Autumn grinned. “Nope. I have an in with the boss.”
• • •
They managed to find their way to Autumn’s apartment building with only one wrong turn, which really wasn’t their fault, because the road had been blocked with yet more construction. All too soon, they pulled up into the parking space where Autumn normally left her car.
“Wait.” Autumn’s hand went out to Tawnia’s to stop her from exiting the car. “My neighbors.” She pointed to a couple emerging from a car near the building. “I’m not ready to see them.” She knew Jake had been to her apartment to water her plants, and he would have talked to her neighbors—he talked to everyone. They would all know about her father and ask questions. Some had already been down to the store to check on her when she had been at the river. While she appreciated their concern, facing them tonight wasn’t high on her list of priorities. “Let’s wait until they go inside. Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” Tawnia settled against the seat, dropping her hands to her lap in a graceful motion.
The couple was barely out of sight when a teenage boy came by the car, a boy Autumn often shot baskets with in the hoop that was poised over the parking lot. Finally, the way was clear. “I’ll go first,” Tawnia offered as they walked to the building. “What floor is it?”
“Lobby floor. To the left.”
Tawnia peered through the glass window in the outside door. “Coast is clear.” They went inside and soon stood outside Autumn’s apartment.
Autumn felt for her spare set of keys and awkwardly opened her door with her left hand. This broken arm stuff was really annoying. Of course that was the least of her worries. She took a step inside. But once there, she began shaking, her face flushed as though her fever had returned. Images of the water, the terror of the fall from the bridge, the woman screaming for her baby, the man crying over the still figure of his wife.
“Autumn? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“Baloney.” Tawnia put an arm around her and urged her the rest of the way into the apartment.
The air was stale, with traces of the herbal tinctures Winter had been experimenting with last week. Autumn could detect the fragrances of camomile, peppermint, and the vodka that made up the base of the tincture. There were other scents as well but so diluted and mixed she couldn’t identify them.
The apartment was small—a living room, a kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom. They had turned a large storage closet into a computer nook because they had a huge back room at the Herb Shoppe for long-term storage.
“Sit down here.” Tawnia’s hand guided Autumn to the couch. A worn crocheted afghan, one Summer had made, lay on the cushion, and Tawnia pulled it over Autumn’s shoulders.
With relief Autumn pulled her shaking legs under her. She could smell Winter. At any moment he could walk out of his bedroom. Closing her eyes, Autumn laid her head back on the couch. A tear trickled from her left eye. The blue one.
“This is a lovely room,” Tawnia said. “Are these couches antiques? I love the woodwork on them. You must have redone the fabric, though.” She ran her hand over the patterned flowers. “It’s perfect Victorian. I bet you did it yourself, didn’t you?” At Autumn’s weak nod, she went on. “That’s what I call art. See, you do have a creative talent that’s just as good as drawing.” She trailed her finger lightly over a bowl and some figurines on the coffee table. “This stuff is fabulous. They’re antiques, too, aren’t they?” She was silent for a few brief seconds and then gave an appreciative gasp. “Oh, look at that ogre statue! That’s unique. I’ve never seen anything like it before. Looks like he’s guarding the TV.”
The sound of Tawnia’s voice washed over Autumn in soothing waves. She commented on the textured walls that Autumn and Winter had worked so hard on to get just right. For a whole five minutes she gushed about the antique chandelier above the coffee table—really too low for the room—that Autumn hadn’t been able to part with at the store. Gradually, Autumn’s breathing slowed and her panic abated.
I can do this, Autumn thought.
“If you’ve made things this nice in such a small space, I can’t imagine what you could do to my parents’ mausoleum.”
Autumn knew Tawnia must feel rather crowded after the stark orderliness at the bungalow, but she was nice to keep Autumn distracted. “Your parents are rich?”
Tawnia sighed. “I don’t really know. My father’s an economist for a big company. But I don’t know who works harder, my father to earn the money or my mother to spend it.”
Autumn laughed. “It must have been nice growing up.”
Tawnia’s face took on the inscrutable expression that Autumn couldn’t decipher. “They didn’t deny me anything I needed. I was fortunate.”
It sounded cold to Autumn. She thought of Summer and Winter and how much they had loved each other and her. They had lacked many comforts in the early years but never companionship and love. Autumn could have no sooner have left Winter behind and moved to another state than she could have cut out half her heart. He was her best friend.
And he was gone.
Yet wasn’t there some chance of his survival? It was dangerous to hold to that hope, but Autumn had never worried much about danger.
“Thank you for coming here with me,” Autumn said. “It’s harder than I expected.”
Tawnia smiled. “You’re welcome. But now I think it’s time to get you to bed. You’ve just spent two days with a fever, and you need to rest.”
Autumn was about to protest that she had been resting all day when a crushing exhaustion descended upon her before she could voice the words. “Good idea. The couch opens to a bed. The sheets are in the bathroom closet. Here, let me—”
“No. You get to bed. Which room’s yours?”
Autumn pointed to the second door.
“Go ahead, then. I’ll come check on you in a bit.”
Nodding, Autumn started to walk past Winter’s room. The door was ajar. She hesitated, desperately wanting to feel him close. “On second thought,” she said, “you take my room, Tawnia. I think I’ll sleep in here.”
Tawnia studied her closely and then nodded. “Okay, but remember I’m here if you need me.”
Autumn walked inside Winter’s room. Everything was exactly as she remembered it. Except that he was missing. And he might never be found. What would she do then? No body to lay to rest, no grave to cry over. It would be as though he’d gone on a trip and never come back. Would it be better to think of him drinking a mai tai on a beach somewhere? But, no, instead she would think of him under the water with who-knew-what kind of river creatures. Winter might actually have preferred disappearing like that—it fit his flower-child nature—but she didn’t feel the same. There was comfort in saying good-bye at a funeral.
She still remembered the funeral they’d had for Summer as if it were yesterday. A home burial, they’d called it.
Winter made the coffin himself, and all their friends came to decorate the wood with paints, leaving their messages of love for Summer. Autumn drew a humongous heart on the top with the words Summer and Autumn inside the unsteady curves. She made it purple, Summer’s favorite color, and no one had stopped her, even though hearts weren’t really supposed to be purple. After the decorating was complete, all the friends lifted Summer’s still form and placed her inside.
“She really looks peaceful,” said Willow, Summer’s best friend. Murmurs of agreement filled the room.
Autumn looked closer at Summer’s face and saw that it was true. All the pain of the cancer was gone from her face, making Summer look so young, like Autumn’s sister instead of her mother.
“She must be in a happy place.” This from Lennon, another friend of her mother’s. His face was wet with tears. Autumn liked him more than all her mother’s friends because he always brought her pressed flowers. He had wanted to marry Summer before Winter came along and captured her heart, but that never seemed to bother anyone, as far as Autumn
could see.
Seeing Summer’s peace made Autumn feel just the tiniest bit better. The pain around the lump that was her heart seemed to ease.
They talked around the coffin nearly all night, way past the time when Autumn normally fell asleep. Eventually they all slept, mostly where they happened to be at the moment. Autumn awoke on the couch early in the morning before anyone else stirred. Her father was snoring gently next to her. There were people on the floor with blankets, and several sprawled on the other couch. Stealthy as a cat, she crossed to the coffin. To her relief, Summer was still there, looking as peaceful as the night before. Autumn stroked her cheek. “Good-bye, Summer.” Then more quietly, so even she couldn’t hear the word, she added, “Mommy.” Then more loudly, “I wish you’d take me with you.”
A hand covered hers. Autumn looked up to see Winter smiling gently down at her. “She can’t take either of us, Autumn. Not yet. You and I will keep each other company—and we’ll be happy. That’s what she would want. She didn’t want to leave us, but sometimes we don’t have a choice. Trust me, okay? Everything is going to be all right. I promise you.” He hugged her tightly, and her tears were soaked up in the fabric of his shirt. That was when she remembered he always told the truth, and she felt peace.
By the bed the smell of Winter was stronger, and she could almost hear his voice as it had been in the weeks and months following Summer’s death, when she had crawled into his bed at night, trembling with longing for her mother. “There, there, baby. You’re shaking like a leaf. Come here. I’m here. There’s nothing to fear. It’ll be okay.” He’d called her Leafy for a time after that, teasing her gently during the day until the night terrors faded to nothingness and she was able to sleep through the night in her own bed.
She slipped between his covers, burying her nose in his pillow. She imagined his bearded face pressed there. “Winter,” she said and then more softly, she added, “Daddy.” She was a child again, smoothing her mother’s still cheek. She sent her thoughts up and outward, but there was nothing. No connection to him. He had gone to a place where she could not follow. She was alone in the world.
But no, there was Tawnia and the undeniable connection that didn’t relate solely to their physical similarity. Tawnia, who hadn’t wanted her to face the apartment alone.
With that comforting thought, Autumn closed her eyes and slept.
Chapter 12
Bret drove to the Multnomah County offices for his meeting with Clyde Hanks, but his mind was far from the bridge disaster. He was thinking instead of Tawnia and Autumn. When he’d been sitting on the couch with Autumn, he’d known she was Autumn, and yet the way her nose twitched every so often as she spoke, and the way one arch of her top lip rose slightly higher than the other as she smiled—that was all Tawnia. Their movements were also alike, fluid and purposeful. And their eyes. It was uncanny, to say the least, and it made him feel as if he knew her well, which was far from the truth in Autumn’s case. The way she looked at him made him feel as if she could see his very thoughts.
He hoped not, because they were confused. Was he attracted to both women, or did he feel something for Autumn because of her resemblance to Tawnia? There was a chance it could be something new, something that wasn’t mixed up with the memory of Christian. Would it be wrong to hope for that?
Hanks looked haggard when Bret entered his office, as though he hadn’t slept well since the bridge collapse. Probably he hadn’t.
“Thanks for coming, Bret.” He indicated a chair in front of the desk, and Bret settled into it.
“Anything new?”
Hanks sighed as he sank into the chair behind the desk. “They don’t have proof, but the FBI seems to be pointing the finger, at least in part, at the bridge operator. He’s saying the boat hit the side of the bridge and that there was no error on his part, but the captain and crew swear otherwise. They say the lift wasn’t up in time, or that it stopped and started back down, or some such nonsense. Some think the bridge operator may be somehow involved with the explosives and was trying to make it look like an accident.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“They say everything was timed just so. Had to be, in order to make it look like the boat caused the collapse instead of the explosives.”
Bret thought a moment. “Maybe they’re right. If everything is pointing that way.”
Hanks shook his head. “Absolutely not. I know the bridge operator, and if he says he wasn’t aware of any plot, then I believe him. They have the wrong guy.”
“How can you be sure?”
Hanks hesitated, raking a hand uncharacteristically through his hair, upsetting the natural flow of the thick waves. There was something more here, something Bret didn’t understand.
“Look.” Hanks leaned over, lowering his voice, “The truth is that the bridge operator is my son. I gave him the job just last year when he dropped out of college.” He gave a snort of disgust. “Twenty-three and still no degree in sight. But this job didn’t require more than a few weeks of training, and he’s actually done a great job.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about. The FBI will figure it out. Until they do, everyone is guilty. They have to think that way. Taking a lie detector test might help things along.”
“You don’t understand.” Hanks stood and paced to the door and back, his hands clasped in front as though walking up an aisle in a church. Ready to make penance.
Feeling uneasy, Bret came to his own feet. “I’d like to help, if I can. What exactly don’t I understand?”
Hanks came to a stop, his eyes flat and staring. “It’s just that my son wasn’t in the control cabin when the boat came through. He was supposed to be, but he left with a . . . a woman. She came looking for someone who used to work at the lift. She was in tears—quite upset. My son was in the cabin alone that day. There weren’t any boats in sight, and since they can’t let unauthorized personnel into the control room, he saw nothing wrong with stepping out for a few minutes to talk to the girl. He carried his radio, so he’d be notified if a boat needed something. Besides, the boats know they can’t get through without approval. If a boat came, it could wait.”
“So how long was he gone from the cabin?”
“Ten minutes. Fifteen, tops. Or so he says.”
Bret arched a brow. “Or so he says?”
“He swears it was only ten minutes, but you know how difficult it is to judge these things. He got her to stop crying, but she stayed and talked a while. He walked her down the bridge to the park. He swears the river was clear. But she was very flirtatious and a bit physical, if you know what I mean.”
Bret could imagine the mystery woman kissing the young bridge operator to distract him. “Aren’t there an average of six lifts a day? Why would he go so far from the cabin?” It was irresponsible to a huge degree.
Hanks shook his head. “That kid has never had any sense when it comes to women. He finally did extricate himself when he noticed someone had started the lift, but he got back only in time for the whole thing to come collapsing down.”
Bret swallowed hard. At least the lift had been up. That was the only thing that prevented even more deaths, though because of the backup traffic on the east side, the effect had still been horrendous.
“My son was almost knocked over the edge of the bridge and had to climb to safety. That’s why people believe that he was in the cabin when it fell.”
“Someone had to start the lift.”
“Well, whoever it was must have run to safety seconds before my son got there. Maybe he hid in one of the waiting cars.”
“And your son didn’t think any of this was important to tell the police?” Bret demanded. How could he not? And how could Hanks not have come forward once he knew the truth?
“He’s still just a kid.”
“Then maybe he shouldn’t have been operating the lift.”
Hanks glared at him, and Bret realized he’d overstepped his bounds. He was the employee, and thoug
h his job wasn’t at risk, word would get back to Nevada. Still, he couldn’t believe Hanks was covering for his son. He held Hanks’ gaze. “He has to report this. You know he does. Think about it.”
The anger subsided from Hanks’ eyes. As the anger left, so did whatever had been holding his shoulders in place, and they slumped with the weight of his duty. “You’re right. He should have come forward, but he didn’t, and coming forward this
late . . . he risks not only his job but mine as well.”
“Not necessarily. When did you learn about it?”
“Last night. I swear I didn’t know it before.”
Bret felt a thrill of unwanted power. All at once, Hanks was no longer the confident manager but rather a simple man looking to him for an answer. For absolution. For an easy way out. Bret could give him none of that.
“I think you ought to tell the FBI. Now. Before they discover it themselves.”
“Maybe they won’t.”
What little remained of Bret’s respect for the man vanished. “Maybe you ought to worry more about finding who did this instead of what people are going to think about you and your son.”
Turning his back on Hanks, he strode to the door. He knew Hanks’s type. He was the kind who covered for his son the time he accidentally broke the neighbor’s window or vouched for him the night the school was vandalized, though the boy’s ball was missing and he’d seen the cans of spray paint under his son’s bed. He was the kind who used his city position to get his son’s speeding ticket dropped, a man who gave his son a good job when he wasn’t the top applicant. He’d made it easy for his son to be unmindful of consequences because he’d never had to suffer any.
“Wait!” Hanks scuttled after him, defying his middle-age bulk. “I’ll tell them—I will! I just want a little time. I want to find out about this woman. I thought maybe you’d help. You know all the players. Someone has to be hiding something. My biggest fear is that this is an inside job.”
Bret hesitated. The guy was asking, and despite his disgust, Bret was curious. “You have a name for the girl?”
Eyes of a Stanger Page 16
