The Summit (15 page)

“That's right. There are lots of maybes in the world. Maybe if I'd been home the afternoon Molly was abducted instead of down at the office working, she would still be here. But it was a workday, just like any other. There was no way to predict what would happen.”

“No…I guess there never is.” She looked over at Ben, whose vision remained on the road as he continued toward the city. Both of them were tired and unkempt and she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten.

“I talked to Pete Rossi this morning,” Ben said. “I called him from the hospital. Pete's got the information we need on those car owners.”

“How many are there?”

“According to the Washington State DMV, thirty-three.”

“You still don't think we should go to the police? If the man who took Molly still owns the car, she might be living right there in his house. The police could interview the car owners faster than one man working alone. Once I've got that sketch completed, they'll know who to look for.”

“First, the police department isn't about to expend that kind of manpower without more to go on than a boy who might have remembered the make of a car he saw when he was seven years old and a woman who saw the kidnapper in her dreams. Second, if the cops get involved, the guy might grab Molly and bolt before we even get close.”

He caught her eye in the mirror. “But we do need that sketch. Pete's got an artist lined up for this afternoon, if you think you can make it.”

“I'll make it. What time?”

“Three o'clock at your apartment.”

“I'll be there.”

 

They drove the rest of the way into the city without much more conversation. Autumn was exhausted and Ben's mind was on Molly and the DMV list Pete had retrieved for him.

They had almost reached the exit for the downtown area when his deep voice cut through the silence.

“I've been thinking about our search. In your dream, you see Molly in a house in the mountains and there are two other blond women with her.”

“That's right. Are you thinking that one of the addresses on the DMV list might wind up being the house in the mountains or one of the women might come to the door or something?” She had considered that herself.

Ben nodded. “I'll be working on the list with Pete. I'll make sure he has that information. If anything fits, we'll talk to the people ourselves.”

“With school out for the summer, I've got a lot of extra time. I could make some of those calls. And I'm sure I'd recognize the guy or the women if I saw them.”

“If the man still has Molly, he could be dangerous. No way I'm letting you go on your own. It would be great if you came with me though. You might pick up something I miss.”

She could handle the calls by herself, she was sure, but she remembered Ben's protective streak and she could see by the set of his jaw that he wasn't going to cave on this. His hopes were building, she realized. He was starting to believe they might actually find his daughter.

Autumn looked over at Ben. He was talking about Molly as if she were alive. She wasn't sure when he'd begun to believe that might be so, but it made her chest feel tight.

God, what if I'm wrong and Molly is dead?

She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to think about it.

“We haven't talked about last night,” Ben said softly, signaling then easing the car onto the off-ramp leading downtown. With his unshaven jaw and dark, unkempt hair, he looked like he ought to be riding a Harley instead of driving a hybrid. She ignored a little shiver of awareness, tried to block the memory of heated kisses and naked bodies and worked to sound nonchalant.

“What's there to talk about? I told you it was a bad idea for you to spend the night and I was right.”

“It wasn't a bad idea. Making love was the best idea either of us has had since all of this craziness started.”

“It's not going to happen, Ben. It was a case of temporary insanity on my part. If you need someone to satisfy your sexual appetite, call Delores Delgato.”

He slammed on the brakes so hard and swerved toward the curb so fast the seat belt jerked across her chest.

“Dammit, I don't need someone to satisfy my appetite. Can't you understand—it's you I want, not Delores Delgato. It's that amazing body of yours that turns me on, that crazy little pink butterfly that makes me want to drag you into bed and not let you out until both of us are too exhausted to move.”

Autumn stared into his angry face—too stunned to speak.

“Is that understood?”

She swallowed and nodded.

“All right then.” He put the car back in drive and carefully pulled out into the morning traffic. Autumn still said nothing, but her heart was thumping, trying to pound its way out of her chest.

Was it possible Ben felt more for her than just lust?

Even if it were true, he wasn't the kind of man to be happy with one woman for any length of time.

And what about her?

God in heaven, what did she feel for him?

A
fter her sleepless night in Burlington and the drive back home with Ben, Autumn missed her Wednesday-morning climbing class. Earlier, she had phoned Josh from the hospital, explained the situation with her dad and asked him to fill in for her.

Like the good friend he had been since she met him, Josh agreed. “Just let me know if you need me to do anything else,” he'd said.

“Thanks, Josh.”

“Are we still planning to take your class on that bouldering trip on Saturday?”

“Are you kidding? I think they'd go without me if I tried to back out.”

“Good. I'll see you then.”

The Fourth of July weekend was coming up and the class was ready for its first outing. Plans had been made and she wasn't about to disappoint her students. She wasn't sure whether Ben would be going but she found herself hoping he would. He was a very good student, but he needed to get actual climbing experience out-of-doors.

She was thinking about the trip when Ben drove her little Ford up in front of his Bay Towers apartment. He shoved the car into park and got out, then waited while Autumn rounded the car and slid behind the wheel.

“I left my overnight bag at your condo last night. I'll come by later and pick it up.”

She didn't want to think what the consequences of that might be. “Are you seeing Pete Rossi this morning?”

“One o'clock this afternoon. And don't forget your three o'clock meeting with the sketch artist.”

“I won't forget.”

“I'll bring the DMV info over when I come to get my stuff.”

She couldn't think of a reason to dissuade him. And she wanted to see what was on those lists as much as he did.

He stood next to the rolled-down window of the car as she snapped her seat belt in place.

“Grab a nap if you can,” he said. “You didn't get much sleep last night. I'll call you later.”

As she nodded and opened her mouth to say good-bye, she felt his hands sliding into her hair and his palms cupping the back of her head. Then he ducked his head through the window and settled his mouth over hers. It was a long, deep, very thorough kiss and by the time he let her go, she was trembling.

“It isn't a bad idea,” he said softly. “It's a very good idea, Autumn.” And then he turned and walked away.

For several long moments, Autumn just sat there, her hands shaking too much to put the car into gear. She took a steadying breath, shoved the gearshift into drive and pulled out into traffic. By the time she drove the short distance home, she was feeling more in control—more determined not to let her attraction to Ben convince her to do something she was sure to regret.

Autumn showered and changed into fresh clothes, rescheduled the single private session she had that afternoon for the following day, then took the nap Ben had suggested.

The sketch artist arrived at ten after three, a young, part-Hispanic man named Jorge Johnson with dark skin and very white teeth. He was a few years older than Autumn and once they got started, she could tell he knew what he was doing.

“Close your eyes,” he said. “Sometimes that helps. You might be able to see his face more clearly.”

She did as he asked, answered each of his questions.

A round face or more square? How are his eyebrows arched? Are they thin or thick? What is the shape of his eyes? What about his lips?

It took almost two hours to get the sketch done correctly, at least as accurate an image as a dream could provide. It hadn't occurred to her how unclear the man's face actually was until she tried to describe him. She didn't even know the color of his eyes and aside from the blond hair that didn't show in the black and white sketch, the face she had described looked fairly average.

“No tattoos?” Jorge asked. “No distinguishing marks of any kind? A scar, maybe? Or a birthmark?”

She only shook her head. “Somehow he seemed more distinct in my memory. Someone you would remember, but he doesn't look that way here.”

“Maybe we've got something wrong.”

She bit her lip, studying the image they had worked over all afternoon. “I don't think so.” The drawing looked right, yet she couldn't help feeling a little disappointed.

Jorge finished the sketch, then neatly penned the words: Caucasian, blond, approximately five-foot-nine to five-foot-eleven, medium build, late thirties to mid-forties.

“I'll have some copies made,” he said, “and make sure Mr. McKenzie gets one and also Pete Rossi.”

“Why don't you leave the sketch here? There's a Kinko's two blocks down and Ben is coming over sometime tonight.”

“If that's what you want.” The young artist took the sheet of paper off his easel and set it on top of the counter. “Let me know if you think of something that doesn't look quite right and I'll change it for you.”

“I will, Jorge. Thanks.”

For the next half hour, Autumn stared at the picture, trying to think why the man looked different in the sketch than in her dream. Whatever it was, it was subtle enough that she couldn't figure it out. The picture would have to do, at least for the present.

It was early evening when Ben called and Autumn hated the way his deep voice made her stomach flutter. He arrived at her apartment a little after seven, as soon as he could get away from work. He had changed into jeans, a yellow, short-sleeved pullover and a pair of brown loafers. He looked tired, his dark hair less than perfectly combed. A slight frown creased his forehead.

“Tough day?” she asked as he walked through the door. He was carrying a manila file, probably the list of registered vehicle owners.

“A-1's got a new trick,” Ben said, speaking of his sporting goods competitor. “They're trying to lease that old building down in the Pioneer Square district, right across from our store. Christ, those guys are a pain in the ass.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I'm not sure yet. Whatever it is, I'm not going to sell them my stores.”

But it was obvious he was worried. She knew he'd worked hard to build his company. He didn't want to give it up and she didn't blame him.

She reached over and plucked the sketch up off the counter. She'd gone to Kinko's and had three copies of the original made, then had smaller prints made, reduced from the larger one.

“What do you think?”

Ben's tawny brown eyes swung toward the image, the golden depths burning with a ferocity that should have scorched the paper. “So that's the son of a bitch.”

“Near as I can recall.”

“Not much to remember, just an average-looking Joe. Hard to imagine he's a pedophile.”

“Maybe he isn't. Maybe he just wanted a daughter and Molly fit the bill.”

A muscle tightened along his jaw. “I guess we can always hope.”

She turned away from the grim look on his face. “How about a glass of wine? You look like you could use one.”

“Thanks, I could.”

She poured them each a glass of chardonnay and set one of them down on the breakfast bar in front of Ben. He placed his file next to the glass, opened it and took out several sheets of paper.

“This is the list of every '66 Chevy Chevelle Super Sport registered in Washington State in the years 2001 to the present. I've gone through and tracked the ownerships. Some have stayed the same, some of the cars have been sold—a few more than once.”

She surveyed the list. “Looks pretty daunting.”

“Yeah, but if we start with just the white ones—ermine, it was called that year—only eleven show up on the list.”

“That sounds manageable. Of course, we have no way of knowing which of those cars might be the one that was driven the day Molly was taken.”

“Or even if that car is registered in this state,” Ben said. “But we have to start somewhere.”

“We have to hope the guy still owns the car and looks like the man in the sketch.”

Ben scanned the list of names and addresses that covered the period. “According to the DMV, of the eleven white Chevelles listed, eight are still owned by the people who owned them in 2001. I'll take a copy of the sketch to Pete and we'll start first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Washington's a pretty big state.”

“Pete's making the out-of-town calls. Since I've still got a company to run, I'm making the calls closer in.”

“I'm going with you.”

He didn't argue. “You've seen this guy…or at least you dreamed about what he looked like six years ago. You're Molly's best chance.”

He looked over at the sketch, ran a finger over the fine lines drawn at the corners of the man's eyes. “Maybe between the three of us, we'll come up with something.”

 

It took Pete Rossi two days to travel the distances between the four white-Chevelle owners in the outlying areas of the state. He came up empty-handed.

None of the owners Rossi interviewed matched Autumn's sketch. If the house sat in the mountains, there were no blond women inside—at least not as far as Pete could tell.

Ben and Autumn made the four calls closer to home. One of the car owners was a woman, but not one of those in Autumn's dream. One was a retired colonel, one an airline pilot, one was a nineteen-year-old boy who had gotten the car as a graduation gift. None were the man Autumn had seen in her dreams.

“I guess we start on the cars that were sold,” she said as they climbed back into Ben's Mercedes after reaching another dead end.

“I guess.” He pulled out the list. “There are only three more white Chevelle's listed. All three were sold between 2001 and now but we have the names and addresses of the previous owners and none of them live far from Seattle.”

The first owner was an old man in his late eighties even little six-year-old Molly could have knocked out. The second owner was a short, silver-haired, bearded high-school mechanics teacher who didn't remotely resemble the blond man and didn't recognize his picture. The last person on the list no longer lived at the residence address, which was a run-down rental house in Tumwater not far from the old Miller brewery.

“Let's go talk to the guy who bought the car,” Ben said. “He's lives just down the road in Olympia. Maybe he'll recognize the man in the sketch as the previous owner.”

As they pulled up in front of the address listed, a simple, ranch-style tract home, they spotted the Chevelle parked in a carport at the side of the house, but the vehicle was yellow with a black landau top, not white, as stated on the DMV registration.

“I guess the list was wrong on this one,” Ben said.

“Well, it's a Chevelle and we're here.” They climbed out and made their way up the sidewalk to the front door.

The owner, a man named Riley Perkins, was a retired insurance salesman who had moved to the Pacific Northwest in 2002 and bought the car that year. He was vastly overweight and nearly bald, but smiling and proud of his classic car and not shy about answering their questions.

“According to the vehicle registration,” Ben said to him, “your car is supposed to be white.”

“Well, it was when I bought it. Piece of junk, I can tell you. But the price was right. I bought it from a guy at a swap meet. He said he needed the money to buy a motorcycle. Talked about getting a Harley. Said he was heading out of state.”

Ben held up the sketch. “This the guy?”

“Nah. He didn't look like that at all.” Perkins read the description at the bottom of the sketch. “He was blond, all right, but kind of skinny and homely as a mud fence. He seemed sort of wild-eyed—you know, like he might have been on drugs.”

He was nothing like the man who took Molly and Ben looked utterly defeated.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Perkins.” Autumn took a firm grip on Ben's arm. “We really appreciate your help.”

“No problem.”

She didn't let go as they left, just led him back along the sidewalk toward the car. “Why don't I drive us home? A girl doesn't get a chance to drive a flashy Mercedes all that often.”

Ben didn't argue, which showed how depressed he really was. He gave her the ghost of a smile. “Sure you can handle it?”

“I think I can manage.”

They rode mostly in silence all the way from Olympia back to Seattle. Autumn had intended to drive straight to Ben's apartment then walk home from there, but he looked so heartsick she drove to her own place instead.

“You're about to luck out, McKenzie.”

He turned those whisky eyes in her direction, paying attention for the first time in nearly an hour. “How's that?”

“I'm going to cook you dinner. I've got the stuff to make lasagna—if you don't mind the kind with cottage cheese instead of ricotta. Can you handle that?”

He almost smiled. “I think I can manage,” he said, repeating her earlier words.