Dead Wrong (33 page)

But that little number would fall to Archer.

Damn, didn’t that boy have the luck?

Damn if he didn’t . . .

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

“A
RE YOU SURE
I
CAN’T DO SOME OF THE DRIVING?”
Mara asked as she threw her bag into the cargo area of the Explorer. “I really don’t mind.”

“Positive.” Aidan threw his duffel in next to hers and slammed the door. “Come on, Spike. Time’s up.”

The dog took one last sniff of the shrub he’d been investigating before taking the long way to the car.

Aidan turned the key in the ignition, then waved a last good-bye to Chief Tanner, who stood on the end of his deck, arms folded across his chest, watching his guests depart. Aidan and Mara had stopped by late on the previous afternoon to bring Tanner up to date, as they’d promised. They’d also come armed with a couple of steaks and a bottle of wine and a proposal to test out that new grill on the chief’s deck. In return, the chief had offered another night’s lodging, which they’d gratefully accepted.

“Are you sure we can’t stop in Lyndon just for a minute?” she asked as they drove back toward town.

“Was there something you needed?”

“The weather’s turned warm again. I could use some lighter clothes.”

“I think you’re just going to have to make do with what you brought. I don’t think we should push our luck. Channing’s proven himself to be a pretty canny fellow, and we have no idea where he is right now.”

“I guess. Maybe Annie left some things at the cabin.”

“How long has it been since you’ve been to this place, anyway?”

“Oh, maybe two years.” She frowned, trying to remember exactly how long. “It was really—”

She stopped in midsentence, remembering, then shot him a guilty glance out of the corner of her eye.

“It was really what?”

“It was really Annie’s place. Hers and Dylan’s. It’s where they used to go to get away.”

“He’d mentioned that.”

“Does that change . . . well, your wanting to go there?”

“You mean, do I not want to go because Dylan used to visit there?” Aidan eased the Explorer onto the highway. She could not read his face. “Now, that would be silly, wouldn’t it?”

“Aidan, he didn’t just visit there. They more or less lived there those last six or seven months.”

“That’s nice, that he and Annie had that time together.”

“That’s why I haven’t been there in a while. It just was, well . . . their place. It didn’t feel like mine anymore.” She quickly added, “But that was okay with me. I didn’t like to be away from home much these past few years.”

“Were you afraid she’d come back and you wouldn’t be there?” No need to explain who
she
was.

“No. I was afraid she’d call in the middle of the night and I wouldn’t be there to answer.” She looked out the window. “Do you think that’s stupid?”

“Not at all. I don’t think it’s unreasonable to hope that your daughter would try to contact you at some time.” He stole a glance in her direction, choosing his words carefully. “Although, you know, there’s a good chance that might not happen until she’s older. . . .”

“What do you mean? Why would you say that?” She frowned.

“You don’t know what your ex has told her. He might very well have told her that you died and that’s why you’re not with them.” There was really no way to soften the words.

Mara rested her head against the back of the seat and stared straight ahead.

“Well, that would explain it, wouldn’t it? Why all these years, she’s made no attempt to get in touch with me. None that I know of, anyway,” she said thoughtfully. “Early on, after it first happened—oh, maybe four or five months after—Annie had suggested that very thing and I totally freaked out on her. Back then, I really believed that my daughter would
know
that I was alive, would
know
that I was waiting for her right there at home.”

“And now?”

“And now I don’t know what to believe.” She chewed on the end of a finger and watched the scenery go by in a blur.

They rode in silence for several miles.

“When I think of Julianne, I think of her as a small child. In my mind, I still see her as a five-year-old, even though I know she isn’t a little girl anymore,” she said, her voice tired and confessional. “I don’t even know what she looks like, Aidan.”

He reached out and took her hand in his and let her hold on.

“My daughter’s almost a teenager, and I don’t know what she looks like. What music she listens to. What kind of clothes she wears or what books she reads. Is she athletic? Did she go to dancing school? Did she dye her hair purple and get her nose pierced?” Mara shook her head slowly, pain etched into every line in her face. “I don’t know anything about her. I don’t know who she is. She’s the most precious thing in the world to me, but I don’t even know her.”

Aidan wished he could think of something clever to say, but there were no words that could soothe or comfort. So he merely continued to hold her hand to offer that small bit of human contact as consolation. It was inadequate, he knew, but at that moment, it was all he had to give her.

Mara closed her eyes, fighting back the sting. She hated that this gloom hung over her, followed her everywhere she went, and as much as she wanted her child back, she wished that she could shake some of that ache, once in a while, and have a day not colored by loss. She knew there was beauty and joy in the world, and more and more she found herself longing for a glimpse of it.

She opened her eyes and turned her head to watch Aidan as he flicked on the radio and began to search for a station. The only good reception seemed to be of country music.

“Is this all right with you?” he asked her, breaking the silence. “Can you handle a little country?”

“Sure.”

“Ah, this is classic stuff. Patsy Cline. My mom was a big Patsy Cline fan. I used to know the words to all of her songs.” He turned up the volume and began singing along, delivering his own somewhat off-key version of “I Fall to Pieces.”

Four hours later, they stopped for lunch outside Harrisburg. On the final leg of the journey, as they sped along on Route 78, Mara happened to glance out the window as they passed a sign that announced the exit for Hamburg was right ahead.

“Hamburg!” she exclaimed. “I remember Hamburg!”

“One of your old haunts?” Aidan laughed. She’d been so quiet for most of the drive, and her outburst had been so unexpected.

“My mother used to take Annie and me there.” She craned her neck to look out at the southeast stretch of Allegheny Mountains known as the Kittatinny ridge. “There’s a place out there, out beyond the town. It’s called Hawk Mountain. Mom used to pack Annie and me up and drag us there to watch the raptor migrations in the fall.”

“How far from here, do you remember?”

“No, I was too little. I just remember the name of the town because it made me think of hamburgers, which were, back then, one of my favorite foods.”

He pulled smoothly into the exit lane, his turn signal blinking away.

“What are you doing? Are you getting off here?”

“I am.” He checked the rearview mirror.

“Why?”

“Anything that can cause your face to light up like that must be pretty special. It can’t be all that far. It’s worth a look. And it’s not like we’re punching a clock. We have plenty of time.”

“Thank you.” She smiled, remembering. “You know, back then, people used to come from everywhere to sit on the rocks and watch the hawks and the eagles and the falcons. I used to complain and whine and grumble because she made us go, but I look back on those times now and just cherish that I had that part of her, that she shared so much of herself with us.”

“Well, let’s see if it’s all as you remembered it.”

“I’m sure it’s changed a lot. I read in the paper not long ago that there are new lookouts up there, new parking lots, and that they now attract thousands of visitors every year. When I was little, there’d only be a handful of watchers up there with us.”

“Guess bird-watching’s big out here,” Aidan noted, looking out at the mountains to their left.

“Well, it was set up as a sanctuary. I think it might have been the first one in this country. Years ago, hunters used to go there to shoot the hawks and the eagles when they migrated through every fall. They’d slaughter them by the thousands for sport. Then, about forty years ago, when it became apparent that the populations were way down—some species all but extinct—the sanctuary was established. It was my mother’s favorite place. We saw some awesome sights up there, the three of us.”

“It’s nice that you have such good memories of her.”

“Oh, she was such a nature enthusiast. She grew up in the country, out near State College, but when she and my dad married and he got the teaching position at Drexel, they moved to the city. I don’t remember her ever saying that she hated it, but we all knew she did. Every chance she got, she packed us into the car and drove us out into the country. Annie and I still laugh about Mom’s little nature moments. We’d be driving along the road and she’d slam on the brakes and point out the window with great excitement. Hawk in the tree! Herd of deer! Momma fox and kits! Swans in the pond!”

Mara laughed out loud, remembering her mother’s enthusiastic pronouncements. “And when we went up to the cabin, she never gave us a minute’s peace. There were times we’d be sound asleep, and she’d wake us up to see the hummingbirds at the feeder or a baby owl on the deck railing. And hike, omigod, did that woman like to hike. She drove us crazy, making us walk with her when we were little, but when we got old enough to protest, she didn’t force us. She’d just go off by herself. Annie and I just didn’t get it, you know, that she’d want to walk the same trails and see the same trees and the same caves over and over. But somehow she saw something new every day.”

“How old were you when she died?”

“Eleven.” Her voice softened. “When she realized that she wasn’t going to get any better, she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to die at home or at the cabin. By the time she decided on the cabin, it was too late, she was too sick to travel. In the end she said it was just as well. She knew that Dad would eventually sell the house in the city, but he’d never sell the cabin. And at least when we went there, we wouldn’t be thinking about her having died there.”

“And your father?”

“He and my stepmother moved to Las Vegas about nine years ago, after he retired. He died four years ago. And Mom was right about him never selling the cabin. He gave it to Annie and me outright. He didn’t set a foot in it after Mom died. We think he just couldn’t bear to be there without her, her presence is so strong.”

She paused, remembering.

“She used to bring us things from her walks. An eagle feather, a stone arrowhead, a pretty flower, something. I used to love those little gifts. I wish I’d told her—just one time—how much it meant to me that she always brought me those little surprises.”

“I’ll bet she knew.”

“I hope so. Sometimes it hurts so much to think about that time before she got sick. Sometimes I just wish I could reach across time and pull those moments into the present. . . .”

“You can,” he said as he pulled into the gas station. “That’s what memories are.”

He got out and filled the tank while Mara went into the station and bought two cans of soda from the machine and got directions to Hawk Mountain from the teenage boy who was manning the cash register.

They were just getting into the car when Aidan’s phone rang.

“Shields . . . Oh, hi.” He stopped at the side of the station’s lot and put the car into park. “What’s up?”

Mara watched his face crease, watched him bite the inside of his lower lip as he listened attentively to the caller.

“I don’t know.” He turned to Mara. “How far are we from Lyndon?”

“Maybe an hour and a half, a little more. Depends on traffic.”

He glanced at his watch. “We can probably be there by four.” He hung up the phone and shifted into drive, then turned onto the roadway, heading back toward the highway, his face solemn, his comments limited to brief questions that gave Mara no real clue as to what was going on.

“I take it we’re on our way back home?” she asked as he stopped at a red light.