A Stranger's Touch Read online

  That was all the tall stranger said. Then he collapsed at her feet.

  * * *

  Stafford floated back to his body on a gentle mist. A hundred vaporous hands guided him – ethereal crowd surfing in an outer world mosh pit.

  He drifted toward an unfamiliar room, to the presence of a now familiar woman. Even with his eyes closed, he knew she was there. Could sense her. Her strength sent a blanket of warmth over him. Her terror made every inch of his skin crackle.

  He fought to find a middle ground, a calm channel through which he could pass back to the physical world. He focused on her perfume and let it surround him. The faint lavender scent that had left its imprint on her son’s backpack now guided Stafford to a couch in a cool room. He opened his eyes, blinked a few times and finally got her into focus.

  She’d let down her hair, pulled it from the tight bun she’d been wearing when he’d first seen her. The imprints of an elastic band and several bobby pins branded the strands, just as worry for her son marked her face – a creased brow, pale skin, blotchy patches around the eyes.

  Still, it was a nice face. Some might have found the mouth too big, the brown eyes too small, but surrounded by that mass of thick, dark hair, it all fit together.

  Beautifully.

  Too bad the woman and her clothes didn’t mesh. The navy blue uniform was severe, masculine. She seemed too small for it. Too fragile. And much too feminine.

  She leaned forward in her seat, her forearms braced on her thighs, her hands gripped together, her heart-broken eyes focused on him. He knew he wasn’t the cause of her sadness, still he felt guilty. The look she gave him didn’t help. She examined him as though he were an alien creature. A freak, not to be trusted.

  A question came to him: Where am I?

  He decided not to ask it. Too cliché. Besides, as his senses returned, he discovered the answer. Only law enforcement officers could have brewed the burnt coffee he smelled. No doubt the same burly bunch he’d felt carry him back into the building.

  Stafford waited for the woman to speak first, while he scanned his surroundings. The few times he’d visited the station, he’d been ushered into an interview room or a waiting patrol car. Most of the cases he’d worked on – arson, robbery and bomb scares – had been in the field. Never had he gone to one of the offices.

  This one came equipped with the couch beneath him, the high-backed chair where she sat, a credenza, and the customary desk. On the wall hung a jumble of diplomas, plaques and photos. One caught Stafford’s eye. A younger, smiling Owens stood with an arm hooked over the shoulder of a fellow cop.

  Something about the unknown officer reminded Stafford of the woman. He looked back at her, trying to figure it out. Was it the mouth? The hair color? Or just his imagination?

  Stafford shifted. Talons of pain dug into his left side. His ribs throbbed from their clash with the concrete steps and, on his forearms, he saw the raw half-moon imprints of someone’s fingernails.

  Bested for the first time in his adult life. And by a female half his size.

  He almost laughed at the irony. But this woman’s energy was no joke. Over the years, he’d developed a technique to block out the impact of casual human contact.

  There’d been nothing casual in her touch, however. He could have blamed his reaction on the physical and emotional drain he’d felt from his meeting with Owens. But he’d be lying. Her spirit had reached out and clobbered him flat, as surely as if she’d used a baseball bat.

  “The medic just left. Shall I call him back?”

  Now that she wasn’t yelling at him, he had time to take in her voice. It matched her hair – deep and rich, like melted chocolate.

  “No thanks. I’m fine.”

  He doubted she cared, not with the wary look she gave him, but he wanted to hear her voice again. He pushed himself up on his elbow and waited while the room did a slow spin.

  “Where’s Owens?”

  She didn’t answer. Instead, she sat studying him, looking lost, like war refugees he’d seen on TV.

  If he’d been the heroic type, he would go to her, hold her, and murmur a bunch of lies about finding her kid and making everything better. But he was nobody’s savior. He closed his eyes and settled back onto the couch.

  “He told me about you,” she said, after a moment. “About your ... profession.”

  He could picture Owens, the Dirty Harry of his day, stumbling over that explanation. Few people in the department knew about the Inspector’s pet psychic. Only the ones who had to.

  “It suits me,” he said, looking at her again. “I work alone. With my hands. It’s a great feeling – making something from scratch, seeing it take shape.”

  She straightened, her palms resting on her knees. “What are you talking about?”

  Good. He had her attention. Sometimes the best avoidance tactic was the truth. “I make furniture. Build my own designs.” Which he always sold through a dealer. He took a financial hit that way, but it left him free to pack up and leave whenever the need struck. “Isn’t that what Owens told you?”

  “No.” She crossed her arms. Skepticism curved her mouth into a sneer. “He said you trained with the Bureau. And that you’re clairvoyant.”

  I’m Stafford. Claire is my aunt. He decided against using the line. It was as old as he felt.

  Instead, he wondered which part irked her the most – his psychic abilities, or his FBI background. Probably both. With equal intensity. The Bureau didn’t usually play nice with local authorities.

  “I prefer the term scryer. I pick up impressions from objects. It’s called psychometery. But it’s not a profession. I don’t accept money for it.”

  “Good. Since it’s all bullshit.”

  So was her attempt at bravado. She wouldn’t be sitting here with him if she weren’t curious – if she weren’t considering the remote possibility that he could help.

  More interesting was his urge to unleash a little bravado of his own and tout his credentials, recap his time at Quantico and the cases he’d solved. But the arrival of Inspector Owens derailed him from the task. The veteran cop poked his head into the room, his eyes meeting Stafford’s.

  “Better?”

  Stafford grunted his reply and brought himself up to a sitting position, the old leather couch beneath him creaking as he moved.

  “I feel the child is okay. For now. I think the breathing difficulty I sensed was an asthma attack.”

  “Yeah, Maggie told me you said that.”

  Maggie. He liked the name. Strong. No nonsense. It suited her. “That other name I got – Marshall – might be the perpetrator.”

  “We’re on it. And we got a confirmation on the car. A parent saw it by the hedge when she was talking to one of the teachers on patrol. Another student, Billy Boehringer, claims Davie got into it through the driver’s side. We’re checking the database for older, two-door, tan vehicles with a seven in the license plate. It doesn’t narrow the field a lot, but it gives us a starting point.” Owens dragged his fingers through his short, gray hair. “Thanks, Stafford. If anything else comes to you, you know where to reach me.”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ll get one of the officers to give you a lift home.”

  “I can take him,” Maggie announced.

  Stafford didn’t doubt she could. In more ways than one. But he did doubt the selfless nature of her offer. She looked at him, her eyes hungry with questions. Driving him home would give her the opportunity to grill him.

  He knew she found him strange. Most people did. He understood. And concurred. He found himself strange most of the time.

  Owens sent a concerned look toward Maggie, then turned and left the room. Stafford didn’t need any special insight to see the relationship there. Obviously a father-daughter thing. A good one. Maggie tilted her head toward the door and Owens’ departing back. “He’s trying to keep me out of trouble.”

  Probably a full-time job. Especially now. Maggie wore a brave mask bu
t fear and pain seeped through her eyes. She hadn’t come unhinged. Not yet. But it was only a matter of time.

  She stood. He expected her to move toward the door but she kept her place, watching him. He thought he’d make it easier for her. Give her an invitation.

  “You have a question?”

  “I don’t get it. I didn’t know the boss went in for that hocus-pocus crap.”

  “Are you sure that’s what it is?”

  She transferred her weight, the ol’ Sixth Sense Shuffle, a nervous dance step performed by the left-brained skeptics he encountered. “Everything you’ve said could have been lucky guesses or clues Owens let slip.”

  “I think we both know the Inspector isn’t the kind of man who makes mistakes. He doesn’t tell me anything before I do a reading. I prefer it that way.”

  “That’s what he said, too. Still, you could have picked up on Davie’s asthma from looking in his knapsack. His inhaler is in there.”

  “I didn’t open the knapsack.”

  She frowned. “Owens said that, as well.”

  Her brow crinkled, a crack in the concrete wall she’d placed between them. Stafford hoped that small opening would be big enough for him to reach through to her.

  He stood and moved toward her, bowing his head, trying to compact his body into a less intimidating package. “I learned about the asthma from you. When you touched me.”

  She froze, her eyes wide. Not the reaction he’d wanted. He’d sought to reassure her, not scare her. People believed their thoughts were private, impenetrable. No one wanted to hear otherwise. Least of all him.

  Stafford couldn’t read minds. Not the way the fakers on TV pretended to. And he wasn’t about to compete with them. Turban dealers everywhere could relax. He wasn’t interested in playing the swami and taking his circus act on the road.

  He searched his memory to find something that would comfort Maggie, to make her believe in his ability and the truth that her child still lived.

  “Who’s Linda?” He knew he’d hit the mark by the look on Maggie’s face. Her ashen skin flushed slightly. Her sunken eyes burned bright.

  “How do you know about her?”

  “During the reading, I heard voices – a man and a woman arguing. I assume it was you and the boy’s father. Is Linda a colleague of your husband’s?”

  “My ex-husband.”

  “The reason for the divorce?”

  “No. The diversion after it.”

  She walked to the other side of the room and stood there, her back to him. She held herself rigid, her hands balled into fists. Tension stretched across her shoulders, making her seem broader, taller. He had no idea where she dug up the energy to appear so invincible, but he had to admire her for it.

  “She came on the scene too fast. The split was enough for Davie to handle without...” Maggie turned and met his eyes, her strength and anger melting. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. The point is, no one here knows about her. No one but me and Ron.” She shrugged. “And Davie.”

  Maggie took a step toward him. The harsh angles of her face softened. “All right. I’m impressed.”

  It occurred to him to say thank you, but he rarely felt thankful for his gift. Burdened, confused and frustrated, perhaps, but rarely thankful.

  “What happens now?”

  Her question caught him off guard. “For me? Nothing. My work is done.”

  Her cheeks flushed again. “That’s it?” she demanded, her voice strident. “You give your little reading and walk away?”

  No. That wasn’t usually it. But on this case, that’s all they were going to get. He couldn’t offer more without losing the trail he followed. And his sanity.

  “Ten minutes ago you called it bullshit.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest, a fragile package held together by a strand of thread. “Okay. Let’s say you were going to follow through on a case. What would happen then?”

  “I would gather as much information as I could – look at the evidence, the photos, go to the scene of the crime, try to pick up other impressions that might aid the investigation.”

  What was he doing? Making a sales pitch? He shut his mouth, putting a stop to the infomercial pouring from his lips.

  “I see.” She walked to the couch, grabbed his jacket and tossed it to him. “Come on. I’ll take you home.”

  The abrupt dismissal didn’t ring true. Perhaps it was his suspicious nature, but Stafford figured Maggie had other plans for him.

  He slipped into his jacket. “I can grab a cab.”

  “I don’t mind driving you.” Maggie reached into her coat pocket and jingled her keys. “We can swing by the crime scene on the way.”

  Stafford felt his shoulders sag. All he wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for twelve hours. Instead, he’d talked himself right into another reading.

  “Didn’t Owens tell you to stay out of it?”

  She was halfway to the exit, but that question stopped her. “How did you know?”

  “Standard Operating Procedure. And your reaction confirmed it.”

  Maggie leaned against the door. A film of tears bathed her eyes. Her upper lip trembled. She looked beaten. Defeated. A broken shadow of the woman he’d met on the station’s steps. Stafford tried to keep his own emotions buried. But he was scared. For her welfare. Grief made people do crazy things.

  He wrestled with the urge to reach out and steady her. Not because of what her touch might do to him – he’d prepared himself now for the effect she had on his senses – but because her emotions were so tightly wound he knew she’d crumble from the contact, like a figure made from sand.

  Within seconds, any sign of weakness disappeared. Beaten, the woman may have been, but she sure as hell wasn’t broken. She pulled herself together and pushed away from the door.

  “Look, I don’t have anywhere to turn. My baby is gone. And I will do anything and everything I can to find him. I’m not a person who prays, but I’ve been praying every minute. I don’t believe in Santa, the Easter Bunny, or the Bogeyman, but if I thought one of them could help me, I’d be tracking them down and hauling them off to the crime scene too. You’re all I’ve got.

  “Please,” she said, her steady voice defying the tears in her eyes. “I’m begging you. Help me.”

  Something inside Stafford’s chest twisted. Memories of the Hutchinson boy slammed into him. Memories of his sister, years before. Memories he’d blocked out of his waking hours – ones that came to him now only in dreams. Dreams that had him praying for morning.

  He had a purpose. One he’d spent his adult life pursuing. He couldn’t afford distractions. But neither could he deny this mother the hope she needed.

  He cupped his hands behind his back to hide their unsteadiness. “Where are you parked?”

  * * *

  Davie curled up on the floor in the backseat of the car, trying not to cry. His tummy felt like a bunch of worms were wriggling inside him. It churned even worse than when Billy Boehringer called him names.

  He didn’t know what to do. Except stay really quiet. If he could do that and make himself really small, no one would notice him. Then he’d be safe.

  Outside, he could see the moon floating in the sky. Street lights flickered by, making him dizzy.

  He had to go to the bathroom. But he couldn’t ask. ‘Cause then the driver would remember he was here. His stomach rumbled and he squeezed his belly to silence the noise. He grabbed the teddy bear he’d found in the backseat and wrapped his arms around it, pulling it close against his tummy. His daddy had told him he was too old to have stuffed animals, but cuddling the bear helped. A little.

  He wanted his mommy. He wanted to go home. But he had no idea how to get there.

  Davie hugged the teddy tighter and held back a whimper as the warm liquid trickled down between his legs.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was after eleven by the time Maggie drove up to the schoolyard. The enigma from the station rode silently in her pas
senger seat – his face in shadows, his presence all too tangible. The air around him seemed to vibrate ... thicken.

  Could this man really help her? Or was he just preying on her fears, victimizing her all over again?

  She lowered her window, felt the blast of air, and asked the heavens for reason. Only a few stars managed to shine brighter than the city lights. The rest of the sky hung like a black velvet curtain, ready to suffocate her.

  Davie was out there, alone in that darkness. And, for the first time since he’d come into her life, she had no idea where.