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Hardcover 

Oceanview Publishing

November 2008

ISBN-10: 193351518X

ISBN-13: 978-1933515182

FICTION/Suspense

Prologue

     Clare Prentice sat on the edge of the examination table, the blue hospital gown tied at her neck. Her fingers folded the edge of the gown in pleats where it lay across her thighs. She shivered as the air vent above her came on and she pulled the gown closed where it gaped against her bare back.
     Although she was in the office for her scheduled physical, she was also waiting to hear the results of the needle biopsy. Ever since she found the lump, all she could think about was the death of her mother two years earlier of breast cancer. She didn't know how much heredity played in the disease, but she had to admit that there was a leaden feeling in her stomach when she thought about it.
     She twisted the engagement ring on her finger, trying to concentrate on happier thoughts, but fear crowded out any belief in the future. She was sorry she had insisted on coming alone when Doug had volunteered to come with her. Perhaps it was her need to feel in control that had made her refuse his support. In five months they would be married and then she would feel that he should be at her side, but for now she felt her medical problems were her own to solve.
     She'd waited a year after her mother died before she accepted Doug's proposal. He'd been so patient but now that she had agreed he wanted to move ahead so quickly that at times she balked. She had agreed to the big wedding even though she would have preferred something much more private. His mother had explained since Clare had no family to provide for her, she and Doug's father wished to welcome her into the Kitridge clan in great style.
     She wondered what her mother Rose would have thought of the lavish arrangements. Rose hadn't been pleased when she started dating Doug. She disapproved of the public lifestyle his family lived and was clearly upset after Clare's picture appeared in the newspaper when she accompanied him to some society function.  Despite her grumbling, Clare hoped Rose would be looking down on her with approval on her wedding day.
     Footsteps sounded in the hall and Clare straightened up as the door opened. Dr. Paula Craig squinted over her bifocals as she bustled into the room.
     "You look like the living dead." Dr. Craig dropped Clare's medical folder on the desk and settled on the stool facing Clare. "I don't mean to make light of this, but I can see you've worked yourself into a real panic. I have all your tests here and you're fine. You're absolutely fine."
     Clare didn't realize she was holding her breath until she heard the whistling sound of her exhale. "Are you sure?"
     "What kind of a doctor do you think I am?" the older woman grinned as she brushed a hand across her close-cropped gray hair. "Of course I'm sure. I've looked over all the reports. Mammogram, ultrasound, breast MRI and the needle biopsy. You have nothing to worry about."
     Clare sagged, pressing her knees together to keep her legs from shaking. It took a moment before she could speak.
     "You're right, Dr. Craig. I've been imagining the worst. I remember what mother went through and I was just plain scared."    
     "I suppose you couldn't help but think about Rose. She died so young. Fifty-seven. But in your case the news is all good." She reached out and patted Clare's knee.  "You'll make a beautiful bride and if you keep up your healthy lifestyle you'll live to be a crabby old lady like me. When's the wedding?"
     "In July." Clare could feel the joy beginning to seep back into her body as she thought about the possibility of a full life ahead with Doug. 
     "Five months. That's good. Before you get married I recommend you do a little research into your family history. It would be good to know if there are any medical issues in your background."
     "That could be hard," Clare said, biting her lip. "My father died before I was three and I have no memory of him at all. Neither he nor my mother had any family that I know of."
     "I don't mean your father and Rose, dear," Dr. Craig said. "You need to look into the medical history of your biological parents."
 

Chapter One

An hour after leaving the expressway for a series of two lane asphalt highways, Clare Prentice drove through an opening in the trees above Grand Rapids, Minnesota. Accustomed to the bustling life of Chicago, she had been apprehensive about her arrival in such an isolated area. The picturesque view of the houses nestled along the shoreline and the businesses lining the edges of a park came as a pleasant surprise. 
     She drove slowly down the hill, pulling into a parking space in the center of the town. Her hands rested on top of the steering wheel as she stared through the windshield at her surroundings.
          The park was a lovely rectangle facing the lake. A roped off section of water indicated the swimming area and on the sand was a tall wooden lifeguard platform with white slatted chairs, red and white buoys and a jet ski anchored at the shoreline. Brick walks crisscrossed the park. Benches, a fountain, and a small playground added to a sense of tranquility and peace.
     The main street ran along three sides of the park. At the east end was the City Hall and the police station, combined in a venerable but well-kept building. Beds of red, white and hot pink impatiens softened the otherwise austere exterior of the beige brick. Stores and office buildings faced the lake and at the west end of the park was Grand Rapids Public Library.
     Clare rolled down the car window, smiling at the sound of the children playing on the beach. The water looked inviting after her long drive in the car. She'd considered flying but for the most part had enjoyed the changing scenery as she drove north. When she left, it had been hot in Chicago, but the end of July was much more pleasant in northern Minnesota.
     Nothing looked familiar.
     Until that moment Clare hadn't realized how much she had counted on some sign of familiarity, a sense of deja vu perhaps, which would indicate she had come home. She closed her eyes and focused on the rise and fall of her abdomen as she concentrated on her breathing. Her fingers loosened their grip on the steering wheel and the muscles across her back relaxed against the car seat.
     And so it begins, she thought as she got out of the car and stared up at the library. The building was massive, towering over everything else in the area. It was a square, three-story building with triangular front sections on each side. On the second floor, rounded window arches flanked each central section on the four sides. The reddish beige brick glowed warmly in the summer sun and the darker trim between floors and around the windows made each feature stand out distinctly. All in all, a most impressive building.
     She brushed the travel wrinkles from her denim skirt as she walked through the park. The early afternoon sun pressed against the blue and white checked blouse. The breeze off the lake was welcome, cooling the sweat on her neck beneath the French braid. Every summer she swore she'd cut her hair, but somehow she put up with the inconvenience. 
     Doug had loved her long hair.
     Her sandal caught on the rough surface of the brick sidewalk and she stumbled. She settled her purse strap more securely on her shoulder. She glanced at her hand. Even though it had been two months since she'd broken her engagement, there was still a faint band of white around her finger. Perhaps as the mark faded, so would her misery. 
     Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and walked up the stone steps to the wide double doors.
     Despite the old fashioned look of the exterior, the inside was wholly modern. The interior walls had been replaced by glass partitions so that from the doorway, she could see into most of the rooms on the main floor. A wide stairway curved lazily to the second floor. The loft area was open to view through spindled balustrades. Over the central foyer, mobiles of all shapes and sizes were suspended from the ceiling.
     The soles of her sandals slapped softly as she crossed the cream colored marble flooring. A teenaged boy looked up expectantly from behind the information desk.
     "I have an appointment with Mrs. Grabenbauer," Clare said.
     The boy opened his mouth, but before he could speak, his eyes darted over Clare's shoulder. She turned to find a tall, white-haired woman bearing down on her. 
     "You must be Clare," the woman said, extending her hand. "One thirty. On the dot. I consider the courtesy of promptness a reflection of character. We should get along famously."
     Since she knew Mrs. Grabenbauer was well into her seventies, Clare was surprised at the sprightly look of youth in the inquisitive blue eyes studying her. The woman's hand was softer than calfskin, the handshake firm and brief.
     "Your directions left me with little chance to get lost. MapQuest couldn't have done any better."
     There was a moment of silence as Mrs. Grabenbauer continued to eye her. Then as if satisfied, she turned on her heel and beckoned Clare to follow her toward the back of the library. They passed a row of offices until they came to a lounge area behind a glass-paneled door.
     "Perhaps you'd like some iced tea while we chat a bit." Without waiting for an answer, Mrs. Grabenbauer pulled out a chair beside a small luncheon table. "Sit here and I'll get it."
     Clare followed orders, grateful to have a moment to observe the woman who would be her landlady for the next few weeks. Although Clare was tall, Mrs. Grabenbauer towered over her. Six feet, at a guess. Her figure was rather top heavy with wide shoulders, long arms and a very full bosom. Despite her build, she moved with a stately grace, actions and gestures precise.
       "Do you take lemon, sugar or milk?"
     "Just lemon," Clare said, reaching out for the glass of tea.
     Mrs. Grabenbauer carried her own glass and a dish of lemon slices to the table. "Now tell me. How is my favorite niece Gail?"
     "Since she's my best friend," Clare said, "I also know she's your only niece."
     "Busted." Mrs. Grabenbauer let out a deep throaty chuckle. "I'm sorry my brother didn't have a dozen more like her. Bright, articulate and full of fun."
     "Despite Gail's working too many hours at the clinic, she still manages to out-party me on the weekends. I hope she told you that she's leaving next week for a vacation in Hawaii."
     "Yes. We had a lovely talk on the phone." Mrs. Grabenbauer spoke briskly as if she'd decided it was time to end the social chitchat and get down to business. "I hadn't heard from her for a while when she called to say she had a friend who needed a place to stay for a week or two and wanted to know if the lake cottage was empty. I'd had several offers this summer, but no one I felt comfortable renting to."
     "I really appreciate your letting me take it on such short notice. Gail's pretty hard to resist when she gets an idea." Clare grinned. "I hope she didn't badger you on my behalf."
     "Nothing I couldn't handle." The dry tone was in sharp contrast to the twinkle in her eyes. "She said you had gotten an interview with our local recluse Nate Hanssen. How did you manage that?"
     "I work for a literary magazine in Chicago. Mr. Hanssen was the featured author at a fundraiser for literacy that my editor attended. Apparently they hit it off and, even though he usually refuses to do interviews, he agreed to do this one."
     "So that's why you've come to Grand Rapids?" Ruth asked. "Somehow Gail made it sound more mysterious than that. I realize she has a tendency to be dramatic but she said you'd explain everything when you got here."
     For a moment Clare was silent, wondering what to say. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Taking a deep steadying breath, she tried again.
     "I need your help to find out who I am." Clare could understand the surprise on Mrs. Grabenbauer's face because she was just as stunned by her own words. "I'm sorry for blurting that out. That's not what I intended to say."
     Clare sat quietly as the older woman took a drink of her tea, studying her over the rim of the glass. She could feel the heat rise to her cheeks and knew that she was blushing. The awkward silence was broken when Mrs. Grabenbauer set her glass of iced tea down with a sharp tap on the wooden table.
     "First of all, Clare, I'd like it if you would call me Ruth. Since we will be neighbors for a while" She smiled at Clare's nod of acceptance. "Sometimes it is difficult to explain things and blurting them out, as you put it, is the best way. Since I now have an idea where we're heading perhaps you'd like to start at the beginning."
     "My mother died two years ago." Try as she might, the emotions that she had experienced in the last several months rose and threatened to drown her. She swallowed several times and then she said, "Five months ago I discovered that I was adopted."
     Clare thought she had gotten used to the idea but her throat closed and she was unable to continue. She took several sips of tea while she pulled herself together. Ruth leaned across the table and patted her arm.
     "You had no idea?"
     "None." Clare shook her head. "The doctor who told me thought I knew, since it had always been in my medical file. My mother Rose told the doctor when she first brought me to see her."
     "Strange that your mother would tell the doctor and yet not tell you."
     "Rose was thirty when I was born I never questioned the fact that she loved me, but she was not a demonstrative sort of woman. Very private."
     "But after she died, you must have had access to all her papers."
     "Yes. There was the house and her will. Everything came to me. My name was on everything. Mother kept a very Spartan household. I used to tease her that we could be packed and out of town at a moment's notice. " Clare laughed but it was not a humorous sound.  "Now I begin to wonder if that wasn't partially true."
     Although there was a question in Ruth's eyes, she didn't ask for an immediate explanation. "Birth certificate?"
     Clare pushed her chair back and rose to her feet. She paced across to the window and looked out at the park. It was still hard to talk about something that hurt so badly.
     "I had one. There were several notarized copies in her safety deposit box. It said I was her child, but if she had adopted me legally in Chicago, the official birth certificate would show that she was the mother. When I began checking the details, I couldn't find verification for any of the information on it. The hospital listed had no record of my mother and none of my being born there. On the day listed as my birth date, three children were born. All three were boys."
     "Well, that bites."
     The slang term amused Clare and she turned back toward Mrs. Grabenbauer. She could read the empathy on the older woman's face and smiled through a sheen of tears.
     "You're damn right it does."
     "Anger is good, my dear. As the shrinks say, 'it's all a process.'  Often times there's truth in the most banal of psychobabble. I'm assuming there were no adoption papers."
     "None."
     "Could you trace back through your mother's information?"
     Clare shook her head. She paced to the sink and back again. She felt better moving around. So much of what had happened in the last few months had been bottled up. It was strange how comfortable she felt speaking to Gail's aunt.
     "My mother's name was Rose Prentice. The birth certificate listed her date of birth and said she was born in Park Ridge, Illinois. When I checked into that, I couldn't find any record for that date or name. It was as if neither my mother nor I existed."
     "Extended family?"
     "It's funny, but when you're a kid there's so much you don't question. It just is. We had no actual family in the Chicago area. I called your brother, Uncle Owen, but I knew he wasn't a relative. Gail and her brothers were like cousins so I really never felt any lack of family."
     "Your mother must have had friends you could talk to."
     "Not really. My mother didn't socialize much. She went to PTA meetings and knew people at church and work but there was no one you would consider a close friend. At the time it didn't seem strange. It's only now when I look back I begin to see how isolated she was."
     "Marriage license?"
     "I didn't find one. Since my father was dead, their anniversary was never celebrated so I really had no idea when or where she was married."
     "When did your father die?"
     "Mother said he died in a train accident when I was three. No details, just said he was dead." Clare could feel her mouth tighten at the words.  "It wasn't that she made it seem like a secret. If she had, I might have been more curious. It was just a fact. Mother never talked about the past. When I asked her about her childhood, she said it was boring and changed the subject."
     "Didn't that seem unusual?" Ruth asked.
     "No. Mother wasn't very talkative."
     "I know people like that," Ruth said, "and I've watched how my niece and her brothers interacted with their parents. A child gets a sense that a subject is off limits. It's one of those nonverbal signals that always intrigues me. I never had children so my knowledge comes solely from my observations."
     "Gail said you were a very perceptive aunt."
     "That's because I spoiled her. That's the joy of being an aunt. None of the annoyances of raising children. When they misbehave you just pack up their bags and send them home. And if they grow up to be bright, articulate adults it's an added bonus in your life."
     Ruth paused and stared across at Clare. 
     "Did it occur to you that you might be Rose's illegitimate daughter and she just told the doctor you were adopted to cover her shame?"
     Clare nodded. "Actually that was my original thought. It would have explained why she changed her name and said my father was dead. I asked the doctor about that possibility and she went through Rose's medical files. She had had a miscarriage, but had never had a live birth."
     There was silence for a moment, and then Ruth asked, "So why have you come to Grand Rapids?"
     "I think my adoptive mother might have lived here." Clare opened her purse and took out a picture in a small wooden frame.  "This is a picture of Rose. I only have a few. She didn't like having her picture taken."
     She set it on the table in front of Ruth.
     "Gail said you were born and raised here in Grand Rapids.  Does she look familiar at all?"
     "I only lived here in Grand Rapids until my parents divorced. Then I moved to Duluth with my mother. My brother stayed here with my father. Except for occasional visits, I didn't come back here until after my husband died ten years ago."
     Ruth picked up the frame and concentrated on the face of the woman in the picture. She pursed her lips, then sighed and shook her head.
     "I don't believe I've ever seen her before. You think she was from Grand Rapids?"
     "She might have gone to school here." Clare reached into the pocket of her denim skirt and brought out a plastic bag. "When I went through her jewelry box, I found this."
     She opened the bag, placing a ring on the table in front of Ruth.
     "It's a class ring from Grand Rapids Senior High School.  At first I thought of Michigan, but when I did some research I found it was Grand Rapids, Minnesota."
     Ruth picked up the gold ring with the gold Indian in profile, turning it from side to side to examine it.
     "1962. My brother went to Grand Rapids, but he graduated five years earlier," she said.
     "Gail's father? The Judge?"
     "Yes," Ruth said. "And in 1962, I was thirty, married for six years and living in Duluth. Lordy where does the time go? So you think this was your mother's ring?"
     Clare shook her head. "According to my mother's birth certificate, she would have been fifty-nine this year. She would have graduated in 1965 or 1966. If the ring is hers then she might be four years older. To me she always seemed old. To look at Rose you wouldn't be able to guess her age."
     "So it could be hers." Ruth placed the ring on her finger. It was too large. "But at a guess I'd say it was a man's ring."
     "Mother had large hands," Clare said, her voice defensive.
     Ruth looked inside the band of the ring. "There are no initials or serial numbers to give a clue as to ownership. Without one or the other, we couldn't trace it through the manufacturer."
     Clare sat down at the table again, staring in dismay at the ring in the palm of Ruth's hand. "It's the only clue I have."
     Ruth placed the ring back in the plastic bag and handed it to Clare. She patted her hand.
     "And a very good clue, it is. What if your father gave it to her? Do you have any information about him?"
     Clare tightened her fingers around the ring. "No. His name, John Prentice, was on my birth certificate, but none of the information checked out." She sighed. "I spent endless hours on the internet going through adoption web sites. Finally one of the people I'd been corresponding with said that I might have been a black market baby and that was why none of the information was valid."
     "What about your mother's maiden name? It would have been on your birth certificate."
     "The name listed as my mother's maiden name was the same as her married name. Prentice."
     "Did you try the hospital birth records in Grand Rapids?"
     Clare nodded. "Yes. No records for either Rose Prentice or Clare Prentice. As far as the world is concerned, we never existed."
     Silence filled the room. Clare could see that Ruth was as mystified as she had been for so many months. She rubbed the back of her neck as she felt a headache form. Ever since she'd discovered she was adopted she'd been searching for answers and she was exhausted, both mentally and physically.
     "There's another clue to the fact your mother might have come from this area," Ruth said. "Did she give you that necklace?"
     Clare automatically put her hand up to cup the pendant around her neck. Her fingers stroked the polished surface of the stone heart. "Yes. She gave me the necklace for my sixteenth birthday.  How did you guess?"
     "I'm almost positive that the stone is Binghamite. It's a form of quartz found only up here in the Iron Ranges. It's pretty rare to find any now that the mines are closed. Your stone is particularly lovely since it has so many detailed markings in gold and brown. There's even some green."
     "It's my favorite piece of jewelry." Clare closed her fingers around it." Rose said it belonged to her sister who had died."
     "Well, it sounds like it's another piece of the puzzle. This will take some work to resolve." Ruth sat forward in her chair. "I'm glad you've come here. Libraries are the perfect places to do research."
     "What do you have in mind?" Clare felt a glimmer of hope at the sparkle in the soft blue eyes of the older woman.
     "Let's start with the class ring. It was either Rose's or was given to her by a graduate. We have the yearbooks for Grand Rapids and we'll start with 1962 and see if we can find someone who looks like Rose. I realize it's a slim hope but it's at least worth a try."
     "And it's someplace new to start." Clare sighed. "I'm ready."
     Ruth looked surprised. "We don't have to begin this minute. You've had a long drive up from Chicago. Don't you want to get settled in first?"
     "No. I stopped last night in Wisconsin so that I could get here early. I've had lunch and I'd just as soon get started."
     Ruth stood. "All right then. Come out to the study area and I'll get the yearbooks."
     Clare followed the older woman out of the room. She liked the openness of the main floor of the library and smiled up at the mobiles swinging above the desk area.
     "The high school art class studied and made mobiles this year and we offered to display them. It's been such a success that we're hoping to do it every year." Ruth tilted her head back. "There's something so enjoyable about watching the movement and trying to figure out how they created the balance."
     Ruth pointed her to an alcove by the far wall, and then disappeared between the stacks of books. The rounded windows looked out on the park and some of the shops along the street where people walked in the late afternoon sunlight. Clare settled herself in one of the cushioned armchairs and stared outside. For the first time in many months tension wasn't constricting every muscle in her body. Perhaps it was sharing with Ruth some of the feelings she had suppressed since learning about the adoption. She had talked frequently with Gail over the last few months, but there was something steadying about talking with the older woman that made her feel as if she finally might be able to get some answers.
     It was totally disconcerting to wake up one morning to discover the life she had been living was a sham. It had shaken her badly to not know who she was and where she had come from. And made her angry.
     The anger brought guilt. No matter the circumstances behind her adoption, she should have felt grateful to Rose for raising her. Although they weren't wealthy, Rose had sent her to excellent schools and fed and clothed her. Perhaps she was not the most demonstrative of mothers but she sat stolidly beside Clare's bed when she was sick, played games with her, celebrated all the holidays and attended all the school family functions. Although Rose wasn't social, she encouraged Clare to participate with her school friends. Rose had had many positive influences on her life, but Clare still blamed her for keeping such an important secret.
     "Well, my dear," Ruth's voice broke into her reverie. "This ought to keep you busy."
     Clare leaped up to take the stack of yearbooks from Ruth's arms and set them on the table.
     "I've brought yearbooks from 1962 to 1968. Since we're not positive fifty-nine would be Rose's real age now, I figured we should at least start with the year of the class ring." She reached into the pocket of her dress and pulled out a magnifying glass, handing it to Clare.  "This might help. Just take your time and don't get discouraged if you don't find any one who resembles her. People change. Different hairstyles, different clothes."
     "What if I don't find anyone who looks like her, even a little?" Clare bit her lip, staring down at the books.
     "There are other schools around Grand Rapids. She could have been living in Coleraine or Cass Lake and dated a boy from Grand Rapids. All sorts of possibilities. Don't despair. It's two thirty now. I'll check on you shortly." With a bracing pat on Clare's shoulder, Ruth walked back to the front of the library.
     Clare sat down in the chair. Her heart thudded noisily in her ears and she tightened her fingers around the black bone handle of the magnifying glass. For three months she had been searching and now when she had a real possibility of success, she was afraid that she would only find disappointment. Maybe some secrets weren't meant to be discovered. Tears clouded her vision and she blinked them away.  Setting the magnifying glass on the table, she made a decision. She didn't have to do this. She had the right to change her mind. She didn't want to know; she wanted to go home.
     She shoved the tissue in her purse and reached for the leather strap. The white skin on her ring finger caught her eye. She had run away from her engagement and if she ran away again, where would she go? Where was home? Without knowing who she was, could she ever find her place in this world?
     Her hand touched the topmost yearbook. Her fingers stroked the suede like cover, slightly gritty with dust. The title of the yearbook was the Tomahawk. She picked it up; surprised that it wasn't particularly heavy. She flipped to the back and checked the page count. One hundred fifty-five. She couldn't remember how large her own high school yearbook was.
     1962. She thought back to her history classes and tried to remember anything she knew about that year. She'd just seen a biography about John Glenn whose birthday was in July. Forty-five years ago he'd orbited the Earth. The only other thing she could think of was that '62 was the year of the Cuban Missile Crisis. She was a big Kevin Costner fan and had seen the movie THIRTEEN DAYS at least three times. She couldn't come up with any other events.
     Clare opened the cover and began to flip through the pages, passing the pictures of the teachers and other sections until she came to the pictures of the students. Each of the seniors had his or her own picture. There was a certain sameness to all of the students. The boys had short, slicked down hair, short sideburns, and faces turned either to the right or the left. They all looked neat and clean and, except for a few, uncomfortable. The girls looked fresh-faced with similar hairstyles and little make up. Hair curled and usually parted on the side. There was an innocence to these girls from long ago that spoke of a different moral climate than Clare had grown up in.    
     After she'd made a brief survey of the pictures, taking in what she could of the group in general, she turned back to study each one. She skipped the boys entirely, focusing on the girls. She studied each face, checking eyebrows, teeth and noses. When she had gone through each of the seniors without success, she picked up the magnifying glass and started on the smaller pictures.    
     It took forty-five minutes to get through the first yearbook.
     Carefully she placed it next to the original pile. She rubbed her eyes, trying not to think. Standing up, she walked across to the far wall where there was a water fountain. Her legs moved awkwardly, stiff from sitting almost motionless for so long. Her whole body ached. She would have to try to relax before she started on the next book. The water was refreshing and she returned to her chair, stretching several times before she sat down and reached for the next book on the stack.
     1963. Fifteen years before she was born. She knew that was the year Pope John XXIII died and John F. Kennedy was assassinated, because Rose had worshipped both men and reminded Clare of the two events. She had always been convinced that there was some conspiracy that the two had died in the same year. Civil rights were being fought for in the south. Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered his "I Have A Dream" speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial in 1963. Beyond that she didn't know much about the year.
     A half hour later she closed the cover with a sigh. Her eyes burned and her head throbbed. The faces had begun to blur after awhile. Sometimes she thought she saw a resemblance in the smaller pictures of the underclassmen but even with the magnifying glass she couldn't really be sure. Those she marked with a piece of paper so that she could find them again if necessary. She placed the book gently on top of the first one and quickly reached for the next yearbook before she could think better of it. An hour later she looked up as Ruth approached.
     "By the look on your face, I can see it's not going so well," Ruth said as she sank down across from Clare. "You didn't think this would be easy, did you?"
     The comment made Clare smile. "As a matter of fact I did at one point but that's long gone after. . . ?" She looked at her watch. "Almost three hours."
     "I suspected you wouldn't get through the whole stack today. It's getting close to five. Why don't you start fresh tomorrow? I'm only staying another hour. That'll give you time to settle into the cottage. When Gail told me you were coming today, I had already committed to a supper at one of the churches in town. It's always a lovely affair. Not knowing about your mission of discovery and the emotional toll it might have taken, I also made a reservation for you. Do you feel up to it? It would give you a chance to get some feel for life in Grand Rapids."
     "I'd like that very much," Clare said. "And I don't mind waiting until you're ready to leave. I can do one more book before I lose my vision completely."
     Ruth chuckled. "Gail said you were stubborn. I'll leave you to it. Come to the front when you're done."
     She heaved herself to her feet and Clare reached for the next yearbook.
     1966. Twelve years before she was born. She couldn't think of anything she knew about that year. She thought the Vietnam War was still going on but she wasn't sure. This search, if it proved nothing else, proved that she should have paid more attention in her U.S. history classes.    
     Once more she opened the cover and began flipping through the pages. She was a third of the way through the senior class when she stopped, riveted by one of the pictures. Beneath dark hair and heavy dark eyebrows a young girl stared up from the page.  The moment Clare saw the photograph she knew.
     It was Rose, her adoptive mother.

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Hardcover 

Oceanview Publishing

October 2006
ISBN: 1-933515-03-1
FICTION/Suspense

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Prologue

     He nosed the car into the empty parking lot and stopped when the tires touched the concrete curb. His head was motionless, but his eyes flicked along the bank of evergreens edging the forest preserve. Clenching both hands at the top of the steering wheel, he straightened his arms and pressed his back against the seat. The impulse was so strong.
     He expelled the air from his lungs in a slow steady stream, then opened his door and walked around the front to the passenger side of the car. Once more he eyed the empty paths leading into the woods. Aware of danger, his mouth was dry. His hand moved to the door latch. The sharp click of the car door shattered the afternoon quiet.
     The little girl slid out of the car. Her white sneakers scuffed the gravel and sent up a small cloud of dust. She tilted her head and squinted up against the glare of the sun.
     He held out his hand and smiled. With one hand she tugged at the strand of black hair alongside her cheek and then, placed her other hand in his. Turning, they walked into the woods.

Chapter One

     Kate Warner opened the door, flapping the towel to clear the clouds of steam from the bathroom. She'd raced home after work, looking forward to a long shower. The air conditioning at the library hadn't been turned on yet, so it had been hot and sticky working in the small conference room. She cocked her head, straining to hear any sound from downstairs. All was quiet. It must not be as late as she thought.
     She dried herself, dressed and turned on the hair dryer, using her free hand to pull on her canvas shoes. The steady stream of air blew her ash brown hair in a cloud around her head and she leaned closer to the mirror, frowning at the dry skin between her eyebrows. She'd have to start using a moisturizer. Thirty-one wasn't too old. She turned sideways, checking for signs of sagging breasts or buttocks. Satisfied that she hadn't deteriorated since the last time she'd looked.
     Shutting off the dryer, she brushed her hair away from her face, letting it fall straight, the curled ends grazing her shoulders. After putting on fresh clothes, she turned off the light and crossed the bedroom toward the upstairs hall on the way scooping up her watch and earrings. She slipped the gold hoops into her ears as she started down the stairs. A quick glance at her watch. Three ten. Five minutes before the school bus came.
     Richard hadn't wanted her to take the job but for once she had stood her ground. With Jenny in school, the demands of the household were cut in half and, since he had never approved of her going out to lunch or doing volunteer work, she was at loose ends. Besides, she felt as if her brain were atrophying. She hadn't worked since she was married and found the part-time job at the library a perfect way to ease back into the work force. Helping the senior citizens in the computer training classes, was something she really enjoyed. As she explained to Richard, she would only work when Jenny was in school.
     Opening the front door, she stepped outside. She shaded her eyes with her hand, squinting down the empty street, watching for the school bus.
     Last year Kate had walked to the corner to meet the bus, but since her eighth birthday, Jenny had insisted that only babies had their mothers meet the bus. Richard had agreed that Jenny needed to learn independence and what better place than in a small town like Pickard?
     Kate sniffed the air. It was already the middle of May but this was the first really beautiful day. Illinois had had a wet and chilly spring. She loved the balmy days before the summer heat and hoped this weather would continue.
     Down the block, the school bus came into sight, slowing for the stop at the corner. The doors opened and she could see Jenny in her yellow jacket standing inside on the top step.
     The phone rang. Kate waved to Jenny and, leaving the door open, she walked back through the hall to the kitchen. She listened to the recorded message announcing that her prescription was ready at the pharmacy. Hanging up, she returned to the front porch.
     The street was empty.
     The bus was gone and Jenny was nowhere in sight.
     Several times Jenny had stopped to play with one of her friends and Kate had to remind her that she needed to come home first, just to check in. Being the last house before the cul de sac offered too much temptation for distraction. Especially when the weather was fine.
     “You're in big trouble, Jennifer Louise,” Kate muttered.
     She left the front door unlocked and hurried down the stairs. Walking briskly, she checked the yards as she passed each house but didn't see anyone outside playing. She reached the corner and looked both ways. There were several children walking along the sidewalk on the next block, but she didn't see Jenny in her yellow jacket. Her chest tightened as she fought the uneasiness that filled her.
     Taking a deep breath she looked around. At the corner on the side street, a blue nylon backpack lay on the ground, pushed under the edge of the hedge that lined the sidewalk. She scooped it up, ripping open the Velcro flap to check inside. “Jennifer Warner” was written in block letters on the nametag. Where was Jenny?
     “Jenny!”  She shouted the name, turning her head from side to side as she scanned the area. She hurried along the side street, calling as she went. “Jenny!”
     Halfway down the block, Kate saw the watercolor.
     The paper was caught in the hedge. The wind pinned it against the leafless branches. Across the top, “Spring Is Here” was printed in bold letters. The contrast between the black letters and the red watercolor house with the crooked green roof was stark. Beside the house stood a brown animal, more llama than dog. Jenny always painted her dogs that way. Even when Kate had shown her how a dog should look, she continued to paint the llama-like creatures, because they looked funnier.
     Snatching up the painting, she stared at it for a moment, then opened her mouth as she gasped for air. Her heart pounded enough to break her ribs.
     Dear God, where was Jenny?
     Kate began to run, holding the backpack and the picture against her chest as she raced home. Stumbling up the stairs, she wrenched the door open and shoved it closed before running along the hall to the kitchen. She placed the picture on the countertop, lined it up against the edge and stroked her fingertips across Jenny's signature.
She bit her lip in indecision.  Shouldn't she call the neighbors or search outside. A sense of dread invaded her. Jenny never would have left her picture and backpack. She raised her hand and dialed 911.
     "Pickard Police Department."
     She opened her mouth, but the muscles in her throat refused to work.
     "Pickard Police Department," the voice repeated.
     "It's my daughter, J-Jenny."
     "Has there been an accident, ma'am?"
     "No. Something's happened to her. I saw her get off the bus, but she just disappeared.”
     “What do you mean, she disappeared.”    
     “I found her backpack. And her watercolor. But I can't find Jenny." It was an effort to speak. Her mouth trembled after each syllable so she tried to keep her answers short in order to maintain control.
     "All right, ma'am. Let me get some information." The male voice was firm and reasonable. "Nice and slow now.”
     "Oh God, I'm so frightened!"  Tears trickled down her cheeks, but the sheer act of speaking her fears aloud had a calming effect. She drew a shuddering breath. "Sorry. I'm OK."
     "I understand you're upset, but you'll need to stay. Now then, your name and address?"
     Please hurry, Kate begged as she rattled off the information.
     "How old is Jenny?"
     "Eight. She'll be nine in September."
     “Would you describe her, please?"
     "She has shoulder-length black hair. It's straight but it curls at the ends. Her eyes are blue. Her skin is sort of an ivory color."
     "Height?"
     Kate put her hand just below her bosom in order to measure. Her mouth pulled tight in a grimace as she remembered Jenny hugging her before she left for school. For a moment she was unable to speak for the vividness of the little body pressed to her own. Voice hoarse, she spoke into the receiver. "She's about three and a half feet. Just little, very little."
     "O.K. I've got that. What was she wearing?”
     Kate closed her eyes, picturing Jenny at breakfast. "She had on a blue and gray plaid jumper. White short-sleeved blouse with an appliquéd pink rose on the collar. White sneakers with blue shoelaces and white knee socks." She wiped away the tears on her chin with the back of her hand. "And a yellow nylon jacket. Bright yellow."
     "Was she wearing any jewelry?"
     "Yes. A bracelet. Gold links with one guardian angel charm. The initials JLW are on the back of the charm."
     "All right, Mrs. Warner. Are you at home now?"
     "Yes. I'm here."
     "I've already dispatched a car and in the meantime we'll send this information out on the radio. I want you to go through each room of the house to see if your daughter might have come in while you were out looking for her. Be sure to check the closets and under the beds.  Attic and basement too, if you have them."
     "And I'll look outside, too."
     "Just inside, Mrs. Warner," directed the steady voice. "I know you want to run around the neighborhood and look, but we need you near the phone. In case your daughter calls. Do you understand?"
     "Yes, but please hurry."
     "Don't worry, Mrs. Warner. We'll find Jenny."
     At the last, she heard some warmth in the voice on the other end of the phone. Kate replaced the receiver and ran her fingers over the cold plastic surface as though to let go would break the tenuous bond she had to another person.
     She had finished searching the house when the police arrived.
     Kate explained to the two police officers how she had found Jenny's watercolor and backpack. Feeling a kinship with the female officer, she spoke directly to her.
     "I know something's happened to her." Kate's mouth trembled.
     Officer Gates nodded in sympathy. "I know you're worried sick but believe me, Mrs. Warner, this time of year we always get a lot of calls. It's the change in weather. The kids get to playing outside and lose track of the time."
     Kate turned to the other police officer for confirmation. His gray hair, potbelly and ruddy face should have reassured her but his expression was closed, giving nothing away. He reached in his shirt pocket for a pencil, cradled a clipboard in his left arm and without meeting her eyes began to ask questions, printing each answer awkwardly, as if he had just learned to write. At the end he sighed, returned the pencil to his pocket and asked for a picture of Jenny.
     “We have one of those child ID kits,” Kate said. She opened the desk drawer and reached inside for the folder. Her hand shook as she handed it to the older officer. “We put a new picture in a couple months ago when we went to the zoo. It was cold that day so her cheeks are too red but otherwise she looks the same.”
     “This'll be a big help, Mrs. Warner,” Officer Gates said.
     “She brought the kit home from school. We didn't think we'd ever need it but we filled it out anyway.”  Kate's voice trailed away and in silence she walked the police officers to the door.
    

* * *
 

     Move!  Get out of here!
     The words were silent, reverberating inside his head, but, numb to everything except the horror of his actions, his body refused to respond. A tremor started in his hands, advancing up his arms in a wave so strong he stared down to see if there was something traveling across his skin.
     His body shook and a cry started in his chest, bitten off when he ground his teeth together. The truncated sound broke through his inertia and he blinked, then turned his head from side to side to survey the area around the car. The picnic area adjacent to the parking lot of the forest preserve was empty.
     No witnesses. Thank God!
     Fear of discovery spurred him to action and with great effort he raised his hand to turn the key. He gripped the steering wheel with one hand and in slow motion eased the lever into reverse. The car lurched backward with a squeal of tires. He slammed on the brakes, choked back a curse and once more changed gears, this time accelerating slightly. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he struggled to control his speed. He wanted to mash his foot to the floor and tear away but knew such action would increase the risk of being seen and remembered.
     Slow. There's a car ahead. Turn your head as you pass.
     His brain issued commands and his body obeyed.
     Don't speed. Turn right. Slow for the light.
     When he left the forest preserve and entered the suburban streets the tension began to ease. The grid-patterned streets brought him a sense of balance and, with each turn, he could feel the muscles of his neck and shoulders relax. His breathing deepened, no longer shallow or gasping. He drove with no destination in mind, aware of a gnawing sense of urgency to distance himself from the forest preserve.
     No one must know. No one must know, no one must know, no one! 
     The words crescendoed in a jumble of unintelligible sounds until the noise made him sick to his stomach. He opened his mouth, inhaling to dissipate the nausea. 
     Gas station. Slow.
     He pulled the car against the side wall of the building, away from the front windows, which had a floor-to-ceiling view of the gas pumps. He shut off the engine and hurried toward the restroom. His movements were wooden, his knee joints frozen in an effort to keep his body upright. As he eased inside the bathroom, he risked a quick look around but there was no one in sight. He shoved the bolt across to secure the door.
     Bile rose, burning a pathway up his throat. He made it to the toilet just in time, bending over as the vomit spewed from his mouth and his nose. His stomach convulsed and he gagged, fighting to catch his breath before he threw up again. He wrapped his arms around his torso, hugging his body against the force of the spasms that ripped through his abdomen.
     Afterwards he struggled across to the washbasin. He turned on the tap and scooped up water to wash his face and rinse away the bitter taste. When his mouth began to feel cleaner, he cupped his hands and lapped at the water with his tongue, gulping and slurping to quench his raging thirst.
     He never should have stopped when the urges were strong. Just one touch had ripped away his control and by giving in to impulse, the ending was inevitable. He couldn't change what he'd done. What mattered now was that he get away.
     Hunched over the sink, he rested on his arms, letting the water run over his fingers. His eyes were closed and he rocked back and forth, willing his body to pick up the strong cadence of his heart.
     He heard a metallic clink and froze. He raised his head, but the sound was not repeated. As he leaned forward, he heard it again and looked down. A short length of gold chain was caught on the material of his jacket and struck against the porcelain with the light tinkle of a string of bells. In his mind, small hands pushed against his chest and he sucked in his breath at the instant reminder of the body squirming against his own.
     Disentangling the child's bracelet, he cradled it in his hand where it glistened against the wet skin. The clasp was broken, the opening bent at an angle, but the gold charm, a winged angel, was still attached.
     Holding the bracelet between thumb and index finger, he placed it in a paper towel and rubbed it free of fingerprints, then wadded it inside the paper and pushed the bundle down among the other trash in the wastebasket.
     The moment his fingers lost contact with the bracelet, he was struck by such a strong sense of loss that he rooted through the rubbish until he found it again.
     He knew the danger of keeping such an object. The bracelet was physical evidence that could destroy him, but perhaps it would be worth the risk if he used it as a reminder that he must never again give in to impulse. The gold links would become a sacred ring. His talisman.
     Sliding the bracelet into his pants pocket, his fingers rustled among the empty candy wrappers until he found a full one. His thumbnail forced its way beneath the cellophane to push the candy free. He pulled it out and pushed it between his lips, coaxing it into the center of his nested tongue. He sucked it, the pervasive butterscotch flavor banishing the acrid taste in his mouth.
     He straightened his back, dropped his shoulders and blew out two steadying gusts of air, like an athlete preparing for an event. His hands were steady as he unbolted the door.
         
                                                                                                                * * *

     When Kate heard the key in the front door, she remained in her chair. From the living room, she watched as the door opened and Richard stepped into the hall. For an instant she clung to her belief in miracles hoping that Jenny would appear behind his tall, slim figure.
     "Kate?"
     Richard's deep voice broke the spell that immobilized her and she sagged against the back of the chair with a sigh. The sound caught Richard's attention, and he flipped the light switch beside the door.
     "What are you doing sitting in the dark?"
     Although it was still light outside, the house was shadowed with the approach of evening. He dropped his briefcase beside the hall table and entered the living room, turning on lights as he came toward her. When she didn't speak, his expression changed to one of alarm.
     "What is it, Kate? What's wrong?"
     "Jenny's missing."
     “What do you mean missing?”
     In short blunt sentences Kate told him about searching for Jenny, finding her watercolor and calling the police.
     “Dear God, Kate, why didn't you call me?”
     Kate flinched at the tone in his voice then realized part of his anger was fear. “I tried calling you. Your cell phone was off.”
     Richard reached into the pocket of his jacket and jerked out the phone, eyebrows bunched together as he stared down at the display. “I don't remember turning it off. I'm so sorry.”
     He crossed to her, pulled her out of the chair and wrapped his arms around her. She rested her forehead against his chest squeezing her eyes shut as if she could block out the world. She felt a tremor in his body and pushed away before she lost any hope of composure.
     “Tell me what's happened. Start from the beginning.” 
     His voice was hoarse as he eased her back into the chair and he pulled up the ottoman so he could face her. When she finished, he rubbed her hands between his as if he sensed the chill that invaded her body.
     “She must be playing somewhere,” he said. “This has happened before. You need to impress on her again that she needs to follow the rules. Independence brings responsibility.”    
     Kate pressed back a spurt of anger at his comment and spoke firmly. “This is different, Richard. Jenny wouldn't leave her backpack on the ground and she never would have left her watercolor.”
     “You're right,” he conceded. “This whole thing scares the hell out of me. What are the police doing? When did you talk to them last?”
     “About an hour ago. I think it was five thirty or five forty-five. They said they'd call as soon as they knew anything?”
     “Have you called her friends from school?”
     “Yes. I even called the school and they checked the bus driver. He said she got off the bus but doesn't know what happened after that.”
     “Did you call Bethanne Peters' house? They always walk home together.”
     “Yes. Bethanne was sick today and didn't go to school. I called all the houses on both our street and on Corydon. No one saw Jenny.” 
     Kate's voice broke. She pressed her fist against her mouth to keep from screaming.
     “Nothing could have happened to Jenny in broad daylight. She's got to be somewhere playing,” Richard said.
     She stared up at him, stunned at his refusal to believe anything else. One look at the lines across his forehead and his tight mouth told her that despite his brisk assurances, he was as terrified as she was. The light outside had taken on a red-orange tint and she could feel the chill of evening reach into the room.
     "Look, Kate, I'm going to change my clothes,” Richard said. “Then if Jenny's not back, I'll call the police again. We'll find Jenny.”
     She followed him to the hall and waited beside the newel post as he went upstairs. She stared down at her watch. It was almost seven. Jenny had been missing since three-fifteen.
    
                                                                                                             * * *

     Walter Hepburn tried to pace his breathing to the steady thump of his running shoes on the cinder path of the forest preserve. Sweat trickled under the band at his forehead and slid down his temple, leaving the skin tight and itchy. His glasses began to fog as each damp puff of air rasped from his throat. He hated to stop when his rhythm was just beginning to gel. He raised his arm in front of his face and squinted at his wristwatch. Seven o'clock. A few more minutes and then he'd stop.
     The toe of his sneaker stubbed on a tree root. He stumbled and lost his balance. Throwing out his hands, he dropped to his knees and fell forward. His glasses flipped off into the shrubbery as he sprawled face down on the trail.
     The breath was knocked out of him and he rolled over on his back, gasping for air. Slowly he sat up and, still breathing heavily, felt along his legs, relieved to discover nothing but bruises. If he hadn't been wearing running gloves, the gravel would have scraped the palms of his hands.
     He stood up, gingerly shook out his legs, then bent at the waist. He wiggled his arms and turned his head slowly from side to side. Bunched muscles eased as he rolled his shoulders and scanned the edge of the trail for his glasses. Damn. Without them, he wouldn't be able to drive.
     "And for Christ's sake don't step on them," he muttered as he cautiously parted the bushes beside the path.
     He quartered the ground and cursed at the thick undergrowth. The sun was low in the sky and the shadows had deepened. He was afraid to move too quickly in case he overlooked the glasses in his hurry.
     Should've had orange frames. Should've carried an extra pair. Should've exercised more and then he wouldn't have gained weight and been forced to jog to get the lard off.
     He was about two feet off the trail when he spotted a glint ahead. Amazed that the glasses had gone so far, he parted the bushes, reached down and grasped the plastic earpieces. He spit on the lenses and rubbed them clean on the bottom of his sweatshirt. Putting them on, he smiled as his blurred vision cleared.
     The brilliant yellow color was stark against the greens and blacks of the early spring woods. Curiosity drew Walter deeper into the underbrush. His eyes focused on the bright material and grew wide as he pulled aside the last branches.
     She lay on her back, arms flung wide as if she would embrace the sky. The plaid jumper was bunched up around her hips, the image of innocent sleep marred by the smear of red on her inner thighs. The side of her head was misshapen and blood mingled with the black hair that covered her cheek. Her blue eyes were open, but the horror of her final agony was not visible in the glazed expression.
    
                                                                                                               * * *

     Light ricocheted off the wall of trees as the police cameras recorded the grim scene. The repeated flashes were like strobe lights creating the illusion of movement where none existed. Muted voices rose above the sound of snapping twigs as the photographers worked around the body.
     "It's all yours, Jamison. I'll do the rest when the paramedics arrive," the medical examiner said.
     Patrolman Jamison watched as the doctor moved away from the ring of lights. He nodded to the evidence technicians who approached the body. Seven thirty. Where the hell was Chief Leidecker anyway? The M.E. and the crime scene guys had gotten here, so what the hell was the hold up with the chief?
     His eyes shifted to the back of his squad car where the jogger was sitting, head resting against the back of the seat.
     "Did it have to be me he flagged down?" Jamison grumbled.
     When he'd called into the station they told him not to let the guy out of his sight. Until Leidecker arrived he was in charge, so he'd better do everything according to the book.
     "Leidecker'll chew my ass if I screw this up," Jamison muttered.
     Two months on the force hadn't prepared him for violent crime. Speeders and addicts, that's all he'd handled. But once he saw the yellow windbreaker, he'd known it was the missing kid. His eyes followed the movements of the two men working over the body. God, only eight years old. He shifted his feet and coughed to disguise his shudder of distaste as plastic bags were slipped over the little girl's hands.

                                                                                                              * * *

     Richard paced, moving back and forth between the living room and the kitchen then back again to the front door. Kate remained in the living room, clinging to the arms of the upholstered chair. If she let go, she knew she would lose any control she had over her emotions.
     Nothing in her life had prepared her to deal with this. It could not be happening. The police would find Jenny. It was a mistake. She had tried to be a good person. She and Richard and Jenny were a family and she had worked hard to make their world warm and loving and safe. They were protected from bad things. If she remembered that, everything would turn out fine.
     She prayed. Meaningless words. She wanted to bargain with God but was afraid to even think about what she could offer for the safe return of her daughter. She recited the prayers she had learned as a child, taking comfort from the familiarity of ritual.
     The call from the hospital came at eight-thirty.
     Jenny had been found.