Morning Light (13 page)

All around him ponderosa pines loomed like giant sentinels. Yet when Loni broadened her scope, the trees seemed minuscule compared to the mountains, and the mountains, in turn, were dwarfed by the immenseness of the sky. They were all just tiny specks of humanity, she thought bleakly. How frightened Trevor must be right now, a little boy lost in all this vastness.

The thought made her heart hurt as she shimmied into the sleeping bag and drew the downy folds close for warmth. With the darkness pressing in on her like a thick blanket, she, too, crossed herself and prayed.

It seemed to Clint that only seconds passed before someone was shaking him awake. He tipped his hat back, cracked open his eyes, and saw Loni kneeling beside him. In the faint light of predawn she looked more like an angel than a flesh-and-blood woman, her oval face and delicate features as flawless as fine ivory. In his sleepy state he momentarily entertained the notion that she wanted to join him in his sleeping bag, a possibility that he didn't find distasteful.

No such luck. Instead of moving closer she sat back on her heels. “We're on the wrong side of the river.”

“What?”

“Trevor is on the other side of the river,” she repeated.

Coming slowly awake, Clint sat up and smoothed a hand over his hair. “How did you suddenly determine that?”

“The compass. When I was trying to go to sleep something about the compass kept nagging at me, but I couldn't think what it was. It finally came to me in a dream.”

“A dream?” Clint had dreams as often as anyone. In his experience they were mostly a lot of bunk.

“I do my best thinking when I'm not trying to think,” she explained. “When my brain was finally at rest, the answer came to me. In all my visions of Trevor using the compass, the needle was pointing north.”

“So?”

“The river was behind him.”

Clint rubbed his eyes and blinked to clear his vision. “Holy shit,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. When he thought of all the treacherous terrain that lay to the north between the river and the first paved highway, he cringed. “Are you certain he's on that side?”

“I'm positive. Portland is to the north. Right? I think Trevor and Nana are trying to go home.” She rubbed her hands over the denim stretched tight over her bent knees. “I know it'll be a big pain in the neck to load the horses back up and move to the other side. I wish it had dawned on me sooner, but it didn't.”

Clint unzipped the sleeping bag, bracing against the cold as he reached for his boots. “It's not your fault.” Tugging his socks up, he added, “And it won't be that much trouble to load the horses. They're all accustomed to it.”

She pushed to her feet. Just then a helicopter flew over. They watched it level out, heading east.

Clint sighed and shook his head. “If they're only searching the terrain along the river, they'll never find that boy, no matter how much fancy equipment they have. He and that dog could be ten miles from the water by now.”

“You believe me.”

The incredulity in her voice brought Clint's head around. He nudged his hat back and gave her a disgruntled look. “I'm getting there.”

Hugging herself against the chill, she frowned at him. “I don't get it. What changed your mind?”

Clint pulled on his boots while trying to formulate an answer. “Didn't say I'd changed my mind. I said I'm getting there.” He shifted onto his knees to roll up the sleeping bag. As he worked he glanced up at her. “Mainly it's you, I guess. You seem like an honest person, and I can't ignore the fact that you're here, willing to do whatever has to be done to find the boy, even if it means riding a horse, sleeping in a tent, and putting your life in the hands of a man you barely know. That makes it really hard for me to believe you're lying—unless, of course, you're crazy, and I don't think that's the case, either.”

She laughed softly. He really did enjoy that sound. “I'm not so sure. Agreeing to come with you isn't the sanest decision I've ever made.”

“Or the easiest decision you've ever made, either, I'm thinking. But you're here, willing to put your bacon on the plate. I can only conclude that you sincerely believe every word you've told me—that Trevor Stiles is out there somewhere, and only we can save him.” When the ties on the sleeping bag were secured, he tossed the bedding to her, pushed erect, and swung his saddle up onto his shoulder. “I can continue to doubt you at every turn, which will do nothing but slow us down, or I can try to set my reservations aside and just go for it.”

“And you've decided to do the latter?”

“Let's just say I mean to give it my best shot.”

A few minutes later, when Clint walked down to the water to wash up, he saw searchers in bright orange vests preparing to drag the river at first light. The authorities were obviously convinced that the child and dog had drowned. Clint imagined that similar operations were taking place both up-and downstream.

When he returned to camp he informed Loni of what he'd seen. His voice edgy with frustration, he finished with, “It doesn't appear to me that they're expanding the search, or intend to anytime soon.”

Crouched by the small fire, she glanced up from pouring some coffee. Holding a blue enamel mug out to him, she said, “Both adults drowned. Naturally they're convinced that the child must have, too.”

Clint accepted the cup and took a careful sip of the scalding-hot brew. “We should talk to the search coordinator. They're wasting their time down there. They should be combing the forests a lot farther north of here.”

She stared gloomily into the licking flames.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She closed her eyes, then her lashes fluttered up. “If we go to the person in charge and tell him what we know, we'll have to give some sort of explanation, won't we? Otherwise he won't listen to us.”

Clint studied her thoughtfully. “That's true. Do you have a problem with that?”

When she looked up at him, her eyes had gone dark with shadows. “Telling him I'm a psychic, you mean?” Her soft lips thinned over her teeth. “He isn't going to believe me. You know it, and I know it. So why even bother?”

Clint crouched down across the fire from her. “Whether the search coordinator buys your story or not, at least you'll have planted the thought in his mind that Trevor may still be alive and farther north than they think. When they find nothing in the river, they may decide to widen their focus. Not to say we can't find him in time by ourselves. Don't get me wrong. But it'd sure as hell be nice if we had some help.”

As though to shield her thoughts, she looked off into the trees. Clint was starting to get a very bad feeling.

“We at least need to talk to him.”

Face pale, features drawn, she nodded but didn't speak.

“Something's eating at you,” he ventured. “From this point forward we're partners. Right? If you have a problem talking to the authorities, you'd better tell me now. I don't like surprises.”

She shifted her gaze back to him. Her eyes were the most incredible shade of blue he'd ever seen, rivaling the dusky, rose-streaked morning sky behind her. “I have no criminal record, if that's your worry.”

“What then?”

She set her cup on one of the rocks that Clint had placed around the pit last night. “About a year ago I got sucked into a big mess.”

“What kind of mess?”

“A young woman named Cheryl Blain had been missing for about six months. Her parents and the authorities believed she was dead.” Her throat worked as she struggled to swallow. “I'd just received the Decorator of the Year award, and the Blains read about me in the paper. They visited my shop and asked me to redo their home. It was where they'd raised their daughter, and everywhere they looked they were reminded of her.”

Clint wondered where this was heading—and how it had anything to do with the search for Trevor. “Go on.”

She drew up her shoulders, the burgundy fleece jacket bunching in folds at either side of her slender neck. “Normally I don't work with the general public. I prefer to do only new construction, model homes mostly.” She narrowed her eyes against a waft of smoke. “Older homes can be a problem for me.” Her mouth thinned again and quivered at the corners. “Sometimes I'm okay, but other times I pick up bad vibes.”

“How do you pick up bad vibes?”

“By touching things. My sister calls it psychometric divination, the ability of some individuals to divine information by touching a person or an object.”

“Ah.” Now Clint knew what a psychometrist was. “And that happens to you in old houses?”

“In some, not all.” She drew in a shaky breath and exhaled in a huff. “The Blains liked my bold decorating style and would settle for no one but me to redo their home. I felt sorry for them, I guess. They were grieving and heartbroken, and I couldn't tell them no.”

Clint glanced at the sky. The sun would be completely up soon, and he still wasn't sure where this story was going. “So you redecorated their place?”

“We never got that far.” A distant, wistful look entered her eyes. “I went to their home to give them a bid. When I entered Cheryl's bedroom, which was just as she'd left it, I had a vision, a violent, terrifying vision.” Her gaze sharpened on Clint's. Pale before, her face had now gone chalky white. “Cheryl wasn't dead,” she said tautly. “She'd been abducted and was being held captive somewhere.”

“For six months?”

She nodded. “I heard her pleading for help.”

“
Heard
her?” Clint struggled to wrap his mind around that. All of this was so foreign to him, and this story sounded like something straight out of a Hannibal Lecter film. Six months was a hell of a long time for a woman to be held captive. “What did you hear her saying?”

“It was more what I heard her thinking,” she corrected. “She was gagged and couldn't speak. In her mind she was pleading for help. She knew he was going to kill her if someone didn't find her soon.”

Clint turned his cup between his hands, feeling chilled despite the warmth of the fire. “So you
can
read minds.”

“Sort of.” She flapped a hand. “Only not in the way you mean. It was more like her thoughts became mine, like she was whispering inside my head. Does that make any sense?”

None of this made sense. But Clint had reached a point where it made even less sense to think she was lying. “Sort of. So when you heard her thoughts, what did you do?”

“I staggered from the bedroom and collapsed in the hall. My entire body throbbed with pain—
her
pain.”

“Her pain?” he repeated stupidly.

“I'm empathic. I mentioned that last night.”

She'd told him a lot of stuff last night. He'd grasped only about half of it.

“During a vision I often experience the person's physical sensations. When Trevor fell into the river I felt the shock. Not as acutely as if I'd fallen into the water myself, of course, but I felt it, nonetheless.

“Anyway, I knew Cheryl was in grave danger, and if someone didn't help her quickly, she was going to die.” The tendons along each side of her throat corded with tension. “I'd long since sworn off telling anyone about my gift. Most people react the same way you did. But I had to tell Cheryl's parents. How could I not?”

“How did they respond?”

“They didn't believe me at first. Their daughter had gone missing six months before. Traces of her blood had been found in her car. She'd been a wonderful daughter, very responsible and thoughtful. The Blains were convinced Cheryl would have found some way to call home if she were still alive.”

“Only she couldn't call.”

“She was bound hand and foot.” She passed a trembling hand over her eyes. “She was so real in my mind—as real as her parents, who were standing right in front of me. It took some fast talking, but I finally convinced them I was telling the truth.”

“So they called the police?”

“Not immediately. We needed more information.” She touched her cup as if to pick it up, but then left it on the rock. “Mrs. Blain brought me one of Cheryl's most cherished possessions, a baby doll she'd had since early childhood. I held the doll, closed my eyes, and for the first time in my life successfully summoned a vision. I needed to get a clear picture of where Cheryl was.”

Clint no longer cared how this pertained to the present situation. He was too caught up in the story. “Did you see anything?”

“Yes, a small metal building near an irrigation canal with heavy equipment parked in a nearby lot. I also heard single-engine planes flying overhead. There were pipes and what looked like oversize wrenches inside the shed. I also saw Cheryl's captor. He was thirtyish, with blond hair, and blue eyes that looked”—she broke off and stared blankly into the flames—“insane. It's the only way I can think to describe his eyes. There was an expression of indescribable evil on his face when he leaned over her.”