Truly, Madly

by Heather Webber

  Leaves crunched beneath my feet as I stopped near a tree to digest all that was going on around me.

  It looked to be chaos, but as I stood there a man on a megaphone corralled volunteers onto a school bus that would drive them deep into the four-thousand-acre park to continue the search.

  Every few minutes, a roving reporter would be bathed in spotlights, updating the viewing audience on the search’s progress. I stood nearby one reporter as she fed her news to the evening anchor.

  “Maxwell O’Brien has been missing for close to ten hours now. Tired searchers have been scouring Wompatuck State Park for any signs of the four-year-old boy, who goes by the name Max. Efforts to find the little boy are hampered by the sheer size of the park, the many trails, ponds, and marshes. Hope lies in the many places Max could seek shelter. Back in World War Two, this site was owned by the military, and many of the old ammunition bunkers still remain standing.”

  She went on to describe the park’s topology and included a warning about falling temperatures and wild animals, including foxes, bobcats, and coyotes, before getting to the meat of the story: whether the father was guilty.

  “John O’Brien, the boy’s father, is still answering police questions at this hour. He has not been charged or labeled as a person of interest. Divers continue to search the reservoir and various ponds. K-nine search and rescue has been brought in by the state police. The boy’s mother, Katherine O’Brien, is anxiously awaiting news of her son.”

  At this point, the cameraman swiveled toward a group of people standing near doors of the visitor center. Among them stood a slight woman, early thirties, whose eyes held a vacant, faraway look.

  “Mrs. O’Brien stands firm in her belief that her son is alive and well. Again, here is a picture of Max O’Brien. He’s four years old, forty-five pounds, blond hair, blue eyes. He was wearing jeans, a navy blue long-sleeved T-shirt, and Nike sneakers. If anyone has any information, please call the number on the screen. Police, at this time, are not ruling out an abduction, so please be on the lookout.”

  Tuning out the rest of the news report, I focused on the little boy’s mother. She looked to be living her worst nightmare.

  I stood there a minute, watching her. The numb way she moved, the emotionless way she spoke. Fear radiated from her every breath.

  I simply couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose my child. And in such a way, too. Not knowing whether the man you loved was responsible, or if a stranger took the boy, or if he’d simply wandered away.

  But most of all, not knowing if you’d get him back.

  My heart broke for her.

  I thought about the boy’s father being questioned by the authorities. Was he innocent? If so, what kind of hell was he going through right now? To have everyone in New England thinking you were a child killer? What would he see when he looked into his wife’s eyes? Would there be doubt? Or would there be trust? Trust that he’d never hurt the child they’d created together?

  Yet if he was guilty . . .

  I shivered. Slipping on my mittens, I looked around at all the volunteers. Frustration and depression settled around me like a thick fog. With my talent, I should be able to do more than look under bushes or serve a Styrofoam cup of coffee. I should be able to touch Katherine O’Brien’s hand and find her son. To bring him back to her, one way or another.

  Why else have a gift like mine? I just didn’t understand it.

  My fingers cramped from being balled into fists, and I flexed them inside my mittens. There was no point in dwelling on what I couldn’t do.

  Instead of standing around being as useless as I felt, I worked my way into a crowd waiting for the next bus leading into the park. I climbed on and sat down next to the window.

  Just as the bus pulled away, Katherine O’Brien looked up. She couldn’t see me in the darkness, yet I felt as though she were looking into my soul. And I made the silent promise that I’d do my best to bring her little boy back to her.

  I just couldn’t help feeling that my best wasn’t good enough.

  My house was dark when I arrived home. It was well after 3:00 A.M.

  Sheer exhaustion, both physical and emotional, had me dropping onto the couch soon after I closed my front door.

  No sooner had I sat than Grendel pounced on my lap, pawed at the zipper on my coat. I switched on a lamp, happy to see that Dovie had cleaned up after her impromptu dinner party.

  And I was very happy that Butch hadn’t been invited to sleep over. I wouldn’t put it past my grandmother.

  Trying not to disturb a kneading Grendel, I slipped off my coat and my shoes. Pulling my legs under me, I curled up, scratching Grendel’s ears. He purred happily.

  There had been no progress in the search for little Max O’Brien. No evidence, no leads. No nothing. The FBI hadn’t been called in yet because there was no proof that he’d been kidnapped. It seemed as though the case was at a standstill.

  Most of the local volunteers had cleared out around 1:00 A.M. I’d stayed longer, tramping through the woods with a borrowed flashlight, calling Max’s name until I’d lost my voice.

  When I left, I noticed that Katherine O’Brien was still wearing that faraway look in her eyes.

  I rested my head against the sofa cushion. In a perfect world, I’d wake up in the morning and the TV would announce that Max had been found safe and sound and was back in the loving arms of his parents.

  But I knew all too well that this wasn’t a perfect world. More than likely, searchers would be out in the woods again the next day, looking for the Little Boy Lost.

  A noise from my bedroom had me bolting upright. Grendel rrreowed in protest but clung to me. He was such a scaredy-cat.

  I heard the squeaking sound again and wondered what in the world could be making such a noise. It wasn’t menacing in nature—more mechanical than anything.

  Rising, I tried to set Grendel down, but his claws came out and latched into the fabric of my blazer. Brief panic that perhaps Butch had stayed for a sleepover dissipated as I peeked into my bedroom. The bed was empty.

  I flipped on the overhead light and looked around and blinked in surprise at what was on my dresser—a plastic cage.

  Grendel retracted his claws and jumped to the floor, his tail in the air. Obviously, he wasn’t a fan of Marisol’s newest gift.

  There was no note or instructions attached to the colorful cage. Two bags sat alongside it—food and treats. Hamster food and treats.

  I made kissy noises. A tiny black and white hamster stood inside a wire wheel, his front paws in the air. One eye stared at me intently. The other had been stitched closed.

  Grendel performed figure eights around my feet as I opened the cage’s door and let the hamster sniff my fingers. A little bowl of food sat in the corner of the cage, and a tunnel led up to a bottle of water. A little plastic box lay nestled in pine shavings. After a second the hamster went back to running on the wheel, his little legs pumping.

  I closed the door to the cage and sat on the bed. Grendel immediately hopped into my lap.

  “What are we going to do with a one-eyed hamster?” I asked him.

  He looked at me like he knew exactly what to do with a bothersome rodent—if he wasn’t so scared of it.

  Tomorrow, I’d call Marisol and get the scoop. Until then, I figured I’d better get some sleep.

  In the living room, I locked the doors and was about to switch off the lamp when I saw the files I had brought home from work on the coffee table.

  They looked as though they’d been riffled through.

  Dovie’s handiwork, no doubt.

  I flipped through a few of the files, fighting back a yawn. There wasn’t anything here that couldn’t wait till tomorrow morning. I dropped the files back onto the table, and a swatch of bold orange caught my attention.

  It was Michael Lafferty’s file.

  Separating it from the rest, I looked it over, analyzing it this time. All his answers seemed so normal. Just your average
everyday good old boy from next door.

  Unfortunately, I knew looks could be deceiving.

  SEVEN

  The Greenbush Line was a light-rail MBTA commuter train that ran to and from the South Shore and Boston. I preferred the commuter boat, though it took a bit longer—longer only because I had to drive into Hingham. When I was in a hurry, I took the train.

  Like today.

  I overslept and was dangerously close to being late for my first appointment of the day, a follow-up with a woman named Mary Keegan. I needed to get in town fast. So, I phoned Raphael and had him meet me at South Station instead of the dock.

  Suzannah was highly capable of holding Valentine, Inc., steady when no one was there; she’d been doing it for years, ever since she walked in looking for love and left with a job. Two years later, she was entrusted with our family secret after questioning my father about why he had been coloring on people’s files. She’d been working for my father for nearly five years and was practically part of my family. What’s one more person to add to the dysfunction? However, as far as I could see, Suz was the sanest of us all.

  And she certainly wouldn’t rat me out to my dad if I was late. Even still . . .

  My father trusted me, me of the barista, dog-walking, day-care fame—to run his beloved company. Leading me to believe that he saw potential I didn’t see in myself.

  I didn’t want to fail. The company needed to thrive under my leadership, even if it was for two weeks only. I didn’t want to let my father down. Again. I’d let him down enough when I lost my ability to read auras.

  Dropping my head against the seat, I wished the train would hurry up already. I was too agitated to attempt math problems, even easy ones. Instead I started a mental to-do list. Number one was getting to work on time (it would be a miracle). If my first client hadn’t yet arrived, I’d call Marisol to make sure she didn’t have any more injured critters for me to care for.

  The hamster she dropped off last night had been asleep when I woke up, curled tightly into the little plastic box in the corner of his cage. I’d decided to name him Odysseus.

  And by naming him, I was fairly certain that I’d be keeping him. I hoped he wouldn’t be as needy as Grendel, and I also hoped Grendel would get over the indignation of having to share my affection with a rodent.

  In my rush to eat breakfast, I also noticed three empty bottles of wine in my recycling bin. It must have been some dinner party.

  Before I left home, I’d checked the news while downing my coffee, blowing dry my hair, and dabbing some mascara on my eyelashes (and also on my eyelids, but that was Grendel’s fault).

  Max hadn’t been found, the search continued, and Katherine O’Brien’s face haunted me, even now as the train finally (mercifully) slowed to a stop at the station.

  I didn’t know if I could return to the park to help search. The guilt at not being able to use my psychic abilities to find Max weighed heavily on my conscience.

  Raphael waited for me outside the station, the car idling. White stubble scratched my mouth as I gave him a quick peck—he never shaved when my father was out of town.

  Once we were seated inside the car, Raphael said, “Why in such a hurry to get to work?” He pulled his seat belt across his chest.

  I buckled in, set my bag at my feet. In it were the files I’d brought home last night and a change of clothes for my date later that night. “I don’t want to be late for my first appointment.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I tucked my bag under my feet. Bright sun burned off morning clouds. Temps slowly rose, and the warmer weather could only be a good thing for little Max—if he was in fact lost in the vast park. “All right, out with it,” I said.

  “Out with what?”

  “You only ‘mmm-hmm’ when you have a point you’re trying to get across to me and I’m too dense to see it.”

  He smiled, bringing light into his dark eyes. “ ‘Dense’ is not a term I’d use to describe you.”

  “You’re avoiding.”

  “Did you have a chance to look for a match for me?” he asked.

  “Now you’re really avoiding.”

  “Just lonely, Uva.”

  I had a feeling he was manipulating me, but there was a ring of truth in his tone. One I couldn’t bring myself to tease about. “I’ll start today.”

  Traffic lurched along. The sun rode low on the horizon, slowly inching its way higher and higher, above the skyscrapers, up into the deep blue sky. I lowered my visor to protect my eyes from the UV rays. The car still held its appealing “new” smell, blended with the scent of luxurious leather. My father required a new vehicle every nine months.

  “What’s your type?” I dreaded the task of finding Raphael a mate, yet oddly looked forward to it as well.

  “You tell me.” He adjusted the radio and the heater at the same time. His long fingers then curved around the steering wheel and thumped along to the music—an ancient tune from Men at Work.

  I’d known Raphael nearly all my life, yet had never seen him on a date. Hadn’t so much as seen him ogle a woman walking down the street. If he had enjoyed a certain type—tall, short, thin, curvy, blonde, brunette, redhead—he never let on to me.

  And I told him so.

  “Mmm-hmm.” “Not again!”

  He laughed, a rich sound that vibrated his chest. “You know me better than anyone, Uva. You have all the information you need.”

  I was coming to realize matchmaking was harder than it looked.

  As I gazed out the window at the crowded city sidewalks, I thought about Raphael, about his quirks, his traits, his likes, his dislikes.

  We pulled to a stop at a red light, and Raphael tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting patiently for me to tell him what his type was.

  This was so like him.

  “Okay.” I ticked off fingers. “She has to have a good sense of humor; be loyal, faithful, and hardworking; be independent enough not to resent your hours . . . yet,” I looked at him, “be willing to let you take care of her on occasion. She has to love food as much as you, good books, eighties music, the ocean. A passion for the Red Sox is a must. She has to be willing to travel and not mind you smoking a cigar on occasion. I’d choose someone who likes to talk, because you’re too quiet. A relationship needs noise.”

  He smiled at that.

  “Above all, she has to be your friend.” I shifted in my seat as he pulled up to Valentine, Inc. “How’d I do?”

  He nodded. “It’s a start.”

  I laughed. “Now I’ve just got to find her.”

  “I have complete faith.”

  “At least one of us does,” I murmured, though I was going to do my best to make him happy. He deserved it. I suspected the problem would lie in finding someone worthy of him.

  I slid out of the car, held the door. His comment about being lonely kept playing in my head. “How about lunch today?” I’d have offered dinner, but I had a blind date with Butch the butcher.

  “Sounds perfect,” Raphael said with a crooked, endearing smile. “Come to the penthouse; I’ll whip something up.”

  “Oh no! You deserve someone to cook for you once in a while.”

  His face blanched. “Not you. . . .”

  “I won’t take that personally, Pasa.” A breeze loosened the knot my hair had been swept into. “We’ll go out. Where to? The Oyster House?”

  “Nothing fancy. You know I don’t like fancy.”

  I looked around. The perfect choice was right in front of me. “The Porcupine? At noon?”

  “I’ll be here.”

  I closed the door and waved good-bye. As soon as I turned around, I came face-to-face with the persistent reporter.

  “You’re Lucy Valentine, correct?”

  Somebody had been doing her homework.

  “And you are?” I asked.

  “Preston Bailey, reporter for the South Shore Beacon.”

  It was a small newspaper, local to where I lived. One that us
ually stuck to regional news and not gossipy articles about famous matchmakers who cheated on their wives. I had two options. I could blow her off and hope she’d go away, or I could act like a human and hope she’d go away.

  “Nice to meet you.”

  She looked stunned that I’d used manners. Shaggy shoulder-length blonde hair had been pushed back behind her ears. Serious blue eyes peered at me beneath fringe bangs.

  Walking with me toward the door, she said, “I’m going to be honest. I want a job with one of the bigger papers. The Globe, the Herald. If I can get a scoop from you, it may just be the stepping-stone I need to be looked at seriously. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t really have anything to say.” I hurried to the entrance of Valentine, Inc. At five-foot-eight, I had four, maybe five, inches on Preston Bailey, roving reporter, and therefore my strides were longer. She had to jog to keep up.

  “I find that hard to believe.” She didn’t wait for a response from me. Instead she launched into her next question. “Is it true that your father has left town, leaving the running of the company to you?”

  She was good. I wasn’t sure where she had gotten her information, but she had pretty much nailed it.

  “My father has taken a medical leave of absence.”

  “In St. Lucia?”

  I smiled as I swiped the card key. “Where better?”

  She answered with another question. “With your mother, correct? Does this mean she’s forgiven him for his little dalliance?”

  “Cute shoes,” I said, eyeing her boots.

  She looked down at her feet. “Thanks.”

  While her attention had been diverted, I’d pulled open the door and stepped in before she could follow me.

  “Hey! Wait!” she cried. “I’ve got more questions!”

  “I’m sorry. I have clients waiting.”

  I quickly pulled the door closed, but I swore I could have heard her say, “You’d think he’d avoid the beach.”

  I couldn’t help but smile. I’d thought the same thing.

  As I stopped on the second-floor landing, I looked up the next flight of steps. On the third floor, the door to SD Investigations stood open wide. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to run up right now and chat with Sean.