The year She Fell (30 page)
“No! What are you talking about? He just wanted to know where birth certificates were recorded. And we started talking.”
“About what?” I didn’t know how long she’d let me interrogate her this way before she figured out she had no obligation to answer. But I kept my tone sharp and authoritative, like a police detective. “What did you talk about?”
“About—being adopted. He was looking for his birthparents. And so I told him that I was adopted too.”
“Did he tell you who his birthparents were?” A trickle of sweat started down my forehead and I wiped at it impatiently. I wanted back in the air-conditioning, but I didn’t want any official eavesdroppers, not when I was trying to find out if yet another sister was obstructing justice. “And why he sought you out in particular to ask for directions?”
“No, I—” Theresa went silent.
“He knew you were a
Wakefield
.” I was figuring this out as I spoke. “That’s why he went after you. He already knew you were adopted, and that he could use that to manipulate you into helping him.” When she did not answer, I plunged on. “He asked you about the family, didn’t he? About your mother and your sisters—and your sister’s husband?”
She’d gotten back her voice. “He was just trying to help me. So yes, I told him about the family.”
“You told him about Tom and Ellen fighting.” I was harsher than I might have been, because I remembered drunkenly raising that very point during our little party. I should never have said anything at all. But I did, and Theresa heard it. “About Tom staying at the Super
She was absolutely stunned. “What difference does it make?”
“He kidnapped Tom.”
When Theresa didn’t speak, I said, “Tom is his birthfather. That’s why the boy was so nice to you. Because he wanted to find out where Tom is, and how to get him back. And he used you to get the information. So now you have to tell me everything the boy said about his birth and adoption.”
It wasn’t much. Theresa stumbled through an account of their meetings, but recalled mostly his encouragement of her own new obsession, finding her own birthparents, the Prices. Where did that come from? His example, I supposed. I didn’t bother to ask.
“Do you think he would hurt Tom?”
Theresa seemed shocked by this. “He’s just a boy. And he just wants to find out who his real parents are. And to help me find out. About my own birth family.”
I had to turn to block the glare of the sun off the river’s surface. “Theresa, you know who your birth family is.” Or at least her original family. “You lived with them until you were six.”
“I didn’t know where they went. He was helping me find out. That’s what I’m doing now.”
Oh, great. Not enough that Tom was being held by his heretofore unknown son. Not enough that Mother was hying off after some rosebush or some ex-wife or some something. But Theresa had to go searching for her long lost family—the one that let Mother basically purchase her on contract. Or maybe they were just returning her for a refund. “Where are you?”
She didn’t want to tell me. But finally, reluctantly, she said, “
Webster
County
.”
That was south of
Canaan
, way up in the most rugged mountain area, where the hill people live. It was
West Virginia
the way Walker Evans photographed in the Depression—still a place of plank shacks and outhouses and scrawny children with rickets. It was the
West Virginia
a nice town like
Wakefield
always scorned.
I couldn’t imagine what Theresa wanted to find up there. I remembered her family as more urban, or as urban as
West Virginians
got, coming here from the coal fields around
Charleston
when Mr. Price got sick.
I forced myself to return to the problem at hand. “Is that where the boy is? Brian? Is he with you?”
“No.” Her voice was puzzled. “He just helped me decide. He was looking in town for the address he wanted, not up here.”
“Where?” I demanded.
“I don’t know.” After a moment, she said, “He did talk about staying out by Highway 21. Look, Laura, he’s a nice boy. I can’t believe he means any harm.”
“I hope not,” I said coldly. “But the fact he knocked Tom out and dragged him away doesn’t speak real well for him.” I started to say something more about Theresa’s part in all this, but cut myself short. I wanted to tell Ellen what I’d learned, which wasn’t much— how the boy found out where Tom was, and the reference to Highway 21. “Do you know where he was staying? Out on Highway 21?”
“I don’t know.” She was defensive again. “He didn’t tell me. I think he was sleeping in his car. I saw him drive away yesterday.” She made it sound like it was my fault, somehow, that the boy was homeless.
“What kind of car was it?”
“Blue.”
Great. I would never make a good detective, not when my only witness was a nun who had never owned a car. “Old? New? Four door? A mini-van, a sedan?”
“Just a regular car. Sort of old, but not banged up. Four doors. He had blankets in the back. That’s why I think he was sleeping there.”
I wasn’t likely to get much else from her. “I’ve got to go. If you hear from Brian, call me.”
After that phone call, I was full of suppressed tension. But I couldn’t leave—someone else could call. And I couldn’t wake Ellen up, because she needed the rest. So I grabbed a rag and some Windex from the pantry and started cleaning the dirty window in the parlor. Windows— or any other kind of housecleaning—isn’t something I’ve done since I became a regular on the series, so I was almost enjoying the novelty. We used to have to wash these big windows every week, Cathy and Ellen and I. Oh, I was too little to do much more than rub away at the lower part of the pane on the inside. But outside, Cathy used to prop me up on the porch rail and hold my legs so I could stretch up to the fanlight at the very top.
Today, as I swiped away at the streaks, I watched the street at the bottom of the hill—for Tom’s black jeep, for
Jackson
’s patrol car, for Mother’s anonymous sedan, for some unknown car bearing a boy with a grudge. But the cars just passed by, none turning up into our long driveway.
I was putting away the cleaning supplies when Ellen finally emerged. She’d showered and washed her hair, and it was drying in soft waves around her face. She looked weary but composed. “Any news?”
I filled her in on what Theresa said. “There could be a thousand reasons why he was talking about Highway
“No. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Ellen . . .” But there was no changing her mind. She was so seldom stubborn, I didn’t know how to counteract this attitude. “Well, I think maybe before sundown I’ll drive out that way, just see what’s there.” And look for bodies in the ditches, I thought grimly.
“As long as you’re not followed.”
A cell phone rang from the pile on the chair we’d made of our purses. It wasn’t mine— mine was a gift from my series producer, and played the
For What It’s Worth
series theme song. Ellen stared at her purse for just a moment, then ran across the room to grab it.
I could tell from her expression that it was the boy. The kidnapper. She listened hard for a moment, and then demanded to talk to Tom. There followed a marital argument I really wished I didn’t have to hear. Ellen’s voice was hard as she said, “No, I won’t tell the police about the boy. You know why. I’m not going to have him arrested of a felony when you can make this right with a single name.”
When it was over, I grabbed the phone out of her hand, located a pen and pad from my purse, and jotted down the incoming number. “What’s that?” I said, showing her what I’d written.
“Tom’s cell phone. So no help at all. He probably had it in his pocket when he was taken.” She didn’t sound too upset about it.
I pressed call-back, but got immediately transferred to Tom’s voice mail. The kidnapper must have turned off the phone. I contemplated leaving Tom a message— but what? Tell? Please? Before I go crazy with guilt? “Is he all right?”
“Yes. Angry. But the boy hasn’t hurt him.”
“What did he say? The boy? What’s his demand?”
“Just what I thought. He’ll let Tom go in return for the name of the mother.” Ellen shook her head. “Tom—he couldn’t believe I hadn’t told the police.”
“I can’t believe it either,” I confessed. “I can’t believe
I
haven’t told the police. So did he give you any indication where he is?”
“Tom said there were bars. Like a jail cell.” She sighed meditatively. “He hates being confined, you know. Always has to have a window open. The bars will drive him mad.”
“Ellen, please stop sounding like a sadist. What are we going to do?”
“Wait and see what Tom does, I guess.”
“Ellen . . .” It was, I had to admit, a wail. “Please. Listen to me.”
“No. Not if you’re going to talk about turning that boy over to the police.”
I didn’t see how we were going to avoid it.
Jackson
wasn’t just going to quit asking questions once Tom was freed. And it sounded like Tom was angry enough to tell him the whole thing. What that meant for me and Jackson, I didn’t want to imagine.
I contemplated telling Ellen that Jackson and I were, well, together. In whatever capacity we were together. But I was afraid she’d stop trusting me. And she needed someone to trust, someone who might be able to rein her in if necessary. Hmm. “Tom said there were bars? Like a jail cell?”
“Yes. Maybe he’s in some underground site of the water company, inside the dam.”
“Oh, well, that’s comforting. Millions of gallons of water right there with him.” I remembered something . . . . “Ellen,
Jackson
said before they opened this new lockup, they used to hold people in the basement of the chief’s house. There was a cell there. It sounded so creepy. They hadn’t used it for years, because they were leasing a cell from the county jail. But I remember he said it was abandoned now, scheduled to be demolished. Out on Route
“I know where it is,” Ellen said. She grabbed up her purse, and before I could protest, she was out the door.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I started after her, but hesitated at the door. I remembered the patrol car, and wondered if the police would be watching for us. Her Volvo was anonymous enough, but no one could say that about my Porsche.
I didn’t know what was worse—leaving Tom to the tender mercies of this angry boy, or setting Ellen up for obstruction of justice charges.
So instead I paced about the house with a dust rag, viciously swiping at the stair rail and the piano top and the mantelpiece. I was fretting too much to do more than cut streaks through the accumulated dust. And when I heard a car drive up, I dropped the rag like it was radioactive and ran to the front door.
But it wasn’t Ellen cruising up the driveway in the dying light. It was
Jackson
.