Part 3 (1/2)
”Your impressions of them?”
”Mainly impatient that such an old case had been revived. Nothing that made me suspicious.”
”I'd like that list this afternoon.”
”Why that case?”
”It just interests me.”
”Well, you're a h.e.l.l of a lot better than me if you get anywhere.” He changed the subject. ”You married?”
”No.”
”Smart guy. I'm in the middle of a divorce. She couldn't take the hours.”
So that explained the approach. Wagner was probably lonely.
Gage finished his sandwich and rose. He didn't want any more confidences. ”Time to get back.”
”If I can help ...”
”Thanks,” he said, his mind already going back to the pages in the Prescott file. He wanted to study the case files more thoroughly, then make a list of possible interviews. One particular name had emerged from the file. Charles Rawson. He'd been the last person known to see Prescott alive.
Charles Rawson. Prominent attorney. And father of Meredith Rawson.
'KANSAS CITY, MISSOURI'.
THREE WEEKS EARLIER.
Holly held her son's hand tightly as she roamed among the sentiments engraved on plaques in Baby Land.
Although the section was only a small part of the cemetery in Kansas City, it had to be the most heartbreaking. What must it be like to lose a child?
All her emotions seemed to pound against the dam that had held them back during the week since she unbelievably killed a fellow human being. It didn't matter that he apparently had intended to kill her. She felt as if she had lost a part of her soul.
She was going to lose even more now. She was about to steal the ident.i.ty of the most innocent of victims.
But she had to elude her husband and his resources. She needed a completely new ident.i.ty. She hoped--prayed--she could find one here.
A dead child left behind a bronze marker, a birth certificate and little else but love in the hearts of those who mourned. Nothing that could be traced. She could request a birth certificate and use it to get a Social Security card and other forms of ident.i.ty, including a badly needed driver's license. It would take weeks, but she 'had' to have those doc.u.ments. In the meantime, she would obey every speed limit sign in the country.
She'd grabbed her son that horrifying night and little else: a few clothes, what money she had saved from the small sculptures she loved creating, two sculptures, and a few of her sculpting tools. She hadn't taken them all. She didn't want Randolph to notice she had taken any. Randolph called it her ”little” hobby. He'd had no idea that she'd secretly sold her works to a craft shop and had been h.o.a.rding the money they brought.
She'd wanted to leave him long before, but knowing his power and his alliances, she'd been terrified of losing her son. She knew Randolph would find a way of getting custody. He had warned her over and over again that he would.
She could never leave her son under his control and influence.
He had threatened her into inertia. Still, she had been saving and hiding money. She'd built a fantasy escape, had researched places to go.
'Bisbee, Arizona'. That had been her Mecca. She'd read about it in a magazine, then researched it on the Web at the library. A haven for artists. She could lose herself there and make a living for herself and her son.
She never would have had the courage to do it, though, if not for the intruder. Then she'd had no choice.
She made herself look at the small bronze markers. She couldn't linger here. She'd carefully laid a trail to Florida, having driven east for four hours. She had cashed out her credit card in Mobile, then continued across Alabama. In Pensacola, a navy town, she'd abandoned the Mercedes in a bad-looking section of town, hoping it would be stolen or looted of parts. She didn't dare try to sell the car. It was in her husband's name, not hers.
She'd hocked her engagement and wedding rings for a fraction of their worth and bought bus tickets to Miami, then cut her long, blond hair and dyed it a dull brown. She dyed Mikey's sandy hair the same brown color.
The dye and ragged haircut made a difference. Randolph had always wanted her to look her best. She'd been what so many called a trophy wife, always impeccably groomed and dressed. She couldn't change the high cheekbones, the heart-shaped face or the wide blue eyes, but she could downplay them by scorning makeup and wearing a pair of cheap gla.s.ses.
After the transformation, she purchased two more bus tickets from a separate ticket agent for Mobile. In Mobile, she bought bus tickets for Chicago. They had been wandering since. No, not wandering. Running in sheer terror.
Until they'd reached Kansas City. She felt they were far enough away from New Orleans and had taken enough twists and turns to throw off the most determined follower. Despite all her precautions, though, traveling with a child on a bus might be traceable. She couldn't go farther before getting a car and starting work on a new ident.i.ty.
She planned to search the auto ads in the local paper. Cars for sale by private individuals. They wouldn't require identification, not if she offered cash.
But first...
She continued her search, among the small graves. She finally found one that met her needs. 'Elizabeth Baker'. It even had the day of birth and death. And a sentiment: 'Our Little Angel'.
Everything she needed. She felt like the worst of villains. An opportunist benefiting from a death.
But then she looked at her son and knew she would do anything for him, anything to protect him.
She wrote down the dates from the plaque, said a small prayer for the child, then took a city bus back to the small motel where they were staying.
Once there, she settled Mikey down for a nap. ”Why did we go there, Mommy?”
”To visit a friend,” she said, giving him a tight hug.
”Do I know her?”
”No,” she said.
”Was it a girl or a boy?”
”A girl.”
”Is she in heaven?”
”Yes.”
”Why?”
For once, she wished he wasn't so precocious, so curious. ”I don't know, love. I think she was sick. Now I want you to go to sleep for me.”
”I'm not sleepy.”