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Matt was still thinking about Caitlyn when he drove across the Bay
Bridge toward Berkeley. He realized he'd pushed her harder than he
should have. He had a problem with backing
out of something once he was more than halfway in. And Caitlyn had let
him in. That fact both pleased and disturbed him. He'd never shared so
many confidences with anyone, much less a woman he'd known only a few
days.
But there was something about this woman that spoke to him, a rare
connection he'd never experienced with anyone else. And he'd hammered
into her like a battering ram, goading her into telling him a secret
she had not wanted to share. And what a hellish secret. He'd never
expected the sad look in her eyes to be tied to something so tragic.
He'd thought of Caitlyn as a golden girl—beautiful, smart, funny,
rich—a woman who had everything. Only she didn't have everything, and
she never would. There wouldn't be a child with her smile, or her hair,
or her incredible eyes. The truth tore him apart. It was just plain and
simply wrong. And he wanted to—God help him— he wanted to fix it.
Maybe Caitlyn was right. Maybe telling her parents would leave them
with the same helpless feeling of wanting to make it right but unable
to do so.
Matt took the University Avenue exit, following the directions that
Blake had given him on the phone
and trying to refocus his attention on
the task at hand.
There was nothing he could do to help Caitlyn right now, but maybe
there was something he could do to help Sarah. His eyes narrowed as he
drove farther away from the university and parallel to the freeway. The
neighborhood was not the best, and it made him wonder what kind of life
Sarah had led during the years they'd been apart. He'd hoped for her
sake that she'd been adopted by some nice suburban family with a big
house and clean sheets and a safe neighborhood. He had a terrible
feeling that hadn't happened.
As he turned the corner, Matt spotted Blake in his forest-green Jeep
Cherokee parked near the corner. After parking his own car, he walked
down the street to the Jeep and slid into the passenger seat. The car
smelled like tacos, and judging by the fast-food wrappers piled up in
the backseat, Blake had passed the boring hours of his watch by eating.
Not that the man showed an ounce of fat on his muscular frame. In his
mid-forties, at six foot five, two hundred plus pounds, Blake, an
ex-marine with a couple of ex-wives and an ex-drinking problem, was not
a man to be messed with. Matt had met him while covering a political
story in Washington ten years earlier, and over time Blake had
conducted several investigations for him, including the long-running
search for Sarah.
"He hasn't come out," Blake said, his eyes fixed on the apartment down
the street.
"What did he look like?"
"A punk. Skinny, stringy hair, tank top, blue jeans falling off his
ass. You know the look."
Unfortunately, he did. Matt felt more depressed by the second. Was this
really where Sarah had lived? And who was this guy? A friend? A lover?
A stepbrother? He didn't know which possibility disturbed
him the most.
"Let's go," Matt said decisively. "I'm tired of waiting."
"You and me both." Blake got out of the car with Matt, and they walked
down the block to the apartment building that Sarah had apparently
called home. Her apartment was on the second floor with a sticker that
said
Beware of Dog
in the
window. Matt didn't believe that one for a
second. He rapped on the door. No answer. He knocked again—louder.
The door was thrown open with a resounding "Shit."
The guy facing them wore baggy blue jeans hanging past his crotch, a
pair of yellow boxers sticking out
at the waist. His skinny chest was
bare save for a snake tattoo across his abdomen. Judging by the blank
look in his eyes, he was either stoned or hung over, Matt couldn't tell
which.
"We're looking for Sarah," Matt said.
The guy's dull, vacant gaze sharpened somewhat at this piece of
information. "Who are you?"
"We're friends."
"Sarah don't have no friends."
"Where is she?"
"Don't know. Don't care."
"Well, you're going to care." Matt pushed past him and entered the
apartment. It was a pit, beer bottles, wine bottles, smoke so thick you
could barely see.
"What the fuck are you doing, dude?" the guy asked. "You can't just
come in here, and—"
His words were cut off as Blake pushed him up against the wall, one
hand encircling his throat. "He
wants to know where Sarah is, and
you're going to tell him."
"She ain't here," he gasped. "Let me go."
"Where is she? When did you last see her?" Matt asked.
When he didn't reply, Blake said, "Maybe I can squeeze it out of him."
"She split a couple of weeks ago," the guy said hastily. "That's all I
know, dude."
"Then you won't mind if I take a look around, will you?" Matt didn't
wait for an answer but headed into the bedroom.
"She ain't in there."
No, she wasn't, Matt realized, but there was something more telling
inside—a cheap bassinet sitting next to the bed. His stomach turned
over. Had Sarah and Emily really lived in
this dump? He walked over to the bassinet and saw an old blanket
inside, nothing more.
He stepped back and took note of the rest of the room, the double bed
with tangled sheets, a battered dresser, clothes everywhere, and then
he saw something on the floor, something he remembered vividly, a small
gold heart on a thin chain. Sarah. He picked it up, his pulse speeding
with the memories. He'd given her the necklace for her fifth birthday.
It was nothing more than a drugstore trinket, but she'd
loved it.
Taking a breath, he told himself with renewed determination that he
would give it back to her, that he would find her and make everything
right again. He walked over to the dresser and ran through the drawers,
discovering three pieces of paper lying loose on a pile of underwear.
They all had one name
in common, Sarah Vaughn.
The first was a pay stub from Laree's Hair Salon in Sacramento, the
second a bill for a prenatal visit at Oakland County Hospital, and the
third was a bus schedule for travel through the Bay Area. He stuffed
all of them into his pocket and returned to the living room to find
Blake searching through a desk while Sarah's friend smoked a cigarette
and acted like he didn't give a shit. Hell, maybe it wasn't an act.
"What's your name?" Matt asked.
"John Smith."
"Very original."
The guy sneered at him, and Matt had to resist the urge to put his fist
through John Smith's smart-ass mouth. "When did you last see Sarah?"
"I don't remember. Why do you want her? She ain't good for nothing."
"I just want her. If she comes back, tell her to call her brother."
The guy didn't even blink. "She don't have no brother."
Matt stared back at him. "What happened to the baby?"
"Dead." And he smiled a slick, nasty smile. "Sarah's probably dead,
too."
Matt lunged for him, but Blake pulled him back. "Don't do it, man," he
said, pulling him out of the apartment.
"You shouldn't have stopped me." Matt freed himself from Blake's grip
as they hit the sidewalk.
"Seeing you arrested on assault charges won't help us find Sarah. He
was yanking your chain. You know that. Now, what did you find in the
bedroom?"
"Sarah was definitely there." Matt pulled out the necklace. "This was
hers."
"Anything else?"
Matt handed Blake the hospital bill and the bus schedule. "Why don't
you take these? I'll check out the pay stub. I need to do something. I
can't just sit around and wait."
Blake nodded. "Did you happen to notice the scratch marks on our
friend's arms? Looked like some woman with long fingernails got tangled
up with him."
Matt felt sick. He'd barely looked at the guy, so intent had he been on
finding something of Sarah's.
"If he hurt her, I'll kill him."
"Well, let's find her first."
"She has to be all right," Matt said, trying to convince himself. But
all he could remember was that asshole's parting words:
Sarah's
probably dead, too.
thirteen
Sarah hovered outside the doorway to Jonathan's home office. Two men
were with him; Jonathan had introduced them to her as board members.
They'd gone straight back to his office, their expressions
very
serious, and as the minutes passed, their voices had gotten louder. She
wondered what was wrong. She hoped she hadn't gotten Jonathan into
trouble. But as she listened, it didn't appear they were talking about
her.
"Yesterday's numbers were appalling," one of the men said. "Pauline
told me you had seven people
sitting in the pews."
"I think there were ten," Jonathan said calmly.
"You're preaching to no one, Jonathan, and it isn't that we blame you,
but we can't keep the church
open for the few that come," the other man
said.
"Why not? I believe one soul is just as important as twenty. And by the
way, I think the Lord is on my side in this."
Sarah felt her lips curve into a small smile at Jonathan's dry tone.
Good for him, she thought. He was fighting back. The board members were
not amused.
"The budget is not on your side. I don't want to argue with you. This
is the bottom line. We'll give you two more weeks to find a way to fill
this church on Sunday. If you can't do it, then we'll close. We don't
want you to think we're blaming you for any of this. In fact, there's a
wonderful church in the South Bay. Reverend Davis is planning to retire
next month. We think you might fit in very well there."
Sarah caught her bottom lip with her teeth as their words sunk in. They
were going to send Jonathan away.
"Two weeks is hardly enough time. I've barely gotten to know this
community. I still have work to do."
"You can tie up whatever loose ends you have in the next few weeks.
This church in the South Bay is wonderful—teen choirs, ladies' groups,
picnic suppers, fund-raisers, and a congregation that comes every
Sunday rain or shine. It's a wonderful opportunity for a young
minister."
"I like it here. This community needs a church."
The other man spoke up in a gruff voice. "If they needed a church so
bad, they'd show up on Sunday
and thank God for one."
Sarah frowned. These two men didn't seem religious to her at all. They
were talking about the church
like it was a grocery store that wasn't
selling enough bread.
"It's not that simple," Jonathan answered. "The poverty in the
neighborhood takes a toll. Some of the people here work two jobs and on
Sunday all they want to do is sleep."
"Exactly. They don't need a church."
"Of course they do. And so do their children."
"You tried to start a youth group. No one came."
"These things take time. I've been here less than a year."
"I'm sorry, Jonathan. We've simply run out of time. All we can give you
is two more Sundays. Talk it over with your father. Perhaps he can
help."
Sarah heard their chairs move, and she darted back into the living room
before they could catch her listening in the doorway. Her pulse was
racing and she was having trouble catching her breath. She
hadn't
realized until just this second how dependent she'd become on Jonathan
and his church.
He had been so kind to her. Last night he'd offered her a bed in his
guest room instead of forcing her to go to a shelter. For a split
second she'd cynically wondered if he'd be paying a late-night visit,
but he simply said good night with the gentle smile that was beginning
to warm her as much as the sight of any church steeple, and she'd slept
peacefully for the first time in a long time.
When she'd gotten up in the morning, she'd found a pile of clean
clothes outside her door, nothing fancy, just blue jeans, a T-shirt and
some underwear, but she'd appreciated the thought. After taking a
shower and brushing her hair, she felt almost normal again.
Jonathan had made her pancakes for breakfast, saying his housekeeper
wouldn't be coming in until the afternoon, but he wasn't bad with
Bisquik mix, a couple of eggs, and some milk. The pancakes had been
spectacular, the best she'd ever eaten. The rest of the morning had
passed by in a blur as he'd given her errands to run—a trip to the post
office and the office supply store down the street for some file
folders.
Jonathan made her feel like she was important, as if she was worth
something. Sarah wanted to keep
that feeling alive. She wanted to
believe in the good things he said instead of the bad things that kept
ranning around in her head, telling her she couldn't do it, couldn't
make it, couldn't be
anything.
Maybe she could take care of Emily.
Maybe she could be a good mother.
Even as the glimmer of hope tried to flop its wings and catch flight,
it quickly died. She had no education, no job, no money, no place to
live, and it looked like the church and Jonathan would be gone in a few
days. She wouldn't even have a friend then. She'd be right back where
she started—nowhere.
The front door to the house opened. A black woman came down the hall.
It was the same woman she'd seen with the reverend that first day, the
one who'd looked at her breasts and known right away she'd
had a baby.
Sarah self-consciously crossed her arms in front of her chest, even
though her breasts had finally given up on nursing and flattened out
the way they'd always been, another reminder of her failure to be a
mother.
The woman raised her eyebrow when she saw Sarah standing in the room.
"Well, you came back. You feeling better?"
"Yes."
"That's good. Where's Reverend Mitchell?"
"He's in a meeting."
The woman's lips drew together in a sharp frown as she looked down the
hall. "Oh, dear. They came early."
Sarah wondered if the woman was worrying about Jonathan or the church
or maybe just her own job. She seemed to serve some purpose, although
Sarah wasn't sure what.
"Do you need something?" the woman asked.
Obviously, she wondered why Sarah was standing in the living room.
"Jonathan, I mean Reverend Mitchell asked me to wait."
"I see. You can sit down if you want."
"Oh, all right." Sarah took a seat on the couch. She self-consciously
clasped her hands together as
Pauline stared at her from the doorway.
"My name is Pauline," the woman said unexpectedly. "If I can help, let
me know."
"I'm all right."
"What happened to your baby?"
Sarah was taken aback by the abrupt change in subject. Apparently, now
that they were on a first-name basis, Pauline wanted more information.
"She's with some friends."
"You don't look like you have many friends."
Sarah didn't know what to say in reply. She doubted Pauline would
believe anything she had to say.
"I hope you'll take whatever help Reverend Mitchell offers you,"
Pauline said. "It's not any easier out
on the streets. You might run
away from one bad situation only to find yourself in a worse one. Well,
you give a holler if you need something,"
Sarah nodded and let out a sigh of lelief when she was alone again.
The meeting down the hall was still
in progress. Too restless to stay
seated, Sarah got to her feet and walked quickly to the front door,
slipping out of the house as quietly as she could. It struck her that
she was always leaving, always escaping, always trying to rim away from
her problems, just like her mama. But where to go next?
That was the
question that plagued her as she walked down the sidewalk.
Maybe she should go to Mattie's, see if she could spot Emily. Just the
thought of her baby made her stomach-contract in a deep hungry
yearning. How badly she wanted to hold Emily again, to touch her
soft
head, to whisper to her that everything would be all right, the way
she'd done every night when she'd lain in bed, her hand pressed against
her stomach, feeling the baby's tiny feet kick and flutter within her.
Sarah gasped at the rush of emotion that hit her. The suffocating pain
stole her breath right out of her chest, and she put a hand to her
heart, wondering if it would ever stop hurting. She tried to tell
herself
that it didn't matter if she was hurting, as long as her baby
wasn't.
As she drew in long, calming breaths, torn between going and staying,
she saw the woman with the watering can again. She was almost a full
block away, her big straw hat hanging low on her head. Sarah suddenly
had the urge to catch up with her. There was something so familiar
about the woman, the way she walked, the way she concentrated so
intently on her watering, and yet it couldn't be. It was impossible, or
was it?
Sarah jogged down the street, almost as afraid of catching up with the
woman as she was afraid of
losing her.

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