Loe raamatut: «Hidden»
Praise for the novels of Tara Taylor Quinn
“Quinn smoothly blends women’s fiction with suspense and then adds a dash of romance to construct an emotionally intense, compelling story.”
—Booklist on Where the Road Ends
“One of the skills that has served Quinn best…has been her ability to explore edgier subjects.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Quinn ties you up emotionally as her wonderful voice explodes into the mainstream.”
—Reader to Reader on Where the Road Ends
“One of the most powerful [romance novels] I have had the privilege to review.”
—Wordweaving on Nothing Sacred
Street Smart is filled with “deception, corruption, betrayal—and love, all coming together in an explosive novel that will make you think twice.”
—New Mystery Reader Magazine
“Street Smart is an exciting novel…action-packed and fast-moving…Tara Taylor Quinn has done a beautiful job.”
—Writers Unlimited
“Quinn writes touching stories about real people that transcend plot type or genre.”
—All About Romance
Hidden
Tara Taylor Quinn
Dear Reader,
There are some stories that just insist on being told. They come to you without warning or explanation. They take up residence in that corner of your brain reserved for private thoughts, and they nag at you, sometimes incessantly, sometimes quietly, sometimes in the middle of the night when you aren’t sure if you’re dreaming or awake. If you don’t heed them they take a seat and stay put until finally, out of desperation, you agree to listen and to write. Hidden is one such story. It first came to me almost three years ago in the middle of a long-distance telephone conversation. I listened to the story for a second, losing track of the real-time conversation because of the interruption—and I don’t know that I’ll ever regain credibility with the person who was at the other end of the phone and doesn’t understand writers at all. And then I told the “voice” to shut up. It quieted but didn’t leave.
I told the story to get lost. I was contracted for seven books, and it wasn’t one of them. I didn’t write that kind of book. But even as I thought the words, silently listed the reasons, I knew the story wasn’t leaving.
It hung around for a couple of years, bugging me periodically, reminding me that it was waiting. And in a meeting with my agent, in reply to a question she’d asked, this story stood up from its seat in a corner of my mind and suddenly it was all I could see, all I could think about. I told my agent about it. Her response was completely positive. Surprised, I then talked to my editor, who also showed no signs of shock or hesitation. Only I remained, secretly, doubtful of my ability to pull this off.
And then I sat down to write. I opened myself to the story, and I can now honestly tell you that this is the best work I’ve done to date. Hidden is a story about people who, at least to my mind, are very real. I’d love to hear what you think about it! You can reach me at P.O. Box 13584, Mesa, Arizona 85216 or at www.tarataylorquinn.com.
Till then, enjoy!
Tara Taylor Quinn
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For Quinnby, Henry J, Maya and Abrahamburger, who are the angelic bearers of unconditional love and support. If they were my only teachers in life, it would be abundant.
Thank you to California senator Jack Scott for his generous insights into a day in the life of a California state senator, and to Phil Blake, EMS Management Analyst with the San Diego Fire Department for cheerfully and enthusiastically answering a plethora of questions. Any mistakes in representing either career are mine.
A heartfelt thanks also to Lynn Kerstan, who shared her hometown of San Diego with me and who not only chauffeured me around but took me to dinner. And thanks to Jill Limber for running down to her local San Diego fire station to find out what color uniform the firefighters were wearing. And to Lisa Kamps, former firefighter turned romance writer, for all the tidbits about the life of a firefighter.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
1
San Francisco Gazette
Tuesday, April 5, 2005
Page 1
Single Socialite Disappears
Leah Montgomery, one of the country’s most sought-after and elusive heiresses, was reported missing by her brother, San Francisco attorney Adam Montgomery, and sister, Carley Winchester, in San Francisco last night after she failed to attend the $200 a plate orphaned children’s fund-raiser she’d spent the past six months organizing. The thirty-one-year-old was last seen yesterday at 3:20 p.m. leaving Madiras where, according to the upscale salon’s owner, Samantha Ramirez, Montgomery received her weekly massage and manicure and had her hair cut and styled, in preparation for that evening’s event.
Again according to Ramirez, Montgomery had been planning to wear a black satin gown with red lace trim. Late last night, when police searched Montgomery’s penthouse condominium, they found a dress matching that description hanging from one of the two shower heads in the woman’s shower. Montgomery’s white Mercedes convertible is also missing.
There are no leads in the case, though police are rumored to be questioning California’s newest state senator, attorney Thomas Whitehead, who was to have been Montgomery’s escort at last night’s fund-raiser. Whitehead was elected to the Senate last fall, just fourteen months after his six-months-pregnant, fashion-designer wife, Kate Whitehead, disappeared without a trace. Before her disappearance, Mrs. Whitehead was frequently seen in the company of her longtime best friend, Leah Montgomery.
“Mama! Mamama!”
Shaking, heart pounding so hard she could feel its beat, Tricia Campbell lowered the newspaper enough to peer over the top at her eighteen-month-old son. She could see him sitting there in his scarred wood high chair in their modest San Diego home, pajamas covered with crumbs from the breakfast he’d long since finished, wispy dark curls sticking to the sides of his head. Could smell the plum jam he’d smeared all over his plump chin, cheeks and fingers. And she could definitely hear him…“Mamamama! Down!” The baby, pounding his clenched fists on the stained tray of his chair, was working up to a frustrated squall.
The paper fell to Tricia’s lap. She stared at her son, seeing him as though from afar—as though he belonged to someone else. The little boy was almost the entire sum of her existence—certainly the basis of every conscious decision she’d made in the past two years—and she couldn’t connect. Not even with him. Not right now.
“Maamaa?” The little voice dropped as though in question.
Wordlessly, she glanced down at her lap, staring at the small, grainy picture that accompanied the article. It must’ve been pulled from the vault in a hurry. The likeness was old, an image captured more than two years before. Taken at yet another of Leah’s constant stream of charity events—a Monte Carlo night with proceeds to offer relief to recent hurricane victims.
Tricia recognized the dress Leah was wearing. The smile on her face. The picture. She’d been standing right beside her when that photo was snapped. Had posed for one herself. After all, they’d both been wearing gowns from the latest Kate Whitehead collection—gowns that were to have their own showing later that year.
“Ma! Ma! Down! Mama! Down!” The loud banging, a result of her son’s tennis shoe kicking back against the foothold on his chair, caught her attention.
With a trembling hand, she pushed a strand of her now-mousy brown hair toward the ponytail band that was supposed to have been holding it in place, watching as the toddler screwed up his face into the series of creases and curves that indicated a full-blown tantrum. And felt as though the expression was her own. Grief. Anger. Confusion. Leah was missing. Leah—her best friend. A piece of her heart.
Leah, whose memory afforded her a secret inner hold on sanity in a life that was nothing but secrets and insanity.
“Down!” The squeal of fear in her son’s voice catapulted Tricia out of her seat, across the foot and a half of cheap linoleum to his secondhand chair. In no time, she had him unstrapped and clutched his strong little body tight, cheek to cheek, the tears streaming down her face mingling with his.
She was shaking harder than he was.
“…Engine Eleven respond, overturned traffic…”
“Let’s go!” Captain Scott McCall dropped his sponge in the bucket of water he’d been using to clean the windows in the station’s kitchen and ran for the door. An overturned vehicle on the freeway couldn’t be good.
A flurry of heavy footsteps hitting cement rang through the station. Silent men, focused on the moments ahead, or perhaps the pizza they’d just ordered, all doing the jobs they’d been trained to do. Street boots off, Scott pulled on the heat-resistant pants with attached boots that he’d thrown over the side of the engine when they’d returned from a Dumpster fire that morning. He grabbed his jacket off the side mirror and jumped aboard, scooping up the helmet he’d left in the passenger seat.
Cliff Ralen, his engineer, already had the rig in motion. They traveled silently, as usual, having worked together so long they had no need for words. Scott was the captain, but he rarely had to give orders to any of the three men on the engine with him. They were well-trained, as firemen and as co-workers. He was damned lucky to have a group of guys who shared a sixth sense when it came to getting the job done.
The engine couldn’t get to the freeway quickly enough for Scott. Was it a multiple-car accident? Someone could be trapped inside. More than one someone. It was interstate. A second engine would be called. Police would be on-site.
With a rollover accident, there was a greater possibility of explosion.
And a greater possibility of severe injury—or death.
Sweating, impatient, Scott clenched his fists, waiting. This was always the worst part for him. The waiting. Patience wasn’t his strongest suit. Nor was inactivity.
Waiting could be the hardest part of his job because he knew what it was like to be on the other side, helpless, feeling time slip away while you waited for help to arrive….
He tapped a foot against the floorboard. He was help. He and his men. The guys would secure the area. Check for signs of fire danger. Rip car doors from their jambs. Break through back windows.
And Scott, as the engine’s paramedic, would…
Do whatever needed to be done. He always did. He wouldn’t think about the people. He wouldn’t feel. They didn’t pay him to think too much. Or to feel.
Feeling weakened a man. Got in the way. Could make the one-second difference between saving a life and losing it.
Scott wasn’t going to lose a life. Not if there was anything humanly possible he could do to save it.
He wasn’t going to witness another life fading away while he stood helplessly by and watched.
Period.
With his door open even before Cliff pulled to a halt, Scott jumped out. He took in the entire scene at a glance—the circle of tragedy, with bystanders on the periphery and his men moving forward checking for fuel leaks, other signs of explosion danger, trapped victims.
Engine Eleven was the first on-site. Goddamn, it was ugly. A pickup truck, the mangled cap several yards away. Off to the other side, also several yards from the smashed vehicle was a trailer hauling a late-model Corvette. Whoever had been driving that truck had been going too fast, jackknifed the trailer, lost control. Judging by the roof flattened clear down to the door frame, the truck had rolled more than once.
Whoever had been driving that truck was nowhere in sight. He hoped it was a man. Or an old woman who’d lived a full life. Please, God, don’t let it be a young woman.
“She’s trapped inside!” Joe Valentine called out. He’d worked with Scott for six of Scott’s eleven years with the department.
If she’s young, let her be okay, he demanded silently as he grabbed his black bag and approached the truck. She’s just trapped. Between the steel frame of the truck, the air bags and seat belt, the vehicle might have protected her. Cliff took a crowbar to the upside-down driver’s door. Metal on metal, screeching over raw nerves. He’d treat her for shock. Rail at her about the reason for speed limits. Make sure she understood how lucky she was to have escaped serious injury.
It was half an hour before Scott had his mind to himself again. He’d filled out his report. Tuesday, April 5, 2005. 11:45 a.m. Responded to call at…
Kelsey Stuart, the young woman who’d borrowed her boyfriend’s truck to pull her recently deceased father’s car to her apartment in San Diego, had been pronounced dead at the scene fifteen minutes before.
By the time she heard Scott’s black Chevy pickup in the drive shortly after eight on Wednesday morning, Tricia had had twenty-four hours to work herself into an inner frenzy and an outer state of complete calm. Much of her life had been spent learning things she’d never use. But little had she known, growing up the daughter of a wealthy San Franciscan couple, that the ability to keep up appearances had also equipped her with the skills to lead a double life.
“Hi, babe!” Even after almost two years of living with this man, sharing his bed and his life, she still felt that little leap in her belly every time he walked into a room.
She was in the kitchen and plunged her hands into the sink of dirty dishwater to keep from flinging them around Scott. He wouldn’t recognize the needy, clinging woman.
“Hi, yourself!”
He’d been gone four nights—part of the four on, four off rotation that made up most of his schedule, broken only once or twice a month with a one or two day on/off turn. She could have justified a hug. If she’d been able to trust herself not to fall apart the moment she felt his arms slide around her…
“Daaaddeee!” Taylor squirmed in his high chair, seemingly unaware of the toast crumbs smeared across his plump cheeks and up into his hair. His breakfast was a daily pre-bath ritual.
“Mornin’, squirt!” Scott rubbed the baby’s head and bent down to kiss his cheek, as though he was spotlessly clean. “Were you a good boy for your mama?”
“Good boy.” Taylor nodded. And then, “Down!”
He lifted his arms up to the man he called Daddy. Someday Taylor would have to know that Scott wasn’t actually his biological father, but maybe by then Scott would have adopted him and—
She abruptly yanked the plug in the bottom of the sink, watching as the grayish water and the residue of bubbles washed away. She couldn’t think about the future. It was one of her non-negotiable rules.
Unless things changed drastically, there would be no future for her. Only the day-to-day life she had now. Only the moment.
Hearing her son squeal, followed by silence from the man who usually made as much or more noise than the little boy when the two were playing together, Tricia glanced over her shoulder.
“Scott?” She dried her hands, moved slowly behind the man she’d duped—yes, duped—into taking her in. She’d played the part of a destitute homeless woman, and then grown to love Scott more than she’d ever believed possible. Face buried in Taylor’s neck, he was holding on to the boy.
Almost as she had the day before…
“Is something wrong?” she asked, her throat tightening with the terror that was never far from the surface. Had he had enough of them? Was this going to be goodbye?
Could she handle another loss right now?
He didn’t look up right away, and Tricia focused on breathing. Life had come down to this a few times in the past couple of years—reduced to its most basic level. Getting each breath to follow the one before. Clearing her mind of all thought, all worry, her heart of all fear, so that she could breathe.
“You want us to leave?” she made herself ask when she could. Probably only seconds had passed. They seemed like minutes. Her arrangement with Scott wasn’t permanent. She’d known that. Insisted on it.
The back pockets of her worn, department-store jeans were a good place for hands that were noticeably trembling.
“Can we put him in his playpen with Blue?” Scott asked.
Taylor’s addiction to Blue’s Clues could easily buy half an hour of uninterrupted time.
“I need to talk to you.”
It was bad, then.
He wouldn’t look her in the eye. Hadn’t answered her question about leaving. And his thick brown hair was messier than usual—as though he’d been running his hand through it all morning.
Scott had a habit of doing that when he was working through things that upset him.
She wanted to speak. To tell him that amusing Taylor with Blue while they talked was fine with her. That she was happy to hear whatever was on his mind.
She just didn’t have it in her. She’d hardly slept. Was having trouble staying focused. Jumping at every innocuous click, bump or whoosh of air. She’d even dropped Taylor’s spoon earlier when the refrigerator had clicked on behind her.
With a jerky nod, she followed him into the living room, where one entire corner was taken up with Taylor’s playpen, toys and sundry other toddler possessions. She would’ve moved the changing table out of the crowded room now that he was older and it was easier to have him climb onto the couch rather than lifting his almost twenty pounds up to the table for a diaper change, but they didn’t have anyplace to put it. Scott’s house, as was the case with most of the homes in the older San Diego South Park neighborhood, didn’t have a garage.
And the crib and dresser in Taylor’s small room left no space for anything else. Which made the fact that they had little else less noticeable.
“What’s up?” They were in Scott’s room—their room for now—with the door open so she could hear Taylor.
He paced at the end of the king-size bed, staring down at the hardwood floor. Sitting in the old wooden rocker that had become a haven to her, Tricia hugged a throw pillow to her belly and waited.
Scott stopped. Glanced over at her. He sat on the end of the bed she’d made only an hour before. With hands clasped between his knees, he looked over at her.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
Her breath whooshed out, but her lungs didn’t immediately expand to allow any entry of air.
He opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head.
“What?” Her voice was low, partly because she was having trouble saying anything at all. Partly because of Taylor in the next room. But also because, as she saw him sitting there, she watched—felt—the struggle inside him.
She knew. Oh, not his secret, obviously. But she knew all about the dark pain associated with keeping secrets.
“I shouldn’t have lied, and I’m sorry.” The conversation was getting more and more ominous. Tricia wanted to scream at him for lying to her. She’d been lied to enough. Couldn’t take any more.
But how could she be upset with him for something she was doing herself? No one was guiltier of hiding things than Tricia Campbell—name chosen from the Campbell’s soup can she’d seen on his counter when, the morning after the first time they’d had sex, he’d asked her full name.
“Why…” she coughed. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?” If she had to find another place to live, she’d need as much of the day as she could get. Taylor had to be in bed by seven or he’d be too tired to sleep.
Still hugging the pillow, Tricia tried her hardest to ignore the far-too-familiar sense of impending darkness, the dread and panic that she could never seem to escape. She thought of the blue sky outside. Of the beach in Coronado, there for her to walk any time of the day or night. She thought of cuddling up to her small son for a long afternoon nap.
“I’m—I haven’t always lived…this way.” He gestured to the room.
“What? I’m keeping the place too clean? I don’t mean to, I just…”
“No!” He grinned at her and Tricia’s heart lightened. That quickly. It was why she’d been drawn to the man in the first place. There was something special about him and something deep in her recognized it. Even if, consciously, she had no idea what it was.
“I love everything you’ve done to the place. The curtains and pillows, the rugs. I love having meals I don’t have to fix myself, and having help with the dishes. I love always being able to find what I need because it has a place, so I know where to look for it.”
Good. Okay, then. She wasn’t just using him. She was giving him a valuable service.
“Have you ever heard of McCall faucets?”
The question threw her. “Of course. They’re top of the line. In custom homes all over the country. They do shower fixtures, too.”
“And toilet hardware,” he added.
“So?” She frowned, pushed against the floor with one bare foot to set the chair in motion. “You want to replace the kitchen faucet?”
He shook his head.
She hadn’t really thought so.
“The shower?” Please let it just be that.
“No, Trish. I want to tell you that my family is McCall faucets. I am McCall faucets.”
She was going to wake up now and find out that this was a twisted dream, another way her psyche had dreamed up to torment her. She was going to wake up and find out that it was really only one in the morning and she had a whole night to get through before she could get out of bed and feel the promise of sunshine on her skin. Seven and a half hours to go before Scott got home from his shift at the station.
“Say something.” He was still sitting there, dressed in his blue uniform pants and blue T-shirt with the San Diego fire insignia on it, hands clasped. She hadn’t woken up.
“I’m confused.” It was a relief to tell the complete truth for once.
“My grandfather is the original designer and patent holder of McCall faucets. The company now belongs to my parents. My younger brother, Jason, has an MBA in business and will probably take over the vice-presidency from my uncle when he retires in a couple of years.”
Wake up. Wake up. Please wake up.
“Do you have a large family?” That seemed the smart thing to concentrate on until she could get herself out of this crazy nightmare.
Scott was one of those people? The kind she used to be? The kind her husband still was? People whose wealth and privilege instilled the belief that they were above the law? One of those people who made mistakes and knew that society would look the other way?
Scott was coming clean? When it was more important than ever that she continue with her lies?
He’d said something—about his family she presumed—and was now awaiting her response.
“I’m sorry, I missed that, I was listening to Taylor.” The lies slid out of her mouth so easily these days.
His mouth curved in that half grin that usually made her stomach turn over. Not today. She was going to miss that grin.
“I said that I have numerous aunts, uncles and cousins, both of my maternal grandparents and both parents. But Jason is my only sibling.”
“No sisters?” The ridiculous question, considering what he was telling her, proved to her that this was only a dream. Reassured her.
Scott shook his head. “Just a bevy of female cousins.”
She felt a brief curiosity about them. Would probably have liked them. If she could’ve met Scott sooner, in college maybe, before she’d made the one critical choice that had ruined the rest of her life.
Staring at the braided rug in the middle of the floor between the rocker and bed, she didn’t realize Scott had stood until she felt the warmth of his hand prying the pillow from her fingers. With gentle pressure, he pulled at her hand. Tricia didn’t resist. In his arms she came alive.
She knew her attempt at escape through fantasies of nightmares for the lie it was.
Everything Scott had just told her was true. All true.
And everything about her—including her mousy-brown hair—was false.
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