A Stranger's Touch Page 9

  He rocked Maggie until she went limp in his arms, all the fight knocked out of her. He could have stayed like that, holding her, but it would have been selfish, more about his own needs than hers. He eased her back down on the bed.

  She fought against him – struggling to remain sitting, he was sure, not to stay in his arms.

  “Relax,” he told her, brushing a wayward strand of hair from her face. “Try to get some sleep.”

  “I can’t. I–”

  “I’ll be right here,” he assured her, his hands smoothing her shoulders, feeling her warmth. “You need all your strength for when we find Davie. And we will find Davie.” That much, he could promise her. That much, he knew he could do.

  Whether or not it would be in time was the heartbreaking question.

  Doubt, hers and his own, gripped his heart, as sure as her inevitable hatred would rip him in two. The only thing he could truly offer her now was his presence.

  Stafford sat by her side, stroking her hair, until her eyelids closed, until the afternoon sun ceased to shine through the cracks in the curtain, and moonlight glowed in the darkened room.

  * * *

  Maggie walked along a beach, soft winds flowing through her hair, sunlight dancing on her cheeks.

  She sighed, basking in the solitude. No clocks, no alarms, no responsibilities. The tension drained from her body, absorbed by the white sand beneath her feet.

  Up ahead, she saw a figure. A small boy moved toward the turquoise waves that lapped against the shore.

  Davie.

  She clutched her chest, feeling as though her heart might explode. She called out. Waved her arms. But Davie didn’t turn. He was too far away to hear.

  Maggie ran. The sand acted like a treadmill, holding her in place despite her desperate efforts to move forward.

  Sweat seeped from her pores. Her legs ached, her lungs fought for air. She called out again. This time, Davie looked her way. He smiled and moved toward her.

  A surge of relief cooled her burning muscles. She held out a hand. Davie’s tiny fingers reached toward her.

  He opened his mouth to speak but a deafening roar claimed his answer. Paralyzed, Maggie watched as a huge wave crashed around them.

  Water pelted her face, drenched her clothes. She shielded her eyes, turning away for a moment.

  Just a moment.

  Time hovered. She saw everything in slow motion, playing and replaying like a broken DVD. The wave. The little outstretched arm. The swell enveloping her son. The water claiming him, carrying him out to sea. His small hand waving a last goodbye.

  Gone. Forever.

  Maggie woke, panting, her arm still outstretched, tears stinging her cheeks. Was it daytime? Night? Was she still asleep, dreaming of Davie’s loss? Or waking to the living nightmare of his abduction?

  Heart racing, she blinked at the world around her. No beach, no sun, no surf. Just a dark motel room. Only two things remained the same as in her dream. She was alone. And Davie was gone.

  But Stafford had been with her. Surely, she hadn’t dreamt about him holding her, protecting her from her worst fears. She caught a hint of him, his barely-there scent of citrus and musk. It hugged her body, warmed her skin, and pushed the nightmare away.

  Wiping her wet cheeks with one hand, Maggie sat up in bed. Yes, he had been here, but he certainly wasn’t now. And, with the way she’d fallen apart on him, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d left. For good.

  She pulled down the covers, more exhausted than before she’d slept. She stumbled to the window and drew back the curtain.

  Though they’d passed through a forest on the way to High Level, the grounds surrounding the motel were flat and treeless. Flowerbeds, showing skeletons of the past summer’s blooms, framed the parking lot. She searched for her car and saw its outline. If Stafford left, he didn’t use her vehicle.

  She glanced at the clock radio beside the bed. Her stomach climbed back on its rollercoaster of hope. Dan’s shift was about to begin.

  Moving away from the window, she spied a paper bag on the bureau. She opened it to find a container of orange juice and a bagel.

  Maggie smiled. For all his strangeness, Stafford was a sweet guy – considerate, compassionate – the kind of man a girl could get used to.

  The smell of food hit her. She gagged, her mouth filling with bitter saliva. She couldn’t eat. Still, she knew she had to put something in her stomach before she took her turn behind the wheel. She gave the jar of juice a shake, cracked opened the lid, and took a gulp. The drink, cool and sweet, masked the taste of sickness in her mouth.

  Hearing a steady roar, she turned her ear toward the outside room. She identified the sound of running water, like the wave from her dream.

  She tiptoed to the door and knocked lightly. “Stafford?”

  She spoke quietly. He could be asleep. If so, she didn’t want to startle him. And she certainly didn’t want to catch him in an embarrassing position. Dressing or undressing.

  The juice in her stomach warmed. Ron was the last naked male she’d seen. Other than the odd glimpse on TV channels she usually blocked with parental control. Slowly, she pulled back the door and peered into the other side.

  Streetlights shone through the thin curtains, illuminating the main area of the suite. The cover on the bed looked pristine, not a crease on it. Had Stafford slept at all?

  The sound of water was stronger now. Maggie followed it to the bathroom door. So that’s where he was. Cleaning up, no doubt.

  She leaned against the wall, the cool plaster soothing her heated skin. When was the last time she’d bathed? Or even thought about it? Such things used to be automatic, part of everyday life. Now, normal activities seemed so meaningless. So futile.

  She pulled away and caught herself in the mirror. Mesmerized, she grasped the sink, moving in for a closer view. Puffy, red eyes. Chalky skin. A thin, tight paper cut for a mouth. Anxiety had aged her faster than time ever could.

  Her gut clenched with fear. Not for herself. But for Davie. If she looked this bad, how was he holding up? And how would he react to her appearance when she found him?

  This could be the day. She had to be prepared. Ready to be his strength, his rock. No matter what he’d been through, she had to show him that everything was okay. Normal. And washing was a start.

  Maggie peeled down to her undershirt. She soaped up a facecloth and gave herself a sponge bath, scrubbing the back of her neck, under her arms and down her throat. The warm water felt better than she could have ever imagined, but the effort left her drained. And looking just the same.

  Maggie turned off the water and reached for a towel. She rubbed her skin, wishing she could rub some sense into her muddled brain as easily. She tried to piece the evidence together, but there was so damn little of it. And each fact was growing more and more muddied by Stafford’s claims.

  They’d apparently traced a car matching the description of the one driven by the alleged kidnapper to this motel. According to the manager, there’d been a late night check in. A woman named Marshall. But, somehow, Stafford had known the gender and the name of the suspect before they’d even arrived. Or had he? Could the match be a fluke?

  She jammed her arms into the sleeves of her shirt, buttoning it as she hurried back to her room to grab her belongings. Maggie went to the nightstand, opened the top drawer and pulled her weapon from its hiding place. Cradling the pistol reminded her of her father. There was something awesome and fearful about it – the weight of it, the cold steel against her skin. Clutching it made her feel powerful. And overwhelmed. It could do so much damage, so quickly.

  She’d never had to use it. Only at the firing range, never in the line of duty. She’d always prayed she’d never have to. Although, grasping it now, she knew she could. Without remorse. On the person who stole her son. She slipped it into her holster and shut the drawer.

  Maggie found her cell phone and debated about calling Ron. Although he had every right to know what was going o
n, she didn’t feel up to a conversation with him. Or his girlfriend. She forced herself to dial and sighed a thanks as his voicemail clicked in. At the beep, she left her message, giving him an update.

  She stuffed her phone, and the rest of her belongings, into her jacket pocket and gave the room a final check. The only thing left unclaimed was the bag with the food in it.

  Before her stomach could revolt, Maggie reached for the bagel, bit off a piece and chewed it. She washed it down with the last of the orange juice. Unable to face another bite, she threw the rest in the garbage.

  Maggie returned to the sink and pressed a cool cloth to her swollen eyes. Beside her towel, she found the toothpaste and brushes Stafford purchased. She grabbed one and ripped open the package. Another opportunity to practice an everyday routine.

  Moving the toothbrush around in her mouth almost made her retch, but the mint flavor of the toothpaste effectively masked the taste of food in her mouth. For that, she was grateful.

  Finished, she turned off the faucet. But she could still hear water running. It came from the other side of the bathroom door. The same sound she’d heard earlier. Only it wasn’t the shower, she realized, but water gushing into another sink.

  Maggie knocked. “Stafford?”

  She waited half a minute before trying again. “Stafford?” she called, louder this time.

  She heard something. A moan, maybe. She gave the door handle a twist, expecting to find it locked. The knob moved easily.

  “Stafford?”

  Still no response. She placed her palm on the bathroom door and gave it a tap. Mist filled her lungs and obscured her vision. She blinked and squinted, trying to see through the haze.

  Stafford stood at the mirror, stripped to the waist, his jeans riding low on his hips, his face drained of color. He clung to the sink, as though an electrical current held him to the spot, his body drenched in perspiration, his chest heaving.

  She reached out her hand to touch him, and remembered that he’d warned her not to. Not while he was in a trance. She stood beside him, powerless, locked onto his eyes, wild with horror, as he stared at his reflection in the mirror.

  * * *

  Stafford heard a woman’s voice. Screaming at him. Words he didn’t understand. Grunts. Shrieks. Like an animal. He struggled to suck in air. The fumes around him made breathing impossible.

  He looked into the mirror. Tried to see his reflection through the haze of steam. Slowly, parts of his face emerged from the fog. His eyes. His nose. His mouth.

  Stafford found himself looking at a small boy, clutching the edge of the sink as a shipwrecked sailor might cling to a piece of wood.

  Davie...

  A phone cord was wrapped around his middle, the receiver dangling at his hip. The wiry snake pinned his elbows to his sides.

  Too shocked to cry out, he could only stare at his new appearance. What had the woman done to him? He hardly knew himself, he looked so different.

  His hair used to be light brown, like his daddy’s. She’d hacked it, straightened it, dyed it. Cuts, some still bleeding, exed across his scalp. The skin on his forehead and around his ears burned an angry red. Uneven clumps of hair, barely hiding the damage, shone black as coal.

  How would his mommy know him now? When he didn’t even know himself.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Maggie couldn’t stand it any longer. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around Stafford’s wrists. She clutched the material, her makeshift psychic buffer, and gave it a sharp tug. She might as well have tried to uproot a fully-grown oak tree.

  “Stafford! You have to let go!” She forced herself to sound authoritative. She wouldn’t let him hear her fear. She pulled on the towel again and got the same response. Nothing.

  The man was in trouble. She had to act. And fast.

  “I’m taking your hands and helping you away from the sink. Let go and come with me.” She laced her fingers with his. This time, when she pulled, he released his hold. And slumped against her.

  Great. Now that she had him, what in hell was she going to do with him? He outweighed her by at least seventy pounds of solid muscle and stood a good foot taller.

  “Stafford. Can you help me get you to the bed?”

  He nodded, taking back some of his weight. Maggie wrapped an arm around his waist and half-walked, half-dragged him to the main room.

  She managed only a few yards before she stalled. The bed seemed a mile away. She tightened her grip, puffing and grunting her way to the edge of it. With one more tug, they landed on the mattress together, her body pinned under his.

  Slick with perspiration, Maggie wriggled free. With a last burst of strength, she hoisted his dangling legs up onto the bed.

  Heat rose from his body. Semi-conscious, he began to babble. “She dyed his hair. Black. She cut it. Dyed it black.”

  Her heart kicked into overdrive, hope and fear using her chest as a battlefield. “Are you talking about Davie?”

  He nodded, wincing as a trickle of blood emerged from his hairline. Angry red stripes rose on his arms and around his waist like someone had wrapped a rope around his middle, pinning his elbows to his sides.

  Maggie stared in disbelief, swallowing air. What was happening to him? Had Stafford looked into the mirror and, somehow, seen Davie’s fear? Experienced her baby’s torture?

  She ground her teeth together, silencing the scream clawing up her throat. She dug deep and summoned the last of her strength – used it to thrust her fears aside and made herself think.

  Stafford’s welfare had to be her immediate concern. And she didn’t have time to make the wrong decision. She ran out the door to the motel’s office, all the while wondering if she should have dialed 911.

  And say what? My psychic is burning up. He’s developed a new form of stigmata. Could you come right away?

  How could she explain any of it – his visions or their aftermath? No one would believe her. She couldn’t believe it, herself.

  Alongside her panic and uncertainty, a terrible thought began pounding in her skull. Had she done more harm than good by forcing Stafford out of his trance?

  She reached the office and swung back the door. It slammed behind her. A young, male clerk looked up in surprise.

  “I need ice. Now!”

  The teen jumped then disappeared into the back room. Maggie was set to kick down the door and fetch it herself, when he reappeared lugging a large plastic bag. She muttered a quick word of thanks and took off again. Back to number sixteen.

  Sprawled out, exactly as she’d left him, Stafford struggled for oxygen. Maggie let the door hang open, allowing fresh air into the suite.

  She ran into the bathroom and grabbed the towels from the rack, her heart thudding, her hands cold and stiff from holding the ice. She put two towels on either side of Stafford, filled them with ice, and doubled them over. Another, she placed above his head. She took the facecloth, doused it with cool water, and began smoothing it down his neck and across his upper body.

  His breathing slowed, became deeper. The red welts on his arms melted back into his skin. The blood she’d seen evaporated, leaving no trace of color on the towels, or evidence as to its cause.

  But she had seen it. Damned if she could explain it, though. Had she imagined it? Had anxiety and sleep deprivation caused her to hallucinate?

  Slowly, she relaxed into her ministrations. Now that Stafford was out of danger, she took her time, stroking him and caressing the cool cloth over his chest, following the dusting of hair across his pecs and down his hard belly. She used the crook of her arm to wipe the beads of moisture that suddenly surfaced on her brow. And leaned in closer to examine a white line etched into his chest. The raised scar formed a jagged half-moon near his heart. An old injury, long healed, but serious at the time.

  She smoothed the cloth over his shoulders, across scrapes and bruises. Guilt tugged at her. She knew exactly how he got those. From his fall on the station’s steps. An injury she’d caused. He’d never co
mplained, hadn’t mentioned it, but she bet it stung. The purple blotches marred his otherwise perfect body.

  Maggie froze, staring at the cloth in her hand. She flung it onto the nightstand as though it were a venomous spider. She pulled away with such force, she found herself standing.

  She was seriously losing it. Her child was missing. The one man who’d been trying to help her could have just popped the top off a thermometer. And, here she was, enjoying the feel of him, admiring his male beauty.

  How long had it been since she’d touched a man? She and Ron had divorced a year ago. They’d hardly spoken to each other, let alone had sex, for more than a year before that. With a small child in her care, she’d had no time, or inclination, to date. If such a thing as a born-again virgin existed, she definitely qualified. And yet, here she was, reacting to this man. A stranger ... with whom she’d already experienced so much.