Kristin Hannah's Family Matters 4-Book Bundle: Angel Falls, Between Sisters, The Things We Do for Love, Magic Hour (129 page)

“So far nothing has panned out,” Peanut said, coming out of the lunchroom. “No one knows who she is.”

Ellie sipped her coffee and eyed the crowd.

Cal looked up from his desk and saw the two of them. He was talking into the dispatch headset at the same time he fielded questions from the crowd of reporters in front of him.

Ellie smiled at him.

He mouthed,
Help me.

“Cal’s losing it,” Peanut said.

“I can hardly blame him. He didn’t take this job to actually work.”

“Who did?” Peanut said, laughing.

“That would be me.” Ellie looked at her friend, said, “Wish me luck,” and then waded back into the sea of clamoring, shouting reporters. In their midst, she raised her hands in the air. It took a long time to quiet them. Finally, she got their attention.

“There will be no more comments—either on or off the record—by anyone in this office today. We’ll conduct a press conference at six o’clock and answer everything then.”

Chaos erupted.

“But we need photos!”

“These artist renderings are crap—”

“Drawings don’t sell papers—”

Ellie shook her head, exasperated. “I don’t know how my sister—”

“That’s it!” Peanut barreled into the crowd, using the come-to-Jesus voice she’d perfected when Tara, her daughter, turned thirteen. “You heard the chief. Everyone
out.
Now.”

Peanut herded them out, then slammed the door shut.

It wasn’t until Ellie turned toward her desk that she saw him.

Mort Elzick was standing in the corner, wedged between two industrial green metal file cabinets. He was pale and sweaty-looking in his brown, wide-wale corduroy pants and navy blue golf shirt. His red crew cut was so long it looked like a fringed pompadour. Behind thick glasses, his eyes looked huge and watery. When he saw her looking at him, he moved forward. His worn white-and-gray tennis shoes squeaked with every step. “Y-You need to give me an exclusive, Ellie. This is my big break. I could get a job with the
Olympian
or the
Everett Herald.
”

“With a ‘Mowgli Lives’ headline? I doubt it.”

He flushed. “What would a junior college dropout know about the classics? I know Julia is helping on this case.”

“You think she is. Put it in print and I’ll bury you.”

His pale eyebrows beetled; his face turned red. “Give me an exclusive, Ellie. You owe it to me. Or …”

“Or what?” She moved closer.

“Or else.”

“Mention my sister and I’ll get you fired.”

He stepped back. “You think you’re something special. But you can’t get your way all the time. I gave you a chance. You remember that.”

On that, he pushed past her and ran out of the station.

“Praise Jesus and pass the ice,” Cal said. He went down to the lunchroom and came back with three beers.

“You can’t drink in here, Cal,” Ellie said tiredly.

“Bite me,” he said. “And I mean that in the nicest possible way. If I’d wanted an actual job, I wouldn’t have answered your ad. I haven’t been able to read a comic book in peace all week.” He handed her a Corona.

“No, thanks,” Peanut said when he offered her a beer. She went into the lunchroom, then came back out holding a mug.

Ellie looked at her friend.

“Cabbage soup,” Peanut said, shrugging.

Cal sat on his desk, feet swinging, and drank his beer. His Adam’s apple slid up and down his throat like a swallowed fishbone. His black hair reflected the light in waves of blue. “Good for you, Pea. I was afraid you were going to try the heroin diet next.”

Peanut laughed. “To be honest, that smoking really sucked. Benji wouldn’t even kiss me good-night.”

“And you two are always making out,” Cal said.

Ellie heard something in Cal’s voice, a rawness that confused her. She looked at him. For a moment she saw him as he used to be—a gawky kid with features too sharp for childhood. His eyes had always been shadowed then, full of wariness.

He set his beer down and sighed. For the first time, she noticed how tired he looked. His mouth, usually curled in an irritatingly buoyant smile, was a thin pale line.

She couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. She knew exactly what the problem was. Cal had worked for her now for two-and-a-half years full-time; before that he’d been an at home dad. His wife, Lisa, was a sales rep for a New York company and was gone more than she was home. When the kids were all in school, Cal took the dispatch job to fill the empty hours while they were gone. Mostly, he read comic books during the day and drew action figures in his sketch pad. He was a good dispatcher, as long as the biggest emergency was a cat stuck in a tree. The past few days seemed to have undone him. She realized how much she missed his smile. “I’ll tell you what, Cal. I’ll handle the press conference. You go on home.”

He looked pathetically hopeful. Still, he said, “You need someone to answer the emergency calls.”

“Forward the calls to the service. If something’s important, they’ll radio me. It’ll only be the 911 calls anyway.”

“You’re sure? I could come back after Emily’s soccer game.”

“That would be great.”

“Thanks, Ellie.” He finally grinned; it made him look about seventeen years old again. “I’m sorry I gave you the finger this morning.”

“It’s fine, Cal. Sometimes a man just has to make his point.” It was what her father used to say whenever he banged his fist on the kitchen table.

Cal plucked his department issue rain slicker off the antler hook and left the station.

Ellie returned to her desk and sat down. To her left was a stack of faxes at least two inches tall. Each sheet of paper represented a lost child, a grieving family. She’d gone through them carefully, highlighted the similarities and the distinctions. As soon as the press conference was over, she’d start calling the various agencies and officers back. No doubt she’d be on the phone all night.

“You’re getting that faraway look again,” Peanut said, sipping her soup.

“Just thinking.”

Peanut set down her mug. “You can do it, you know. You’re a great cop.”

Ellie wanted to agree with that wholeheartedly. On any other day she would have. But now she couldn’t help glancing at the small stack of “evidence” they’d gathered on the girl’s identity. There were four photographs—a face shot, a profile close-up, and two body shots. In each, the girl was so sedated she looked dead. The press would have a field day with them. Below the stack of eight-by-tens was a list of the girl’s scars, identifying moles, and, of course, the birthmark on her back shoulder. In the photograph that accompanied the list, the birthmark looked remarkably like a dragonfly. The record also included X rays; Max estimated that her left arm had been broken when she was quite young. He believed it had healed without professional medical treatment. Each injury, scar, and birthmark had been marked on a diagram of her body. They had taken blood samples—she was type AB—fingerprints, and dental X rays; her blood had been sent off for DNA analysis, but that report wasn’t back yet. Her dress had also been sent away for analysis.

There was nothing for them to do now except wait. And pray that someone came forward to identify the girl.

“I don’t know, Pea. This is a tough one.”

“You’re up to it.”

Ellie smiled at her friend. “Of all the decisions I’ve made in this job, you know what was the best one?”

“The ‘Drive a Drunk Home’ program?”

“Close: it was hiring you, Penelope Nutter.”

She grinned. “Every star needs a sidekick.”

Laughing, Ellie went back to work, reading through the pile of documents on her desk.

A few moments later there was a knock at the door. Peanut looked up. “Who knocks at a police station?”

Ellie shrugged. “Not a reporter. Come in,” she said loudly.

Slowly, the door opened. A couple stood on the front step, peering inside. “Are you Chief Barton?” asked the man.

They weren’t reporters, that much was certain. The man was tall and white-haired, thin to the point of gauntness. He wore a pale gray cashmere sweater and black pants with knife-sharp pleats. And big city shoes. The woman—his wife?—was dressed in black, from head to toe. Black coatdress, black hose, black pumps. Her hair, an expensive trio of blonds, was drawn back from her pale face and coiled in a French twist.

Ellie stood. “Come on in.”

The man touched the woman’s elbow, guided her to Ellie’s desk. “Chief Barton, I’m Dr. Isaac Stern. This is my wife, Barbara.”

Ellie shook both of their hands, noticing how cold their skin was. “It’s nice to meet you.”

A blast of wind hit the open door, made it smack hard against the wall.

“Excuse me.” Ellie went to shut the door. “How can I help you?”

Dr. Stern looked at her. “I’m here about my daughter, Ruthie.
Our
daughter,” he corrected, looking at his wife. “She disappeared in 1996. There are many of us here. Parents.”

Ellie glanced outside. The reporters were still congregated in the street, talking among themselves and waiting for the press conference, but it was the line of people that caught her attention.

Parents.

There had to be one hundred of them.

“Please,” said a man standing on the steps. “You threw us out with the press, but we need to talk to you. Some of us have come a long way.”

“Of course I’ll talk to you,” Ellie said. “One at a time, though. Pass the word down the line. We’ll be here all night if we need to.”

While the news was being spread, Ellie heard several women burst into quiet sobs.

She shut the door as gently as she could. Steeling herself, she headed back to her desk and took her seat. “Sit down,” she said, indicating the two chairs in front of the desk.

“Penelope,” she said, “you can interview people, too. Just take down names, contact numbers, and any information they have.”

“Sure, Chief.” Peanut immediately headed for the door.

“Now,” Ellie said, leaning forward. “Tell me about your daughter.”

Grief stared back at her, stark as blood on snow.

Dr. Stern was the first to speak. “Our Ruthie left for school one day and never arrived there. It was two blocks from our house. I called the policeman who has been our friend in this, and he tells me this girl you have found cannot be my—our—Ruthie. I tell him our people believe in miracles, so we’ve come here to see you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small worn photograph. In it, a beautiful little girl with sandy brown ringlets held on to a bright pink Power Rangers lunch box. The date in the lower right corner was September 7, 1996.

Today, Ruthie would be at least thirteen. Maybe fourteen.

Ellie took a deep breath. It was impossible not to think suddenly of the line of hopeful parents outside, all of them waiting for a miracle. This would be the longest day of her life. Already she wanted to cry.

She took the photo, touched it. When she looked up again, Mrs. Stern was weeping. “Ruthie’s blood type?”

“O,” Mrs. Stern said, wiping her eyes and waiting.

“I’m sorry,” Ellie said. “So very sorry.”

Across the room, Peanut opened the door. Another couple walked in, clutching a color photograph to their chest.

Please God,
Ellie prayed, closing her eyes for just a moment, a heartbeat,
let me be strong enough for this.

Then Mrs. Stern started to talk. “Horses,” she said in a throaty voice. “She loved horses, our Ruthie. We thought she wasn’t old enough for lessons. Next year, we always said. Next year …”

Dr. Stern touched his wife’s arm. “And then … this.” He took the picture from Ellie, staring down at it. Tears brightened his eyes. He looked up finally. “You have children, Chief Barton?”

“No.”

Ellie thought he was going to say something to that, but he remained silent, helping his wife to her feet.

“Thank you for your time, Chief.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

“I know,” he said, and Ellie could see suddenly how fragile he was, how hard he was working to keep his composure. He took his wife’s arm and steered her to the door. They left.

A moment later a man walked in. He wore a battered, patched pair of faded overalls and a flannel shirt. An orange Stihl chainsaw baseball cap covered his eyes, and a gray beard consumed the lower half of his face. He clutched a photograph to his chest.

It was of a blond cheerleader; Ellie could see from here.

“Chief Barton?” he said in a hopeful voice.

“That’s me,” she answered. “Please. Come sit down …”

TEN

Last night Julia had transformed her girlhood bedroom into a safety zone for her and her patient. The two twin beds still graced the left wall, but now the spaces beneath them were filled to block hiding places. In the corner by the window, she’d gathered almost one dozen tall, potted plants and created a mini-forest. A long Formica table took up the center of the room, serving as a desk and study space. Two chairs sat tucked up beside it. Now, however, she realized what she’d missed: a comfortable chair.

For the past six hours the child had stood at the barred, open window, with her arm stuck outside. Come rain or shine, she held her hand out there. Somewhere around noon a robin had landed on the windowsill and stayed there. Now, in the pale gray sunlight that followed the last hour’s rain, a brightly colored butterfly landed on her outstretched hand, fluttering there for the space of a single breath, then flew off.

If Julia hadn’t written it down, she would have stopped believing she’d seen it. After all, it was autumn; hardly the season for butterflies, and even in the full heat of summer, they rarely landed on a little girl’s hand, not even for an instant.

But she
had
written it down, made a note of it in the permanent file, and so there it was now. A fact to be considered, another oddity among the rest.

Perhaps it was the girl’s stillness. She hadn’t moved in hours.

Not a shifting of her weight, not a changing of her arm, not a turn of her head. Not only did she evidence no repetitive or obsessive movements, she was as still as a chameleon. The social worker who had come this morning to conduct the home study to determine Julia’s fitness as a temporary foster parent had been shocked, though she tried to hide it. As she closed her notebook, the woman had thrown a last, worried glance at the girl before whispering to Julia, “Are you sure?”

“I am,” Julia had said. And she was. Helping this child had already become something of a quest.

Last night after preparing the bedroom, she had stayed up late, sitting at the kitchen table, making notes and reading everything she’d been able to find on the few true wild children on record. It was both fascinating and wrenchingly sad.

Their cases all followed a similar pattern, whether they’d been found three hundred years ago in the dense woods of Bavaria or in this century in the wilds of Africa. All of them were discovered—usually by hunters—hiding in deep, dark forests. More than a third of them ran on all fours. Very few had been able to speak. Several of them—including Peter, the wild boy in 1726; Memmie, the so-called Savage Girl in France; and most famously, Victor, the wild boy of Aveyron in 1797—had become media sensations in their day. Scientists and doctors and language theorists flocked to their sides, each hoping their wild child would answer the most elemental human nature questions. Kings and princesses brought them to court as oddities, entertainments. The most recent case, that of a girl named Genie, who, though not raised in the wild, had been subjected to such systematic and horrific abuse that she had never learned to speak or move around or play, was yet another case of media attention.

Most of the documented cases had two things in common. First, the children possessed the physical ability to speak, but never acquired actual language to any great degree. Secondly, almost all of these former wild children lived out their lives in mental institutions, forgotten and alone. Only two cases, Memmie and a Ugandan boy found living among the monkeys in 1991, ever truly learned to speak and function in society, and Memmie still died penniless and alone, forgotten. She had never been able to tell people what had happened to her in her youth, how she’d ended up in the dark woods.

One after another, scientists and doctors had been drawn to the challenge these children presented. The so-called professionals wanted to know and understand—and yes, to “save”—a human being totally unlike all others, one who could be seen as more pure, more untouched than anyone born in a thousand years. A person unsocialized, uncorrupted by man’s teachings. One by one they had failed in their quest. Why? Because they cared too little about their patients.

It was not a mistake she would make.

She wouldn’t be like the doctors who’d gone before her, who’d sucked the soul from their patients, furthered their own careers, and then moved on, leaving their silent, broken patients locked behind bars, more confused and alone than they’d been in the woods.

“It’s your heart that matters, isn’t it, little one?” she said, looking up again. As Julia watched, another bird landed on the windowsill by the girl’s outstretched hand. The bird cocked its head and warbled a little song.

The girl imitated the sound perfectly.

The bird appeared to listen, then sang again.

The girl responded.

Julia glanced at the video camera set up in the corner. The red light was on. This bizarre “conversation” was being recorded.

“Are you communicating with him?” Julia asked, making a note of it in her records. She knew it would sound ridiculous, but she was seeing it. The girl and the bird seemed to understand each other. At the very least, the child was an accomplished mimic.

Then again, if she’d grown up in the woods, alone or among a pack of animals, she wouldn’t necessarily make the distinctions between man and animals that were commonplace in our civilized world.

“Do you know the difference between man and animal, I wonder?” She tapped her pen on the pad of paper. At the gentle thudding sound, the bird flew away.

Julia reached sideways for the books on the table that served as her makeshift desk. There were four of them.
The Secret Garden,
Andersen’s Fairy Tales,
Alice in Wonderland,
and
The Velveteen Rabbit.
These were only four of the many books donated by the generous townspeople. Early this morning, while the girl was still asleep, Julia had changed her diaper and then searched the boxes for anything that might help her communicate with her patient. She’d chosen crayons and paper, a pair of old Barbie dolls, still dressed for disco, and these books.

She opened the top one,
The Secret Garden,
and began to read out loud. “When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle, everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen.…”

For the next hour Julia read the beloved children’s story aloud, concentrating on giving her voice a gentle, singsong cadence. There was no doubt in her mind that her patient didn’t know most of these words and thus couldn’t follow the story, and yet, like all preverbal children, the girl liked the sound of it.

At the end of a chapter, Julia gently closed the book. “I’m going to take a short break here. I’ll be right back.
Back,
” she repeated in case the word was familiar.

She stood slowly, stretching. Long hours spent sitting in this chair, tucked up to a makeshift desk at the end of her girlhood bed, had left her with a crick in her neck. She took her pen—it could be a weapon, after all—and headed for the tiny bathroom that had been built for her and Ellie when they were preteens. It connected to their bedroom through a door by the dresser.

Julia went into the bathroom and closed the door just enough for privacy. She didn’t want her voice to be lost. Pulling down her pants, she sat on the toilet and said, “I’m just going to go to the bathroom, honey. I’ll be right back. I want to know what happens to Mary, too. Do you think she really hears crying? Do
you
cry? Do you know what—”

The girl skidded to a stop in the doorway and shoved the door open, wincing when it banged against the wall. She slapped her cheeks and shook her head. Snot flew from her nose as she blew it, hard.

“You’re upset,” Julia said in a soothing voice. “Upset. You’re getting angry. Did you think I was leaving?”

At the sound of Julia’s voice, the girl quieted. She looked nervously at the door, sidling away from it.

“We’ll keep the door open from now on, but I need to go potty. You know that word? Potty?”

Perhaps there was the merest flinch at the word, a flash of recognition. Perhaps not.

The girl just stood there, watching her.

“I need privacy. You should … aw, hell.” None of the social niceties mattered here.

The girl frowned and took a step closer. She cocked her head in the same way the blue jay had, as if to see things from a preferable angle.

“I’m peeing,” Julia said matter-of-factly, reaching for the toilet paper.

The girl was intent now, utterly focused. Once again she’d gone completely still.

When Julia was done, she stood and pulled up her pants, and then flushed the toilet.

At the noise, the girl screamed and threw herself backward so fast she stumbled and fell. Sprawled on the floor, she started to howl.

“It’s okay,” Julia said. “No hurt. No hurt. I promise.” She flushed the toilet again and again, until the girl finally sat up. Then Julia washed her hands and moved slowly toward her little patient. “Would you like me to keep reading?” She knelt down. They were eye level now, and close. She could see the remarkable turquoise color of the child’s eyes; the irises were flecked with amber. Thick black lashes lowered slowly, then opened.

“Book,” Julia said again, pointing at the novel on the table.

The girl walked over to the table and sat down on the floor beside it.

Julia drew in a sharp breath, but other than that, she didn’t react. She went to the nearest chair and sat down. “I think Ellie and I should move Mom’s old love seat in here. What do you think?”

The girl moved a little closer. Sitting cross-legged, she looked up at Julia.

Just then, even with her food-stained face and tangled hair, the girl looked like every kindergartner in every classroom at story time.

“I bet you’re waiting for me to start.”

As always, the only answer was silence. Those eerie blue-green eyes stared up at her. This time, maybe, there was a hint of anticipation, impatience, even. An ordinary kid would have said
Read
in an imperious tone. This girl simply waited.

Julia returned to the story. On and on she read, about Mary and Dicken and Colin and the secret garden that had belonged to Mary’s lost mother. She read chapter after chapter, until night began to press against the window in strips of pink and purple. She was approaching the final chapters when a knock sounded at the door. The dogs started barking.

At the noise, the girl raced to her potted plant sanctuary and hid behind the leaves.

The door opened slowly. Behind it, the golden retrievers were crazy to get inside. “Down
,
Jake. Elwood. What’s wrong with you two?” Ellie slipped past them and slammed the door shut with her hip. In the hallway, the dogs howled pitifully and scratched at the door.

“You need to get those dogs trained,” Julia said, closing her book.

Ellie, who had a tray of food, set it down on the table. “I thought getting rid of their balls would make them trainable. No such luck. It’s in the dick.” She sat down on the end of her old bed. “How’s the girl doing? I see she still thinks I’m Nurse Ratchett.”

“She’s doing better, I think. She seems to like being read to.”

“Has she tried to escape?”

“No. She won’t go near the door. I think it’s the doorknob. Shiny metal really sets her off.”

Ellie leaned forward and put her forearms along her thighs. “I wish I could say I was making progress on my end.”

“You are. This story is making headlines. Someone will come forward.”

“People
are
coming forward. I had seventy-six people in my office today. All of them had lost daughters in the last few years. Their stories … their pictures … it was awful.”

“It’s incredibly painful to sit witness to such grief.”

“How do you do it, listen to sad stories all day long?”

Julia had never seen her job that way. “A story is only sad if there’s no happy ending. I guess I always believe in that ending.”

“A closet romantic. Who’d have thought?”

Julia laughed. “Hardly. So, how did the press conference go?”

“Long. Boring. Full of stupid questions. The national networks are just as bad. And I learned this about reporters: if a question is too ridiculous to be answered, they’ll ask it again. My personal favorite was from the
National Enquirer.
They were hoping she had wings instead of arms. Oh, and
The Star
wondered if she’d lived with the wolves.”

Thankfully it was a tabloid. No one would lend the story any credence. “What about an identification?”

“Not yet. Between the X rays, the birthmarks, the scarring, and her age range, we’re narrowing the possibilities down, though. Oh, and your approval came through from DSHS. You’re officially her temporary foster parent.”

The girl crept out from her hiding place. Nostrils flaring, she paused, smelled the air, then streaked across the room, running low to the ground. Julia had never seen a kid move so fast. She disappeared into the bathroom.

Ellie whistled. “So that’s what Daisy meant when she said the girl ran like the wind.”

Julia slowly walked toward the bathroom.

Ellie followed her.

The girl was sitting on the toilet, with her pull-up big-kid diaper around her ankles.

“Holy cow,” Ellie whispered. “Did you teach her that?”

Julia couldn’t believe it herself. “She walked in on me today, when I was going to the bathroom. The sound of the flushing scared her to death. I would have
sworn
she’d never seen a toilet before.”

“You think she taught herself? By seeing you once?”

Julia didn’t answer. Any noise could ruin this moment. She inched into the room and gathered up some toilet paper. She showed the girl what to do with it, then handed it to her. The child frowned at the wadded up paper for a long time. Finally, she took it and used it. When she was finished, she slithered off the toilet, pulled up her diaper/underwear, and hit the white tape-covered lever. At the flushing noise, she screamed and ran, ducking between Julia’s and Ellie’s legs.

“Wow,” Ellie said.