The Lost Bird (21 page)

“You’ve paid me enough, Sharon.”

“Well, you’re about to earn your fee,” the actress said. “Here comes Edna Linder.”

There was a
clip-clop
of footsteps on the veranda. The door swung open and Edna Linder stepped inside. “There you are.” She swung toward Sharon. “Everyone’s asking for you.”

Vicky walked over. “There will have to be tests, Edna.”

“Tests?” The word came like a gigantic burp out of the gaping mouth.

“Blood tests. DNA tests that will prove you and Wylan are Sharon’s parents.”

The woman moved closer to Sharon. “What on earth is this woman talking about? We’ve gone over everything. The dates, the name of the social worker. It all fits. I guess I know my own daughter when I see her. You look just like my dead aunt Ellen. I have photos. You’ll see, you’re the spitting image.”

A barely controlled smile started on the actress’s face. “I’m sorry, Edna. You know how lawyers are. They want to dot all the
i
’s and cross the
t
’s, make sure everything is legal.”

Edna drew her lips into a tight, determined line. Straightening her shoulders and turning to Vicky, she said, “We’ll take whatever tests you want.”

19

V
icky guided the Bronco along the shelf road that wound out of the foothills. Below, the rooftops and gold-splashed trees of Lander crept into the plains as far as she could see. Her thoughts were on Edna and Wylan Linder. Opportunists, grabbing the chance for a free ride. Especially Edna. Last year the woman had seized the chance to pocket what was most likely a substantial amount of cash. She’d never admitted she took the money, and Vicky had never asked. When the U.S. attorney dropped the charges, Edna walked away, probably convinced she was more clever than Vicky was. Now she’d agreed to submit to tests—what else could she say?—but neither she nor Wylan would ever take them, Vicky was certain.

And yet . . . There was also the chance they would surprise her. And the tests could prove Sharon was their daughter. Vicky gripped the steering wheel and turned onto the straight strip of asphalt that led into the southern reaches of town. She was struck by the irony. Sharon David, searching for her Arapaho parents and finding Edna and Wylan—part Arapaho, but self-centered and mean. Not like the people.

Slats of sunshine lay over Main Street as Vicky
parked in front of her office. She hurried through the warmth of the sun and the cool gloom of the shade, shivering a little as she ran up the stairs and down the corridor. She pushed open the door, nearly hitting Laola, who was on the other side.

“Thought that was you comin’,” the secretary said hurriedly. “I been lookin’ all over for you. Called the dude ranch, and they said you’d left. He’s been waitin’ most the afternoon.”

Ben
, Vicky thought. Would he never give up, never stop calling, wanting to see her? And now he was here. She started toward the closed door to her private office.

“Can you believe it?” Laola was behind her. “Two celebrities in the same week. First Sharon David and now . . .”

Vicky stopped and turned toward the secretary. “Who’s here?”

“The famous Dr. Markham.” It was a whisper. “He’s been waitin’ all afternoon. I didn’t know what to say to him! I offered to get some coffee.”

Vicky reached for the doorknob.

“Oh, did I tell you Ben’s been calling?”

“If he calls again,” Vicky said, “say I’m tied up for the rest of the day.”
The rest of my life
, she was thinking as she pushed open the door.

Across the office, in front of the window, were two men—one, close to seventy, the other still in his twenties. Both were in blue jeans, denim shirts, and hiking boots. The beginnings of a beard shadowed their faces. They might have just trekked out of the mountains. The older man came forward, hand outstretched. The easy sincerity and handsome face, the gray, fatherly eyes and pencil-thin lips, the thick mane
of silver hair, like that of a fox—the television camera had caught it all.

“Ah,” he said as he took her hand. She could sense the strength of the man. “You must be Vicky Holden. Jerry Markham,” he went on in a tone that indicated no introduction was necessary. Vicky slipped her hand free.

Glancing at the younger man standing behind them, he said, “Allow me to introduce Randy Mitchell from Rock Springs. Best hunting guide in Wyoming. We’ve been elk hunting. It’s bow season, you know. When I checked with my office, I learned you wanted to see me. We drove into town today to replenish supplies, so I took the chance on finding you in. I’m glad we waited.” His gaze traveled over her.

“Please sit down.” Vicky motioned them toward the visitor chairs and took her own chair at the desk. Clasping her hands on the blotter, she waited as they settled in: the guide in the chair on the left, leaning back, gripping the armrests. A bored, yawning look, as if this was something that had to be endured so he could get back into the mountains.

The doctor sat slightly forward, shoulders squared, elbows bent on the armrests, fingers steepled under his chin. “What led you to my office?” His voice was as smooth as falling water.

She said, “A client is searching for her natural parents.”

“Ah, yes.” Markham’s shoulders rose. “Sharon David. I heard the news on the radio. Poor little movie star out promoting her latest movie. I’m sorry for her. Darn shame the studio is using her like that. You do your best work”—he paused, no longer talking about the actress, Vicky realized—“and next thing you
know, you’re a celebrity. Publicists taking control of your life. Cameras flashing in your face. Reporters shouting. Everyone wanting a piece of you.”

“I’m surprised the press hasn’t discovered you’re here,” Vicky offered.

The doctor shifted in his chair. “Every year I head up into the high country. Nothing but sheep, deer, elk, and a few bears and mountain lions. I like them all a lot better than I like those vultures with cameras. Incidentally, I’d appreciate your not tipping them off.”

Vicky gave the man an assuring smile. She hoped Laola hadn’t already sent the news over the moccasin telegraph. “My client hasn’t had much luck,” she said, bringing the subject back to Sharon David. “She believes she was born in the area in 1964. She also believes she may be Arapaho. A lot of women from the reservation used your clinic.” She plunged on, not waiting for a confirmation. “It’s hard to imagine any woman giving up her child that year, when so many infants died, but—”

The doctor interrupted. “What are you saying?”

Vicky regarded the man across from her. “I believe some young woman may have wanted to place her child for adoption. Perhaps she turned to you for help.”

“Are you saying I had something to do with the deaths?” The man sat up straighter and dropped both hands into his lap.

Vicky kept her tone calm. “I’m trying to help my client find her natural parents.”

“I warn you to be very careful,” Markham went on. “I have a reputation to protect, one I’ve rightly earned over the years. I have no intention of allowing you to tarnish that reputation with innuendos. Must I remind
you of the laws protecting people against libel and slander?”

“Wait just a minute, Doctor.” Vicky leaned over the desk. “I’m looking for information, that’s all. My client needs to know if there’s a chance an Indian woman placed her baby in an independent adoption thirty-five years ago. Doctors and attorneys have often arranged such adoptions.”

The doctor tilted back his head and stared at her through half-lidded eyes. “What exactly do you want?”

Vicky held the man’s gaze. “Did you arrange an adoption for an Arapaho infant in 1964? Some woman who didn’t want to go through Social Services and endure a public investigation? Didn’t want the tribe to know?”

The doctor remained motionless, the look of studied control on his face. Vicky plunged on: “Perhaps the woman’s family agreed with her decision and helped her to keep her pregnancy and the adoption a secret.”

Had she imagined it, or was there a flicker of remembrance in the doctor’s eyes? “Perhaps you knew a couple desperately longing for a child. People from another state. You could have put them in contact with the girl. A lawyer would have handled the adoption papers. It happens every day.”

“If such an adoption had transpired, I would hardly break the doctor-patient confidence and tell you about it,” Markham said. “In any case, adoption records are sealed.”

Vicky said, “I’m asking if it took place, Doctor. My client will know whether to continue her search here. If it did, she could furnish your office and the lawyer with waivers of confidentiality. She can place ads.
With all the news stories, her natural parents may come forward and waive their right to confidentiality. You could then confirm the adoption.”

Dr. Markham ran his tongue over his thin lips. “I operated the most progressive clinic of the day. I did not run an adoption agency.”

Vicky sat back. “You’re telling me no such adoption took place?”

Setting both hands on the armrests, Markham leveled himself to his feet. The guide jumped up, a flash of eagerness on his face. “No such adoption took place,” the doctor said. “Not in my clinic. If that’s all you wanted to see me about, Randy and I will return to the peace of the mountains.” He started toward the door, the guide following like a bloodhound.

Vicky watched the retreating figures. The door slammed behind them. She felt the same disquiet that she felt in the courtroom when she knew a witness was lying. Yet it was hard to believe the famous Dr. Jeremiah Markham was lying. Or Luther Benson, for that matter. What possible reason could they have for not wanting Sharon David to find her biological parents?

Laola’s voice drifted through the closed door—deferential and fawning. Then the door opened, and the secretary walked over to the desk. “You got a bunch of phone calls while you was out.” She held out a page of messages. “Agent Gianelli’s been calling, and I tol’ you Ben called, didn’t I?”

Vicky glanced through the messages. Ben’s name appeared three times. Ted Gianelli’s twice.

“You want me to call him back?” Laola asked. Her tone was hopeful.

“Gianelli? Yes,” Vicky said.

“I meant Ben.”

As Laola started for the door, the phone jangled. Vicky picked it up. The agent’s voice boomed over the line. “Vicky, I need your help.”

“Let me guess,” Vicky said. “Lucy Travise and James Holden have disappeared.” It was what she had expected.

“We have a watch out across the area. No sign of them. I think they’re laying low on the res. Can you get me some word on them?”

Vicky let out a long breath. “They don’t want to be found, Ted.”

“The girl can link Sonny Red Wolf to the time and location of Father Joseph’s murder. I need her statement, Vicky. She stays in hiding, your friend John O’Malley could find himself staring down the barrel of a rifle.”

Vicky closed her eyes against the idea. “I’ll try,” she said.

She pressed the disconnect button. There was the sound of electronic clicks as she tapped out the number to Arapaho Ranch where Ben worked. A man answered. “Ben drove outta here an hour ago,” he said to her inquiry. “Left a message for you.”

“He left a message?”

“Said in case you called, he was gonna be at the Roundup Café in Lander. Said you know the place.”

Vicky thanked him and hung up. She knew the place.

20