by Rick Mofina
“I’m Eileen, this is my husband, Norbert, and this is our neighbor, Sheri Young. She used to babysit Tara Dawn for Fiona and Barton.”
“You made good time,” Norbert said as Kate shook everyone’s hand, noticing that Norbert held an unlit pipe.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
The house smelled of soap and fresh soil. They led her to the kitchen and a table covered with a checkered tablecloth. Everyone sat while Eileen made tea and coffee, then set down a plate of cookies.
“Eileen told us about your accident in BC, when you were a child.” Norbert looked into the bowl of his unlit pipe. “What a terrible thing.”
“You really think that Tara Dawn’s disappearance is connected to your sister’s case?” Sheri spooned sugar into her coffee.
“Yes, a lot of new factors have surfaced with a recent murder and suicide in New York State.”
“What sort of factors?” Eileen passed Kate a mug.
Kate gave them an account of what was found at the Rampart site and how, along with dates, it all aligned with Vanessa and Tara Dawn’s cases.
“That sounds unsettling, for sure,” Eileen said.
“Could be there’s something to it.” Norbert nodded.
“I’m not sure how much we can help, though,” Eileen said. “We never knew the Mae family. We’re from Manitoba and bought this place ten years ago this spring after Norbert retired from the railroad. Sheri knew the family better than anyone.”
“I did,” Sheri said. “What would you like to know?”
“Tell me what you can about the Maes, about Tara Dawn’s adoption and her disappearance.”
“Well…” Sheri reached back over the years. “Barton and Fiona didn’t mix with other people. They were private, deeply devout. You only saw them at church, or at the store. They just worked on their farm. Then Fiona had a baby, a girl, but she died after a year.”
“What happened?”
“Nobody in town really knew. One day we saw the ambulance and the Mountie cars out at the place. Later, it got around that their baby had died. My mom figured it was SIDS or some sickness. Then my dad said there was a rumor that Barton had dropped her. But no one knew the truth.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Oh, that was over twenty-two, twenty-three years, back. Anyway, they both took it hard, as you can imagine. People saw even less of them. It was like Barton and Fiona were haunted by it. Then two or three years later, they started coming to church with Tara Dawn, who was about five or six. At first people thought she was a niece who was visiting. Then it got around that Tara Dawn was their adopted daughter.”
Kate showed Sheri a picture of Vanessa on her cell phone.
“Did she look like that?”
Sheri studied the photo for a few seconds.
“It was a long time ago, but I’d say she looked a lot like that.”
“Tell me more about her.”
“Eventually, we’d heard that Tara was adopted from a distant relative in the United States and that was that. Not too long after, my mom said that Fiona asked if I would babysit occasionally. It didn’t happen often, but sometimes Barton and Fiona would go to Hanna, or Medicine Hat, for some deal on a tractor, or something. I don’t know why they didn’t take Tara with them, but I liked watching her.”
“What was she like?”
“Very quiet, shy. I remember one time I tried asking her about where she used to live, what had happened, and all she did was cry. I gave her a hug then we went to the barn to play with the kittens. That cheered her up. But I felt so bad I never asked her about that kind of thing again, because she didn’t want to talk about it. Some days I would look across the field from our place and see Tara playing by herself with her dog. She looked lonely but she seemed happy. She always smiled at me and said hi if I saw her with Fiona in the store.
“Then, a few years later, she was stolen away at the truck stop. Oh, it was horrible. The whole town was shocked. I never saw so many police cars. They had dogs, helicopters, searchers, roadblocks. It was in all the news. People prayed in the churches for a miracle, for a happy ending. Reporters came from everywhere. It was a big story, but as time went by, things seemed to slow down and it wasn’t in the news as much.
“Barton and Fiona were devastated. Nobody saw them…they stopped coming to church. They were like ghosts. About a year after Tara Dawn went missing, Barton’s tractor rolled on him. He was in a coma for a week before he died. A year or so after that, two women from the church went to check on Fiona and found her dead in her bedroom. She’d overdosed on sleeping pills.”
Eileen passed tissues to Sheri, who dabbed her eyes.
“There were some anniversary stories about Tara Dawn’s disappearance, but her story faded until it was practically forgotten. Of course, the place went up for sale,” Sheri said.
“We knew the history,” Norbert said. “So did a lot of other people, but they weren’t interested, so we bought at a good price and parceled some of the land to rent.”
Eileen looked pensively out the window at the expanse of flat land. “Every morning when I get up I say a little prayer to their memory.” She turned back to Kate. “We can show you Tara’s room, if you like?”
* * *
Kate gripped the banister and the stairs creaked as she climbed them behind Eileen, with Sheri and Norbert behind them. A double bed and mirrored dresser took up most of the room, which smelled of pine and moth balls. White-on-white-striped paper covered the walls.
A curtained window opened to the eternal sky.
Kate traced her fingers along the frame envisioning Tara Dawn—or Vanessa—standing in this very spot searching the horizon.
So alone.
“We use it as a guest room when our son and his kids come to visit,” Eileen said. “I redid the walls, and the furniture is ours. I’m sorry, there’s nothing here from the Maes. It all got auctioned.”
As Kate’s eyes swept the room, Norbert, who was leaning against the doorway, stood as if a memory had prodded him to attention.
“Wait, we still got those trunks from Doug Clovis’s son.”
“What trunks?”
“Last year, Eileen. You were in Calgary that day.” Norbert turned to Kate. “Doug Clovis sold his auction business and his son found two trunks in their warehouse left over from the Mae auction. They were supposed to go to charity but they dropped them here. I said, might as well leave them here. Our son could go through them first.” Norbert pointed somewhere with his pipe. “They’re in the barn if you want to look.”
* * *
The barn was a rusting metal Quonset hut some distance behind the house. The old building had been subdivided into pens and stalls that had once been used for livestock.
“We don’t keep any animals. We use it for storage,” Norbert said.
The air was still strong, stale and musty. Dust swirled in the light, shooting through the line of ceiling vents. They went to an area holding a small tractor, wheelbarrows and other equipment. Norbert pulled back a heavy canvas tarp, sending dust mites spinning as he revealed two time-worn, flat-top steamer trunks. They were dark green with leather handles and hinges that creaked as he opened them.
Each trunk was jammed with clothes, cardboard boxes and various items. Kate, Eileen and Sheri sifted through plaid work shirts, jeans, socks, women’s clothes, underwear, coats, boots, shoes, hats, scarves, gloves and mittens.
Eileen covered her mouth with her hand when she found baby items, bibs, shoes, little jumpers.
They came across plates wrapped in newspapers, a tea set, a lamp, candleholders and a clock.
“What exactly are we looking for?” Sheri held up a framed picture of a tropical sunset.
“I don’t know.” Kate set aside a shoe box of papers, most
ly invoices. “Adoption records, any evidence that might connect Tara to my sister.”
“Look.” Eileen held up a photo album, opened it and pointed to a color photo of a woman with a baby. “Me and Charlotte” was written under it.
“That’s Fiona with her baby daughter,” Sheri said.
The album pages crackled as Eileen turned to more photos: Barton next to his tractor, Barton fixing a truck, Barton laughing with Charlotte on his knee.
Those pictures were followed by album pages of nothing. Eileen kept flipping the crackling pages until new photos appeared. “Our Miracle, Tara Dawn” was written under the first picture.
Kate felt the air rush from her gut.
She spasmed as a cadenza of sound shrieked through her mind, burning across years of loss, years of guilt, years of senseless hopes and prayers. Years of never believing, yet refusing to not believe; years of battling every reason to abandon the irrational, unable to let go.
“Are you all right, Kate?” Eileen touched her shoulder.
“That’s my sister, Vanessa!”
“You’re sure?” Eileen passed the album to her so she could take a closer look.
“Yes!” Kate flipped pages, her voice breaking. “I don’t understand how she could’ve got here.” Kate came to a shot of girl showing a timid smile. She was wearing a necklace.
Tenderly Kate ran her fingertips over the picture.
I found you! I found you!
Fighting her tears, her hand shaking, Kate reached for her phone and quickly cued up a photograph of her necklace, the matching one she’d shared with Detective Brennan in Rampart.
“See, it has the same guardian angel charm, see? It’s the necklace our mother gave to each of us!”
“Oh, my God, it is!” Sheri said.
“This is a helluva thing!” Norbert was shaking his head. “Just a helluva thing!”
At that moment the light on Kate’s phone flashed and it rang.
“Kate Page.”
“Hi, Kate, this is Carmen Pearson in Calgary. I’m a private investigator. I do volunteer work for the Children’s Searchlight Network. They gave me your number.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Fred Byfield said I should call you directly if I came across anything that might help you in Alberta.”
“Yes, okay.”
“I’ve located Elliott Searle and he’s agreed to talk to you about Tara Dawn Mae’s case.”
“Elliott Searle? Who’s he?”
Sheri’s eyes widened with recognition as Carmen answered, “He’s a retired RCMP inspector. Kate, he’s the Mountie who headed the investigation into Tara Dawn’s disappearance.”
CHAPTER 18
Bragg Creek, Alberta
Is Vanessa alive?
It was one of a million questions Kate agonized over while driving to meet the retired officer who’d run the investigation into Tara Dawn’s disappearance.
Maybe I’m wrong?
Maybe I’m giving too much credence to coincidences and resemblances? Maybe I’ve become blind to reason over the years?
Kate found the Sweet Pines Café, a small log building in Bragg Creek, a postcard-perfect community at Calgary’s southwestern edge, tucked in the thick forests in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains.
Retired inspector Elliott Searle was right where he said he’d be: in a corner booth reading a newspaper.
“Inspector Searle?”
“Yes.” He stood.
“Kate Page. Thanks for meeting me, sir.”
“Call me Elliott. It’s no problem.” He shook her hand. “Have a seat.”
He was an imposing figure in faded jeans and a navy shirt that accentuated his short, silver-white hair and piercing eyes. He had a gravelly voice befitting a capable man accustomed to being in charge.
“I work with missing persons groups,” Elliott said. “They told me about your case. I’m aware of the current activity and your involvement. Police circles are tight, Kate, and no cop would do anything to damage a case. I’m sure you already know that.”
“I’m well aware.”
They both ordered coffee. Before it came, Kate got to the point.
“I think Tara Dawn Mae is my sister.”
The old Mountie’s poker face betrayed nothing as Kate related the whole story. She reached into her bag and pulled out the Mae family albums, which the Ingrams insisted she have. She flipped through the photographs, then showed Elliott pictures of the necklace as she raised question after question about her crash in BC, Tara Dawn and the case in Upstate New York.
“The adoption records were incomplete,” Elliott said.
“Incomplete? I don’t understand.”
“Before our meeting I reviewed my personal notes to refresh my memory. When Tara Dawn vanished, part of our investigation was to examine the family history, their background. That’s when we found that the adoption records were incomplete. The Maes had said a distant relative, a cousin, who was a heroin addict and had been charged in a robbery and was jailed in South Dakota, was Tara Dawn’s mother. She lost custody of the girl and begged social services to give her to a family member.
“We pursued that account and found that a relative of Barton’s had in fact committed suicide in a South Dakota jail. But if there was any sort of adoption, there was no record of it. A courthouse fire had destroyed a lot of state court records, so anything pertaining to any adoption would’ve been lost. The family court in Alberta acknowledged the fire and that records were incomplete but still allowed the adoption.”
“Why?”
“They accepted the account given by the Maes’ lawyer and because no party had come forward to challenge it.”
“What do you think of that, in light of what we know now?”
“The adoption story’s questionable, but when it came to the disappearance, the Maes struck me as honest people.”
“Why do you say that?”
“We polygraphed each of them twice, once with our examiner and once with a Calgary police examiner. The tests concluded that the Maes were being truthful about Tara Dawn’s disappearance. We were confident of their account of what happened at the truck stop. We had supporting witness statements, and we used credit card records and receipts to track down as many people as we could who were there at the time. Unfortunately, only one security camera was working properly so we did not get all the plates.”
“Did you have suspects?”
“There were two ex-cons on parole passing through, but we cleared them off the top. There was also a church group charter bus of children. We thought Tara may have somehow got taken onto that bus in error, but we tracked the bus and cleared it.”
“So no one, really?”
“No. It was very busy at the time. A lot of traffic but, no, nothing emerged. We believe she was abducted and our action and investigation was exhaustive. When it happened we moved fast and took no chances. We set up roadblocks to inspect vehicles and alerted the border crossings, but we didn’t have the resources to cover every point immediately.”
“But what about the adoption—you say it’s questionable?”
“Either it happened the way the Maes said it did, or it didn’t.”
“If it didn’t, how did the Maes come to have Tara Dawn? And how did she get to Rampart and leave a cryptic message fifteen years later?”
“Only one person knows the answers to those questions, Kate, and that’s Tara Dawn.”
Searle declined the waiter’s offer of more coffee, indicating their time together was nearing an end. Kate reviewed her notes.
“In my research I read a couple of articles that said you’d received more than one-hundred-and-fifty tips. Did anything come of them?”
“We followed all of them for leads. The
y yielded nothing.”
After letting a long moment pass, Kate unfolded a photocopy of a newspaper clipping from the Medicine Hat News.
“What about this? I dug this old news story up.”
Elliott looked at the old article, which said that on the day before Tara Dawn went missing, Medicine Hat City police received a report of a man trying to lure a girl into his van.
“Medicine Hat’s about a hundred kilometers, or sixty miles east of the truck stop, right?” Kate said.
“That’s right.” Elliott tapped the clipping. “This is one incident that continues to eat at me to this day.”
“Was there something to it?”
“We followed it up with Medicine Hat police. It seems kids nearby got a plate, but they weren’t sure if it was an Alberta plate, or Saskatchewan, North Dakota, BC or Montana.”
“So, if you got the plate number that’s only about sixty possibilities to run down?”
“Well, then the kids weren’t certain on the sequence. Then another kid said the stranger was only asking for directions, that it was not a lure or abduction attempt. Still, that one haunted me because the Medicine Hat van was generally similar to one that was seen at the truck stop at the time of the abduction. We pursued that lead but it led nowhere.”
“Would you give me the license number?”
“I’m off the case, that plate is not mine to give you, Kate.”
“I see.”
She closed her notebook and put it in her bag.
“I wish it were different,” Elliott said.
“It’s okay, I understand. You’ve been very helpful.”
CHAPTER 19
Rampart, New York
Faces of the dead and missing.
Enlarged photographs of Carl Nelson, John Charles Pollard, Bethany Ann Wynn and Tara Dawn Mae stared from the corkboard at the men and women who’d gathered at Rampart police headquarters.
