he’d thought, at the time.
His partial answer seemed to satisfy Maggie. She turned in her seat to face him. “What about Owens? How did you meet him? Through the FBI?”
Stafford tapped the wheel with his fingers as he thought. How little could he say without her pursuing the subject? “He heard about me from a case in Florida.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
He nodded. “I moved up through Georgia to Virginia. Spent some time at Quantico to study profiling.” And how to kill a man and get away with it.
“But you’re not with the Bureau any more, right?”
“It wasn’t a good fit for me.”
He hadn’t agreed with their methods. And they sure as hell didn’t like his. When the trail he followed heated up, he’d chucked his career without a second thought. They’d given him the tools he needed to help him in his hunt. And that’s all he’d ever wanted from them.
“From Quantico, I went to Ontario. I worked my way north, now I’m going west.”
“And how do you find our Canadian winters?”
“I freeze my ass off. You?”
He looked over at her and saw her slight smile. “Absolutely.”
That reaction hooked him and left him hungry for more. Now he knew how stand-up comics felt. The response of his one-person audience was addictive.
“My first year, it snowed in September.”
Her smile widened. A hair’s width. There’d been no joy for him. Not at the time.
Quickly, he’d grown to love the winters. A stark blanket of snow appealed to him. It made everything look clean, pure. “I hear it’s character-building.”
“It’s that, all right. Same as being a psychic, I guess.”
“Let’s hope so.” Stafford settled back into his seat, relieved that she’d finished asking him about the past.
A few drops hit the windshield. Stafford looked down at the dash, checking for the location of the wipers in case he needed them.
A blur of material flew past his ear as Maggie tossed the top of her uniform into the backseat. Her perfume remained up front, orbiting his head. The rest of his body responded like a sixteen-year-old boy who’d just discovered girls.
“What do your special powers tell you now?”
He ahemmed away the thickness in his throat. “About what?”
“Where my son is?”
Stafford swallowed the last mouthful of cold coffee, buying time. “I don’t know. I feel we’re on the right path. We’ll stop in at all the stores along the way. Ask if anyone’s seen him.”
“That’s the limit of your psychic ability?” Her late-night DJ voice took on a hard edge. “What you’re suggesting sounds like good, old-fashioned police work to me.”
He shifted his foot from the gas pedal to the brake. The vehicle slowed until he could make out individual stones on the gravel road. “We can turn back here if you don’t like the way things are going.”
For a minute, Stafford thought she might take him up on his offer. He almost cheered. Then her shoulders slumped. The tires thumped along, their uneasy rhythm counting out the seconds before she spoke again.
“Sorry. It’s just that...I was expecting more from you.”
“Like?”
“A street address would be helpful.”
Damn straight. He wished it worked that way. “It’s not like reading a newspaper. Images come to me in flashes, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I’m not always sure how everything fits together.”
“Then what are we doing here?” Her hard edge softened. Her words became a victim’s plea, probably wondering how she’d ended up in the middle of this horror .
He wished he had an answer for her. One for himself, even. “How about some of that ginger ale?”
* * *
Maggie twisted the bottle’s cap, unsure if she could keep anything down.
Distorted images spun in her brain. The constant barrage of terror, real and imagined, coiled around her gut. Ripped apart from her son, she felt like a junkie on withdrawal. Her need wasn’t for drugs, but for Davie—his voice, his smile, his smell, his
His partial answer seemed to satisfy Maggie. She turned in her seat to face him. “What about Owens? How did you meet him? Through the FBI?”
Stafford tapped the wheel with his fingers as he thought. How little could he say without her pursuing the subject? “He heard about me from a case in Florida.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
He nodded. “I moved up through Georgia to Virginia. Spent some time at Quantico to study profiling.” And how to kill a man and get away with it.
“But you’re not with the Bureau any more, right?”
“It wasn’t a good fit for me.”
He hadn’t agreed with their methods. And they sure as hell didn’t like his. When the trail he followed heated up, he’d chucked his career without a second thought. They’d given him the tools he needed to help him in his hunt. And that’s all he’d ever wanted from them.
“From Quantico, I went to Ontario. I worked my way north, now I’m going west.”
“And how do you find our Canadian winters?”
“I freeze my ass off. You?”
He looked over at her and saw her slight smile. “Absolutely.”
That reaction hooked him and left him hungry for more. Now he knew how stand-up comics felt. The response of his one-person audience was addictive.
“My first year, it snowed in September.”
Her smile widened. A hair’s width. There’d been no joy for him. Not at the time.
Quickly, he’d grown to love the winters. A stark blanket of snow appealed to him. It made everything look clean, pure. “I hear it’s character-building.”
“It’s that, all right. Same as being a psychic, I guess.”
“Let’s hope so.” Stafford settled back into his seat, relieved that she’d finished asking him about the past.
A few drops hit the windshield. Stafford looked down at the dash, checking for the location of the wipers in case he needed them.
A blur of material flew past his ear as Maggie tossed the top of her uniform into the backseat. Her perfume remained up front, orbiting his head. The rest of his body responded like a sixteen-year-old boy who’d just discovered girls.
“What do your special powers tell you now?”
He ahemmed away the thickness in his throat. “About what?”
“Where my son is?”
Stafford swallowed the last mouthful of cold coffee, buying time. “I don’t know. I feel we’re on the right path. We’ll stop in at all the stores along the way. Ask if anyone’s seen him.”
“That’s the limit of your psychic ability?” Her late-night DJ voice took on a hard edge. “What you’re suggesting sounds like good, old-fashioned police work to me.”
He shifted his foot from the gas pedal to the brake. The vehicle slowed until he could make out individual stones on the gravel road. “We can turn back here if you don’t like the way things are going.”
For a minute, Stafford thought she might take him up on his offer. He almost cheered. Then her shoulders slumped. The tires thumped along, their uneasy rhythm counting out the seconds before she spoke again.
“Sorry. It’s just that...I was expecting more from you.”
“Like?”
“A street address would be helpful.”
Damn straight. He wished it worked that way. “It’s not like reading a newspaper. Images come to me in flashes, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. I’m not always sure how everything fits together.”
“Then what are we doing here?” Her hard edge softened. Her words became a victim’s plea, probably wondering how she’d ended up in the middle of this horror .
He wished he had an answer for her. One for himself, even. “How about some of that ginger ale?”
* * *
Maggie twisted the bottle’s cap, unsure if she could keep anything down.
Distorted images spun in her brain. The constant barrage of terror, real and imagined, coiled around her gut. Ripped apart from her son, she felt like a junkie on withdrawal. Her need wasn’t for drugs, but for Davie—his voice, his smile, his smell, his
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