The White Carnation (22 page)

Faye rearranged the pile to put the oldest letters on the top and started opening them. “I don't know why she wouldn't want me to have these—they're letters either praising my work or condemning it. The usual stuff every reporter gets. Most of it comes through email now. Maybe she wanted me to think the world had forgotten me, but—reality check!—I did look at my email each day.”

Twenty minutes later, she was about to toss a flyer in the trash can when a postcard dropped out of it.

“Gee, I almost missed this one.” She held up the postcard with the typical Salem witch on the broom that was used as one of the tourist logos. “I must have missed a Halloween party.” She flipped it over and gasped. “It's from Mary. The postmark is November twentieth. It's postmarked Slocum, Massachusetts. I've heard of it. My photographer comes from there, I think, or nearby … Maybe he just did a photo shoot in the area. I don't know. I can't remember, but I do know it's a small town near Woburn.”

“Read it.” Rob stood close to her, too close for comfort.

“Hey! You're invading my space. You know how I feel about people looking over my shoulder.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to crowd you.” He took a step back. “What does it say?”

Rob straightened. “It's nothing, just a note she probably dashed off because she had nothing to do. If she had car trouble on a Friday, it probably would take a few days to get the part—she used to drive one of those fancy European sports cars, didn't she? Slocum's not exactly New York. The mechanic would have had to send for the part. Anyway, she must have gotten rid of it, because the car we've been looking for is a Toyota. I'm surprised she didn't mention sending you the card when you saw her last winter.”

She could hear the obvious disappointment in his voice and see it in the slump of his shoulders. He took the postcard out of her hand and flipped it over to the image of the witch.

“Looks a little like her, doesn't it?” He gave it back to her and ducked when she swatted at him.

“Since she looks like me, what exactly are you implying?”

“Nothing, besides you're sexier.”

She shook her head as he excused himself to make another cup of coffee. She glanced back at the postcard in her hand. This time the postmark jumped out at her.

“You're wrong, Rob. It is important.” Excitement gripped her. “I didn't see Mary at Christmas, and she didn't call either. Ralph died December twelfth. He didn't want a funeral—said my mom had been to one already and it was a lousy party.”

She blinked away her tears, remembering the gentle man she'd come to love so deeply. He'd been as much a dad to her if not more than her own father had been before the blackness claimed him.

“I spent a month in Maine. Mary called me on my birthday, but she wasn't feeling well and didn't talk long. You said Mary was six months pregnant. This postcard fits that time frame.” She grinned. “This is a clue. Slocum has to figure into this somehow. Maybe this is what my attacker was looking for.”

Rob shook his head and picked up the postcard. “You know, you should be the detective instead of me. You've got great instincts. The time frame would fit, and the fact that the writer she was supposed to meet didn't show up is damn convenient. I'll scan this and send it to Clark. Let's see what he has to say about it. If she had car trouble, why didn't she stay in Salem?”

“Well, if she was lured to Salem, maybe someone messed with the car there so that it would break down closer to Slocum.” She grinned. “What if there wasn't anything wrong with her car, and someone installed a kill switch? You know, that thing they use to stop a vehicle that's been stolen.”

He chuckled. “Trust you to think of something like that, but it's a good theory. I'll run it by Clark when he returns my call. He's supposed to send us some information on anarchist cults currently on Homeland Security's watch list. In the meantime, why don't you boot up the laptop and see what you can find out about Slocum? There's got to be something on the place no matter how small it is.”

“Great idea.”

Faye plugged in the computer and got herself another cup of coffee while Rob sat on the sofa to look through her old newspapers. Fifteen minutes later, annoyed and frustrated, she turned away from the screen.

“Well, that was disappointing. I got some statistical information from about ten years ago and found it on the map, but that's about it. There isn't any industry in the area and nothing to recommend the town to tourists. Washington didn't even sleep there. No outstanding architectural features, no famous sons or war heroes; it's as boring a small village as you can get. If it were out west, I'm sure it would be considered a ghost town. According to the last census, the population has dropped below two hundred. Apparently, the U.S. Postal Service closed its office there in late November. Mary must've sent the postcard right before it closed.”

“Well, Mary did say it was small. Still, I'll ask Clark to send someone to check it out.”

“Why can't we go?” Faye asked.

“Go where?”

“Go to Slocum, of course. From what I see here, it's about five hours away, give or take.”

“Are you crazy? Clark would go ballistic. If that place does have something to do with Mary's kidnapping and the Harvester, you'd be walking right into the bastard's hands.” He threw down the newspaper. “That's one of those dumb-ass things the female character would do in a horror movie.”

Insulted, Faye rose from the table and stomped over to the sofa. “It is not. It's the logical way to collect accurate information. Damn it, Rob. I can't just stay here doing nothing, sitting on my hands, waiting for him to make the next move. I'm an investigative reporter, and I need to investigate. Mary's missing, her mother's dead, and that place and this postcard may well have something to do with it. Time's critical here.”

“It's too dangerous,” he said, jutting out his jaw the way he did when he'd made up his mind about something.

God, he can be pigheaded.

“I'll have Clark send someone reliable to check it out, but I can't risk your safety, maybe even your life, on a dangerous whim like this.”

“It isn't a whim, and it's my frigging life. It's my decision to make. One bastard's stolen my right to choose what happens to me, I won't let you do it, too. I'm supposed to be at death's door in the hospital, so no one's going to look for me in Slocum. Besides, I'll wear a disguise. I'll even stay in the goddamn car if you want me to.” She warmed to the topic as ideas flooded her. “Just think how the mole will feel if Clark tells him you've been there and checked it out.”

“And why would I go there, Faye? I'm supposed to be with you at the hospital.”

“For the same reason Clark's going to send someone to Slocum: to find out what's going on. You went through my mail and found the postcard and decided to follow up on the lead. You needed to get away, get fresh air. Everyone needs to get out now and then.”

He shook his head. “What if there is something there, and they follow us back? I'd be handing you over to him.”

“Don't tell me you can't lose a tail. If you do it right, there's no reason to suspect you're anything but a detective following up a lead.”

“I don't like it, and I doubt Clark will either.”

“So we don't tell him. It's a hell of a lot easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. Besides, if Slocum is as important as I think it is, and the mole finds out we're onto it, vital information will disappear. You know I'm right. Admit it, and we can figure out the best way to get there and get back.”

“Let me think about it.” He stood. “Do you still want to go to brunch?”

“I do. I also want to get my hair cut and pick up a few things. You know, tomorrow is that Canadian holiday. There'll probably be a lot of traffic on the highways. It would make it harder for someone to follow us, especially if we rented a different car. I saw that Rent-a-Wreck place when we were in the village. Don't they carry cars that would blend in better than the one we have now?”

“They do. Okay. I still think this is a huge mistake, but maybe we can make it work if I wear a disguise, too. Come on. We'll pack what we need for an overnight stay. I'll wait until after we visit Slocum to send Clark the postcard. That way no one will know what we're up to, but you will stay hidden in the car. That's not a point up for debate.”

She smiled. “I can live with that.”

Rob pulled into the parking lot for the Blue Moon Motel on the outskirts of Albany. They'd left Lake Placid around four, and given the rain and the traffic, it was almost seven.

“We'll spend the night here and go on to Slocum in the morning. This is just a little less than halfway, but I want to get there, look around, and get out by noon so we can be back in Lake Placid to send that postcard to Clark in time for his Tuesday-morning briefing. We can eat at that Chinese place across the street.”

“Good idea. It's not a palace,” she said, indicating the two-story motel, “but it looks clean enough.”

“Mom-and-pop places like this will take cash and won't ask questions. I've used similar ones to stash witnesses. I'll get a place on the second floor. It'll be safer. Lock the doors, and stay in the car until I get back.”

Faye frowned, and he knew she was about to argue about being left alone, but he'd rather no one saw her.

“Coming in with me's not an option. I'll be right there. You can see me, and I'll have eyes on the car the entire time.”

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Hurry, please.”

Rob reached for her hand, squeezed her fingers, and then got out of the car. The large straw hat and the Jackie-O sunglasses obscured most of her face, but he wasn't taking any chances. He entered the office and rang the bell on the counter, its crisp ding loud in the empty room. He looked back at the car and smiled.

A door opened into the room, and a woman in her late fifties entered, looked him up and down, and then peered out at the vehicle.

“Good evening,” Rob said, grinning broadly. “My wife and I need a room for the night. Got anything on the second floor?”

“That's $85—in advance.”

Rob opened his wallet and took out the necessary money. The woman took it and flipped around the registration book. “Sign here and fill in the details about your car. Stairs at the far side are closest to the room.”

He signed
Mike and Julie Naples, Saranac Lake, New York
, added the details about the car, and reached for the key she gave him.

“What time does the restaurant close?” he asked, indicating the place across the street.

“Nine. There's a steakhouse half a mile up the road if you want something else, and a place a little farther along that serves breakfast. Checkout's at ten.”

“We'll be gone before that.”

“I don't open the office until eight, so if it's earlier, just slip the key through the mail slot.”

He thanked her and returned to the car. Faye visibly relaxed when he opened the car door but frowned when he got in and started the engine.

“She said we need to use the staircase over there.” He pointed to the end of the building. “I figured I should park closer.”

Rob parked the vehicle and they carried their bags up to the second floor. He unlocked the door and flipped the light switch, surprised to see a nicely appointed room with a king bed.

“Wow,” Faye said, entering the room. “I wasn't expecting anything this nice.”

“For $85, neither was I. The restaurant closes at nine, or we can run up the road for something else.”

“Chinese is fine. We can eat and come back and watch television. If you want to leave early, we shouldn't be out late.”

“You got it. Just let me use the facilities, and we can go and eat. I grabbed a bottle of that merlot you like. We can have it when we get back.”

Fifteen minutes later, they sat in what Rob considered the typical, tacky Chinese restaurant, its red walls covered with metal dragons and Chinese symbols. Faye had opted for a light beer and the buffet, and he'd followed suit.

“This is really good,” she said, sampling the won-ton soup.

They ate, talked about sports, the news, the weather, typical stuff people discussed when they were out. When they'd finished, he paid the bill, and they returned to the motel.

Faye was checking through the channels and stopped. “
The American President.
I love this movie, and it's just starting. Can we watch it?”

“Sure, why not? Annette Bening's easy on the eyes. I'll get the wine.”

When the movie ended, Faye yawned and stood. “You know the last time I was in Washington, I got stuck on Dupont Circle. I wonder if the movie's creator called Michael Douglas's character Andrew Shepherd on purpose.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alexander Shepherd, better known as the Father of Modern Washington, spearheaded the creation of Dupont Circle in the 1870s. Since Sydney kept getting stuck on it, I thought it might be a subliminal thing.” She scrunched up her nose. “Don't say it. I'm a fountain of useless information, I know.”