“You’re forgiven,” Scott said evenly. “It’s all right. I’m still on my feet, not crushed to the floor by a phrase that popped out of your mouth when you have obviously been through one of the most awful events of your life, too.”
“Yes, I’m shaken to the core, but still…” She closed her eyes and hung her head. “Do you think either one of us will live to see Christmas?”
“Yes. We’ll be a little rough around the edges, but we’ll make it, unfortunately for me. I hate Christmas.”
“So do I!” Chyna burst out. “I thought I was the only person in the country, maybe in the Christian community of the whole world, who couldn’t stand decorating the Christmas tree, eating fruitcake, wrapping gifts, singing Christmas carols. Oh, what a relief! I’m not a weirdo, after all!”
“Oh, don’t be too sure,” Scott said solemnly. “You might be a weirdo. You just aren’t the only weirdo who doesn’t like Christmas.”
They both broke into laughter, bending slightly at the waist, their eyes filling with tears. “It wasn’t even that funny,” Scott gasped out at last.
“I know. But it feels so good to let go. Oh, I let go sometimes, but not with someone.” Chyna glanced over at Michelle.
“Except for her. She saw me really let go about half an hour ago after I got the phone call.”
Scott wiped a tear off his cheek, sniffed, then looked at Chyna closely, his laughter turning into a smile that seemed to signal the return of restraint. ’The phone call. You mentioned it when you called me.” He stepped closer to her and gently put his hand on her shoulder. “Let’s forget about those drinks and get away from here for a while. Then you can tell me all about the call.”
“Where will we go?”
“Nowhere. We’ll just take a ride in my shiny new car.”
Chyna hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Sounds good—on one condition. Michelle goes with us.”
“Will she shed?” Scott asked.
“Who cares?” Chyna smiled. “The car still belongs to Ned.”
“The car has a great sound system,” Chyna said fifteen minutes later as they traveled north on the highway. “I love this song.”
“So I guessed when you insisted on bringing this CD and turning it up so loud.”
“Too loud?”
“No. Fine.”
“I always listen to music when I drive. Especially at night.”
“Well, you’re not driving tonight, but I do the same thing. Great minds and all that,” Scott said absently as U2’s “With or Without You” washed over them in the warm duskiness of the car.
Black Willow was small and they’d left the lights of the town behind in minutes after they’d driven away from the Greer house. Now fields surrounded them—fields where stalks stood in the cool autumn night, the corn at least six feet high but dry and withered and brown, the knee-high soybean plants tan and leafless. Chyna shivered. “Do you think Deirdre is out here somewhere, still alive?”
“I’m not the psychic,” Scott answered without sarcasm. “I thought you’d be able to sense whether she was still alive and where she is.”
“That’s the trouble with this fabulous ESP stuff,” Chyna returned drearily. “It just turns itself on in your head when you least expect it, and usually never when you really need it.” She rubbed a hand across her forehead. “It would be so wonderful if I could control the visions and the voices. Like Zoey’s.”
Chyna had already told Scott about the call she’d received earlier during which Zoey had once again told her she must help and then lapsed into that maddening rhyme in an ephemeral, singsong voice. “You and Zoey knew each other nearly from birth,” Scott went on. “Are you sure you never chanted that rhyme to each other? Or maybe your mothers each said the rhyme to you when you were tiny.”
“You think Anita Simms said the rhyme to Zoey and my mother said the rhyme to me when we were babies or toddlers?” Scott nodded. “That’s possible, but what’s the significance? Zoey is saying it to me for a reason, Scott, but for the life of me, I don’t know what that reason could be.”
“Were either of you particularly interested in the stars?”
“I wasn’t. I think Zoey developed a passion for stargazing one year, but as soon as her parents bought her a telescope, she lost interest. She didn’t think it was fun anymore when people expected her to actually study astronomy.” Chyna smiled ruefully. “Zoey was smart, but she wasn’t a good student. She was too restless to sit still reading books and doing research, and she hated discipline. I suppose she would have gone to college because her mother expected her to, but she never expressed an interest in any particular subject.”
“Not like you with your enthusiasm for chemistry and physiology.” He paused. “Deirdre had the same interests. She was mature for her age and a ’deep thinker,’ Ben used to say, an intellectual. And she was especially pretty. The two of you are quite a bit alike.”
“So it seems as if I’d be better at getting a bead on where she is.” The fear that had gripped Chyna after the phone call
was now giving way to the despondency that had haunted her all day. “God, I feel useless.”
“You certainly aren’t useless, Chyna. And don’t give up on your power yet. After all, you’re almost certain you experienced Deirdre’s abduction.”
“ ’Almost’ is the key word. And even if I did, maybe that’s all I’m going to experience where Deirdre is concerned. It wasn’t helpful. I couldn’t even see who took her.”
“Okay, now you’re sliding into a funk,” Scott said. “I may not know much about ESP, but I have a feeling funks aren’t conducive to inspiring visions.”
“Funks aren’t conducive to much of anything except making you feel like a failure.”
“No more talk about failure.” The fields of dead cornstalks gave way to pieces of flat, empty land. Up ahead, Chyna saw something large and square seeming to loom over the landscape as it shone in the moonlight. “What is that?” she asked, pointing.
Scott laughed. “Chyna Greer, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that we used to have a drive-in theater here!”
“Yes, I did forget,” she said vaguely as they drew nearer. “I never went to it.”
“You were probably about seven or eight when it closed. I doubt if you had too many dates who took you to the drive-in under the guise of wanting to see a movie when what they really wanted to do was …”
She raised her eyes at him. “Yes?”
“Pursue romance.”
“Oh, we’re into euphemisms,” she said drolly. “And why do I have the distinct feeling you brought quite a few girls here?”
“Because you’re psychic?”
“Because you were quite the Lothario in your teenage years.” Scott looked at her. “Your mother told my mother.”
“And Vivian told you?”
“Well, I was sort of eavesdropping.”
“Shame on you!” Scott laughed as they passed directly by the drive-in. The old marquee still stood, surrounded by
dead grass and weeds. Moonlight shone on dozens of poles that had held the rusty, tinny-sounding speakers people hung on their windows so they could hear the dialogue as they stared up at the giant screen. Even the old concession stand remained, almost swallowed by heavy foliage and a tangle of ivy that looked as if it were trying to pull the building down beneath the surface of the earth.
“I can’t believe that place has just been sitting there for at least twenty years,” Chyna said. “I know we’re not a Mecca for business around here, but surely some developer would have snatched up the land and found a use for it.”
“I think the owner, old Mr. Dickens, had a sentimental attachment to the place, even though he had to close it when drive-ins went out of style. His daughter told me he was always certain they’d become all the rage again.”
“Not with cineplexes everywhere offering six movies in the same building, comfortable seats, air-conditioning, not to mention surround sound.”
“Yeah,” Scott said absently as they passed the old drive-in, exceeding the speed limit by at least 15 miles an hour, but the state police rarely patrolled this part of the highway. Everyone in the area knew this and took advantage of it. “And speaking of Lotharios, Gage Ridgeway lives around here,” Scott added. “A lot of people think he’s crazy for living on all that land by himself, too, but Gage won’t budge.”
“He didn’t used to be such a loner, or so I’ve heard.”
“I think he changed after the whole Edie Larson business. Everyone was sure he’d done something to her.”
“Are you certain he didn’t?”
“I always got the idea he really cared about her—I think I teased him about it. But the cops had their minds made up he was their guy. They put him through hell. Couldn’t find a shred of evidence, though. That didn’t stop Edie’s father, good old Ron Larson, from hounding Gage for years, even though people knew Ron didn’t give a damn about Edie. I think he hoped Gage would be arrested and found guilty of murder so he could launch a civil suit against him.”
“Always thinking ahead, our Ron Larson. There’s nothing
like making a fortune off your daughter’s murder,” Chyna said distastefully.
“And I wouldn’t quite put it past Ron to try something of the sort if he were smart enough to pull it off.”
“You mean kill his own daughter?”
“I don’t know if he’d actually have the nerve to kill her, but he could make it look as if she had been killed.” Scott shook his head. “But like I said, he’d have to be smart and he’d need Edie’s cooperation. He’s not smart and Edie would never have helped her father hurt Gage.”
“If Edie had just run away, no one could have blamed her.” Chyna sighed. “But of course, she didn’t run away.”
“You’re sure she didn’t?”
“Yes, I’m sure she met with the same fate as Zoey and Heather. I haven’t had any visions about her, but I’m sure.” They remained quiet for a moment before Chyna caught sight of a side road flanked by white pillars. “Black Willow Cemetery,” she said softly.
“I always thought that was a depressing name for a cemetery,” Scott said.
“Are there cheerful ones?”
“Well, none that come to mind. But there are lots that don’t sound so ominous.”
“My father is buried there,” Chyna said. “I always thought Mom would be beside him, but in the last weeks of her life she decided she wanted to be cremated and for me to keep the urn.” Chyna shook her head. “I keep wondering if there was something wrong with her mind, as well as her heart, and that’s why she made the decision. It seemed so abrupt. And, well, kind of selfish.”
“Selfish?” Scott repeated.
“Daddy’s in that cemetery all alone. Mom won’t be beside him.” When Scott said nothing, Chyna added, “I guess that sounded like a ten-year-old talking. After all, they’re both dead.”
“It did sound on the sentimental side for you, Chyna, but I guess when members of your own family die, you feel different than you do about strangers. No one close to me in my
family has died.” He paused. “But after the crash, they weren’t able to find three bodies. A child and two teenagers. I always think about their parents. It’s bad enough that three young people were killed, but they can’t even be buried properly. That eats at me, Chyna, even though a proper burial wouldn’t make them any less dead.”
“I understand what you mean,” Chyna said softly. “And I’m not going to say a burial would have given the parents closure. I hate that word. It makes it sound like you can just close the book on them and not think about them anymore when of course their parents will never stop thinking about them.”
Scott looked at her. “So we agree about hating Christmas and the word ’closure.’ Who would have thought?”
“We’re two peas in a pod,” Chyna said lightly. ’The coincidences are simply amazing!” Scott nodded, although she could tell he was still thinking about those three young, missing passengers who had been on the horrible flight he’d piloted.
Chyna decided to change the tone of their conversation. “Are you driving any place in particular, Scott, or are we just cruising and letting Michelle get nose prints on every window in the back of this car?”
“The nose prints don’t matter, because I’ve decided I’m going to buy the car. You can clean them off with Windex.”
“Oh, how chivalrous,” Chyna muttered.
She could see Scott smiling in the glow of instruments on the dashboard. “And we also have a destination, Dr. Chyna Greer. Some place where you can have a little fun and stop dwelling on your lack of success in finding Deirdre Mayhew. Yet.”
Chyna forced herself to toss him a bright smile, but inside she felt dark and worthless, because she was certain she would fail to find Deirdre Mayhew just as she’d failed to find her beloved Zoey twelve years ago.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1
Rex had tried to keep up a casual conversation as Rusty drove him to Owen’s house, but Rusty could barely answer, shame turning him mute. He wasn’t certain how much any of the three men had heard of his story to Chyna out on the terrace about how he’d watched Nancy run in the evenings, right up to the last evening of her life. They’d all heard part of it, at least the part where he’d said he’d seen her fall and hit her head, then simply run away because he didn’t want anyone to know he’d been watching her. Gage Ridgeway had heard part of it, because he wouldn’t meet Rusty’s gaze before he’d mumbled something and returned to boarding up the window in the living room. Rex acted casual, but then, Rex always acted casual. “Urbane.” That was the word for Rex. “Urbane.” And “opaque.” “Opaque”? Rusty wasn’t sure why that word had popped into his mind, but it had. It had always been hard to tell what Rex Greer was thinking.
Rusty’s own father was another matter. Owen Burtram’s every emotion showed somewhere, no matter how hard he tried to hide it—his eyes, his lips, the white lines between his nostrils and mouth, his throat that seemed to balloon, his fists. Rusty always shuddered when he thought of those fists, and when he’d seen them opening and closing in his father’s coat pockets, Rusty knew Owen had definitely heard Rusty
tell Chyna he’d seen Nancy fall and done nothing to help her.
But had Owen heard Rusty saying he’d thought Nancy was running away from someone? That he was sure Nancy was being chased by someone heavier, clumsier—more like a man in his fifties, Owen might think—and that the person who was chasing Nancy had left when she fell? Rusty burst into a cold sweat. Good lord, had his father heard him claim he had not seen who was chasing Nancy? Please, please, God, Rusty thought frantically as he broke into a cold sweat, please let Owen have heard him say he didn’t see anyone except Nancy.
But if he had heard Rusty, would Owen Burtram believe his own son? If so, that would be a first, Rusty thought bitterly. Then fright overcame him. What if Owen had heard most of what Rusty had said and hadn’t believed any of it? What would Owen do if he knew Rusty had routinely followed Nancy, watching, spying, peering into her most private moments? What if Owen guessed that Rusty even had lingered in the bushes outside of Nancy’s home and watched at night as she undressed, often not closing her curtains?
But he wasn’t the only one who had watched Nancy undress. There had been others. Many others. Some close to home.
Still…
Rusty had taken a Valium as soon as he got home. He’d paced and thought and practiced speeches he’d use on his father tomorrow or, if God was being particularly cruel, tonight after Rex left Owen’s house. But none of the speeches sounded good. Of course, even if Rusty were Shakespeare, he couldn’t come up with anything eloquent enough to quiet Owen’s anger. No one could. Absolutely no one, which was why Rusty’s beautiful, seductive mother had left when he was only fourteen. She’d left Owen and she’d left Rusty, too. He remembered that night so well—that night when she’d loaded three suitcases into her Ca
dillac, then turned to gaze at her husband and son with the dark, fathomless eyes that
had always intrigued Rusty. “Don’t look so crestfallen, Owen,” she said in her sultry voice, her red lips smiling slightly, tauntingly. “You’ll think up a good excuse for my leaving, something the neighbors will believe.
“And Rusty,” she went on, “you won’t have a mother keeping an eye on your every move, not that I would do so even if I stayed. I’m not that kind of mother. In fact, I was never meant to be a mother. Or a wife. Especially to you two.” She smiled slowly, just a hint of cruelty lingering around her mouth. “Remember me fondly, guys. Or don’t remember me. I really couldn’t care less.” And then she’d calmly climbed into her Cadillac and driven away.
Owen had stood as if carved from stone for at least ten minutes, the only sound emanating from him being his heavy breathing. Rusty had stood beside Owen, feeling like he should say something comforting, feeling like his mother’s departure was all his fault because of the magazines she’d found in his bedroom yesterday, although when he walked in and found her leafing through his secret stash, she’d only looked at him and laughed, saying, “Like father, like son.” Finally, Owen had stridden toward his own car and, without a word to Rusty, climbed in and torn off in the same direction his wife had gone.
Rusty had finally gone inside. He’d sat up all night, watching television. Sometime near dawn, his father had returned, looking disheveled, dirty, and almost wild-eyed. “Go to bed,” he’d ordered. Rusty had immediately run to his bedroom, where he’d stayed for the rest of the day. Later he watched Owen from his window. The man had changed into a suit, combed his hair, and shaved. He’d left, then returned at six, the same time he always came home from the funeral home.
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