Sean ran a hand through his dark hair. “Forgive me, but I don’t dig up dead people every day. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to react.” He held my door open for me. I sat, keeping Thoreau close to my chest.
As soon as Sean walked around the car and slid into his seat, I said, “I don’t do this every day, either.”
He didn’t respond, but the skeptical look in his eyes said enough.
I took a deep breath, wishing I’d been of strong enough fortitude to have done this by myself. The inane thought of “next time” crossed my mind. Ha! There would be no next time. My job here was done. Well, almost. “Can you drive back to the Dunkin’ Donuts on the corner?”
“You’re hungry at a time like this?”
“I want to use the pay phone.”
Pulling his cell from his pocket, he handed it over. “Here, use mine.”
“No thanks. I don’t want the trace.”
His eyebrows jumped up, his gaze narrowing. Abruptly he looked away.
As he started the car, I prepared myself for a barrage of questions. To my surprise, Sean had none.
I supposed digging up a body could make a person speechless.
We’d stopped digging as soon as Sean hit bone. There was no reason to exhume the skeleton—just confirm there was in fact a body.
Sean pulled into the parking lot, angled his car near the pay phone. I jumped out. Using a tissue, I carefully picked up the receiver and dialed 911, making sure I left behind no fingerprints. My hands were cold and stiff.
The male operator sounded bored. “What’s your emergency?”
“Hi, yeah, um, my boyfriend and I were just walking our dog at Great Esker and the dog broke free.”
“We don’t handle lost dogs,” the dispatcher replied evenly. “I can connect you with Animal Control.”
“No, no!” I said, trying to disguise my voice. “We have the dog.”
“Then why are you calling? Is there an emergency?”
What defined an emergency in his book?
“Technically, no. But the dog, when it went into the woods, went crazy over a certain spot. My boyfriend, well, he had a shovel in his car and, well, he ran back to his car and got it and started digging, and about a foot down he hit a bone. A human bone,” I added for good measure. “Someone’s buried in Great Esker.”
“How do you know the bone is human?”
What was with the trivia questions? “Medical school,” I lied.
“What’s your name, miss?” the operator asked a little more urgently.
I gave him directions to find the body. “There will be signs of fresh digging.”
“Your name,” he demanded.
I hung up and jumped into the car. “Go!” I said to Sean before the police tracked us to the pay phone.
Sean zipped out of the parking lot and turned south on 3A, headed back to the shipyard. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through my date with Butch.
I’d known there was a body buried in that spot, but seeing . . . I shook my head. It was surreal seeing that bone.
Just over the Hingham Bay Bridge, Sean turned right, into a shopping plaza.
“Where are we going?” I asked, my heart thumping.
He backed into a well-lit parking space in front of Stop & Shop on the outskirts of the busy lot, shut off the engine, turned, and looked at me.
I tried not to shy away from his direct stare, but it was difficult. His piercing eyes were too much to bear. I stroked Thoreau’s fur. “I need you to trust me. You said you would.”
“Trust only goes so far, Lucy. You’ve got to trust me, as well. With the truth.”
I closed my eyes. Did I dare? I had put him in a precarious position, but this secret had always stayed within my family.
Sean grabbed my hand. “Lucy—”
My head spun, visions coming deliciously slow, teasing. The two of us in my bed, skin to skin, Sean on top of me, kissing my cheeks, my lips, my neck, my breasts—
I yanked my hand away from his, and he cradled his close to his chest as if it had been burned.
“What the hell! That’s the second time that’s happened,” he said, rubbing his palm.
“Wh-what?”
“I get zapped when I touch your hand.” His gaze searched my face. “That’s some static.”
“Yeah. Static. I ran out of Downy,” I said, dropping my head against the headrest. The dizziness was fading, but the sexy images were not. My body sizzled, begging for Sean to touch me more.
“Look at me, Lucy.”
I couldn’t. If I looked at him now, he’d read the desire in my eyes. He had a girlfriend. Kind of. Besides, there was Cupid’s Curse to consider. There could never be anything between us. I shook my head.
“All right,” he said, starting the car. “Just tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“Did you have anything to do with that body being in the grave?”
Shock tamped down any lingering desire. I looked at him. “Are you crazy? No!”
He rolled out of the lot. “Okay. I’ll let you keep your secrets for now, Lucy. But I will get to the bottom of all this. I’ll figure out what’s going on with you.” He nudged my chin, so I’d look at him. “And between us.”
ELEVEN
Heat warmed my hands, my face, my feet as I sat in my running car in the shipyard, frowning at the Hingham Bay Club. I was supposed to be having dinner with Butch in fifteen minutes.
I say “supposed” because I was considering standing him up.
Unfortunately, ingrained manners didn’t allow me to seriously consider the thought.
But apprehension had me longing for alcohol.
Apprehension and what Sean and I had discovered.
It had been twenty minutes since he’d dropped me off at my car, then zoomed away.
I couldn’t help that he was angry. I wanted to answer his questions, but I couldn’t without putting my family’s secrets at risk. Though I trusted him on some levels, how could I know for sure that he’d never tell anyone about my psychic abilities? That he wouldn’t start questioning why my father was so successful? That he’d believe?
Leaving the safety of my car, I walked into the restaurant and headed for the bar. I was early; there was little chance Butch was already here, lying in wait for me. I had plenty of time to wash down some anxiety.
I didn’t do well with blind dates.
With dates at all.
“Something strong,” I said to the bartender. Then I remembered I had to drive home. “But not too strong.”
I slipped off my trench coat and made sure my wraparound dress stayed put when I sat, slipping my stiletto heel over the stool’s rung. Above the bar the TV was tuned to the local news coverage of Little Boy Lost.
My drink, white wine, arrived and I took a grateful sip as I watched the TV, glad for the distraction from my thoughts. The TV showed John and Katherine O’Brien holding each other. Both wore that faraway look that cut to the heart of me. John O’Brien was a tall man, broad through the shoulders and hips, and looked like the type of guy you’d want to have around in an emergency. The strong type.
But the type to hurt his child?
I couldn’t tell.
The camera cut back to the reporter. “Officials are now questioning whether Mr. O’Brien was under a doctor’s care for his medical ailments. There’s been no conclusive evidence Mr. O’Brien has a seizure disorder, but police are refusing to label him a suspect at this time. A source within the police department said that Mr. O’Brien has agreed to take a lie detector test and that possible charges may be filed. The test will be administered some time tomorrow. On a more disturbing note, the Hingham police have confirmed that a registered sexual predator has been living at the park’s campground.”
My stomach churned at this news. Max, Max, where are you?
My cell phone played a cheery version of “Jingle Bells” that didn’t fit my mood. I took it and my wine to a far corner.
&n
bsp; It was Marisol.
“Still no news from Em?” I asked her.
“No. And now I’m starting to get worried.”
Out the window I watched as a commuter boat docked at the terminal. To my left, dozens of sailboats bobbed at the Hingham marina. Across a small strip of water on a thin peninsula, the Weymouthport condos stood proud and blocked the view of the vast waters beyond. Yellow squares of light dotted the complex’s façade. “Maybe we should call the hospital, see if she’s there.”
“I did. She called in sick for today and tomorrow.”
A knot formed in my stomach. “Did you check with her mother?”
“Just got off the phone with her. She hasn’t heard from Em since yesterday afternoon. Said she sounded just fine, but thought it was odd Em hadn’t checked in with her today.”
“Have you talked to Joseph again?”
“Unfortunately. Em hasn’t been home. Nothing is missing from the house. She’s just gone. She has her handbag and her car. We can’t go to the police yet—it’s too soon.”
I set my wine down. My stomach was topsy-turvy and no amount of alcohol was going to settle it.
“I’m really worried,” Marisol said.
“Me, too,” I admitted.
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know. Is there anything we can do?”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a man walk in and glance around. He looked a lot like Matt Damon.
“Probably not,” muttered Marisol. “But I don’t like it.”
“I think this is cause for me to cancel my date.” I could skip out without Butch even noticing.
“No, don’t do that. He’s really a nice guy. I’m just—”
“Worried?”
“Yeah. I think I’ll make a few more phone calls. I’ll let you know if I turn up anything.”
I hung up, took a deep breath, and headed back to the bar. It was times like these that I thought about cutting Dovie’s branch off the family tree.
And putting it through a wood chipper.
“Hi,” I said to the Matt Damon look-alike. “Are you—”
“Are you Lucy?” he asked at the same time.
I nodded. He smiled (he even had teeth like Matt Damon) and held out his hand. I took another deep breath and shook it. Images whirled, sending me to another place. One where I clearly saw a set of keys nestled in between couch cushions.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I couldn’t find my keys. Needed to borrow my roommate’s car.”
Woozy, I sat on the stool. “Mine always fall between the cracks of my couch cushions. You might want to check there.”
He looked at me oddly but said, “I will. Do you want to get a table?”
“Can we just sit here for a minute?”
Again the odd look. “Okay.”
I ordered a ginger ale in hopes of settling my stomach, and he chose a Sam Adams. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Is your name really Butch?”
He laughed. “No. It’s—” He stopped, shook his blond head. “It’s a long story.”
Wearily, I said, “I have time.”
“All in the interest of full disclosure?”
On his part, at least. No need to tell him that, though. “Sure.”
“My first name is Hutchinson. Hutch to my family and friends. But,” he went on, “I couldn’t say my h’s when I was little and turned the H into a B.”
“Hutchinson?” I asked.
“My parents owned a place on Hutchinson Island in Florida. It’s where I was conceived.”
“Ah,” I said, rather wishing I hadn’t asked. “Do you want me to call you Hutch or Butch?”
“Hutch is fine.”
“Can I make Starsky jokes?”
“Maybe Butch would be better.”
I laughed. It felt good. With one look I knew there was no romantic chemistry between us, but there were the makings of a good friendship.
“Are you really a butcher?” I asked.
He nodded. “For now.”
I could relate. “Had many jobs?”
“Too many to count. Started out wanting to be a state trooper, but couldn’t get through the academy. From there—”
Rudely I tuned him out as the flash of the TV caught my attention. A scroll at the bottom of the screen announced that John O’Brien would be taking a lie detector test the following day and that the police were questioning the sexual predator.
“I think it’s great you went to help out last night,” Butch said, following my gaze.
I sipped my ginger ale, feeling guilty. “Sorry I missed Dovie’s dinner.”
He grinned. “She has a way of strong-arming, doesn’t she?”
“You could call it that. Was it awful?” This was good. This banter. Normal, even. I could almost forget about that bone. . . . I pushed the image aside. I’d found her. The police would do the rest. I could stop fretting. And get back to living a normal life without visions of corpses.
“Not at all. Dovie is a lot of fun, and your friend Marisol—”
He cut himself off, but not before I noticed the way his eyes lit when he said her name.
“She’s nice,” he finished lamely.
“That she is,” I said, sorry that he didn’t have a chance with her. They’d make a cute couple.
The image of Max O’Brien flashed on the screen. Next to it bullet points listed his height, weight, age. The reporter’s voice-over described the clothes the little boy was wearing. The jeans, the long-sleeved blue T-shirt, and his father’s Red Sox sweatshirt.
My glass slipped out of my hands.
Quickly I dabbed the bar top with napkins. “Did you hear that?” I asked Butch, wondering if I’d made up that last detail.
“What?” he asked, helping me swab.
“The little boy—he’s wearing his father’s sweatshirt?”
“I think that’s what she said.”
I signaled the bartender. “Have you had the TV on all day?”
“Yeah. No one will let me put it on ESPN,” he grumped.
“Have you been listening to it?”
“Hard not to. Why?”
“The little boy who’s lost—what’s he wearing?”
He took a step back. “I dunno.”
A woman two stools down tapped my shoulder. “Jeans, long-sleeved T-shirt, and his father’s sweatshirt.”
“His father’s sweatshirt?”
She shrugged. “The police just disclosed that it was missing from the spot where the kid disappeared. Of course the media is hinting that the kid’s buried in it somewhere.”
Max was wearing his father’s sweatshirt! This was the best news I’d heard in . . . forever.
I jumped up, grabbed my trench. “I’ve got to go, Butch.”
“Now? So soon?”
“I’m sorry. Rain check, okay?”
I didn’t give him time to answer. I dashed out of the restaurant and ran as fast as my heels would carry me to my car.
There was no time to waste.
I could help after all.
I could find Max.
By the time I reached command central, I was a Nervous wreck.
My heart beat in triple time as I inched along the perimeter of the area in search of John O’Brien. I had to go through him—it was his sweatshirt.
I was a fish out of water, picking my way along the uneven ground in heels and a dress. Luckily, I still had my stocking cap in the car. It didn’t quite go with my outfit, but I was more concerned with staying warm.
It also helped conceal my identity. There was no way anyone could tell I was blonde under the hat.
What was the proper way to go about this? I didn’t know how to approach Max’s dad. Or what to say to him. Or even if the police would let me near him. And I couldn’t just shake his hand and hope to see the sweatshirt. Odds were he was fixated on finding his son, not the sweatshirt in particular. If I was going to be able to find it, he’d hav
e be focused on the object.
If I went to the police first, how would I explain myself without giving away my abilities? And, in turn, my identity.
With my pulse thudding in my ears, I lurked, trying to look as though I fit in with the media personnel. Last night, my outfit would have blended right in with the roving reporters. But today everyone seemed to have switched to jeans and hiking boots as though they had been scouring the trails in search of the little boy themselves.
Adrenaline surged when John O’Brien exited the visitor center and headed toward the coffee tent. People cut him a wide swath.
And for the first time I had second thoughts.
What if I shook his hand and saw the body of his son? The son he had killed?
But what if I did nothing and the little boy was alive somewhere? Lost, lonely. Cold and hungry.
It was an easy decision, even if I had to put myself at risk to make it.
I moved forward, awkwardly, my heels catching on the grass. “Mr. O’Brien?” I said, cutting off his path.
He stopped, looked at me. “Yes?”
“Can I have a minute of your time?”
“Are you with the media?” he asked.
“No.” My heart thudded in my ears.
“The police?”
“No.”
“Then I’m sorry, I don’t have time to—”
My voice caught. “I c-can find him.”
John O’Brien’s breath hitched. “That’s not funny.”
I looked him straight in the eye. “I’m not joking.”
“What’s your name?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“You’re wasting my time, miss.” He dodged to his left, to walk away.
I cut him off again. “Am I? If your son is alive, I can find him. If you had nothing to do with his disappearance,” I let the innuendo sink in, “then what do you have to lose? Nothing. And you’ve got everything to gain.”
I didn’t mention to him that I’d be able to see if little Max was dead, also. If John had killed his son, there was no need for me to become a target as well.
“How?” he asked.
“I’d rather not say.”
He stepped in close. He was about two inches taller than me but looked much stronger. Pain and anger radiated from his eyes. It was much better than the faraway look that had been on the news. “If you’re messing with me . . .” he threatened. “This isn’t a game.”
Truly, Madly Page 10
