Hear No Evil (22 page)

But there were so
many
motels—and most had to be visited more than once because different people worked in the offices on different shifts.

There was the Alpine Rose Inn, Americana Inn, Armitage Inn, Branson Inn, Clarion Inn, Country Inn, Dew Drop Inn, Economy Inn, Elvis Inn, Fiddler’s Inn, Good Shepherd Inn, Guesthouse Inn, Hillbilly Inn, Island Fun Inn, Jamboree Inn, Jeeter’s Inn, Kleen Klassy Inn, Lovebird Inn, Lucky Seven Inn, Mountain Inn, Music Inn, Ozark Inn—the list seemed to go on forever. And there were the chains as well, the Ramada Inn, Holiday Inn, Executive Inn, Comfort Inn, Days Inn, and Best Western Inn. These would have to be checked, too, even if they seemed too expensive for Mimi.

“I hope she isn’t shacked up with somebody,” Drace grumbled. “I want her to be alone when we find her.”

“Absolutely,” Raylene agreed.

“Then I have to shake out of her where that goddamn kid is. Or cut it out of her. The kid’s got to go, too.”

“Absolutely,” Raylene said with feeling. “Amen.”

She sighed, stretched luxuriously, and stood, laying the phone book on the nightstand beside the empty milk carton.

Then she climbed onto the king-sized bed and knelt over Drace, looking down at his face. His expression was
brooding, almost sulky. She smoothed his blond hair from his brow.

“Ready to start again?” she asked softly.

“Give me a few minutes,” he said, not looking at her.

“You’ve got a milk mustache,” she said fondly, leaning nearer. The milky upper lip made him look almost like a little boy, a beautiful, pouty little boy.

He turned his blue eyes to hers, put his hand on her thigh.

She smiled. At last he smiled back.

She stroked his hair.

“A milk mustache?” he asked.

She nodded and kept looking into his eyes.

“Lick it off,” he said.

She bent over him and began to do so, slowly, sensually, and delicately.

S
HORTLY AFTER NOON, CALLS ON THE PSYCHIC LINE
slowed. Eden unplugged the phone and warmed up the leftover pizza for Peyton. She could eat nothing herself. She sat at the table with the girl, drinking black coffee.

Thoughts of Mimi ran almost obsessively through her mind; the last call from “Constance” had disturbed her deeply. Did Peyton know where Mimi was? And if she did, how could Eden induce her to tell?

Eden’s gaze drifted to the kitchen window, and through the sheer curtains, she could see Owen’s house, stark and handsome and empty-seeming like Owen himself.

Owen
, she thought, and sucked almost angrily at her
sore lower lip. He hadn’t phoned, and she hated herself for wanting to talk to him.

She, who hadn’t depended on anyone in years, had somehow in a ridiculously short time come to depend on him.
Run away
, her survivor’s instinct said.

“I like cartoons,” Peyton announced solemnly. Eden’s eyes returned reluctantly to her. The child sat with her elbows on the table, one hand twiddling with a new earring. With the forefinger of the other hand, she traced the outline of the figure on the pizza box, a skinny caricature of a man in a Roman toga and a laurel wreath.

“I like cartoons, too,” Eden answered with manufactured cheer. “Sometimes I work in the cartoons. Did you know that?”

Peyton looked up at her, the small dark brows drawn into a suspicious frown. “How do you work in cartoons?” she challenged. “Cartoons are
pictures
. You’re a person.”

Eden shrugged philosophically. “Somebody has to draw the pictures—just the way you draw yours. And then, for movies and TV, somebody has to talk for them. Because pictures don’t talk by themselves.”

Peyton’s mouth took on a stubborn I-don’t-believe-you slant.

“It’s true,” Eden assured her. “Did you ever see the Peter Pan Fruit Punch commercial on TV?”

Peyton nodded dubiously. “Well, I used to be the voice of Peter Pan.”

“Peter Pan’s a
boy
,” Peyton countered.

“I can sound like a boy,” Eden said. She gave Peyton a knowing smile, then assumed a spunky, prepubescent male voice. “Hey, kids! Get all your vitamin C in one great drink! It’s head-over-heels good!”

Peyton gaped at her with surprised delight. “Do that again.”

Eden repeated the slogan, and Peyton laughed aloud. She demanded another encore, and Eden complied.

“Part of you goes away,” Peyton said in wonder.

Eden nodded, pleased at the child’s astuteness.
Yes
, she thought,
that was as good a description of acting as any: Part of you went away, and somebody else came
.

“Can you do more?” Peyton asked, clearly smitten.

“I can do lots more,” Eden said. “I can be a singing sunflower, the Jumping Jiminy cereal kangaroo, or a duck. I can be a baby or an old lady or an elf. What do you want?”

“The kangaroo,” Peyton said without hesitation. Eden assumed the kangaroo voice with its Australian accent and sang the Jumping Jiminy cereal jingle.

Peyton wriggled in her chair with excitement. “I can do that, too,” she said and took a deep breath. “Listen!”

She astonished Eden by mimicking the song in a lilting voice that, despite its childishness, was startlingly like Eden’s. She even had the accent nailed.

“Why, Peyton,” Eden said, pleased, “that’s
very
good.”

“Show me another one,” Peyton said.

“Did you ever see
The Fearless Fran and Milton Mutt Show?
”

Peyton nodded enthusiastically. Eden adopted a confident yet spritely girl’s voice. “Uh-oh, Milton. Someone’s in trouble—this sounds like a job for Fearless Fran.”

Fearless Fran
had been a Saturday-morning cartoon series, one of Eden’s first leading roles. She had liked the premise: a bookish little girl named Frances Anne lives in a house next to Dismal Bog. One day she discovers both
she and the family dog, Milton, have superpowers. But although Fearless Fran had been designed as a feminist heroine, the show’s writing was derivative, its animation mediocre. It was lucky enough to hang on for barely two years, but it was still alive and well in reruns.

But Peyton seemed delighted. She echoed Eden with uncanny accuracy. “This sounds like a job for Fearless Fran.”

“That’s
excellent
, Peyton.”

“I know her song,” Peyton said excitedly. “I can sing it.”

She pitched her voice low and gravelly and sang:

“Don’t know what?” Eden cued her.

“Don’t know
fright
,” Peyton sang emphatically. She slipped from her chair and seized one of Jessie’s tea towels from the rack, tucking one end of it under the collar of her shirt so that it hung down her back like a cape. She struck the Fearless Fran pose, back straight, chin held high, fists clenched, one arm extended skyward.

Eden smiled. She’d never seen the girl so playful. “Why, Fearless,” she said with admiration. “I’d know you anywhere.”

Peyton put her fists on her hips, puffed out her chest heroically, and recited, “Fearless Fran at your service. Always brave. Never nervous.”

She’s got talent
, Eden thought with a pang.
A natural. She’d be wonderful with training
. At the same moment, an idea, small but full of radiant possibility, struck her.

She said, “Would you sit down and talk to me, Fearless?”

For a second the child seemed to hesitate, but then she strode back to the chair and sat down with her arms crossed.

“Tell me, Fearless,” Eden said. “Aren’t you afraid of anything?”

“Nope,” said Peyton.

“A shark?” Eden asked.

“No.”

“Outlaws?”

“No.”

“The dark?”

“No.”

“You’re completely brave?”

“Yes.”

Eden leaned her elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand, studying the child.

“You’re not afraid of anything in the whole, wide world?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m Fearless.”

“Hm,” Eden said casually. “Do you know a little girl named Peyton?”

“Yes. I know Henry, too.”

Eden chose her words carefully. “Sometimes Peyton’s scared. She can’t even tell me why.”

An uneasy expression came into Peyton’s eyes. She suddenly looked on guard.

“If I knew what she was afraid of,” Eden said, “I could help her. But she won’t tell things. But you could. I mean, you’re Fearless—right?”

Peyton said nothing. She put her thumb in her mouth.

“Peyton’s staying with me now,” Eden said. “At her grandma’s house. Did you know that?”

The child stared at her, wordlessly, then slowly nodded.

Go slowly
, Eden warned herself. “A woman brought her here. The woman’s name was Louise Brodnik. She brought Peyton here from Sedonia, Missouri.”

Peyton did not contradict her, only watched her as a small animal might watch a larger one that offered potential danger.

“Oh, Fearless—” Eden said, as if suddenly remembering her manners. “I didn’t offer you any super-molecule tea. Would you like a cup?”

The answer was silence, but Eden pretended to pour a cup of tea and set it in front of the child. Then she glanced about the room as if searching for someone. “I don’t see your friend, Milton Mutt. Maybe he went to the bog. I wonder if he’s with Mister Swampgas.”

The corner of Peyton’s mouth twitched nervously, as if she wanted to smile but did not dare.

“I remember when Mister Swampgas got kidnapped by the cosmic carp people from Carpathia. But you saved him,” Eden said solemnly.

“Now where were we? Oh, yes. Peyton’s mother asked Mrs. Brodnik to bring her here. Peyton’s mother’s name is Mimi. She had to go away. Do you know where she went, Fearless?”

Peyton swallowed hard. “No,” she said in a tiny voice.

“Oh,” Eden said, as if it hardly mattered. “I’ll tell you something else. Peyton’s mother knows a lot of people. Me and Mrs. Brodnik and Granny.” Eden took a deep breath. “Peyton must miss some of those people her mother knew.”

Peyton stiffened in her chair and looked distressed.

Eden hurried on. “Peyton and Mimi used to live in Michigan,” she said. “I wonder if Peyton ever misses Michigan. Do you think so?”

The child nodded warily but said nothing. “Who does she miss the most? Who do
you
think she misses, Fearless?”

Peyton twisted uncomfortably in her chair. “Mrs. Stangblood,” she said so softly it was barely audible. “In Detroit.”

Eden’s skin prickled. “Mrs. Stangblood? Detroit?”

Peyton made no reply. Eden smiled encouragingly. “Why, thank you, Fearless. You really are very brave. You’re quite a good friend to Peyton.”

Peyton fidgeted and looked away. “Anytime you want to come talk to me, Fearless, you do it,” Eden said warmly. “Because you can say things that Peyton can’t. You can help her that way. Will you do that?”

The child shrugged, an uneasy movement.

“I’m Peyton’s friend, and so are you. Just like Mrs. Stangblood.”

Eden put her arm on the child’s shoulder. “Can you tell me about Peyton’s mother, Fearless? We need to find her, to help her.”

Peyton tugged the ends of the makeshift cape from her collar. She sat clutching the tea towel and staring down at it almost guiltily. She was tired of the game or frightened by it or both.

Eden said, “Is Fearless going away?”

“Yes,” Peyton said in her own voice.

“Is she going back to the house by Dismal Bog?”

Peyton nodded and let the tea towel fall to the floor.

“Fearless can come back to talk anytime she wants. You know that, don’t you?”

But Peyton said nothing in reply, only stared down at the poor, makeshift, abandoned cape.

Eden thought,
Thank you. Thank you for telling me about Mrs. Stangblood
.

She rose from her chair and went to the little girl, bent and hugged her.

Peyton clung to her. “Eden,” she said, her tone pleading, “do you love me?”

Eden’s heart felt as if it had been jerked from her chest. She did not want to love anyone, especially this mysterious and needy child.

But she hugged her more tightly. “Of course,” she lied. “Of course I do.”

She knelt before the child, holding her by the upper arms, and looked her in the eyes, feigning the utmost sincerity. “And, Peyton? The more I know about you, the more I can love you. So you must send Fearless to talk to me again. Understand?”

Peyton nodded dumbly, tears rising in her dark eyes.

After lunch, Eden and Peyton took the old dog and walked down the path that led through the woods to the playground by the lake. When they returned, Owen’s black Blazer was parked in the drive beside Jessie’s house.

Owen himself was in the side yard, facing away from them, toward the thick woods that fringed the houses. He stood with a crossbow cocked and aimed at a torn target pinned to a bale of hay. A small cluster of arrows already bristled from the circles.

At the sight of him, Eden’s hand tightened around Peyton’s, and her heart took an unsettling leap. Owen’s back was straight, his face tense with concentration, and the October sun glinted on his silver-gray hair.