Suspicions (12 page)

“Well, no. But I could tell.” He stepped
toward her with anger in his eyes and she felt fearful. What if he
is involved? And now he thinks I know?

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Uncertain now how much to tell him, she
hesitated.

“Stacey? What do you mean?” he persisted.

“That car,” she began. “It’s all because of
that car.”

“What about the car? What did the FBI tell
you exactly?”

Biting her lip, Stacey drew a deep breath
before speaking. “I . . . I told them you once had a car like the
one Robby saw.” She cringed as she waited for his response.

Several emotions flashed across his face
before he spoke. “How could you?” he asked, throwing his arms into
the air. “How could you implicate me in a kidnapping?”

Stacey’s heart raced at the confrontation.
“But the car Robby saw. It sounded just like that one you had.” She
paused. “I thought they might be able to find the new owner if I
told them about it.”

“But Stacey, don’t you get it? They think I’m
involved.” His eyes burned with rage. “I’m their number one suspect
now. I think they’re following me. And my job could even be in
jeopardy.”

“Why is that car still registered to you?”
Stacey asked, going on the offensive.

Clearly irritated to be questioned by his
wife, he turned his back and began digging through the desk
again.

“Jason, answer me.”

He spun around. “I don’t know. Okay?”

She hesitated before asking her next
question. “You did sell it, didn’t you?”

“What kind of a question is that? I told you
I sold it.”

“When exactly was that again?” she asked, now
uncertain if he was telling her the truth.

He turned his back before answering and
Stacey couldn’t hear him.

“What did you say?” she asked.

“I said, I guess it was about two months
ago.”

“Two months ago,” Stacey said, startled at
this new information. “I thought you sold it to the dealership
years ago.”

“They wouldn’t take it. They said it wasn’t
worth it.” He seemed embarrassed by this information. “But they
told me I could leave it on the lot until I found a buyer.”

“They let you store it on their lot for four
years?” She asked in astonishment.

He quickly looked away. “Okay, okay. I only
tried to sell it to them four months ago.”

“What? Where did you keep it all that
time?”

He looked directly at her, as if challenging
her to try arguing any further. “I put it in storage, okay? I was
planning on fixing it up when we had the money. I finally figured
out that would never happen.”

“So they didn’t arrest you?”

With a grim look on his face, he shook his
head. “Not yet.”

Alarmed, Stacey said, “Are they going
to?”

“You tell me,” he sneered. “You seem to know
a lot more about what’s going on than I do.”

“I’m so sorry, Jason. I didn’t mean for this
to happen.”

He just shook his head, obviously blaming her
for his problems.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get you out of this,” she
said.

“Just exactly how do you plan on doing
that?”

She didn't want him to get into more trouble
by being an accessory to her activities. “Just don't worry,
okay?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah right, I won't
worry. Stacey's on the job.”

She was stung by his remark. Her voice was a
whisper. “You'll see.”

He turned away and stalked out of the
room.

Sitting in her car, preparing to back out of
the driveway, Stacey couldn't help but replay the conversation
she'd had with Jason. The guilt was immense. Because of her he was
now a suspect. Even worse, he was furious at her, could hardly even
look at her. That was why she was leaving: He told her he needed to
be alone for a while and since he thought he was under surveillance
he had told her it would be better if she left. He had promised to
pick the children up from school, so she was leaving as he had
asked.

A peculiar sensation gnawed at Stacey's
stomach when she looked across the street and saw dark sedans
parked in front of the Stone’s house and thought about Jason being
under surveillance. The guilt felt thick in Stacey's throat, like a
piece of meat that hadn't been chewed properly before being
swallowed.

Then, as she backed out of the driveway, she
saw her neighbor, Margie, talking to some reporters and the
sensation in her stomach mutated into a definite feeling of nausea.
When Margie looked her way, Stacey waved. Margie did not wave
back.

What is she up to now? Stacey wondered, as
the feeling of queasiness intensified.

Stacey tried not to worry about Margie’s
antics and instead drove to the high school where Mark Stone was a
teacher. Desperate to find something linking him to his son’s
abduction, she tried to think of a way to gather information.

The feeling of nausea faded as she pulled
into the school driveway. And as she angled her car into a parking
space marked for visitors, she allowed herself to hope she would
find something valuable to take to the police.

Since she didn't have a child in high school,
Stacey had not been to this school before and felt awkward
approaching the long counter, but the woman who walked over to her
was friendly and when Stacey asked her where the math department
was, she seemed more than happy to give directions.

Assuming Mark wouldn't be at work, Stacey
hoped his colleagues might know him better than she did and that
they might be able to tell her something useful.

The office of the math department was empty
except for several desks placed against the walls. Wandering over
to one of them, she looked at the framed pictures propped up in the
corner. Curious if Mark had any family photos on his desk, she
walked around the room, scrutinizing the photos on display until
she came to a photo of Kyle. Obviously this was Mark's desk even
though there were no pictures of either him or Amanda.

His desk was nearly as neat as the one in his
office at home. Two stacks of papers were waiting to be graded and
one pile was peppered with red pen marks. Glancing around, she
pulled open each drawer, but didn't find anything unusual. She
closed them and hesitated, deciding what to do next.

The sound of approaching voices interrupted
her thoughts. A man and woman entered the office, their
conversation stopping mid-sentence when they saw Stacey. The woman
held a briefcase in one hand, a purse in the other. The man was
short but built like a barrel. His thinning hair was light brown
and he wore a pair of slacks and a short-sleeved shirt with the top
button undone. He seemed to be in his early forties and had a
jagged scar above his right eye.

They looked at her expectantly and when she
didn't say anything, the man asked her if he could help her.

Smiling tentatively, she said, “I’m trying to
find someone who knows Mark Stone.”

The pair seemed surprised and gave each other
sidelong glances. The woman said, “I'll let you deal with this,
Gary. I've got to run.” She looked at Stacey once more before
leaving the office.

The man held out his hand. “I'm Gary
Tomlison. Can I help you with something Mrs...?”

“Hightower,” she said, thinking quickly.

“Do you have a child in Mark's class?”

She shook her head. “No, I'm just looking for
someone who knows Mark Stone.”

“Why is that?”

“I suppose you've heard about his son being
kidnapped?”

“Yes. It's been all over the news.”

She nodded. “Yes, the news. I'm doing some
background work for a story on the kidnapping and I thought I might
get some insight into the Stone family through his colleagues.”

He stroked his chin as he nodded. “I see.
What kind of background information were you looking for?”

She paused for a moment. “How well do you
know him?”

“We've both been in the math department for a
number of years.”

“Great,” Stacey said. “Would you mind
answering some questions for me?”

“What do you want to know?”

“What can you tell me about his work habits,
for example?”

“He never used to miss many days of work, if
that's what you're looking for.”

“Used to?”

“In the last few months he's come in later
than usual. He's never been late for his first class or anything.
But he used to be here at seven-thirty every morning. Now he
doesn't usually get here until eight-thirty.” He had an odd look on
his face. “And on Monday he didn't come in at all.”

Stacey couldn't keep her eyes from showing
her astonishment at this piece of information. Monday was the day
Kyle had been kidnapped.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

She quickly recovered. “No. No.” She paused.
“Does he have anyone in particular he likes to spend time with?
Maybe I could talk to them.”

“He keeps pretty much to himself.” Then he
gave her a knowing wink. “But there is one person he eats lunch
with regularly.” He paused dramatically. “Deanna. She works
part-time in the attendance office.”

Holding out her hand, Stacey said, “Thank you
so much for your time, Mr. Tomlison.”

He took her hand. “It's Gary. And it was no
trouble at all. Glad I could be of help.” Suddenly concerned, he
said, “I'd appreciate it if you didn't use my name in your
story.”

“Don't worry about that,” she assured
him.

He started to turn away, then rotated back to
her. Holding up his thumb and forefinger like a gun, he pointed at
her. “By the way, good luck with your story.”

She thanked him and left the office, asking a
group of girls where to find the attendance office.

Following their directions, she found herself
in front of a building that had four closed windows across its
face. On the side of the building was a door through which students
were coming and going. Stopping at the bottom of the steps, she
hesitated before going in.

What do I expect to find out from this
Deanna? Do I really think she'll blurt out that she knows where
Mark's keeping Kyle? She laughed out loud, which drew the stares of
some of the students.

Squaring her shoulders, she climbed the steps
and opened the door and found herself immediately assaulted by the
sound of several people talking at once. She could hear snippets of
conversation.

“My Mom said she'd call about the doctor's
appointment.”

“I did not sluff. I was babysitting my baby
cousin.”

And on and on. A frown crept across Stacey's
face as she remembered the times in high school when she'd had to
make excuses when she had been absent. She had wanted to be in
court with her father when he had to go before a judge, which had
happened several times while she was in high school, and she hadn't
wanted anyone to know why she had been absent.

Her mother hadn't been much help. Not wanting
Stacey to be in the courtroom at all, her mother wouldn't assist
her by giving her a legitimate excuse to miss school, so Stacey had
been forced to make up her own alibis.

Each time she had gone to the courthouse it
had been the same thing: burglary. Her chest tightened as it
occurred to her that maybe she was following in her father's
footsteps. Shaking her head impatiently, she thought about her
situation and knew it was different. She was trying to protect her
husband, and besides, she hadn't taken anything.

The slight bulge in her pocket reminded her
that was a lie. Reaching in, she pulled out the key with the tag
that read 29C, then placed it in her purse. She would have to
figure that one out later, but right now she needed to talk to
Deanna, whoever she was.

Taking her place in line, she looked at the
faces of the women who worked here. No one struck her as the type
Mark would be interested in.

When it was her turn, she asked if someone
named Deanna worked there. The woman told her Deanna had stepped
out for a moment, but if she would take a seat over there, she
would be sure to let her know when Deanna arrived.

Sitting on an empty chair, Stacey watched the
door and a short time later a tall brunette strolled in. In her
early twenties, she looked especially young with her hair pulled
into a ponytail. She was slender and walked with her head held
high.

Stacey had a feeling this was the mysterious
Deanna. Watching her walk over to a desk and gracefully sit down,
she couldn't help but dislike her, especially on Amanda's
behalf.

“Ma'am,” the woman at the counter called to
Stacey. “That's Deanna over there if you still want to talk to
her.” She pointed to the brunette, as Stacey had known she
would.

Stacey stood. “Thank you.”

Deanna didn't even look up as Stacey
approached the desk with the nameplate that read “Deanna Everett.”
Feeling slightly foolish, Stacey stood next to the desk and softly
cleared her throat.

Deanna looked up at her with cool surprise.
“Oh. Can I help you?”

Stacey felt slightly intimidated until she
reminded herself that she, Stacey, had the upper hand. She knew
about Mark and his possible affair. She knew about Mark's spending
habits as of late. And she knew she could talk to this woman
without revealing who she really was.

Reaching out her hand, she asked, “Are you
Deanna?”

The woman nodded and pointed to the chair in
front of her desk. “Please sit down.”

“My name is Cathy Hightower and I’m doing
some background work for an article I’m working on about Mark
Stone. I was told you know him pretty well.”

Surprised at how easily she was learning to
lie, and how good at it she was becoming, Stacey felt a twinge of
discomfort, but pushed it aside.

“I know Mr. Stone, yes,” Deanna said.

“That's wonderful, Deanna. Then you might be
able to give me some insight into Mr. Stone's attitude toward his
teaching.”