Searching for Cate (18 page)

“H
e's here, you know,” Henry Spotted Owl said, his voice rumbling from deep within his wide chest.

Juanita looked up from the latest reports she was reading, reports that would hopefully help her to upgrade the school she'd dedicated herself to for the last twenty years in one form or another. All she needed now was to rattle a few cages, raise a little money to help with the funding. That shouldn't be any more difficult that say, turning water into wine.

Sighing, Juanita sat back and rubbed her forehead, willing away yet another headache. Wasn't she supposed to be more carefree in the second half of her life? Not hardly.

“Which ‘he' would that be?” she asked.

“Christian.”

The short reply, without fanfare, surprised her. As did
the information. Juanita removed her glasses, sliding them up onto her head where they spent most of each day.

“No, he's not.” Christian would never be on the reservation without letting her know. He always stopped home first.

Henry sank his still-powerful frame down onto the sofa and reached for the remote control. Pressing the power button, he brought life to the rectangular box that had sat dormant until this moment. “Mary Whitefeather said she saw him.”

Juanita raised her voice to be heard about the commercial that had come on. “When?” Mary Whitefeather was their own personal communication system. If anything was happening on the reservation, Mary was somehow always the first to know.

Henry's eyes were sealed to the screen. The corners of his mouth, already down, drooped a little further in disapproval. He went to the next channel. “A little while ago.”

This just wasn't like Christian. Something was wrong. She could feel it. “Was he at the clinic?”

Two more channels came and went before Henry answered. “She said he was walking somewhere. She called out to him, but he didn't hear her.”

Mary was getting on in years, although no one was really certain just how old she was. The numbers she gave changed every year. There was no doubt in Juanita's mind that in the not-too-distant future, Mary would be the same age as her own son.

Disturbed, Juanita frowned. “Christian never comes on a Saturday. It's always on a Friday evening.” She
looked at Henry for confirmation. “He always wants to get in two full days at the clinic.”

Henry's wide shoulders moved up and down beneath the colorful green-and-yellow shirt he wore, a gift made for him by the mother of one of the boys he worked with at the gym. He wore it proudly. He went to yet another channel, then paused. A woman was going into labor on one of the medical programs. Birth of any kind had always fascinated him. “Hey, I'm just the messenger.”

Juanita realized that she must have sounded as if she was snapping at him. She hadn't meant to. Lately, she hadn't been sleeping that well. Half-formed dreams about Christian that vaporized with first morning light kept plaguing her. Were they warning her about something? “What do you think it means?”

For all of Henry's stories, he was basically a simple man. He slanted a look toward Juanita. “It means that Mary Whitefeather saw him walking. Don't look for omens.”

“I wasn't looking for omens, old man.” The omens usually came looking for her, Juanita thought.

But they'd had this discussion before and Henry didn't believe in the old ways as she did. She found it amusing that she should be the one to look to the past while he embraced the present. A present that had widows gifting him with shirts and various other tokens of appreciation. “I was just trying to figure out why he would be on the reservation without first stopping here.”

Amusement filtered into Henry's leathery features. He paused his channel-surfing to give momentary
attention to a program about the Painted Desert. “Maybe he didn't want you asking a lot of questions.”

Juanita took exception to his implication. “I leave my sons alone.”

“You don't have to ask questions with your mouth, Juanita. You do it with your eyes.”

“So I should close them when Lukas and Christian are here?”

Henry inclined his head. A commercial break had come on. He went in search of something interesting to fill in the ninety-second slot. “It's a thought.”

Juanita looked at her older brother with no small affection. How would she ever have faced life without him? He'd helped her plug up all the holes these past twenty years, usually without being asked. But if she said as much to him, he'd be on the next train off the reservation. Gratitude embarrassed Henry unless it came from some widow who was eager to show him just how grateful she was.

“Would you like me to tell you what to do with that thought?”

Henry grunted, working his way back to the nature program one channel at a time. It never occurred to him to press in the actual numbers on the remote and speed up the process. “Didn't anyone ever teach you to respect your elders?”

“When I find an elder, I will. You're younger than I am.” And there were times when she felt that was actually true. Henry managed to somehow have more energy than she could muster.

“Not tonight. Tony and Jack are giving me a run for my money,” he said, mentioning two of the boys who
had been with him for a couple of years now. When they'd started, he'd had to tie their trunks around their waists with rope because the trunks were so large. The boys had since grown into them and filled out considerably. So much so that Henry complained he had to chase some of the local girls away. “Those boys can box.” Juanita knew this was high praise. Henry never wasted his time with flowery rhetoric. “We might even have an Olympic contender on our hands with one of them.” He paused for a moment, then lowered the volume on the set. He looked at his sister. “He's all right. Stop worrying.”

As if she could. Juanita shook her head. “They never told me how. That wasn't covered in the Mother's Handbook.”

She had a feeling she knew where Christian was. Where he always was when he wasn't at the house or the clinic. With Alma. Or at least her final resting place. The fact that he was probably there bothered her even more than his being on the reservation without communicating with her.

She glanced over to the far corner of the room, where John had sat this entire time, a silent figure more given to observing than speaking. He was a lot like her firstborn, she thought fondly. They could have very easily been actual brothers.

There was a book opened on John's lap and he looked to be reading. Even so, she knew he was taking in every word. He always did.

“John?”

The teenager raised his deep brown eyes from the page and looked in her direction. “Yes, ma'am?”

She'd told him to call her Mother when she'd first taken him in, right after the accident. For all intents and purposes she had taken over the role of mother in his life. But although he loved her as much as any son could love his mother, the word “Mother” just would not come to his lips. Not after he'd lost his. So he called her “ma'am” and she let it go at that.

“Would you please go to the cemetery for me and see if Christian's there?”

John was up in an instant, marking his place before closing his book and neatly putting it in the middle of the coffee table.

“And if he is?” Henry asked as John crossed to her. “What then?”

“Tell him to come home. That he's worrying his mother,” Juanita said simply to both her brother and John. “It's cold outside. Take a jacket.”

John took his jacket from the coatrack by the front door and slipped it on quickly. “Yes, ma'am.”

The door closed. Juanita exhaled a long breath, feeling as if she'd just crossed a tightrope. There was no sense in worrying about Christian, but she couldn't help herself. It was nice to have John to fall back on.

“He's a good boy,” she said with pride.

“He's got a girl, you know.”

Juanita raised an eyebrow at the information. “You're just a walking news bulletin tonight, aren't you, old man?” Henry made no response. He was busy watching what sounded like a band of coyotes, howling, on the program he'd temporarily allowed to grace the screen. She knew he was waiting for her to ask. “All right, who is she?”

“That part I don't know,” he told her honestly. Her dismissive snort had him defending his position. “But I know the signs.” He chuckled then. The sound was more like a rusty cackle. He enjoyed being one up on Juanita in this department. Usually his sister was the first to know about something like that. “You're slipping.”

“And you're hallucinating.” She picked up the report again.

“Have it your way,” he said in that infuriating way of his that told her he knew he was right and was allowing her to delude herself.

Juanita made the attempt to go back to reading the report. It was useless. Her mind kept getting stuck on isolated words, refusing to allow her to link them together.

With all her heart, she wished she'd never brought Alma into the house. If she'd insisted that the girl be sent to her great-aunt in Texas when her father had fled the reservation, none of this might have happened. And right now, Christian would still be that happy boy she remembered with longing.

 

John shoved his hands deep into the pockets of the jacket Juanita have bought for him last winter. He quickened his pace as he entered through the wrought-iron gate that stood at the front of the cemetery. Some of his friends didn't like coming here in the daytime, much less after dark. They claimed that the cemetery was haunted by troubled spirits.

He himself had never subscribed to legends like that. Dead people didn't come back to visit. They
moved on. Just like his parents had. He liked thinking that they were both now in a better place than the one they'd known while they were alive. For them, it had taken death to escape the reservation. For him, the path that would get him to some place better would be school. Just like it had been for Lukas and Christian. He admired both his adoptive brothers and wanted desperately to emulate them.

To that end, he studied every free moment he had. Every moment he didn't spend with Lily.

He was crazy about her the way he never had been about any other girl. In a way, though he'd never say anything, that gave him a bond with Christian. He understood what Christian felt, or thought he did. If he lost Lily the way Christian had lost Alma, he'd be here, too, not looking for her spirit, but just trying to connect to her resting place.

Moving amid the tombstones, John made his way over to where they had buried Alma and her daughter. The moon was behind a cloud tonight, but he could just about make out the figure of a man sitting on the ground.

John's mouth curved in a grim smile. Juanita had been right. Christian was here, sitting beside the head-stone he had bought.

The night was breezy and the faint murmur of a deep male voice rode on the wind. John couldn't make out the words, but he didn't want to interrupt. It didn't seem right. So he hung back and waited.

The minutes ticked by. Finally, because he knew Juanita would be worried, he cleared his throat. The moment he did, Christian turned in his direction. Silently, he raised an eyebrow as John came forward.

“Your mother sent me,” John explained. “She says she's worried and that you should come home.”

That was just the problem, Christian thought, gaining his feet and brushing the dirt from his jeans. Since last night, he was no longer a hundred percent sure just where home was.

“How'd she find out I was here?” It wasn't really a question, just idle curiosity as to the source this time. Christian knew that word traveled very fast on the reservation.

“Mary Whitefeather told Uncle Henry she saw you.”

Mary Whitefeather. One of their stellar reporters. Christian laughed softly. “We had communication down to a science on the reservation long before the Internet came along.” It was time to leave, anyway. The night was growing colder. Forcing a smile to his lips, he looked at John. “So, how's the studying coming along?”

“Glad you're here,” John said in earnest. “I need a little help with math.”

Christian nodded. “You got it. By the way,” he began as he turned toward the gate and led the way out of the cemetery, “how would you like to come to the clinic tomorrow and help me out?”

“Is the fox clever?”

He'd picked that up from Henry, Christian thought. Uncle Henry had a saying for almost everything. “No question about it. All right, be up at six.”

John groaned, but his smile never faded.

“Y
ou've got more than math on your mind,” Christian commented later on that evening.

After coming home from the cemetery, Christian was relieved that he was not about to be subjected to any lengthy inquiry by his mother as to why he hadn't let her know he was coming. She'd just looked at him with that smile of hers and said “hello.” That smile that told him she was glad he was home and that she sensed he needed his space. As far as mothers went, she pretty much set the standard.

A long time ago, he'd discovered that when things seemed to be at their most tangled, he could best work out problems that were plaguing him in his own life if he saw beyond them and tried to help someone else. Tonight, as he'd attempted to sort out the confusion in
his head regarding the night he'd spent with Cate, John had come along and fit the bill.

Despite his genuine desire to get ahead, the teenager his mother had taken into her home and heart seemed very distracted as they tackled the problems he'd pointed out in his advanced-algebra text.

So after a while, Christian had suggested a break and they went outside.

They were standing, mostly in silence, on the porch that Lukas, Henry and he had built as a surprise for Juanita when she was away at a school conference. It was one of the few times he could remember ever seeing his mother cry.

In answer to his question, John shrugged and gazed up at the sky.

Christian looked at the teenager's rigid profile. Something was definitely up. He leaned against the railing. “Want to talk about it?” He left the door open without prodding, waiting to see if it would be shut, or if John would step through.

Still not facing him, John took a deep breath. “I've been thinking…I want to get married.”

Whatever he was expecting to hear, it definitely wasn't remotely close to this. Christian thought back to himself at that age. At seventeen, his heart had already belonged to Alma, but the rest of him had been torn. On the one hand, he'd wanted to take care of her, on the other, he'd wanted to be free, to experience at least some of what life had to offer.

Looking at John, he could sense that same sort of wavering in the boy. A foot planted in each world, he thought.

“Married, huh?” Christian hid his surprise and concern. “To anyone in particular?”

John closed his eyes and an image came to him that he both resisted and embraced. He'd never felt more confused in his young life. “Yes.”

Maybe he was reading things from his own past into John's tone, but he didn't hear the enthusiasm he would have normally associated with the declaration. “You don't sound sure.”

“I am,” John protested, but because he had never lied to anyone, felt bound to add, “except…”

The word had trailed off into the night. Christian looked at the younger man, waiting. “Except?”

“I want to be free, too.” It was almost a protest. A protest against being locked into a box. “I want to find my way off the reservation. Be a doctor like you and Lukas.” John rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand, as if that could somehow make his doubts disappear. His desire to become a doctor was complicated enough with all that was involved. Love just increased complications. “I don't know. This girl, she has me all twisted around.”

Christian wasn't about to alienate John by saying he was too young to know love. Some people weren't and John was very intelligent. Love didn't always come when you were in your late twenties, sometimes it came before. But even if John felt the kind of love that was lasting, that didn't mean he had to take all the giant steps that were mapped out for adults who felt the way he did.

Christian chose his words slowly. “Love is a wonderful thing, John. It can make you feel ten feet
tall.” He studied his adopted brother's face as he spoke. “But make sure that you stay true to yourself first.”

Right now, everything just felt hopelessly confused. John could swear that he kept hearing her voice in his head. Telling him things he didn't want to hear. Making him feel guilty.

And yet he loved her.

Sighing, John shoved his hands deep into his pocket as he turned to face Christian. “What do you mean?”

Looking into John's eyes, Christian felt as if he was seeing himself at that age. His past came rushing back to him. He'd almost made a mess of his life. The only good thing was that he had hung on to his ambition, thinking that it would get them both to a better place in their lives. If Alma had had her way he would have been working at the reservation's one lone gas station, pumping gas and running the tiny convenience store.

“Don't be pressured to do something just because you're afraid of losing that love. At this stage, you need to grow up a little bit, live on your own. Taste life a little, before you commit to one woman. If that love is strong—if it's worthy of you both—it'll still be there once you finish college.”

He didn't often talk about Alma, and never to John, even though John and Alma had been distant cousins—or perhaps because of it. But maybe it was necessary. For the boy's sake.

Christian flashed a self-deprecating smile. “Maybe if I'd followed my own advice years back, I wouldn't have felt so responsible for Alma, or been so ill-equipped to help her. I would have realized that your cousin had a lot more problems than I was able to help
her with on my own at that age.” Christian blew out a breath, staring into the night. And into his own dark soul. A pain existed there that he wasn't sure if he would ever conquer. “And I certainly wouldn't have brought a child into the world to suffer the fate she did.”

Rousing himself, Christian looked at the tall young man beside him. Immobile, quiet, John hardly even seemed to be breathing as he listened. “Any of this making any sense to you?”

John nodded grimly. But he knew what Christian was saying was right. He just needed the courage to see it through. And not to melt at the sight of her tears, or give in when she railed.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Yes, it is.”

“Good.” Christian moved away from the railing and John followed suit. Christian put his arm around the boy's slim shoulders. “Now, let's go inside. We've got an early morning ahead of us.”

“Still six?” John asked.

Christian grinned, opening the door. “Still six.”

This time, John's groan was a little less audible. Christian laughed, giving him a little shove, sending John through the doorway a little faster than the teenager had intended on going.

 

“She's awake.”

Cate had just barely had time to open her cell phone. She certainly hadn't identified herself. Neither had the person on the other end of the phone. Instead, the woman had gone directly to the reason for her call.

Although her head felt as if it was still half-enshrouded in a fog, there was no need for Cate to ask
who was calling or who the “she” was. She recognized Lydia's voice. The woman sounded far too excited for there to be any mistake as to whom she was referring.

Jane Doe was conscious.

What a time to have overslept, Cate upbraided herself. Right now, she should be in her car, pulling up into the parking lot behind the federal building, not scrounging around, trying to find a pair of elusive shoes that she knew she had on when she'd walked through the door yesterday.

Or had that been the day before?

Finding a box of long-stemmed roses on her doorstep when she'd come home late Saturday had completely thrown her off. There'd been no card, no indication who they were from, although she'd surmised they came from Christian. What she couldn't figure out was why he'd sent them. To say here's to the beginning of a wonderful friendship? Or thanks for the one-night stand? Or were they some kind of consolation prize?

Nothing made sense to her.

Sunday had seen her serving a self-imposed prison sentence in her apartment, determined to empty out every single box and find a home for its contents. What else did one do when one had insomnia?

“Did you hear what I said, Cate? She's awake,” Lydia repeated. “Katya's awake.” The last was declared several decibels higher.

Cate found one shoe in the kitchen under the table. Rather than put it on and hobble around, she held it in her free hand as she went in search of its mate.

“Katya?”

“Katya,” Lydia echoed. “At least that's the name
the officer on duty said she gave him. He walked in to check on her and she was staring at him with these wide eyes. When he tried to talk to her, she began babbling at him, crying. But he's pretty sure that's the name she said. She pointed to herself when she said it.”

Her other shoe was wedged inexplicably under the sofa. After fishing it out, Cate quickly slid on both shoes, never losing the thread of the conversation. She hurried into her jacket, switching the phone from ear to ear as she worked the sleeves. “And he's sure she didn't say anything else?”

“Nothing that he understood,” Lydia told her. “I'm on my way down to the hospital. Meet me there.”

“See you in a few minutes,” Cate responded. Breaking the connection, she slid the cell phone into her pocket. Just before leaving the apartment, she checked the shape of her service revolver, then straightened her jacket.

It was Monday morning and she was late. Something that had happened perhaps a handful of times in her life, and never since she'd joined the bureau. But she'd only drifted off to sleep after four in the morning, still thinking about the roses. Six o'clock came and went, leaving her asleep. So did seven.

At a few minutes after seven, a dream she couldn't remember less than two minutes after she'd opened her eyes had her bolting upright in bed. All she could remember was the sense that she'd been drowning. Drowning in giant rose petals. Red ones.

The numbers on the clock beside her bed had her instantly jumping up a second after they'd registered. She had already dashed into her clothes when Lydia called.

At least her apartment was finally straightened out, she thought as she locked the door behind her. But that wasn't the only thing she'd accomplished last night. After spending most of it unpacking and wrestling with her thoughts, she'd come to two decisions. One, she was going to make one more attempt to get Joan to admit to being her mother, and two, she was going to get a dog for companionship. Both had something to do with the fact that she could recognize her own weaknesses.

The former came from her need to be acknowledged, not just tossed into the garbage like last week's entertainment magazine.

Her decision to buy a dog was a little more complex. It had to do with vulnerability. With her mother gone and the foundations that defined her life eroded, she felt incredibly alone. She'd needed to feel someone's arms around her, to feel that she
wasn't
alone. So when she found herself occupying the same space as Christian, something had just happened. She'd given in to the attraction she'd felt and the need that was eating her up alive.

She was certain that if she hadn't felt this lonely, this vulnerable, she would have never made love with Christian. She would have been able to find the strength to withstand the strong attraction she felt toward him. That was where a dog came in. A pet would fill some of the void she felt.

A German shepherd like the one she'd had as a child, Cate decided.

At least she had a plan, she thought as she took the on-ramp to the freeway.

 

“And you still haven't gotten any more out of her?”

Cate heard Lydia's voice before she turned the corner. Her partner and the police officer were standing directly outside the young girl's room.

The police officer who had been guarding the girl shook his head adamantly. His moon face was affable, but not without confusion. Every thought he had registered across it, and right now he seemed perplexed. Cate hoped the man never allowed himself to be talked into playing poker.

“Nothing that I understood,” he confessed. “Mostly, she's just crying. When she does say something, it's in some other language.” Wide shoulders rose and fell. “Damned if I know what it is.”

“Thanks, we'll take it from here.” Lydia nodded at Cate. “Morning.”

It had taken two cups of coffee, purchased on the fly, to get her eyes to remain open. Cate found herself suppressing a yawn even now. “If you say so.”

Despite her excitement at what she hoped was the beginning of a breakthrough, Lydia slanted her partner a look of interest. “Put in a late night?”

“Still unpacking.” The weekend felt like one giant blur of boxes, roses and murky dreams. She realized suddenly that she'd been remiss. “I meant to call you and thank you for dinner.”

Hand on the doorknob, Lydia paused and waved away the words. “Nothing to thank me for. Lukas told me not to quit my day job. That I'm pretty much a failure when it comes to match-making.”

Cate shrugged. “We're just not in the market for that.”

“We?” A light came into Lydia's eyes as she led the way into the ICU. “Did you and Christian discuss it?”

Only a seriously hearing-impaired person wouldn't have heard the hopeful note in Lydia's voice. And she had perfect hearing. Cate carefully edited her answer before speaking. “Outside your house. When we went to get our cars.”

“Oh.” Disappointment slid like heavy dew off the word. Feeling sorry for her, Cate almost said something, but stopped herself at the last moment. No sense in having Lydia entertain any false hopes. What had happened Friday night had been a fluke.

Right?

Lydia squared her shoulders as she looked at the young girl in the bed. Their would-be witness was conscious now, watching them with large, frightened brown eyes.

“How are you with languages?” Lydia asked Cate.

“I'm not exactly a linguist.” Cate made eye contact with the girl and offered her a smile. “I know Spanish.”