Cold Springs(50)

Olsen crossed her arms, the shoulder bandage crinkling under her jacket. The skin around her eyes tightened. “The girl's whole life, people have betrayed her—Katherine, you, her parents. Now she's wondering if Race has lied to her, too. Of course she's hiding something.”

“You don't approve of me talking to her.”

“Your priorities are wrong. You're more interested in torturing yourself about your daughter than helping Mallory.”

He felt anger building in his stomach, but mostly because he was afraid she was right.

“You're making progress with her,” he said. “I'm impressed.”

“You know why? I told her I'm not leaving, no matter what. She can't push me away. I learned that from you.”

She looked nothing like the young woman who had been so afraid at the Rockridge café. There was determination in her eyes, absolute conviction that she was going to help this kid. Chadwick remembered why he had chosen her as a partner in the first place—she had a good heart. Heart wasn't something you could fake. It wasn't something you could train for. And it wasn't something she had learned from him.

“Watch out for her,” he said.

“She stabbed me. Of course I'll watch out.”

“No. I mean, keep her safe.”

“You're worried about somebody coming after her? Is that what you're talking about?”

“I don't know. It's just a feeling.”

She looked back at Mallory, but seemed to be looking through her—straight into the past.

“I'll stick by her,” she promised. “That's my job.”

Chadwick knew she didn't mean it as an accusation, but he remembered her words the day she'd quit—that his job was a form of perpetually running away. He felt the same wistful resentment he'd felt on the plane, when the flight attendant had assumed they were father and daughter. “You identify with her.”

“Yes.”

“I remind you of someone, too, don't I? Not a good memory. That's really why you couldn't work with me.”

She said nothing.

“Can I ask who it was?”

“You could,” she said, “except for two things.”

“What?”

“I told you your priorities are screwed up. I can't very well admit that maybe mine are, too.”

“What's the other reason?”

She raised her eyebrow, as if that should be obvious. She tapped her wristwatch. “Your time is up.”

She walked back to the picnic table, where Mallory Zedman was eating a cold Thanksgiving dinner in the fading afternoon light.

12

On Monday, Chadwick and Kindra Jones took a flight to Boston. They picked up a thirteen-year-old who'd been expelled from his middle school for dealing Ecstasy and flew him to the Green Mesa facility in North Carolina. An easy job. The kid knew it was either Dr. Hunter or Juvenile Hall.

Jones had dressed in another corduroy and flannel montage, her freshly braided cornrows glistening with styler. She spent the plane trip arguing with the kid about whether Lauryn Hill or Dr. Dre was the bigger musical genius. Chadwick, who had no opinion, read two chapters of a Theodore Roosevelt biography.

He called John Zedman from Raleigh-Durham International and got voice mail. He left a message, telling John he was coming to town and wanted to meet.

He called Laurel Heights and got the secretary, who told him Ann was in a meeting with Ms. Reyes—no interruptions.

Tuesday morning, he and Jones transferred a gray level who'd been diagnosed anorexic to Bowl Ranch in Utah. Again, Jones fell into easy conversation with the kid, this time about the death of reality television. Between flights at DFW, Chadwick called both the Zedmans and failed to get them. On the last call to John's house, a man with a slight Spanish accent answered the phone.

Chadwick gave his name, and the man was silent so long Chadwick thought he'd hung up.

Finally the man said, “This is Emilio Pérez. Let me give you some advice.”

“I'd rather you put your boss on the phone.”

“You come out here, you'd best be returning the girl.”

“That's not open for discussion, Mr. Pérez.”

“Mr. Z? He remembers how you used to be a friend—only reason he hasn't let me hang you on a meat hook yet. Me? I got no sentimental problems. I know what you are. I know your game. You show your face, I'm going to make Talia Montrose's murder look like a quiet death.”

The line went dead.

Kindra Jones came back from the TCBY, handed him a cup of yogurt with rainbow sprinkles and a pink plastic spoon.

“Got chocolate for me and the kid,” she said. “Figured you for a vanilla man.”

Wednesday evening at Bowl Ranch, Chadwick stared out the lodge window at miles of red sandstone—rock formations and stunted junipers marbled with snow like a Martian Christmas.

He thought about Mallory Zedman on the porch at Cold Springs.

He heard Olsen's voice in his mind—Olsen, whom he'd accused of running away from her fear.

From the moment he turned the first shovelful of dirt onto Katherine's coffin lid, Chadwick had known he would be moving to Texas. He would devote his life to pulling troubled kids out of crises, rewriting his failure with his daughter, over and over again. He told himself the job had been hard penance. In the years since, he had seen his share of suicides. He had been shot at, spit at, cursed and sued by the very parents who hired him. He had changed lives, delivered a lot of kids into Hunter's care.