Fortune (14 page)

Nowhere, Indiana,
1983

C
hance and Skye's initial hours on the road were harrowing. Skye said little, just doggedly kept pace with him, never straying more than a few inches from his side. The first time he'd had to go to the bathroom, she had become almost hysterical, quieting only after he'd repeatedly promised that he wouldn't leave her.

She had stood right outside the gas station's rest-room door, whimpering, holding on to the doorknob, he knew, because every so often he would hear it rattle. As he stood there relieving himself and listening to that pitiful sound, reality had hit him, and hit him hard. Skye was a child. She had no one to take care of her now, no one but him. He was totally responsible for her—he had to make sure she had food and shelter and sleep, he had to protect her from those who might try to hurt or use her.

The responsibility was awesome. It was sobering.

In the safety and shelter of the carnival camper, he hadn't grasped the consequences of running away with her. His choice had seemed more clear-cut, his decision less of a challenge. He hadn't understood.

Now he did. Now, too late, he wondered if he had made a hasty decision and a big mistake. Now he really was scared shitless.

That first night, they slept under a train trestle, huddled together, warding off autumn's early chill and midnight's darkness. Although exhausted, Chance couldn't sleep. His mind raced from one worry to the next, one frightening what-if to another.

Skye, too, couldn't sleep, he knew, though she didn't stir or speak. She simply clung stiffly to his side, as if frozen with fear.

Chance rested his head against the concrete support and shut his eyes. What the hell had he been thinking when he had decided to do this thing? How could he take care of a kid? He had no job, no place for them to live. He could hardly take care of himself, let alone a twelve-year-old girl.

Jesus, help him. He knew of only one way out. Call the man who had come looking for Skye. Call the number on the card the P.I. had given him, the card he had kept—just in case.

Even as he considered it, Chance pictured Claire's expression as it had been that last night—white with fear, eyes wide with panic. He recalled her voice, her desperation. Her pure terror.

She couldn't have faked that. She couldn't have.

He wouldn't call that number. If he did, he might be sentencing Skye to a fate worse than this one.

But how much worse than this?

He had no way of knowing. Chance released a pent-up breath, resigned to what he had to do. He would take care of them both. He could do it. He had to.

Luckily, he had saved most of what he had earned working at Marvel's. It would hold them for a while; they wouldn't go hungry.

Not yet, anyway. His money, he had seen already, would go fast. He and Skye were going to have to settle someplace; he was going to have to get a job. He didn't want to wait until they were dead broke to do it, either.

Once they were broke, they would be completely vulnerable.

Skye whimpered. The small sound tore at his heartstrings, and he lowered his gaze to her. She was probably thinking of her mother. Wondering where she was. Wondering why she had left her.

Chance wondered, too. He felt certain that something terrible had happened to Claire's friend, he feared something may have happened to Claire, too, though he probably would never know what. And neither would Skye.

He shifted, stretching his cramped legs. Skye cried out and clutched at his arm.

For a moment, he felt smothered, trapped. In that moment, he was angry—at Skye, himself, the world. He had left his aunt's to make his future, his fortune. Now he was saddled with a twelve-year-old, and his future looked bleak, fortune an impossibility.

He breathed deeply through his nose, shaking off the feeling. If he was saddled with anyone, he had done it to himself. They wouldn't be together forever; she wouldn't be a child forever.

But for now, she was. And she needed him.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he murmured. “Just trying to get comfortable.”

She nodded and pressed herself into his side, her teeth chattering. He put his arm around her. “I'm not going to leave you, Skye. I promise.”

She was quiet a long time, then she stirred and tipped her face up toward his. “What are we going to do, Chance? Where are we going to go?”

“I don't know, kid. We're just going to have to play it by ear.”

She nestled her head against his chest; he felt her shiver. “I'm scared.”

He didn't blame her for being afraid. He was, too. He bent and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I know. But you don't have to be. I'm going to take care of you, Skye. I promise. I'll take care of you.”

T
wenty-four hours after leaving Skye in Chance's care, Claire began calling Susan. At first, when she couldn't reach her, she wasn't too worried. After all, she figured, the drive from Notre Dame to Ridely was a long one, made worse by the bad weather. No doubt Susan had stopped somewhere along the way to wait out the storm.

But by the end of the second day, when she still couldn't reach her friend, she began to panic. She called early in the morning, before hitting the road. She tried at noon and at three; she tried at suppertime and again at 11:00 p.m. Still no answer. The last time she tried, an automated voice informed her that the number she had dialed was no longer in service.

Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong.

Claire hung up the phone. Change clattered into the coin return. Around her, the sounds of the truck stop faded and her head filled with the sound of her daughter's voice, calling her.

Skye needed her. Wherever she was. Whoever she was with.

She had to go back. Now. As fast as she could.

Heart pounding, mouth dry with fear, she turned and ran for her car, ignoring the curious stares of the diners as she raced past them. She reached the car, unlocked it and scrambled inside. She rummaged around on the passenger-side floor, shoving aside empty foam cups and take-out bags, searching for her atlas.

Finding it, she opened the book to the map of Indiana. Susan was a professor at St. Mary's College in Notre Dame, Indiana, all the way up at the top of the state. Knowing that and wanting to lead Pierce as far away as she could from Skye, Claire had driven a zigzag path south, going to St. Louis first, then to Memphis, and on to Nashville. She had reached Atlanta the night before. Now she had to make it back in the shortest time possible.

Claire studied the map for several minutes, then set it on the seat next to her, dropped the car into Reverse and peeled out. The way she figured, driving straight through, she was talking about a ten-hour trip. She could be in South Bend by five that evening.

Claire made better time than she had hoped, and pulled into Susan's quiet college neighborhood just after four. Moments later she located Susan's street, then house number. She parked in front, flew out of the car and up the walk.

She rang the bell, then pounded. “Susan!” She pounded again with the side of her fist as hard as she could. “It's me. Please, open up. Susan!”

“Hello there. Can I help you?”

Claire swung in the direction the voice had come. A woman stood on the porch of the house next door, looking at her, her expression worried.

“Thank you,” Claire answered, struggling to remain calm. “If you could help, I'd be so grateful. Really.”

Claire hurried toward her, crossing the lawns that separated the two homes, knowing she must look half-wild to the other woman. She hadn't changed or bathed in thirty-six hours and she couldn't remember the last time she had brushed her hair. Indeed, the woman looked as if she wanted to disappear back inside her house.

But she didn't, and Claire stopped before her. “I'm trying to reach my friend Susan Willis. It's important and I…That is her house, isn't it?”

The woman cleared her throat. “Yes, but she's not…home.”

“Have you seen her, then?” Claire clasped her hands together. “Please, it's an emergency.”

“I'm sorry, but…” The woman looked away, then back, her eyes bright. “I'm so sorry, but Susan's…Susan's dead.”

“Dead?” Claire repeated, her world rocking. “You can't be serious. You can't…mean…Dead?”

“It was a car accident. Four or five nights ago. I don't know, it was such a shock, I…I lose track of the days. The weather was so awful that night. A drunk driver hit her head-on. I'm so sorry.”

Claire stared at the woman.
It couldn't be true, Susan couldn't be dead. Not Susan. Not her sweet friend. Her confidante, her—

What about Skye? Had Skye been with her?

Claire brought a hand to her head, dizzy suddenly. Her legs felt rubbery, weak. She swayed.

“Oh, dear, let me help you.” The woman hurried off her porch and down to Claire. She took her arm. “Come. Sit down. You've had a shock.”

Claire let the woman lead her to the front porch, to the big wicker rocker there. She sank into it, then curving her arms around her middle, bent double, rocking and moaning.

Her best friend. Her only friend. Gone. Dead.

Skye. Her baby. Dear God, let her be okay.

“I'm so sorry,” the neighbor murmured, her voice shaking. “We all loved Susan. She was such a nice person…you don't look so good. Let me get you a glass of water. I'll be right back.”

Claire caught her hand, stopping her. She tipped her face up to the other woman's. “Was she…was Susan…alone?”

“Alone?” the woman repeated, wrinkling her eyebrow. “Why, yes. She was south of here, near Culver, though Lord only knows why.” Her voice thickened. “She died instantly.”

Claire dropped her head into her hands, weak with relief, feeling guilty for it. Susan was dead because of her, because of the favor she had asked of her. But still, she was relieved.
Susan had been alone. It had happened before she'd reached Ridely. Before she had collected Skye. Thank God, thank…

Claire lifted her head, realization dawning. But that meant that Susan had never come for Skye. A whimper of fear escaped her. That meant Pierce could have her daughter. He probably did.

Claire held her stomach, feeling sick. And if somehow, miraculously, he didn't…Skye could be anywhere. With anyone.

Claire jumped to her feet, still holding her middle. “I have to go,” she whispered. “Thank you for…thank you.”

“Please—” The woman touched her arm. “You don't look so good. Stay a minute. Let me get you some water.”

“I can't.” Claire drew in a deep, shaky breath. “Thank you for your kindness, but I have to go. My daughter is…she's…” Claire met the woman's eyes. “I have to find my daughter.”

T
he lights of the midway spun crazily around Claire. Even the wild, blaring music couldn't drown out the sound of her thundering heart. In the desperate hope that Chance and Skye were still traveling with the carnival, she had sought it and Abner Marvel out.

Now she faced the old showman, trembling so badly she could hardly stand. “Where's Chance?” she asked, her voice quaking. “I have to find him, Abner. It's important. It's—”

“He's gone. A week ago now.” Abner frowned. “At least that's when I think it was. I went to talk to him about you and your little girl, that's the last I saw of him.”

Claire caught her breath, battling tears.
Gone. But if Chance was gone, where was her daughter?
She cleared her throat. “When you saw him, did you see…was Skye with him?”

Abner wrinkled his forehead. “He told me Skye was with you, Claire. He told me you two left together, the night of the storm. He told everybody that.”

“I know, that's what I…” She struggled to keep from falling apart. “So, you didn't see her?”

“I can't help you, Claire. I'm sorry.”

She curved her arms around her middle, crumbling.
Where was her baby?

“A man was by, lookin' for you and Skye, though. Right before Chance took off. A P.I. He left his card.”

Claire lifted her gaze. “A private investigator?” she repeated, fear sour on her tongue. “What did he want?”

“Like I said, he was looking for you two. I kept his card, just in case you came back around. I figured you'd be interested.” He took the card out of his wallet and handed it to her. “I told him you and your little girl had left. Together. Chance told him the same thing.”

Claire stared at the card, hand shaking. She recognized the name of the investigative firm. They were very well known in Chicago, top in their field. Adam Monarch had used them before, things to do with the business.

“He said you'd inherited some money, Claire. Big money. He gave 'bout everyone around here a card and said there'd be pay for anyone who found you for him.” Abner looked her square in the eye. “A thousand dollars, Claire.”

She nodded, understanding the warning, understanding that he knew as well as she did that she was in deep trouble. She glanced over her shoulder, double-checking to make sure no one was around, searching her memory for any of the show folk who had seen and recognized her.

“I'm real sorry you're havin' troubles, Claire. You were the best fortune-teller I ever had.”

She caught his hands, begging. “You won't tell anyone you saw me, will you? You won't tell anyone that Skye and I are not together? Please? It's important, Abner.”

“I didn't see you.” He squeezed her hands, then dropped them. “Good luck.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, backing away. “For everything.”

“Claire?” She stopped and looked back at him. His expression was grim. “I hope you find your little girl.”

She nodded, her throat closing over anything she might say. In truth, there was nothing to say. She had to find Skye. She simply had to.