Trace Evidence, page 5
That’s when his world began to take shape. Everything before that was muddy and irrelevant.
Flint and Scarlett had been glued to the TV set, watching old Westerns every night, during that first year. He grinned just thinking about those old shows.
He held out his left hand and looked at the scar on his palm where Scarlett had sliced it with one of Bette’s sharp kitchen knives she’d stolen that morning. He remembered how serious her face looked. Scarlett had the idea, but he hadn’t needed persuading. He was always up for anything remotely exciting.
The cut had hurt like hell. He’d screamed out when she did it, and she’d told him not to be such a baby. She cut her own left palm and barely winced.
When they held their hands together and commingled their blood, Scarlett seriously intoned that they were now blood brothers, because she resisted her femininity fiercely, both then and now.
Scarlett had always acted more like a boy than a girl. He couldn’t imagine a better male role model than the one she had been for his eight-year-old self.
They’d remained closer than family all these years, which was fine with Flint. She and her seven-year-old daughter were the only family he had, and he liked it that way.
Or at least they had been his only family.
Until he met up with Bette Maxwell again.
Until she told him what little she knew about his mother.
Until Crane taunted him at gunpoint.
Flint learned from Bette Maxwell that his mother had been a teacher in West Texas. He suspected she must have lived and worked in Mount Warren because Crane had lived there.
And now that he knew these facts, what was he going to do about them?
Mount Warren was an easy flight from Houston. He could go down there tomorrow. He could find his mother in a couple of hours. He could talk to her.
And say what? Ask what? Did he want to know why she had abandoned him? Some secrets were better left buried.
Bette Maxwell had said he was an illegitimate child. His mother was a schoolteacher and the conventions at the time made keeping her son impossible. Okay. He could accept that.
What had sparked his curiosity was why she never came back.
Never. In all those years.
Bette had tried to make him feel better about his mother’s abandonment by invoking the closed adoption process. Closed adoption records were sealed. No one could unseal them, even if they’d wanted to. Not the bio mom or the adoptive parents or even the kid.
But Flint had never been adopted.
His mother had left her young son with Bette and simply never tried to find him again.
People who gave up their children had the right to make those decisions. That’s what he told his clients, and he believed it.
Now was the time to take his own good advice. To let this go.
If she had wanted to find him, any halfway decent investigator could have done it.
His mother had never made the effort.
Still, the open issue nagged.
He could ask Carlos Gaspar to complete the research. Gaspar had joined Scarlett’s agency a while back. He brought with him years of experience and excellent army and FBI training. Gaspar was talented, too. He could find things other people missed.
But searching for his birth mother was not something he was ready to reveal to Gaspar or Scarlett or anyone else. Not until he knew more.
Before he could rationalize away the urge, he sent a quick request to one of his sources. No explanation. Just the questions. She would search government, public, and private databases. She’d send him what she found.
He’d know what to do when he had more facts.
He closed the laptop, carried his glass into the den, and poured another. He wasn’t going anywhere tonight. Might as well get buzzed. He did some of his best thinking that way.
He plopped down into his favorite chair, put up his feet and closed his eyes, and leaned his head back. He pushed a button on the remote to change the music to something quieter so he could think. Classic country music usually did the trick.
Did he want to find his mother? How about his father? What if Crane had meant his taunt literally? That he had known Flint’s mother in the biblical sense.
Was Felix Crane his father?
Did Flint really want to know that, assuming it was true?
Definitely not.
Flint heard the back door open. He didn’t move. He’d been expecting her.
“It’s a bad sign when you’re drinking alone in the dark, listening to Haggard and Jones,” Scarlett said as she walked into the room. He opened one eye and watched her fill the glass she’d collected in the kitchen on her way through. “You’re not gonna cry or start a fight or anything, are you?”
He grinned and opened his other eye and lifted his glass to her in a silent hello.
She plopped down on the sofa across from him and propped her feet up on the coffee table. She slouched and sipped and finally said, “So what’s up? What am I doing here in the middle of the night?”
He grinned again. She always exaggerated everything. “It’s not the middle of the night.”
“It is for me. You have any idea what time a seven-year-old gets out of bed to go to school?” She sipped again. “You enticed me over here with the scotch, which is excellent. But I can’t stay long. What do you want?”
He took a deep breath. He wasn’t really sure what he wanted.
He knew that as soon as he told her about his mother, his problems would multiply. He wanted to put that off a bit longer and maybe forever.
So he chose a different subject.
“Tell me what you know about Veronica Beaumont.”
Scarlett stared at him as if he’d sprouted two heads.
“What?” he said, grinning. It was so easy to wind her up.
“Tell me you’re not dating that woman,” Scarlett demanded in the same way she had demanded his complete compliance with everything she’d ever said since the first day they met.
He didn’t know how real sisters behaved, but he’d always imagined any sister would act exactly like Scarlett toward a younger brother.
She stared him down. “Because if you are dating Veronica Beaumont, you’re in big trouble. That woman is a barracuda. She will eat you alive.”
He grinned again and sipped the Scotch. “You don’t think I can take care of myself?”
Scarlett cocked her head and narrowed her brown eyes. When they were kids, that look preceded a quick kick or sharp punch, but she was across the room and couldn’t reach him right now. He imagined her shooting lasers from those green eyes that pierced his throat and almost laughed out loud.
“I’ve known Veronica Beaumont for years. I’ve seen her go through one man after another, usually leaving them in a crumpled heap by the curb. She’s taken down much stronger dudes than you.” She pointed down the corridor, toward his bedroom. “Definitely don’t be bringing her back to your place. She’s like a black widow or something. You don’t want that bad karma in your house.”
This time he did laugh before he let her off the hook. “Don’t worry. I met the woman only once and she is definitely not my type.”
Scarlett’s face contorted into something much more fierce than a frown, but she said nothing. She would get him back for teasing her.
But she’d do it when he was least expecting it. More effective that way.
He made a mental note to stay on his toes around her for a few days.
“What’s your professional opinion of her? She wants me to find a guy,” Flint said.
Scarlett leaned back and relaxed a bit. She was always comfortable when discussing business. Like Flint, she was one of the best investigators around, and she could handle herself.
Service for Uncle Sam had prepared them both well for this line of work. They made a good team, although they didn’t work together much these days.
“Veronica can definitely afford your fees. No worries on that score.” Scarlett paused. “She’ll be a pain in the ass to work with, but so are you.”
He laughed again and she lifted her glass in a mock toast. “What else?”
Scarlett pursed her lips and shook her head. “I’ve met the boy. Veronica’s son. He goes to Maddy’s school. He’s very sick. Some kind of leukemia, I think. The rumor is that he needs a bone marrow transplant and they can’t find a donor. Is that the problem she’s asking you to solve?”
Flint hadn’t actually talked to Veronica about the case yet, but that was a good guess.
“A mother will do almost anything to save her kid. I can’t even imagine how I would handle that. If Maddy was as sick as Veronica’s boy.” Scarlett paused and bowed her head a moment. “If it’s the father she wants you to find, that makes sense. See if he’s a match. Why can’t she just call the guy and ask?”
“I suspect she doesn’t know where he is. Maybe not even who he is.” Flint arched his eyebrows and Scarlett returned a knowing look. “We both know that relatives are eligible bone marrow donors only about seventy percent of the time, though.”
“What about a public appeal? Or is that too much negative publicity for the queen of fashion?”
He shrugged. “She’s got enough money to hire anyone she wants. She’s tried to find the guy and came up empty, I gather, from what little I know so far.”
“So she’s turned to you because she thinks you can do what no one else can.” Scarlett shook her head and drained her glass and rolled it between her palms. “Well, the problem is, we all know you can do it.”
Flint laughed. “How is that a problem, exactly?”
Scarlett stood. “We’ve had this conversation a hundred times. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.”
Flint was pretty sure she was talking about more than finding Veronica Beaumont’s ex. And he knew she was right.
He’d been wrestling with a similar question before she arrived. He could find his mother. But should he?
“So if I take this on, can you help me out or not?”
She sighed, but she didn’t say no. “What do you need?”
“I’m not sure yet. After I meet with Beaumont, I’ll have a better idea.”
“You know where to find me.” She left her empty glass in the kitchen on her way out.
-
Chapter Seven
Red Maple Lake, California
Six Years Ago
Josh was using visual flight rules and traveled below radar. He hadn’t filed a flight plan because it wasn’t required and he’d seen no need to do so.
All of which meant he wasn’t communicating with air control towers, even if there were any out here, which he figured there weren’t.
Ahead of the storm, it was a beautiful day for flying. Visibility was sufficient to see and avoid obstacles and other aircraft below eighteen thousand feet. They needed to get up over the mountains, but they didn’t need to cruise higher than ten thousand feet to reach Red Maple Lake.
They spent the flight time catching up on their lives since they’d seen each other last. Josh didn’t mention Veronica or the abortion because he knew they wouldn’t approve. Hell, he didn’t approve. But he’d seen no other way, then or now.
As he listened to Dan and Skip share stories about their families, he wondered if he’d been wrong. Would he have made a decent father to Veronica’s baby?
He shook the thought from his mind. Regrets were useless. The decision had been made a while back and it was not changeable now.
Still, he wouldn’t tell his friends. Nothing to be served by feeling their judgment at this point.
He laughed at Skip’s stories of his daughter’s cute shenanigans, and he whistled at Dan’s exaggerated tales of sexy nights with his fiancée. But Josh had searched his soul and could find no lost love in his heart for Veronica.
Half an hour from Red Maple Lake, a weather front moved in quickly from the northeast. Rain ran in streams across the windshield. He flipped on the screen heater to keep humidity from condensing on the glass.
The storm drove the plane sideways. He couldn’t hold it on the rudder, so he resorted to rolling back onto course after each barrage. The same went for the pockets of air that momentarily stole the lift from the wings. The plane dropped a few feet each time. The fall shoved his stomach into his mouth. It must have done the same to the others because the conversation inside the cabin all but stopped. He was glad they’d arrive soon and get out of the weather.
The sun was low on the western horizon as they approached. They’d passed the beautiful and enormous Lake Tahoe a while back and continued south. Fallen Leaf Lake was behind them now, too. According to the maps, Red Maple Lake would be coming up soon.
“I hope this clears up by tomorrow. I can’t wait to fish the lake,” Dan said. “My buddy who told me about the place? Showed me some amazing pictures when we did that fly-in last year up in Canada.”
“Any chance we can do some water sports while we’re here? I brought my wetsuit just in case,” Skip said, sounding like the big kid he actually resembled in every way.
“If this rain doesn’t let up, you’ll need the wetsuit just to use the outhouse,” Josh said.
“What outhouse? I thought this was a luxury resort,” Skip whined.
Dan laughed.
Winds buffeted the wings and tossed the Cessna in a stomach sickening thrill ride.
Josh circled the lake so he could get a visual of the landing site. The lake was a reasonable size and he could land the floatplane in a relatively short distance, but the water looked rough. No whitecaps but lots of chop. The lake was ringed by mountains, so he would have to drop fast and level off over the water before touching down.
The crosswind had picked up. Turbulence lifted the nose of the plane. Rain pelted the windshield.
During the circle recon flight, Dan pointed out the posh campground they had booked for the week, barely visible where it was set back from the lake amid the trees. “Looks like that’s it. I thought it would be bigger, though. Weren’t there more outbuildings in the brochures? Where’s the heated swimming pool?”
They had considered other lodges and facilities, but the smaller, more remote, exclusive Red Maple Lake Resort was primo, according to Dan’s friend. In the planning stages, they’d all seen the appeal of time spent in the wilderness, away from all modern civilization.
“Man, this is gonna be sweet!” Dan said, rubbing his hands together like a gleeful munchkin. “That hot tub. At night, after fishing all day, the cold mountain air, a cold beer. The very definition of man heaven, isn’t it?”
Skip laughed. “Having a wife and kid around to make you feel loved is great. Don’t get me wrong. But I am really looking forward to some peace and quiet and something to talk about besides domestic stuff.”
“Zip it, guys. I need to concentrate,” Josh said. He glanced toward Dan in the copilot seat. “Everybody snug up your harness. It’s choppy down there. We could be in for a few bumps.”
“You got it,” Dan said. Josh saw him make the adjustments through his peripheral vision.
Josh pulled on his own harness. It flopped off his shoulder. Dan saw his problem and looped the belt around the winder mechanism, shortening the belt. Josh nodded. “Thanks.”
Skip should have been seated behind Josh, but he had been out of his seat and taking pictures throughout the trip and as they’d circled.
“All belted in back there?” After a couple of beats, Josh said, “Skip? Got your harness snugged up?”
“I’m on it,” he replied, but his voice seemed to come from Dan’s side of the cabin.
“Skip. This is important. Get into your seat and get your harness on. Now.”
Josh’s tone was harsher than he’d intended. He wasn’t exactly worried. He was a good pilot. He’d trained in flight school while Dan and Skip were working their way up the civilian corporate ladder. He’d had some of the best training in the world and he’d flown for years. But a new landing zone always presented some wrinkles, and this landing was going to be as wrinkled as an elephant. He took a deep breath. He could do this. No problem.
He took one more circuit of the lake. The easiest way in, between the mountains, would put him sideways into the wind. The alternative was to fly straight into the wind so he didn’t have to account for the crosswind, but that would mean dropping like a stone from above the peak dominating that side of the lake. He chose the lesser of two evils and headed for the easiest way. Between the mountains it is.
He was still facing a few-hundred-foot drop to the lake, followed by leveling out and landing. He took a deep breath and crested the mountain at eighty knots and less than fifty feet above its craggy summit.
He pushed the yoke forward, plunging the aircraft. Dan groaned at the unnatural drop.
A recorded voice calmly announced, “Gear up for water landing.” Josh nodded. Roger that. The wheels were up, floats were down. So far, so good.
The plane’s speed accelerated in the descent. He resisted the temptation to back off the throttle. Speed was life, he reminded himself.
Below the level of the mountains, the crosswind changed direction. Some effect of the bowl shape of the lake, probably. He leaned the plane to the right as he pulled back on the yoke to level out the aircraft.
The Cessna’s wings rocked. He kept pulling back on the yoke. Slowing their descent was harder than he’d envisaged.
The ground whipped away under him. The lake stretched in front. The nose of the aircraft was still too low for the lake’s choppy horizontal surface. He pulled hard, his fingers gripping the yoke and both arms straining.
The nose climbed slowly. The lake was broad and wide and long. Too late, he realized his eyes had deceived him.
