Fourteen Days(69)

Richard was sitting on the couch, deep in thought. Nicky had her legs over his lap again, still chatting on the phone with one of her friends.

The idea of driving to St. Clears constantly popped up in his conscience. How could he ignore this? Christina had clearly revealed what she wanted of him, what she longed for. And now he, Richard Gardener, had both the power and knowledge to help her. He had to at least go to the police and tell them what he knew, tell them about the missing baby. But how could he? How on earth could he explain to them how he came across the information without implicating himself, or seeming psychotic?

Stroking Nicky’s leg, he glanced at her. He smiled tightly to see her so happy, so carefree. A million miles away from the torment Christina had endured—still endured. He had to at least visit the farmhouse, just to see for himself. No heroics. No contact. Simply to gather enough information to be able to go the police with something solid, something believable. If the baby and Peter were there, at the house, then there would no longer be any doubt of Richard’s sanity, no coincidences. He would be certain. And if he were able to somehow help take back the baby, then Christina Long would surely leave his house for good.

The prospect made him beam.

Nodding, as if convinced, he gently pushed Nicky’s legs off his lap and stood.

“Hang on for a sec, Deb,” she said into the phone, then moved it away from her ear, redirecting her attention to Richard. “If you’re going to the kitchen, will you get me a cranberry juice?”

“Yeah, no prob. Do you mind if I pop out for a few hours?”

Giving him a look of confusion, she asked, “To where?”

“Just over to Neil’s house in town. He’s back from Oz. Haven’t seen him in ages.”

“Okay. But don’t be too long, I thought we could do something tonight.”

“I won’t.” He started for the door. “Just a few hours.”

In the kitchen, he prepared the cranberry juice, all the while trying to ignore the voice in his head screaming at him to stay here with Nicky, to avoid St. Clears. But he had to. And looking at the dreaded chair, he had to do it now if he was ever going to take back his house.

He re-entered the living room with the drink. Nicky was still chatting with her friend, so he just quietly handed it to her, kissed her forehead, and gave a subtle wave goodbye. She returned the wave and went back to her phone call, unaware of what her husband was really planning to do.

After slipping on a pair of jeans and a tee shirt, he stepped outside the house. He could feel the hot sun against his face, blinding him, forcing him to shelter his eyes with his palm. Climbing into his car, he quickly felt the heat that had radiated through the windows, so pushed the button for the air conditioning.

Taking out the Post-it note from his pocket, he entered the address into his GPS and set off down the street—at the same time wondering what the hell he was doing.



It had taken him almost three hours to get to St. Clears, which meant he would be gone for at least six to seven hours in total. Nicky’s going to kill me, he warned himself. He thought about calling her, letting her know that he was all right—but how could he? He would have to lie again, make up some story about why he was so delayed. And he was sick of lying to her, sick of acting like an *. He had to just finish this and get home.

And hope to God he wouldn’t find his clothes scattered across the street.

The GPS had taken him to the wrong part of the town, forcing him to pull out the map from the glove compartment and check his route the old-fashioned way.

Getting lost down some overgrown dirt-track, he managed to flag down an elderly couple out walking their two Alsatian dogs to ask them for directions. “Hello,” Richard said. “I’m a bit lost.”

Smiling, the couple walked over to the car. “Where you off to then?” the man asked, peering down at the window, with one hand on the roof.

“I’m looking for a farmhouse.”

The man chuckled. “Well that’s like looking for a needle in a haystack ’round here.”

“It belongs to an S. Young. Do you know it?”

Frowning as he tried to recall the name, he murmured, “Young. Sounds familiar.” He turned to the woman. “Myra, do we know any Youngs?”

Taking a moment to think, she then replied, “Yes. There used to be a Stephen Young over on Cromwell.” She pointed to the left of the car. “He owns the Newside land. But I think he’s dead now. Not a hundred percent on that though.”