A Stranger's Touch Page 2

  When the door closed behind Ron, Owens grasped Maggie’s wrist and eased her back onto the sofa. “You can’t blame yourself.”

  It was something her father might have said and had her sucking back another rush of tears. She wanted her dad, needed him, wished she could collapse into his arms. But he was never coming back. So she let herself take comfort from the man who was so like him. The two men had been more than colleagues, more than friends. They’d been clones.

  You can’t blame yourself.

  Although she was new to the force, she’d probably said the phrase half a dozen times – to victims of crime, to survivors of car accidents. And each time, she’d meant it. But for herself, the words were meaningless. Ron had given voice to her guilt: the growing fear that her single-minded pursuit of a career in law enforcement had put Davie in danger.

  “I want you to go home, Maggie,” she heard Owens say over the clamor of her thoughts. “Get some rest. Those days we owe you, take them now.”

  She lurched forward. “But I want to know what’s going on. I need to be part of it.”

  “Absolutely not. You’re too close to the case. I won’t have you jeopardizing it. I’ve already spoken to your sergeant. You’re off active duty until we tell you differently. Sorry, Mags, but that’s the way it’s gotta be.”

  Maggie opened her mouth to deliver another protest, but Owens cut her off. “Don’t fight me on this. It’s in your best interest. And in David’s.”

  A bone-numbing chill crept through her body. Wasn’t there anything she could do to help her son? “You’ll keep me informed? Tell me everything that happens?”

  “I’ll tell you as much as I would tell any parent in your shoes.”

  Maggie clamped her mouth shut, clenching her jaw until her cheeks burned. Owens was following procedure. If she’d been in his position, she would have said the same thing. But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

  “I’ll have an officer take you home.”

  “That’s okay. I want to drive. Clear my head.”

  The already pronounced line between Owens’ brows deepened. “You sure?”

  “I’m sure. I can manage,” she promised, but gripped the edge of his desk as she stood, in case her legs wobbled. “Don’t worry about me. Just find Davie.”

  Owens took a step toward her, as though he might hug her, but a quick look through the surrounding windows, and at the officers beyond, must have changed his mind. Instead, he cradled her forearm and guided her out of the room to the reception desk.

  There, flanked between two officers, a heavy-set punk sneered like Elvis – minus the charm. Dried blood flecked the front of his T-shirt and added a rusty tinge to his tattooed arms, from his oversized biceps to his handcuffed wrists.

  “We picked him up for the gang slaying,” Owens said, confirming Maggie’s suspicions.

  The cops holding the suspect glanced at her, as she and Owens passed. One shook his head. The other averted his eyes. Did everyone know about Davie? Could they see the guilt on her face?

  When Owens abruptly stopped, Maggie followed the direction of his gaze, through the glass doors to the street out front. There she saw a tall man emerging from a taxi.

  “I gotta leave you here, Maggie. Promise me you’ll call a cab, if you need one.”

  She murmured a distracted reply as the stranger came up the front steps and entered the building.

  He was unlike anyone she’d ever seen before – taller than most men, his street-fighter build clearly visible beneath his thin, black leather jacket. The darkness matched his hair, which hung to his shoulders in gentle waves. The only gentle thing about him.

  As his long, jean-clad legs swallowed up the distance between them, Maggie focused on his eyes. Guarded, haunted eyes that belonged to an old soul, a person who’d seen too much of the world. Their blueness might have inspired trust in some, but not in Maggie.

  While she pondered exactly what had set off her warning bells, someone shouted. Rubber heels squealed across the tiled floor. Maggie turned in time to see the punk break free of his guards and make a mad run for the exit.

  Only he didn’t get very far.

  In a blur of motion, the tall stranger stepped forward and grabbed the perp’s arm. One twist brought the tattooed man to his knees, a second left him whimpering like a baby – all in the time it took Maggie and her peers to draw their weapons.

  The red-cheeked cops retrieved their suspect, gave the stranger a quick nod of thanks, then stepped aside to let him pass.

  Maggie holstered her gun, nerves humming like a swarm of angry bees. So unlike the cool stranger, who appeared unshaken by the recent skirmish.

  When he was little more than a yard away, she bent her head, so he wouldn’t catch her gawking. That’s when she saw his hands. Both were hidden by thick leather gloves.

  She gulped down a quick breath. It was near the end of September and the days were getting shorter. Still, the afternoon’s warm mountain winds had gifted Calgarians with a brief respite from the coolness of autumn. There was no need for gloves. Apart from their thickness, they might be the kind of protection a criminal would use to avoid leaving fingerprints at the scene of a crime.

  Prickles crawled along her scalp. It signaled a warning. Someone was watching her. She jerked her head up and found the stranger staring directly at her.

  Maggie’s heart beat in double-time. Paralysis inched up her spine. She tried to look away but couldn’t, frozen by an unseen power. She kept her gaze on the man until he disappeared into an interview room.

  A flushed Owens followed him in, scooping up an object from behind the reception desk on his way...

  Davie’s knapsack.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Stafford Webb watched Inspector Owens plunk a child’s pack down on the table.

  “Thanks for coming in,” the officer began. “Have a seat.”

  The blue knapsack was the only color in the room. Scuffed yellowing walls framed a small table and a couple of metal stools, all bolted to the floor. If Stafford stretched out his arms, he’d scrape his knuckles against two sides of the tight cell.

  The air around him felt thin, tenuous as a man’s freedom. He’d been in interview rooms from Washington to Wisconsin during his FBI stint. They were all the same. Stark, cramped, and depressing.

  He remained standing at the door, staring at the bag. “A missing kid?”

  Owens gave him a weary nod and sank into a chair. A steel blade of pain sliced into Stafford’s gut.

  “And you called me?”

  The cop laced his fingers together and offered a lifeless smile. “I had to start somewhere.”

  Meaning, Owens didn’t have any leads. Relief and regret. They took equal swipes at Stafford. He ignored them both and focused on his goal.

  “Sorry, I can’t help you.”

  “Can’t? Or won’t?”

  “Goodbye, Dale.” Muscles tight, Stafford turned toward the door, ready to make his escape. He shirked off the tug on his sleeve and spun around to face the older man.

  “You know I wouldn’t ask unless I had to. Every minute that passes lessens our chances of getting this kid home safe.”

  Stafford wished to hell his feet would move, but they’d rooted themselves to the floor. He stood there like an idiot, waiting for Owens’ trump card.

  “The child belongs to one of our own.”

  And there it was, just as he’d expected. He’d seen the mother in the lobby. He didn’t have to be psychic to feel her pain, see the terrible look of desperation in her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. Her anguish dug into him, leaving his chest empty and aching. For her. For himself.

  “I can’t get involved.”

  “You don’t have to. Look, I know how difficult this is for you. All I’m asking for is an initial impression, something to guide us, give us a direction. Right now, we’ve got nothing.”

  The tough-guy voice Owens adopted wasn’t enough to conceal his fear. Police officers were a pret
ty unemotional bunch. They had to be. But when children were involved, it was different. Most had kids of their own.

  Owens’ chair squeaked as he lowered his weight back into it. “Stafford, what happened before ... it wasn’t your fault. You gotta believe–”

  Self-loathing simmered in Stafford’s belly, flaying the back of his throat. He held up one hand. “I’ll give you what information I can now. Don’t expect anything more.”

  Had that line really come out of his mouth? When had he become such a bastard? Six months ago, when it happened? Two decades before that, when it started? Or through all the years in between?

  He took his seat across from the officer, removed his gloves and dropped them on the table. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it onto the floor. Then he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and took a moment to prepare. Normally, he would have asked for privacy, but Owens had seen it all before.

  Stafford closed his eyes and tried to relax. He concentrated on the steady thump of his heart, the sound of air filling and leaving his lungs. He felt himself floating toward a place outside of the interview room, outside of his body.

  Time slipped away. Sounds slipped away.

  His hands found the backpack. He ran his fingers over the fabric. He smelled perfume. Fall leaves. The earth. He saw a hockey rink. A schoolyard. A group of trees, the leaves starting to yellow.

  He looked down at himself. He wore small, dirty Reeboks – white with blue trim – and a pair of jeans, clean and pressed. His royal blue jacket, the black zipper undone, had a rip near one pocket, neatly patched. The bill of a cap shaded his eyes from the sun.

  Alarm went through his body. He felt fear and didn’t know why. He looked around, saw a group of older boys – a blur of cold, sneering faces. He heard the sound of taunting laughter. A name echoed in his head.

  Billy ... Billy Bob ... Billy Bow …

  The laughter turned to an argument. A man’s voice. A woman’s voice. He couldn’t make out a lot of the words, just the angry tones. He felt his shoulders hunch as he tried to hide inside his shirt.

  Then playing cards fell from the sky. No. Not playing cards. Sport cards. Hockey cards.

  Emotions shifted. Fear propelled him forward. Branches scratched against his jacket and slapped his face. He looked up the street and saw a tan car – his mommy to the rescue. Relief washed over him. Then the images changed. Turned darker.

  He saw a prowling animal. A dog? A bear? A man? He couldn’t be sure. A series of numbers swirled around, like the noodles in a bowl of alphabet soup. A seven in the foreground obscured the rest.

  The car’s driver-side window lowered. He gulped in air. It was thick. Too heavy to breathe. As though he were underwater. He heard a name through the murky liquid.

  A hand reached out to him. Grabbed him. Wrenched him away.

  Stafford fell, plunging like a cannonball, through all the layers he’d traveled. But his stomach stayed in the place his body had just left – a sickening roller-coaster drop. He came back to the interview room with a jolt, nauseated and gasping for breath.

  Owens was by his side, his hand on Stafford’s arm. “You all right?”

  He couldn’t speak – couldn’t take in enough air to give Owens shit for severing the connection with his unexpected touch. He saw the older man reach for the door and open it.

  “Get a medic in here! Fast!”

  “I’m fine,” Stafford managed to croak.

  The Inspector moved away from the door, leaving it ajar. He drew closer and rested his hands on the table.

  “You look terrible,” Owens told him.

  Since Stafford felt the same way, he wasn’t surprised. He tried to keep his hand from shaking as he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. “I’m okay.”

  Owens waved away the officer who appeared at the door and they were alone again. “What did you see?”

  Stafford gave himself a moment to collect his thoughts. The images came back to him in a psychedelic jumble, the colors too bright, the details zipping by with Indie 500 speed.

  “Look for an older model, two-door, tan car. I heard the name Billy – last name starts with a B. He’s a student. A tough kid. The missing child was running from him.”

  “Away from the school bully and right into the arms of the person who grabbed him.”

  “That’s what I’m getting.” A twinge of memory reached out to Stafford. He pushed it away and focused on the case at hand.

  “I heard another name. Marshall. I assume that’s the missing child. All I got from the license plate was a jumble of numbers. There’s a seven in it. Same age as the boy.” He stopped to take a breath and looked up at the cop. “Are his parents divorced?”

  A world-weary sadness glistened in Owens’ eyes. “How did you know?”

  “I heard them arguing.” Stafford could relate. His own parents fought regularly. And always about the same thing. Him.

  “The child likes hockey, has collector cards. I can tell you what he was wearing–”

  “We’ve got that, thanks.” Owens leaned closer, his voice hushed. “Is it the same as the Hutchinson boy?”

  Stafford hadn’t heard the name for months, but that hadn’t stopped him from thinking about the kid. Every day.

  He pulled down his sleeves, buying time until his voice became steady. “No. Not that.”

  Owens exhaled. “Good. Thanks. We’ll get right on it.”

  Stafford reached for his gloves. “Owens ... I don’t think you have to hurry.”

  The Inspector froze, his expression pained. Stafford lowered his head.

  “I feel that he’s dead. Drowned.”

  * * *

  Maggie waited outside the station, lurking in the twisted shadows of the nearby trees.

  Snippets of conversation hovered on the warm night air. Muted voices came toward her then scattered, as though a wall stood between her and the rest of the world. Cut off, locked inside the prison of a walking nightmare, her mind raced.

  Who had her son? Was Davie okay? How could she find him?

  She laced her fingers, imagining that she held his little hand. The gesture brought her no warmth. No comfort. Entwining those icy fingers only made her feel empty.

  She rounded her shoulders as she thrust her hands into the pockets of her pants. The tall stranger had to come out sometime, and when he did, she’d be right there.

  She wasn’t disappointed. After waiting an hour, the man exited the building, his jacket slung casually over his shoulder.

  He paused at the top of the stairs, the added height accentuating his towering silhouette. She had no doubt he could overpower her – even with her police training and a semi-automatic in her holster. She’d have to take him by surprise.

  A heavy, cold sickness surged deep inside her. She’d heard about it from other officers, seen it on the faces of the victims she’d helped. Now, her time had come. It was her turn to taste real fear. To live with the dread that a life, far more precious than her own, might be gone. And the one person Owens had interviewed in the case was just footsteps away.

  Maggie moved in front of him. “Who are you? Why did Owens want to see you?”

  The man didn’t flinch. He looked as if he expected her, as though late night confrontations with women who jumped out at him from bushes were commonplace in his world.

  “You’re the child’s mother.” It was a statement, not a question.

  His soft-spoken manner infuriated her. “What did Owens want with you? What do you know about my son?”

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured and tried to move past her.

  She blocked his way. She planted her feet and prepared for him to toss her aside like a rag doll. When the blow didn’t come, Maggie grew bolder.

  “What do you know?” she demanded, gripping his bare forearm.

  His skin was heated, feverish. She felt his body shudder. He winced, his shocked face contorting in pain. He clutched the metal railing beside him, his jacket falling to the ground.
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  “Davie? That’s the child’s name?” His voice was faint, raspy.

  She pressed forward and leaned into him. “What do you know about Davie?”

  The man cringed again, staggered backwards and regained his balance. “Then ... who’s Marshall?”

  She grabbed his other arm, dug her nails into solid flesh. “What are you talking about? Where’s my son?”

  He looked into her eyes, his own widening. “Asthma,” he gasped. “Not drowned. Tell Owens ... the child ... he’s alive.”