Winter's Daughter (22 page)

"Oh, no—Tan, we don’t want you to do that. You don’t have to go yet."

"Yes, I do. It’s time," Tannis said huskily, a little desperately. She hugged her sister and brother–in–law and gave Josh a kiss. "I’m thrilled about your news. It’s really— great."

She escaped at last to the sanctuary of the shower, thankful for the timely preoccupations that kept her family from noticing she’d arrived on their doorstep at six o’clock in the morning, rumpled and uncombed, whisker–burned and weeping.

Dillon went to his office first. He’d argued with himself all the way into town about the futility of trying to track Tannis down. His impulse was to go straight to her sister’s house and bang on her front door until she agreed to face him. But she’d run from him because she was afraid of getting involved, afraid of commitment, afraid of intimacy, afraid of love, and chasing her wasn’t going to change that.

On the way to his office he stopped by Logan’s, but the chief of police wasn’t in yet. Feeling restless and frustrated, he stayed at his own desk long enough to locate the addresses of several women’s shelters, then went out again.

He felt guilty about going to the vacant lot to pick up the woman and her kids without Tannis. He knew she’d want to be there. But on the other hand, he told himself angrily, it was her own fault. She was the one who’d pulled that childish flit, running out on both him and her responsibilities.

But halfway to the vacant lot he suddenly uttered the vilest oath of which he was capable and hung an illegal U–turn in the middle of a block.

"Councilman James," said the pretty blond woman who answered Dillon’s knock, "what a surprise. Tannis isn’t here right now. I’m her sister. You probably don’t remember, but I met you at one of your campaign coffee parties. This is my husband, Richard, and this is Josh."

"Councilman." Tannis’s brother–in–law gave Dillon a look of friendly appraisal as he shook his hand. "Come in, have a cup of coffee."

"Please—just Dillon." he said. "And no thanks, I’d love to, but—listen, you don’t happen to know where she went, do you?"

Her sister shook her head, smiled ruefully up at her husband, and shrugged. "Who knows? I never know where she goes when she dresses up like that. I’m not sure I want to." She shivered.

Dillon felt something cold crawl down his spine. "Dresses—like what?"

"Oh, well, you know. Like a bag lady."

The vacant lot was empty. Tannis had searched and called through the weeds and oil drums and rusting car bodies, refusing to accept the fact that the woman and her children weren’t there any longer. Now she stood in the middle of it all, feeling as desolate and abandoned as her surroundings.

They were gone. Dillon would never have come for them without her; she knew that. So they had gone away—run away—too frightened after all to trust even her.
All those children.
Where could they have gone? How would she ever find them again? If only she hadn’t waited so long. If only she’d done something sooner. If only she’d gone to Dillon sooner.
Dillon.

Overhead the storm clouds rolled and tumbled, gathering strength. The new system was moving in, as he’d said it would.
What are you, the Farmer’s Almanac?

She didn’t know where to go or what to do next. It occurred to her she didn’t even know where to find Binnie and Clarence, or any of her street friends, for that matter. After yesterday’s rain the wash would be full of water, so they wouldn’t be down at the culvert. The only thing left for her to do was to search through the skid–row missions, city shelters, and private flophouses until she found someone who knew where they might be.

Tannis sniffed and shuffled down the dingy street, brushing at her cheeks with her tattered gloves. A hostile wind sprang up, swirling trash around her feet and knifing its way inside her coat. She felt cold and wretched, lost and defeated, for the first time in her life truly understanding the utter hopelessness, the despair of the homeless ones.

Dillon stood in the vacant lot amid the sticker weeds and broken glass with his shoulders hunched, hands jammed deep in the pockets of his leather jacket.

His first thought had been that Tannis had somehow spirited the woman and her children away. The pain of such a denial of trust was still ricocheting and rebounding through his soul, even though he’d pretty much discarded the idea. He didn’t see how she could have had time to get here on foot from her sister’s place, and get all those kids packed up and out of the area without him seeing some sign of them. It was a long way to the nearest shelter. No, he was pretty sure not even Tannis would try to move that family alone and on foot.

Certainty didn’t make him feel much better. The family was gone; Tannis was gone. And for the life of him, right at that moment he couldn’t think of anything he could do about either one.

In an explosion of frustration Dillon picked up a beer bottle and hurled it savagely against the side of the abandoned gas station. Then he got into his car and drove slowly and carefully back to City Hall. When he arrived there, he parked and locked his car, then stood for a few moments, looking up at the building’s Spanish–style facade.

Funny, he thought, he had the resources of an entire city and police department at his disposal, and yet, when it came to finding the woman he loved, they weren’t enough.

Instead of going in, he pocketed his keys, zipped up his jacket against the spitting wind, and started up the street toward the corner of Fifth and Cleveland.

As he walked he got angry all over again. He asked himself why he should try to find her at all. So she could run out on him again? As he’d told himself before, he wasn’t a masochist. What he wanted was Tannis in his life—or clear out of it. But never, ever again did he want to go through the pain of waking up after a night of loving to find her gone, without a word or any kind of explanation. Why should he give her another chance to take potshots at his heart?

But— it was cold, and a new storm was coming in. And no matter how hard he tried not to, he kept seeing her out there, wet and alone, wearing that ridiculous purple hat with the pompon on it. There was no use denying he cared about her. Cared, hell. He’d fallen in love with her. And no matter how badly she’d hurt him by running away, he had to be sure she was all right. That was all. He just had to know.

"’Mornin’, Councilman," Gunner called out as Dillon approached the newsstand. "What can I do for you?"

Dillon spun a quarter onto the counter. "I need some information."

"That’ll get you a newspaper," Gunner said, nodding at the quarter. "Anything else’ll either cost you a lot more or a lot less, depending on what you want to know."

"Seen Tannis this morning?"

"Uh–huh." For a long time Gunner looked at him, measuring him in some indefinable way. Dillon stared back at him. "She was here," Gunner said quietly. His chair pivoted silently toward the door in the side of the stand. "A little while ago. Lookin’ for her friends. I couldn’t help her much. Between the rain and the cops, street folks are pretty scattered right now." The wheelchair rolled through the door and out onto the rain–speckled sidewalk. Maneuvering quickly and efficiently, Gunner lowered the plywood front of the stand, secured it with a padlock, and tucked the key away in the front pocket of his dark green hooded sweatshirt.

"I’m goin’ on my break," he said, squinting up at Dillon. "Councilman, you look like a man who could use a cup of coffee." His dark eyes were compassionate. "On me."

For a moment Dillon hesitated, monitoring the rumblings in his belly with some surprise. He’d thought they were caused by tension, but now he thought about it, he realized he’d dashed out of the house without shower, shave, or breakfast.

"Sounds good," he said, managing a smile. "Thanks."

Gunner grinned and gave a little jerk of his head. "This way, Councilman." Dillon had to walk briskly to keep up with him.

"Something I’ve learned," Gunner said over Danish and coffee at Sam’s Deli, "and that’s you can’t keep somebody if they really want to go."

"What gets me," Dillon said, "is that she couldn’t trust me." They were talking about the woman with the children in the vacant lot. "What’s sad is, she didn’t even know there was anybody she could turn to."

Gunner nodded. "Lot of people out there with that problem. Councilman. Just don’t know where to go, or who to ask for help. Problem is, they don’t trust anybody, most of ’em, and with good reason." He hunched forward, cupping his huge hands around his coffee mug. "See, my friend, it’s like this. When you’ve been out in the cold a long time, it gets hard to come into the warm, because you’re scared it’s too good to be true. You get to thinkin’ it’s gonna be just a dream, and you’re gonna wake up and find yourself in the cold again. Most street people, they’ve been burned a few times. It gets hard to trust after a while. Fear—it’s a powerful motivator."

Dillon nodded. After a moment he coughed and said painfully, "Well, it’s more powerful than love, I guess."

"You’re not talkln’ about the woman in that vacant lot." Dillon looked up and found Gunner’s eyes resting on him. Quiet eyes, ancient and fathomless. "Now, you’re talkin’ about Tannis."

"I told her I’d never hurt her. She ran anyway."

"My friend, what I said about street people, that goes for anybody who’s ever been burned. It’s hard to trust again. I’ve seen a lot of fear. I saw it in her eyes here a while ago."

"She’s afraid of me." Dillon said bleakly. "She’s afraid of commitment, she’s afraid of intimacy—"

"Scary things," Gunner remarked.

Dillon sighed. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"Well, man, there’s nothing in the world you can do to change that. You know it, don’t you? She’s the only one who can."

Dillon’s snort was a futile rejection.

"Human beings are pretty amazing," Gunner said with a gentle chuckle, shaking his head. "Now, they say you can do anything if you set your mind to it. It ain’t true, of course, and you and I both know it. For starters, I’ll tell you three things no human being can do: You can’t make another person happy, you can’t make a person trust you, and you can’t make ’em love you." He took a swallow of coffee and shrugged as if to say, "That’s the way it is."

"Yeah," Dillon said heavily, standing up. "I know. Hey, listen, thanks for the coffee."

"You going looking for her?" Gunner asked as he shook Dillon’s hand.

"I guess so. I just want to see that she’s all right. I have to do that much."

"I understand."

"Gunner? Keep an eye out for her, okay?"

"I’ll do that," Gunner said softly. "Take care, Councilman."

Tannis found Binnie in the Red Cross shelter on Twelfth Street. Lying on the sterile cot without her cart or one of her collection of hats, she seemed small and frail, oddly diminished.

"It’s my arthritis," Binnie explained apologetically. "Cold and damp gets me every time. Plus, I think I’m catchin’ a cold or somethin’." She patted her bony chest. "Just feel kind of poor, you know?"

Tannis nodded.

Binnie’s voice dropped to a whisper. "They put my things in a storeroom downstairs. Do you think they’ll be all right? Sure wouldn’t want anything to happen to my things."