The Last Bachelor
Auteur
Carolyn Andrews
Lezers
18,8K
Hoofdstukken
10
Chapter 1
SHE WAS RUNNING. It seemed like for ages now. But she wasn’t getting any closer to the car. And she had to.
It was dark. That didn’t matter as long as she kept the taillights in sight. The rain was pouring down. That didn’t bother her until it plastered her long skirt to her legs. Grabbing the hem, she bunched it out of the way. The loud clap of thunder didn’t make her jump, nor did the quick, potent flash of lightning that crackled across the sky. It was only as the car’s taillights disappeared that fear gripped her stomach with sharp claws.
She increased her pace, then slid on wet pavement as she rounded the curve in the driveway. Controlling the sprint of panic, she stumbled onto the grass, then recovered her balance and raced forward. She could just make out the taillights now. They were dimmer. The car was winning the race. She was losing. The wind whipped at her, pushing her back. Drawing on all her strength, she willed her legs to go faster, take longer strides. The distance. She had to close it. This time she had to catch the car. She had to stop them from taking Suzanna away.
She was weeping now. But above the sobs tearing through her and above the noise of the storm, she could hear the squeal of tires, the roar of the car’s engine as it turned onto the highway.
Just before the darkness closed in on her, she screamed.
GASPING FOR AIR, Frankie sat straight up in bed. She was shivering with cold. Her T-shirt was wet. And her phone... Hadn’t it been ringing? Quickly she reached for the extension on her nightstand, but all she heard was a dial tone. Had it been her own screams that had jolted her out of her nightmare?
Replacing the receiver, she drew her knees close and wrapped her arms around them. In just a minute she’d be fine. All she had to do was take one breath and then another. Slowly. With one hand, she rubbed at the tears on her cheek. She hadn’t had the nightmare for almost a year. Not since she’d left Syracuse and moved to Barclayville. Why had it come back tonight?
Gradually she became aware of the scent of the vanilla candle on her nightstand, the almost silent pulsing of her watch and the steady drip, drip of rain from the eaves. The sound was soothing, real.
Opening her eyes, Frankie forced herself to concentrate on familiar things. The breeze pushing the organdy curtains into the room and the wide ribbon of moonlight slashing across the floor. It had been raining when she’d fallen asleep.
Unfolding herself from the bed, she crossed to the window and ran her finger through the beaded drops on the sill. She’d slept through quite a downpour. Perhaps the storm had triggered the nightmare. Or the fact that next Sunday marked the first anniversary of Suzanna Markham’s suicide.
Or it could be her subconscious warning her that she’d broken the promise she’d made to herself when she’d gotten involved in Benny Wilson’s problems. Not that she’d had a choice. Not with Katie Delaney on her case.
Frankie’s lips curved at the thought of the little girl, a bubbly, pint-size package of Irish charm and unrelenting determination. But her smile faded as she recalled the day that Benny and Katie had offered to help her clear the winter’s debris out of her garden. When Benny had taken off his shirt...Frankie could still picture quite clearly in her mind the bruises on Benny’s back. And the look on Katie’s face when she’d begged her to help the boy. She’d had no choice.
Shoving the images out of her mind, Frankie forced herself to recall the evening she’d just spent with Benny in his new home. His cousins, Jim and Nancy, were thrilled to have him there. Was that what had caused her nightmare? Could her success in helping Benny have caused her subconscious to taunt her with the memory of her failure with Suzanna? Suddenly, Frankie shivered.
“Get a grip, Carmichael,” she said as she turned from the window and moved to her dresser. If seven years of study and a Ph.D. had taught her anything, it was that a psychologist who tried to psychoanalyze herself might just as well check herself into the nearest loony bin!
Stripping off her wet T-shirt, Frankie dragged on her Syracuse University basketball sweats. The big S on the shirt made her think of Katie Delaney again. The little girl was an avid fan of SU basketball, a dedicated supporter, even when the team was losing.
“Take a lesson from Katie,” she lectured herself as she hurried down the stairs. “Think positive, Carmichael. You helped Benny Wilson. And you did everything you could for Suzanna.” If the little girl’s mother had only listened to her. Or the police...
No. She was not going to revisit that experience tonight. She had done her best to make Suzanna’s mother listen. As for the police, well, her opinion of them was only slightly higher than slugs in the chain of human evolution.
Grabbing the stack of mail-order catalogs from the coffee table, Frankie hurried into the kitchen. What she needed was a pot of coffee and a night of escape. Catalog browsing offered the quickest route she knew to a fantasy world. In a few short minutes, she would be choosing a new wardrobe, something to replace the jeans and sweats she’d been wearing since she moved to Barclayville. Something that might even please her mother! Going back to sleep was out of the question. She knew from experience that the nightmare would return.
She was reaching for the wall switch in the kitchen when she spotted the light on her telephone answering machine. So it had been the phone she’d heard. It hadn’t just been a part of her dream. Her finger was resting on the play button when she hesitated. Her number was unlisted. Neither one of her station managers would be calling at this time of night. And her father never called except on Christmas. That left her mother—and Dr. Cecilia Carmichael, famed research biologist, only called her daughter when she wanted to deliver a lecture. With a resigned sigh, Frankie pressed the button.
Immediately, the husky whisper hissed into the room.
“Go away! Before another child disappears. Go away right now!”
Frankie stood still, staring at the phone as the fear from her nightmare rushed back in full force, clawing its way through her and settling like ice in her veins. It couldn’t be happening again. She hadn’t received a phone call or a threat since she’d moved to Barclayville. How could he have found her? She’d been so careful to protect her anonymity. Not even Benny or his cousins, the Wilsons, knew who she really was. For nearly a year she’d lived in peace, building a new life for herself. It couldn’t be happening again.
The message light glowed back at her in contradiction.
Fine. She gave it one good glare before she flipped on the overhead light, then moved around the island that separated the kitchen from the living area and turned on every lamp in the room. It wasn’t going to happen again. Grabbing a filter from the cupboard and coffee from the refrigerator, she crammed them into her automatic pot, added water and pressed the button. She wasn’t going to let it happen again.
She’d run away last time. Sometimes the better part of valor was retreat. This time she wasn’t going to run away, and she wouldn’t make the mistake of calling the police. They hadn’t helped her back in Syracuse. Once they’d looked into her past, they’d secretly decided that she deserved to be harassed.
She’d built a new life in Barclayville, and she wasn’t going to let anyone take it away from her. Especially not someone who preferred to remain anonymous. Hands on the counter, she listened to the coffeemaker sputter and whoosh and gurgle. In just a minute, it would drown out the echo of that whispery hiss that still lingered in her mind.
“TESS, IT’S NOT TIME to panic yet.” Mac Delaney relaxed his grip on the phone and tried to follow his own advice. His niece, Katie, had run away. She’d been missing for five hours. No, Katie was not missing. She’d merely quarreled with her mother and taken off on her bike. A quick temper was part of the Delaney heritage. As soon as she cooled off, she’d come home. Mac took a deep, calming breath. He’d spent one too many years chasing down missing persons for the NYPD. He had to keep his imagination from working overtime.
“I feel I should be doing more,” Tess said. “Maybe if I came down to the jail—”
“No. Katie will be there any minute. You wouldn’t want her to come home to an empty house.”
“No. Of course not. Can you think of anyone else I can call?”
Rubbing his temple with his free hand, Mac listened to his sister repeat the litany of phone calls she’d made. An hour ago the most exciting case that the sheriff of Barclayville and Masons Corners had been looking forward to solving was in the latest mystery to hit the bestseller list. And he hadn’t even gotten to work on that. Instead, he’d been pacing back and forth in the two-cell jailhouse bemoaning his boredom. Sulking, actually.
Mac glanced at the caddy of poker chips and the stack of cards that he’d gotten out and set by the coffeepot. He’d even splurged on a couple of bags of snacks. The effort had been totally wasted because his regular Tuesday-night poker game had been canceled.
So much for the promises of his so-called buddies, he thought grimly. One by one, they’d called with their excuses. Jack Hathaway and his new wife were having company for dinner. One of the others had to attend a childbirth class. And Grant Whittaker, the traitor, was taking his wife, Mattie, to a movie. Not that Mac had complained. If he had, Grant would have been all too willing to assure him that he’d be the next person to walk down the aisle in Barclayville.
Well, it would take more than the machinations of a matchmaking ghost to accomplish that, Mac assured himself. But even as he did, he thought again of the woman with the white sundress and ebony hair he’d met on the porch of the Barclay Mansion. In the past two weeks, she’d slipped into his thoughts a lot. Into his dreams, too. One of them had been so vivid, so real.... He couldn’t recall ever fantasizing about a woman in such detail before. He’d even nicknamed her his enchantress.
No, she wasn’t his. And she wasn’t going to be his.
His gaze returned to the poker chips. He didn’t believe in matchmaking ghosts who infected people with a marriage bug. Most important of all, he didn’t believe in marriage. Swiveling in his chair, Mac stared out at the street. Marriage meant putting down roots, and he’d decided against that on the long-ago night when he’d run away from the Delaney apple farm and from all the lies that it stood for.
Sure, he’d come back. But not permanently. Even his job as sheriff was a temporary one. Maybe it was time he thought about moving on. Perhaps that was why he was so bored that he had to resort to solving fictional crimes instead of real ones.
The book he’d been going to read still lay on his desk. He ran his fingers across the glossy cover where an embossed drop of red blood dripped from a shiny silver knife. Mac couldn’t prevent a smile. It was Katie who had checked it out of the library for him to give him something to do on the evenings he spent at the jail. A love of books was something that he’d always shared with his niece, dating back to the days when she was in diapers. He could remember so clearly the way she used to sit for hours staring wide-eyed at him as he read to her.
Mac’s grin faded. Now she’d run away from home. And he had no idea where she was. The knot in his stomach tightened.
“Mac, what do you think?”
“About what?” Mac dragged his attention back to his sister.
“About calling Martha Bickle? Do you think I should?”
Mac grinned. Martha Bickle was a gossip extraordinaire. “By all means. It’ll be more effective than putting out an APB.”
“And I had another thought—it’s going to sound crazy,” Tess warned. “Maybe she got it in her head to go visit him. Her father, I mean. She could be on a train or bus to New York City right now.”
It was a possibility that had occurred to Mac when Tess had told him the details of the quarrel. Somehow Katie had discovered the truth about her father, that he was alive and not dead. And that her mother had lied to her.
Ten years of experience working in the missing persons department of the NYPD had taught Mac the value of trying to get inside the mind of the runaway. In this instance it had been easy. He knew exactly what Katie was feeling.
Oh, he’d been older, all of eighteen, when he’d learned that the man he’d thought of as his father all his life was really his uncle. He could still recall the rage he’d felt, white-hot and searing, and the disillusionment that had sliced even deeper because the lie had been told by people he’d loved.
But once he’d pushed himself past the anger and resentment, Mac could also remember being curious about his real father, even though the man had been dead for years. Katie’s father was very much alive. In his niece’s place, his first impulse might have been to visit the person who’d simply not existed for ten years. Her father—Dexter Thome.
“I contacted a friend of mine a, P.I. down in New York City—Logan Campbell. He helped me out with a few cases, and he’s watching Thome’s penthouse. I also faxed him a picture of Katie so that one of his operatives can check the bus and train stations.”
“You don’t think I’m crazy, then?” Tess asked.
Grinning, Mac leaned back in his chair. “I’ve thought you were certifiable since I was about ten.”
“I’m serious,” Tess insisted, but Mac could hear the answering smile in her tone.
“What I think is that we’re both jumping the gun here. Katie’s angry and she’s hurt. But she’s a smart little girl and she loves you. As soon as she works it out, she’ll be home.”
“Okay,” Tess said. “I’ll keep telling myself that. Did you have a chance to find out anything about this Dr. Frankie yet? Katie was so sure that she would understand. Maybe Katie contacted her.”
“I’m working on it,” Mac said, glancing at the open file in front of him. He’d started it when Tess had first called him, and the last thing he wanted his sister to know was what he’d dug up on the popular radio-talk-show psychologist so far. “I’m expecting a call any minute.”
“Let me know as soon as you hear,” Tess said.
“Katie will be home by then,” Mac replied. But he was frowning as he hung up the phone. He was more worried than he wanted to let on to his sister. More worried than he should be. In the years he’d spent tracking down missing persons, it was always the children who’d gotten to him.
Rising, he strode past the two empty jail cells to the bulletin board over the coffee machine. His three biggest fears stared back at him from posters that had been hanging in the same place since he’d returned home to Barclayville and taken over the job of sheriff two years ago.
Three missing children. Eighteen-year-old Janie Coulter, who’d disappeared from a convenience store not thirty miles away; two-year-old Casey Matthews, who was last seen on a playground in a nearby city; and ten-year-old Lisa Ann Walters, who’d been riding her bike on a county road and never reached her destination.
It was the last little girl on whose face his gaze lingered the longest. Even as he stared at it, an image of Katie seemed to superimpose itself on the photo. Katie Delaney, eleven years old, four feet, ten inches tall, red curly hair and green eyes.
No. Forcing his gaze to the coffeepot, Mac filled a mug and drained it. He was overreacting again. And he needed to remain cool, objective. Katie had just quarreled with her mother. She was not about to become another upstate New York child who’d disappeared into thin air. Not the little girl he’d read to, not the little girl he’d helped to take her first steps.
He could picture it in his mind as if it had been yesterday. Of course, her cheeks were chubbier then, and those red curls had hugged her face more closely, but he would never forget what he’d seen in her eyes as she’d let go of Tess’s hands and taken three teetering steps into his. Sheer and absolute confidence. That’s what he’d seen.
But there was such a thing as being overconfident. The sobering thought brought Mac back to the present. He didn’t want to think of his niece alone on a bus to New York City. Nor did he like the idea that she might have gotten in touch with this Dr. Frankie.
Striding back to his desk, Mac lifted the file on Dr. Francesca Carmichael. The last thing that Katie had flung at her mother before running out of the house was that “Dr. Frankie would understand!” If he found out that the doc had anything to do with his niece’s disappearance, she’d have him to answer to.
Though Mac had never personally listened to the “Ask Dr. Frankie Show,” evidently every central New York kid between the ages of eight and eighteen had. The young man who’d answered the phone at the Syracuse radio station had been all too willing to brag about Dr. Frankie’s outstanding ratings. He’d also provided a brief bio. She was a bona fide doctor, all right. The daughter of two renowned research biologists, Francesca Carmichael had earned her Ph.D. in child psychology at the age of twenty-six and then spent a year on the staff of the Summerhaven Clinic, a full-time treatment center for troubled children on one of the nearby Finger Lakes. Following her resignation from Summerhaven a year ago, the child psychologist had turned radio-talk-show host, broadcasting her advice to young teens beginning with two afternoons a week in Utica and recently expanding to another three shows originating in Syracuse.
What the young man at the station had failed to mention was that Dr. Frankie had a police record. It was the state police who’d faxed him that information, and the Syracuse police had been more than willing to fill in the blanks. They had a full file on her since they’d arrested her just over a year ago for kidnapping eleven-year-old Suzanna Markham.
Mac once more reviewed the notes he’d taken during his conversation with the officer who’d arrested Dr. Frankie. His own opinion of child psychologists was pretty low. More than once he’d seen their “expert testimony” used in court to return runaway children to abusive homes or to keep them in less-than-ideal foster homes. The frequent failure of the legal system to really help children was one of the reasons he’d taken a leave from the NYPD. What was the use of tracking down runaways if they were only going to be returned to the nightmare they’d tried to escape from?
The Syracuse police officer he’d spoken to hadn’t thought much of Dr. Carmichael. Suzanna Markham had been one of the doc’s patients at Summerhaven. Shortly after being released into her parents’ care, Suzanna had run away to Dr. Frankie. The good doctor had lied to the police on several occasions and managed to hide the girl in her apartment for almost a week.
The kidnapping charges had been dropped shortly after Suzanna had been returned to her parents’ custody. But the story hadn’t ended there. Less than a month later, Suzanna Markham had committed suicide.
There wasn’t a hell of a lot of comfort to be found in that, Mac thought as he dropped the file on his desk. Hadn’t it been his opinion for years that once psychologists started messing around with a kid’s head, they could do as much harm as good? If this Dr. Frankie had done anything to hurt Katie...
It was at that moment that his fax machine began to hum. The Syracuse PD had promised to track down a current address and telephone number for the good doctor.
Excitement warred with apprehension the moment Mac saw what was on the sheet. The phone number was local, the address less than two miles away, just down the county road that divided Masons Corners from Barclayville. He glanced at the map on the wall behind his desk. It would have been a half-hour bike ride for Katie. And she would have had to ride right by his office to get there.
As Mac continued to stare at the map, he struggled to identify the emotions rolling through him. Jealousy? He hadn’t known that it could slice like a knife. Anger that Katie had sought help from a stranger instead of him? Ruthlessly, he shoved his feelings aside. There was no place for emotion in good police work.
She could easily have gone to talk to Dr. Carmichael. He should be happy about that. Katie was probably there right now. He should be feeling relieved. Why wasn’t he?
Because if Katie had paid Dr. Frankie a visit, why hadn’t the good doctor called Tess to tell her where her daughter was? Maybe the doc made a habit of keeping children from their parents.
Just then the second page slipped out of his fax machine.
Carrying it to his desk, he found himself staring at Francesca Carmichael’s mug shots. And staring right back at him was the woman from Jack Hathaway’s wedding, his enchantress.
No, she wasn’t his, Mac told himself again with a frown as he held the fax closer to the lamp. But she certainly didn’t look like a child snatcher. Or a powercrazed psychologist, either.
Once again he found himself looking at her eyes. Even dulled by a copy machine and the low reproductive quality of his fax, the doc’s eyes were...fascinating
With a start, Mac realized that he wanted to see Francesca Carmichael again. And not just because she might know where he could find his niece. He wanted to find out if he had imagined the effect she’d had on him on the front porch of the Barclay Mansion. It had to have been an aberration. Like being struck by lightning. It couldn’t happen again.
As he set the fax sheets down on his desk, his gaze fell on the poker chips and cards that he’d gotten out earlier, and he recalled the plight of his Tuesday-night poker pals. Whatever it was that had led them to pop the question and walk down the aisle could easily have begun as simply as this. Dreaming about a woman. Obsessing over eyes and a pretty face.
No way! Forewarned was forearmed. He had business to take care of with Dr. Francesca Carmichael. And with any luck, he could kill two birds with one stone. He could find his runaway niece and he could figure out just what it was about this Dr. Frankie that intrigued him so.
Grabbing his keys from his desk, Mac strode out of the jailhouse. If the good doc had decided to provide Katie with a safe haven from her family, he wasn’t going to give her any warning of his impending arrival.
BIG. IT WAS Frankie’s first thought as she watched the tall man climb out of the pickup truck he’d parked in her driveway. A full moon was spilling its light on her front lawn. He cast a long shadow as he cut across it.
Her second thought was who? Who in the world was this solid wall of muscle and denim climbing her front steps at midnight? The caller on her answering machine? Instinct told her no. This man exuded strength, confidence. He wouldn’t have to hide behind anonymity.
He wore his jean jacket open, revealing a T-shirt and the glint of a silver chain. The jeans themselves were worn and rode snugly down long legs to scuffed boots. A cowboy was her next thought. All he needed was a ten-gallon hat and a ranch. Not that he was likely to find either one in the middle of upstate New York’s apple and dairy farms.
As he reached the top step of her porch, he glanced in her direction, and in that instant, she recognized him. The man from the wedding. The man who’d... what? In the two weeks since she’d stood with him on the porch of the Barclay Mansion, she hadn’t been able to put a name to the effect he’d had on her. It was his eyes, she’d finally decided. They were so dark, so intent that for a moment she’d thought that he’d actually seen into her very soul. That could explain why she’d felt almost as if she’d been punched right in the gut. Even now, when he was standing a good six feet away, she felt a tingling, prickly sensation whipping along her nerve endings. It was almost as if he could touch her with just a look. Ridiculous, she thought as he shifted his attention back to the door and knocked three times.
Frankie didn’t move. First she had to breathe. She felt as if she’d just raced to the top of a hill.
And then she suddenly remembered the other reason why she’d run away from him at the wedding. He was the sheriff. Since moving to Barclayville, she’d guarded her anonymity. She’d only gone to the Hathaway wedding at the request of Jim and Nancy Wilson. They’d wanted her to see how happy Benny was. And she’d left as soon as she could. If the word got around that “Dr. Frankie” was really Dr. Francesca Carmichael, the woman who’d been arrested for kidnapping and blamed for Suzanna Markham’s suicide, she could lose her radio shows. What parents would allow their children to follow the advice of a person like that?
The last thing she needed was a sheriff asking her name and poking into her past.
He knocked again. The sound was steady, determined. He wasn’t going to go away. And why should he? Instead of ducking out of sight when the truck had turned into the driveway, she’d stood right there, peering over the tops of the café curtains and gawking like a teenager.
“Dr. Carmichael.”
His voice carried clearly through the door. It was deep and sounded friendly. And he knew her name. Frankie moved closer, but she still didn’t reach for the knob. “Yes?”
“I’m Mac Delaney, the sheriff of Barclayville. We met, or at least I tried to introduce myself to you, at Jack Hathaway’s wedding. I’m sorry to bother you so late. It’s about my niece, Katie.”
Katie? Leaving the chain in place, she immediately opened the door.
What Mac saw through the eight-inch crack was the same small, delicately featured woman he’d imagined so clearly in his dream. Only this time, instead of wearing her hair loose, she had twisted it into some kind of complicated braid that gleamed with a rich sheen. Perhaps it was the contrast of dark hair and pale skin that had him thinking of witches and spells. Or perhaps it was the fact it had taken only one look to rekindle that hot leap of desire he’d experienced before.
Not that she looked like a witch, not in the sweats she was wearing. And it wasn’t fire and brimstone he smelled, but lilacs. Not was it hot, sultry nights that he thought of this time. No, he was imagining long, cold ones, in front of a fire, tracing the erotic movement of the light over her skin.
What in the world was he thinking of? Mac wondered with a sudden frown. No. Scratch that. He knew exactly the little side path his thoughts were taking. And in other circumstances he might have enjoyed the detour, but he was here on business. To find Katie. And his suspicion that “Dr. Frankie” might be able to help him had jumped two notches when he’d seen that she was up and waiting in her window at midnight, as if she were expecting someone at any moment. “Is Katie here?” he asked.
“No,” Frankie said.
“You’re sure? She’s eleven years old, about four-foot ten, red curly hair. She had a quarrel with her mother at about six and took off on her bike.” As Mac continued to speak, he forced himself to study the woman standing in front of him a bit more objectively. The growing concern in her eyes seemed genuine enough. But so far, she hadn’t removed the chain. Was she hiding something? This was someone, he reminded himself, who had lied successfully to the Syracuse police for almost a week.
And he sure as hell wasn’t going to find out if Katie was inside as long as she had him checkmated out here on her porch. Reaching into his pocket, Mac decided on a new approach. He smiled at her. “Here, I’ve got some ID. I really am Katie’s uncle. Could I come in for a minute?”
Frankie glanced quickly down at the leather fold he was holding. The picture hadn’t done justice to those eyes, or to the charming grin, but the badge looked genuine enough. Unfastening the chain, she stepped back.
Every light in the place was on from the recessed ones over the counter that separated the kitchen from the living area to the whimsical dragon sporting a leaded glass shade on the mantel. He caught the scent of coffee, freshly brewed. The pot on the counter was almost full. “You expecting someone?” he asked as he followed her into the kitchen area.
“No. I woke up. A bad dream. If I go back to sleep, it’ll just come back. Would you like some coffee?”
“Black,” he said.
“Why would you come here looking for Katie?” Frankie asked as she filled a mug.
“She’s been missing for over six—”
“Missing?” Frankie’s gaze flew to the light on her answering machine, and before she could prevent it, coffee sloshed over the side of the mug onto the counter. Grabbing for a towel, she mopped up the spill. “She can’t be. It’s too soon for her to be a missing person, isn’t it? I mean...”
“You’re right,” Mac said. “The state police won’t classify her as missing for another forty-two hours. But as her uncle, I have an entirely different view of the matter.”
Frankie handed the coffee to Mac. “She’s probably at a friend’s house, don’t you think?”
“That’s what I’d like to think. But my sister, Tess, has called everyone she can think of. And knowing Barclayville, those people have called everyone they can think of. So far, we haven’t found Katie.” Mac kept his eyes on Frankie as he took a sip from his mug. Her hand had been steady when she’d handed it to him. But for just a moment he’d seen something in her eyes, something he could have sworn was fear.
“Maybe she wants to be alone for a while to think things out. Is there some place, some favorite spot she’d go to?”
Mac smiled and set his mug down on the counter. “You know, I had the same thought myself. That’s why I’m here.”
Frankie frowned. “But I told you, Katie isn’t here. And I haven’t seen her or talked to her in a week.”
Mac’s smile didn’t waver. “You’re good, Doc. Under other circumstances, I’d thank you and leave. But I figure you were probably every bit as good as this when you told the Syracuse police that you didn’t know where Suzanna Markham was, either.”
Frankie didn’t say a word. She didn’t move a muscle. But a bleak look flashed into her eyes, and Mac could sense her withdrawal as clearly as if she had taken a step back. He also felt as if he’d just taken a swing at something defenseless. Suddenly uncomfortable, he turned and let his gaze take in the rest of the room. It was neat, nothing out of place, nothing to indicate that Katie had been there.
He wandered over to the fireplace. It was made entirely of stone and completely filled one wall. Mac recalled then that the cottage itself had a history. Back in the horse-and-buggy days when the Barclayville-Masons Corners Road had been well traveled, this had been a favorite rest stop. Perhaps that’s why the place was still so inviting, he thought as he took in the oversize sectional couch angled at a vee in front of the fireplace. The dramatic red upholstery was repeated in the red-checked curtains that hung in every window and in the painting of giant peonies above the mantel.
Red was not a color that he ordinarily found soothing, but here, against a backdrop of gray stone and gleaming oak floors, it was oddly so. With a start Mac realized that he could have sat down on that couch and felt very much at home. Slowly he returned his gaze to Francesca Carmichael, Ph.D. Of course, a comfortable couch was part of any good psychologist’s bag of tricks. And he had yet to meet one, in or out of the courtroom, who was truly defenseless. Right this minute, the doc looked anything but as she crossed the room toward him.
Frankie didn’t let herself come to a stop until she was standing toe-to-toe with Mac Delaney. He’d thrown her there for a second. For a whole year she’d lived in peaceful anonymity without having to answer questions about Suzanna Markham. But she wasn’t afraid to answer them. She wasn’t going to let anyone make her afraid again. “Look, I can understand why you’ve come here. Why you even might suspect me of helping Katie to hide. But you’re on a wild-goose chase. Suzanna Markham has nothing to do with your niece.”
“They both had a relationship with you. And they both turned up missing.”
“No!” The moment she heard how loudly she’d said the word, Frankie struggled for control. In her mind she could hear the hissing voice on her answering machine. Go away! Before another child disappears. Go away right now! Should she tell Mac Delaney about it? For a second she searched his face. What she saw was suspicion. If she played the message for him, he wouldn’t believe her any more than the Syracuse police had. And it couldn’t have anything to do with Katie. According to Mac, Katie had ridden her bike away from the farm long before the phone call was made. Drawing in a deep breath, she spoke slowly, determined to convince him with logic. “Suzanna wasn’t missing. She ran away from her parents and came to me for help. I—”
“You hid her in your home and lied to the police.”
Frankie’s chin lifted. “That was different. Suzanna was my client. Katie isn’t.”
“Katie told her mother that you’d understand,” Mac said. “It was the last thing she said before she left the house. That indicates to me that she confided in you. Trusted you.”
“But it doesn’t prove she was my client. I haven’t taken any since Suzanna...” She met his eyes squarely. “I never intend to practice again.”
For a moment, Mac said nothing. A part of him wanted to believe her. But she’d lied before. Successfully.
Frankie let out a frustrated breath, then grabbed the edges of his jacket. “Look, I know you can’t help thinking like a cop. But for a minute, just be Katie’s uncle. I don’t know anything about where Katie is. If I’m lying, I’m lying. But if I’m telling the truth, and she really is missing, then you’re wasting your time here. You should be looking somewhere else.”
Mac’s eyes narrowed. “You really don’t know where she is, do you?”
“No. I wasn’t even home earlier this evening. When did you say she rode her bike out of the driveway? Six?” At his nod, she continued, “I left just before that to have dinner with Benny Wilson’s new family. You can check with them. I didn’t return until after nine. And Katie knew about my plans.”
Mac frowned. “The two of you are that close?”
“No. Katie is a good friend of Benny’s. That’s how I came to meet her. She helps him deliver the Barclayville Banner every Tuesday so he can get home in time to do his chores. I happen to be their last delivery. Usually they have time for a cold drink.”
“Today’s Tuesday. Didn’t she help Benny today?”
Frankie shook her head. “No. There was no need. She knew that I was having dinner with him and that I’d drive him home.”
Mac glanced around the room. “I was so sure...” He looked at Frankie then. “I’m sorry if I was rough on you. I really was hoping that she’d be here.”
“I’m sorry, too.” She wanted very much to reach out to him, Frankie realized. To comfort him in some way. Instead, she put her hands into the pockets of her sweats and moved to sit down on the couch. “What did Katie quarrel with her mother about?”
“Her father,” Mac replied.
Frankie frowned. “I thought...isn’t her father dead?”
“She talked to you about him?”
“No. It was something she said to Benny once about their both being without dads. Perhaps I misunderstood.”
Mac watched her as she tucked her feet beneath her on the couch. Barefoot and sitting cross-legged, she didn’t look anything like the kind of person who would harbor a runaway. She didn’t look much like a doc, either. There was a quietness about her, a stillness that invited confidences. He wasn’t fooled by it. As a policeman, he knew the technique well. Shut up and let the suspect fill in the gaps. It was an odd time to realize that he had something in common with a psychologist. An even odder time to realize that he wanted simply to talk to her.
Perhaps it was because her concern about Katie seemed so genuine. Or perhaps he just needed to share his ideas with someone besides Tess. Whatever the reason, Mac found himself taking a step toward her. “You didn’t misunderstand. It just so happens that her father is very much alive, and Katie somehow found out about it.”
Then, feeling as if the floodgates had been opened, Mac moved closer and began to pour out everything he knew about the night’s events. “Tess says Katie was angry about the lie, furious that she’d been denied the opportunity of seeing her father for all these years. She even had his address in New York City. That’s evidently when Tess lost her temper. The whole reason for Tess’s lie was to keep Katie from ever knowing her father. I can understand why Tess did it. Katie’s father, Dexter Thome... the man’s scum. Tess met him when she was eighteen, right after she’d moved to New York to attend art school. She’s a potter, a good one. He had a lot of contacts and he took her under his wing, promised her a show in a gallery, and she fell for him hard. Stupid, you’ll probably say.”
“No. When you think you’re in love...well, it’s like you’re wearing blinders.”
Mac looked at her closely, and for a moment he saw something in her eyes. Not merely understanding, but pain. It was only then that he realized he was sitting next to her on the couch.
“What happened to Tess?” she asked.
“I suppose you could say she took her blinders off when Thome wrote her a check to get an abortion. When she refused it, things got even uglier. He threatened to ruin any chances she might have of getting her work into a gallery. He was rich enough, influential enough to make good on his threat. But that’s not why Tess has kept his existence a secret all these years. He was so adamant about wanting no part of the child. She just didn’t want Katie to experience that kind of rejection.”
“Understandable,” Frankie said.
“Yes, but I can see Katie’s side of it, too. To suddenly discover that everything you ever thought was true is a lie...”
Frankie studied him for a moment. His emotions were coming at her in waves. Anger mixed with sympathy and fear. And something else. Instinct told her that whatever had stirred up the flood of feelings in Mac Delaney went deeper than the present problem of locating his niece. It was instinct, too, that had her reaching out to take his hand and link her fingers with his.
Both of them froze. Perhaps if her hand hadn’t been so small, or his so large, then her wrist might not have brushed against his palm. Then maybe neither one of them would have felt the quick leap of her pulse.
Her response was so quick, so vulnerable that Mac found it unbearably arousing. Their knees were touching, too. Though it was a mistake, Mac looked into her eyes. Only moments ago he’d thought of her as so quiet. But her eyes weren’t quiet at all. In them he could see the promise of passion as bright and as ripe as the explosion of red peonies in the picture above the mantel.
Her skin was so pale, so smooth-looking he ached to touch it. And those soft, unpainted lips were only inches away...and they should be the last thing on his mind. He’d come here to find Katie.
Very slowly, he withdrew his hand from hers and rose to walk back to the fireplace. She’d made him dredge up emotions he’d buried long ago. That was it. That was why he’d actually been thinking of... What he’d been thinking of ever since he’d met her. Self-disgust filled him as he dragged his thoughts back to his niece. “Katie never talked to you about any of this?”
“No...well, not exactly.” Clasping her hands together, Frankie tried to gather her scattered thoughts. For a moment there, every single one of them had flown right out of her head. And during that moment, all she’d been aware of was Mac Delaney and a hot little curl of desire deep within her. She’d wanted him to kiss her. She’d wanted to feel his arms around her, his body pressed against hers. Touching a man had never made her feel that way before. So greedy. Even now, she wanted to touch him again. She glanced down at her hands. If he hadn’t moved away...
“What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” Mac asked.
Ruthlessly, Frankie reined in her thoughts. “Katie called the station once. She didn’t identify herself, but I recognized her voice.”
“And she mentioned her father?”
“No. She said that someone she trusted had lied to her, and she wanted to know what to do about it.”
“What exactly did you tell her?”
Frankie met Mac’s eyes steadily. “I told her that if she loved the person, she ought to give her or him the opportunity to explain.”
Mac simply stared at her. She couldn’t have hit the center of his own guilt more dead on if she’d unloaded a .38 at it. In the back of his mind, he could hear Tess saying much the same thing to him fifteen years ago. He’d been in his room packing. He and his father...no, he and his uncle, Tom Delaney, had quarreled over his desire to leave the farm and go to college. “Delaneys stay with the land!” his uncle had screamed at him. And it was in the heat of the battle that he’d learned the truth about his real father, Tom’s younger brother, Mac, who’d died before his son was born. Tess had pleaded with him to stay, not to leave in anger. But he’d ignored her and left without speaking to his mother or his father—no, his uncle.
Closing his eyes, Mac turned away from Frankie toward the mantel. He knew exactly what Katie was feeling. He hadn’t listened to anyone’s advice. He hadn’t wanted any explanations, either. He’d just run away. But he’d been eighteen, not eleven. He knew too well the kind of dangers that lurked out there for eleven-year-old runaways.... Mac forced himself to open his eyes, and it was then that he saw it. The slim gold pen lying on the mantel. He’d given it to Katie less than a month ago for her birthday. Picking it up, he turned to face Frankie. He was making the worst mistake a policeman could make. He was letting his emotions interfere with a case. And part of the problem was the woman sitting in front of him. “Enchantress” had been his first assessment of her. Right or wrong, he knew one thing for certain. She’d fooled the police before with her lies. “This pen is Katie’s.”
Frankie nodded. “She left it here last week.”
“You don’t mind if I look around?”
He was halfway up the stairs by the time she answered, “Katie isn’t here.”
And she wasn’t in the room he entered first. It was furnished as an office. He noted the computer, complete with a modem and a fax. The rest of the desktop was clear. A two-drawer file held supplies. There was a comfy-looking love seat in front of a window that faced the backyard. It was wide open and beneath it was a sloping roof. And the closet...was completely filled with neatly labeled file boxes.
The second room was just as neat, except for the slightly rumpled bedclothes. She’d said she hadn’t been able to sleep—a bad dream, he recalled. Beneath the bed he found a pair of slippers that looked like some tiny, long-haired dogs who only seemed to exist in New York City apartments. On the far side of the bed was a white stenciled rocking chair. In it sat an overstuffed red fox with a wicked grin. The nightstand held a phone, a bowl of colorful, sugar-coated chocolates and a candle that smelled like vanilla. The top of the dresser was clean except for a bottle of perfume. The scent reminded him of Frankie. It lingered in the closet, too. Ignoring it, he separated the neatly hanging clothes. No Katie. He was on his way to the door when he spotted the knob on the paneling behind the rocking chair. Opening the small door, he found a space under the eaves. Empty.
“I told you she wasn’t here,” Frankie said as he reached the bottom of the stairs.
Without speaking, he walked to the back door and opened it. If Katie had been here when he’d arrived, she’d have had plenty of time to crawl out that window in the office. The moment he stepped onto the back porch, he saw it. Propped against the railing was Katie’s bike. Mac whirled to find Frankie right behind him. “You lied. She was here.” He grabbed her by the shoulders. “Tell me where she is right now.”
“I don’t know.”
He could have sworn that she was telling the truth. There was no mistaking the fact that she’d turned several shades paler and that she was staring at the bike as if she’d seen a ghost. He hesitated for only a moment before he took the handcuffs out of his jacket and slipped them on her wrists. But the hesitation was enough to make him thoroughly disgusted with himself. This act, he reminded himself, had worked on the Syracuse police for five days.
“You have the right to remain silent,” he told her, guiding her toward the door, “and you have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney...”
At the door she pulled out of his grip and turned to face him. “Just what are you arresting me for?”
“Suspicion of kidnapping my niece,” Mac said as he escorted her out of the house and loaded her into his truck.
