A Different Blue(97)

I thought about how that small act of kindness to a hungry little girl had brought destiny to Jimmy Echohawk's doorstep and how he had paid for his compassion in a way only Karma can craft. One small act and he opened himself up to a mother's desperation and found himself in a position where he became responsible for a child who was even more alone in the world than he was.

“ And I worry that what I find out will be ugly and . . . scary. I'm really tired of ugly, as you are well aware. It's going to hurt. It's going to rip me open. And I'm tired of that, too. What kind of woman does what she did? What kind of mother? A big part of me doesn't want to know who she is or anything about her.”

We sat silently, my words surrounding us like graffiti on the walls, unavoidable and glaring, destroying the peace that had been between us. Wilson put down his fork and rested his chin on his steepled fist.

“Don't you think it's time to put an end to this?” Same words as before, entirely different context.

“An end to what?” I said my line.

“To this not knowing business,” he repeated quietly, holding my gaze.

I knew what he meant and didn't need to hear him say it.

“We'll take a couple of days off. I have some personal days left, and Beverly will understand.”

“And what do we do?”

“We find your mother. And we find Blue.”





Chapter Twenty-Seven





We flew this time. No long, eight-hour road trip each way. I was no longer pregnant and under doctor's orders not to fly. Wilson said driving took too long, and there was no reason to torture ourselves. I think he was more anxious to get there than I was. I fluctuated between anxiousness and nausea.

We had contacted both the lab and Detective Moody and told them we were coming. Detective Moody had offered to meet us at the airport, which surprised me. I didn't think that was standard procedure and said as much. He was quiet for a moment and then replied, his voice laced with emotion, “In my line of work, there aren't very many happy endings. So many people suffer, so many people are lost . . . and we never find them. For me, this is a pretty big deal. The whole department is pretty pumped. The Chief said it's a great human interest story, and we have a liason at the Reno Review that is itching for an interview. We will let you decide if that's something you are interested in. I did call Detective Bowles out of professional courtesy, and let him know that we got a match. He was pretty excited, too.”

I said nothing, not wanting to deflate his genuine enthusiasm, but I knew I wouldn't be talking to any reporters. Like a child with a long-awaited gift, I wasn't ready to unwrap my story and immediately pass it along like it had little worth. There was a time to share and a time to savor. I needed to hold my story, examine it, understand it. Then maybe someday, when it wasn't so fresh and raw, when some of the shine and newness had worn off, when I understood not just what but why . . . maybe then I'd be willing to share. But not now.

Las Vegas had already embraced spring, but Reno was cold. Wilson and I huddled in our coats, unprepared for the blast of winter air that met us as we walked to our rental car. We had refused the police escort, deciding we would need our own wheels though we didn't expect to be in Reno long. The answers were there waiting for us. There would be no searching. My life, my history, would be laid out before me like a movie script . . . complete with crime scenes and character descriptions. And like a movie script, none of it seemed real. At least, not until we pulled into the police station. Suddenly action was required. The cameras were rolling, and I didn't know my lines. I was overcome with stage fright, of the strangers in the audience, of the scenes I hadn't studied and couldn't possibly prepare for. And above all, I didn't want Wilson to see me in the spotlight once more, the light unflattering, the story line tragic, violent, and depressing.

“Are you ready, Blue?”

No. No! “Yes,” I whispered, lying, but seeing no way around it. But I couldn't make myself move. Wilson stepped out of the car and came around to my door. He swung it open and offered his hand. When I didn't take it, he leaned in and looked at me intently.

“Blue?”

“I don't want you to come inside. You know too much, Wilson!”

He pressed a kiss to my forhead. “Yes. I know hundreds of things. I think we've discussed this . . . quite recently, actually.”

“What if they tell us something that changes the way you feel about me?”

“What could they possibly say that would change the way I feel about you? You were two years old when your mother left you. Do you think they are going to tell us you were a tiny drug dealer? The world's youngest ever? An assassin maybe? Or . . . oh no! A boy. Maybe you are actually a boy. That would be difficult to adjust to, I confess.”