The Escape Artist by Diane Chamberlain
She looked down at the pile of information on her lap. "Jim, I feel like I'm doing this all on my own."
"Doing what?" he asked. "You mean, getting the information on finding Tyler?"
She nodded.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Peg." He put his arm around her and pulled her against him again. "It's just that you've got this time off, and I'm working like a dog. I do appreciate all you're doing, though. You let me know how I can help, okay?"
Now that he'd offered, she wasn't sure what she could suggest. He was right. She had the time to do this. He didn't. She simply didn't like the sense of being alone in the battle. She'd talked to Nancy Curry about the situation the other night.
"Men just have different ways of handling disappointment," Nancy had reassured her. "They can't deal with it directly, so they have to block it out with work or sex or whatever they can find to keep their minds off it." That fit Jim, all right.
"What I would really like," Peggy said, "is your permission to hire the PI."
Jim sighed. "If you honestly think it would help, go ahead."
She smiled. "Thank you." She leaned forward to kiss him, and he didn't let her go. She tried to let her lips linger on his, but all she could think about was making the call to Bill Anderson.
Jim shook his head, pulling away from her with a smile. "You've got one thing on your mind, don't you, and it's not going to bed with your husband."
He was right. She kissed him again, told him she loved him, then went into the kitchen to make the call.
–9–
Bill Anderson leaned forward on the sofa, notepad on his knee, and Linc noticed that the private investigator was keeping one wary eye on Sam. The dog, who was now lying at Linc's feet, had let out a wise and knowing growl when Anderson walked in the door, and Linc had had a hard time keeping a straight face.
"So," Anderson said, "when was the last time you saw her?"
Everyone's favorite question. "I've already answered—"
"I know. For the police. But not for me. So bear with me, all right?"
Linc sighed and gave in. Bill Anderson was small and a little too slick in his three-piece suit, and he was suffering from an upper respiratory infection, sniffing grotesquely every few seconds or so.
"I last saw her in my car after the judge's decision," he said. "We picked up Tyler from day care and I drove them home."
"And what did you talk about?"
"I don't remember," he answered honestly. "We were both pretty depressed."
"Did you go into the house with her?"
"No. I went home. We spoke again on the phone that night. She sounded all right. She certainly didn't say anything about leaving." He didn't mention how odd it was that she hadn't wanted him around that evening.
"Had she ever mentioned to you places she might like to visit?" Bill asked.
Linc hardly heard the question. His mind was on his knapsack where a fresh pack of Marlboros was waiting for him. Grace and Valerie were in the house, though. He didn't dare light up with the two of them there. He tried to bring his focus back to the investigator's question.
"Sorry," he said. "What did you say?"
Anderson repeated his question.
"Contrary to what her ex-husband might have told you," Linc answered, "Susanna is not stupid. She wouldn't try to hide out someplace she'd told people she wanted to go."
"Well, tell me anyway." Bill Anderson wore a patronizing smirk.
"She hadn't traveled much," Linc said. "I think the only place she'd ever been outside of Colorado was California. She said she'd like to go to Hawaii one day. And Europe. She was intrigued by Italy, because she wanted to see all the old artwork." He hoped that would be enough to keep the little guy happy.
From behind the closed kitchen doors, he could smell the aroma of the chicken soup Grace and Valerie were making. He'd found the women waiting on his doorstep when he got home from teaching his class at the university that afternoon. They were going to nurse him "back to mental health," they insisted. As soon as Bill Anderson's car pulled up, though, Linc had shoved his friends into the kitchen and told them to stay there. He didn't want Anderson badgering them, too.
"Any family you know of in other parts of the country? Hers, or possibly yours?" Bill Anderson sniffed again, and Linc considered getting the box of tissues from the bathroom and shoving it in his lap.
"I have a few cousins in Colorado Springs," he said, "but Susanna really doesn't know them, and she has no family herself. Besides, she wouldn't go someplace where people knew her."
Bill jotted something down on his notepad. Sam rose to a seated position, resting his big black head on Linc's knee and riveting his dark eyes on the PI, who recoiled slightly under his gaze.
"What about her mother?" Bill asked. "Do you know where she is?"
"She hasn't seen her mother since she was a teenager." Linc scratched the dog behind his ears. "And I'm certain Susanna has no idea where she lives. Even if she knew, she would never turn to her for help." His own mother would have been a more likely choice, but she had died two years ago.
"Any other name she might go by?"
He shook his head. He had thought about that himself. What name would she use if she decided to change hers?
"How about her maiden name?"
"No. She hated the name Miller, but she hated Wood even worse."
"What was her understanding of Tyler's medical condition?" Bill asked.
"She understood it completely."
"Do you think Tyler's in danger?"
"Not in the least." Maybe he could sneak a cigarette after the PI left and before Grace and Valerie realized he was alone. He needed to check the faxes in his studio. He could lock the door, and—
"What special skills did she have?"
"Special skills?" Linc was unable to stop his quick smile, and he could have kicked himself when Bill Anderson gave him a knowing grin in return. He was disgusted with himself for allowing this man a personal glimpse into his relationship with Susanna.
"Besides those skills," Anderson said.
Linc ignored him. "She's great with children," he said. "She's a terrific mother."
"Yeah, yeah." Bill waved a bored hand through the air. "Tell it to the judge."
"She's nurturing and compassionate and very sensitive to other people."
"Uh huh."
"She's artistic."
Bill's dark eyes narrowed to slits. "Artistic? Her husband didn't say anything about that."
"That's because her husband didn't care. He wanted her to waste her talent working in a bank so he could go to law school and find himself a lawyer to marry."
"Well, aren't we bitter?" Bill smirked again. "What else can you tell me that I haven't already heard from her husband?"
"She's smart. I'm sure you didn't hear that."
"Do you think her taking off like this was smart?"
"Do you want me to help locate her, or do you want me to get into a philosophical and moral discussion about the wisdom of her leaving?" he asked. "Because I have plenty to say on that topic."
"Forget I asked."
"She can type like a bat outta hell. She's good with numbers. With money."
"Yeah. I spoke to her supervisor at the bank," Bill said.
Sam stood up and walked over to the PI, tail wagging slowly, waiting for a pat. Bill raised his hands into the air. "You wanna call your dog off?" he asked.
Linc had to laugh. "Come here, Sam." He reached out his hand, and Sam returned to lay at his feet once again, while Bill slowly lowered his hands to his lap.
"Besides you and her coworkers at the bank, did she have any other good friends around here?"
"Just Grace Talbot and Valerie Diehl."
"Oh, yeah. The lesbos."
Linc rolled his eyes.
Bill flipped through his notes. "Let's see. Talbot works in the library at the university and Diehl teaches psychology. She's a shrink, right?"
"That's right." And they're also in my kit
"Any chance Miller could have taken off with another woman?" Bill asked.
That did it. "I think you've worn out your welcome, friend," Linc said, standing up. "I don't know what more I can tell you."
Bill Anderson stood up himself. "If you honestly don't know where she is and whether she's safe or whatever, I would think you'd want her found," he said.
"Look," Linc said, "I'm not hiding anything from you. Susanna was smart enough to leave me in the dark too." And he had not yet forgiven her for it.
He and Sam walked Bill Anderson to the door and watched as the investigator negotiated the long, winding driveway in his aging Mercedes. Back in the living room, Linc looked down the hall toward his studio. Not enough time for a cigarette. He walked instead into the kitchen, where Grace was stirring the soup and Valerie was pulling dinner rolls from the oven.
"God, what a jerk," Linc said.
Grace shoved a shock of short, prematurely white-gray hair behind her ear as she looked up from the stove. "Put him out of your mind," she said. "Just sit down and let us lesbos take care of you."
He groaned. "You could hear him?"
"He sounds like an asshole." Valerie set a basket of the rolls on the table along with a plastic tub of margarine. She took Linc's arm and sat him down at the head of the big oak table.
"You guys are going to join me, I hope," Linc asked.
"Absolutely." Grace carried two bowls of soup to the table and sat down next to him. Valerie joined them a moment later with her own steaming bowl.
"Smells great," Linc said, dipping his spoon into the soup. It was very thick, more of a stew, and he suddenly realized he was hungry. "He might want to talk with you two," he said after he'd eaten a bit. "I told him you were friends of hers."
"Let him," Grace said. "I doubt we'd be able to help him much." Grace was the head of the American Studies section of the university library. Linc had met her when he'd donated part of his American music collection to the library, and their friendship had been quick to develop. She was outspoken, loud-voiced. It was hard to believe she was a librarian.
Valerie, on the other hand, was quiet and analytical. The two women were the same height and build, and they wore the same hairstyle, but Valerie's hair was as black as Grace's was white. Linc thought they looked terrific together. Salt and pepper.
Grace leaned over and sniffed the shoulder of his shirt. "You're smoking again!" she accused.
He sniffed his shirt himself, taking a deep breath of stale tobacco smell. "I was in a smoky restaurant for lunch," he lied.
"Oh, Linc," Grace said. "You're going down the tubes."
"Give him a break," Valerie said. "He's endured a terrible blow. Let him regress a little."
"Yeah, let me regress." He offered Grace a smile, but she turned away in what he hoped was mock disgust.
"I think you should go out with Val and me tonight," she said. "We can do a movie. Okay?"
He shook his head. "No, I have to tape the show tomorrow morning, and I haven't put it together yet. I haven't even checked my faxes yet." Most of the musical requests for his show came in by fax these days.
"Do you think Susanna can hear the show?" Valerie asked.
"Yeah, actually I do." He swallowed a spoonful of soup. "Before she left, she asked me if I'd play 'Suzanne' for her, so she must have been thinking she would hear it, wherever she was. I've been trying to come up with some way to get a message to her through the show. I'd just like to say hello somehow, but I'm afraid the cops and this PI and who knows who else, are going to be listening pretty carefully. They seem certain I'm in on her escape somehow. They even have a search warrant to check on who I make phone calls to and who I get them from. And they can get a list of the return addresses on my mail from the post office."
"Big Brother," Valerie said. "Why don't you play 'Suzanne' for her every week, then? She'll know it's your way of keeping in touch with her."
"Every week." He groaned. "I don't want to think about her being gone that long."
"So, you're hoping they find her, huh?" Grace asked.
He rested his spoon in his empty bowl. "I want her back," he said, "but not if she doesn't want to be here." It still hurt to think that she could leave him with such ease.
He helped the women clean up after dinner, then disappeared into his studio to read his faxes—and smoke a cigarette—while they watched TV in his family room. He felt like he was being baby-sat, but it didn't bother him. It was after ten when Grace knocked on his studio door.
"Come into the family room," she said. "Hurry!"
He walked into the family room to see Peggy and Jim on the television.
"It's a press conference," Grace said.
Linc picked up the remote from the coffee table to turn up the sound. "What have they said so far?" He sat down on the floor next to Grace.
"Nothing. The announcer's been—"
"Sh!" Linc interrupted her as Jim opened his mouth to speak.
"We have reason to believe that Susanna Miller has kidnapped our son, Tyler," Jim said.
Linc let out his breath from between clenched teeth. Until now, no one had introduced the concept of Susanna having kidnapped Tyler. All he'd heard in the news reports was that she and the boy were missing.
Jim and Peggy looked ashen-faced in the flashing lights of the cameras.
"Tyler has a very serious heart condition," Jim continued, "and we are extremely concerned that he be returned home to get the medical care he needs. Susanna Miller has a history of mental illness—"
Linc pounded his hand on his knee. "What crap," he said. He missed whatever Jim said next.
"Please," Jim continued. "We are offering a twenty thousand dollar reward to anyone who can give us information leading to the safe return of Susanna and Tyler Miller."
A photograph of Susanna and Tyler appeared on the screen along with an 800-number. The picture was one Linc had taken of the two of them at the park, Susanna holding Tyler on her lap at the top of a sliding board. The photograph had been framed and sitting on top of the television in her apartment. The police must have taken it and he was glad he'd thought to rescue her photograph albums.
He muted the sound on the TV when the newscaster moved on to his next story.
"Mental illness," he said. His face felt hot and he knew that telltale patches of red were standing out on his cheeks, as they always did when he was angry or upset. "She was depressed, you bastard," he said to the TV. "She never would have been in that hospital if it hadn't been for you."
"Down, boy," Grace put her hand on his arm.
"Let him get it out," Valerie argued. She was always one for encouraging people to express their emotions.
"I'm sure he'd be the picture of mental health if he walked in on pretty Peggy-O screwing another guy," Linc said.
"You tell him!" Valerie said.
"He makes her sound deranged. I just hope Susanna's far enough away that she can't see Peggy and Jim begging for the safe return of 'their' baby on TV. Christ."
"I don't get Peggy." Grace leaned back on her elbows. "I mean, she could write her own ticket as far as a job goes, and she's married to one of those lean, mean money-hungry lawyers, but she works at Legal Aid. Does that make sense?"
He shrugged, not wanting to talk about Peggy. It bothered him to think she might have one or two noble bones in her body. He had no room to feel sympathy for her when his mind was fixed on Susanna.
"Peggy's not worth the energy it would take to figure her out. It's Susanna I'm concerned about." He shook his head. "I'm really mad at her right now."
"Of course you are," Valerie agreed.
"She shouldn't have run away," he said. "She did it so much as a kid that it's her natural response to a problem. I'd always find her and drag her home. And then you know what would happen?"
"What?" Grace asked.
"She'd get beaten up. I'd take her home and the bastar
"Men are scum," Valerie said.
"Thanks," he said sarcastically. "That helps."
"You are the rare exception to the rule." Grace got to her feet. "Are you all right to be left alone?" she asked him.
"Hallelujah." He looked up at her from his seat on the floor. "You two are leaving and I can finally light up."
"Like you haven't been smoking in your studio all night," Valerie said. "Call us if you hear anything, okay?"
He didn't bother walking them to the door. Nor did he really feel like smoking. Instead, he lay down on the floor, his head on a throw pillow, and watched the muted TV until he fell asleep.
–10–
Ellen and one of her massage clients were talking on the front porch, and Kim was trapped in her apartment. She sat on the sofa, staring out the front window at the branches of the maple tree. She was gutless. Why didn't she simply walk past the two women, nod hello, get in her car and drive to the computer store as she'd been planning to do this morning? It wasn't Ellen she feared. It was the stranger with her. She trusted no one. The fewer people she had to meet, the better off she would be.
Everyone looked suspicious to her lately. She'd taken at least one long walk every day since her arrived on Sunday, pushing Cody in his stroller over the brick sidewalks and trying not to look as uneasy in public as she felt. All eyes in town seemed to be trained on her and her son and she worked at being inconspicuous. It was a lonely existence she was carving out for herself. She had not thought about how unbearable self-imposed isolation could be.
Cody looked up at her from his seat on the floor, annoyance in his face. She didn't blame him. She'd put his sweater on him in preparation for going outside and then made him sit in it for ten minutes in the too-warm apartment.
"We'll give them five more minutes, Cody," she said, glancing toward her door. She'd left it open so she would know when Ellen and her client finally decided to come into the house. "If they haven't left the porch by then, we'll do it anyhow. What's the worst that could happen?"