by Nora Roberts
* * *
Sheriff Tate stood outside the hospital room where he’d assigned one of his female deputies. He’d checked first thing that morning with the nurse on duty, and knew the Jane Doe had been sedated because when she’d finally come to, she’d been hysterical, nearly violent.
Terrified was the word the nurse had used.
He’d read the report from the responding officer, the statements from the nine-one-one callers, and now wanted a rundown from the doctor before he took a look for himself.
“I wasn’t on when they brought her in.” Dr. Grove, a stern-faced man with gentle hands, continued to study the chart as he spoke. “I did consult with the ER resident who examined and treated her. He did a rape kit, and we’ll have that for you. She exhibited signs of forced and violent sex. She’s been treated for frostbite on her feet. The air temperature wasn’t cold enough for hypothermia, but her clothes were wet. Severe abrasions, the heels and palms of her hands, her knees, elbows. Gravel in the cuts and scrapes. Severe contusions and lacerations on her right temple and forehead, most likely from striking the ground. She’s concussed.”
He looked up now, met Tate’s eyes. “There’s scar tissue around her left ankle, and scars on her back.”
“Would that be ligature scars, from being bound?”
“I would give you a most likely on that. And another most likely on the scars on her back resulting from repeated beatings. A belt or a strap. Some are years old, some not.”
Tate blew out a breath. “I need to talk to her.”
“I understand that. You need to understand that when I attempted to do so this morning, she was incoherent, hysterical. We’ve sedated her to prevent her from injuring herself further.”
“She didn’t tell you her name?”
“She did not. As the sedative took hold, she begged us to let her go, that she had to get back. She spoke of someone she called Sir. He’d be very angry.”
“When’s she going to be awake enough to talk?”
“Soon. I’m going to advise you to go slowly. Whoever she is, whatever happened to her, she’s suffered long-term abuse. Our staff psychiatrist will speak with her as well.”
“Have you got a woman for that? If she’s been raped and abused by a man, a woman might do better with her.”
“We’re on the same page there.”
“All right then. I want to take a look at her. We got her prints, and we’re going to see if she’s in the system somewhere. May take a couple more days, seeing it’s Sunday, and the red tape’s always a tangle anyway. I’d like to try to get her name, at least.”
“I’ll go in with you. I can treat her more successfully if she begins to see me as a familiar face, and not a threat.”
They went in together.
The woman on the bed lay still, seemed to barely breathe. But the monitors beeped. The IV tube in the back of her hand led to a bag hanging on a stand.
In the dim light she looked pale as a corpse, the long, gray-streaked hair witch-wild.
“Can we bring up the lights some?” Tate asked.
He moved closer to the bed as Dr. Grove turned the lights up. “My deputy has her as early sixties, but he’s young. She’s lived hard, but I’d go more like fifty.”
“I agree.”
Tate studied the bandaged head and hand wounds, the bruising on her jaw. “She didn’t get that jaw from falling on the road.”
“No, sorry, I neglected to say. I’d speculate she was struck. A fist.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen enough of it to say the same.” He judged his deputy had been more accurate judging the height, the weight.
“She’s given birth more than once,” Grove told him.
A hard life, Tate thought again, a brutal one to have driven those lines so deep in her face, to have given her what he thought of as a prison pallor. And even so, he could see she’d been pretty once—good bones, a well-shaped mouth, a delicate jaw, despite, or maybe in contrast to, the bruise.
Something struck him, gave him a slow burn in the belly. “Can I?”
Grove nodded when Tate held a hand over the sheet, over the right ankle. Tate lifted it, studied the thick scar tissue. “How old do you figure this is?”
“As I said, some of the scarring’s newer, but the widest area, ten years, at least.”
“So it could be older. She could’ve been bound longer?”
“Yes.”
“What color are her eyes? The deputy missed it. He’s young, like I said.”
“I’m not sure myself.” Grove moved over and, with a gentle hand, lifted an eyelid. “Green.”
The burn intensified. “Does she have a birthmark? I need you to look at the back of her knee. Left knee, right in the crease. See if there’s a birthmark.”
Grove moved down the bed, but kept his eyes on Tate. “You think you know who she is.”
“Check. Just check.”
Grove lifted the sheet, bent to check. “A small, oval birthmark, in the crease behind the left knee. You know her.”
“I do. Jesus God Almighty, I do. It’s Alice. It’s Alice Bodine.”
As he spoke she stirred, and her lashes fluttered.
“Alice.” He spoke as quietly as he would to a fretful baby. “Alice, it’s Bob Tate. It’s Bobby. You’re all right now. You’re safe now.”
But when her eyes opened, terror lived in them. She screamed, a high wailing, shoved her hands at him.
“It’s Bob Tate. Alice, Alice Bodine, it’s Bobby Tate. I’m not going to let anybody hurt you.” Tate gestured Grove back. “You’re safe. You’re home.”
“No. No. No.” She looked around wildly. “Not home! Sir! I have to get home.”
“You got banged up some, Alice,” Tate continued in that same calm, quiet tone. “You’re in the hospital so you can get fixed up.”
“No. I have to go home.” She wailed again while tears flooded her cheeks. “I disobeyed. I have to be punished. Sir will drive the devil out.”
“Who is Sir? I can try to find him for you. What’s his whole name, Alice?”
“Sir. He’s Sir. I’m Esther. I’m Esther.”
“He called you Esther. He named you that, but your ma and pa named you Alice. We went skinny-dipping together one summer, Alice. You were the first girl I ever kissed. It’s Bobby Tate, Alice.” Say her name, say her name, over and over again, soft and clear. “It’s your old friend Bobby Tate.”
“No.”
But he saw something come into her eyes—or try to. “Don’t you worry about it. You’ll remember later. What I want you to know … Can you look at me, Alice?”
“E—Esther?”
“Look at me, honey. What I want you to know is you’re safe here. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
Those eyes, those green eyes he remembered well, rolled in her head, flicked from point to point like a frightened animal’s. “I have to be punished.”
“You have been, more than enough. You’re just going to rest awhile, and get strong again. I bet you’re hungry.”
“I—I— Sir provides. I eat what Sir provides.”
“The doctor here is going to tell them to bring you what you can eat. It’s going to make you feel better.”
“I need to go back home. I don’t know how to get home. I got lost under the moon, in the snow. Can you tell me how to get back to my house?”
“We’ll talk about that, maybe after you eat some. The doctor here, he’s been taking good care of you. He’s working on getting you better. He’s going to talk to the nurse about bringing you some food. Are you hungry?”
She started to shake her head, fiercely, but her swimming eyes stayed on his. She gnawed her bottom lip, then nodded. “I can have tea whenever I want. From the herbs.”
“I bet we can rustle up some herbal tea. Maybe some soup. I’m going to sit here with you and help you eat. I’ll sit right here. I’m just going to step over there for a minute, and talk to your doctor.”
“I shouldn’t be here, I shou
ldn’t be here, I shouldn’t—”
“Alice.” He interrupted her with that same quiet tone. He didn’t touch her, though he wanted to take her hand. “You’re safe.”
As he stepped back, she clasped her wounded hands together, closed her eyes, and muttered what he took as prayers.
“Alice Bodine?” the doctor asked. “The Bodine family—who is she to them?”
“She’s Cora Bodine’s daughter. Maureen Longbow’s younger sister. She’s been missing for twenty-five years or more. I need you to keep that information right here in this room. I don’t want word getting out on this.” The burn in his gut heaved up to scorch his throat. “God, my sweet God, what’s been done to her? Can she eat?”
“I’ll have tea and broth sent in. We’ll go slow there. You did very well with her, Sheriff. You knew what to say, how to say it.”
“I’ve been a cop almost as long as she’s been gone. You learn.” Out of his pocket, Tate pulled a bandanna, used it to wipe his face, wipe away the sweat. “I have to call her mother.”
“Yes. But I need to speak with her, with any family members before I can let them see her. She’s fragile, on every level. It may take time.”
Tate nodded, watched Alice pray as he took out his phone.
* * *
Cora primped for Sunday dinner. She dearly loved these family meals at the ranch, appreciated so much the way Maureen made certain they happened once a month no matter what. She appreciated, too, the way her girl fussed a bit over these monthly Sundays in her own easygoing way.
Nothing much rattled her Reenie. Cora could remember like it was yesterday the Sunday dinner where Cora served a pretty summer picnic with potato salad and fresh-from-the-garden green beans and tomatoes with Sam and Cora’s own father grilling steaks and chicken.
Little Chase running around with the dogs like his pants were on fire, and Bodine trying so hard to keep up on her toddling legs.
How they’d sat and talked and laughed at the big picnic table right through the strawberry shortcake and huckleberry parfaits before Maureen announced, calm as you please, they’d better call the midwife because the baby was coming.
That girl, Cora thought as she tried out a new rosy lipstick. Downright determined to have her third baby at home. Timing her contractions for more than three hours without telling a soul—or batting an eye.
And hadn’t she brought Rory into the world barely two hours later, in the big old bed, with the whole family right there?
Easygoing determination, Cora thought, approving the new lip color with a smile. That was her Maureen down to the ground.
When she counted her blessings there, there was no cup could hold them. Maybe there were moments she missed living on the ranch, even moments still she waked in the morning telling herself to get going, get to work, stock needed tending.
But she never regretted, not for an instant, turning the ranch over to Maureen and Sam and moving into Bodine House with her parents.
Torches should be passed while they still burned bright. Her girl and her girl’s man, they carried that torch in strong, steady hands.
She glanced down at the pictures Bodine had had fancied up and framed for her. How handsome her Rory had been, how proud he’d be of what they’d made together. Their two girls.
She touched a finger to her lips, then to the face of the love of her life, then to her first baby girl, then to her last.
If she had a wish to spare, it would be for her oldest daughter to understand that her mother had enough love for her, enough pride in her to light the world—and could still long so deeply for a lost child.
Cora put the wish away, as blessings always outweighed wishes. She still needed to box up the pound cake she and her mother had made.
She took a last look at herself in the mirror.
“Still holding the line, Cora. It’s a tougher battle, God only knows, but you’re still holding the line.”
Laughing at herself, she grabbed her purse, jolting a little as her phone rang at the same instant. An odd little shiver ran down her spine, had her rolling her eyes at her own reaction.
She answered the phone.
* * *
Miss Fancy sat on the side of the bed studying her boots. She liked their style just fine with the red lightning bolts flashing down the sides. She’d always been one for pretty footwear. But, Lord, she missed wearing a sexy pair of high heels.
“Those days are over,” she said with a sigh, then repeated it when she heard Cora’s footsteps. “I’m just reminding myself my days of prancing about in high heels are done and gone.”
“Ma.”
“Was a time I could dance all night and into the morning in a pair of high red shoes. I had this pair—red, with peep-out toes—I saved up nearly six months to—”
“Ma. Ma. Mama.”
The tone got through, had Miss Fancy looking up. The pale, stricken expression on her daughter’s face shot an arrow into her heart.
“My baby, what’s wrong? What happened?”
“It’s Alice,” Cora managed as her mother pushed to her feet. “It’s Alice. They found Alice.”
She broke, crumbling to her knees as her mother rushed to her.
* * *
As Jessica pulled up to the ranch, Bodine turned to her. “You really ought to change your mind about Sunday dinner. It’s epic around here. And you’d have a chance to flirt some with Chase.”
“Tempting, believe me. But I need a nap,” Jessica insisted. “And I think I shouldn’t push the flirting too hard right this minute.”
“Strategic game.” Approving, Bodine tapped a fingertip on Jessica’s shoulder. “Next move’s Chase’s.”
“You could say that.”
“Well, thanks for the ride.”
“Anytime. Say hi to everybody.”
“I will.”
Since Jessica had pulled up to the front of the house, Bodine went in the same way. She’d just run upstairs, she thought, change her dress, then see what help her mother might need for dinner.
She stepped in, stopping short as she saw her mother crying in her father’s arms. Not just crying, Bodine thought in that flash of an instant, but shaking with it.
“What happened?” A fist squeezed around her heart so hard, she went light-headed. “The grannies—”
Sam shook his head, stroking Maureen’s hair as he met Bodine’s eyes over his wife’s head. “Everyone’s all right.”
“I’m all right. I’m all right.” Swiping at her face, Maureen pulled back. “Did I turn everything off? I need to check if—”
“Everything’s off,” Sam assured her. “We need to go now, Reenie.”
“Go where? What’s happening?” Bodine demanded.
“Alice.” When her voice cracked, Maureen took a deep breath, let it come out slow. “They found Alice. She’s in the hospital. In Hamilton.”
“They— Alice? But where—”
“Not now, honey.” Sam kept his arm firm around Maureen’s shoulders. “We’ve got to go get your grannies. We can’t let Cora drive with the state she’s in.”
“I—I—left everything in the kitchen,” Maureen began.
“I’ll take care of it, Mom.”
“Chase, Rory, I was going to leave a note. I forgot. I need—”
“I’ll tell them. I’ll tell them.” Bodine moved in, hugged Maureen hard, felt the tremors. “We’ll be right behind you. We’ll be there.” She framed her mother’s face with her hands. “Take care of the grannies.”
It was, she saw, exactly the right thing to say. Her mother’s eyes cleared. “We will. We’ll take care. Chase and Rory.”
“I’ll find them. Go now.”
