Magic hour: a novel (13 page)

The police station had been transformed into a makeshift press room. They’d pushed their desks to the perimeter of the room.

Ten chairs had been set up in two rows of five each in the middle. A podium—dragged from the Rotary Club storeroom—had been placed in front of them.

Cal sat at his desk, answering the phones. Peanut stood in the hallway, surveying the setup. For some bizarre reason, she was certain she knew how to manage this.

As if.

Ellie at least had some media experience. Her Uncle Joe had held a press conference once, back when she was a new recruit. Her ex, Alvin, had sworn he’d seen Bigfoot. A few local papers and one tabloid had shown up. So had Alvin—drunk as a parolee.

Ellie checked the chairs again. On each metal seat was a flyer held in place by a small stone. She was rereading the statement she’d prepared when Earl walked into the station. He was in full dress uniform, with his few remaining strands of hair shellacked in place. He seemed taller.

Lifts in his shoes.

The realization made her smile. Not that she could tease him much. She’d applied a pretty healthy amount of makeup herself. It was her first time on television, and she wanted to look good. “Hey, Earl. You ready for the hoopla?”

He nodded. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down his thin throat. “Myra pressed my uniform. She said a man on television needed knife pleats on his pants.”

“That’s a good woman you married, Earl.”

“Yes, it is.”

Ellie went back to reading. She concentrated on each word, trying to memorize her lines. She barely looked up as reporters streamed in and sat down. By six o’clock all of the chairs were filled. Photographers and videographers stood behind the rows of chairs.

“It’s time,” Peanut said, coming up to her. “And you have lipstick on your teeth.”

Perfect.
Ellie wiped her teeth and leaned forward, tapping the microphone. It thumped and whined. Sound ricocheted through the room. Several people covered their ears.

“Sorry.” She eased back a little bit. “Thank you all for coming. As most of you know, we need your help. A young girl has arrived in Rain Valley. We have no idea who she is or where she is from. Our best estimates put her age at somewhere between five and seven years. On your seats, you’ll find an artist’s sketch. She has black hair and blue-green eyes. Dental records are not yet available, but she appears to have had no fillings or other work done. She has naturally lost a number of baby teeth—such a loss is consistent with our age assertions. We have consulted with all available state and local agencies, as well as the Center for Missing Children, and have—as yet—been unable to identify her. We’re hoping that you all run this as front page news to get the word out. Someone must know who she is.”

“A
drawing
? What the hell is that about?” someone said.

“We’re in the process of getting a photograph. For now, this is what’s available,” Ellie answered.

Mort from the
Rain Valley Gazette
stood up. “How come she doesn’t just tell you her name?”

“She hasn’t spoken yet,” Ellie answered.

“
Can
she speak?”

“We don’t have a definitive answer to that yet. Early indications, however, lead us to believe there is no physical barrier to speech.”

A man wearing a
Seattle Times
baseball hat stood up. “So she’s clammed up on purpose?”

“We don’t know yet.”

“Is she wounded or ill?”

“Or crazy?”

Ellie was formulating her answer when Earl stepped to the microphone and said, “We’ve got a famous psychi—”

Ellie kicked him hard. “Our very best doctors are taking care of her,” she said. “That’s all we have for now. Hopefully someone will come forward who can answer some of these thorny questions for us.”

“I heard she had a wolf pup with her.” This from a woman near the back.

“And that she jumped from a branch that was forty feet in the air,” someone else added.

Ellie sighed. “Let’s not get carried away by small-town rumors. The point is the identification of this child.”

“You’re not giving us much to go on,” someone said.

Ellie had said everything she had to say, but the questions just kept on coming. Her personal favorite (this from Mort): “Are you sure she’s human?”

From there it was all downhill.

“Y
OU’RE LUCKY IT WAS RAINING THIS MORNING WHEN
I
LEFT THE HOUSE.
Otherwise I’d have my motorcycle,” Max said, opening the passenger door of his truck for her.

“Let me guess,” she said as he got into the driver’s seat and started the engine, “Harley-Davidson.”

“How’d you know?”

“The pierced ear. I’m a shrink, remember? We tend to notice the little things.”

He drove out of the parking lot. “Oh. Do you like bikes?”

“The ones that go seventy miles an hour? No.”

“Too fast, too free, huh?”

She stared out the window at the passing trees, wishing he would slow down. “Too many organ donors.”

Several blocks passed between them in silence. Finally, Max said, “So, have you formed any specific conclusions about her yet?”

It was the sort of question medical professionals always asked psychiatrists. They didn’t understand how much time an accurate diagnosis could take, but she appreciated the return to professionalism. “I can tell you what I
don’t
think. Ruling out is always a good place to start. I don’t believe she’s deaf; at least not completely. I also don’t believe she’s profoundly mentally challenged; however, that’s a hunch. As to autism, that’s certainly the best guess for now, although if she is autistic, she’s high functioning.”

“You sound like you don’t really believe that diagnosis, either.”

“I need a lot more time to run tests. When she looked at me . . .” Her words trailed off. She was hesitant to speculate without more information. It was yet another ramification of her recent problems. She was, for the first time in her life, afraid to be wrong.

“What?”

“She looked at me. That’s the point. Not near me or through me or beside me, but at me. And sometimes she appeared to understand words. Hurt. Food. Hungry. Those I’d swear she understood.”

“Do you think a word set her off?”

“I have no idea. Honestly, I can’t remember what I said to her.”

“Can she speak?”

“So far it’s only sounds. Expressions of the purest emotions. I can tell you this: elective mutism is a common response to childhood trauma.”

“And there’s been some serious trauma in her life.”

“Yes.”

The weight of those words made the air between them feel heavy suddenly, and sad.

“Maybe she was kidnapped,” Max said quietly.

It had been on Julia’s mind all day, that thought; it was the dark shadow that lay behind all her questions.

“That’s what I’m afraid of, too. This girl’s physical scars could be nothing compared to her emotional trauma.”

“She’s lucky you’re here, then.”

“Actually, I’m the lucky one.” The minute the words were out, Julia wished them back. She wasn’t sure why she’d revealed something so personal, and to this man she hardly knew. Thankfully, he didn’t respond.

He turned left onto Azalea Street and found it barricaded. “That’s odd. Another broken water main, most likely.” He backed out and drove a block down Cascade, then parked. “I’ll walk you in.”

“That’s hardly necessary.”

“I don’t mind.”

Julia didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, so she nodded.

They walked down the quiet tree-lined street toward the police station. “It’s beautiful here,” she said. “I’d forgotten. Especially in the fall.” She was just about to remark on the brightly colored leaves when she turned the corner and saw the reason for the barricade.

The street was clotted with news vans. Dozens of them.

“Stop!” she said quickly, realizing a moment too late that she’d screamed the word at Max. She spun around so fast she ran into him. His arms curled around her, steadied her. If the press saw her now, with her battered face, they’d have a field day. Especially when they found out that her own patient had injured her.

“The station’s right there. The front door—”

“I know where the damned front door is. I need to get out of here. Now
.
”

He saw the news vans and made the connection. When he looked at her, she was
that doctor.

“Let me go,” she said, wrenching out of his arms.

He pointed across the street. “That’s the Lutheran church. Go on in. I’ll send Ellie.”

“Thanks.” She’d taken only a step or two when he called out her name.

She turned back to him. “What?”

He took a step toward her but didn’t say anything.

She rolled her eyes. “Just say what’s on your mind, Max. Everyone has a damned opinion. I’m used to it.”

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

Julia drew in a sharp breath and looked up at him. She was reminded suddenly of how long she’d been alone. “No . . . but thanks.” Without looking at him again, she walked away.

M
AX WALKED UP THE CONCRETE STEPS TOWARD THE POLICE STATION.
As he stepped inside, the reporters turned on him like a school of barracuda. When they realized he was a nobody, they turned away.

He stood by the door, waiting for the press conference to end, and thinking about Julia.

In that moment when she’d seen the news vans, he’d seen the emotions flash through her green eyes—fear, hope, despair. Her vulnerability lasted for a heartbeat, maybe less, but he saw it, and he understood. Remembered. When the media turned their white-hot light on you, there was nowhere to hide.

He pushed through the waning crowd.

Ellie was at the podium, standing between Earl and Peanut.

He pulled her aside, said sharply, “Your sister is waiting for you in the Lutheran church.”

Ellie winced. “She was here?”

“She was.”

“Shit.”

Max was surprised by a bolt of anger. “Here’s a hint. Next time you gather the press, give her fair warning.”

“I didn’t think—”

“I know.”

“What’s
your
problem?”

He could hardly answer that. “Just be more careful next time.”

Before she could say anything else, he walked away.

Outside, he paused on the concrete steps of the city hall. All around him, reporters were talking among themselves and packing up their gear. An American flag flapped in the breeze overhead.

Across the street, the white stone church sat huddled in the shade of a mammoth fir tree. When he looked closely, he saw the silhouette of a woman in the window.

Julia.

He used to be the kind of man who would cross the street now, go to her and offer help.

Instead, he went to his truck, climbed in, and headed for home.

As he drove down Lakeshore Drive, the sun began its slow descent toward the lake. At his battered mailbox, he withdrew the usual stack of junk mail and bills, then turned onto his driveway, which was a ribbon of potholed gravel road that unspooled through a nearly impenetrable forest. These were the acres his great-great-grandfather had homesteaded more than one hundred years ago, with the grandiose idea of building a world-class fishing and hunting lodge, but a single year in the wet, green darkness had changed the old man’s mind. He’d cleared two acres out of the one hundred he owned, and that was as far as he got. He moved to Montana and built his fishing lodge; in time he forgot about these wild acres tucked deep in the woods along Spirit Lake. They were passed from eldest son to eldest son as wills were read, until at last they came to Max. It was anticipated by the whole of his family that he would do with this land what had always been done with it: nothing. Each generation had checked on the value of the acreage; each had been surprised by how little it was worth. So they’d kept paying the taxes and ignoring their ownership of the land.

If his life had unfolded as he’d expected, no doubt Max would have done the same.

He parked in the garage, beside the Harley-Davidson “fat boy” motorcycle that was his favorite toy, and went into the house.

Inside, he flipped the light switches.

Emptiness greeted him.

There were precious few pieces of furniture in the great room: to the left was a huge pine table with a single chair at one end. A gorgeous river-rock fireplace covered the eastern wall, its mantel empty of decoration. In front of it was an oxblood leather sofa, a battered coffee table, and a beautiful wooden cabinet.

Max tossed his coat on the sofa, then felt beneath the cushions for a remote.

Within moments a plasma TV screen rose up from the custom-made rosewood cabinet. He clicked it on. It didn’t matter what was on the screen. All he cared about was the noise. He hated a quiet house.