by Loree Lough
She cut a glance at Mrs. Logan, who sat crying softly in the corner of the sofa. His suggestion made so much sense that Grace almost felt guilty about prejudging the agents as bad-mannered boors.
Almost.
“Of course I’ll help in any way I can.”
Smiling, he winked. “Thanks, Miss Sinclair. You’re a bigger help than you realize.”
Grace followed the hall until it emptied into the Logans’ homey kitchen. The contrast between the bright atmosphere here and the somber mood in the living room was so staggering that it brought tears to her eyes, because there wasn’t anything sunny about the situation. “Knock it off,” she scolded, knuckling them away. Mrs. Logan needed her right now, strong and calm, holding it together.
She started her search in the most logical place: the narrow drawer beneath the wall phone. Grace found ballpoint pens, pencils, paperclips, twist ties, and rubber bands. “I thought everyone kept their phone books there,” she muttered. The directory wasn’t in any of the other drawers, either. Finally, she located it in an upper cabinet, mixed in with recipe cards and coupons. She credited God for leading her to it, because its bright pink paisley cover had been torn off, leaving only a tattered paper spine that was barely visible among computer-generated recipe cards. It seemed a very odd and out-of-the-way place in this perfectly organized kitchen, where the spices and canned goods had been stored in precise, alphabetically ordered rows.
She grabbed a bottle of cold water from the fridge, and on the way back to the living room, spotted an afghan that Mrs. Logan had draped over the desk chair in the adjacent home office. When she carried them into the living room, Grace found Agent Spencer near the window wall, talking on his cell phone and scribbling in a small notebook. Timmons, much to her surprise, was on the couch with Mrs. Logan, murmuring reassuring words as he patted her back.
Spencer put away his tablet and reached her in three long strides. “See, Timmons is a classic example of the guy who inspired the ‘all bark, no bite’ adage.”
More surprisingly, Timmons’s nurturing actually looked sincere. “I can see that.”
Spencer relieved her of the book. “It appears you’re quite the little investigator.”
He wouldn’t say that if he’d seen her rummaging through all the cupboards and drawers, trying to figure out where Mrs. Logan kept the nondescript little thing.
He turned the directory over, then over again. “What in the world do you reckon happened to it?”
It looked to Grace as though Mrs. Logan, or even Missy, had deliberately removed the cover to assure it would blend into the baked goods cabinet. Is that what a seasoned investigator would think? He’d already started thumbing through the pages, and she took it to mean he’d only been thinking out loud. Since a reply wasn’t necessary, Grace stepped up to the couch.
“Here’s your water, Mrs. Logan.”
“Thanks,” she said, accepting the plastic bottle. “But please, call me Molly.” She unscrewed the cap and took a tiny sip. “You’re just the sweetest, most caring little thing. No wonder my Missy thought so much of you.”
It looked for a minute as though she might fall apart again, but she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Would you like me to brew a pot of coffee? It won’t take but a minute.”
Timmons held up a hand. “None for me, thanks.”
“Same here.” Spencer smiled slightly. “Already had my quota for the day.”
“There’s root beer and ginger ale in the fridge, if you’d prefer something cold. My Missy just loves. . . .”
Memory of her daughter’s favorite soda opened the floodgates again, and as Timmons went back to murmuring and patting, Spencer gently grasped Grace’s elbow and led her into the hall. “We offered to give her a lift to the ER to see if maybe they could prescribe something to calm her nerves.” One shoulder lifted in a helpless shrug. “Turned us down flat.”
“I’m sure she’d much rather see her regular doctor. You know. Under the circumstances?”
He tapped the phone directory. “My thoughts, exactly.” He cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. “No point making her listen as I run through the reasons for the call, over and over, trying to figure out which of these guys is her GP. So would you mind keeping her out of the kitchen while I make the calls?”
Like his partner, Spencer looked as sincere as he sounded. “I’m more than happy to do it. You know, if it would free you up to . . . for other things.”
“Nice of you to offer, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t get very far, thanks to those ridiculous HIPPA regulations.” He squeezed her shoulder. “You’re far more useful right here.”
He made a psst noise to get Timmons’s attention, then aimed a forefinger toward the hall and mouthed “Kitchen.”
His partner gave a nod, then went back to murmuring and patting as Spencer lumbered out of the room. Halfway down the hall, he stopped and faced Grace again. “You wouldn’t happen to know how I might get in touch with that rescue guy you were with this morning, would you?”
She could have described intense blue eyes and rain-slicked black curls that peeked out from the shadows of his hooded sweatshirt, or that his driver’s license no doubt listed his height at six-two or more. She might have mentioned the calming effect of his quiet prayer, or the big powerful hands that gently steadied her when the sight of Melissa’s body made her knees buckle.
“Sorry, but with everything that was going on, I didn’t get his name.” Grace didn’t know which disappointed her more . . . that she hadn’t thought to introduce herself, or that he hadn’t, either.
“No problem. I’ll get it from the agents who interviewed him. Just thought maybe you could save me a phone call.”
“Why? Did they forget to ask him something?”
Frowning slightly, he waved the comment away. “Not really. Just a question that popped into my head. Happens, sometimes, in an investigation like this.”
She was about to ask him what he meant by “an investigation like this” when he said, “You know where to find me if. . . .” He glanced at Mrs. Logan, who, though her sobs had subsided, held on to Timmons the way a drowning woman clings to a life preserver. “. . . if anybody needs me.”
Strange, but standing in the middle of the Logans’s well-appointed living room, she felt just as confused and lost as she had this morning. What was she supposed to do next? Take Timmons’s place beside Mrs. Logan? Stand quietly until someone called her name?
One thing was certain, she wouldn’t leave. As soon as Agent Spencer was finished with the phone book, Grace would make a few calls of her own, to find a sympathetic friend or relative who’d stay with Mrs. Logan until. . . . Grace cringed, realizing the poor woman wouldn’t be allowed to make funeral arrangements until after the authorities concluded their investigation.
Easing onto the edge of an overstuffed chair, Grace helped herself to one of the magazines in the symmetrical fan-shaped stack on the coffee table. She opened to the table of contents, but didn’t read it. Instead, her gaze traveled the room, absorbing what these professional investigators would probably consider trivial facts, totally unrelated to their investigation. . . .
The bookshelves flanking the fireplace held hardback novels that stood alphabetized in color-coded groups. Every throw pillow leaned against the cushions at carefully determined angles; and she didn’t see a single fingerprint, not so much as a speck of dust on the mahogany tables; and the window panes were so spotless they seemed invisible.
No doubt, the fear and worry of hearing that her only child was missing had interrupted Mrs. Logan’s sleep. Had she attempted to distract herself from painful reality by throwing herself into a cleaning frenzy?
Perhaps.
But something told Grace the perfection found throughout the house couldn’t have been achieved in the span of a week. She pictured her own slightly untidy place, and wished she’d been blessed with the woman’s meticulous tendencies.
Spencer chose that moment to
walk into the room and signal his partner, who joined him in the hall. After a moment or two of mumbling, Spencer waved, inviting Grace into the foyer. She put the magazine down, taking care to duplicate its former angle on top of the stack. As she walked toward the agents, Grace saw Mrs. Logan lean forward to adjust, then readjust it, a mere fraction of an inch. On second thought, maybe it best that she didn’t have the woman’s organizational skills. Because you’d drive yourself and everyone around you stark raving mad!
“Got hold of her doctor,” Spencer said, “and he’s calling in a script. Nurse said the pharmacy will deliver it in an hour or two. Can you stay long enough to sign for it, make sure she gets the right dose?”
Before leaving for the park this morning, she’d added her cereal bowl and coffee mug to the supper dishes, already soaking in the sink. By now, the load of laundry she’d tossed into the dryer on her way out the door would have to be pressed. Pressed? Who are you kidding! First chance she got, Grace would rewash them. Anything to avoid the steam iron and spray starch. But what about the vacuuming and dusting still left unchecked on her To Do list? Wasn’t the whole point of taking the day off to get ready for the party she’d planned for her senior students’ graduation? There were a dozen valid reasons to say no. But the sight of Mrs. Logan, eyes squeezed tightly shut as she cupped her elbows made her say, “Of course I will,” instead.
Timmons slid a business card from his pocket and scribbled something on the back. “My home and cell numbers,” he said, handing it to her. “If she gets too hard to handle, don’t be afraid to call.”
She looked from the tiny white rectangle to his blue-green eyes. “Hard to handle?”
“Sometimes,” Spencer explained, “once reality sets in, people go a little crazy.”
Her heartbeat doubled as she glanced at Mrs. Logan, rocking to and fro on the sofa. “And you think she’s one of those people?”
“No way to know for sure.” Spencer opened the door, then handed her his card, too. “If you can’t reach Bob, here, feel free to call me. Any time. Day or night.”
She stacked the cards one atop the other until their corners lined up, perfectly. Was it possible that this oh-so-tidy place was rubbing off on her? “Thank you,” she said. “But just between us? I’m going to pray like crazy that you won’t be hearing from me.”
Smiling, the men stepped onto the front porch. Spencer was half-in, half-out of the driver’s seat of the boxy black SUV when he said, “Uh, by the way? Thought you ought to know that when I interviewed that SAR guy you were partnered up with today, he asked for your name and phone number.”
When she’d stepped up and asked permission to tag along with him during the search, he hadn’t exactly gone out of his way to hide his annoyance at having to partner with an untrained volunteer. And yet his no-nonsense instructions had been delivered with a gentle respect.
Spencer grinned. “Weird. I thought you people made a point of knowing who you were working with.”
What’s weird, she thought, was that the agent had lumped her in with skilled rescuers. Weirder still, if he hadn’t interviewed “that SAR guy,” then how had Spencer known that the man asked about her? She watched him slide behind the wheel, and shrugged it off. They’d all been stuck in that same small department at FBI headquarters . . . more than ample time for the guy to ask for routine information.
But why had he asked for it?
“Don’t worry,” Spencer said, answering her unasked question, “he won’t bother you, because I didn’t tell him anything. Agency policy, y’know?” She watched him buckle his seatbelt. With that, he slammed the car door.
As the agents drove away, Grace closed Mrs. Logan’s front door and pictured “that SAR guy.” She barely knew the man. It should come as a relief to know he couldn’t get in touch with her. Then why, she wondered, throwing the deadbolt into place, did she feel regret, instead?
3
The days leading up to the search had been a whirlwind of trips, from Home Depot for supplies to repair the leaky roof, to Goodwill and the Presbyterian consignment shop for dressers and beds to replace furniture destroyed by the recent soaking rains, then to Value City for inexpensive mattresses and bedding. Not because his boys complained—they’d have slept in sleeping bags on the floor indefinitely if he’d let them.
But no way he’d let them.
On the day each boy walked through that creaking front door with nothing but bad memories and the clothes on his back, he’d promised to provide a proper home—preferably one with a roof that didn’t leak. As things turned out, keeping the once-decrepit, old house running was providing more than a legitimate address, it was teaching them skills in carpentry, roofing, window and siding installation, and wiring. They were learning how to work as a team, too, figuring out how to jury-rig the inner workings of ancient, hand-me-down appliances and tools. If not for the loving generosity of his aunt and uncle, who welcomed him into their home and treated him like one of their own, Dusty knew he would have ended up just like them. And since God had seen fit to give him a shot at normal family life, he’d move mountains, if that’s what it took, to give these boys the same chances.
Good intentions, regrettably, didn’t guarantee success. In the five years he’d been pastor and administrator here, sixty-seven boys had been sent to him. Abandoned, neglected, or abused by parents whose crimes and drug addiction led them to the prison yard or the graveyard—this place was, literally, their last chance. Of the sixty-seven, one was killed in a drive-by shooting, one died of an overdose, and six went the way of their mothers and fathers. All the experts said those were great odds, considering what he had to work with. But Dusty didn’t see it that way. He grieved every one like a death, saw each as a personal defeat, and blamed himself for failing them.
That is, until fresh-out-of-seminary Mitchell Carlisle knocked on that creaking front door and asked for a job.
There was a lot to like about the young pastor. Hardworking and insightful, the kids took to him from the get-go. He’d majored in classic literature and excelled in math and science, making him the go-to guy for help with tough homework assignments. Like Dusty, Mitch could play just about any instrument he picked up, and in the year since he’d joined the Last Chance household, he’d given the boys nearly as many guitar and piano lessons as Dusty had. As if all that wasn’t enough, Mitch could turn simple, inexpensive ingredients into hearty, healthy meals.
His talent for citing chapter and verse to solve just about any problem was the only source of strife between them. The bone of contention began when Dusty confessed his guilt at failing those eight boys . . . and Mitch accused him of being guilty, instead, of the sin of pride. It had taken every ounce of Dusty’s self-control not to whack Mitch with his own ragtag old Bible. That feeling didn’t last long, though; hard as it was to admit, the young pastor had hit the proverbial nail square on its head.
And they’d been like brothers ever since, sharing an unspoken understanding, one of the other.
Take last night, for example, when Dusty came home dog-tired and emotionally drained after his gruesome discovery in the field at Gunpowder State Park. Mitch, God love him, knew exactly what he’d needed, and provided it: Thick soup, crusty bread, and an evening of peace and privacy. While he and the boys attended a movie, Dusty emptied the stewpot and polished off the loaf, then hit the showers and headed for his tiny room on the second floor, where not even the sounds of sirens kept him from falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Then, at precisely 3 a.m., he found himself wide awake. Nothing unusual about that. Dusty rarely slept more than a few hours at a stretch. And rather than toss and turn, he did what he always did, and padded downstairs. He made himself a pot of coffee, and sipped it while balancing the Last Chance checkbook. Unless he’d made a critical error, things were looking up; nearly $200 left after paying the utilities and setting aside money for groceries. Relieved, he decided to listen to the CD the kids had made—with Mitch’s help—while he work
ed on the speech he’d been asked to give at the next Rotary meeting. Feet propped on his footstool and pencil eraser tapping the legal pad on his lap, he tried to decide whether to start off with a corny joke or a Bible verse.
Somewhere between “A funny thing happened on the way to the club” and the doodles beneath it, he dozed off. A crick in his neck woke him.
Or so he thought.
“You gotta remember to lock up at night, dude . . .”
At times like these, Dusty was glad that his Marine training ran deep; though his heart was beating like a parade drum, Hector Gonzales would never have the satisfaction of knowing he’d startled Dusty.
“. . . else some real bad people could get in here.”
Dusty made a show of yawning and stretching, then sat up and put his tablet and pencil onto the table beside his chair.
The gang leader chuckled. “What, you deaf and dumb?”
He ignored the sarcasm. “How ’bout joining me in the kitchen, Gonzo?”
“Is that your idea of a joke, man?”
On his feet now, Dusty crossed both arms over his chest. “Give me a minute to get my brain into gear. I was dead to the world when you came in.” Poor choice of words? Dusty hoped not. He scratched his head. “Joke?”
“Not all Mexicans work in the kitchen, you know.”
“Ah. Now I get it.” He’d say one thing for the kid . . . in the few years he’d been in this country, only a trace of his native accent tinged his speech. He wanted to believe the misunderstanding was rooted in the remaining language barrier, but more than likely, Hector Gonzales was trying to pick a fight. It was his turn to chuckle. “I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee out there. Thought maybe you’d like a cup, is all.” He didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he grabbed his mug and headed down the hall, hoping with every step that Gonzo would follow quietly. Last thing he needed was for the boys to wake up and get into it with this guy.
