Police are asking for the public's help in identifying the victim.
Reading that, thinking about how she looked when the man discovered her lying there, sent the strangest sensation through her. Something like shock, as if the attack just happened and she had just now heard about it. A sadness welled up in Naomi.
Mary Rose was a petite girl, while Naomi herself was five eight and ten pounds heavier. Marking the article for copying later, she scrolled to a second write-up, published three days later.
Victim of Brutal Attack Identified by Grandfather, the headline read. This write-up had merited a brief additional paragraph, along with a school photo of Mary Rose. Looking at the girl in the photo, Naomi felt an instant connection.
She has an interesting face, almost pretty. It was perhaps too serious for making friends easily, protecting her tender heart with a necessary detachment from those who would hurt her. A survival technique that couldn't, in the end, save her.
She looked out at Naomi with gentle dark eyes, intelligence shining through. Naomi could see something of herself in the oval-shaped face. Not of Thomas now, she thought, but of this young woman in the photo.
Her blood flows in my veins.
So does his, came the grotesque thought. The monsters who ... No. Don't go there. Not yet. She pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the small crescent moon with the man-in-the-moon profile nestled in the vee of the white shirt Mary Rose was wearing in the photo.
Did she have on that same denim skirt the day this picture was taken, she wondered. But only the top part showed in the picture.
She sat back in the chair, let out a long shuddery sigh. This tragedy had actually happened. It seemed surreal. But this was how her own life had begun. She knew this mentally, of course, but now she knew it emotionally. She read the second write-up:
The victim of a brutal beating and rape has been identified as Mary Rose Francis of Salmon Cove Reservation by her grandfather, Paul Francis, also of Salmon Cove. "When she did not return home from school on Thursday," an obviously distraught Mr. Francis said, "I called the police but no one called me back until yesterday."
Mary Rose Francis lies in a coma at River's End General Hospital. Though doctors say recovery is always a possibility, they are not holding out a lot of hope in this case. "She suffered massive head injuries," Doctor James Melick said. "It's a wait and see situation."
Students at River's End High School were shocked by the news of the attack on their schoolmate. The victim had been visiting at a friend's home earlier that evening.
"She was really nice," said a tearful Lisa Cameron. "I should have let her go home earlier when she wanted to. But we were having fun, listening to music and stuff, and we just lost track of time."
Naomi moved on to the next write-up, published two weeks later.
NO LEADS IN VIOLENT ASSAULT ON NATIVE GIRL - Police are frustrated in their efforts to solve the case of a brutal assault against a Native girl, says lead detective, William Keys. "We'll be doing all we can to track down the perpetrators, but there's nothing new to report at this time. The investigation is ongoing."
That was about it, followed by a rehash of the few known facts in the case. Naomi could find nothing further after that. The case had apparently been dropped. She scrolled back to the second write-up in which Charles Seaton, the caretaker at the cemetery told police that he'd heard screams that night, and crested the hill just in time to see a young woman being forced into a car. 'It was enough to curl the hair on your head,' he had told them. But he was too far away to help, he'd said, and could offer no further information, except to say that there'd been two men in the car when it sped away. Mr. Seaton said that he would hear that poor girl's screams for the rest of his life.
Did you yell out? Naomi asked the man who wasn't there to answer for himself. Did you try to warn them off? Let them know they'd been seen? Did you do anything at all?
She was being unfair to Mr. Seaton. The abduction probably happened so fast it barely would have had time to register on him until it was over and everything was quiet again. It must have seemed dreamlike in that moment. The story was pretty much as Frank had related it to her. Nevertheless, she jotted down the man's name. It couldn't hurt to talk to Mr. Seaton, providing he was still alive. How old would be now, if he was still around?
She wondered if the police had ever considered hypnotizing him? He might have remembered more details, maybe even the car's license plate number. The subconscious mind can store information the conscious mind is not even aware of. At least it works that way in the movies. The car itself would be long gone of course, to some scrap heap in the sky, but the license number could provide the name of whoever owned it at the time. Would there still be a record of that somewhere?
All her instincts told her that her next stop should be the police department to put all these questions to whomever was in charge of cold cases, and demand the justice for Mary Rose she'd been denied all these years. But she knew that before she could hope to gain their attention, she'd have to make a few waves first. Just walking in there with some old write-ups wasn't going to do it. She needed a lot more.
Beneath Mr. Seaton's name, Naomi jotted down the name of Lisa Cameron, who was probably long married and going by a different name. But she shouldn't be too hard to track down; this was a small town. As an afterthought, she added the name of Dr. James Melick to the short list, followed by Detective William Keys, although they could both be dead by now.
Naomi had been in the library longer than she'd realized. Three of the stations had been vacated while she did her research. The girl was gone. Just one elderly woman was left in the last one, perhaps researching her ancestry, which in a way was what she herself was doing. Although her ultimate purpose was different.
Armed with her notes, and copies of the news items that had run in the Tribune during the investigation, Naomi left the library and drove to the faded red brick building on Corona Street which housed the River's End Tribune.
Someone must know something, and there was only one way to find out.
Chapter Eight
"Good story," Editor-in-Chief Len Hayward said, leaning back in his chair far enough to make it squeak. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he studied Naomi over his bifocals. "You sure you want me to run it?" One scraggly salt and pepper eyebrow raised slightly.
"Of course I'm sure, that's why I'm here. I realize it happened a long time ago, but...."
"Twenty-eight years ago."
"I know that. But cold cases have been solved before. Someone might know something. Maybe someone saw something and chose for one reason or another not to come forward at the time. From what I've read of the case, there sure wasn't a big push to solve it. It seems a Native girl was not all that important a loss."
He nodded slowly, brought the chair forward with another hard squeak, picked up a pen and twirled it in his hand, his eyes never leaving her. "I knew your mom—your adopted mother, Lillian Waters. Not well, mind you, but we were acquainted. You realize, of course, you'll quickly go from being the daughter of a respected nurse and labour leader to being a child born as the result of a vicious rape on a Native girl."
Heat flooded Naomi's neck and face. His words brought a sting of shame at her very existence, something only her Aunt Edna had ever been able to make her feel. Was this how certain people made Mary Rose feel?
Her reaction wasn't lost on him. "Please, don't be upset, Miss Waters. I didn't say I felt that way. But bigotry still exists in this town, and anyone who thinks it doesn't is dreaming." His voice had softened. "I assure you, I don't. We're all children of God, if he's up there at all, and I have my own issues with that. But you need to know what you're up against. Your mother guarded you against the circumstances of your birth for good reason."
With that, the big man, in dark rumpled pants and rolled-up shirt sleeves, got to his feet, and motioned to someone outside the glass cubicle. Turning his attention back to her, he swept a hand over
thinning hair.
"I'm happy to run your story, Ms. Waters. Why not? It's got all the elements that sell newspapers sex, violence, even a minor celebrity angle considering your mother was well-known in River's End, and you yourself are not an unknown quantity. In fact, you're my granddaughter's favourite books-on-tape narrator. She'd kill me if I didn't get an autograph." He pushed a sheet of paper across the desk at her. "Emily," he said, smiling. "She looked you up on the net so I recognized you from your picture."
She addressed it To Emily, wrote a brief note, signed her name and passed it back to him.
He folded the paper and slid it into the pocket of his brown Columboesque trench coat hanging on a rack by the door. "I just wonder if you're prepared for the fallout, that's all."
"To be honest, I didn't give the matter much thought beyond finding her killers," she said. Now that she did she knew just the briefest hesitation, and felt cowardly for it. "She deserves some justice," she said with a sudden welling of anger. "It's right that I should be the one to try to get that justice for her."
Len Hayward shrugged an okay, then gestured to someone walking by the glass cubicle office.
The door opened and Naomi turned to see a bearded man in battered brown suede jacket in the doorway clutching a handful of papers, other hand on the doorknob. He gave Naomi a nod. "Yeah, Len."
The phone rang and Hayward picked up, cupped a hand over the receiver. "Eric here'll take down your story, Ms. Waters. Get a couple of good head shots, Eric. Should be a piece of cake." With that, he dismissed them both, growled into the phone, "Hayward, yeah." Then he bellowed at his caller, "What do you mean, you can't track him down. I need that Wallace story on my desk yesterday. Where the hell...?"
The berating of some unfortunate being continued as they left his office, cutting out as the door closed behind them. Naomi idly wondered who Wallace was. She hadn't been paying too much attention to the news lately.
"One of our town councilors is up for embezzlement," the reporter said, as if reading her thoughts. "A corrupt politician. Now there's something you don't hear about too often." He grinned to show he was joking as he ushered her past the row of desks to his own office at the back of the big room.
On the way there, they passed half a dozen people working quietly at computers, a couple on the phone. No clacking typewriters here, or hard-nose reporters with rolled-up sleeves, filling the air with blue cigarette smoke, wearing rumpled soft hats with press card tucked into their bands. Nothing to suggest deadlines, or big 'scoops', like in those old black and white movies her mom had had a penchant for, along with old radio shows, one of her favourite being the 1931 version of The Front Page starring Pat O'Brien. They had watched it shortly before she went into the hospital for the last time. She sighed without being aware of it, and Eric Grant glanced at her before opening the door to his office, which was considerably smaller than Mr. Hayward's, but neater.
"Please, have a seat." He set the sheaf of papers he'd been carrying on top of a grey metal filing cabinet in the corner, and shrugged out of his jacket, beneath which he wore a blue denim shirt. "Coffee?"
"No, thanks."
Closing the door, he went round behind his desk and drew the small tape recorder toward him and sat down. His finger hovered over the button. "I'm afraid my shorthand leaves a lot to be desired, mind."
"No. It's fine."
He pushed record. Recording was second nature to her, but this particular narration wasn't anything she was looking forward to. Only by mentally erecting a wall between the words and her emotions was she able to get through her story a second time, in the same way Frank had managed to relate the story to her.
A half hour later, her story told, all that she knew of it anyway, he clicked the recorder off and looked thoughtfully at her. "And you had no idea you were adopted before that?"
"None. Not until I read it in the obituary column. Although the woman at the funeral parlor I told you about prepared me to some degree, I suppose."
"Mrs. Devers."
"You have a good memory."
"I try. Comes in handy in my business. It's beyond tragic what happened to your birth mother. I don't remember reading about it. But then, I would have been four at the time. I'd like to make copies of these articles if it's okay. Quicker than digging them out of the morgue … sorry."
"No need to be."
He slipped the thin sheaf of paper from the envelope and smiled at her. He had a nice smile. Taking in the scruffy gingery-blond beard, and hair long enough to curl at his denim shirt collar, she'd almost expected he'd have blackened pirates' teeth. Or maybe a stray tooth or two like that guy in Deliverance.
"I covered a couple of nurses' union meetings when they were voting to strike and had the pleasure of meeting your mom. It was a few years ago, I was a rookie cub reporter back then, but I remember her. You were a lucky little girl to be adopted by such a special lady."
"Yes, I know that," she said coolly, her defenses rising at the comment, which sounded to her like a veiled criticism. But then he didn't know what it was like to wake up one morning and realize your whole life is a lie. God, did everyone in town know her mother?
She was overreacting. It was an innocent enough comment, and it was also true. She had been lucky. She just didn't feel very lucky at the moment.
He flashed her another smile and stood up. "It'll just take me a couple of minutes to copy these. She noticed then that his eyes were almost the same shade of blue as his denim shirt. He was good-looking in a rough-hewn sort of way, though definitely not her type. He reminded her of one of the Vikings she'd read about in school. All he needed to complete the picture was a horned helmet and a sword.
Eric Grant returned shortly and handed her back her copies of the articles. He seemed quieter, thoughtful. If he had any further comments he was keeping them to himself. At least he wasn't a total dork. In his favour, he'd tried to talk her out of including her phone number and email in the write-up, but she held her ground. What was the point of doing this at all if people couldn't contact her?
"They can contact you through the paper," he told her. But she knew that by the time she got back to whoever had written they could have changed their mind about talking to her.
With the interview over, Naomi thanked him and left his office. He offered to walk with her to her car, but she said no, that was fine. She'd taken up enough of his time.
With each step she took across the wood-grained laminated floor, she imagined eyes burning into the back of her neck her like thin, hot lasers¾ those of receptionists, journalists, even customers she'd passed who were standing at the counter, already knowing her secret, which of course was impossible. She was being paranoid. If she felt like this now, what was she going to do when the article came out in the paper? Crawl under the bed?
Stepping into the bright afternoon sunlight, the world tilted and her head spun. She had to grab onto the wrought-iron handrail to keep from tumbling down the stone steps. When the dizziness passed, dread grew inside her at what she had just done. The railing was slippery under the dampness of her hand as she made her way down the stairs.
Had she made a mistake coming here? Acted too impulsively, putting herself out there for public fodder? Maybe Mr. Hayward was right and she hadn't thought it through well enough. Well, too late now for regrets. It was done. The die was cast.
Whatever she had set in motion, so be it.
Chapter Nine
Eric Grant had noticed her as she came through the door. Impossible not to. Even in casual pants and jacket, she was striking. Yet it was a quiet beauty she possessed. A certain exotic aura about her. Great cheekbones. She wore little makeup, (or was expert as making it look that way), and her thick sheen of dark hair was pushed back in a careless way that gave the impression her looks were not of major importance to her. But it was more the purpose in her step that had captured his attention. The erect shoulders, the stride. This was a woman on a mission.
Now Eric watched from
the office window as she emerged from the building. He tensed seeing her grab the railing, hesitate on the steps. But then she seemed okay, as okay as she could be considering what she had to be going through. An attractive, self-contained woman who in that moment looked like a lost child separated from all that was familiar to her. As he watched her descend the steps, he could feel her uncertainty, her confusion. He wanted to rush out there and tell her to forget the story, he'd toss the tape in the trash, but somehow he knew she would resent it, that any such grandstanding on his part would only stiffen her resolve to have the story published.
He wondered if she was already having second thoughts about going public and half-expected he'd get a call asking him to pull the story, which he would do in a heartbeat, no matter what the boss said. But she didn't call. It couldn't have been easy coming forward like that. She didn't strike him as someone who sought the limelight.
"She's a grown gal," Len said when Eric shared his concerns. "It's her choice. And who knows? She might get lucky and nail a killer. That's the reason she's doing this." He grinned at Len. "You got a thing for the lady? Not that I blame you."
Eric just gave him a look and left the office, quietly closing the door behind him.
Chapter Ten
On Monday morning, Eric Grant set the story on his boss's desk. While Hayward read the article slated for the front page of the local section of the paper, Eric placed both palms on his desk, drawing Hayward's gaze away from the paper. He leveled his gaze at him.
"What?"
"I'm still not feeling good about this, Len."
Len Hayward frowned. "Why not? It's a damn good write-up. Great shot," he added, checking out the photo attached to the story. "It's not like we're paparazzi. She came to us. She asked us to write the story."
The Abduction of Mary Rose Page 5
