Dallas caught up a few minutes later, half-running, half-limping. “I thought you said
walk,” he
complained.
She saw his limp and slowed, remembering the kick she had given him. She scolded herself.
What was I thinking, doing a thing like that?
She touched his arm, “Dallas, I’m so sorry that I hurt your knee. I can’t believe I did that. Now you can barely walk.”
“Don’t feel bad, Amy. These knees got toasted years back, playing football. They were gone long before you threw that kick.”
They walked in silence along the wood trail, and then she stopped. “Let’s go back.”
As they retraced their steps, Amy savored the sound of the forest: leaves crunching underfoot, birds singing in the trees, and a creek trickling. It endowed an overall sense of peace upon her.
How can things be so normal and so abnormal at the same time?
As they wound their way down the slope of the mountainside, a breeze rustled through the trees bringing fresh, cool air, indicating the approach of another winter storm. Amy looked up and saw black clouds billowing above the treetops. The morning darkened noticeably. She resisted the urge to run.
His large hand closed over hers and with that single motion her fears melted. They walked down to the overlook below the cabin and resting their arms on the wooden rail, gazed at the river winding through the ravine below. After a while Dallas said, “I made some calls while you were in the tub. You want to talk about those things now?”
“I want to know whatever you can tell me, Dallas.”
“I spoke with Sam, our fire chief,” Dallas hesitated, unsure how she would react to what he was about to tell her. “They’re still investigating the fire and nothing is conclusive, but they did find a body.” He reached for her hand and squeezed lightly.
Amy swallowed hard. With a shaky voice she asked, “Where was he? I looked everywhere.”
Dallas cleared his throat uncomfortably. “In the living room.”
Amy’s hands covered her face.
“You okay?”
She nodded solemnly.
“They haven’t been able to make an identification; in fact they’re not even sure of the gender.”
Amy flinched, closing her eyes tight, trying to shut out his words.
Dallas put his arm around her and pulled her close. He continued reluctantly, “They won’t be able to use dental records to make the I.D. The victim had no teeth of his own, so that means we’ll have to see if we can use DNA or some other means of ID.”
Amy said flatly, “Gramps wore dentures.”
“I know.” But, there’s one more thing. Sam expected to find the manual steel wheelchair near the body, but it wasn’t there. In fact, it wasn’t in the house at all.”
“It had to be. He never takes it out of the house. Never.”
“Sam said it wasn’t there,” he repeated.
“That doesn’t make sense. If Gramps was in the house, then the wheelchair would’ve been in there.” Amy gripped Dallas jacket and looked up at him. “Maybe the body isn’t his; maybe he’s still alive. Maybe he got out!
”
The heavy weight that had descended upon her days ago did not lessen, but until they had a positive identification, she had a small reprieve. Perhaps that was just as well. She couldn’t grieve for Gramps right now; it would paralyze her
.
For now, she had to stay away from her emotions. But she still had one big regret. “If only I’d taken Gramps with me yesterday, he’d be okay now.”
“Amy, don’t do that.
What ifs
only make things worse.”
“I know. You’re right,” Amy agreed.
Dallas looked down at her, his expression tight. “There’s more. The fire was set intentionally. There were gas cans inside the house. We don’t have all the details yet, but the missing wheelchair is disturbing. Hadden’s a cagey old coot. You just never know.”
Amy’s head jerked up and she pulled back, looking at him intently. “You seem to know a lot about my grandfather.”
Dallas considered how much to tell her. “Hadden and I go back a way. Not only that, we’ve played cards at the Club almost every week for the past five years. You get to know a man pretty well, playing cards.”
Amy smiled sadly. “So true. You ever win?”
“Now and then.”
“I seldom have. He’d holler, ‘Girl, you're just too damned honest. I can read your cards from the look on your face.’ I’ve been working on that, but I guess I’ve got one of those faces that shows everything I think or feel.”
Dallas nodded. “You do, and it's refreshing.”
Amy asked, “When was the last time you saw my grandfather?”
“Saturday. Stopped by his place. Figured if you saw somebody who looked like you, it either had to be one hell of a coincidence or the two of you must be related. If it was the latter, then the only person who could shed light on that subject was Hadden."
“And did he?” Amy asked.
“It took some arm twisting, but he coughed up with the story; told me pretty much everything. You were at his house before I got there, so I found him in a dilemma over how to tell you about your twin. He thought he was protecting you. Can’t say I blame him, after everything that’s happened in the past. One thing’s for sure. He thinks the world of you. He may not always make the right decisions for you, but there isn’t anything the old man wouldn’t do for you.”
Amy nodded. “I know that. Gramps and I have always been close.” She twisted away from Dallas. “He finally told me about my twin and the truth about my parents’ accident. What I don’t understand is, why someone would murder my parents because of the phone call my sister made to them. All she said was that she was their daughter, and she was alive. Seems like the overkill, if you’ll pardon the bad pun.”
“I think there’s a lot more to it, Amy. I think we’re looking at the tip of the iceberg.”
“If that was the tip of the iceberg, I’m terrified to think about what’s coming down the pike.” Amy realized it was time she told Dallas about her twin’s visit to Beaverdale, the hospital fire, and subsequent death of Dr. Lamont, and what she learned about OB/GYN, Dr. George Johnstone. She explained that he was the specialist who had delivered Amy and her twin sister, along with at least one other set of twins. She asked Dallas: “Given everything I just told you, do you think it’s possible this Dr. Johnstone could have been involved in my parent’s murder?”
Dallas rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t think it’s that simple. I think the hospital fire covered Johnstone’s ass. What happened to your parents probably covered someone else’s.”
White knuckled, Amy gripped the seat as Dallas sped up the coast highway toward Sanville, where his team was attending an emergency. Dallas gave clipped, fast instructions over the radio as he swung the truck into the oncoming lane, passed two cars, dodged back into the northbound lane momentarily, and then angled back into the oncoming to pass another vehicle. A small truck was heading straight for them. Dallas pushed back into the northbound lane, and glanced at her. “You should’ve stayed at the cabin where you’d be safe—” he said to her before speaking into the radio once more, “Hell no, tell them to leave now!”
Amy gritted her teeth. “Safe?”
“Every time you go out, you’re visible to the killer. Please, remember that.” He yelled into the radio, “Don’t wait for anything. I’ll meet you there in ten minutes.”
“Dallas, you’ve got an emergency to look after. Drop me like we planned, and do what you have to do.”
“I don’t like the idea of you driving back down the coast—“ he turned back to the radio, “—send the second unit to Stiller Street—”
Amy pointed to the approaching cross street, “Don’t forget to drop me—” then held on as the pickup swerved right, sped toward First Street, and came to a sliding stop beside the Jeep. Amy stepped out, “I’ll call you later,” she said with relief.
Dallas tossed her a key. “The cabin. Promise me you’ll go straight there afterward, and remember, watch your rear view mirror. Make sure no one follows you. If you even suspect you’re being followed, call it in, and get lost in traffic. Don’t let yourself get trapped,” he told her, anxiously inching the truck forward.
Amy nodded and stepped back as he accelerated. She watched the pickup turn the corner and disappear. She started the Jeep and slowly, very slowly, pulled around the corner, and idled toward her grandfather’s house.
Gone.
An empty space existed between the two neighboring bungalows. The perimeter of the yard was taped off, as if to protect the few remaining walls and charred remains that littered the foundation. The fire chief’s official car was parked along the curb. Amy shuddered and drove away. “Oh, Gramps,” she choked, wiping away the tears.
The coast highway was quiet, allowing her time to think. Everything had started with her birth and that of her twin.
Why did they tell my mother that my twin died when she hadn’t? What happened to my twin? Was she adopted? Sold? Who took her? Johnstone? Or had he merely facilitated the abduction? He was involved in at least one other apparent death of a twin.
Amy had a litany of questions and no answers.
How did my mom get involved? Did Johnstone target her?
Amy considered a few theories, and then discarded them. Nothing made sense. But she knew one thing: if a doctor tells a new mother that one of her twins has died, that mother would never disbelieve him— especially in those days—when deaths for newborns, particularly in multiple births, were higher.
As Amy pulled onto the private road that wound uphill along the tree-lined street to Somerset Meadows, more questions plagued her:
Why did they want my twin?
Why just one of us? Why not both of us?
Amy parked in the front lot and walked up the long walk toward the sprawling three-story building. The day was cool and sunny. She crossed the vast tiled lobby, questions swirling in her brain.
What kind of life has my twin had? Where did she grow up? Who raised her?
Amy signed in and walked quickly past the elevator, toward the stairs. She planned to break the news of the fire gently to her grandmother, allowing time for her to absorb the information, if that were possible. Amy wouldn’t say anything about Gramps until she knew for sure what had happened to him. How much her grandmother would understand, Amy didn’t know.
Cynthia Hadden wasn’t in her room. Thinking the staff may have taken her to the day room, Amy returned to the elevator and rode up a floor. It was visiting hours so the day room was crowded. A therapist recognized her and called out, “Hi there! If you’re looking for your grandmother, she’s outside, on the grounds. Her son came by and asked if he could put her in a wheelchair and take her out for some fresh air—”
“Son?” Fear was audible in Amy’s voice.
The therapist paused, “Right. That’s what he said.”
Alarm bells went off for Amy. “She doesn’t have a son! Which way did he take her?”
“Out the West Entrance.”
“Call for help!”
Bypassing the elevator, Amy dashed down the stairs, along the corridor to the West Entrance, and outside, her heart pounding in her chest. She paused by the balustrade and looked around anxiously. The day was unusually mild. Patients, visitors, and staff were outside, enjoying the afternoon. Amy scanned the manicured grounds, her eyes resting on various wheelchairs. She spotted a small, white-haired woman being pushed by an elderly man.
Bounding down the stairs two at a time, Amy landed on the walk and ran after them. “Stop!” The old man continued on. “Wait, please,” Amy called, catching up to them. She grabbed the wheelchair, brought it to a stop, and swung around to see her grandmother.
Instead, she was looking into the face of a complete stranger. “Oh, I’m sorry— I thought—” The old couple eyed her with alarm. “I thought you were my…I’m so very sorry.”
Desperate now, Amy scanned the grounds. Someone yelled a warning near the Main Entrance and Amy whirled around. A lone wheelchair freewheeled down the sloping walk toward the parking lot. “Grams!” Amy bolted across the lawn, hoping to catch the chair before it passed through the open gates and onto the entrance road. An unsuspecting driver would never see it coming.
The chair picked up speed on the downhill run, making it impossible to catch up. She shouted a warning as the chair flew through the gates. Amy saw the approaching car and pumped hard. She was right behind the chair now. The car jerked to a stop as it whizzed past the front bumper. Now, Grams was freewheeling toward the curb. Amy pictured the chair hitting the curb and her grandmother flying through the air.
Knowing there was only one way to stop the forward momentum without serious injury to her grandmother, Amy threw herself across the chair; her weight veering it left onto one wheel. Amy shifted her weight quickly, righting the wheelchair a second before it struck the curb.
The sudden impact hurtled Amy onto the sidewalk, landing her hard on her right hip. For some unfathomable reason, Cynthia Hadden remained in the chair. As pain traveled in light waves down Amy’s leg, she stared in shock at her grandmother.
The old woman’s eyes were clear; they glistened with tears. “Amy. My dear Amy.”
The moment of recognition dumbfounded Amy. Struggling onto her knees, Amy reached for her grandmother’s shaking hands. “It’s okay, Grams, we’re fine,” she whispered, noticing for the first time the piece of paper her grandmother held. Amy pulled it out of her hand and read the words:
When on the wrong path, one must never lose sight of those one loves.
A man’s voice drew her attention, “Are you hurt?”
Amy looked up. A tall, heavy-set man in a lab coat stood over her. His facial features were compressed into the center of a huge face and underscored by a long, jagged scar that ran along his jaw. His cold eyes stared at her.
“I’m okay,” Amy replied, standing. Her hip throbbed. Staff and visitors gathered around them. A nurse anxiously checked her grandmother. Amy turned to the nurse. “Please take Mrs. Hadden back to her room.”
While the staff re-settled her grandmother into bed, Amy went in search of the therapist who had allowed the visitor to take her grandmother out of the building. He was working on the ward. Amy stopped him. “I need a word with you. Let’s go out into the hall.” Once outside the ward, Amy turned on him. “How could you let a stranger take my grandmother out of here? Do you realize he sent her freewheeling out onto the street? She could have been killed!”