Sanders 01 - Silent Run (16 page)

“You think I drew that?” she asked in amazement.

He nodded. “I'm not surprised it's a good sketch. You used to doodle when we were watching football games together. In fact, you used to draw this character with a cape and a big gold belt with all kinds of gadgets on it. What was the name you called him?” He shook his head as the name escaped him. “He was some kind of a superhero, Alexander or something like that."

Sarah stared back at him, an odd flickering in her eyes. “Alexander?"

“Does it ring a bell?"

“Not exactly, but it sounds a little familiar."

“You liked to draw faces. Funny, now that I think about it. You wouldn't use your camera to record actual faces, but you'd sketch people. Whenever I looked to see what you were doing, you'd crumple up the paper and throw it away. I thought you were just modest, but maybe you didn't want me to see the faces. I wonder if you were drawing the people from your past. You certainly didn't have any photographs of your relatives."

Sarah glanced back down at the sketch. “I don't remember drawing this, but maybe I did."

“Let's see, why don't we?” he suggested.

“What do you mean?” she asked warily.

He pushed a blank piece of paper across the table toward her. “Draw something."

“Like what? I don't remember anything. I can't draw a past that isn't in my memory."

“Maybe it's buried deep,” he replied. “Sit down, Sarah. Give it a shot."

“Jake, this is a waste of time."

“Do you have a better idea?"

“Yes, search the apartment."

He could see not just reluctance in her eyes, but also fear. He'd noticed the conflicting emotions before. Sarah wanted to remember her past, and yet she didn't. No wonder her memory was still hidden away. She was sending her own brain mixed messages. “We'll search,” he said. “But let's try this first."

After a moment's hesitation Sarah took a seat at the table. He sat down across from her and watched her stare down at the paper.

“I don't know what you think is going to come out of my head,” she said. “It's as blank as this page."

“You're trying too hard."

“Now I'm trying too hard? Usually you don't think I'm trying hard enough."

“Just close your eyes and then draw whatever image comes to your mind. Let yourself go. I know you can do it."

She gazed back at him for long seconds, and he felt his stomach turn over with feelings he didn't want to feel.

“You have faith in me,” she whispered.

He cleared his throat, not wanting to go down that road. “Draw, Sarah. Draw something you feel. Listen to your heart, not your head."

Sarah put the pencil to the paper but didn't make a move. She appeared lost in thought for several long minutes. He was beginning to think the experiment was a waste of time when she began to sketch, slowly at first and then with more purpose and enthusiasm. In a few minutes she was finished. She pushed the paper across the table and looked at him. “I feel as if this place is important to me."

He felt the blood drain from his face as he stared down at the picture she'd drawn.

“Jake? What is it? Do you know this place?” she asked, giving him a concerned look. “What's wrong?"

He didn't know if he could get the words out. He was quite simply stunned. “That's the house I designed for us, the one we were building together. You drew it better than I did.” He looked into her eyes and felt the ice around his heart crack and melt. Sarah had remembered their house, the place where they were going to share their lives together, create a family. He'd never realized she'd studied the design in so much detail that she could actually re-create it as she'd done.

“I thought it was my home,” she said.

“It was going to be. We hadn't finished it before you left. Since then... I've done nothing. I couldn't go through with it without you and Caitlyn. It didn't seem worth it. It would have been too big for me, too empty. The apartment was bad enough. Even though you'd removed all traces of your existence, I could still hear your laugh, see Caitlyn crawling on the floor, smell the hazelnut in the coffee you made every morning. Did you really think I could forget you just because you took your clothes out of our closet?”

“I'm sorry,” she whispered. “I'm sorry for hurting you and ruining everything.”

He saw her blue eyes fill and steeled himself against those damn tears. He couldn't stand watching a woman cry. “Don't. I'm not going to try to make you feel better.”

“I don't want you to. I just wish I could at least explain why I did what I did.”

“Nothing can explain it.”

“Maybe not, but I am sorry. For what it's worth.”

“It's not worth much,” he said harshly, because even though he wanted to believe her, he'd already made that mistake more than once and paid a terrible price. He couldn't do it again. He was thankful Sarah didn't give in to her emotions. Instead she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and stood up.

“I'd better keep looking for some clues,” she said.

He watched her return to the dresser, going through each drawer with resolute determination. There wasn't much clothing in the drawers, as far as he could tell, just the basics. He wondered what she'd done with the stuff she'd taken from their home.

Standing up, he walked over to the closet and opened the door. He rifled through a couple of dresses, some jeans, a few shirts, but none of them looked familiar. Had she worn these clothes when she'd been with him? Then he saw the large plaid shirt in the back corner of the closet, a man's shirt, his shirt.

He caught his breath, imagining her in that shirt, the hem barely covering her ass, highlighting her beautiful long legs. He didn't have to pull the shirt out to know that the top two buttons would be gone; he'd ripped them off one night when he'd thrown her down on the bed and made love to her.

His breath came short and fast at the memory.
Fuck
! He didn't want to remember her in that way. He didn't want to see his hands on her breasts. He didn't want to remember what her skin tasted like, the way she moved restlessly beneath him, her soft mouth begging for release.

He slammed the door shut.

Sarah glanced over at him in surprise.

“Don't ask,” he warned. He walked into the kitchen and filled a glass with water from the tap. He probably would have been better off pouring the cold liquid over his head, but at least the water was cooling him slowly from the inside out. Finally, composed, he refilled the glass and walked back into the main room.

“I thought being here in my home would help me remember,” Sarah said in frustration a moment later. She ran a hand through her hair, her fingers tangling in the curls.

Once again he was distracted by unwanted memories of wrapping the long strands around his fingers as he held her head to his. He blew out a breath and took another sip of water.

“It's not working,” Sarah continued. “Maybe I wasn't here long enough -- only a few months. What I need to know is who I was before I met you, where I lived, my name, everything. The trouble had to have started long before, because otherwise I wouldn't have lied to you.” She sat down heavily on the chair by the kitchen table, as if her legs were about to give out on her.

Sarah was exhausted, he realized, noting the dark shadows mixing with the bruises on her face. She was probably still hurting from the accident, and certainly her sleep the night before had been as restless as his. They'd had only a couple of glazed doughnuts for breakfast. As much as he wanted to keep charging forward, he knew she needed a break.

“Let's get some food,” he said. “You look like you're going to pass out."

“Do we have time? I feel as if every second that goes by means another second that Caitlyn is in danger."

“Yeah, I know, but your brain might work better if you eat.” He considered their options. “I don't really want to leave here to go to a restaurant."

Sarah immediately nodded in agreement. “I would feel too vulnerable eating out somewhere, not knowing if someone was watching us."

“Why don't we order in some Chinese or pizza? What's your pleasure?” He walked over to the phone and saw a couple of take-out menus on the counter. “Looks like you've done this before."

“Chinese is fine. I'd like --"

“Mongolian beef, cashew chicken, and fried rice,” Jake said, cutting her off.

She looked at him in surprise. “I was going to say that."

“I know. They're your favorites."

She cocked her head to one side, giving him a thoughtful look. “It's strange to be with someone who knows me better than I know myself."

“I don't think that's true at all,” Jake said with a sigh. “I know who you pretended to be when you were Sarah Tucker. But I'm beginning to wonder if anyone knows the real you -- including you."

* * *

Dylan didn't know what herbs Catherine Hilliard had put in his hot tea, but the drink had a kick to it. He was feeling energized and ready to get down to business. Unfortunately Catherine had told him that any further questions would have to wait until after she took her dogs out for their afternoon run. The dogs in question were two golden retrievers who apparently loved the ocean. From his vantage point on her deck, he could see her throwing sticks into the water, the dogs bounding in enthusiastically, with no regard for the rough, cold waves.

Catherine didn't seem to care when the dogs shook water all over her. She was certainly an earthy sort of woman in her paint-spattered clothes and her bare feet. He didn't know what to make of her -- or her story about her friend Jessica, but he definitely knew that he wanted to learn more about both of them.

As Catherine and the dogs moved farther down the beach, he let out a sigh. It was obvious they weren't coming back anytime soon, which meant more waiting, and he hated to wait. The open door to Catherine's cottage beckoned to him. After her initial wariness, she'd offered him nothing but hospitality. He couldn't believe she'd left him -- a total stranger -- alone in her house without any concern for the security of her belongings. He could have stolen everything of value in the cottage since she'd poured him a cup of tea, told him to relax, and taken off down the beach. Then again, there didn't appear to be much of value in her home. Aside from one very small TV on her kitchen table, there were no other electronic devices that he'd seen, no computers or stereos or MP3 players -- nothing, unless they were tucked away in the bedroom.

Unable to resist the lure of his own curiosity, he walked back into the house, through the kitchen, and into the dining room where her easel was set up. He knelt down and looked through some of the paintings that were piled up against her wall. What he saw surprised him. He wasn't much of a judge of art, but there was certainly a sinister tone to Catherine's work. He frowned as he studied one dark painting after another. The colors were reds, blacks, browns, the images abstract, some with ghostly appearances, others that seemed purely evil.

There was a definite mood to her work, anger, restlessness, frustration, and a sense of injustice. At least those were the emotions he felt when he looked at her paintings. How could such a pretty young woman paint such black moments?

The painting on the easel, showing Sarah's look-alike sitting in a beautiful meadow, was a departure from Catherine's other work. It was almost as if Catherine wanted to protect her memories and images of Jessica by permanently putting her in a calm, restful place.

Which brought him back to his original question: Was Catherine's friend Jessica really Sarah?

“I see you've made yourself at home,” Catherine said.

Dylan turned in surprise. She'd come in so quietly he hadn't heard her. His instincts were usually much sharper. She must have left the dogs outside.

“Yes, thanks for the tea,” he replied. “It had a kick to it."

“You looked like you needed a boost."

“I rarely need a boost,” he said.

She smiled at his cocky statement. “So you're one of those men who thinks being tired is a weakness."

“I'm not tired,” he countered. “I'm concerned about my brother's child. It's important that we find her as soon as possible."

“I know. I've been thinking about the fact that your friend and my friend could possibly be the same person. It seems amazing to me that Jessica would have a baby, though. How old is the little girl?"

“Sixteen months,” Dylan replied.

Catherine shook her head. “It's so difficult to believe. In my head Jessica is a young girl. But she's not. She's twenty-eight years old now. So much time has passed since I saw her."

“Let's not let any more time pass,” he said quickly, sensing that Catherine was the type of person who could get lost in her own head. Hell, maybe that was what she and her friend Jessica had in common. “Let's get back to business. You told me that Jessica made her cross-country trip with another girl. Tell me more about her."

“That was Teresa Meyers. She was in foster care with us, too. She was the same age as Jessica, but totally different in personality. She prided herself on being a tough chick, you know what I mean?"

He nodded. He'd run into more than a few of those in the field of journalism. “Where is Teresa now?"

Catherine shook her head. “I don't know. I tried to find her after Jessica disappeared in Chicago, but I couldn't locate her. She didn't go back to any of her previous addresses, and quite frankly I didn't have the money to hire anyone to look for her."

“So Teresa knew how to disappear, too? What? Did they take you aside in foster care and give you a hands-on guide for how to vanish without a trace?"

Catherine shrugged away his sarcasm. “They didn't care enough to do that. Kids in foster care don't have roots. If you're not a cute baby someone wants to adopt, you float around the system, moving from house to house, with no regard for any kind of permanence or feeling of security. That's the way Jessica, Teresa, and I grew up. It's what we were used to. We didn't worry about telling people where we were, because there wasn't anyone to tell. No one gave a damn."