“Because no one loved her and she thought the baby would.”
“Bad reasoning, wouldn’t you say?”
“Immature reasoning, yes. But by then it was too late for her to abort. And she was very determined for such a young woman. I thought she might be persuaded to put her baby up for adoption, so I sent her to a family in our network who had adopted a number of children.”
“And then?”
“I heard nothing. That was the rule of our organization: no further contact, because it might jeopardize the person we’d helped.”
Long’s eyes had shifted from mine, toward the linked paper clips she was toying with. She was lying, or at least not telling the whole truth.
“No contact ever?” I asked.
She looked at the copy of the contract she’d signed. “No contact until last Monday. She came here, said she’d hitchhiked from Bridgeport and she needed help.”
She paused. I waited. It was one of those moments when I sensed a major connection was about to be made.
“I don’t know how she found me. Maybe she’s been keeping track of me all along. She was drunk, asking for help. Spun a tale about her daughter from the rape being murdered and she thought the killer was after her, too.”
“Who did she think this killer was?”
“The rapist. The daughter’s father.”
“Did you believe her?”
“I believed she was in trouble. I told her I’d get her into a shelter that also provides psychiatric care. But then she ran out of the office, and I haven’t seen her since.”
“Ms. Long, did Isabel have a middle name?”
“I believe it was Miriam.”
“Did you read in the papers about the murder of a young woman over by Tufa Lake last week-Hayley Perez?”
“There was a brief item-”
“She was Isabel Darkmoon’s daughter from the rape. That’s why she-now called Miri Perez-is in trouble. And that’s why I need to locate her.”
Once again I contemplated the phrase from Robert Frost’s “Death of a Hired Man” while Elizabeth Long looked for the notes she’d taken after Miri Perez’s sudden appearance and equally sudden departure on Monday.
Miri’s oldest daughter, Hayley, had returned to Vernon after years of disappointment and hardship. Miri’s youngest daughter, Amy, had returned to the cabin where she’d been squatting at the Willow Grove Lodge.
Where was the home to which Miri would naturally gravitate?
Long sat down at her desk, put on narrow-rimmed glasses, and stared at the notes. “There’s nothing here besides what I told you. You can read them, if you like.”
I waved the pages away. “These people in Sacramento to whom you sent Miri-who are they?”
“You know I can’t-”
“You signed that contract.” I pointed to it where it lay on top of a heap of files.
“… Dean and Jane Ironwood. I don’t have an address for them; as a safety measure, we never knew the whereabouts of the people who assisted us.”
“Was there anyone else involved in helping Miri- Isabel-escape? She told her sister there was a friend in California who had introduced her to a nice family.”
“I can’t remember-”
“Try, please.”
“… Hillary King. Also in the Sacramento area.”
“Well, maybe I can locate her, or the Ironwoods.”
“Why, after all this time?”
“Because, home is- Never mind. Thank you for your time, Ms. Long.”
Another dreary motel room, but on this trip in Carson City I’d brought my laptop. And I was on a roll.
I went straight to the expensive search agencies the agency subscribed to. Hillary King. None in the Sacramento area. She could have moved, married and changed her name, or died. I’d concentrate on the Ironwoods.
Ironwood, Dean, Sacramento. He’d been a lobbyist. There was a ton of information on him, but he’d died two years ago.
Ironwood, Jane. She was a registered nurse, license still active. Address and phone number in Carmichael, a suburb northeast of Sacramento. I phoned the number, but reached an answering machine. Left a message asking her to call me on my cellular. Then I settled down to the takeout dinner I’d picked up across the street and a bad made-for-TV movie.
I was asleep before the movie ended. For once it was a peaceful sleep, without nightmares.
Thursday
I woke in the morning to my cellular’s ring and, as I reached for it, was shocked to see that it was after ten.
Hy. “Sorry I haven’t called, McCone. I’m in Tokyo.”
“A crisis?”
“No, major new client who wanted to meet in person. I tried to leave a message on the ranch machine before I went, but I think it malfunctioned. Squawking noises, like an enraged chicken.”
“Damn machines. I swear they make them with a chip that tells them to die the day after the warranty expires. I’ll pick up another.”
“Good. I had to rush to catch my flight and I’ve been jammed up ever since, so I haven’t had time till now to call your cell. What’s doing?”
I explained what had happened since we last talked. “I may have to go to Sacramento. Where’s the best place around here to rent a plane?”
“El Aero at Carson City Airport. Ask for my buddy Pete. He’ll give you a discounted rate.”
Hy had “buddies” in airports throughout the country-sometimes I thought throughout the world. “Will do. When will you be back stateside?”
“I don’t know how long I’ll be here, and when I get back home I’ll have to play catch-up. Any idea when you’ll be coming to the city?”
“I’m not sure. This case-”
“Uh-huh. Now it’s a case. Welcome back to the land of the living.”
Hy was right, I thought as I stepped into the shower. Since last winter, I hadn’t been living-at least not in the sense that I usually did. Although I wasn’t yet sure that I wanted to make the reentry, I turned up the water’s heat, washed vigorously, and emerged into a new and better day.
There had been a call on my cell while I was in the shower. Ted, with his daily report. I dealt with him, spoke briefly with Patrick, and got off the phone.
Freedom from the tyranny of the agency.
While I was eating breakfast in the motel’s coffee shop, the phone rang again. The number on the screen was Jane Ironwood’s. While I don’t usually talk on the cell in a public place, there were few other patrons and none seated near me, so I picked up.
