Stranger in Town Read online

  STRANGER IN TOWN

  Cheryl Bradshaw

  Copyright © 2012 by Cheryl Bradshaw

  First edition November 2012

  Cover Design Copyright 2012 © Reese Dante

  Formatting by Bob Houston eBook Formatting

  ISBN: 148020725X

  ISBN-13: 978-1480207257

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any similarity to events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and should be recognized as such.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form, or by any means whatsoever (electronic, mechanical, etc.) without the prior written permission and consent of the author.

  For updates on Cheryl and her books:

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  ALSO BY CHERYL BRADSHAW

  Black Diamond Death, (Sloane Monroe Series #1)

  Sinnerman (Sloane Monroe Series #2)

  I Have a Secret (Sloane Monroe Series #3)

  Sloane Monroe Series Boxed Set (Books 1-3)

  Whispers of Murder (Novella)

  Grayson Manor Haunting (Novella, coming December 2012)

  Echoes of Murder (Novella, coming January 2012)

  Author praise for the Sloane Monroe Series:

  “A delightful read.” Vine Voice Reviewer

  “Bradshaw spins a good story with solid characters and pacing.” RW Bennett, Author of Love.com

  “Bradshaw's dialogue is sharp, her pacing superb, and her talent shines throughout the entire story.” Michael Robertson, Author of REGRET

  “I can officially declare that I am now a Cheryl Bradshaw fan.” Mel Comley, Author of the Justice series

  “Cheryl Bradshaw has crafted a fast-paced thriller that draws the reader in with its easy, flowing prose.” G.R. Yeates, Author of the Vetala Cycle series

  DEDICATION

  This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever lost a child.

  My heart goes out to you.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To my husband, Justin, for his unwavering support—and for helping me understand things like guns, wild animals, and fishing. You still owe me a pistol, by the way.

  A big thanks to Dr. Brian Reedy at the School of Chemistry and Forensic Science in Australia for answering my forensics questions.

  Many thanks to the best editor and gal around, Janet Green (thewordverve), my formatter, Bob Houston, and my superb cover artist, Reese Dante.

  Thanks also to Becky Fagnant and Amy Jirsa-Smith, my proofers.

  To my friends and family for your continued support.

  And finally to Tracy Chapman. “The Promise” is the theme song for this novel.

  "At what point shall we expect the approach of danger?

  By what means shall we fortify against it?”

  -Abraham Lincoln

  CHAPTER 1

  Pinedale, Wyoming

  October 17, 2010

  Six-year-old Olivia Hathaway tiptoed down the center aisle of Maybelle’s Market, stopping once to glance over her shoulder and make sure her mother wasn’t watching. But Mrs. Hathaway was too engrossed in selecting the right card for her sister’s birthday to notice her daughter had slipped away.

  Olivia looked left and then right before scooting one aisle over. She peered at the products lining the shelves and then shook her head. “Nope, not this one.”

  She frowned and moved on.

  The colors from the paint samples on the next aisle were like bright strips of candy, beckoning her to come closer. So she did. She loved plucking the cardstock strips from their slots and adding them to her collection at home. She’d gathered so many over the past few months, her mother had bought her a notebook to glue them all in.

  The star-shaped colors were Olivia’s favorite because they weren’t plain and ordinary like the rectangle ones, and they had fun names like “Summer Sparkle” and “Twinkle, Twinkle.” She tapped her pointer finger on the top of each card like she was playing a game of “eeny meeny miny moe” and then selected her favorite color: green. She’d always wanted a green room, but her mother said green was for boys and had painted Olivia’s room pink instead.

  Olivia held the green star out in front of her and twirled around and around, fascinated with the glitter that had been mixed in to the paint. If only her room could be as beautiful as this. Maybe if she wished hard enough, one day, it would be. She kept that thought in her mind as she spun around one last time before she collided with something hard.

  “Hello, Olivia,” a man’s voice said.

  A man in a black ball cap and mirrored sunglasses smiled and pointed at the ground. “You dropped something.”

  Olivia froze.

  “Here, let me get it for you,” he said.

  The man scooped up the painted star and held it out in front of Olivia. “Go on, take it,” he said. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Olivia didn’t know why her stomach felt like a bunch of ants were crawling around inside, but she did know the way it made her feel: scared. She wanted to shout for her mother, but when her mouth fell open, nothing came out. She looked down at the ground, hoping when she looked back up, the man would be gone. But he wasn’t.

  “Come here, sweet thing,” the man said. “It’s okay. I don’t bite.”

  When Olivia didn’t move, the man knelt down in front of her. He lifted up her stiff body and set her down on his knee. “Do you want me to take you back to your mommy?”

  Olivia squeezed her eyes shut, but when she opened them, the man’s hands still wound around her tiny arms like a boa constrictor. If he wants to help me find my mommy, why is he holding me so tight?

  “How far away is your mommy?” the man said.

  Olivia pointed.

  “How about this—give me a hug, just a little one, and we’ll look together.” He held a finger out in front of her. “Pinky promise.”

  Olivia wanted nothing more than to be back with her mother again. The man’s breath smelled like her mom’s when she hadn’t brushed her teeth in the morning. Olivia leaned in just enough for the man to hold her close, but jerked back when the mountain of stubble on the man’s chin scratched her face. She knew her cheek wasn’t on fire, but it burned like the metal from a seat belt on a hot day.

  The man patted Olivia on the back and stood up. “There now, take my hand.”

  Olivia looked down. Her fingers were clenched in a tight ball, the edges of her untrimmed nails digging into the soft skin of the palm of her hands. She stuck out her tiny hand, and the man wrapped it in his. But when they got to the end of the aisle, he didn’t turn toward where Olivia had pointed, he kept walking.

  A faint whisper echoed in the distance. “Olivia, honey, where are you?”

  She wanted to cry out, “Mother, I am here!” But the man clasped her hand so tight, she was too afraid to say anything.

  Hand in hand, they walked through the front door. The sun had just started to go down when they stepped outside, but it was still light enough for Olivia to recognize the person walking toward them.

  “Olivia, is that you?” the woman said.

  It was her white-haired, wrinkly-faced neighbor, Mrs. Schroeder.

  “Excuse me,” Mrs. Schroeder said to the man, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Helen Schroeder. Are you a relative of the Hathaway family, in town for a visit perhaps?”

  The man looked down and kept walking without responding to the old woman. He stopped next to a silver car and turned to Olivia. “Get in.”

  She did.

  He shut her inside and turned around to find Mrs. S
chroeder glaring up at him.

  “I really must insist you answer my question,” Mrs. Schroeder said. “Or I’ll have no choice but to call Olivia’s parents right now.”

  Mrs. Schroeder tapped her wooden cane on the back window of the car. “Olivia, dear, do you know this man?”

  The man glanced around. Seeing no one, he pulled a knife from his front pocket, clicking a button on the top. The knife sprung to life. Before the old woman had the chance to scream, the man thrust the knife into her side. “I’m sorry, but I’ve had enough of your stupid questions,” he said.

  The woman tried to grab for the door handle, but collapsed to the ground. The man stepped over her and got into the car.

  Olivia shielded her eyes and thrashed her head from side to side. “It’s okay, everything’s okay. Mommy will find me,” she whispered to herself. All she could think about was being at home in her pink room. If she could just go home, she’d never run away from her mommy again.

  The man started the car and backed out. The car bounced up and down for a moment. It reminded Olivia of the time her dad ran over the neighbor’s cat by accident. Olivia gathered up enough courage to move one of her fingers away from her eyes just enough to see Mrs. Schroeder through the car window. She was on the ground, motionless.

  The man turned around, smiling. Olivia noticed a hole in his mouth where a tooth should have been.

  “Mrs. Schroeder will be okay, Olivia,” the man said. “She fell down, that’s all. Lie down now, and try to get some sleep. When you wake up, you’ll be home.”

  Olivia stared down at her star, wishing what he said was true.

  Inside the store, a frantic Mrs. Hathaway ran up and down the aisles begging anyone she came in contact with to help find her missing daughter. A few minutes later the store was locked down. But it was too late. Olivia was gone.

  CHAPTER 2

  I-80 Freeway, Eastbound

  October 9, 2012

  No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t peel my eyes away from the digital numbers on the dashboard clock in front of me. It was 12:45 p.m., and I had two options: break the law by speeding or accept the fact I was going to be late. I glanced around, taking in the reflection of the rear-view mirror, and slammed my foot down on the pedal.

  Two hours earlier I’d been enjoying a cheese soufflé with my friend Maddie when my cell phone rang. I hadn’t recognized the number and sent it to voicemail. But something about seeing the little white number “1” circled in red on my iPhone sent my OCD into overdrive. Turning the phone over and setting it down on the counter didn’t help things either. I knew when I flipped it back around the number would still be there, taunting me like a baker dangling a fresh, glazed donut in front of my face. Take it, you know you want to.

  So I did.

  The message began, Hi, umm, my name is Noah Tate. I got your card from someone I met. I’m looking for a private investigator, and he recommended I contact you. If you’re not too busy, I’d like to meet later today. I realize it’s short notice…

  There was a moment of silence, and then …

  Please. If you could just help me. I don’t know what else to do.

  It was Saturday. My day off. I had a policy about not taking new clients on the weekends. It was how I convinced myself I wasn’t really a workaholic. But something about the way the man’s voice cracked in between his words intrigued me. He was desperate, and I wanted to know why.

  When I called back, the man wouldn’t say why he wanted to hire me. He just said he’d rather not discuss it over the phone, and asked if we could meet in Evanston, Wyoming in two hours, a place just past the Utah border. Although it was less than two hours away, I’d never been to Wyoming in my life.

  I exited the freeway in Evanston and searched for the restaurant that Mr. Tate had described as log-cabin style. In a sea of fast-food joints, it wasn’t hard to find. An eight-foot tall carved moose kept watch out front. Only a few cars were parked on the lot, one of them being a vacated black Dodge Ram with an expensive, after-market grill on front. It was flashy, and polished to a buff shine. Content with my Audi, I’d never fully learned to appreciate trucks before, but this one demanded it.

  Across the street at the McDonald’s, a young mother and her two boys sat at a table beneath the golden arches. One of the boys shoved a fry in each one of his nostrils and made a face at his mother, who wasn’t fazed in the least. Not to be outdone, the other boy sucked some soda through a straw and ejected it. The liquid landed on a pile of chicken nuggets she was eating. The boys giggled until their mother gave them a look all mothers give when they’re about to go McCrazy.

  I reclined my seat back and closed my eyes. Some time later, I woke up and looked around. There was no sign of Mr. Tate or his beige SUV anywhere. How long had I been out? Fifteen minutes? Thirty? It felt like an hour. I glanced down at my phone. Forty-five minutes had gone by.

  I checked my text messages and had received one written in all caps: BE THERE SOON, NOAH TATE.

  I never understood what compelled a person to show up late without any regard for the person they’d inconvenienced. I dialed Mr. Tate’s number. It went to voicemail. “Wait fifteen more minutes,” I said to myself, “then leave.”

  Fourteen minutes later, I turned the key in the ignition and put the car in reverse, almost backing into the beige SUV that whizzed across the intersection and into the parking lot at warp speed. The vehicle jerked to a stop, and a slender, red-faced man with no hair to speak of opened the door and scurried out. He smoothed some crumbs off of his expensive-looking, button-up shirt, glanced around, and advanced in my direction.

  “Mr. Tate?”

  The man nodded, sticking his hand through my open window.

  I didn’t take it.

  “Call me Noah, please.”

  “You’re late,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. I sent you a text. Didn’t you get it?”

  “That’s your excuse: ‘you sent me a text?’”

  He shrugged. “I tried to leave on—”

  “Call next time,” I said. “Or I might not be around when you get here.” I got out of the car. “Should we go in?”

  He nodded and followed me inside.

  The waiter seated us at a wooden table with legs made of thick, knotty logs. Black and white photographs were haphazardly glued along the top and had been covered with some type of lacquered glaze, sealing them in place. The photographs looked like they’d been taken several decades earlier and showed what the town was like before it turned into what it was today.

  Once we were seated, Mr. Tate looked both ways before sliding a bank envelope over to me. The look on his face made me feel like we were making a drug exchange. I took the money, setting it to the side. I hadn’t agreed to anything—not yet.

  “I’m not clear about why you wanted to hire me,” I said. “I need to know before I accept the job.”

  “I didn’t want to discuss it over the phone.”

  “Why not?”

  He tapped his pointer finger on the table and whistled a few notes from an unfamiliar tune. “It’s not an easy subject to discuss in front of my wife.”

  “Your wife isn’t here now,” I said.

  I thought about all the reasons a man would need to discuss something away from the watchful eye of their suspicious spouse, the most prominent being cheating or something having to do with money. But Mr. Tate didn’t appear to have money problems, and he didn’t seem like the unfaithful type either. Then again, the best cheaters never did.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “How do you know what I think?”

  “You wrinkled your face just now like I’ve done something wrong,” he said. “I haven’t.”

  “I’d like to know why I’m here.”

  He leaned back in the chair, laced his fingers together, and rested them on the edge of the table. “A couple years ago a young girl named Olivia Hathaway was kidnapped a few hours from
here.”

  The name seemed vaguely familiar. “Where was she taken?”

  “From a grocery store in Pinedale.”

  “Is Pinedale in—”

  He nodded. “Wyoming, yes.”

  “What happened?”

  His shoulder bobbed up and down.

  “No one knows for sure. They were shopping at the time, the girl and her mother. Her mother remembers telling Olivia to hold on to the side of the cart while she looked at something, but when she turned back around, Olivia was gone. She searched every aisle with the store employees, but found no sign of her anywhere.”

  “They never found her—dead or alive?”

  He shook his head.

  “Police combed the area, formed search parties, and put her picture up on every post, billboard, and store window. By the time they were through, they’d gone over every inch of Pinedale at least once. There wasn’t a soul in the state of Wyoming that didn’t know the girl was missing.”

  “And there were no witnesses?” I said.

  “None that lived to talk about it.”

  I sipped my water.

  “So there was someone who saw what happened?”

  “A store employee discovered an elderly woman dead in the parking lot right after Olivia was taken. She’d been stabbed once, and then run over.”

  “By a vehicle?”

  He nodded.

  “A car.”

  “She must have seen something,” I said.

  His demeanor conveyed much more than a person who was sharing a story. He was connected somehow.

  “Is Olivia your daughter?”

  He swallowed hard and glanced out the window.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I can’t imagine how hard it would be to lose a child.”

  A single tear formed in the corner of his eyelid. He quickly swept it away. “Olivia Hathaway is not my daughter.”