Rock Harbor Series - 01 - Without a Trace (28 page)

She turned and plodded through the crowd. Once clear of the masses, she glanced around at the Chicago skyline, twinkling with light from the skyscrapers. Rachel had forgotten what it was like to be in a big city. She felt more alone here than in her little cabin in the woods.

She had one shot at not having to stay out in the cold all night. She made her way to a phone booth and perched her backpack on the cold steel ledge near the phone. Fumbling in the pack, she found a slip of paper with a number written on it. There was no guarantee the number was still good. It had been nearly ten years since she’d last spoken to her brother.

Her hands shook as she dropped two quarters into the pay phone. Once the phone began ringing, she almost hung up. What would she say to him after what she’d done? But the thought of huddling in the cold all night was a strong goad.

“Hello.”

The voice was gruff but familiar. She wet her lips. “Frank? It’s Rachel.”

The pause was long, then Frank finally responded, “What do you want? I figured you was dead by now.”

“I need a place to stay tonight. Just for one night. I leave tomorrow.” Hating the pleading tone in her voice, she drummed her fingers on the cold metal shelf in the booth.

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough to me and my family?”

“Please, Frank. I have nowhere else to go. I’ll just sleep on the floor and be gone tomorrow.”

Frank snorted. “I guess you can’t do any more damage. Where are you?”

Relief as sweet as a summer rain washed over Rachel. She gave him her location and hung up. What had swayed Frank to allow her to stay? He still sounded just as bitter. She found a spot in a doorway sheltered from the wind and settled down to wait. The nervousness she felt made her jittery, and she wished she had a cigarette. She hadn’t had any money for smokes in over a year though.

About half an hour later she saw a car cruising slowly down the street. Maybe that was Frank. She stepped out of the doorway and into the beam of a streetlight so he could see her. The car pulled to the curb. The window went down and she stepped to the door, her heart in her mouth.

“I don’t have all day. Get in if you’re coming,” Frank said.

She got in the car. The blast of warm air from the vents made her eyes water, but the heat felt heavenly. After fastening her seat belt, she turned to look at her brother. He was staring at her through bushy gray eyebrows.

“You ain’t changed much,” he said. “Hair’s grayer, like mine.” He snorted a laugh as he pulled back onto the road, but his eyes were still suspicious. “What you doing here?”

“Job interview,” she said. “You don’t look different either.”

He patted his stomach. “Hannah’s fattened me up some.”

“It looks good on you. You were always too thin.”

He grunted. “Don’t think you can get around me with flattery. I still hate your guts. You burned down my house!”

Rachel gulped. “I was just trying to help, Frank. I thought if you had the insurance money, you could keep Paulie out of jail.”

“And instead, you nearly put me in there with him! You always were stupid, Rachel.”

“Then why’d you come get me?” she snapped, annoyed with him for bringing up all the old baggage. But then what had she expected? All her life she’d heard she didn’t have any common sense, and while what she’d done to his house might prove that to some people, Rachel
had known it was the only way to save her nephew. Was it her fault the plan had taken such a bad turn?

“Because of you my daughter has never married. What man would have her with all those burn scars on her face?” Frank slammed the steering wheel with his hands.

Rachel hunched over against the door. “I didn’t know Hannah was still in the house,” she said. “You know that, Frank. I never would have done anything to hurt her.”

Frank’s antipathy was so strong that Rachel struggled to breathe. This had been a mistake. There was no forgiveness in the man. Several miles later, Frank sighed and his animosity seemed to leak away. “Yeah, well, you never did have no sense, Rachel. But you always had a good heart.” He stopped at a small, one-story house. Built in the forties, it couldn’t be more than eight hundred square feet. “Here we are. Hannah’s working tonight.”

“What’s she do?”

Frank snorted. “She’s a nurse like you.”

Frank parked then slid his bulk out of the car and plodded up the walkway. He twisted the key in the lock and opened the door. “Home sweet home,” he said.

The air smelled of stale cigarettes and beer, just like the house she’d burned down. Rachel followed him inside.

“Leftover casserole’s in the fridge if you want some,” he told her.

By the time she finished eating, Rachel and Frank had settled back into their old relationship. He was as hungry for companionship as she, hungry enough to grudgingly forgive her. By the time she left the next morning, he had agreed to let her and Sam move in until they found a place of their own.

Life in Chicago suddenly became more attractive. She and Sam could move right away, even if she didn’t get this job. If she lived in the city, she could find employment in no time.

In a way, the whole scene felt familiar. She slipped back into city life as if slipping into a comfortable sweater she hadn’t worn in years. The sights, sounds, and smells of the city gave her a sense of place, something she’d missed in the woods.

Frank dropped her off for her interview the next morning. Dressed in wool slacks and a nice sweater left over from her days as a nurse, she felt like her old self, confident and put together.

When she walked out an hour later, she had a job. Her heart sang as she changed her clothes and headed for the bus station. She and Sam would be so happy here.

The fire had gone out hours ago. Sam huddled under the blankets, but he still wasn’t warm. When would she be back? He hated to be alone. When he was alone like this, too many thoughts whirled in his head. Sometimes strange memories tried to poke their way through. Sometimes he could almost catch them.

Some of them were good. He remembered his mommy, his daddy, his dog. Whenever he tried to talk about these thoughts to
her,
her mouth pinched up like she’d eaten a lemon. She told him not to think about them. Sometimes he remembered his daddy yelling. Then the plane crashing in the trees. He hurt all over and he’d tried to wake Daddy up, but he wouldn’t wake up.

If he thought hard enough, he remembered that he had another name once, but he couldn’t think what it was. Every day it got harder for him to catch the memories—as hard as it was for him to catch the chipmunks. They didn’t like his new hair color any better than the old one.

Sam clasped his arms around himself. Maybe he could light the fire. She had said not to try, but she’d been gone a long time. She was gone when he woke yesterday, and then the fire had gone out when it got dark. He’d shivered all through the night, and he was still cold.
It would be even colder soon. The sun was going down, and the wind had started to blow hard.

The wind blew snow under the door and around the windows. Biting his lip, he slipped out of bed. He already had on his slippers, but even they hadn’t helped his feet stay warm. He dragged a blanket with him and wrapped it around his shoulders. First he should use the privy. She had left a potty inside, but it was smelly and nasty. Sam’s lip curled. He’d go outside.

Opening the back door, he stepped into the yard. The snow came nearly to his knees, and he struggled to get to the little shed behind the house. Sam moved quickly. He left the privy door open a little so he wouldn’t be in the dark.

It was spooky to be out here alone. She always came with him and talked to him outside the door. What if a bear came and ate him? Or wolves. He’d heard the wolves howling last night, and he’d cried. She would be disappointed in him. Only babies cried, she said.

He finished and hurried back to the house. He breathed more easily when the door was shut and latched. He rewrapped the blanket around his shoulders then walked toward the stove. If he could use the privy by himself, he could do something as easy as lighting a fire.

He touched the stove. It was cold, as cold as he was, maybe colder. The lever turned easily in his hand, and he looked inside. The ashes were white, and wind whistled over him with the stove open.

He glanced at the pipe thing. What had she called it? He stood on his tiptoes and managed to turn the thing straight up and down, as she had shown him. He’d watched her start a fire a hundred times. He couldn’t count to a hundred yet, but he knew it was a lot. The kindling was in a box by the door. Trailing the blanket behind him, he took a handful of the kindling with his free hand and tossed the pieces into the stove.

No, wait, that wasn’t right. He had to put newspaper under it. He pulled out the kindling, piece by piece, and laid it on the floor in front
of the stove. There was a box of newspaper by the bed. He took a piece, wadded it up the way she always did, and laid it in the stove. Then he piled the kindling on it. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the box of matches beside the stove.

She said never to play with matches, but this wasn’t playing. If he didn’t do something, he would freeze like the dead fox he’d seen last winter. He bit his lip while he opened the box of matches and took one out. Holding the box as he’d seen her do, he ran the match across that rough strip on the box. The match burst into flames, and it startled him so much he dropped it. It fell to the stone in front of the wood stove and quickly went out.

Sam took out another match. He held the box and the match at arm’s length and squinted his eyes. Striking the match, he barely flinched this time when it flared. He held it to the paper in the stove. The paper flamed, and Sam grinned. He’d soon be warm, and she would be so proud of him. Crouching in front of the stove, he basked in the bit of heat radiating from the burning paper.

The dry kindling caught and began to crackle. Sam watched for a few minutes, mesmerized by the dancing flames. He held his hands in front of the fire to warm them. The fire popped and snapped, a wonderful sound to Sam. He longed for the fire to really start heating up the room.

Slowly, he fed the flames with more kindling. As long as he stayed right in front of the stove with the blanket wrapped around him, he felt warm. He knew he needed to throw some of the larger logs on the fire, but he was afraid. What if he put them in wrong and they rolled out again? All his work would be wasted.

Soon the kindling box was almost empty. Sam took the last handful and put it on the fire. He might as well try to do something now. The fire would soon be out anyway. Struggling with the weight of it, he picked up a split log. He leaned into the stove and pushed the log onto the flames with all his might.

The log seemed to turn in his hands before it hit right in the middle of the fire. The kindling scattered, and several pieces flew out the stove door. One landed on Sam’s blanket. It smoldered then flared into flame. Sam screamed and turned to run.

20

B
ree curled up on the sofa and sipped her tea. Warm and content, she almost didn’t answer the door when the bell rang. Samson padded to the door and waited expectantly. The bell rang again. She tossed the fleece throw off her legs and reluctantly went to the entry.

Hilary stood on the porch, huddled in a sheepskin coat. “It’s freezing out here.” She brushed past Bree and came inside, stomping the snow from her boots. “Mason is working late tonight, and I was bored. Want to order a pizza?”

“I just warmed up some leftover chicken enchilada casserole Martha sent over. There’s plenty left. You want some?” Bree took Hilary’s coat and hung it in the closet under the stairs. She ordered Samson into the living room. No sense in riling Hilary with his presence.

“Sounds good. I wouldn’t turn down a cup of hot coffee either.” Hilary followed her into the kitchen.

As Bree heated Hilary’s meal, she wondered how she could bring up Hilary’s outburst at the party. Her suspicions would nag her until she laid them to rest.

Hilary sat at the small dinette in the corner. “Mother wants to know if you’ll bring some of your cranberry salad and the sweet potato casserole to Thanksgiving this year.”

“I think I’ve still got the recipes here someplace,” Bree said. Had Hilary really come by because she was bored? Under normal circumstances, Hilary would have just called to ask about Thanksgiving
arrangements. Bree set the casserole in front of her sister-in-law along with a cup of coffee then sat across the table from her.

“Smells good.” Hilary chased several forkfuls of food around the plate before she set her fork aside. “Mother told me you’re giving up the search,” she said.

Ah, the real reason for the visit. Bree steeled herself for Hilary’s cajoling. “I’ll search until the first of the year, then I’m going to get busy with a training school. I’ve found a couple of possible sites.” Hilary was blinking rapidly, and Bree looked away. Tears might make her lose her resolve.

“I just came by to tell you I agree with your decision,” Hilary said.

Bree wasn’t sure she’d heard correctly. Wide-eyed, she stared at Hilary. “You . . . you agree?”

“Mother told me I was being selfish, and I guess I was. I’ve been pretty hard on you this past year. I know we’ve had our differences, but you’ll always be my little sister.”

This was a softer, more vulnerable Hilary than Bree had ever seen. “I’ve only ever wanted your approval,” Bree said in a low voice.

“You’ve driven yourself to find Rob’s plane, and I haven’t been very appreciative. I’m sorry.” Hilary smiled ruefully. “I’m not easy to live with; just ask Mason. I blow my top and say things I don’t mean when I should keep my mouth shut.”

The perfect opening. “Don’t we all. Just like what you said about Fay the night of the party. I knew you didn’t mean it.”

Hilary frowned. “What did I say about Fay?”

“That you hated her, and her baby should have been yours.”

Hilary waved a hand. “I was just upset about the doctor’s news. You never really forget your first love, but Steve and I would have been divorced before a year was out. I need someone stable and patient like Mason. I wouldn’t trade him for a dozen Steves.” Her eyes darkened with pain and she looked at her casserole. “We’re doing what we can to
get Mason’s sperm count up. We haven’t given up hope yet. For a while I’d forgotten God is in control.”