The Search

by Nora Roberts

  Baffled, she turned to study it as he was. “My house?”

  “It’s small, a little fanciful and right for the spot. You should think about adding a solarium on the south face. It’d add some interest to the architecture, opening up your kitchen and bringing more light in. Anyway, do yourself a favor and don’t check your e-mail or messages. I’ll bring the dog and the chair back in a couple days.”

  She frowned after him as he and the dog walked to the truck. Simon unclipped the leash, boosted Jaws inside, where he sat, proudly holding his stick.

  HE HAD PLENTY to keep him busy—his work, his dog, a half-baked idea of planting a garden just to see if he could. Every couple of days, depending on the weather, he’d take a drive with Jaws around the twisting, up-and-down roads of the island.

  The routine, or the lack of routine, was exactly what he’d been after without fully realizing he’d been looking.

  He enjoyed having his shop only steps away from the house where he could work as early or as late or as long as he pleased. And though it surprised him, he enjoyed having the dog for company, at work, on walks, on drives.

  It pleased him to paint a flat-armed rocker a bold blue. Fiona’s coloring might be soft, subtle, but her personality was bright and bold. She’d look good in the chair.

  She looked good.

  He thought he’d haul the chair, and the dog, over to her place that afternoon. Unless he got caught up in work.

  Luckily, he thought as he drank his morning coffee on the porch, there was plenty of work to get caught up in. He had the custom breakfront for a Tacoma client, another set of rockers. There was the bed he intended to make for himself, and the cabinet he’d started for Fiona.

  Maybe.

  He had to get the stump—and should go ahead and deal with that today. He’d check and see if Gary—fellow obedience school client and local farmer—was still willing to help him out with the chain and the Bobcat.

  Whistling for the dog—and ridiculously pleased when Jaws responded by racing happily to him—Simon went back inside. He’d have his second cup of coffee while he checked the stories online in U.S. Report, as he’d done the last two days.

  He’d begun to think the reporter had given up on the article, stymied by Fiona’s lack of cooperation.

  But he found it this time, with the bold headline:

  ECHOES OF FEAR

  Photos of the two women—hardly more than girls, really, he thought—featured prominently in the lead of the story. As far as he could tell the reporter had done her homework there, with details of their lives, the last hours before they vanished and the ensuing search and discovery of their bodies.

  He found the photo of Perry chilling. So ordinary—the middle-aged man next door. The history teacher or insurance salesman, the guy who grew tomatoes in the backyard. Anyone.

  But it was the photo of Fiona that stopped him cold.

  Her face smiled out, as did those of a dozen others, the ones who hadn’t escaped. Young, fresh, pretty.

  It contrasted sharply with the file shot of her being hustled into the courthouse through the gauntlet of reporters. Her head down, her eyes dull, her face shattered.

  The article added the details of her escape, her fiancé’s murder, and added briefly that Bristow could not be reached for comment.

  “Didn’t stop you,” he murmured.

  Still, people did what they did, he thought. Reporters reported. The smartest thing Fiona could do would be to ignore it.

  The urge to call her irked him, actually brought an itch between his shoulder blades. He ordered himself to leave it—and her—alone.

  Instead he called Gary and arranged for the stump removal. He gave Jaws ten minutes of fetch—they were both starting to get the hang of it—then went to work.

  He focused on the breakfront. He thought it best not to do any further work on the cabinet, not until he could block the image of Fiona, that sick mix of fear and grief on her face, out of his head.

  He took a short break in the early afternoon for a walk on the beach, where Jaws managed to find a dead fish.

  After the necessary shower—he really had to remember to buy the damn dog a bathtub—Simon decided to load up some of his smaller items for Sylvia. He boxed cutting boards, weed pots, vases, bowls, then loaded them, along with the dog, into the truck.

  He’d meet Gary, deal with the stump, and with the stock already loaded, have an excuse not to linger too long with Fiona.

  It surprised him, and caused Jaws untold sorrow, when she wasn’t there. Nor were the dogs. Maybe she’d taken off for some solitude and distraction.

  Jaws perked up when Gary arrived shortly with his chirpy border collie, Butch.

  Gary, a cap over his grizzled hair, thick lenses over faded green eyes, watched the pups greet each other. “Coupla pips,” he said.

  “At least. Fiona’s not home, but I told her I’d be by for the stump.”

  “Got unit practice up in the park. They do a day of it once a month. Keep in tune, you know? Would’ve headed out at first light, most likely. Well, let’s get the Cat off the truck and go get you a stump. What the hell do you want it for?”

  “You never know.”

  “You sure don’t,” Gary agreed.

  They lowered the ramp, and Gary backed the machine down. With the two dogs on board, they putted their way into the woods.

  “I appreciate this, Gary.”

  “Hell, it’s no big thing. Nice day to be out and about.”

  It was, Simon thought. Warm enough, sunny, with little signs of encroaching spring showing themselves. The dogs panted in desperate joy, and Gary smelled—lightly—of fertilizer.

  When they reached the stump, Gary hopped out, circled it, shoved his cap back to scratch his head. “This what you want?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then we’ll get her. I knew a guy once made statues out of burl wood and a chain saw. This isn’t any stranger.”

  They hauled out the chain, discussed strategies, baseball, dogs.

  Simon tied the dogs to a tree to keep them out of harm’s way while Gary began maneuvering the machine.

  It took an hour, and considerable sweat, re-angling, reversing, resetting the chain.

  “Easy!” Simon called out, grinning widely. “You’ve got it now. She’s coming.”

  “Cocksucker put up a fight.” Gary set the machine to idle when the stump rolled free. “You got yourself a stump.”

  Simon ran his gloved hand over the body, along one of the thick roots. “Oh yeah.”

  “Happiest I’ve seen you look since I met you. Let’s get her in the bucket.”

  Once they were rolling out of the woods, the bucket full of stump, Gary glanced over. “I want you to let me know what you do with that thing.”

  “I’m thinking a sink.”

  Gary snorted. “You’re going to make a sink out of a stump?”

  “The base of it, yeah. Maybe. If it cleans up like I think it will. I’ve got this round of burl wood could work as the basin. Add high-end contemporary fixtures, half a million coats of poly. Yeah, maybe.”

  “That beats a chain saw and burl wood for strange. How much would something like that go for?”

  “Depends, but if this works like I see it? I can sell it for about eight.”

  “Eight hundred dollars for a stump sink?”

  “Thousand.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “Upscale Seattle gallery? Might get ten.”

  “Ten thousand dollars for a sink. Fuck me sideways.”

  Simon had to grin. “One of a kind. Some people think of it as art.”

  “Some people have shit for brains. No offense.”

  “Some people do—no offense taken. I’ll let you know when it’s finished, whatever it turns out to be. You can take a look for yourself.”

  “I’m doing that. Wait until I tell Sue,” he said, speaking of his wife. “She won’t believe it.”

  NINE

  By the
time he and Gary hauled the stump home and unloaded it, Simon considered skipping the trip to town and just staying put to play with his new toy. He’d already drafted half a dozen design possibilities in his head.

  But the stock sat in his truck, packed and ready. If he didn’t go now, he’d have to go later, so he gave Jaws the thrill of another ride with the window half down, the dog’s snout pressed through the opening, and his ears flapping in the breeze.

  “Why do you do that?” Simon wondered. When Jaws banged his tail against the seat in answer, Simon stuck his head out his own window. “Huh. Feels pretty good, actually. Next time you drive and I’ll catch the breeze.”

  He tapped his fingers on the wheel in time with the radio while he refined and discarded more designs on the sketch pad in his head. The physical labor combined with the creative possibilities, the dog’s sheer and simple pleasure combined in a near perfect mix that had him grinning his way into the village. He’d finish his errand, go home, study his material, measure, then take a walk on the beach to let the ideas stew. Top it off with some design work over a beer, maybe a pizza, and it was a damn good day.

  And that, he thought, was the answer to Fiona’s question.

  Why Orcas?

  Water drew him—kicky surf on beaches, wide river, busy creeks, quiet inlets. That yen had pulled him from Spokane to Seattle. That, he mused, and the city itself—its style, its openness to art. The nightlife, the movement, he supposed, had appealed at that stage of his life.

  As Nina had, for a while.

  He’d had good years there. Interesting, creative, successful years. But . . .

  Too many people, too much movement and not enough space.

  He liked the idea of an island. Self-contained, just a little apart and surrounded by water. Those wicked, twisting roads offered countless views of blue and green and the pretty boats that plied it, the green-knuckled clumps of rough land that seemed to float on it.

  If he wanted more he could drive into a village, have a meal, watch the tourists. If he wanted solitude, he could stay home—his island on the island. Which, he admitted, was his usual choice.

  And which, he thought with a glance toward Jaws, was why his mother had pushed a dog on him.

  Watching those ears flap and the tail thump, he acknowledged his mother was right. Again.

  He pulled in the back of Sylvia’s shop and raised the windows, leaving a three-inch crack. “You stay here. Don’t eat anything.” At the last minute he remembered distraction, reached over and took a chew toy from the glove box.

  “Play with this,” he ordered.

  When he carted in the first load, he caught the scent of home cooking—a little spicy—and spotted a Crock-Pot on the shipping counter.

  He poked his head into the shop. Sylvia, pretty and bright in one of her colorful skirts, chatted up a customer while her clerk rang up sales for another.

  Business was good, he thought. Another plus for the day.

  He gave her a quick wave, started to back out.

  “Simon! This is perfect timing. This is Simon Doyle,” she told the customer. “Simon, Susan’s over from Bainbridge Island. She’s interested in your wine cabinet.”

  Sylvia gave him a blinding smile and a subtle “Come over here” signal.

  This was the part he hated. But trapped, he stepped over.

  “I was just telling Susan how lucky we are you moved to Orcas and let us display your work. Susan came over for the day with her sister. Also lucky for us.”

  “It’s nice to meet you.” Susan offered a hand sporting a perfect French manicure and a canary diamond. “It’s beautiful work.”

  “Thanks.” He rubbed his hand on his jeans. “Sorry. I’ve been working. I’m just dropping off some new pieces.”

  “Anything as impressive as this?”

  “Smaller pieces, actually.”

  The sister wandered over, holding an earring up to each ear. “Susan, which pair?”

  Susan angled her head, tipped it side to side. “Both. Dee, this is the man who made the bowl I’m buying for Cherry’s birthday, and this cabinet I can’t seem to walk away from. Simon Doyle.”

  “I love the bowl.” Dee gave Simon’s hand a hard, fast shake. “But she saw it first. Sylvia said you might be persuaded to make another.”

  “Simon’s just brought some new pieces in.”

  “Really?” Dee glanced from Sylvia back to Simon. “Any bowls?”

  “A couple,” he began.

  “Why don’t I go unpack so you can take a look,” Sylvia suggested.

  “That’d be great. First pick,” Dee said, giving her sister a little poke.

  “There’s more in the truck. I’ll go—”

  “No, no, I’ll take care of it.” Sylvia patted Simon’s arm, then gave it a warning squeeze. “Why don’t you tell Susan more about the cabinet? It’s our current showpiece,” she added, then glided off before Simon could find an escape hatch.

  He hated the selling part, the feeling of being on display as much as the work.

  “I love the tones of the wood.” Susan traced a hand down the grain. “And then the detail. It’s elegant without being ornate and showy.”

  “It suits you.”

  Her face lit up. “That’s a clever thing to say.”

  “I’d tell you if it didn’t. You like the understated and the unique. You don’t mind if it’s impractical, but you’re happier if it serves a purpose.”

  “God, you nailed her. Psychic woodworker,” Dee said with a laugh. “You’d better buy it, Susan. It’s karma.”

  “Maybe it is.” Susan opened the doors again, slid open one of the drawers. “Smooth as silk. I appreciate good work.”

  “Me too.” He noted that Sylvia had stocked it with some excellent wineglasses and a couple bottles of good wine.

  “How long have you been working with wood?”

  “According to my mother, since I was two.”

  “Time well spent. Sylvia said you moved to the island. From where?” He felt his skin begin to itch. “Spokane via Seattle.”

  “Doyle,” Dee murmured. “I think I read something about you and your work some time ago, in the art section.”

  “Maybe.”

  Susan tilted her head again, as she had when judging her sister’s earring choices. “Not much on self-promotion, are you?”

  “The work should speak for itself.”

  “I absolutely agree with that, and in this case, it does. I’m buying it.”

  “Ladies,” Sylvia called from the doorway. “Why don’t you come into the stockroom. Dee, I think we have your bowl. Simon, I brought the puppy in. I hope you don’t mind. I know this is taking a little longer than you planned, and he was so happy to see me.”