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The director nodded. “Just about, I think.”
“I work for Seattle Public Library, too. As a technician, not a librarian. I don’t have a master’s degree. But because of my involvement here, I’m the one who brings books, DVDs, whatever, weekly.”
They chatted for another ten or fifteen minutes, Nell keeping a wary eye out for the cameraman. Then she made her excuses and left, sooner than she would have liked to go. Usually she’d have made the effort to sit down and talk to the new residents, find out who, if anyone, was missing since Sunday. But she’d be back Thursday evening—soon enough.
Yes, she told herself while she loaded the crate of books and DVDs into the back of her old Ford, she was a coward. What else was new? It was smart not to take chances, that was all. She hadn’t grown up in Seattle, she knew that much, but she had no idea how widely local stations were broadcast. And her face...well, it hadn’t changed that much since she had first found herself alone and scared, on the streets, knowing that worse than starving, worse than having to sell her body, worse than anything, was the possibility of being seen by someone who knew her.
She was someone entirely different now. She’d created a life out of whole cloth, starting with nothing. But unless she someday had the money for plastic surgery, she couldn’t do anything about her face, and that hadn’t changed.
Nell almost laughed as she got behind the wheel and started the windshield wipers to combat the autumn drizzle. As if she’d want to be on camera anyway! There was a lot she didn’t know about who she’d been, but she had no doubt at all that she’d always been shy. Whatever dreams she’d had, being on television wouldn’t have been one of them. No one changed that much.
* * *
COLIN SPRAWLED ON the king-size hotel bed and reached for the remote control. He’d like to find something mindless. His brain was on overload after a day of listening to speakers talk about new technology undergoing trials in various police departments around the world. He was glad he’d come; knowing what was out there was worthwhile, but most of this was beyond the scope of his relatively small department.
He was to have dinner with Cait and a boyfriend who was apparently serious. Either that, or she was bringing the guy as a sort of screen, because she didn’t want to have to make conversation with her brother for two hours. Because of her work schedule they weren’t meeting until seven-thirty. Yawning as he flipped through channels, Colin realized he’d have to be careful not to nod off. He’d made the drive late last night and gotten up early to have breakfast with a group of other police chiefs and captains from agencies the size of Angel Butte, which had just over a hundred officers.
The news caught his eye. Some damn idiot had driven the wrong way onto I-5 in the middle of the night—blood-alcohol level sky-high. Killed a forty-two-year-old woman driving home from her job at Sea-Tac Airport.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered.
There was a news flash: “Coming up, join Linda Capshaw for a visit to a shelter for runaway teens.” Then commercials. Colin left the station on, given that he’d been thinking about runaways a hell of a lot the past few weeks. Every major city and many minor ones had similar shelters, but he was interested in seeing what this one offered. Did they keep kids on their radar in any meaningful way? Did they see to it that the teens got dental care, which might mean X-rays?
Duane and the two detectives had gotten nowhere in their attempts to identify the latest bones that had appeared when the tree roots were pulled up. It had turned out that Klamath County also had an unidentified teenage girl, found two years ago; the body had been too decomposed for them to lift fingerprints, and they hadn’t turned up a dental match. Given that the bodies found at Angel Butte and Deschutes County had both turned out to be teenage runaways that had likely passed through Portland, Colin wanted to check with shelters there. Just a couple of days ago, Duane’s team had found a fragment of the upper jaw, with yet another dental filling, which meant that they could identify this kid for sure, and maybe the Crook County one, if they could find dental records. It was a long shot, but worth pursuing.
He had to wait through another report before his patience was rewarded when a perky blonde smiled and said, “Welcome to SafeHold. Yes, there are a number of shelters for teenagers in the Puget Sound area, but word on the street is that SafeHold is the place to go for real help.”
The camera panned a room in which teenage boys lounged on shabby furniture, ignoring the fact that they were being filmed. Then came a talking head, Roberta Charles, who was the director. The brief snippet was mostly the inspiring stuff, about how kids went there for sanctuary. Then, as the camera moved on to showing a group of girls in what appeared to be a modern dance class, followed by boys playing one-on-one basketball in what looked like an old school yard, another woman’s voice said, “SafeHold offers these kids hope in so many forms. Many practical, of course. Some kids go from here to group homes, drug treatment or foster care.” A man wearing a stethoscope was seen talking to a boy whose face was turned from the camera. “They get desperately needed medical care.” An earnest older woman sat at a table with a girl, the two poring over an open textbook as the voice continued. “They’re encouraged to resume schooling and get tutoring to help them succeed. Legal aid is available for those in trouble with the law.” A handcuffed kid was being placed in the back of a patrol car. Then back to the shelter: some girls hammed for the camera in another shabby rec room, a flickering TV in the background. The blonde journalist said, “Dedicated volunteers like Nell Smith, popularly known here as ‘the book lady,’ mean everything to these lost children.” Her back to the camera, a young woman was piling books into a bright red plastic crate. The next moment, she was talking to a girl who looked too damn young to be in a runaway shelter, too slight even to have begun to menstruate. And, sweet Jesus, she was pregnant. Colin should have been past being shockable, but he wasn’t. Linda Capshaw was speaking again, as the camera lingered on a touching moment, the young woman hugging the pregnant girl. There was only a glimpse of their faces, one he’d have missed if he’d yawned at the wrong moment, but he felt as if he’d been jolted by a Taser.
Cursing, he lunged upright and stared at the TV, which had gone back to the studio, where trite bantering led to a weather report. His heart slammed in his chest and his nerve endings buzzed.
Was he was going completely nuts? God knew he’d been thinking about Maddie Dubeau more than was healthy these past weeks. But damn, damn, damn, that woman looked like her. Still thin, cheekbones still high and sharp, chin pointy. He wasn’t sure about the freckles, it had gone so fast, but her eyes were brown, her hair was the same color as when she was a kid.
He let an expletive escape. He couldn’t be mistaken. He couldn’t.
But this woman’s name wasn’t Maddie or anything like it. Nell Smith. He closed his eyes and saw her, smile warming as she wrapped her arms around the girl, eyes momentarily closing and her expression softening into something achingly gentle.
How could this Nell Smith be his Maddie Dubeau? It made no sense; this hadn’t been a case of a parent abducting a child and raising her under a different identity. Maddie had been fifteen, not five. You couldn’t persuade a fifteen-year-old that all her memories of who she’d been were false. And Maddie hadn’t been a runaway. If she was alive, why wouldn’t she have gotten help, called her parents? Found her way home?
The local news had segued into national, making him remember that he had to leave—now—or he’d be late getting together with his sister. Who hadn’t sounded that excited about seeing him.
He didn’t know why he kept trying, and was no longer in the mood. It had been two years since he’d seen her, and that time they’d had lunch. She’d been rushed, claiming she had to get back to work. His brilliant, pretty sister. Maybe he should let Cait go, along with his mother.
But he considered her his only family, and he was a stubborn man. He turned off the television reluctantly, wishing he had a way to replay that short clip. He reminded himself there wasn’t anything he could do about locating Nell Smith tonight, and he’d been looking forward to seeing Cait. One thing at a time, he told himself. He already knew that he wouldn’t be attending day two of the technology symposium tomorrow. He’d be visiting a runaway shelter.
Taking the elevator down to the parking garage below the hotel, Colin thought about coming right out and asking why Cait was so uninterested in having any meaningful relationship with him, her only sibling. But he knew he wouldn’t do it. Her answer might be too honest. Too final.
* * *
NELL CAST AN uneasy glance around the library. Nothing seemed to be out of order. A mother and several children were straggling from the children’s area, all carrying their selections. A couple of teenagers whispered at the end of an aisle of shelves, a group studied at a long table, and a number of adults sat throughout the library reading. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to her.
So why did she keep having the creepy feeling that someone was watching her?
Well, duh. Despite her request not to be filmed, she had appeared on TV. She’d worked last night but had known the spot was being aired and had set her TiVo. Watching it, all she could think was, No, no, no. She’d grabbed the remote and rewound, praying her face hadn’t been visible enough to be recognizable. But there she was. Two patrons had already commented today on how excited they were to see her on KING-5. She kept expecting to find people staring at her.
The definition of paranoia.
She smiled at a mother, then the stair-step array of children as they checked out their books. Perhaps she’d shelve some of the materials she’d just checked in, since things were so quiet.
Once again, she felt that peculiar prickling on the back of her neck, and she swung around quickly. This time, a man was looking at her. He’d been hidden previously by a newspaper held open before him. Now he was closing and folding it, his gaze resting on her.
Because she happened to be in his sight line? Her pulse was jumping despite her determination not to let herself become alarmed about nothing. So what if a guy was looking at her? Maybe he was thinking about asking a question. Maybe he’d seen her on TV. Maybe he would come on to her. That did occasionally happen, although she was good at squelching men.
She sent a vague smile his way and pushed a rolling cart of books out from behind the counter. She could reshelve new books while keeping an eye on the front desk.
He was still watching her. As if his gaze had a weight, she felt it even when her back was turned. Nell couldn’t decide why it bothered her so much. He certainly wasn’t one of the mentally ill homeless people who wandered in here; she’d only peripherally noticed what he wore, but thought he could be a businessman.
Maneuvering the cart, she sneaked another glance. Yes, slacks and a white shirt, open at the neck, but it was after five, which probably meant he was off work and had left his suit jacket and tie in the car. Dark hair cut rather short. Not exactly handsome, his face was still compelling. Hard. And though his posture was relaxed, with his legs stretched out and his ankles crossed, she doubted, although she couldn’t have said why, that he was relaxed at all.
Ignore him.
It wasn’t as if she was alone in the library. If he was still watching her an hour from now when she got off work, she’d have someone walk her to her car, which she’d driven today because it was her night to go to SafeHold.
She shelved in reasonable peace, pausing only a couple of times to talk to patrons and answer questions. A lively discussion with a regular about Alice Hoffman’s latest distracted her enough that she almost forgot the man. At some point, he picked up another section of the newspaper and read it, although he never lifted it high enough to disappear the way he had earlier. He might not be paying any attention to her at all, or he might still be keeping an eye on her. She couldn’t tell.
He hadn’t moved from his chair when her replacement arrived and she slipped away to get her coat and a couple of books she’d plucked off the new-title shelf for herself. But he was nowhere to be seen when she headed for the front doors.
She was almost to her car, keys in hand, wishing it didn’t get dark so early at this time of year, when a man said quietly, “Ms. Smith?”
With a sharp gasp, Nell spun around.
It was him, of course. She couldn’t imagine where he’d come from, how he’d gotten so near without making a sound. The lighting was good in the parking lot, but still cast odd shadows. He loomed over her.
The books fell from her hand, thudding to the pavement, and she backed up until she pressed against the fender of her Ford.
Seeing her fear, he lifted both hands and retreated a step. “Hey! It’s okay. I’m sorry if I frightened you. I won’t hurt you. I meant to catch you inside before you left.”
She didn’t take her eyes off him or bend to pick up the books she’d dropped. “What do you want?”
“I recognized you,” he said simply.
“I don’t know you.” Nell was certain of that.
“No. No, you wouldn’t. I’m a police officer, Ms. Smith. I recognize you from pictures taken before you disappeared.”
She had to swallow before she could get a word out. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
His eyes were colorless in this stark, artificial light. Not brown, she thought; something pale gray or blue. They were keen on her face, as if he were drinking in the sight of her. No one had ever looked at her so intensely.
“I saw the news clip last night. I knew you right away.”
She prayed he couldn’t tell that she was trembling all over. Thank God the car was at her back, supporting her. She summoned a cool voice that sounded barely interested. “Just who is it that you think I am?”
“Madeline Dubeau.” He paused. “Madeline Noelle Dubeau. Maddie.”
Maddie. Oh, God, oh, God. She had called herself Mary in Portland. And she’d liked the name Eleanor, when she found it, because Nell sounded right to her. Like somebody she could be.
“My name is Eleanor Smith. I don’t know a Maddie...what did you say the last name is? Dew...?”
“Dubeau.”
Nell shook her head. “I’ve heard we all have twins.”
“I don’t believe it. I’ve searched for you for what seems half my life. I know you.”
Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt. She should say, I’m not this person you want me to be. Please leave me alone. She would say it, but first...she had to know.
“Why?” she whispered. “Why have you been hunting for her?”
He lifted a hand, and she flinched, but he was only reaching to squeeze the back of his own neck. “I was the responding officer when somebody heard your—her—scream. I found the mountain bike, the blood. Your wallet with a driver’s permit. I was new on the job then, and maybe that’s why I let myself care so much.” His hand lowered to his side, slowly, and she thought he was being careful not to alarm her again. “Last night when I saw you on the news—” he cleared his throat as if to give himself a second “—I thought it was a miracle.”
She had to get rid of him. Had to convince him he was wrong.
“I’m not your miracle,” Nell heard herself say so harshly, she didn’t know her own voice. “I’m sorry to have to disappoint you, but I’m not this Madeline person. You truly are mistaken, Mr....?”
He only looked at her, but she knew, knew, he saw her terror. “I’m Colin McAllister. Captain.”
“I’m not even from this area,” she said.
“Neither am I. Neither is Maddie.” He waited a moment, then asked softly, “Where are you from, Ms. Smith?”
“Where are you from, Captain McAllister?”
“Central Oregon.”
“I’m from the Midwest,” she said. Eleanor Theodora Smith had been born in Eugene, Oregon, but she couldn’t tell him that. He was a cop. If he looked hard enough, he’d find that same Eleanor Theodora Smith was also buried in Eugene, beneath a bronze plaque expressing her parents’ grief.
“I’ve upset you,” he observed. “That wasn’t my intention.”
“What was your intention?” She could combat this fear only with aggression. “Did you imagine that I don’t know who I am and would be thrilled when you told me?”
“No.” He was frowning now. “No. I thought...”
“What?”
“I thought perhaps Smith was a married name. And that Nell is a shortened version of your middle name.”
“It’s not. I’m Eleanor.”
“Or,” he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken, “that you were using a false name to hide.”
She flung her hands up, as though at the ridiculousness of that notion. “I won’t even ask,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Officer...no, Captain. I really need to be going.”
He didn’t move. “Ms. Smith. May I give you a business card? Just in case there’s ever anything you want to tell me?”
She should refuse. Eleanor Smith wouldn’t have any reason to accept, would she? But Nell couldn’t seem to think. And his card would tell her where he came from. Where Maddie Dubeau was from. No, that was silly—she could find articles online, if he were telling the truth. But what if she couldn’t find anything? Couldn’t figure out how the name was spelled? The card would give her a way to reach him, if she dared. If she chose. Nell was appalled to discover how tempted she was to learn about the part of her life she hadn’t wanted to remember.
The keys were biting into her palm, imprinting themselves. She managed a shrug. “I can’t imagine why I’d have any reason to call you, but if it will make you feel better I can take your card.”
“It would make me feel better.” He took one from the pocket of his slacks and held it out without actually moving closer. She was the one who had to take a step, feeling like a small animal hungry enough to creep up and steal a scrap of meat from a mountain lion’s meal, even though he crouched over it. She snatched it from his hand and retreated immediately, poking the card deep into her purse.
“I’d like to hear from you,” he said quietly. “I swear to you that I’ll keep anything you tell me confidential. We can just talk. I won’t tell anyone who you are or where. I swear,” he said again, his voice deep and serious.
Nell scrutinized that hard, unrevealing face for a long moment, trying to see whether he was telling the truth, but how could she ever know? The risk was too great. And he was probably wrong anyway, about who he thought she was. Her shock of recognition might be false. He hadn’t even said how long ago this Maddie had disappeared. She wasn’t going to ask.
She only nodded. After a moment he backed up a couple of steps, his eyes still holding hers, and then he turned and strode away.
With a whimper Nell crouched, scooped up her books and hurried around her car. Even once she was inside with the engine running and the doors locked, she didn’t feel safe. She had to get away from here.
She’d intended to get a deli sandwich somewhere and then go to the shelter. As shaken as she was, she couldn’t. She just couldn’t. All she wanted was to go home, to lock herself in the sanctuary of her apartment.
But what if he followed her?
She drove, taking a circuitous route, gradually calming herself as she took one random turn after another and no other car stayed behind her.
Of course, he could have stuck some kind of locator on her car. She’d read about things like that.
If he were really a cop, though, he wouldn’t have to. He’d be able to find her.
Finally she made it back to her own street and the parking slot that she was lucky enough to have beneath the building. She scurried into the elevator, grateful to have it to herself, relieved it didn’t stop at the lobby level. Inside her apartment, she turned the dead bolt and put on the chain, shocked to see that her hand was still shaking.
Then she simply stood there, waiting for the sense of security to wrap around her. It never came.
She wasn’t safe. Somebody had recognized her. If this Captain McAllister were determined enough, he could find a way, legally or not, to get her fingerprints. The life she’d built so carefully could collapse, like a house carried down the crumbling bluff by a mudslide.
A terrible sound escaped her, a shuddering cry.
I have to run. I can’t be here when he comes looking for me again. I can’t.
She sank down, right there inside the door, her back to it, and let her purse and the books fall. Her breathing was loud in the silent apartment.
What if he meant it? What if she could trust him?
What if she couldn’t?
Nell drew her knees up, hugged herself tight and rocked.
The most insistent voice in her head was the one that whispered, Am I Maddie?
CHAPTER THREE
COLIN DIDN’T SLEEP well, and made his morning start early enough to be home in Angel Butte by midafternoon. I-5 south to Salem, then east through the Willamette National Forest to Santiam Pass. Not the easiest or quickest route home, but the most scenic. He didn’t know why he’d bothered, since he wasn’t in the mood for scenery. Every so often, though, he couldn’t help being pulled from his brooding by a glimpse of one or another of the ancient or newer volcanoes, the forests of lush Douglas fir and cedar, the clear waters of the North Santiam River. This pass would have been even more spectacular earlier in the fall. Somewhere he’d read that right here was the highest concentration of snow-capped volcanoes in the lower forty-eight states, and it was easy to believe.
Once he crossed over the pass to the drier eastern side, lodgepole and ponderosa pines replaced the fir and cedar. The six-thousand-foot-plus cone of Black Butte rose on the left, and he was swinging south. Through Bend, and he’d reached the home stretch.
Not once had his cell phone rang, although he’d laid it on the seat next to him and kept glancing at it. Once he even checked to be sure he hadn’t somehow reset it to vibrate without noticing.
It was too soon. He knew it was, but doubt about how he’d handled her and hope were both eating at him. The iPhone had changed from being an irritant to a beacon. He grunted with rueful amusement—there were cops who wouldn’t go to the john without their weapon; he wouldn’t go without his phone.
Even though he was starved when he reached Angel Butte, he still decided to stop by River Park before going home.
The scene wasn’t quite a replay from a few weeks ago. The heavy yellow equipment had been moved. The contractor had been relieved, Colin knew, for permission to go ahead with the job before weather made it impossible. He could see the bulldozer through the trees and hear the roar. Black smoke rose from a burn pile near the river.
Where the bones had been found, four officers were still combing through the heap of dirt. They were all bundled up against the below-freezing temperature. The pile of mixed dirt and brush was in the process of being shifted inch by inch. At least they were getting somewhere, he saw; he hadn’t come down here in over a week.
Jane Vahalik had a paintbrush in her hand and was gently whisking dirt from an object.
He strolled over. “How’s it going?”
She gave him a nasty look. “I’m freezing my ass off, that’s how it’s going.”
Her trainee radiated alarm at the disrespect his FTO was showing their captain. Colin only grinned, then studied the knob of bone Vahalik had unearthed. “Still finding bones, I see.”
“This is the biggest one in days.” She sighed. “Did you have a good trip?”
“In a way,” he said. “Glad to get over the mountains ahead of the storm they say is moving in.”
Sinking back on her heels, she mumbled something highly profane. Colin sympathized. It was early season yet, but if the forecasts were to be believed this crime scene could well disappear under a foot of snow by tomorrow. The ground was already crunchy; if it froze hard enough, the search would be over for who knew how long. Although recovering the bones was important, at this point they were all more interested in finding something, anything, that might have been buried with the kid. Even scraps of clothing could help with identification.