick paper. Warmth spiraled up his arm.

The hockey card.
He’d forgotten he still had it.

Tense muscles warmed with new purpose. Here was a way for him to redeem himself. If he could point Maggie in the right direction, at least it would alleviate some of his guilt.

As he turned away from the road to find a spot to sit, he heard the scrape of gravel on pavement. He looked down the asphalt and saw a car heading his way.
Halleluiah.

He could get his ride, find the airport, and do the reading there. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d turned a bathroom stall into his private office. But how would he get the information to Maggie? If he called her cell, she’d probably hang up on him.

Indecision volleyed around his head like a tennis ball. He took out his frustration on a rock, kicking it a couple of yards down the road. And let the car pass. There’d be another one along any minute. He hoped.

Stafford found a dry spot to sit. He tossed his newspaper to the ground and flopped down onto it. Card in hand, he leaned back against a tree. He closed his eyes and went on his familiar journey, to the open field.

He followed the path until the surroundings changed. Colors brightened, soft edges became sharper. A damp, woodsy tang lingered at the back of his throat. Rushing water echoed in the distance.

He was back at the falls. He saw it clearly in his mind, imagined he was walking there, with Davie and the unknown woman who’d taken him.

The wind picked up. A breeze blew through his hair, swirling past his ears. The grass around him rolled like the tide coming in from Miami. On the air, a woman’s voice whispered to him.

* * *

Maggie couldn’t motivate herself to leave the room. She felt drained, weak as a newborn. She sat in the chair Stafford last inhabited, fully dressed and ready to go. But not a clue as to where.

Her cell rang and she ran across to the bedside table. Surgical gauze slid against plastic and she almost dropped the phone at the caller’s first words.

“Any sign of David?”

She sank to the bed. What could she tell him? According to a psychic, yes, but really... “No, Ron. Nothing.”

“Oh, Maggie.”

Her heart went out to him. This was a different Ron, his voice weary, cracking like an adolescent. Not at all the arrogant man who’d verbally attacked her at the station. More like the shy boy she’d once loved.

She reassured him, telling him things would be all right, surprised at how convincing she sounded. She lulled and consoled until she started believing her own empty promises.

Newfound strength flowed into her body. Maggie stood to pace the room, needing to be in motion. She took her first step and barely managed to stay vertical. Like a fish caught in a net, she found herself tangled in the crumpled heap of cotton strips between her feet. During her cajoling, she must have absently peeled the bandages from her hands. She discarded this last reminder of Stafford into the garbage.

As if it were that
easy
. She could still feel his touch, the heat of him inside her. She couldn’t get rid of him any more than she could shed her skin.

“It’s not too late, Maggie.”

“No, it’s not,” she agreed. Stafford had taken her this far. She had to keep faith and follow the trail. “Davie’s out there. And we will find him.”

“I mean, for us. We could start over. Have another child. We’re good at making babies.”

Something cold and slithery looped around Maggie’s heart. She leaned forward and clutched her chest. What was he suggesting? That they create a Davie-substitute?

“What about Linda?”

At the other end of the line, she heard the sound of ice clinking against glass and shot a look at the clock radio. Way before noon. Not at all Ron’s style.

“Things didn’t work out.”

A year ago, she would have felt vindicated. Ron had moved on with his life, as if their marriage had never happened. Even though she’d been the one to initiate the divorce, she’d been stunned by his ability to bounce back within weeks, landing in the arms of another woman with the agility of a trapeze artist. Now, hearing his confession, she felt numb, as if she’d been the one sucking back a lonely morning scotch.

“Family problems. Linda had trouble focusing.”

And Ron was a man who didn’t like problems, didn’t want the focus to be on anyone but himself. She knew that from experience. As soon as she began her career in law enforcement, he’d burned rubber with his hasty exit.

“I guess I’m not the easiest person to live with.”

And living alone didn’t seem to be an option. Ron needed a woman. An audience. A cheering section. And Maggie had retired her pompoms years ago.
“I can’t think about this now, Ron.”

“I know, I know. We’ll talk later. When you’re back.”

She didn’t reply. Just hung up. She couldn’t deal with her ex and his need for attention. She had to find...

Everything.

In the past few days, she’d lost it all. Her child. Her sanity. The veneer of civilization. Somehow, in losing Davie she’d lost
herself
.