The Taking Of Carly Bradford. Ramona Richards

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СКАЧАТЬ the chin and praised her, their welcome-home routine. Then she whimpered with pleasure and pressed herself up against his leg briefly before prancing alongside him as he entered the house.

      Tyler paused and let out a deep sigh as he closed the door and removed his gun and holster and placed them in a cabinet near the door. Home. It felt good. He’d waited so long to buy his own place that some folks thought he never would. But Tyler wanted just the right house, and he was patient. This former residence of a retired teacher and confirmed bachelor had been just the right house. Well-kept and already decorated in the dark greens, blues and browns that Tyler found comforting. He’d changed very little in the house, but it was still his space.

      I wonder if Dee would like it. Images of the short brunette slipped in and out of Tyler’s mind as he prepared dinner—a scoop of dry food for Patty and a sandwich and chips for himself—then cleaned the kitchen and stretched out to watch one of the news channels for a bit. He liked Dee’s laugh, and he thought again of their great chats over lunch at the Federal Café. He found her questions about his life and his faith intelligent and curious without being intrusive. He’d encouraged her to look to God again, trying to give examples of perseverance and success from his own life as well as his friends’. She still resisted, even if her curiosity about his own faith never waned. Maybe, as she healed from her grief…. He sighed. “Special lady.”

      Patty, who had parked herself by the couch within reach of his petting hand, perked up at his muttered words, tilting her head to one side, as if to ask, “Did you say ‘walk’?” She twisted in the other direction.

      Tyler scratched her head. “Let me change, and we’ll go out. Maybe this will clear my head.”

      Patty bounded up and over to the row of pegs behind the back door where her leash hung. He laughed, then went upstairs to the bedroom to change into shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. By the time he had his running shoes on, Patty had turned into a wriggling maniac, and he calmed her down, then snapped on the leash.

      They started out with a slow walk, with Patty darting around him, sniffing every post, mailbox or clump of grass that hinted of a previous dog’s passing. They circled the block near his house, and he waved to any neighbors out for late evening chores or porch sits. Mrs. Adams, eighty-three and still a pistol, flagged him down to complain about a stray dog that had been digging in her yard. Tyler promised he’d speak to the county’s animal control folks and complimented her on her beds of spring flowers. The Beekers, transplants from Boston, asked about the spring arts festival, and he referred them to the gallery owner who organized it.

      Eventually, he and Patty headed toward the city park at the edge of town. Dusk gave way to a pleasant darkness, with the moon already rising, turning open areas silver as the shadows became more stark and defined. The park had a graceful, steady slope to it, and many of its features—the bandstand, memorial fountain, and the cluster of benches that was his favorite prayer spot—faced Mercer, so that everything appeared to overlook the small vale where the town sat so peacefully.

      Tyler jogged around the perimeter of the park once, checking out anything that might look suspicious, then circled it again in a fast jog. The last of the visitors—a couple he knew from church and a scattering of young boys squeezing as much out of the day as possible—wandered toward the park entrance. At the end of the second trip, the jog turned back into a walk, and he and Patty headed home.

      He’d once clocked it at 4.6 miles, and Tyler claimed every foot. He didn’t like to run; he did it because he needed to stay in reasonable shape for the job. Having Patty along made it palatable, and he’d gotten asked out recently because of the dog. He grinned. Maybe he should introduce Dee to Patty.

      Yet as he ran, his mind had started shifting from Dee Kelley to Carly Bradford. More than anything, he wanted to help them both. And he wondered if his reluctance to believe that the shoes had belonged to Carly indicated a lack of hope for Carly or a lack of confidence in Dee’s recovery.

      Tyler’s pace slowed, and he looked down at Patty, who panted hard. “Neither, right? I can’t lose hope in either.”

      The dog tipped her head up once to look at him, then returned her focus to the street in front of her.

      But the shoes can’t be Carly’s! We went over that ground with a fine-tooth comb. There’s no way we missed something as important as her shoes! He stopped and bent over, bracing his hands on his knees and stretching his back and thighs. “Right?” he asked Patty again.

      Patty decided a telephone pole was more interesting and tugged on her leash. He relented and as he waited ran his hand through his close-cropped hair, his deep-seated frustration rising again. His jogs normally pushed it away, but not today. He let out a long breath and resumed walking.

      As he turned onto his street, a dark, nondescript sedan pulled up next to him, and the passenger window slid down. Fletcher leaned over and called to him. “Get in. We’ve been looking for you.”

      Tyler opened the back door and motioned for Patty to get in, then he got in the front. “What’s going on?”

      Fletcher turned the car toward downtown. “Wayne called the lodge when he couldn’t get you on the phone. Someone’s found Carly’s dress.”

      FOUR

      Thin bands of white moonlight brightened Dee’s room and fell in stripes across her face. She stirred and blinked, easing awake in the silent room, confused as to why the moon seemed to be in the wrong position. The bed, the night table, also wrong. She jerked up as a short burst of panic flared in her. Where am I? The jerk produced pain in her face, neck and shoulders, and it all flooded back again—the day, the attack, the fuzzy ride home from the hospital.

      Oh. Right. The lodge house, not my cabin. Dee pressed her head against the pillow and closed her eyes, aware that the pain, dull and throbbing, must have awakened her. She touched her face gingerly, a bit surprised at how much even the lightest touch hurt. Twin tears slipped from the corner of each eye, moistening her temples and disappearing into her hair.

      What was I thinking, why didn’t I just drop the sandals? Stupid! He could have killed me. Yet, even as she scolded herself, Dee knew why.

      Carly. Whoever attacked her must have Carly. Dee now knew that fact as certainly as she knew her own name. No one else would know yet that she had found the shoes. No one else could know whether they were really Carly’s. No matter how crazy it sounded, it had to be true. They were Carly’s.

      But would Tyler believe her? She’d seen the look in his eyes, and that doctor’s, when she’d told the story in the E.R. They thought she was crazy.

      Still crazy. Tyler must think I’ve had a relapse. Maybe I have. Dee did know she couldn’t get Carly out of her head. She’d thought of almost nothing since she’d found the sandals. In and out of her grogginess at the hospital and, later, here, her mind had replayed every newspaper article she’d read, every television report she’d seen. Carly is eight, the same age Joshua was. We have to find her. We have to!

      Dee knew that Carly now threatened to be lodged in her mind and spirit, almost in the same way Joshua had been. And Mickey. Even after they died. But Carly…Carly might still be alive. And that—person—knows. I know what I heard. I heard it. I didn’t make it up. He has to believe me.

      “Tyler,” she whispered. Dee opened her eyes as she remembered the trip home, how he’d lifted her at the hospital, then again here. Lifted her as easily as if she were a child. He’d been so tender with her, as if she were fragile as well as injured. His chest and arms had been firm, radiating СКАЧАТЬ